Introductory material (continued 4)

The necessity for acquiring self-control arises, not only from the impossibility of gratifying all, even of our lawful wishes—to say nothing of those unhallowed ones which increase in a tenfold proportion from every indulgence—but from the almost continual calls for its exercise in all our intercourse with society. At home or abroad—in the depths of solitude, or in the busiest haunts of men—in all our domestic relations, as well as in those which place us in a more extended sphere of action, this all important quality is in continual demand. In governing ourselves it is indispensable; nor is it much less necessary when duty requires us to govern, direct or persuade others. Even when we are casually brought into the company of strangers, and for a short time only, it often enables us to command respect and to gain esteem, by manifesting the vast superiority of a well regulated mind over one which yields to every impulse of passion that assails it. This inestimable quality of self-control gives additional zest to all our lawful pleasures, and enhances our highest enjoyments, by causing us always to stop short of satiety; while it enables us by God's help, resolutely and undisturbed, to meet all the crosses and trials to which others may subject us. In a word, it arms us against the strongest temptation of our own passions, and empowers us to disregard the worst that can be attempted against us by the passions of other people. It is in fact the regulator, (if I may so express myself,) which governs all the machinery of our minds in such a manner as to prevent them from going either too fast or too slow. How many mortifications and disappointments—how much anger, resentment and grief does it not prevent our suffering from the envy, hatred, malice and uncharitableness of the world around us! How often does it save us from the shame and degradation of sensual indulgence; from the turpitude of sin; from the anguish of remorse. It is the effectual check to the depravity of our nature, which a merciful God will enable us always to apply, if we will only ask it of him as we ought—that is, by continual prayer and supplication.

The other qualities, gentleness, benevolence, purity, rectitude, courtesy and politeness, when accompanied by good sense and a well cultivated mind, constitute the great charm of domestic and social life. Indeed, they may well be called indispensable requisites, since there can be no happiness and very little comfort without them. There never was a greater, a more fatal mistake, than the too common one of supposing that the chief use of such qualities is in society at large; in other words, when we are acting a part before the world, in our ridiculous struggles for distinction and power. Selfishness is the mainspring of all such efforts, and it so sharpens our sagacity as to convince us that our bad qualities must be restrained in public, or they will frequently subject us to punishment if we attempt to disturb others by their indulgence. But in private life, and particularly in the family circle, there are few so insignificant or destitute of means to disturb others as not to possess the power of causing much annoyance, if not actual unhappiness. A single individual of a waspish, irritable, jealous, gossipping, envious and suspicious temper, in these situations, may destroy the peace and poison the domestic enjoyments of a large family. No incident is too trivial to excite some one or other of their bad passions; no person too unoffending to provoke them; no conduct so guarded as to escape malignant remark. Their approach, like the sirocco of the desert, produces an irresistible depression of spirits; constraint and embarrassment spread a gloom over every countenance, and the voice of joy and gladness dies away in their presence. On the other hand, the emanations of a gentle, benevolent disposition, produce the same impression on our hearts, that the balmy breezes and sweet smelling flowers of the vernal season do on our senses. It is a something that we feel deeply in the inmost recesses of our bosom, but cannot well describe. It is an atmosphere of delight in which we would gladly breathe during our whole life.

By purity of thought and rectitude of conduct, in which are comprehended the inestimable virtues of truth, candor and sincerity, we secure for ourselves the unutterable enjoyment of an approving conscience, at the same time that we obtain from others their esteem, their admiration, and their love. We may manifest these qualities in every part of our intercourse with others; for whether we speak or act, occasions continually present themselves to prove that we possess them. By conversation we show the purity of our sentiments; by conduct we manifest the rectitude of our principles—so that in all we either say or do, we supply others with the means of ascertaining what manner of persons we are. True we may deceive some by playing the hypocrite; but the persons whose good opinion is really worth gaining, are not so easily gulled, and our loss, if the game is once seen through, is irretrievable.

In regard to courtesy and politeness, they may justly be called the offspring of benevolence, since their chief object is to promote the ease, the comfort, the pleasure, and happiness of others. It must be admitted there are counterfeit qualities which sometimes pass undetected. But they are the base born children of art and selfishness, aiming solely to promote their own interests by deceiving other people into a belief that their gratification is the end of all their efforts to please. To say nothing of the continual labor and constraint necessary to enable these circulators of false coin to escape discovery and exposure, the superior ease and safety of genuine courtesy and politeness, should be a sufficient inducement with all young persons to study most assiduously to acquire them, even on the supposition that we had no better guide for all our actions in relation to others. That honesty in manner, as well as in conduct, will ever be found to be the best policy, amid all the varying forms, fashions and practices of the world, is I believe, as certain as that truth is better than falsehood—virtue preferable to vice. Another argument greatly in favor of genuine courtesy and politeness is, that they are the most current and easily procurable coin you can possibly use, being equally well adapted (if I may keep up the metaphor,) to make either large or small purchases. The articles procured too in exchange, always greatly exceed in real intrinsic value, all that you ever give for them. This is merely the manifestation of a sincere, an earnest desire to please; while the precious return is almost always the cordial expression of truly friendly feeling, the look of pleasurable emotion, and the affectionate regards of a grateful heart, particularly where the intercourse has been of sufficient duration to admit of some little development of character. Let it not be said that a cause apparently so slight is inadequate to produce such strong effects. There lives not a human being who has ever felt the influence of genuine courtesy and politeness, but can testify to the truth of what has been said in their praise. Nor is it easy to imagine the possibility of any individual's remaining insensible of their value, who like you my young friends, have always been accustomed to the society of ladies and gentlemen. Knowing this as I do, I should consider it somewhat like a work of supererogation to press upon you the absolute necessity of your constantly cultivating these invaluable qualities, if I were not thoroughly satisfied from painful experience, that almost all young persons require at least occasional admonition on this subject. In vain do some parents solicit, persuade—nay, beseech their daughters, never for a moment to forget what is due to the character of a lady, both in manners and deportment; in vain do they implore them with aching hearts to make a better return for all a mother's care and affection; to no purpose do they pray for that purity of heart and rectitude of principle in their offspring, which is the only true source of good manners: their unfortunate, wayward children continue to act, as if the chief purpose of their existence was to prove to the world how little influence their parents have over them. They seem utterly reckless of the parental tie—regardless of all the disparaging inferences which may be drawn from their own conduct in relation to the characters of their connexions—and continue hardened alike against advice or reproof, in whatever language or manner it may be offered to them. God forbid that such should be the moral portrait of any of my present auditors; but you have all sufficient experience to know that it is not a fancy picture, nor one wherein the features are so exaggerated and caricatured, as to be unlike any person who has ever lived. If none of your schoolmates have ever resembled it, you have either seen or heard of some others in the world whom it would fit. Should your own consciences acquit you, as I sincerely trust they do, of all liability to pursue so reckless a course, both in regard to parental and other admonition—let me beseech you, my young friends, not to tax your imaginations with laboring to conjecture whether I aim at any particular individuals, for I do not; but strive most assiduously to examine your own hearts thoroughly as to all these points, and study so to act on all occasions and towards every person with whom you may have any thing to do, that the praise not only of courtesy and politeness may ever be yours, but likewise the far more exalted merit of right minds and pure hearts.

