A SCENE IN REAL LIFE. (continued 6)

Woman, in all conditions, is a better comforter and a better nurse than man. She reads in the countenance with more facility all our little wants, and is ever ready to administer to them. Her sympathy is more alive, and her familiarity with the distresses around, make her more humane and compassionate than man. Mercy and mildness have always been her attributes; and the horrors and barbarities of war were never moderated, until chivalry and religion brought forward the mighty influence of woman to suppress them.

The following most beautiful and just eulogy of one of the most distinguished travellers which the world has ever produced, written without any view to publication, is so apposite to the views which have just been presented, that I will give it entire from Sparks's Life of Ledyard, with the exception of portions already quoted. "I have observed among all nations (says Ledyard,) that wherever found, they (women,) are the same kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender beings. They do not hesitate like man to perform a hospitable or generous action; not haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious, but full of courtesy, and fond of society; industrious, economical, ingenious, more liable to err than man, but in general, also more virtuous, and performing more good actions than he. I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship to a woman, whether civilized or savage, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. With man, it has often been otherwise. In wandering over the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the wide spread regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet or sick, woman has ever been friendly to me, and uniformly so; and to add to this virtue so worthy of the appellation of benevolence, these actions have been performed in so free and so kind a manner, that if I was dry, I drank the sweet draught, and if hungry, ate the coarse morsel with a double relish."⁷

⁷ The author of "Leaves from my Log Book," relates the following incident which occurred while he was passing through a village near Rochefort in France, as a prisoner under a military escort. It affords so fine an illustration of the truth of Ledyard's eulogy on the sex, that I am induced to insert it in a note.

"I had obtained a fresh supply of canvass for my feet, which were much blistered and extremely sore; but this was soon worn out, and I suffered dreadfully. About noon, we halted in the market place of a small town bearing every mark of antiquity, (I think it was Melle,) to rest and refresh. To escape the sun, I took my seat on an old tea chest, standing in front of a Huckster's shop, and removed my tattered moccasins. Whilst doing this, an elderly woman came out of the shop accompanied by a young girl very prettily dressed, and 'pauvre garcon! pauvre prisonier!' were uttered by both. The girl with tears in her eyes looked at my lacerated feet, and then without saying a word returned to the house. In a few moments afterwards she reappeared, but her finery had been taken off, and she carried a large bowl of warm water in her hands. In a moment the bowl was placed before me. She motioned me to put in my feet, which I did, and down she went upon her knees and washed them in the most tender manner. Oh what luxury was that half hour! The elder female brought me food, while the younger having performed her office, wrapt up my feet in soft linen, and then fitted on a pair of her mother's shoes." Well then might this grateful writer exclaim, in conclusion of this little narrative,

"Hail! woman hail! last formed in Eden's bowers, Midst humming streams, and fragrance breathing flowers: Thou art 'mid light and gloom, through good and ill, Creation's glory, man's chief blessing still. Thou calm'st our thoughts, as Halcyons calm the sea, Sooth'st in distress, when servile minions flee; And oh! without thy sun bright smiles below, Life were a night, and earth a waste of woe."

Far, indeed, might this poor prisoner have journeyed without meeting in our sex, with such a kind, tender being, as the fair Evlalie.

Marmontel tells us that Madame de Tencin, one of the most distinguished and fashionable ladies at Paris, and one who possessed a deep and exquisite knowledge of men and women, advised him always to seek for friends among women, rather than among men. "For by means of women (said she,) you may do what you please with men; and these are either too dissipated or too much occupied with their own personal interest to attend to yours: whereas women think of your interest, be it only out of indolence. Mention this evening to a woman who is your friend, an affair that intimately concerns you; to-morrow at her spinning wheel, at her embroidery, you will find her occupied with you, torturing her fancy to invent some means of serving you. But be careful to be nothing more than the friend of her whom you think may be useful to you; for between lovers, where once there happens any cloud, dispute or rupture, all is lost. Be then assiduous to her, complaisant, gallant even, if you will, but nothing more. You understand me?"

So strongly does woman sympathize with the distress and suffering of those around her, that under peculiar circumstances, she sometimes is carried to perform acts of enterprise and heroism, which rival the achievements of the ages of chivalry. Under the impulse of highly excited feelings, she has sometimes forgotten her inferiority of strength, and the dangers to which she is exposed by collision with the rudeness and roughness of the out of door world. On such occasions, she has braved all the hardships and labors which have opposed her, has crossed mountains and rivers, and penetrated alone into Siberian deserts; or visited courts and camps, and importuned monarchs and generals, until she has accomplished her humane purposes. How interesting is Elizabeth to us, in the Exiles of Siberia, by Madame Cottin, when she determines to go alone from the heart of the Siberian desert, to beg the Emperor for the liberty of her exiled father; and how much more deeply interested do we become in this tale when we know that it is not only founded on fact, but that the real dangers and difficulties which Elizabeth encountered, were of such a character as to make Madame Cottin suppose that they would not be believed, if faithfully narrated. The deep and thrilling interest excited by the character of Jeannie Deans, in the Heart of Mid Lothian, is due in a great measure to her magnanimous and heroic resolution, taken under the influence of sisterly love, to make a journey on foot, unprotected and alone, from her father's mansion near Edinburg, to London, for the purpose of obtaining the pardon of her sister, and to the difficulties, dangers and hardships which she is represented as surmounting with unshaken fortitude. Mrs. Jameson in her Visits and Sketches, has given us a narrative of the adventures of Mademoiselle Ambos, equal to those of Elizabeth in the Exiles of Siberia, or to those of Jeannie Deans in the beautiful fiction of Sir Walter Scott.

This young lady formed the bold and daring project of visiting the court of Russia for the purpose of obtaining the pardon of her brother Henri Ambos, who was exiled to Siberia. She actually visited St. Petersburg alone,—obtained after a triumph over the most appalling difficulties, the pardon of her brother from the Emperor Nicholas,—and then under the impulse of those Divine feelings which can exist in woman's heart alone, she determined herself to be the bearer of the glad tidings which would restore a lost son to a broken hearted mother, and an affectionate sister. And the reader can scarce refrain from dropping a tear of sympathy, when she received for answer to the pardon which she had delivered to the commandant of the fortress, with a hand trembling with impatience, and joy almost too great to be borne, "Henri Ambos is dead!"—In order to estimate the heroism, the sublimity of such deeds, we must call to mind the relative positions of the sexes in society; we must recollect the weakness, the modesty, and above all the shrinking timidity of the female, before we can estimate the depth of that feeling which can conquer all the weaknesses of her nature, in the execution of her benevolent purposes.

"Ye who shall marvel," (says Byron in his very interesting description of the Maid of Saragossa,)

"Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal black veil, Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase."

The sympathies, the feelings of woman on such occasions, impart a courage and fortitude which seem to be almost the inspiration of heaven itself; the rude uncourteous world, is awed into respect and admiration by the forbidding dignity of her demeanor, and the fearless determination with which she executes her resolves. When Mademoiselle Ambos was asked if she had ever met with insult, she said she had twice met "with wicked men"—but she felt no alarm, she knew how to protect herself; and as she said this, (says Mrs. Jameson,) her countenance assumed an expression which showed that it was not a mere boast.

Influence of Love.

I come now to the consideration of the character of the sexes in relation to a passion, which is one of the most universal, powerful and interesting, implanted in the human breast—the passion of love. A passion which has agitated alike, the philosopher and the poet, the nobleman and the peasant; which in the language of the Edinburg Review, "has filled the parsonage house with chubby children, and beats in the breast of the Baptist, animates the Arminian, melts the Unitarian maid, and stirs up the moody Methodist, to declare himself the ready victim of human love." My limits will not of course allow me to enter fully into a subject upon which so much has been written, and so much more has been felt. The sexes throughout the whole animated creation are determined towards each other by an instinct, and this is animal love. Under its operation but little preference is shown for individuals, except in those cases where the joint aid of male and female is necessary to the rearing of the offspring. There nature, ever consistent with herself, and with that harmonious design and beautiful adaptation observed throughout the universe, has established a temporary union among the sexes, similar to marriage in the human family. But this connexion seems to be determined more by the operation of mere instinct, than by reason, imagination, and the association of ideas. With man, love is no doubt founded on animal instinct; but then all the powers of the human mind, all the passions of the heart, all the affections and emotions; in fine, the whole moral and mental machinery of our nature are brought to bear on this instinct, to foster or stifle, to develope or exterminate it. By means of the mighty power of imagination, and the laws of association, such a complicated and magnificent fabric is reared, as occasionally to obscure and almost hide the instinct material which lies at the bottom. It is under the influences of these higher and more exalted powers of the mind, that this passion of our nature is directed towards one object alone, and that all the world is so readily forsaken for the possession of that one.

