The contents of the present number of the Messenger will be found various and entertaining, many of them possessing uncommon merit. They are, like those of the last preceding number, entirely original.

The continuation of the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, is highly acceptable. The description of a Storm on the Prairies is told with much vigor, and will compare favorably with a similar scene in Mr. Hoffman's excellent itinerary of a Winter in the West.

Nos. XV and XVI of the "Letters of a Sister" are delightful. The vivacity and elegance of the style, and the feminine grace which breathes through the whole correspondence, are peculiarly observable in these numbers.

The 2d and 3d chapters of "Lionel Granby" exhibit an improvement on the first. But we think the writer has chosen a bad model, since he displays sufficient ability to render his writings interesting without imitation. Perhaps unconsciously, he has fallen into what may be denominated the Bulwerian style, one which pleases less than almost any other in the hands of an imitator, as like that of Byron it is essentially an egotistical style.

Our reforming friend, "Oliver Oldschool," has hit off with great force some of the fashionable assemblages of the present day. Without entertaining a zeal in the reproval of these extravagancies, quite commensurate with his own, we are fully aware of the justness of his strictures upon those modern customs which banish social intercourse from what are intended for social parties, and burthen the enjoyment of pleasure with so many qualifications as to make it little better than pain.

The story of "The Sanfords" is the production of a young girl; and if the reader should not find in it the skill of riper years, or the deep interest of more stirring fictions—still, we trust he will agree with us in the opinion, that it is highly creditable to the talents of a young lady of sixteen and promises better things, when experience and observation shall have stored her mind with incidents, and taught her the art of using them with effect.

"English Poetry, Chap, II," is highly meritorious. We scarcely supposed that so trite a subject could have been rendered so attractive. Our correspondent has evidently studied his subject with great care, and, which is better, con amore. He does not follow in the beaten track, but has the boldness to differ from many former critics; and there is a freshness and originality in his remarks which cannot fail of being admired by the classical reader.

Mr. Poe's story of "Hans Phaall," will add much to his reputation as an imaginative writer. In these ballooning days, when every "puny whipster" is willing to risk his neck in an attempt to "leave dull earth behind him," and when we hear so much of the benefits which science is to derive from the art of aerostation, a journey to the moon may not be considered a matter of mere moonshine. Mr. Poe's scientific Dutch bellows-mender is certainly a prodigy, and the more to be admired, as he performs impossibilities, and details them with a minuteness so much like truth, that they seem quite probable. Indeed the cause of his great enterprise is in admirable harmony with the exploits which it encourages him to perform. There are thousands who, to escape the pertinacity of uncivil creditors, would be tempted to a flight as perilous as that of Hans Phaall. Mr. Poe's story is a long one, but it will appear short to the reader, whom it bears along with irresistible interest, through a region of which, of all others, we know least, but which his fancy has invested with peculiar charms. We trust that a future missive from the lunar voyager will give us a narrative of his adventures in the orb that he has been the first to explore.

"The Sale" is one of Nugator's best sketches, and will be recognized as true to the life, by those who best know the scenes and circumstances described. The characters of the Hoe-Cake ridger and his steed are admirably drawn.

Among our Reviews, those upon Bancroft's History of the United Stales, and the Writings of General Washington, are from the gifted pen of the reviewer of the orations of Messrs. Adams and Everett. The former displays much research, and contains some highly interesting details of our early history. The latter is the most eloquent tribute to the character of Washington that has ever met our eye. It is not our custom to notice our reviews; but it would have been indelicate in us to assume for a moment, even indirectly, the authorship of two articles of such transcendent merit.