When I look back on the years that have passed away since this school commenced; when I reflect on the many anxious hours which your teachers have spent in meditating on the most effectual means to render their instructions and admonitions conducive to your eternal as well as temporal welfare; and when I recollect the several instances wherein I am persuaded they had good cause to believe that an all bounteous Providence had favored their humble labors, my heart is filled with gratitude for the past; and I cherish the fond hope that you too, my young friends, will be added to the number of those, who by the exemplary character of your future lives, will cause your instructers to rejoice that you likewise have once been their pupils. Three or four of you have been so from the first to the last, and the rest have been long enough members of our family to be thoroughly acquainted with the whole course of our instruction. You cannot therefore be ignorant either of the chief objects at which you have always been taught to aim, or of the means recommended to be invariably pursued for their attainment. If you have failed to profit by them the fault must rest somewhere; the awful responsibility attaches to one or both parties; and let us all earnestly pray to God, that the purity and rectitude of our future lives, should it please him to spare us, may avert the punishment justly due to such offences. That none may plead forgetfulness, let me briefly recapitulate once more, and for the last time, what our course has been. The primary objects always most earnestly pressed upon your attention have been, first and above all, to prepare yourselves for another and a better world, by a life of usefulness in the present; by the love and fear of God; by cheerful obedience to his will; and by continually doing good to your fellow creatures whenever you had the means and the opportunity. Your secondary objects have been the study of sciences and languages, physical and intellectual improvement, with a view, not to foster pride and vanity, but solely to increase your power of being useful. Lastly, you have been taught to acquire certain arts usually ranked under the head of "accomplishments," but you have been invariably and perseveringly admonished to consider them merely as recreations, innocent if indulged in only occasionally, but sinful when made, as they too often are, the principal business of life. On all occasions too, you have been persuaded never so far to confide in the maxim that "youth is the season for enjoyment," as to forget that, like old age it may, and too often is, the season of suffering also. A preparation for such contingencies must be made by all, or the hour of misfortune, although every human being is destined to meet it, will overwhelm those who are unprepared for it with a degree of misery which admits of neither alleviation nor cure. Young as you all are, and little as you have yet seen of human life, you have already felt, if not in your own persons, at least in the case of others, something of the effect produced by sudden and unexpected calamity, bursting like a thunderclap on the heads of its devoted victims. But a few days have passed away since you were witnesses to such an event in the case of two of your school companions. The morning on which it happened shone upon them cheerful and happy as any among you, unconscious of any impending misfortune, undisturbed by any anticipations to mar their peace. Yet, in a very few hours from that time, they were both plunged into the deepest affliction; both by a single blow reduced perhaps to poverty; both suddenly called by the most awful death of a parent of one of them, to return to a wretched family bereft of its chief support, and crushed to the earth in all the helplessness of irremediable wo. Alas! my young friends, how few of you ever think of drawing from such occurrences the many salutary lessons they are so well calculated to impart! How many turn away from them as matters to be banished as speedily as possible from your remembrance; as events never likely to happen to yourselves! Yet every hour that we live—every moment that we breathe—not one among us, no not one single individual, can truly say, "I am free—I am exempt both from present and contingent calamity." Far, very far am I indeed, from wishing you to be so constantly absorbed in gloomy anticipations, as to prevent you in the slightest degree from enjoying every innocent gratification suitable to your respective ages and situations in life. But I would have you all to know and to feel in your inmost heart, that "sweet are the uses of adversity," and that none should think themselves fit to live until they feel prepared to die the death of the righteous before God and man. Hard as this requisition may seem, thousands upon thousands, and of your age too, have complied with it to the very letter. Thousands have furnished angelic examples, even to the aged and hoary headed, that the fresh, the blooming, the joyous period of youth may be dedicated to God, as well as that worn out remnant of life when all power of earthly enjoyment is supposed to be dead within us, and nothing remains to be offered to heaven but exhausted faculties and fast decaying intellects. Has not our blessed Saviour himself declared, when speaking of children, that "of such is the kingdom of heaven;" and in illustration of this truth, are not all the images of cherubim and seraphim presented to our senses, always represented with juvenile countenances, glowing with all the innocence and loveliness of youth? Shall the youth then of the present day—the youth of our own country—but especially the female portion of them, ever adopt the fatal delusion that theirs is an age too immature for the acquisition and exercise of the highest moral and religious attainments. Shall they fall into the ruinous error that it is yet time enough for them to attend to spiritual matters, and that the prime and vigor of their lives are to be wasted in merely temporal pursuits unworthy the characters and disgraceful to the rational creatures formed for a state of eternal happiness? Far better would it be that they never had been born; or that the hand of misfortune—the saddest hours of unmitigated suffering, should continue to press on them with all their weight, until they could be brought to know their duty to God, to their fellow beings, and to themselves. Heaven forbid, my young friends, that such awful discipline should be necessary to bring you also to a proper sense of all you owe to the Divine Author of your existence, and to that society of which you may become either the blessing or the curse. Heaven forbid that any of you should so far forget the high destinies for which you were formed—the glorious purposes to which your lives should be devoted—and the everlasting happiness promised in another world to all who fulfil their duties in this, as to neglect for a moment any of the means essential to improve your hearts and minds to the utmost attainable degree. Nothing—no nothing within the range of possibility can enable you to do this, but continual, earnest, heartfelt prayer to God for the aid of his holy spirit in all your undertakings; frequent and deep meditation on all the vicissitudes of life; frequent and serious forethought in regard not only to what you may probably enjoy in the present world, but to what you may possibly be devoted to suffer. Gay and happy as you all now are in the joyous anticipations so natural to youth and health, it may be your fate (but God forbid it ever should,) to see one by one of your nearest and dearest connexions drop into the grave—some in the very blossom and promise of juvenile years—others worn down by care, disease and old age. It may be your fate to be the very last of your race, reserved to mourn over all who have gone before to another world. All this, my children, and yet deeper affliction may possibly be your lot—for it has been that of thousands, aye of millions before you. Can it be of no importance then; nay, is it not of the last, the highest, the most vital importance, that you should make at least some small preparation for such appalling contingencies, lest they befal you utterly unawares? Will you ask me what is that preparation? It is simply so to use all your good gifts as not to abuse them; so to cherish all the powers both of your bodies and minds that they may last as long as nature intended they should, and fulfil all the purposes for which they were designed; so to divide your time between useful occupation and necessary recreation, that none may be said to be wasted or lost; in a word, so to live that you may never be found unprepared to die. The joys of heaven should ever be the beacon to guide your course; and the road by which you should travel through the present life to reach them, should be that and that only which your heavenly Father, through his blessed Son, has commanded and besought you to take. Thousands who have steadily pursued this course have testified that it is "a way of pleasantness and a path of peace" to all who have once attained the dispositions, feelings and principles enjoined upon those who have made it their choice, in preference to all other reputed roads to happiness; while not a solitary human being who has ever tried these other roads, has ever yet been heard to bear witness in their favor, after the experiment has been fully made. Woful then must be your mistake, most fatal your error, in choosing "the way in which you should go," should you rather be led by the sinful allurements of illicit pleasure, than the universally concurring testimony of the good, the wise, and the just throughout the world.

In a few fleeting hours more this school will cease to exist, and your present monitor will have uttered the last words of admonition which he will ever address to you as pupils. Anxiously, most anxiously do I desire to fix them indelibly on your minds. But alas! I feel too sensibly my own inability, as well as the evanescent nature of all language in the form of advice, to hope for more than a temporary impression. If I make even that, I shall in part at least have attained the sole object of all that I ever said to you, which has been your own intellectual improvement, your own happiness. Let me entreat you, my dear young friends; let me implore you for the last time, never to forget (whatever other things you may suffer to escape your memories,) any of the various moral and religious instructions which you have received under our care. I feel well assured that they will not fail to come home to your bosoms—probably too with greatly augmented force, should the withering blasts of misfortune ever spread desolation and wo among you. But I pray for something more for you. I would have you bear them continually in remembrance, even in your happiest hours of prosperous fortune. I would have each of you individually meditate on them "when thou sittest in thy house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up." Then, but not until then, will you be fully prepared both for adversity and prosperity; and then indeed may you confidently trust that the God of all mercy and goodness will vouchsafe to impart to you the true christian's last, best hope, both for time and eternity.

Separated from us all as you will soon be, perhaps forever, and about to enjoy, as I earnestly desire, a happy meeting with the beloved friends and relatives from whom you have been so long withdrawn, accept for the last time our heartfelt assurances that our best wishes, our anxious prayers for your happiness, will accompany you through all the vicissitudes of life; that we shall always sympathise both in your joys and your sorrows; and that our own enjoyments will ever be greatly augmented by hearing that you are all leading exemplary and happy lives. For power to do this, forget not—oh! never for a moment forget, that your sole reliance must be on your heavenly Father and his holy spirit, which hath been promised abundantly to all who ask it in truth and sincerity.

"May the blessing of an all merciful God be ever on you and around you. May his grace be a lamp unto your feet and a light unto your path. May it guide, strengthen and support you in all the troubles and adversities of this life, and bring you, through faith in our Redeemer, to eternal blessedness in that which is to come."—AMEN.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SEASONS.

The verdant spring, decked in her brightest gems, and arrayed in her most gorgeous vesture, has driven hoary winter to his icy caverns, and leads forth her sportive train to kindle a smile upon the face of nature. The mountain streamlets, revelling in joyous gaiety at their disenthralment from the chains of winter, are playfully meandering among the flowrets which deck their velvet banks; and the smiling vallies, embosomed amid the lofty mountains, put forth their verdure, as if in commemoration of him who "holdeth in his hand the destiny of nations!" The blushing rose has expanded beneath the genial rays of the resplendent god of day, and scents with its fragrance the vernal zephyrs which stoop to kiss it as they pass. The woods, and rivers, and mountains, all clad in their variegated garments, seem to mingle in the celebration of the grand jubilee of nature!

The flowers of spring have faded. The refulgent sun has ascended yet higher in his brilliant pathway through the heaven; the gay vesture of the earth is yellowing beneath his scorching rays. The fruit, of which the vernal blossoms gave such fair and glorious promise, has ripened into maturity under his golden influence. Voluptuous summer has been ushered in upon the stage of time, accompanied and heralded by myriads of gleesome fairies, wantonly disporting upon the rich carpets, rivalling in splendor the purple of ancient Tyre, which nature has spread over the earth for her reception. The chaste Diana holds her nocturnal course through the blue expanse of ether, studded with countless gems, the brightest jewels in heaven's diadem, shedding her mild and mellow light over the sombre forests, and gilding the sparkling streamlets, which placidly repose beneath her beams. Earth, sea and air, encompassed by a heavenly serenity, seem to blend their beauties into one rich picture of loveliness, and offer up their united orisons to the sovereign Lord of all!