Most of our desires, although natural, are determined as to their particular direction by the operation of circumstances—take for example the desire for society. There is no doubt that this is a natural instinctive desire; man is certainly a gregarious animal; he delights in intercourse with fellow-man; solitude is at war with the condition of his nature, and so strong is his desire for society, that if man be deprived of intercourse with man, he will make companions of brutes and reptiles themselves. Horses, dogs, cats, even spiders and rats, have become his very dear associates in his solitary condition. And yet, under the operation of reason, imagination, and the passions, together with that endless variety of character which we find in the human family, this desire is directed to particular persons and particular circles. We may shun the society of A and B—we may court that of C and D—and indeed, under the very severe pressure of calamity, when all our hopes and our darling schemes of ambition and aggrandizement are blasted forever, by the perfidious machinations and wily projects of those very individuals whom we had fondly called our friends, there is an almost irresistible tendency in the mind, at such a melancholy crisis, to indulge the gloomy feeling of misanthropy, and plunge into the depth of solitude, where we may escape the persecution and treachery of a dissembling world. Thus do we find circumstances controling, directing, and sometimes almost exterminating our natural passions and propensities.

Love in the human family is eminently under the control of circumstances. The original, natural passion implanted in the breast, may be compared to the common quantities in algebra—it belongs to all. Cupid cares not for creeds, nor occupations, nor professions; but the development of the passion, under the guidance of reason, association and imagination, assumes as many shapes as the dispositions and intellects of the myriads who compose the human family. In the civilized countries of Europe, and in our own, woman has been liberated from that state of servitude and debasement, to which either the condition of barbarism, or the laws of Mahommedanism had too long confined her. The institution of chivalry, and the diffusion of the humane spirit of christianity, have assigned her that station in society which makes her in the social circle the equal of man. She has been disenthralled from that jealousy which would quietly immure her within the walls of the Seraglio, and which, in attempting to preserve her chastity by constraint, prevents the development of mind, extinguishes the vigor and intensity of the affections, and really in the end, debauches the heart, whilst it guards the person. Under a system of free and equal intercourse among the sexes, love assumes a totally different form from that which exists in society where woman is not looked on as the equal of man. In the former case, she must be wooed and won; in the latter, she is bought and locked up. In the former case, she is allowed the free employment of all her faculties, and the full play of all her graces and accomplishments. In the latter, becoming the slave of man, and losing all those higher inducements to mental and moral excellence which freedom alone can foster, she degenerates into a mere being of ignorance and sensuality, going through the dull round of solely animal pleasures, unattended by that grace and refinement which throw so bright a lustre around the female character.

When freedom of intercourse exists among the sexes, what is called courtship, becomes a longer and more assiduous task to the gentlemen, than where such freedom does not exist. The heart of woman may be likened to the besieged and fortified castle. It must be regularly invested; slowly and cautiously, or boldly and daringly approached, according to circumstances. The whole science of social tactics must be studied, and a skilful application made to the heart which is to be won. Under these circumstances, when all the affections of a man's heart have really been concentrated upon one object, if he possess a keen sensibility and a highly wrought imagination, the period of his love and of his courtship, may be the most important of his whole life: like the fabled wand of the magician, it may but wave over the character, and change the whole inner man. Ardent and intense love is certainly the master passion of our nature, whilst it exists; but like all tyrants, it may reign but for a season; it is liable to dethronement. Whilst, however, it is enthroned, it conquers every other. Ambition, interest, patriotism, all have yielded during the hour of its ascendancy. Whilst this passion endures, it clusters around its object all the dearest associations and fondest recollections of our life. It is the spirit which has only to move over the chaos of our existence, and attract to itself all the elements of our nature. It enters the heart, and makes us brood over dreams of joy, and look with rapturous gaze and supplicating eye,

"To the bright form of our idolatrous worship, Whose every gesture, motion, look or word— Like wonder-working secret alchymy, Changes each passing thought to visioned bliss."

It mixes itself with all our thoughts, our desires, our hopes and actions. It is the realization of the fable of the fish, which imparted its own beautiful color to every object that approached it. How often when we have stood amid the lone majesty of nature's works, "all heaven above" and earth beneath, with no eye gazing on us, save that of him who doeth his will and ruleth in the armies of heaven, have we felt this unseen spirit to move within us—to touch, as if with magic hand, all the springs of our moral sensibility, and waken up all the tender emotions of our soul. Even with the prayer which we address to heaven from this great temple of nature we cannot refrain from mingling the name of her whose beauty and loveliness have excited within us the sympathetic emotions of virtue and piety. This passion of love, when it is genuine, accompanies us wherever we go; it associates the beloved object with all our plans and schemes of ambition, and casts its own bright radiance over all the objects which surround us:

"It breathes forth in the song of joyous birds— In the violet hues of the broad laughing heavens— In sunlight—in the beams of radiant stars— In gush of waters—in the evening breeze, Making its nest amidst the parting boughs Of murmuring trees—and oh! the most of all In her sweet melting tones of tenderness, The steadfast lustre of her gazing eye— For all are nature's oracles, and teach The heart to love."

Even the circle of friends by which we are surrounded, become associated in our imagination with the sole object of our affections; our tastes are often changed, our friendships altered, our very opinions and inclinations are sometimes revolutionized by the potent but silent sway of that being whose beauty and loveliness have placed us under this mysterious spell. Love like this, terminating in marriage, founded on reciprocity of affection, must be productive of the most exquisite and refined happiness which the frail condition of man will allow us in this world. It is such love as this which will quickly bring two heterogeneous beings to harmonize in temper and disposition. It is such as this which will tame down the ferocity of the tiger and triumph over the savage spirit of the hyena. Under its operation the corsair has been sometimes arrested in his bold career, the robber has been reformed, and the arm of the bloodthirsty villain has been withholden from an infliction of the deadly blow.

When, however, such love is unfortunate, and fails to win its object, there comes perhaps one of the heaviest blows to which mortality is subject; then does it become necessary to gather up the shattered resources of mind and body to withstand the storm which is overwhelming us with calamity. This is a period fraught with infinite danger even to the character of man. At such a time we seem suddenly arrested in our mid career by the cruel hand of misfortune. The bright, the delusive prospects which we beheld reflected in the mirror of hope, have suddenly disappeared from the mental vision. But a little while ago and we were like him who had wandered into the splendid repository of the works of art, illumined by the bright lamp whose radiant light was beautifully reflected from the thousand polished surfaces which glittered around; now we are like him in that same mazy hall, with his lamp extinguished and total darkness around.

The very sun of our moral and social existence seems suddenly struck from the heavens, and well may we in the agony of despair exclaim, "how stale, flat, and unprofitable" is this world to us now. When we wander abroad, how dismal is the prospect which lies before us. The sun, and the moon with her nightly train, seem to have lost that celestial spirit which a little while ago had made us gaze upon them in silent and pensive bliss. Our homes, our firesides, our friends have lost the charm which can neutralize woe; for a period the desire for fame and honor is lost, and the voice of ambition is silenced within.

"Look where he comes. In this embowered alcove Stand close concealed and see a statue move; Lips busy and eyes fixed, foot falling slow, Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below! That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue Could argue once, could jest or join the song— Could give advice, could censure or commend, Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. Now neither healthy wilds, nor scenes as fair As ever recompensed the peasant's care, Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming groves And waft it to the mourner, as he roves, Can call up life into his faded eye,— That passes all he sees unheeded by."

This period of agony which I have just described has often infused the gall of bitterness into the cup of life, turned benevolence into misanthropy, soured the temper, and destroyed the tranquillity of existence. When the shock has come after matrimonial engagement, which has been ended by woman's caprice, or the wily artifices of the mischief-making meddler, then the stroke is still more dreadful, and productive of effects still more marked in the character of the man; and oftentimes is the conduct of that being, who stands an anomaly in the eyes of the world, to be traced back to this cause. We have seen an individual mysteriously settle down in our vicinage, immure himself in his solitary mansion, shrink from the gaze of the world as from the dragon's visage, and live as though life were a burden which was to him insupportable. Pry into his history, and you will find, when you have traced it out, that it was the treachery of her upon whom he had lavished all the affections of his soul, which separated him from his original home and happiness. Look again—there is another being whose brilliant, but meteor like career, alarms the selfish statesman and puzzles the philosopher. To-day, listening senates are hanging on his words, and electrified by the magic of his soul-stirring eloquence. To-morrow, in the social circle, he displays those powers of fascination and attraction which fix the gaze of all on the play of his features, while the brilliancy of his fancy and the vivid corruscations of his wit and intellect, are delighting all around with his wonder-working speech.

At times he realizes the fable of Orpheus; he draws the very trees after him, melts the hearts of stone that are around him, and makes them forgive the wrongs which he has done—then his reason seems to be dethroned, the very demon of malice enters his heart; his shafts of calumny transfix alike friend and foe, and he traverses seas and continents almost like the deluded victim of knight errantry, impelled by a spirit which urges forward with irresistible impetuosity, whilst it seems to have lost its destination. The world stands amazed whilst this brilliant meteor is playing above the horizon. One ascribes his course to the waywardness of nature, and calls him a lusus naturæ; another traces his character to the diseases of the body; another tells you he was ambitious, and that all his schemes of promotion and self-aggrandizement were wrecked.

But go to him who has shared his confidence, and nursed him in the hours of his misfortune—to him who can best tell you his history, and he will tell you his was a heart with feelings as intense and pure, as ever were given to the heart of man; he will tell you that that heart poured forth the mighty stream of its affections upon another, and that his love, great as it was, was returned by that being,—when the spoiler came, and then came mystery, converting the very affections of the heart into the scorpions of the furies, and the garden of Eden into a place of torment, which deranged his faculties and destroyed the equilibrium of his mind; and that thus all those fitful moods which puzzle the world, may be traced back to disappointed love.