The Poetical department in the present number is well supplied. "The Daughter's Lullaby," a parody of Mrs. Hemans's Sunset Tree, but a parody only in the form of the verse, is a perfect gem. The Lines on Lafayette, by Mrs. Willard, possess much merit. "The Old Parish Church," will be read with feeling by the Virginia antiquarian—if such a being exist among us. The stanzas to "Estelle," and the lines which follow, were formerly addressed to us under the signature of Fra Diavolo, and were not inserted, because accompanied by another poem which the late editor deemed objectionable. The author has requested us to suppress the latter, and has permitted the publication of those pieces to which no exception was taken by our predecessor, who was fully impressed with the spirit of true poetry which characterizes these productions. The scene from the unpublished drama, entitled "Arnold and Andre," will be read with uncommon interest. The author is not unknown to fame, and in this fragment of a work, which he informs us it is his intention to complete, he has given earnest of the merit which it will possess as a whole. The description of the battle of Princeton (the only occasion as we believe, in which Washington drew his sword during the whole war,) is powerfully described by the Old Officer, as also the great influence which the father of our liberties possessed and exercised over the minds and actions of his followers. It is with great pleasure we announce the writer of this admirable scene, as one from whom future contributions to the Messenger may be anticipated.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES.

[From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esquire.]

I left the Fort early in the morning of the 28th December, accompanied as usual by my Spaniard and a few Canadian servants. The season thus far had been uncommonly fine, not a spot of snow was visible on the prairies, and, as we passed along, the Elk, Antelope, and Fox, were seen in various directions reposing with all that lazy listlessness which the warm suns of March and April never fail to produce upon both man and beast. There was in fact nothing to remind us of the presence of winter, except the barren nakedness of nature, and the long range of the rocky mountains whose snowy peaks glittered in the sun, and whose hoary summits stretching far to the north and south, were undistinguishable from the white vapory clouds which floated around them. Towards evening, however, a fresh gale sprung up from the north, and a very sensible change in the temperature was experienced. We drew our Buffalo robes closer around us, and jogged on, talking and laughing away the time, inattentive to the signs of the storm which was rapidly gathering. A few flakes of snow began to descend, and the sun became suddenly obscured. We were now sensible that a snow storm of unusual violence was fast approaching, and we laid whip to our horses, in the hope of reaching the shelter afforded by a spot of timbered ground, about eight miles distant. The tempest however had already burst upon us in all its fury; large snow-flakes came whirling and eddying about our heads, which were caught up by the wind before they could fall to the earth;—darkness and confusion increased every moment, and in half an hour it was impossible to see ten paces before us. Our horses now became blind and ungovernable, some dashing away with their riders across the prairies, heedless of what direction they took, and others taking a firm and immoveable position with their heads opposite to the wind and refusing to stir an inch. Of course, all of us became soon separated. It was of no use to call out to each other, for our voices were drowned in the roar of the tempest, and could not be heard twenty steps. In this emergency I dismounted from my steed, and leaving him to his fate, endeavored to keep myself warm by vigorous exercise. Blinded and chilled by the wind and snow, I stumbled forward, groping my way in darkness, and regardless of the route which I took. At length, having proceeded some distance, I tumbled headlong into a deep ravine filled with snow, from which, with all my efforts, enfeebled as I was by fatigue, I was unable to extricate myself. After some rest and many unavailing trials, I at length crawled out, and perceiving at some little distance a kind of shelter formed by an overhanging rock, I immediately sought it, and wrapping my cloak and blanket around me, sat down in no enviable mood, contemplating my forlorn and apparently hopeless condition. After remaining in the ravine about two hours, the fury of the storm subsided, when on making a careful examination I discovered a place in the bank which was of comparatively easy ascent, and accordingly succeeded in gaining the level prairies. I looked around for my unfortunate companions, but no vestige of them was to be seen. The snow lay piled up in ridges several feet high, and the wind though considerably abated, continued to throw its light particles into such dense masses or clouds as to intercept the view beyond a short distance. There was a kind of hillock or mound in the prairie, about a half mile off, to which I directed my steps in the hope that from its summit I might make some discovery, and I was not disappointed. I thought that I saw a few hundred yards distant, the whole of my party collected together, and I instantly turned to join them. Guess my astonishment, however, when in lieu of my unfortunate comrades, I recognized my horse standing all benumbed and shivering with cold, in company with a few old buffalo bulls. I approached very near before they saw me, but on reaching out my hand to seize my horse's bridle, the buffaloes took to flight, and whether it was that my horse being a regular hunter, followed them from habit, or clung to them in the present instance as companions in misfortune, I do not know,—but so it was that he scampered off with the rest, and by his ill timed desertion greatly aggravated my distress. I was now thirty miles from home,—the night was fast approaching and the weather intensely cold. What was I to do? If I lay in the open prairie, without the means of kindling a fire, I knew that the snow would at once be my winding sheet and grave: the thought too of my companions, and their uncertain fate, added poignancy to my reflections.