The revolving wheels of time, in their ceaseless and eternal gyrations, have rolled away the glories of the regal summer into the vast charnel house of the past—and the demon of decay, like the fiend consumption, breathing its fatal influence upon the roseate cheek of youthful beauty, has withered the tresses which hung in wild luxuriancy upon the bosom of the earth, and has stamped upon her brow the impress of his iron signet, as if to shadow forth her approaching doom. The limpid streams which veined her surface, and under the mild sway of the queenly summer, danced and sparkled in the sun's meridian beam, now roll lazily along in their channels, as if performing the funeral obsequies of the buried past. The vallies, but lately decorated in the blooming apparel of spring, have now assumed a more variegated and gorgeous hue, which like the hectic flush which fitfully crimsons the pallid cheek of consumption's hopeless victim, only indicates the accelerated progress of decay. A deep, monotonous, unbroken stillness reigns o'er the hills and vallies, but lately teeming with life and animation. A creeping, deathlike, insidious languor, the sure precursor of winter's despotic reign, pervades the works of nature, hushing the breezes which ripple o'er the surface of the placid lake, and fettering the whole earth in supine inertness. The face of nature is robed in melancholy sadness, as if mourning over the faded glories of the declining year!

Onward, in cold and gloomy grandeur, advance the frowning heralds of the despot winter! Every vestige of vernal beauty has faded from their presence. The mountains, vales and rivulets, as if anticipating his hateful arrival, have veiled themselves in a frigid, chilling vesture of white! Even the tears which sympathising heaven sheds upon the bosom of the earth, become congealed and frozen beneath his blighting influence. The volcanic fires which rage in the bosom of the towering mountain cower in dismay from his terrific glance. At length the tyrant, with his iron sceptre and icy crown, is seated on his throne. His attendant ministers rush to assist in the frightful coronation, and amid the demoniac yells which announce the termination of the loathsome ceremony, the harsh old Boreas shrieks forth the requiem of the departed year!

V.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BYRON'S LAST WORDS.

BY D. MARTIN.

Summer was in its glory. Night came down, With a light step upon the virent earth; Sepulchral silence reigned on every side; And the winds—those heralders of storm Which curl the billows on Old Ocean's brow, In their low breathings were inaudible,— When a gifted son of Genius sought his home, And threw himself upon a lowly couch, And as his being's star went slowly down, He thus communed in low and faltering tone:— Oh! it is hard to die! To leave this world of amaranthine green, Whose glittering pageantry and flowery sheen, Vie with the glorious sky! But alas! the hand of Death, Has laid its icy grasp upon me now; The cold sweat rests upon my feverish brow, And shorter grows my breath! Well be it so! And I will pass away like light at even, Unto the Houri's amethystine heaven, Where all immortal go! Yet I have drank Unto its very dregs, the cup of Fame, And won myself a green, undying name, In Glory's rank! And yet!—oh, yet, "Break but one seal for me unbroken! Speak but one word for me unspoken! Before my sun is set!" Oh, for one drop Of the black waters of that stream sublime, Which follows in the stormy track of Time, This breath to stop! It may not be! Yet I would pray that Memory might rest, Like the wan beauty of the sunlit west, In dark oblivion's sea! Thus did he commune—and when the god of day Rose like a monarch from his sapphire throne, His spirit had passed away like morning mist— And winged its way unto that far off land, Where burns fore'er eternity's bright star!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

How beautiful, fair girl, art thou, All robed in innocence and truth! Upon thy calm and snowy brow, Beam, like a crown, the smiles of youth; Heaven's sunshine falls and lights thy way, As one too pure and bright for sorrow— And virtue's soft and seraph ray Flings lustre on thy dawning morrow,— Giving a promise, that thy life Will ever be, with pleasure, rife! Upon those dark, bright eyes of thine, That soft, like moonlit waters, beam, I love to gaze, and, as they shine, Of those ethereal beings dream, That oft, on us, have smiled, in sleep, Then quickly flown, and made us weep, That e'er to man, so much of heaven Should just be shown,—ah! never given! How soft the rose upon thy cheek, Blent with the lily's milder hue, Whose mingling tints of beauty speak A sinless spirit—calm and true!— The smile, that wreathes thy rosy lip, Is young affection's radiant token— Beauty and Truth in fellowship!— The symbol of a heart unbroken; Within thy bosom, holy thought, As in a temple, hath its shrine, Refulgent with a glory caught From the pure presence of thy mind, Whose lustre flings a hallowing ray, Around thee, calm as orient day! Oh! may thy life be ever bright, As aught thine early dreams have framed, And not a shadow dim its light, Till heaven, in mercy, shall have claim'd Thee, as a being fit for naught That earth can boast, all sorrow-fraught As are its brightest visions. May Thy life be one long dream of love, Unbroken 'til the final day, When heaven shall waft thy soul above, And crown thee, as an angel there, Who wast indeed an angel here!

A. B. M.

Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES IN AN ALBUM.

As sets the sun upon the wave, At twilight, when the day is done, Casting a glory round his grave, That lingers, though his race be run;— A glory, that attracts the gaze Of many a bright, uplifted eye, Leading the spirit, where his rays Blend with the quiet, azure sky, Till evening's star, with diamond beam, Mirrors his last effulgent gleam;— So I would now, upon this page, At parting, this memorial leave, O'er which, perhaps, in after age, Some pensive eye may kindly grieve, And mourn the loss of him, who though His life was all unknown to fame, Left still behind a feeble glow, Hallowing, in friendship's sky, his name,— A light, that, like a star, will beam, Long, long, he trusts, in memory's dream! * * * * * And now my wish for happiness To thee, I mingle with mine own,— A wish—a prayer, that heaven may bless, And keep thee, kind and gentle one, Free from all sorrow, care and strife,— A being far too pure and bright To wander 'mid the storms of life, That dim affection's vestal light,— A seraph form'd like those above, For only joy, and peace, and love! I need not tell thee, time can ne'er Thy name from memory's tablet blot, For thou art to my heart too dear, To wrong its worship, by the thought; No! though the world may sorrow bring, And bear thee far away from me, It from remembrance ne'er can wring The thoughts, that aye will turn to thee, As Chaldea's maiden to the star, She worships in its sphere afar!

A. B. M.

Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PARTING.

Farewell!—my hand is trembling yet, With the last pressure of thine own; Oh! could my troubled heart forget The sadness, 'round that parting thrown,— Could memory lose the imaged smile, Bright sparkling through thy gushing tears, Which played upon thy cheek, the while Hope struggled with her prophet fears, That love and bliss no more would throw Their beams around us, as of erst, Or happiness, with seraph glow, Upon our rapturous meetings burst,— I then might lose a sorrowing thought, But one, with deep affection fraught! Yet go!—I would not keep thee here, When "it is best to be away,"— Go, seek thy distant home, and ne'er Let memory 'round these visions stray, When happiness, and love and joy, Unto our mingling hearts were given;— Oh! go, and ne'er may pain annoy, Or sorrow dim thine eye's blue heaven, But peace and pure affection hold Their vigils 'round thine angel way, And blessedness thy form enfold, And keep thee, 'til "the perfect day," When heaven shall join the hearts of those, Who here have loved, through countless woes! Go!—and I will not ask, or give A sigh,—a tear,—a single token, To prove our cherished love will live, Forever true, in faith unbroken;— Though wayward fate has severed far Our fortunes, by a cruel lot, Yet love will live, with being's star, And never,—never be forgot;— God's blessings on thee!—if the smile Of heaven e'er lights a seraph's path,— Protecting it from blight the while It wanders here, 'mid sin and wrath,— Its smiles upon thy path shall beam, And light it, like an Eden dream!

A. B. M.

Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES SUGGESTED ON VIEWING THE RUINS AT JAMESTOWN.

Monuments of other years, on ye I gaze As yonder sun sheds forth its dying rays; And as I read these marbles, reared to tell Who lived beloved, and much lamented fell; A feeling sad comes o'er my soul, and then My fancy brings their tenants back again. Not these alone, but those whose footsteps trod The soil before, and worshipp'd nature's god Free from scholastic trammel, and adored Him thro' his works, without the zealot's sword To force belief. Where are ye now? Bright star That shed'st thy soft light thro' the skies afar, Art thou the same that didst thy pale beams shed O'er the last broken-hearted Indian's bed? When death was glazing fast his eagle eye, Say, didst thou gleam from yonder deep blue sky O'er his dim vision, and point out the way Thro' death's dark vestibule to endless day?— How did he die? With curses loud and deep (Startling the panther from his troubled sleep,) All wildly bursting from his soul for those Who came as friends, but—proved the worst of foes? Say, did he breathe his untamed spirit out, With the stern warrior's wild unearthly shout Quiv'ring along his lip, all proudly curled, Which seem'd to say, "defiance to the world?" Or was the lion quiet in his heart? And did a gush from feeling's fountain, start Adown his swarthy cheek, when o'er his soul Came tender feelings he could not control. Thoughts of the past perhaps; his aged sire; His mother bending o'er the wigwam's fire; His brothers, sisters, and the joyous chase; The stream he used to lave in oft, to brace His manly sinews; and perchance the maid, With whom in brighter days he oft had strayed Mid the hoar forest's over spreading shade. Came there a group past mem'ry's straining eye To teach the brave how hard it was to die? What boots it now to know? Yet fancy warms With strange imaginings, and the gaunt forms Of forest heroes pass her eye before, As a strange feeling steals the spirit o'er. Is that Apollo¹ with his polish'd bow And quiver—with rich locks that freely flow Adown his neck of graceful form—whose eye Seems like some bright orb beaming from the sky? O! shade of Powhatan! I would not dare To breathe one word upon this balmy air To make thee sad—for as I look around, I feel this mournful spot is sacred ground! If thou dost mark my footsteps, where I tread Unthinking, o'er those warrior's mounds, who bled Contending bravely for their own green hills, Their sunny fountains and their gushing rills, Their fields, their woods, their partners and their sons, This noble stream which to the ocean runs,— Shade of the mighty Werowance² forgive! No trifling thoughts within this bosom live; No throb unhallowed thrills my bosom here, As o'er these mounds I drop a mournful tear. But day declines; the hosts of heaven ride All brightly—while the moon, pale as a bride When at the altar her young vows are given, Smiles sweetly from her altitude in heaven. The red man and the white, together sleep That dreamless slumber, and the waves' hoarse sweep Awakes them not—and I a wandering boy, Will not with my sad song their manes annoy. I drop a parting tear, thou sacred pile, To thy strewn columns and thy moss grown aisle; Thy broken pavement, and thy ruined arch,— How rapid Time, thy desolating march! Farewell! farewell! thou sacred, solemn spot; What I have felt shall not be soon forgot: Rest, rest, ye slumberers! would that I could sleep; Your's is all calm, but I must live to weep.