The effects which I have been describing as flowing from disappointed love, are certainly of an extreme character, happening only in the case of ardent temperaments, combined with a concurrence of circumstances which generate intense and all absorbing affection for the beloved object. In these cases, when all hope is entirely eradicated, there is certainly a tendency to peevishness, fretfulness, whim, suspicion and misanthropy; and against these consequences the individual ought always to be on his guard. He should not charge to the human race, or even to the whole sex, the vices which he thinks he sees in a single individual. This is a case in which kind friends, especially females, may do much to soothe and tranquillize the mind. Women alone seem to have enough of that deep discernment, nice tact, and generous sympathy, which can administer consolation to a wounded heart and calm the irritated feelings of blasted hope. In the great majority of cases however, the disappointed lover plunges into the business and scenes of active life, forms new associations and attachments, and quickly forgets his former love, without any permanent effect being produced on the character by mere disappointment. Man (says Dr. Cogan on the passions) rarely runs any serious risk from disappointment in love. "If he have not speedy recourse to the pistol or the rope, he will probably survive the agonies under which the softer sex will gradually pine and die."

I will now examine briefly, a few of the effects produced on the character of the male, during the period of courtship in society, organized as it is in this country and Europe,—and certainly one of the most marked effects, is the strengthening of vanity and the weakening of pride. As it is the province of man to woo and to win, his constant aim must be to render himself agreeable to the object of his affections. To gain her esteem, her approbation, her love, is the object of all his efforts. Now this is vanity. The proudest heart, the soul of sternest stuff, by the operation of this all subduing passion of love, is made to yield—to become a candidate for the praise of her whose affections he so much covets. In this condition we are all more or less like Petrarch, who declared that "she (Laura) was the motive and object of all his studies—that he coveted glory only as it might secure her esteem—that she alone had taught him to desire life, and to lift his thoughts towards heaven." In his "Conversations with St. Augustin," he even confesses that he was more ardent in his desire for the Laurel Crown, on account of its affinity to the name of Laura. Now, although this vanity seeks the approbation directly of but one, yet as she is regulated by the opinion of the world, we quickly find it necessary to gain the good opinion and esteem of those around us, in order, by their means, to win the approbation of the object of our affections. Hence, however proud the man, love and courtship will in the civilized countries of our globe soon infuse a degree of vanity, which will temper his overweening pride and make him more social, more loquacious, more attentive to all the little courtesies of life, and much more cheerful than he was before. In all the Mahommedan countries, where woman is bought and locked up, and the alternately sweet and painful solicitudes of love and courtship are never known—how proud, how taciturn, how forbidding, unsocial and grave, is the character of man! In France, where the influence of women is very great, how entirely opposite is his character; there, vanity is his predominant trait. Montesquieu, in his "Lettres Persannes," makes Usbeck say to Ibben, in a letter from Paris, on the characters of the French and Persians, "It must be allowed that the seraglio is better adapted for health than for pleasure. It is a dull uniform kind of life, where every thing turns upon subjection and duty; their very pleasures are grave, and their pastimes solemn; and they seldom taste them but as so many tokens of authority and dependence. The men in Persia are not so gay as the French; there is not that freedom of mind and that appearance of content which I meet with here in persons of all ranks and estates. It is still worse in Turkey, where there are families, in which from father to son, not one of them ever laughed from the foundation of the monarchy." Now these proud, taciturn, grave beings would at once be changed, by giving full freedom to the females, and rendering it necessary for each one to woo, to interest and to delight her whom he would make his wife.

In fact, we have never learned so well to know the unappreciable, the priceless value of a woman's heart, as when we have experienced the pains and the pleasures, the doubts and hopes, pertaining to the period of courtship. There have been instances of husbands losing all affection for their wives in the quietude of their possession, but who were suddenly roused to the most tormenting love, as soon as they saw that their cold and brutal indifference had destroyed that affection which they once possessed. Mrs. Jameson, in her very interesting description of the beauties of Charles 2d, tells us that Lady Chesterfield, the daughter of the Duke of Ormond, when first married to Lord Chesterfield, received from him in return for her own pure, warm and innocent affection, a negligent and frigid indifference, which astonished, pained and humiliated her. Finding however that all her tenderness was lavished in vain, mingled pique and disgust succeeded to her first affection and admiration: and in this condition she was suddenly taken by her husband to the Court of Charles the 2d, where, from a neglected wife, living in privacy and even in poverty, she suddenly became a reigning beauty. Lord Chesterfield, when he found his charming wife universally admired, was one of the first to sigh for her; and his passion rose to such a height, that casting aside the fear of ridicule, he endeavored to convince her by the most public attentions, that his feelings towards her were entirely changed. And let the result be a warning to all negligent husbands.—"Unfortunately," says Mrs. J., "it was now too late: the heart he had wounded, chilled and rejected, either could not, or would not be recalled; he found himself slighted in his turn, and treated with the most provoking and the most determined coldness."

The author of the "Journal of a Nobleman at the Congress of Vienna," has given us a still more interesting and striking illustration of the assertion which I have made, in the case of the Count and Countess of Pletenburg, whom he saw in the gay circles of Vienna during the period of the session of the Holy Alliance in that city. Pletenburg had married, without much courtship or difficulty, a young and beautiful woman, for the purpose of securing a fortune which had been left to him, on the condition that he married before he was twenty-five. He soon plunged into every kind of debauchery and dissipation, conceived the greatest disgust for his lovely and loving wife of sixteen—left her almost broken hearted, for the purpose of travelling in Europe, returned after some years, saw her, and saw that she had ceased to love him: then he loved in turn, and loved most violently and hopelessly. He is thus described by the author of the Journal just mentioned, who met with him at a party of the Countess Freck's in Vienna. "The poor man has become an object of ridicule by the servility of his devotion; always sighing, as at the age of eighteen, and, as jealous as a sexagenarian, he never moves from her side. He is ever taking up her gloves and her handkerchief, and pressing them to his bosom in public. But all this tends only to increase the aversion he has raised. Proscribed from the nuptial bed which he had so long disdained, he complains of this rigor in prose, and laments his fate in verse. In short, his enthusiasm has become so great, that if it continues for any length of time, his intellect must become affected by it." And thus is it that the disenthralment of woman will always cause her to be more respected and loved, and by her influence on man she will be sure to make him more agreeable, more social, less proud.

Besides this, virtuous love has a tendency to improve the morals of man, to increase his sympathies and call into play all his most tender feelings. This moral tendency of love in the male, arises partly from imitation of the virtues and character of her whom we love; but mostly from that exquisite, indescribable pleasure, which one in love feels, from the performance of those acts of kindness and virtue which excite the gratitude and esteem of the lady beloved. In this case his minute, tender and ever anticipating attentions to the female, have an effect on man similar to that which I have described as being produced on woman by the relation of mother and child.

"How oft the thrillings of transported joy Have stolen on the heart, with life's warm tide, When she has deigned with approbating smile To pay the effort of the wish to please! How oft with sorrow's keen corroding pang We've seen displeasure cloud her beauteous face! As when the sun, obscured, would teach the world The value of his genial noontide smile."

I know of nothing so well calculated to soften the heart, to smooth down the asperities of character, to excite all the kindly, sympathetic and amiable feelings of our nature, as ardent affection for a virtuous and pious female. Mr. Randolph in his letters to a relation, has spoken with great force and propriety of this effect of virtuous love.

So far, I have been describing the nature of man's love, and the effects which it produces on his character. The love of woman however, is much more interesting, and if not more ardent, it is perhaps more devoted, more tender and more constant than that of man. "Man," says Irving, "is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the bustle and struggle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thoughts, and dominion over his fellow men. But a woman's whole life is the history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there her ambition strives for empire—it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless,—for it is a bankruptcy of the heart." Madame de Stael tells us that love is but an episode in the history of man's life, but it is the serious business of a woman's. And a man, says Thomas, is more to a woman than a whole nation. Under these circumstances, when a woman's affections have been won, when, casting aside all passions, feelings, joys of earth, save for one alone, she settles down,

"With wings all folded and with silent tongue"—

to brood over dreams of felicity to be enjoyed with him—how overwhelming, how crushing must his treachery be, to her all confiding heart. Her bygone dreams of deep enthralling bliss are all a mockery. Her pride is wounded, her modesty is shocked. For a time she may still affect gaiety; she may travel the routine of apparent pleasure; but the worm is at the heart, and she sinks at last a martyr to her affections. Where one man falls a victim to love, there are perhaps at least ten women. No wonder then she should be more inveterate in her antipathies and animosities when she has once been wronged—when once deceived she rarely forgives.

Taught to conceal, the bursting heart desponds Over its idol. And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring, And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet as real Torture is theirs—what they inflict they feel.