After a few moments of melancholy musing, I determined to pursue my horse, and if he could not be reclaimed to shoot him on the spot, in order that I might recover such articles as he carried on his back, and which might aid me in repelling the cold. I followed for nearly a mile, the horse and buffalo still walking off before me, when my patience being entirely exhausted, I took deliberate aim and fired. The ball however fell short of its mark, the buffaloes ran off at full speed, and my horse, greatly to my surprise, instead of following the bad example of flight, suddenly pricked up his ears and looked inquiringly around. Whether it was that he knew the report of my gun, which had so often brought down the buffalo, when mounted on his back, or that he really took compassion on my desolate situation and repented his ungrateful conduct, it is of course impossible to tell, but so it was that he turned round and hastened to meet me at a brisk trot. When he approached very near, he stopped and seemed irresolute, but having reloaded my gun I was resolved that he should not again escape. I made towards him as warily as possible, when making a sudden spring I seized the bridle, and in a few moments was safely seated on his back.

A moment before I could have exclaimed with the ill-fated Richard, "a horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" but now that I had reclaimed my own, I found my situation but little alleviated. The sun had already sunk far behind the mountains, and the wind, which blew directly from the north, came with such intense bitterness that in spite of my clothing and robe, it seemed to penetrate my very vitals. I gazed round on the boundless prairie, in the hope of descrying some timbered spot which should serve as a place of refuge, but all was one dreary waste. Nothing was to be seen but a broad expanse of plain, undulated by ridges of snow—and nothing heard but the hollow and mournful gusts which swept over the desolate scene and sounded like a funeral dirge. My apprehensions were gloomy enough, and losing all confidence in my own half-bewildered reason, I threw the reins on the neck of my horse, and giving him the whip, surrendered the choice of the route to his own better instinct. The sagacious brute seemed conscious of his new responsibility, and as if to atone for his unkind treatment after the storm, he gave a loud neigh, and then sprung off at a sweeping gallop which he continued for an hour and a half. It was now completely dark, and I was so thoroughly benumbed with cold, that I could scarcely retain my seat. I felt indeed like one lingering on the very brink of despair, when my horse suddenly gave another loud neigh which was instantly returned. He sprang forward with renewed life and spirit, and in a moment after, upon reaching the top of some rising ground, a large fire sent up its cheerful blaze to my view; and to my utter surprise as well as delight, I beheld my companions who were so recently dispersed by the storm, comfortably seated around it. With a loud shout of congratulation I hurried down the hill and joined them. A sailor who has been wrecked at sea, and who after buffeting the stormy billows until nature is exhausted, is at length cast on shore by some friendly wave, never felt a more thrilling sensation of pleasure or thankfulness, than I did at that moment. In the fulness of my heart I most fervently thanked heaven for its protection; then seizing my horse around the neck, I tenderly embraced him, and poured forth my gratitude and forgiveness to his unconscious ear. Many no doubt would be disposed to smile at this seeming folly; but let them reflect that when the spirit has been raised from the lowest depths of despair to the highest summit of hope and enjoyment—the man must be cold indeed who does not evince some extravagance in feeling or conduct, as in the case of the poor man, whose fortunes are suddenly made by a prize in the lottery, some excuse may be given for a few irrational freaks and absurd eccentricities. Like all excessive joy, however, mine was but temporary—or at least not unalloyed, for I soon discovered that one of my men was missing, having been separated from his companions during the storm, and not since seen or heard of.

With the aid of a large fire, a sufficient number of blankets, and a bottle of old Jamaica, we contrived to pass the night in tolerable comfort, notwithstanding the cold, which was tremendous. Early next morning, we proceeded to scour the prairie in search of our lost companion. We searched until late in the evening—but all our efforts were vain, and we returned once more to the camp. The unfortunate man had doubtless fallen a victim to the fury of the storm,—for we never heard of him more. His body probably lay wrapped in its snowy shroud until spring, when at last it was revealed to the eager eyes of ravenous birds and beasts. Death is in any shape appalling; and his near approach will for a moment shake the stoutest heart. It will even blanch the cheek of the hero, surrounded by the "pomp and circumstance of glorious war." What then must be the situation of him who is overtaken by the violence of the wintry storm, and sinks, exhausted by cold and weariness, on the trackless prairie. For the last time he hears the night wind, as it chants his funeral dirge,—whilst the mournful howl of the starving wolf, or the scream of the ill-omened raven, as he circles in the air, and watches the last vital spark as it vanishes—disturbs the dying moments of the victim!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER FIFTEENTH.