SYLVANUS.

August, 1834.

¹ It is said of West, the celebrated painter, that on being shown an Apollo, he exclaimed, "My God, how much like a young Mohawk warrior."

² Indian term for a great man.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ODE WRITTEN ON A FINE NIGHT AT SEA.

How softly sweet this zephyr night! To Venus sends her brilliant light! And Heav'n's inhabitants unite Each kindly beam, To put fell darkness' train to flight, With gentle gleam. The vessel's sides the waters wake, And waveless as the bounded lake, A solemn slumber seem to take Extending wide;— Along the ship they sparkling break And gem the tide. Midst such a scene, no thoughts can find An entrance in the pensive mind, But such as virtue has refined, The past must smile— And flatt'ring fancy will be kind, And hope beguile. Blest silence! solitary friend— My thoughts with thee to home I send; And there absorbed my sorrows end— In vain I roam— As blossoms to the day-star tend, So I to home. Not more I owe that glorious ray That beams the blessing of the day; Not more my gratitude I pay For air and light— Than for that Home now far away— First, best delight. A little while, and that blest spot, From mem'ry shall raze each blot, And all my wand'rings there forgot, At last I'll rest— No sorrow shall disturb the cot So loved, so blest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN WOODS.

A deep ton'd requiem's in the sigh Of the moaning blast, as it hurries by Yon fading forest; Upon its rushing wings is borne A voice sad as the anthem's tone Above the dead: It is the wild wind's hymn of death, Which pours in plaintive strains its breath O'er autumn woods; When hurl'd to earth by the fitful storm, Some frail leaf's wan and wither'd form Sinks to its tomb. Sad relics of the dying year; Thy springtide glories now are sear, And all departed: Where now's thy fairy robe of spring, The sunbeam and the zephyr's wing Once wove for thee? Say, where's that gush of melody Thy sylvan minstrels pour'd for thee In thy summer bowers? Or where's the Æolian song thou wouldst wake When some sporting zephyr's breath would shake Thy rustling leaves? Thy robe—thy song have past away, And the funeral pall and the funeral lay Alone are thine! How oft when summer's azure sky Was bath'd in the golden, gorgeous dye Of sunset's glow, I've lov'd to wander through thy bright And verdant bowers, gilt with light Of parting day; To list to the soft, faint melody Of thy vesper hymn, as it floated by On the passing breeze— Or view, when on the stream's bright sheen Was pictured all thy fairy scene In mimic art;— How calm that stream, in its slumber seeming, Of thee and all thy pageant dreaming Reflected there. But thro' thy shades 'twas not alone I stray'd. With me there wander'd one Of gentler mould, Around whose seraph form awakening, Young beauty's morning light was breaking In roseate beam— And round whose stainless brow fond Love, And Hope and Joy a wreath had wove Of freshest bloom. Thou sad memento of the tomb! Say, shall that wreath, with its sunny bloom, E'er fade like thee? Shall Time's chill mildew on it light, Or sorrow breathe its autumn blight Upon its flowers? A voice is in each falling leaf Which says, "earth's brightest joys are brief"— Thus fade its hopes! Then mid that wreath of fading flowers Fond pleasure weaves, to deck her bowers, Oh! twine that flower Whose fadeless hue, whose springtide bloom Immortal lives, beyond the tomb— Bright SHARON'S ROSE.

H.

We extract the following sprightly effusion from the North American Magazine, published in Philadelphia. It bears a strong resemblance to the grace and freedom, and piquancy which distinguish the muse of Halleck, one of the most highly gifted poets in America. We hope our fair readers, however, will not suppose that the author's satire is adapted to our meridian. The BEAUTIES of our southern clime, are too generous and disinterested to be won by the sordid allurements of splendid edifices, bank shares and gold eagles!—at least we hope so, and should be sorry to find ourselves mistaken.

THE DECLARATION.

The lady sat within her bower, Where trellissed vines hung o'er her, With flashing eye and burning cheek, Down knelt her fond adorer; He took her soft white hand, and in Her bright eye fondly gazing, Sought for a look, to show that he An equal flame was raising; Yet still her eyes were turned away, And as his heart waxed bolder, And he devoured her lily hand, The lady's look grew colder. And then he swore by all the stars, That in the sky were shining— By all the verdant vines that o'er Her gentle bower were twining— By mountains, valleys, seas and streams, And by the moon above her, And everything therein that e'er Sophi or saints discover— He never could know peace again On earth, till he had won her; Yet still she answered not the look Of love he cast upon her. And then he swore, at her command, To show his love, he would do What never mortals did before, And none but lovers could do, That he would climb up to the moon, Or swim the ocean over— Would dine one day at Sandy Hook, And sup next night at Dover; Then jump from thence to London, and Alight on St. Paul's steeple— Then pull the Premier's nose, and make O'Connell damn the people. Or that he would put armour on, And, like a knight of yore, he Would fight with giants, castles scale, And gain immortal glory. Then go and build a kingdom up, And be a mighty winner; Bowstring the Sultan Mahmoud—and His TURKEY eat for dinner. Then follow Lander's dismal track, And on the Niger's banks An Empire of the Darkies found, And merit Tappan's thanks! If HARDER tasks she did demand, He would reform the nation, Make talent, honesty, and worth, Essentials to high station— Make politicians tell the truth, Give consciences to brokers, And put upon the temperance list An army of old soakers— Make lawyers "keep the people's peace," Physicians kill them CHEAPER— A cloud was on the lady's brow, Which, as he spoke, grew deeper. He swore she had the brightest eyes, That ever look'd on mortal; And that their light was like the rays That stream from Heaven's own portal; That by her cheek, the opening rose Would look but dim and faded; And darker than the raven's wing, The hair her fair brow shaded; That Venus by her side would look A common country dowdy;— The lady blushed and smiled, and then Her brow again grew cloudy. Up sprung the lover then, and said, "Will you be Mrs. Popkins— Miss Julia Jane Amelia Ann Matilda Polly Hopkins? I have a house four stories high— We'll live in splendid style, and A handsome countryseat upon Lake George's sweetest island— Ten thousand eagles in the mint, Bankshares, untold, percented"— The lady bent her cheek to his, Her gentle heart relented!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FROM MY SCRAP BOOK.

You ask me B——ty, why I mourn, Yet dry'st the tearful eye? You ask me why I look with scorn, And check the heaving sigh? Time was, when I could carol forth, To tune of lively glee; But dark despair has left no hope— Nor sigh—nor tear—for me. Like me—perchance some wayward sprite, Might dazzling lead astray; Then leave you on the giddy height, To perish far away: Take heed while yet you have the choice, Avoid the Syren's way; Nor listen to the artful voice, Which calls—but to betray; For sigh from him that is deceived, Or tear from eye that once believed, Is sought in vain—tho' fill'd with grief, Nor sigh nor tear can bring relief; 'Tis time alone can steel the heart, And foil the Syren's pointed dart.

POWHATAN.

Petersburg, Dec. 19, 1834.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE MECHANICIAN AND UNCLE SIMON.