But if the affections of a woman are once fixed on a man,—so absorbing, so overwhelming do they become, that she will forgive the stain which his conduct has inflicted on his own honor; she will forgive him for her own ruin; she will pardon every thing in fine, save the loss of his love for her. For this wrong, and for this alone, will she conceive the most bitter and deadly hatred and revenge. How admirably did Sir Walter Scott understand this trait in woman's love. When in the heart of Mid Lothian, Effie Deans is visited in prison by her sister, who makes mention of the being who had disgraced and ruined her, but who nevertheless loved her and was anxious to save her life, he makes Effie exclaim, in the overflowing and forgiving fulness of her affection, "O Jeannie, if ye wad do good to me at this moment, tell me every word that he said, and whether he was sorry for poor Effie or no." A woman in this situation is sometimes like Antigone in the Oedipus—she may become fond of the very misery which she feels for his sake.

The constraint which is put upon the passion of love in woman, nurses and invigorates it. Fear and modesty mingle inquietude with her love, and double its force. The confession of her affection is of itself a mighty sacrifice; but a woman is then only the more tender for the great sacrifice which she has made. The more the confession has cost her, the more fondly does she love him to whom she has made it. "She attaches herself," says Thomas, "by her sacrifices. Virtuous, she enjoys her denials; guilty, she glories in the favors she bestows. Women therefore, when love is a passion, are more constant than men; but when it is only an appetite they are more libertine. For then they feel no more of those anxieties, those struggles, and that sweet shame which impressed the delicious sentiment so strongly on their hearts." With what facility a Ninon de l'Enclos and a Catherine of Russia would change their lovers, every body knows; theirs was more of an appetite than of an affection and sentiment, and where this is the case, woman's love is more fickle than man's; in every other instance it is more constant and faithful.

I have thought proper, in this dissertation, to speak of the effects produced upon the character of man during the period of courtship and love; and we have seen that the effects in his case are decidedly beneficial. I doubt whether the same may be asserted in all cases with regard to woman. The time which a woman passes between the period of her entrance into society and her marriage, is perhaps the most important and the most perilous of her career. Having led a previous life of retirement and comparative seclusion, unacquainted with the wiles and stratagems of the world—endowed almost always with a vivid imagination and warm feelings, she comes forth into society with buoyant hopes and an animating gaiety, which throw a charm over the whole face of nature, that conceals from view the snares and deceptions of the world. She may then fall a sacrifice to some artful deceiver, and suffer the pangs of disappointment, which I have just been describing.⁸ Or she may acquire a love of conquest in the wars of Cupid—may become fascinated by the applauses and flattery of the world, until nothing but the incense of adulation can satisfy her perverted vanity. This period, is one, during which, a woman enjoys more fame, more worldly glory, than during any other of her life. It is not to be wondered at then, that she is so frequently seen suppressing her feelings and smothering her affections, in order that she may protract this period of her glory and reputation.⁹ There is nothing more seducing, more captivating to the vanity and imagination of woman, than to see all hearts enchained, and rendering the willing homage of love and admiration to her graces and accomplishments. But she must beware, lest this delightful devotion implant in the heart a lust for applause and notoriety, at the sacrifice of all the more feminine and lovely virtues. And she must recollect too that the very pain of disappointment, which she is obliged to inflict and to witness from day to day, in her unfortunate lovers, is of itself calculated to weaken and obtund her feelings and sympathies, and to generate coldness and hardness of heart. Metaphysicians tell us that the active feelings are strengthened, but the passive are weakened by too frequent repetition—the frequent sight of beggary, of death, of pain and misery of every description, when it is beyond our power to administer relief, always tends to weaken our sympathy and harden the heart. Now there can be no pain,—no anguish more exquisite, than that which the disappointed lover feels in the melancholy hour of his rejection; and the woman, who witnesses such scenes too frequently, may at last lose the generous sympathies of her nature. Like the man of deep feelings and keen sensibility, who the historian informs us, was at first unwillingly dragged to the amphitheatre to witness the horrid, the revolting combats of the gladiators, she may at last by repetition so conquer the feelings of nature as even to experience a savage delight in the pain and suffering of human sacrifice and human woe.

⁸ "It is easier for an artful man who is not in love, (says Addison) to persuade his mistress he has a passion for her, and to succeed in his pursuit, than for one who loves with the greatest violence. True love has ten thousand griefs, impatiences and resentments, that render a man unamiable in the eyes of the person whose affection he solicits: besides that, it sinks his figure, gives him fears, apprehensions and poorness of spirit, and often makes him appear ridiculous, where he has a mind to recommend himself."

⁹ A lively French writer, says Mary Wolstoncraft, asks what business women turned of forty can have in this world.

Before leaving this topic, I beg leave to add one word of advice to the gay and fascinating belle, who is moving forward in her victorious career,—conquering all hearts before her,—until, like the Juan of Moliere, she may wish for other worlds, not for purposes of conquest, like Alexander, but to win the hearts of those that inhabit them. A lady in this situation ought always to be mindful of the great influence which she is exerting on those around her. Her lightest words are treasured up with the fondest zeal, her very defects are sometimes considered as surpassing beauties. A principle advocated by her, no matter how erroneous,—a doctrine advanced, no matter how false, is apt to make an impression, sometimes deep and indelible, on the susceptible hearts of her admirers. She should ever recollect that the cause of virtue and of piety is peculiarly hers; and when she is walking the golden round of her pleasures, shedding her influence on all who approach her, let her be conscious to herself of no word or deed which can injure the sacred cause of morality and religion. We all know the irresistible influence of association. A writer of antiquity said he would rather believe drunkenness no vice, than that Plato could have one. The stuttering of Aristotle and the wry neck of Alexander were admired on the same principle: and Des Cartes, the great philosopher, declared he had a partiality for persons who squinted; and he says that in his endeavor to trace the cause of a taste so whimsical, he at last recollected, that, when a boy, he had been fond of a girl who had that blemish. I have rarely known a very devoted lover who did not love all the peculiarities and even oddities of his mistress. We are all like the Frenchman, whose mistress had a twisted nose, of which the lover used to say, "C'est au moins la plus belle irregularité du monde." Hence, for the very same reason that Dr. Johnson remarks, "if there is any writer whose genius can embellish impropriety, or whose authority can make error venerable, his works are the proper object of criticism,"—would I say, that if there be any being whose opinions and actions form the

"Glass Wherein the noble youths do dress themselves,"

let such beings remember the nature and responsibility of their station, and manage well the talents which are committed to their charge. I shall for the present, pass over all consideration of the married state, with the sole remark, that in all ages and countries the women love more constantly and more devotedly in that state than the men, possessing a more exclusive and more engrossing affection, and that their errors and infidelity have generally been the result, not the cause, of those of the men. Hence, the more attentive, the more sedulously tender and kind the husband is, the more virtuous, affectionate and faithful the wife becomes. All over the world, the woman who marries from love, covets, beyond every thing else, the entire affections of her husband. He is all in all to her,—and it will be only his indifference and infidelity which will ever alienate her affections; then, in the spirit of chagrin and mortification, may she bewail her lot, in the language of Dryden:

"Cursed vassalage, First idolized till love's hot fire be o'er, Then slaves to those who courted us before."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DANCING, WALTZING, &c.

J'ai toujours cru que le bon n'etait que le beau mis en action.—Rousseau.

Amid the various changes in the customs and fashions of society, the abolition of old, and the introduction of new modes, which an age prolific in intelligent and important improvement has effected, it is matter of surprise, that some of the engines of reform, some of the batteries of satire, have never been unmasked upon the crude and barbarous fashion of dancing. Start not, gentle reader, when I say barbarous fashion, for such dancing unquestionably is. Its very origin is barbarous. In a rude state, when the untutored savage is agitated by any strong emotion, as joy, patriotism, admiration, &c., his first impulse is to caper and skip about like a grasshopper. Among the records of the customs and manners of the most polished and civilized nations of antiquity, we seek in vain for the importance and admiration which attaches to this miscalled accomplishment at the present day. The Romans, perhaps the most accomplished and polite of the ancients, held the art in very low esteem. Indeed we find Cicero striving with all the force of his matchless eloquence, to vindicate his friend Muræna from the charge of being a dancer, preferred against him by Cato. So conscious is he of the weight of the imputation, that he makes it the subject of one branch of his defence, and, in a digression, recounts the brilliant services and devoted patriotism of his client's ancestors, to discountenance a charge affecting so seriously, the value and dignity of his character.

"Tempestivi convivii, amæni loci, Multarum deliciarum, comes est extrema saltatio."

The Greeks, we are told, held the art of dancing in higher estimation, and it is said, considered graceful dancing one of the necessary constituents to the character of an accomplished gentleman; but the very word, and indeed the only one used by them to express the motion, [Greek: orchêsis], signified mimicry; plainly intimating its derivation from the buffoons and jesters of the stage, and consequently it never could have had much popularity in their more refined and elegant circles. As a religious rite it was in use, it seems, among the ancient Jews, and in celebration of the worship of the heathen deities of Greece and Rome, we find it only practised in the orgies of Bacchus, a fact of itself sufficient to mark it as a lewd, licentious and vulgar pastime. It was a favorite amusement of the ancient Scythians, the Chinese, the Goths, the Vandals, the Persians, and other barbarous nations of antiquity, and is yet in practice among the modern French and Italians, who, first introducing it in theatrical amusements, and then having carried the art to great perfection, have now transplanted it to the fashionable circles of domestic society. But it is rather in reference to its effects upon the present constitution of society, and its awkward adaptation to the chastened simplicity of the republican character, that I propose to consider dancing, than in regard to its estimation among the ancients.