Foundling Hospital—Hotel Carnavalet—Count de Ségur.

PARIS, ——.

This morning, dear Jane, we visited the Foundling Hospital. Being told we should go there very early to behold the emptying of the baskets in which the babes are deposited at the gate during the night, we hastened there ere seven o'clock; but we had been misinformed, and were disappointed in our wishes. The infants are carried there at all hours; none however were received during our visit. We were conducted through the numerous wards, and saw many forsaken little creatures—a distressing sight, indeed! Then to behold the sufferings of such as were diseased! Some of them lying on hard beds, with a bright light from opposite windows torturing their eyes, which were generally inflamed from being thus exposed. Some of the nurses too, were exceedingly rough. For instance, in an apartment attached to the sick wards, four or five women were occupied in dosing and feeding several babes—one of them asked another who stood by a table, to hand her a spoon; instead of handing it, she threw it, and so carelessly, that the poor child received a blow on the cheek. I could have boxed the vixen! Each infant is swathed, and wears on its wrist a piece of pewter, telling the hour, the day of the month, and the year of its reception at the hospital; this enables a parent who may desire to reclaim a child, to find it. About six thousand children are annually received here, and frequently as many as twenty in the course of a day. A considerable number are sent into the country to be nursed, and during our stay, a half a dozen carts drove off, filled with peasant women and their helpless charges. The destiny of these we thought enviable, when compared with that of those who remained. At two years of age, the children are removed to another hospital, and there instructed until old enough to be put to some trade.

After breakfast, we visited a place of a more pleasing description; this was the Hotel de Carnavalet, formerly the residence of Madame de Sévigné. It is now inhabited by a Monsieur de P——, an eminent engineer, with whom we have become acquainted, and who kindly invited us there, to see the very chamber and cabinet occupied by that lady, when she penned those charming letters to the Countess de Grignan. The window of the cabinet overlooks a small garden, in which is a flourishing yew tree, that was planted by Madame de Sévigné herself. As I viewed it, and thought of her who reared it, Lord Byron's beautiful lines on the cypress came forcibly to my mind.

"Dark tree! still sad when other's grief is fled,
The only constant mourner o'er the dead."

The charming old Count de Ségur has returned to town, and we have paid him our respects at his residence in the Rue Duphot. He was here yesterday, and invited us to dine with him en famille to-day; we are going, and I shall close my letter with an account of the party, when we come back. At present I must abandon the writing desk for the toilet table.

Eleven at night. We reached home a half an hour since, and having changed my dress for a robe de chambre, behold me quite at my ease, and again in possession of the pen. We spent our hours delightfully at the Count's! On alighting there, we were for some minutes sole tenants of the parlor, and thus had an opportunity of examining a beautiful portrait that decorates the wall of the room, and which we afterwards learned, is that of the late Countess de Ségur. It was painted during her youth, and if the resemblance be a good one, she must have been a lovely creature! Our observations were interrupted by the entrance of the Count from his library, adjoining the parlor—and our circle was soon increased by the addition of several French gentlemen, to whom he introduced us, but I quite forget their names. One of them had recently been in Greece, and described a horrible scene of carnage he witnessed there. In the evening the Count had many visiters, this being the time he prefers his friends to call on him. Among those who came in, was the authoress of "Adèle de Senange," that interesting novel we read together last winter. You may depend I heard the name of Madame de S—— announced with great satisfaction. She entered, and we beheld a plain looking woman, apparently about fifty years old. Then there was Monsieur de Marbois, who wrote the history of Louisiana, one of the United States; and Count Philip de Ségur, author of the "Russian Campaign," who is considered the ablest military historian of the age. I am now so sleepy I can write no more, so bid you, in the name of all of us, a fond adieu.