About the period of what "I am gaun to tell," the ancient aristocracy of Virginia had passed through its death struggle; the times when the rich were every thing and the poor nothing, had passed away; and the high pretensions of the sons of the Cavaliers had yielded to the more levelling opinions of the Roundheads. The badges of distinction, such as coats of arms and liveries, had become too odious to be generally kept up; occasionally however the latter were seen, but so rarely, that they looked like the spectres of departed greatness, and excited a feeling of contempt or pity for the weakness of the master, rather than respect for his wealth and rank. There was one class of people nevertheless, who retained all their attachment to these distinctive marks; and indeed they do so to this day: I mean the class of servants who belonged to the old families. They were the veriest aristocrats upon earth, and hated with the most unrelenting hatred all the ignoble blood of the land, and deeply deplored the transition of property from the nobles to the serfs. Though their own "ancient but ignoble blood" had literally almost "crept through scoundrels ever since the flood," they detested the poor and adored the rich. I shall never forget the Fall of the year ——. I had just graduated at one of our northern colleges, and received my two diplomas, with their red ribbons and seals attached. They were deposited by my good friend Andrew McMackin, the most expert diploma rigger in all the village, in a plain cylindrical case of pasteboard, for safe keeping, and would have remained there probably to this day unmolested, had not the rats made an inroad upon them, and in a single night demolished sigillum and signature—all that it had cost me years of hard labor to obtain—aye, and twenty dollars to boot. Not satisfied, I suppose, with the attestation of the president and venerable board of trustees, they were desirous of adding their own ratification of my pretensions to science. Be that as it may; full of delightful anticipation at the prospect of returning to my native state, after an absence of four years, I took my seat in the mail stage, and travelled three hundred miles without once going to bed. Such a journey at this day of steamboat and railroad car would be nothing, but at that time it was a great undertaking, and attended with much fatigue. The vehicles were crazy and often broke down, and the passengers had the pleasure of paying dearly for the privilege of walking many a mile through the mud. At length I arrived at the little town of F——, the end of my journey on the great mail route, where I expected to meet with some kind of conveyance to take me into the country to my uncle's. As I leaped from the carriage to the pavement, where many loiterers were gathered to witness the arrival of the stage, I found myself suddenly locked in the arms of some one, who exclaimed, "There he is, the very moral of his grandpapa! God bless your honor, how do ye do? I'm so glad to see you." Extricating myself with some degree of embarrassment, because of the crowd around me, I perceived that the salutation proceeded from one of our old servants, who stood gazing upon me with the moat benevolent smile. His appearance was quite outré to one who had lived so long at the north. His old and faded livery, was blue turned up with yellow; he held in his hand a horseman's cap, without the bearskin; his boots had once been white-topped, but could no longer claim that distinctive epithet; like Sir Hudibras, he wore but one spur, though probably for a different reason; his high forehead glistened in the sun, and his slightly grey hair was combed neatly back, and queud behind with an eelskin so tight that he could hardly wink his eyes, exhibiting a face remarkably intelligent and strongly marked, with a nose uncommonly high and hawkbilled for a negro. Perceiving my embarrassment, he drew back with a very courtly bow, and begged pardon, declaring he was so glad to see me, he had forgotten himself and made too free. I made haste to assure him that he had not—gave him a hearty shake by the hand—called him Uncle Simon, a name he had been always accustomed to from me, and drawing him aside, overwhelmed him with questions about every body and every thing at home. Tell me, said I, how is my uncle? "I thank you sir, quite hearty, and much after the old sort—full of his projjecks, heh! heh! perpechil motion, and what not." What, said I, is he at that still? "Oh yes—oh yes—and carridges to go without hawses; God love you, Mass Ned, I don't think they ken go without animel nater." And how does my aunt like all this? "Ah!" said he, putting up his hands with an air of disgust, "She can't abide it—things go on badly. You 'member my four greys? So beautiful!—my four in hand!—all gone, all sold. Why, sir, I could whistle them hawses to the charrut jest as easy as snap my finger. Our fine London charut too! that's gone—and my poor Missis your aunt, has nothin to ride in, but a nasty, pitiful push phaton." I am sorry to hear it, Simon. "Why, Mass Ned, what mek you all let them Demmy Cats sarve you so? What you call 'em? Publicanes? Yes, I'd cane 'um as old master used to do." But Simon, how is cousin Mary? "Miss Mary? Oh, Miss Mary is a beauty; gay as a young filly, and she walks upon her pasterns ——." Well, well, said I, interrupting him, Simon let us be off; what have you brought for me to ride? "Old Reglus, sir, your old favorite." Having taken some refreshment, and transferred my clothes to the portmanteau, I mounted Regulus, who still shewed his keeping. He was a bright bay, and his hair was as glossy as silk under Simon's management; his eye still glanced its fire, and his wide nostrils gave token of his wind. He knew me, I shall ever believe it, for my voice made him prick his ears, as if listening to the music of former days. It seemed to inspire him with new life; he flew like an arrow, and Simon found it impossible to keep up with me, mounted as he was on a high trotting, rawboned devil, that made the old man bound like a trapball, whenever he missed his up-and-down-position movement. His figure, thus bobbing in front of a monstrous portmanteau and bearskin, was so ludicrous, I could not forbear laughing; and reining up my steed, I told him I would ride slower for the sake of conversation with him. "Do, my good sir," cried he, "for this vile garran will knock the breath out of my body. If I had but my old hawse Grey Dick alive agin—that hawse, Mass Ned, was the greatest hawse upon the face of the yearth; I rod him ninety miles the hottest day that ever come from heaven, and when I got through our outer gate, he seized the bit between his teeth, and run away with me, and never stopped till he got clean into the stable. Whenever I fed him, I was 'bliged to shet the stable door and go away, for if he heard me move or a stirrup jingle, he would'nt eat another mouthful, but stood with his head up and his eyes flying about, impatient for me to mount." I knew this was the moment to put in a leading question to bring out a story I had heard a thousand times. That was not the horse that ran away with you when a boy? "No—no—that was Whalebone; your grandpapa used always to go to court in his coach and six; I can see him now, in his great big wig, hanging down upon his shoulders, and powdered as white as a sheet. I was then a little shaver, and always went behind the carridge to open the gates. Waitinman George rod the old gentleman's ridin horse Bearskin, and led Mass Bobby's hawse Whalebone; Mass Bobby rod in the carridge with old master. Well, one day what should George do but put me up upon Whalebone, as big a devil as ever was; soonever I got upon him, off he went by the coach as hard as he could stave; old master hallooed and bawled—he'll kill him—he'll kill him—George how dare you put Simon upon Whalebone? Pshey! the more he hallooed the more Whalebone run. I pulled and pulled till I got out of sight, and turned down the quarter stretch, and then I did give him the timber—Flying Childers was nothin to him. When old master got home, there I was with Whalebone as cool as a curcumber. I made sure I should get a caning, but all he said was, D—n the fellow! I 'blieve he could ride old Whalebone's tail off—heh! heh! heh!"