Excellence in national dances, as such, may deservedly be ranked among the highest efforts of skill and grace. We discover much elegance, certainly, in the easy and graceful evolutions of the Spanish waltz. There is a charming vivacity in the romping gaiety of the French gallopade; and even the oriental mazourka, is not devoid of a certain graceful beauty. But they derive their interest from the national and historical associations connected with them. We see the haughty Spaniard, proud indeed, but pliant, aptly pictured in the mysterious intricacy of the mazy waltz. The lively gallop presents to our mind at once, the reckless nonchalance and chivalrous gaiety of the Frenchman; and thus these dances come to us as faithful types of their national origin. But why may we not be content to witness this delineation of national characteristics upon our theatrical boards? Why should we take them from their appropriate sphere, and introduce them to the frivolous and undignified imitation of the polite and refined? I do not know a scene more faithfully descriptive of rude, boisterous, and unbecoming merriment, than an American ball room. Place your hands upon your ears, and look down the hall. You will see the most unmeaning grimaces—the most ridiculous contortions of body in one quarter—while another view presents to you the unwelcome picture of man, lordly man, fallen from his high estate, and going through the laborious operations of the dance, with the farcical solemnity of a monk, or the clownish rapture of a mountebank. People may say what they please, about those only opposing this capering vice, who cannot dance themselves. They may tell us, that Lord Byron wrote his fretful satire upon waltzing, because his lordship could not participate in that fashionable dance, owing to his club foot. They may preach, that the ignorant alone complain of those accomplishments which they cannot attain themselves; that the dances in practice, from time immemorial, among our ancestors, were equally objectionable as those we now adopt and admire, which certain bold critics, going beyond their province, dare to denounce as dangerous innovations, savoring of foreign modes and manners, licentious and demoralizing. All this will not do, Mr. Editor. Dancing is dangerous, and the waltz especially: and a virtuous and intelligent community will unite, I feel assured, to frown these vicious amusements out of society, and consign them to the barbarous regions whence they were so irreverently introduced among us.

This mania for dancing, waltzing, &c., is the bane of every social circle. Do you go to pass the evening sociably with your friend, where you have a vague instinctive idea you will meet the pretty creature you passed in the street, on the Thursday previous—you will enter—your fondest anticipations are realized—you draw your chair towards her, and fall into a charming tete-a-tete, with the dear object for whom you already conceive a nascent passion—who has made you lose a whole week's sleep, break your mirror, tear your black silk bonnet de nuit into fragments, and kick your faithful valet de chambre down stairs, because your laundress has failed to impart the due degree of rigidity to your collar linen. Now you promise yourself a full indemnity for all the contre-temps of the past week—you are just arranging a most pleasant excursion with the lady the next afternoon, when, alas! the vanity of human hopes! an impertinent coxcomb, whose only merit consists in a well arranged dress and capacious whiskers, demands the honor of the lady's hand for the next waltz. Odious, detested waltz! You have too much taste to dance yourself: your inamorata, however, must yield to the unrelenting tyranny of fashion, and you are left in a posture of amiable abstraction, musing on the provoking scene enacting before you. To sit quietly and await the termination of the dance, might not be an unattainable effort of patience; but to see her partner's place supplied again and again—you take leave of hope and the company together, and pass the next week to the manifest infringement of your own peace of mind, and your aforesaid ill-fated valet's physical comforts.

Now, Mr. Messenger, I take you to be a sensible and discreet man, anxious for the purity of public taste, and ever vigilant to rid society of all nuisances; I doubt not, therefore, that I shall find in you, an able and willing coadjutor in the remedy I propose to apply, for the extirpation of this unspeakable annoyance; and I hope the undignified, graceless, dancing fraternity, aye, and sisterhood too, (for sorry am I to say, the ladies are the most untiring patrons of this capering vice,) will take the hint forthwith. I propose, through the "Messenger," to give to the public the result of my best labors to eradicate this odious practice from society. I know not if my efforts will ever receive their deserved reward. The public is an ungrateful master, and ever incredulous and uncourteous when you propose to reform him. It is not, however, the part of a philanthropist and reformer, to abate his efforts on that account. Immortality will be the price of success, and posterity will pay it. Had Columbus abandoned his attempts to explore the western main, because bigoted and ignorant monarchs would not accept the world he offered them, we might now have been the wretched subjects of some European despot instead of the countrymen of Washington, under a government of equal laws, and in a land of liberty.

On a visit a few evenings ago, to a maiden aunt, I was glad to find, that among the ladies assembled on the occasion, the utmost unanimity prevailed as to the importance and utility of the proposed reform. Miss Betsy Bloomever declared it would be one of the most extensively beneficial reformations which the world has witnessed, since the proscription of hoops, stays, and stomachers. Miss Debby Creaktone pronounced it a more important revolution than that achieved by Signorina Garcia, in the musical style of the American vocalists; and Miss Judith Knowell said, that in her estimation, (and she was a Protestant Episcopalian, she added,) Luther's reformation would sink to insignificance before it.

You can imagine my gratification, Mr. Messenger, at so numerous and so respectable an accession to my opinions; a fact upon which I could not forbear to felicitate myself, to Miss Sophronisba Grundy, adding, that I was confident my exertions would now be duly appreciated by an enlightened public, when it should be apprised, that I was aided in my labors by ladies, from whose age and experience, so much might be expected, when——conceive my astonishment, the whole group rose upon me, with unanimous rage; and declared it was a positive insult—

"Age and experience indeed! humph! Call me old at thirty-five!" screamed Miss Deborah.

"And me, at forty—only five years more!" shouted Miss Betsy.

"And I," said Miss Judith, scornfully, "that will let you know, Sir, I shall not be thirty-five till the 29th day of June next."

"Impudence!" said Miss Primrose.

"Insult!" echoed Miss Grundy.

In short, I found it impossible, Mr. Messenger, to compose the troubled elements, thus innocently put in motion, and was forced to retire. All my attempts at expostulation and entreaty, being overborne and silenced by the volume of voice and clamor sent after me—my aunt even intimating to me, at the hall door, that I must not visit her house, unless I could better estimate the feelings of her friends, who certainly had much cause to complain of my wanton outrage upon them.

I was electrified—was astounded—and tossed on my pillow the whole night, vainly laboring to unravel the inexplicable problem. That ladies of such seeming propriety, should evince such passion at an allusion to that to which I considered them alone indebted, for any consequence they might have in the world, was more than my philosophy could estimate, or my ingenuity explain.

As some compensation, however, for the defection of these young ladies with delicate feelings, I am rejoiced to find that the sex can appreciate my exertions in the cause of elegance and refinement, and are determined to aid me in my patriotic labors. Last evening the penny post brought me the two following letters, on the subject of the great reformation of manners in which we are engaged; and as they strengthen my opinions with great force of argument, I am unwilling to suppress them, and beg leave you will give them at once to the dear public, whose welfare I have so much at heart. With the kind and very welcome invitation contained in the first, I shall certainly comply, and hope ere long, to give you the result of the deliberations of a body, from whose wisdom, (I will not say age or experience,) so much may be justly expected; and in the mean while, I am very faithfully, yours and the public's dear friend,

ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.

Mr. Absolute:

I am secretary to the "Society of Young Ladies for the suppression of vulgar practices, and the promotion of elegance and gentility among young men," and am directed by a resolution of the Society, at its last meeting in Quality Hall, to convey to you the assurance of their hearty good will and ready co-operation, in your philanthropic efforts in the dancing reformation. Our society has long deplored the absence of some efficient and active measures for the suppression of a practice so derogatory to the dignified grandeur of the human form and character, and congratulate themselves and their co-laborers in the same cause, upon the highly important and gratifying results, which your beneficent zeal and energy promise. They have ever since the formation of their society, regarded the practice of dancing—of waltzing particularly, and especially in private circles—as seriously obstructive to that "march of mind," which is elsewhere effecting such important improvements in the domestic economy and wealth of nations; and hail with delighted enthusiasm the dawn of a brighter and better period, in our beloved country. An anti-dancing clause is found in the constitution of our society. Our members have all abandoned the custom very long ago; indeed, our president, among the oldest of our number, being nearly sixty years of age, says, that at the last dancing party she attended, she saw General Washington dance a minuet with her aunt Fanny. There was, she says, so much stately grace in that dance, that she would not object to seeing minuets danced always; but nothing else. We all agree in unanimous condemnation of the rapid, whirling, graceless waltzes, hops, gallops, and all those Frenchified follies, which are now, alas! by the depraved taste of the day, considered so fashionable.

Pray do not spare any pains to wipe off this dreadful stain upon our domestic customs and manners, and let not dancing be any longer urged against us as a national reproach. The next meeting of our society will be held on the afternoon of this day week, when I am directed to invite your attendance. Pray do not fail to come and give us your aid in working the speedy extirmination of this great vice from among us. And, in the meantime, wishing you perfect success in your virtuous labors, I remain your friend, in the sympathy which unites the advocates of a common cause.

CAROLINE CAMFIELD, Secretary.

Mr. Absolute:

Hearing of your intended efforts, by a series of essays, and by forming societies throughout the country, to draw the public attention to the demoralizing tendency and intrinsic ungentility of dancing, I cannot forbear to wish you entire success, in a reformation fraught with the best interests of society.