LEONTINE.

LETTER SIXTEENTH.

Saint Denis—Montmorency—the Rendezvous—the Hermitage—Enghien—Mass at the Tuileries' Chapel—the Bourbons.

PARIS, ——.

Dear Jane:—

Marcella Erisford has arrived, accompanied by her father, who returns to Soissons to-morrow. He has been residing there eleven months, in order to settle some business, relative to a legacy left him by an intimate friend; in the spring he expects to re-embark for Philadelphia, his native city. He resembles his sister, Mrs. Danville, and appears equally amiable and desirous of contributing to the happiness of those around him. We shall sincerely regret his departure. Marcella is quite a beauty, with her glowing cheeks, hazel eyes and pearly teeth, although her features are by no means regular. She is less lively than Leonora, but just as intelligent and accomplished; so you see I have two delightful companions to console me (if it were possible) for your absence. Our brother Edgar is, I think, desperately smitten with Marcella; certes, when she is by, he has neither eyes or ears for any body or anything else.

Now for our peregrinations. The weather being remarkably fine on Tuesday, and the carriages at the door by nine o'clock, according to order, we proceeded to Montmorency and the Abbey of St. Denis. Oh, how your pensive spirit will luxuriate in wandering through the solemn aisles and caverns of this "hoary pile," among the sepulchres of its mighty dead! You are aware that during the revolution, this asylum of deceased royalty, was invaded by a barbarous populace, who dragged the corpses from their graves, loaded them with indignities, and cast them into ditches and other places of filth. It is related that the corpse of the brave Louis XIV, when thus profaned, raised its arm, as if to strike the miscreant who dared the deed, while that of the good Henri Quatre (which was found uninjured by time) smiled benignantly on his ungrateful subjects! The tombs have since been restored by Napoleon, who intended for himself and his descendants the vault which is appropriated to the Bourbons. It is secured by two massive bronze gates, which he had made to close upon his own ashes, that now repose under a simple stone on the barren island of St. Helena! So changes the glory of this world and its mighty ones! The Abbey of Saint Denis was originally a plain chapel, erected by a pious and wealthy lady named Catulla, to shelter the remains of that martyr (St. Denis) and his companions, after their execution. The generosity and care of various monarchs, have transformed the humble chapel into the present majestic cathedral. The relics of St. Denis are enclosed in a splendid shrine, the gift of Louis XVIII; and the sumptuous altar in front of this, with its enormous gold candlesticks, was given to the church by Bonaparte, after his marriage with the Empress Marie Louise, on which occasion it was first erected in the Louvre, where the ceremony was performed. In the side aisles of St. Denis, are several superb monuments, in memory of Francis I, Henry II, and Henry III, and their queens. The antique sepulchres of Dagobert, and his spouse Nantilde, are near the door, and that of Dagobert most curiously carved. In one of the vaults we saw the stone coffin of King Pepin; it is open and empty, and when struck upon the side, sounds like metal. Near the mausoleum of Francis I, stands the mimic bier of Louis XVIII, canopied and richly decorated with funereal ornaments. It will remain until succeeded by that of Charles X, for such is the custom of France. What gave rise to it I know not; but we may reasonably suppose that it was intended, like the monitor of Philip of Macedon, to remind the reigning monarch of his mortality.