I am sorry I cannot do more justice to the eloquence of Simon, who excelled in all the arts of oratory. His eyes spoke as much as his tongue; his gestures were vehement, but quite appropriate; he uttered some words in as startling a voice as Henry Clay, and his forefinger did as much execution as John Randolph's. As to his political opinions, he was the most confirmed aristocrat, and thought it the birthright of his master's family, to ride over the poor, booted and spurred. It was his delight to tell of his meeting one day, as he swept along the road with his smoking four in hand, a poor man on horseback, whom he contemptuously styled a Johnny. He ordered the man to give the road; but as he did not obey him as readily as he desired, he resolved to punish him. By a dexterous wheel of his leaders, he brought the chariot wheel in contact with the fellow's knee, and shaved every button off as nicely as he could have shaved his beard with a razor. But enough of Simon. I beguiled the way by drawing him out upon his favorite topics, until we got within sight of my uncle's house, a fine old mansion, with an avenue of cedars a mile in length. They had been kept for several generations neatly trimmed, and he who had dared to mar their beauty with an axe, would have been considered a felon, and met his fate without benefit of clergy. I have lived to see them all cut down by the ruthless hand of an overseer, who sees no beauty in any thing but a cornstalk. However, this is wandering from my present theme. Then they were in all their evergreen loveliness, and I hailed them as my ancient friends, as I galloped by them, with a joyous feeling at approaching the scene of my childhood. The folding doors soon flew wide open, and the whole family rushed out to meet me with true-hearted old fashioned Virginia promptitude. I must not attempt to describe a meeting which is always better imagined than described. Let it suffice, that after the most affectionate greeting, which extended to every servant about the premises, I was ushered to my bed room at a late hour, with as much of state as could be mustered about the now decaying establishment, and soon sunk into a profound slumber, well earned by the toils and fatigues of my journey. Early the next morning, before I left my room, my excellent and revered uncle paid me a visit, and ordered in the never failing julep,—such a one as would have done honor to Chotank. At the same time he suggested to me that he would greatly prefer my taking a mixture of his own, which he extolled as much as Don Quixotte did his balsam to Sancho, or Dr. Sangrado his warm water to Gil Blas. It was a pleasant beverage, he said, compounded of an acid and an alkali. He had discovered by close observation, that all diseases had their origin in acid, and that alkali of course was the grand panacea; even poisons were acids, and he had no doubt that he should be able to form a concrete mass, by means of beef gall and alkali, which would resemble and equal in virtue the mad stone. If I felt the slightest acidity of stomach, I would find myself much relieved by one of his powders. He had written to Dr. Rush on the subject, and he shewed me a letter from that gentleman, at which he laughed heartily, and in which the Doctor protested he might as well attempt to batter the rock of Gibraltar with mustard seed shot as to attack the yellow fever with alkali. I could not help smiling at the earnestness of my dear uncle, and assured him that I had no doubt of the virtues of his medicine, but as I was quite well, I would rather try the anti-fogmatic; and if I should feel indisposed, would resort to his panacea; although I secretly resolved to have as little to do with it as Gil Blas had with water. Having dressed myself and descended to the breakfast room, I there met my aunt and cousin, who soon made me acquainted with the present condition of the family. Every thing was fast declining, in consequence of the total absorption of the mind of my uncle in his visionary schemes; and I saw abundant evidence of the wreck of his fortune, in the absence of a thousand comforts and elegancies which I had been accustomed to behold. He soon joined us, and such was his excellence of character, that we most carefully avoided casting the smallest damp upon his ardor. Indeed, he was a man of great natural talent and much acquired information, and was far above the ridicule which was sometimes played off upon him by his more ignorant neighbors. I almost begin to think that we were the mistaken ones, when I look around and see the perfection of many of his schemes, which I then thought wholly impracticable. When old Simon thought that a carriage could never go without animel nater, he certainty never dreamed of a railroad car, nor of the steam carriages of England; and when my uncle gravely told me that he should fill up his icehouse, and manufacture ice as he wanted it in Summer, by letting out air highly condensed in a tight copper vessel, upon water, I did not dream of the execution of the plan by some French projector. I must not be thus diffuse, or I shall weary the patience of my reader. A ride was proposed after breakfast, and my uncle immediately invited me to try his newly invented vehicle which could not be overset. I have constructed, said he, a carriage with a moveable perch; by means of which the body swings out horizontally, whenever the wheels on one side pass over any high obstacle or ground more elevated than the other wheels rest upon; and I shall be glad to exhibit it to a young man who is fresh from college, and must be acquainted with the principles of mechanics. I readily accepted his proposal, although I trembled for my neck; but declared I had no mechanical turn whatever, and could not construct a wheelbarrow. He was sorry to hear this, as he was in hopes I would be the depositary of all his schemes, and bring them to perfection in case of his death, for the benefit of his family. We soon set off on our ride; and Simon was the driver. As I anticipated, in descending a hill where the ground presented great inequality, the whole party were capsized, and nothing saved our bones but the lowness of the vehicle. Never shall I forget the chagrin of my uncle, nor the impatient contemptuous look of Simon, as he righted the carriage; he did not dare to expostulate with his master, but could not forbear saying that he had never met with such an accident when he drove his four greys. "Ah, there is the cause," said my uncle, much gratified at having an excuse for his failure; "Simon is evidently intoxicated; old man, never presume to drive me again when you are not perfectly sober; you will ruin the most incomparable contrivance upon earth." Simon contented himself with a sly wink at me, and we made the best of our way home; my uncle promising me another trial in a short time, and I determining to avoid it, if human ingenuity could contrive the means. The next day, as I was amusing myself with a book, my uncle came in from his workshop, with a face beaming with pleasure; and entering the room, proceeded in the most careful manner to close all the doors; and producing a small crooked stick, said to me with a mysterious air, "My boy, this stick, small and inconsiderable as it seems to be, has made your fortune. It is worth a million of dollars, for it has suggested to me an improvement in my machine for producing perpetual motion, which puts the thing beyond all doubt." Is it possible, cried I, that so small a stick can be worth so much? "Yes, depend upon it—and I carefully closed the doors, because I would not be overheard for the world. Some fellow might slip before me to the patent office, and rob me of my treasure." I observed that nobody was there who could possibly do so. "Yes, somebody might be casually passing, and I cannot be too vigilant. I take it for granted," he resumed, "that you are apprised of the grand desideratum in this business. You do not imagine, with the ignorant, that I expect to make matter last longer than God intended; the object is to get a machine to keep time so accurately, that it may be used at sea to ascertain the longitude with precision. Do you know that a gentleman has already constructed a time piece, for which the Board of Longitude paid him fifty thousand pounds; but owing to the metallic expansion, it would not be entirely accurate." I answered that I had not so much as heard of the Board of Longitude—and he proceeded to explain his improvement, of which I did not comprehend a syllable. All that I felt sure of, although I did not tell him so, was that he would not succeed in realizing the million of dollars; and, accordingly, when admitted as a great favor into his sanctum sanctorum, the work shop, to witness his machine put in motion, it stood most perversely still after one revolution, and "some slight alteration" remained to be made to the end of the chapter,—until hope became extinct in every breast save that of the projector. I could fill a volume with anecdotes of this sort, but will add only one, as descriptive of the very great height to which visionary notions may be carried. My uncle was a federalist, and of course hated Buonaparte from the bottom of his soul. He told me as a most profound secret, that he had discovered the means of making an old man young again, by removing from him the atmospheric pressure, and that nothing deterred him from patenting his discovery, but the fear that Buonaparte would attach his machinery to a body of soldiers and fly across the British Channel, and thus light down in the midst of England, and make an easy conquest of the only barrier left upon earth to secure the liberties of mankind. Eheu! jam satis! thought I. In this way did my poor uncle spend his time, to the utter ruin of a fine estate, which was surrendered to the management of that most pestilent of the human race, an overseer,—who would not at last be at the trouble of furnishing the old gentleman with wood enough to keep him warm in his spacious edifice. The means he resorted to, to reprove the overseer, were not less characteristic and laughable than many of his singular notions. One very cold day he sent for him; the man attended, and was ushered with much solemnity into an apartment where a single chump was burning feebly in the chimney place, and a table was standing in the centre of the room, covered with papers, pen and ink. My uncle received him with unusual courtesy, and ordered the servant to set a chair for Mr. Corncob by the fire,—with a peculiar emphasis on the word. "I have sent for you, Mr. Corncob," said he, "to get you to witness my will. You see, sir," pointing at the same time to the fire—"you see, sir, how small a probability there is that I shall survive the present winter. I am anxious to settle my affairs previous to my being attacked by the pleurisy, and have therefore sent for you to aid me in doing so." This was a severe reproof, and the man having done as he was bid, retired with an air the most sheepish imaginable. I fill up the picture by stating that I married my cousin, and inherited the estate in due course of time; but a mortgage swallowed it up as effectually as an earthquake—and poor old Simon died of a broken heart when Regulus was knocked off at the sale of his master's property at twenty dollars, to the man whom he hated of all others, Christopher Corncob, Esquire.

NUGATOR.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IMPROMPTU,

On a Lady's intimating a wish to see some verses of mine in the Messenger.

A Lady requests me to write Some lines for your Messenger's muse, And I cannot be so impolite, By any means, as to refuse. So I scribble these words in my way, In spite of Minerva, you see; But Venus will smile on my lay, And that is sufficient for me.

A. B.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PEASANT-WOMEN OF THE CANARIES.

Beautiful Islands, how fair you lie Beneath the light of your cloudless sky, And the light green waves that around you play, Seem keeping forever a holiday;— Beautiful Islands, how bright you rise 'Twixt the crystal sea and the sunny skies! The luscious grape, with its royal hue Veil'd in a tint of the softest blue, Hangs on the vine in its purple prime As proud to garnish its own sweet clime, And the olive sports in your soft, sweet air Its pale green foliage—a native there. Music is ceaseless your trees among, Thou Island-home of a choral throng; Music unheard on a foreign shore;— Songs of the free—which they will not pour When exile-minstrels compelled to roam— They're sacred songs to their sweet isle-home. Why, though it's light in the Olive-bower, And fragrance breathes from the Orange-flower, And the sea is still and the air is calm And the early dew is a liquid balm— Why are the young ones forbade to roam, Or stray from the door of their Cottage-home?¹ In the light that plays through the Olive-bower, In the scent that breathes from the Orange-flower, In the liquid balm of the early dew, In the smooth, calm sea with its emerald hue, Can the Peasant-mother no charm descry To protect from the curse of the "evil eye." While they shall loiter the trees among, Echoing the wild Canary's song, The "mal de ajo" may on them rest And blight the pride of the mother's breast; Her bosom throbs with a secret dread, Though paths of Eden her loved ones tread. Lo, from the Peak, with its hoary crown, The "el a pagador" sails down, And over the Cot in the moon-light floats, Foreboding death in its awful notes— Who in that Cottage but pants for breath, And hears that voice as the voice of death? Richly the vine with its deep green leaf, Girdles the base of the Teneriffe,— Yet there, in the prime of the sunny day, The Peasant-maiden dares not to stray, Till the secret charm to her arm is set, And her bosom throbs to an amulet. When, oh! when, shall darkness flee, From the rosy Isles of the sunny sea? The light of Truth with its living ray, Pour on their dwellers a clearer day, And Mind from the chain of its darkness rise, Like a bird set free, to its native skies?

ELIZA.

Maine.

¹ D. Y. Brown's Superstitions of the Canary Islands.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE HEART.

Man's heart! what melancholy things Are garner'd up in thee!— What solace unto life it brings That none the heart can see— 'Tis shut from every human eye, Close curtain'd from the view; The scene alike of grief or joy— Man's Hell and Heaven too. Should all mankind combine to tear The curtain, thrown around, Their labor would be spent in air— It is his hallow'd ground: Within thy magic circle, Heart! So potent is his spell, No human hand hath strength to part Or turn aside the veil. In sadness, there's a pleasure soft, "Which mourners only know;" My heart affords this treasure oft, And there I love to go; It is the chosen spot where I Can live my life anew— My Home!—my Castle!—my Serai! Which none must dare break through. In thee, my Heart! I am alone Quite unrestrained and free, Thou'rt hung with pictures all my own, And drawn for none but me; All that in secret passes there, Forever I can hide; Ambition—love—or dark despair— My jealousy—or pride. Yes, when ambitious—ardent—young— I thought the world my own, My glowing portraits there were hung; How have their colors flown!— Some are by Time, defaced so far I look on them with pain; But Time nor nothing else can mar The portrait of my JANE. I placed her there who won my soul; No creature saw the maid; I gazed in bliss, without control, On every charm displayed: It was a sweet, impassion'd hour, When not an eye was near To steal into my lonely bower, And kiss her image there. Earth held not on its globe the man Who breathed that holy air; No mortal eye but mine did scan My folly with my fair; Sole monarch of that silent spot, All things gave place to me; I did but wish—no matter what— Each obstacle would flee. And did she love? She loved me not, But gave her hand away; I hied me to my lonely spot— In anguish passed the day; And such a desolation wide, Spread o'er that holy place, The stream of life itself seemed dried, Or ebbing out apace. But what I did—what madly said— I cannot tell to any— Her portrait in its place hath staid, Though years have flown so many; Nor can each lovely lineament So deep impress'd, depart, Till Nature shall herself be spent, And thou shalt break, MY HEART.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,—I send you a Parody upon Bryant's Autumn, apparently written by some disconsolate citizen of Richmond after the adjournment of the Legislature in time past. If the picture be faithfully drawn, it may perhaps amuse the members of the assembly who are now in your city.