I am a young lady of respectable connexions, of some reading, more property, and, unless my glass plays me false, of a person quite agreeable. With youth and these advantages, one would think I could get along very well among the patrons of dancing; but you must know I never could dance fashionably, and as no body dances otherwise, the consequence is, that I go to party after party, and never dance at all. Pa sent me to the dancing school almost a whole quarter, but I had hardly in that time learned more than the positions, when our master dislocated his ankle joint in teaching one of the scholars (a fat Dutch girl from the mountains,) the French gallopade, and since then, we have never got another one in our neighborhood. How much more sociable it is to pass the evening in agreeable conversation, in which all can participate, than by dancing, to gratify one part of the company at the expense of the other.

Lord Chesterfield, (whose letters I have sometimes read,) advises his son never to play on any musical instrument. It is an accomplishment, he says, of the necessitous or vulgar. If he wants to hear music, he directs him to send for a professed performer, and pay him for his services. Thus ought it be in regard to dancing. Confine it to the circus or theatre, and society will not be annoyed by the practice. Until this is done, rely upon it, Mr. Absolute, none of your disciples will do more to drive it from the polished circles of domestic society, than your obedient servant,

SALLY SOBERLY.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LION-IZING. A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

——————all people went Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.

Bishop Hall's Satires.

I am—that is to say, I was, a great man. But I am neither the author of Junius, nor the man in the mask—for my name is Thomas Smith, and I was born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge. The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius. My father wept for joy, and bought me a treatise on Nosology. Before I was breeched I had not only mastered the treatise, but had collected into a common-place book all that is said on the subject, by Pliny, Aristotle, Alexander Ross, Minutius Felix, Hermanus Pictorius, Del Rio, Villarêt, Bartholinus, and Sir Thomas Browne.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to understand, that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently big, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone. Every morning I took a dram or two, and gave my proboscis a couple of pulls. When I came of age my father sent for me to his study.

'My son'—said he—'what is the chief end of your existence?'

'Father'—I said—'it is the study of Nosology.'

'And what, Thomas'—he continued—'is Nosology?'

'Sir'—I replied—'it is the Science of Noses.'

'And can you tell me'—he asked—'what is the meaning of a nose?'

'A nose, my father'—said I—'has been variously defined, by about a thousand different authors. It is now noon, or thereabouts. We shall therefore have time enough to get through with them all by midnight. To commence:—The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that protuberance, that bump, that excrescence, that'——

'That will do Thomas'—said my father. 'I am positively thunderstruck at the extent of your information—I am, upon my soul. Come here! (and he took me by the arm.) Your education may be considered as finished, and it is high time you should scuffle for yourself—so—so—so (here he kicked me down stairs and out of the door,) so get out of my house, and God bless you!'

As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this accident rather fortunate than otherwise, and determined to follow my nose. So I gave it a pull or two, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology. All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

'Wonderful genius!'—said the Quarterly.

'Superb physiologist!'—said the New Monthly.

'Fine writer!'—said the Edinburg.

'Great man!'—said Blackwood.

'Who can he be?'—said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

'What can he be?'—said big Miss Bas-Bleu.

'Where can he be?'—said little Miss Bas-Bleu.

But I paid them no manner of attention, and walked into the shop of an artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-soul was sitting for her portrait. The Marchioness of So-and-so was holding the Duchess's poodle. The Earl of This-and-that was flirting with her salts, and His Royal Highness of Touch-me-not was standing behind her chair. I merely walked towards the artist, and held up my proboscis.

'O beautiful!'—sighed the Duchess of Bless-my-soul.

'O pretty!'—lisped the Marchioness of So-and-so.

'Horrible!'—groaned the Earl of This-and-that.

'Abominable!'—growled his Highness of Touch-me-not.

'What will you take for it?'—said the artist.

'A thousand pounds'—said I, sitting down.

'A thousand pounds?'—he inquired, turning the nose to the light.

'Precisely'—said I.

'Beautiful!'—said he, looking at the nose.

'A thousand pounds'—said I, twisting it to one side.

'Admirable!'—said he.

'A thousand pounds'—said I.

'You shall have them'-said he—'what a piece of Virtû!' So he paid me the money, and made a sketch of my nose. I took rooms in Jermyn street, sent his Majesty the ninety-ninth edition of the Nosology with a portrait of the author, and his Royal Highness of Touch-me-not invited me to dinner.

We were all Lions and Recherchés.

There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He said that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls—that somebody in the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads and seventy thousand tongues—and that the earth was held up by a sky-blue cow with four hundred horns.

There was Sir Positive Paradox. He said that all fools were philosophers, and all philosophers were fools.

There was a writer on Ethics. He talked of Fire, Unity, and Atoms—Bi-part, and Pre-existent soul—Affinity and Discord—Primitive Intelligence and Homoomeria.

There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus—Heresy and the Council of Nice—Consubstantialism, Homousios, and Homouioisios.

There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Latour, Markbrunnen and Mareschino—Muriton of red tongue, and Cauliflowers with Velouté sauce—veal à la St. Menehoult, Marinade à la St. Florentin, and orange jellies en mosaiques.

There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He spoke of Cimabue, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino—the gloom of Caravaggio—the amenity of Albano—the golden glories of Titian—the frows of Rubens, and the waggeries of Jan Steen.

There was the great Geologist Feltzpar. He talked of Hornblende, Mica-slate, Quartz, Schist, Schorl, and Pudding-stone.

There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He said that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.

There was Delphinus Polyglot. He told us what had become of the eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus—of the fifty-four orations of Isæus—of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias—of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus—of the eighth book of the Conic Sections of Apollonius—of Pindar's Hymns and Dithyrambics, and the five and forty Tragedies of Homer Junior.

There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblichus, Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus, Tyrius, and Syrianus.

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price, Priestly, Condorcet, De Staël, and the "Ambitious Student in rather ill health."

There was myself. I talked of Pictorius, Del Rio, Alexander Ross, Minutius Felix, Bartholinus, Sir Thos. Browne, and the Science of Noses.

'Marvellous clever man!'—said his Highness.

'Superb!'—said the guests: and the next morning her Grace of Bless-my-soul paid me a visit.

'Will you go to Almacks, pretty creature?' she said.

'Certainly'—said I. 'Nose and all?'—she asked.

'Positively'—I replied.

'Here then is a card'—she said—'shall I say you will be there?'

'Dear Duchess! with all my heart.'

'Pshaw! no—but with all your nose?'

'Every bit of it, my life,'—said I. So I gave it a pull or two, and found myself at Almacks. The rooms were crowded to suffocation.

'He is coming!'—said somebody on the stair case.

'He is coming!'—said somebody farther up.

'He is coming!'—said somebody farther still.

'He is come!'—said the Duchess—'he is come, the little love!' And she caught me by both hands, and looked me in the nose.

'Ah joli!'—said Mademoiselle Pas Seul.

'Dios guarda!'—said Don Stiletto.

'Diavolo!'—said Count Capricornuto.

'Tousand Teufel!'—said Baron Bludenuff.

'Tweedle-dee—tweedle-dee—tweedle-dum!' said the orchestra.

'Ah joli!—Dios guarda!—Diavolo!—and Tousand Teufel!' repeated Mademoiselle Pas Seul, Don Stiletto, Count Capricornuto, and Baron Bludenuff. It was too bad—it was not to be borne. I grew angry.

'Sir!'—said I to the Baron—'you are a baboon.'

'Sir!'—replied he, after a pause,—'Donner and Blitzen!'

This was sufficient. The next morning I shot off his nose at six o'clock, and then called upon my friends.

'Bête!'—said the first.

'Fool!'—said the second.

'Ninny!'—said the third.

'Dolt!'—said the fourth.

'Noodle!'—said the fifth.

'Ass!'—said the sixth.

'Be off!'—said the seventh.

At all this I felt mortified, and called upon my father.

'Father'—I said—'what is the chief end of my existence!'

'My son'—he replied—'it is still the study of Nosology. But in hitting the Baron's nose you have overshot your mark. You have a fine nose it is true, but then Bludenuff has none. You are d——d, and he has become the Lion of the day. In Fum-Fudge great is a Lion with a proboscis, but greater by far is a Lion with no proboscis at all.'

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. I.

What am I? how produced, and for what end? Whence drew I being? to what period tend?

Artbuthnot.

My name is Lionel Granby. I was the second and youngest son of the Honorable Edmund Granby, a gentleman distinguished for his polished education and stately aristocracy. The earliest associations of my eventful life, steal from memory more of joyousness than of pain; and gathering in a gilded horizon of light around the darkness of my destiny, they whisper a consolation which despair cannot efface, nor misfortune obliterate.