At Montmorency we had fine sport riding about on donkeys to the different points of view that merit notice for their beauty. The little animal upon which Mr. Erisford rode, was at first extremely refractory, and the trouble he had to force it along excited our mirth; then my saddle girth broke, and this was another source of merriment. After riding over the valley, we alighted at the hunting seat of the unhappy father of the murdered Duke d'Enghien, the present prince of Condé, who is said to be yet overwhelmed with affliction at the untimely and cruel end of his noble son. The place is called the "Rendezvous;" it is shady and pleasant—the house a plain stone building: we did not enter it, but partook of some cool milk beneath the trees, in front of the door. We purchased it of the game keeper and his wife, who reside there. Retracing our path, (and the little donkeys, I assure you, trotted back much faster than they went,) we stopped at the Hermitage. This is the most interesting object to be seen at Montmorency, and indeed the chief attraction to that spot—although circumstances induced us to defer our visit to it till the last. It is a quarter of a mile from the village, and was the residence of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and afterwards of Andrew Gretry, the musical composer, whose family still occupy it. They are so obliging as to allow strangers to visit this rural retreat of those celebrated men, and have arranged in a small apartment, various articles that were owned and used by them, and that are consequently interesting to the spectator; for instance, the bedstead and table of Rousseau; the cup and saucer of Gretry; his comb and spectacles, and the antique little spinet upon which he tried his compositions. A flower garden adjoins the mansion, and there we saw a rose bush that was planted by Jean Jacques, and the stone bench upon which he used to sit while writing his "Héloise." From the bay tree that shades it, I procured a leaf for your herbarium. A rivulet meanders through the garden, and empties into a small lake, near which is the bust of Gretry, supported by a column, with an inscription in gilt letters. Rousseau's bust occupies a niche in the wall, and is covered with a glass to protect it from the pencils of scribblers, which have disfigured it considerably. Bidding adieu to the Hermitage, we returned to the "White Horse," an excellent inn we had selected in the town, and having recruited ourselves with a hearty dinner, resumed our seats upon the donkeys, and repaired to the village of d'Enghien, (a mile distant,) to see its neat and commodious sulphur baths, and the pretty lake of St. Gratien, on the border of which it stands. In the centre of the water is a restaurant, to which, if you choose, you are conveyed in a boat; but it was so late, that our parents would not consent to make this aquatic excursion, and we therefore returned to Montmorency, and thence to Paris. A bright moon lighted us home, where we arrived about eleven o'clock, pleased with our day's adventures, and so sleepy we could scarcely reach our chambers without falling into a slumber on the way. On Sunday Mr. Dorval brought us six tickets of admission to the Chapel of the Tuileries, where high mass is performed every Sabbath while the king is in the city. Not a moment was to be lost, so we hastened to array ourselves for the occasion, as full dress is required if you sit in the gallery with the royal family, and our billets were such as to admit us there. Marcella, Leonora and myself had just purchased new bonnets, and these we wore. Their's are of straw colored crape, ornamented with blond and bunches of lilacs, and are very becoming; mine is of pink, and decorated with blond and white hyacynths. Our party, consisting of Mamma, Papa, Edgar, and our three ladyships, was soon ready and at the palace. The chapel was crowded, but we found no difficulty in obtaining seats—for on presenting our tickets, the captain of the guards handed us to them, and the throng yielded to him without hesitation. The music was very fine, and we had a close view of the Bourbons and their suite. They were sumptuously clad, and the King and Duke and Duchess of Angoulême seemed very devout. The Duchess has a most melancholy expression of countenance, owing perhaps to the sad vicissitudes of her youth. Neither she, her spouse or uncle are popular. The Duchess de Berri is exceedingly so, and is considered one of the most charitable ladies in the kingdom. She is extremely fair, has light hair and a pleasing face. She is not sufficiently dignified, I think, and is a terrible fidget; during service she was continually adjusting her tucker, necklace, or sleeve. It is reported, that when the omnibuses, or circulating carriages of the boulevards were first introduced, she made a bet with the king that she would ride in one of them, and actually did so, in disguise! I am summoned to the parlor to receive visiters—so kiss my hand to you.

LEONTINE.

P. S. Our guests proved to be General and Mr. George Washington Lafayette. They came to take leave of us ere their departure for La Grange. The Chamber of Deputies having dissolved, they go to the country to-morrow, where the rest of the family have already established themselves. We have been so pressingly invited to pay them a visit, that we have determined to do so, and anticipate great pleasure and gratification from spending a day or two in the midst of this charming and highly respected family. Again adieu.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY DAUGHTER'S LULLABY.

Tune—"The Sunset Tree."