NUGATOR.

PARODY ON BRYANT'S AUTUMN.

The very dullest days are come, the dullest of the year, When all our great Assembly men are gone away from here; Heaped up in yonder Capitol, how many bills lie dead, They just allowed to live awhile, to knock them on the head; Tom, Dick, and Harry all have gone and left the silent hall, And on the now deserted square we meet no one at all— Where are the fellows? the fine young fellows that were so lately here And vexed the drowsy ear of night with frolic and good cheer. Alas! they all are at their homes—the glorious race of fellows, And some perhaps are gone to forge, and some are at the bellows. Old Time is passing where they are, but Time will pass in vain; All never can, though some may be, transported here again: Old "What d'ye call him," he's been off a week, or maybe more, And took a little negro up, behind and one before; But What's his name and You know who, they lingered to the last, And neither had a dollar left and seemed to be downcast; Bad luck had fallen on them as falls the plague on men, And their phizzes were as blank as if they'd never smile again; And then when comes December next, as surely it will come, To call the future delegate from out his distant home, When the sound of cracking nuts is heard in lobby and in hall, And glimmer in the smoky light old Shockoe Hill and all, An old friend searches for the fellows he knew the year before, And sighs to find them on the Hill Capitoline, no more; But then he thinks of one who her promise had belied, The beautiful Virginia, who had fallen in her pride. In that great house 'twas said she fell where stands her gallant chief, Who well might weep in marble, that her race had been so brief— Yet not unmeet it was he thought—oh no, ye heavenly powers! Since she trusted those good fellows, who kept such shocking hours.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Audire magnos jam videor duces Non indecoro pulvere sordidos.—Hor. Car. L. ii. 1.

I stood upon the heights above Charlestown, and was silently contrasting the then peaceful aspect of the scene with that which it presented on the day of wrath and blood which had rendered the place so memorable in story, as my fancy filled with images of the past and once more crowded the hill—not indeed with knights and paladins of old,

Sed rusticorum mascula militum Proles, Sabellis docta ligonibus Versare glebas, et severae Matris ad arbitrium recisos Portare fustes.—Hor. Lib. iii. Car. 6.

As the silent hosts arose in imagination before me, I thought of the complicated feelings which on that day must have stirred their hearts; I thought of the breasts which kindled under the insult of invasion and were nerved with the stern determination to play out the game upon which was staked their all of earthly hope or fear, and it struck me that the gallant Warren, whose voice had often made the patriot's heart to glow and nerved the warrior's arm, might perhaps have addressed them in sentiment something as follows:

THE BATTLE OF BREED'S HILL.

Look down upon the bay, my men, As proudly comes the foe; Ah! send them back their shout agen, That patriot hearts may glow. They come to us in pomp of war— The tyrant in his gold; Our arms are few—they're stronger far, But who will say as bold? No Briton ever forged the chains Shall bind our hands at will; The Pilgrim spirit still remains, Out on the western hill. Their power may awe the coward slave, But not the stalwart free; Their steel may drive us to the grave, But not from liberty. Our fathers spirit boils along Impetuous through our veins; We ask to know, where are the strong, To bind us in their chains? Then let the foe look to his steel, And count his numbers strong; We bide him here for wo or weal, As he shall know ere long. We'll dare him to the last of death— We've sworn it in our hearts; We stand upon our native heath— We'll hold till life departs. Oh! what is death to slavery! The dead at least are free: And what is life for victory! We strike for liberty! This sod shall warm beneath our feet, All reeking in our gore, And hearts that gladly cease to beat, The foe must trample o'er. Our boys are bold—their mothers stern, Will rear them true and brave, And many noble hearts shall burn To free a father's grave. Let every tongue be hushed and still, Each soldier hold his breath— They're marching up the sloping hill,— And now prepare for death.

ALPHA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A LADY.

Oh! do not sing—my soul is wrung When those sweet tones salute mine ear; Thou canst not sing as thou hast sung— As I have heard, I cannot hear. Then do not breathe to me one strain Of those I loved in years gone by; Their melody can only throw A darker cloud upon my sky. Speak not to me!—thine accents fall By far too sadly on my ear; They told of love, and hope, and joy— They tell of life made lone and drear. No word speak thou! The tones are changed That breathed to me thy young heart's vow Of all-enduring fondness; aye! Thou canst but speak in kindness now. And worse than all would be the smile Which once was mine, and only mine; Thou wert my hope—thy love my pride— Thy heart my spirit's chosen shrine. But now—oh! smile not on me now; 'Tis insult—worse, 'tis mockery! Estranged, and cold, and false, thou art; Smile if thou wilt—but not on me.

M. S. L.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO IANTHE.

Think of me when the morning wakes, With a smile that's bright and a blush that's new; And the wave-rocked goddess gently shakes From her rosy wings, the gems of dew. Think of me, when the day-god burns In his noon-tide blaze and his purest light; And think of me when his chariot turns To the sombre shades of silent night. Think of me, when the evening's store Of brilliance, fades on the wondering eye; And think of me, when the flowers pour Their incense to the star-lit sky. Think of me when the evening star, Through the deep blue sky shall dart his beams; And think of me when the mind, afar, Shall chase the forms of its joyous dreams. Think of me in the hour of mirth— Think of me in the hour of prayer— Aye! think amidst each scene of earth, You feel my spirit is mingling there. For morning's beam—nor evening's light— Nor days of woe—nor hours of glee— Nor e'en religion's holiest rite, Can steal or force my thoughts from thee.

FERGUS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUES OF CAMOENS. BY R. H. WILDE, Of Georgia. Sonnet xliii. of the edition of 1779-1780. "O cysne quando sente ser chegada," &c.

They say the Swan, though mute his whole life long, Pours forth sweet melody when life is flying, Making the desert plaintive with his song, Wondrous and sad, and sweetest still while dying; Is it for life and pleasure past he's sighing, Grieving to lose what none can e'er prolong? Oh, no! he hails its close, on death relying As an escape from violence and wrong: And thus, dear lady! I at length perceiving, The fatal end of my unhappy madness, In thy oft broken faith no more believing, Welcome despair's sole comforter with gladness, And mourning one so fair is so deceiving, Breathe out my soul in notes of love and sadness.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAMME FRANCAISE.

Lit de mes plaisirs; lit de mes pleurs; Lit on je nais; lit on je mours; Tu nous fais voir combien procheins Sort nos plaisirs de nos chagrins.

TRANSLATION.

Couch of Sorrow; Couch of Joy; Of Life's first breath, and Death's last sigh; Thou makest us see what neighbors near Our pleasures and our sorrows are.

The above was the execution of a task proposed by a French gentleman, who, boasting the piquant terseness of his language, said that the original could not be rendered into English.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE CONSOLATION.

He had wept o'er the honored, in age who die; O'er the loved,—in beauty's bloom; O'er the blighted buds of infancy: Till all earth was to him a Tomb. And sorrow had drunk his youthful blood, And hastened the work of Time; And the cankering tooth of ingratitude Had withered his manhood's prime. But he turned from earth, and he looked to the sky, His sorrow by faith beguiling; Where Mercy sits enthroned on high, With his loved ones round her smiling. He looked to Eternity's bright shore, From the wreck of perished years; And Mercy's voice, through the storm's wild roar, Came down to sooth his fears. That gentle voice has charmed away The frenzy from his brain; And his withered heart, in her eye's mild ray, May bud and bloom again; And her smile has chased the gloom from his brow, So late by clouds o'ercast; And his cheek is bright with the sun-set glow, That tells that the Storm is past. And his heart returns to the world again, But forgets not the world above; For Heaven sends love to sooth earthly pain, But Heaven's whole bliss is Love.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

BY R. H. WILDE, Of Georgia.

Thou hast thy faults VIRGINIA!—yet I own I love thee still, although no son of thine; For I have climb'd thy mountains, not alone— And made the wonders of thy vallies mine, Finding from morning's dawn 'till day's decline Some marvel yet unmarked—some peak whose throne Was loftier; girt with mist, and crown'd with pine, Some deep and rugged glen with copse o'ergrown, The birth of some sweet valley, or the line Traced by some silver stream that murmured lone; Or the dark cave where hidden crystals shine, Or the wild arch across the blue sky thrown;¹ Or else those traits of nature, more divine That in some favored child of thine had shone.

¹ The Natural Bridge.