Chalgrave, (an ominous name for a patrician family,) was the proud mansion of my ancestors. It was a huge and gnarled pile of Dutch brick, surrounded by a cumbrous wall of the same material. Situated on the western side of Chesapeake Bay, it frowned with stubborn misanthropy, on the mingled beauty which softened the silent landscape. It stood alone in the silence of its grandeur,—cold, fearful and noiseless. A broad and level plain swept round its base, dotted into life with the cottages of my father's numerous slaves. From them sprung the only voices which soothed the chilled solitude of the scene. Here, at all times might be heard the merry laugh, the jocund song, or the unalloyed mirth of alternate ease and idleness. One of those noble and beautiful rivers, which dally, as if it scorned to arise from an humble rivulet, with the bosom of the Chesapeake, gushed up its full waters fresh as in the morning of its creation. Much rude and incongruous taste disfigured the interior of Chalgrave. A dark and gloomy heaviness sate on the antique wainscotting, the massy sofas, and the blackened windows. From the dinner hall, the portraits of my ancestors looked down, as if in contempt on the degeneracy of modern times. Here was a cavalier, with flowing locks and iron-bound brow, who had lost his life in the memorable field of Naseby. Opposite to him, was the stiff and rigid portrait of a grave and thoughtful face. He was one of those inflexible and independent lawyers, whose moral courage had labored in the war of our revolution, and whose inflexible spirit had inspired successful resistance. Mothers with children in their arms; infants with toys, and belles with flowers and books, filled the wall alike with vermillion and smiles.

The number seven was curiously interwoven, in the circumstances of my birth. I was born on the seventh day of the seventh month, at seven o'clock, being the seventh of May. In our old family Bible, I find the record of my birth in my father's hand writing, followed with this fearful sentence. "Curse him not, oh God! with the —— of our family." Amid the desolations of despair—the anguish of broken hearted affliction, and the contempt of the world, I turn to the gentle and joyous hours of my childhood, even as the "hart which panteth after the water brooks." My memory is my heart, and my affections hourly trace themselves on its index. My mother's dark and deep blue eye, even now beams over her wretched child, and I live alone in the regenerative charity of this blessed passion.

I have a faint and indistinct recollection of my father's death and burial. The solemn ceremony of his funeral, and the dull and harsh sound of the earth as it touched his coffin, deeply affected my youthful spirits. I cried bitterly in the arms of my old nurse, and wondered at my mother's chilled and tearless eye. My father was dead! He had been stern and imperious to me; and as my gratitude was no reasoning power, I soon laughed brightly again in the serious and melancholy face of my mother. My old nurse Ellen, had lived in the Granby family for three successive generations, and was addressed by the endearing epithet of "Mammy." Her grandson, a well formed and athletic youth, named Scipio, four years older than myself, had been given to me by my father, and I soon learned the deep and abiding fidelity of his affection. He was my friend, companion and slave; and I thank God! that the pride of dominion never insulted or degraded him. In his obedience, he was dignified; and in his devotion, ardent, generous and sincere. He taught me to ride the unbroken colt—to steer the frail periogue, and to fish with success for the active boneta. According to the custom in Virginia, he did no service but wait on his young master. Thus separated from the great mass of my father's slaves, he grew into manhood with a gentleness of character and a dignity of address which would have honored the proudest gentleman in the state.

My old uncle Charles, who was one of the happiest and most dignified specimens of the "decayed gentleman," had found a resting place for his adversity in the Chalgrave family. He had been a Colonel in the militia; and having on one occasion, performed with his whole regiment before an admiring court yard, the difficult and vexatious manoeuvre of "the hollow square," he instantly resigned his commission; and under the shade of his laurels, he lamented the decay of military spirit, and the ignorance of the officers. The "hollow square," was the first mathematical figure I learned. Every thing in nature was pressed by my uncle into this fortified figure (as he called it,) of fortification. The trees, the flowers, the grass plats, backgammon men,—and the flies trained with honey, presented the solemn outline of my uncle's pride and learning. His peculiarities were few, and deeply tinctured with enthusiasm. As an antiquary alone, in the cause of Virginian history, he was bigoted, obstinate and credulous; and, considered as the first of books, "the Metamorphoses of Ovid, done into English by Mr. George Sandys, the company's treasurer." He contended that Clayton, the botanist, was greater in learning, than Linnæus; and, told with much indignation, the minutiæ of Clayton's quarrel with Gronovius, the Amsterdam printer. My uncle was experienced in the diseases of dogs and horses, and perfectly familiar with the technical jargon of the racing calendar. He had travelled in Europe, but would never mention the incidents of his tour, except to inform his auditory that the best saddles were made in London, and the finest pointers were bred at Padua. Yet my uncle had learning, taste and erudition, which he guarded, from every profane eye, with a repulsive and dogged obstinacy; and the few flashes which occasionally broke from him, glittered like the trembling rays which play around the edge of some sombre cloud. As an admirer of the fair, he was courteous, dreamy and fantastic, and would ever and anon, refer, for an evidence of his family gallantry, to the speech of one Sir Danvers Granby, who was a commissioner under Henry VIII, for dissolving the nunneries. When the nuns were shivering in the rude gaze of the populace, Sir Danvers, looked at them with tears in his eyes, exclaiming, "God bless you! I could marry you all, if I did not adore you!" This story my uncle told with a smile and a bow.

My gallant, gifted, and noble brother Frederick! how bright was the star which shone over thy boyhood! Alas! that its flickering light should only beam o'er thy pallid couch!—He was several years my senior, and had been sent to Europe for the purpose of acquiring a military education, but had returned at the age of nineteen with a broken and impaired constitution. He was studious, solitary and reserved; while the hectic flush of consumption, which irradiated his cheek, nerved alike the fortitude of his character, and awakened the sympathy of every eye. His heart was gentle, though his studies were severe—and he saved from the wreck which ambition ever makes of feeling, no jewel so rich as the untainted tenderness of his character. He had become a member of the bar; and I have often gazed on his high and marbled brow, as a living monument, on which destiny had inscribed its fiat of despair. Political life! that maddening turmoil of empty nothingness! was the goal on which he had fixed his dream of hope; and, though ill health prostrated him to the earth, his sunny smile breathed a freshness, and a gloom, as brilliant, and as melancholy as the tremulous twilight of an autumn sky. He cared naught for wealth, love or pleasure. Ambition was the demon which moved around him, in a track of its own desolation; and though beauty had lured him almost to the confines of matrimony, he could trample down the sympathies of his nature beneath its despotic rule.

My sister Lucy, was two years younger than myself; she was fair, delicate, and singularly beautiful. Her raven and luxuriant hair, fell in prodigal ringlets over a brow of Parian whiteness, giving that struggling halo of beauty which darkness throws around the solitude of the snow drift. She was deeply versed in the fashionable accomplishments of female education, and had added to them the acquirements of solid learning. The old library was the resort of her solitary hours; and as her light and sylph-like form, would flit through its darkened walls, fancy might easily personify her into Fame, hovering over the tomb of Genius.

The coachman, ostler, and dining room servants, are all important characters in the dramatis personæ of a Virginian household. With them I was a pet. The first, taught me to drive—the second, initiated me into the mysteries of Tree Hill and Broad Rock; while the third, corrected with severity, any breach of etiquette or violation of morals, inconsistent with his own or the Granby's dignity.

Such was the Granby family. Where are they now? The spider has woven her web, and the owl has built her nest in the crumbling walls of Chalgrave. The silent grave reads but one lesson—for the breeze which sighs over its dewy grass, tells me that I alone, am the last of that proud and gifted name.

THETA.

DAGGER'S SPRINGS,

IN THE COUNTY OF BOTETOURT, VIRGINIA.

Among the numerous watering places in Virginia, our attention has been drawn to that which is named at the head of this notice, by several individuals who tested its virtues during the last season, and who speak highly of the situation and management of the Springs, and the efficacy of its waters. The mineral qualities of these Springs have been long known, and they have been resorted to for some years by persons living in their vicinity. But the character and circumstances of the original proprietor, a descendant of the early Dutch settlers of the country, prevented their improvement until within the last year or two. He had a full sense of the mineral treasure which enhanced the value of his property, and refused all offers from those who wished to purchase the site of the Springs; while he had not the means of bringing them into profitable use, by erecting buildings for the accommodation of visiters. Many individuals were, nevertheless, in the habit of drinking the waters of the Springs during the warm season, and of sojourning for a few days in the rude and imperfect dwellings which he had erected: and with the moderate income thus obtained from this mine of natural wealth, its sturdy proprietor seemed well satisfied. At his death, his successors disposed of the Springs and the adjacent lands to the present proprietors; and buildings were erected last year, on a limited scale, with every regard to the comfort of the traveller and the invalid. The consequences of a more liberal arrangement were immediately felt. The number of visiters last season exceeded the means of accommodation; and the managers have in the interim, made the most active exertions to meet the growing popularity of their establishment, having completed additional apartments, which will enable them to provide for the comfort of one hundred persons. The scenery in the vicinity of the Springs has been described to us in glowing colors, as combining every variety of the magnificent and the beautiful—and we have also been assured that the fare and attendance are worthy of all praise; so that we feel safe in recommending the enlarged establishment of the proprietors (Messrs. Dibrell and Watkins,) to the attention of travellers for health or pleasure.

Dagger's Springs are situated within easy distances from some of the most interesting towns in the Valley of Virginia—they are forty-five miles from the White Sulphur; twenty-two from Lexington; eighteen from Fincastle, and sixteen from Pattonsburg. The following letter from a distinguished physician, affords all necessary information as to the medicinal properties of the waters, and the management of the establishment:

Danville, April 28, 1835.

I visited Dagger's Spring on the 24th of last July, and on the next day proceeded to subject the water to a number of chemical tests. The experiments performed, though not as full and as satisfactory as I could have wished, were sufficient to demonstrate that the water possesses highly valuable properties, and sufficient also to make us somewhat acquainted with the nature of those properties. The most active mineral ingredients in the water are carbonated alkalies. In this it differs materially from the White and Salt Sulphur, and is more nearly assimilated in its qualities to the Red and Gray Sulphur. It is however more decidedly alkaline than either of those Springs. This peculiarity will ever recommend it to persons subject to acidities of the stomach, and to the other concomitants of dyspepsia; while the large quantity of hydrogen that it contains, will render it useful in all of those complaints for which sulphur water is usually prescribed.

The following experiment was performed with the view of ascertaining the quantity of gas contained in the water. Three measures of the water were placed in a retort, and the bulb of the retort plunged in water, heated to the temperature of 108 Fahrenheit. The gas, as it was extricated, was received over mercury, in a graduated measure. The result was, that the three measures of water yielded one measure of gas. This gas was subsequently tested, and found to consist of sulphuretted hydrogen, azote, and atmospheric air—principally of the former.

The presence of iron is not detected by the usual tests; but the water, when treated with prussiate of potash, and subsequently with sulphuric acid, yields a blue precipitate, which is evidently prussiate of iron—the sulphuric acid having a stronger affinity for potash than the prussic acid, disengages the latter. The acid thus disengaged, unites with the iron in the water, and forms the prussiate of iron or prussian blue.

Although the water contains but about 36 grs. of mineral substances to the gallon,¹ it acts, under certain circumstances, with great promptness. It effects upon the system are invigorating: it promotes digestion and improves the secretions generally; it strengthens without producing an undue excitement, and may therefore be used beneficially in some cases, in which the water of the White Sulphur, from its stimulating properties, would prove destructive.

¹ The smaller of two springs at the Red Sulphur contains about 60 grs. per gal. The larger, which is most used, does not contain but about 24 grs. per gal.

I will only say in conclusion, that I was pleased with the manner in which the establishment appeared to be conducted, with the spirit of enterprise manifested, and the taste displayed in the plan of improvement, which was kindly exhibited to me. I met with no situation among the mountains susceptible of as great improvement as that selected for the buildings. It may be made a second Eden.

I am engaged in preparing a work for the press, in which this Spring will be more particularly noticed, and attention directed to objects of interest in the surrounding country. It would have been completed before this, but for the peculiarities of my situation, which allow me but little leisure for literary pursuits.

I was told of another spring belonging to the establishment, from which I was informed it was designed to supply the bathing house. From the account given of it, I have no doubt but that it is highly alkaline. I regret very much that it was not in my power to examine and test its properties.

THE RED SULPHUR SPRINGS.

We have received, and shall insert in the next No. of the Messenger, a continuation of the "Visit to the Virginia Springs," the first portion of which will be found in the preceding pages. The second part contains much valuable information, relating particularly to the Red Sulphur, which has recently risen into importance under the management of Mr. Burke, whose amiable and intelligent character is well known to the citizens of Richmond. As we consider it important, that the qualities of the healing waters which abound in this state, should be made known as extensively as possible, we anticipate the more ample information of our correspondent, by making the following extract from a circular just issued by the proprietor of the Red Sulphur Springs, (Mr. Burke):

"In that species of pulmonary disease attended by hemorrhages, unless the energies of life are completely exhausted, it never fails to afford relief. Sometimes, when the pulse beats 110 to 115, and the emaciated figure of the patient too plainly indicates the ravages made by repeated hemorrhages, and the unavailing efforts of physicians to arrest them, he comes to the Red Sulphur, drinks about four quarts of the water in twenty-four hours, lives upon plain farinaceous articles of diet, takes all the exercise his case will admit, and at the end of that brief period, his pulse falls to 80 or 85;—his spirits revive, he continues daily to improve, and almost invariably, to gain a pound in weight every day. At the expiration of fifteen days, he becomes renovated, and pours forth his gratitude, by extolling the virtues of the waters on every occasion. This is the usual action of the waters, but there are cases in which their advantages are not perceived for two or three weeks. Such is the exhilarating effect of confidence and hope, that he soon forgets his late deplorable condition, and becomes guilty of some unhappy imprudence that endangers his prospects.

"The luxuries of the table, or violent exercise, if indulged in, at this crisis, will cause incalculable mischief. In affections of the bronchia, this water, visited early, affords certain relief. In asthma, it is highly valuable. In the early stage of genuine phthisical consumption, it will arrest its progress; and, by repeating the visit annually, and using the utmost self-denial, life may be protracted for many years, and rendered comparatively comfortable; but in the later stages, it is vain to hope for relief from any earthly remedy; and it is therefore unwise to remove from the consolations and comforts of home, the unfortunate patient, whose approaching dissolution is apparent to all except himself and his nearest relatives.

"When the patient has alternate chills and fevers, copious night sweats, and a pulse at 120 or 130; moreover, when it becomes necessary to check diarrhoea by opiates, and to sustain his sinking strength by juleps, what rational hope can be afforded by any remedy whatever?

"In diseases of the liver, this water is highly efficacious. In dropsy, rheumatism, gravel, gout, dyspepsia, tic doloreux, and epilepsy, it has been used with advantage. In cutaneous diseases, it seldom fails to effect a cure."

From the same circular we learn, that the accommodations at the Red Sulphur have been much enlarged since the last season, and that provision has been made for the reception of two hundred and twenty visiters, with their servants and horses. The efficacy of the waters in cases of incipient consumption, renders this an important place of resort for a large class of invalids, who may be assured of finding in Mr. Burke, a humane and considerate entertainer.

FEMALE EDUCATION.

Young Ladies Seminary, at Prince Edward Court House.

There is no subject which claims greater attention than the judicious education of females. It has justly been considered by some of the most eminent writers, of vast importance that the minds of the gentler sex should be cultivated and enlarged by every practicable means; that the mothers of an enlightened nation should be well prepared to train the mental faculties of their offspring; and that, as the earliest intellectual as well as physical nutriment is derived from the mother by the child, she should be fitted with care for her responsible and momentous duty. Much greater attention is now bestowed upon the culture of the female mind than formerly; and parents generally seem more impressed with the propriety of giving to their daughters a solid education. Accomplishments, which at one time seemed to make up the sum of their acquirements, are beginning to be considered as secondary to those studies which strengthen the intellect and store the mind with useful knowledge. We have no doubt that a change which carries such beneficial consequences into the bosom of every well-ordered family, will gain ground. The importance and the advantages of a thorough course of study for females, in the present enlightened state of society, are too obvious to need enforcement. The parts they have to act in this world's drama, require that their early years of freedom from care and anxiety, should be employed in preparation for the performance of the high duties of their after lives, with ease, with dignity and usefulness. The time has, we trust, arrived when the general cultivation of the female intellect will be deemed, (as it is) absolutely necessary for her happiness, and for the well-being of those whom providence may render dependent upon her guidance, her councils, or her affections—when she will be educated with a view to her becoming the companion, and not the plaything of the other sex. The importance of her position in civilized society, and the vast influence of her benignant qualities, demand that she should be prepared to fill the one, and to exercise the other with dignity and effect.

Our attention has been called to this subject by the encomiums bestowed by many intelligent individuals, on the "YOUNG LADIES SEMINARY at Prince Edward Court House, Va.," which is conducted by Mr. E. Root, in the most satisfactory manner. This institution has been established about four years, and has met with great success, as is shown by the fact that it had upwards of one hundred pupils during the past year. It has been the object of its director to fix upon a thorough course of study, rigidly to be pursued, under the superintendence of the best teachers in the various departments; rendering solid study the main object of attention, but without neglecting those ornamental branches which embellish and refine the more important acquirements. Music and the French language are taught by proficients in each, and in fact every means is afforded at this seminary for giving young ladies a finished education. To build up an institution of this description, where every important branch of study is ably and faithfully imparted, is a work of no ordinary difficulty, as it is one of great public benefit: and Mr. Root and his assistants are deserving of public commendation for the manner in which this establishment is conducted, divested as we believe it to be of the faults too often found in such schools, and which have rendered the epithet "Boarding School Miss," almost a term of contempt. We can conscientiously recommend the Prince Edward Seminary, for its efficient method of instruction—not short and easy, but such as is best adapted to the developement and strengthening of the mental energies—for able and well qualified teachers—a discipline which combines kindness and gentleness with order and propriety—a careful attention to the manners and morals of the pupils—and moderate expense. Believing such to be the characteristics of Mr. Root's Seminary, we have deemed it our duty to call to it the public attention by these brief remarks.

LITERARY NOTICES.

I PROMESSI SPOSI, or the Betrothed Lovers; a Milanese Story of the Seventeenth Century: as translated for the Metropolitan, from the Italian of Alessandro Manzoni, by G. W. Featherstonhaugh. Washington: Stereotyped and published by Duff Green. 1834. 8vo. pp. 249.

The appearance of this work strongly reminds us of the introductory remarks with which the Edinburg Review, thirty years ago, prefaced its annunciation of Waverley. We would gladly appropriate them, were it fair to do so; but "honor among thieves!" Reviewers must not steal from Reviewers; and what is it but theft, when he who borrows, can never have anything worthy of acceptance to give in return?