[The following letter, written by a distinguished President of the oldest College in Virginia, has been already or rather formerly before the public;—but no apology is necessary for transferring it to the columns of the "Messenger." Its elegant style and still more excellent sentiments, will always command admiration,—and we doubt whether we could render a more essential service to society than to republish it annually, in order that every young married lady (at least within the range of our subscription) should receive the benefit of its precepts. Certain we are, that more wholesome advice conveyed in more agreeable language, we have seldom seen contained in the same space. It is of itself a volume of instruction, and we do most cheerfully recommend it to the softer sex, whether married or single; for the married may profit by it even after years of conjugal tranquillity—and the single may at least expect to profit. It is more especially applicable, however, to her who has just sworn her vows on the altar of hymen—whose life of bliss and peace, or misery and discord, may depend upon the first six or twelve months of "prudent, amiable, uniform conduct."

Let it not be understood, however, that we are believers in the doctrine, that the pleasures of the matrimonial voyage are wholly dependant upon the conduct of the lady. She is but the second in command, and still greater responsibilities rest upon him who stands at the helm and guides the frail bark of human happiness. We should indeed be thankful if some of our highly gifted and experienced friends would prepare a counterpart to this valuable letter of advice, designed more particularly for the edification of such of us lords of creation as have either contracted or are likely to contract the nuptial bond. As to the old bachelors they are an incorrigible race, upon whom such advice would be wasted, and therefore they need not trouble themselves to read it.]

ADVICE FROM A FATHER TO HIS ONLY DAUGHTER.

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER HER MARRIAGE.

My dear Daughter,—You have just entered into that state which is replete with happiness or misery. The issue depends upon that prudent, amiable, uniform conduct, which wisdom and virtue so strongly recommend, on the one hand, or on that imprudence which a want of reflection or passion may prompt, on the other.

You are allied to a man of honor, of talents, and of an open, generous disposition. You have, therefore, in your power, all the essential ingredients of domestic happiness; it cannot be marred, if you now reflect upon that system of conduct which you ought invariably to pursue—if you now see clearly, the path from which you will resolve never to deviate. Our conduct is often the result of whim or caprice, often such as will give us many a pang, unless we see beforehand, what is always the most praiseworthy, and the most essential to happiness.

The first maxim which you should impress deeply upon your mind, is, never to attempt to control your husband by opposition, by displeasure, or any other mark of anger. A man of sense, of prudence, of warm feelings, cannot, and will not, bear an opposition of any kind, which is attended with an angry look or expression. The current of his affections is suddenly stopped; his attachment is weakened; he begins to feel a mortification the most pungent; he is belittled even in his own eyes; and be assured, the wife who once excites those sentiments in the breast of a husband, will never regain the high ground which she might and ought to have retained. When he marries her, if he be a good man, he expects from her smiles, not frowns; he expects to find in her one who is not to control him—not to take from him the freedom of acting as his own judgment shall direct, but one who will place such confidence in him, as to believe that his prudence is his best guide. Little things, what in reality are mere trifles in themselves, often produce bickerings, and even quarrels. Never permit them to be a subject of dispute; yield them with pleasure, with a smile of affection. Be assured that one difference outweighs them all a thousand, or ten thousand times. A difference with your husband ought to be considered as the greatest calamity—as one that is to be most studiously guarded against; it is a demon which must never be permitted to enter a habitation where all should be peace, unimpaired confidence, and heartfelt affection. Besides, what can a woman gain by her opposition or her differences? Nothing. But she loses every thing; she loses her husband's respect for her virtues, she loses his love, and with that, all prospect of future happiness. She creates her own misery, and then utters idle and silly complaints, but utters them in vain. The love of a husband can be retained only by the high opinion which he entertains of his wife's goodness of heart, of her amiable disposition, of the sweetness of her temper, of her prudence, and of her devotion to him. Let nothing upon any occasion, ever lessen that opinion. On the contrary, it should augment every day: he should have much more reason to admire her for those excellent qualities, which will cast a lustre over a virtuous woman, when her personal attractions are no more.

Has your husband staid out longer than you expected? When he returns, receive him as the partner of your heart. Has he disappointed you in something you expected, whether of ornament, or furniture, or of any conveniency? Never evince discontent; receive his apology with cheerfulness. Does he, when you are housekeeper, invite company without informing you of it, or bring home with him a friend? Whatever may be your repast, however scanty it may be, however impossible it may be to add to it, receive them with a pleasing countenance, adorn your table with cheerfulness, give to your husband and to your company a hearty welcome; it will more than compensate for every other deficiency; it will evince love for your husband, good sense in yourself, and that politeness of manners, which acts as the most powerful charm! It will give to the plainest fare a zest superior to all that luxury can boast. Never be discontented on any occasion of this nature.

In the next place, as your husband's success in his profession will depend upon his popularity, and as the manners of a wife have no little influence in extending or lessening the respect and esteem of others for her husband, you should take care to be affable and polite to the poorest as well as to the richest. A reserved haughtiness is a sure indication of a weak mind and an unfeeling heart.

With respect to your servants, teach them to respect and love you, while you expect from them a reasonable discharge of their respective duties. Never tease yourself, or them, by scolding; it has no other effect than to render them discontented and impertinent. Admonish them with a calm firmness.

Cultivate your mind by the perusal of those books which instruct while they amuse. Do not devote much of your time to novels; there are a few which may be useful in improving and in giving a higher tone to our moral sensibility; but they tend to vitiate the taste, and to produce a disrelish for substantial intellectual food. Most plays are of the same cast; they are not friendly to the delicacy which is one of the ornaments of the female character. HISTORY, GEOGRAPHY, POETRY, MORAL ESSAYS, BIOGRAPHY, TRAVELS, SERMONS, and other well written religious productions, will not fail to enlarge your understanding, to render you a more agreeable companion, and to exalt your virtue. A woman devoid of rational ideas of religion, has no security for her virtue; it is sacrificed to her passions, whose voice, not that of GOD, is her only governing principle. Besides, in those hours of calamity to which families must be exposed, where will she find support, if it be not in her just reflections upon that all ruling Providence which governs the Universe, whether animate or inanimate.

Mutual politeness between the most intimate friends, is essential to that harmony, which should never be once broken or interrupted. How important then is it between man and wife!—The more warm the attachment, the less will either party bear to be slighted, or treated with the smallest degree of rudeness or inattention. This politeness, then, if it be not in itself a virtue, is at least the means of giving to real goodness a new lustre; it is the means of preventing discontent, and even quarrels; it is the oil of intercourse, it removes asperities, and gives to every thing a smooth, an even, and a pleasing movement.

I will only add, that matrimonial happiness does not depend upon wealth; no, it is not to be found in wealth; but in minds properly tempered and united to our respective situations. Competency is necessary; all beyond that point, is ideal. Do not suppose, however, that I would not advise your husband to augment his property by all honest and commendable means. I would wish to see him actively engaged in such a pursuit, because engagement, a sedulous employment, in obtaining some laudable end, is essential to happiness. In the attainment of a fortune, by honorable means, and particularly by professional exertion, a man derives particular satisfaction, in self applause, as well as from the increasing estimation in which he is held by those around him.

In the management of your domestic concerns, let prudence and wise economy prevail. Let neatness, order and judgment be seen in all your different departments. Unite liberality with a just frugality; always reserve something for the hand of charity; and never let your door be closed to the voice of suffering humanity. Your servants, in particular, will have the strongest claim upon your charity;—let them be well fed, well clothed, nursed in sickness, and never let them be unjustly treated.

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

VATHEK—An Oriental Tale, by Mr. Beckford, author of Italy, &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1834.

The publishers of this fashionable romance, by way of smoothing its path to general reception and favor, have attached to the title page various opinions expressed by English journalists,—to wit: The Quarterly Review says, "a very remarkable performance. It continues in possession of all the celebrity it once commanded." The "Printing Machine" (a paper we presume of that name) says, "As an Eastern story, we know nothing produced by an European imagination that can stand a comparison with this work." The Morning Post exclaims, "The finest Oriental tale extant!" and the "Gentleman's Magazine," pronounces it "a creation of genius that would immortalize its author at any time, and under any taste." These are very imposing authorities, and superadded to them all, it is said that Mr. Beckford is now living, is one of the richest men in England, and occupies so high a rank in social life, that royalty itself has been known to court his society. Nor is this all. Lord Byron pronounced "Vathek" to be a most surpassing production—far superior as an Eastern tale, to the "Rassalais" of Johnson,—and whatever has been said by Lord Byron, especially in matters of taste, will pass with some persons as incontrovertible orthodoxy. We have not examined particularly to ascertain what our own critics have said on the subject; but we believe that some of them at least, have echoed the plaudits of the British periodicals. Be this as it may, we happen to have an honest opinion of our own, and we must say, in our poor judgment, that a more impure, disgusting, and execrable production, than this same "Vathek," never issued from the English or American press. That the author was a youth of extraordinary genius, is acknowledged; (he wrote before twenty years of age)—but it was genius totally perverted and poisoned at its source. The work could have been written by no one whose heart was not polluted at its very core. Obscene and blasphemous in the highest degree, its shocking pictures are in no wise redeemed by the beauty and simplicity of Oriental fiction. We should pronounce it, without knowing any thing of Mr. Beckford's character, to be the production of a sensualist and an infidel—one who could riot in the most abhorred and depraved conceptions—and whose prolific fancy preferred as its repast all that was diabolical and monstrous, rather than what was beautiful and good. We shall not even attempt a detailed account of this volume—but when such works are recommended to public favor, we think it is time that criticism should brandish its rod, and that the genius of morality—if there be such a spirit in our land—should frown down the effort.