Come! Come! Come!
Come to thy Mother's breast!
The day begins to close:
And the bright, but fading west
Invites thee to repose.
The frolic and the fun
Of thy childish sports are o'er:
But, with to-morrow's sun,
To be renewed once more.
Come! Come! Come!
Come to thy Mother's breast!
The day begins to close:
And the bright, but fading west
Invites thee to repose.
Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!
Sweet on thy Mother's knee!
To con thine evening prayer,
To him who watches thee
With a Father's tender care.
For parents and for friends
Then breathe thy simple vow;
And when life's evening ends,
Be innocent as now.
Come! Come! Come!
Come to thy Mother's breast!
The day begins to close:
And the darkening of the west
Invites thee to repose.
Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
Sleep till the morning beams!
My song is in thine ear,
To mingle with thy dreams,
And to tell thee I am near.
Bright be thy dreams, my child!
Bright as thy waking eyes,
As the morning beaming mild,
Or the hope that never dies.
Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
Sleep on thy Mother's breast!
Thine eyes begin to close;
And she that loves thee best
Has lulled thee to repose.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Troy, June, 1835.

MR. WHITE,—The very polite invitation received in yours of February 11th, (the more valuable because it in part originates with Mr. R.) to contribute to your well conducted, entertaining and instructive periodical, would have been sooner answered, but that I was desirous to write something specially intended for the Messenger. But owing to my having a work (Universal History in Perspective) now in the press, the manuscript of which is not yet quite finished, I am obliged to devote every leisure moment in that direction. Unwilling, however, not to respond to the Virginian politeness which dictated your letter, I have sent you, from my port-folio, some little poems which have not been published.

The Messenger, as I have learned from some of our gentlemen who frequent the reading room, is highly spoken of here. Accept my grateful acknowledgment of your favor, in sending it to me.

Respectfully, yours,

EMMA WILLARD.

OCEAN HYMN.

Written on board the Sully, on a return voyage from France, July, 1831.

Rock'd in the cradle of the deep,
Father, protect me while I sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For thou my God hast power to save.
I know thou wilt not slight my call,
For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall,
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.
And such the trust that still were mine,
Tho' stormy winds swept o'er the brine;
Or tho' the tempest's fiery breath
Rous'd me from sleep to wreck and death,
In ocean-cave, still safe with thee,
The germ of immortality,
And sweet and peaceful is my sleep,
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.

The following was written soon after the intelligence of Lafayette's death reached this country. At the public examination of the young ladies under my charge, they appeared in mourning, on the last day, August 5th, on account of the death of our country's father, and also on that of the death of two of their former school companions. At the close of the school exercises, the little poem in blank verse, was read by one of their number, and the dirge, with a plaintive accompaniment on the harp and piano, was sung. It may be thought strange that I should venture to produce this, when the performances of such eminent men as Messrs. Everett and Adams are before the public.¹ But the incidents of the life of Lafayette are so well known, that it appears to me only necessary to give to memory the key-note and excite her to use her own powers; and to this end a poetic diction gives to the writer some advantages, as it admits of greater condensation of narrative, of thought, and feeling.

¹ This was prepared for the Messenger before the number was received containing the critique on those publications.

LAFAYETTE.

On Seine's fair banks, amidst Parisian towers,
Gather a multitude! Slowly they come,
And mournfully. The very children weep;
And the stern soldier hath his sun-burnt face
Wet with unwonted tears. And see! From forth
The portals of a venerable church,
The mourners following, and the pall upborne
By white-haired ancients of the sorrowing land,
A coffin issues. Needless task, to tell
Whose pallid lineaments—whose clay-cold form
They bear to his long rest. France hath but ONE
So loved, so honored; nay, the world itself
Hath not another.
Who shall fill his place?
Who now, when suffering justice pleads, will hear?
And when humanity with fettered hands
Uplifted cries, who now will nerve the arm?
Who break the silken bands of pleasure, spurn
Ancestral pride, the pomp of courts, and sweet
Domestic love, and bare his bosom in
The generous strife?
Let us recall his acts
And teach them to our sons. Perchance the spark
Extinct, rekindling in some youthful heart,
The hero's spirit, will return to bless.
Who treads Columbia's soil, but knows his blood
Hath mingled with it, freely shed for us.
For injur'd France, impoverish'd and oppress'd,
In freedom's sacred cause, he next stood forth,
And despotism closed her long career.
But wild misrule uprose; and murder's arm
Was bared to strike. Lafayette interposed;—
Chief of a distant armed host, he wrote
And bade the legislative band beware!
Then Jacobinic tigers growled, muttering
A Cæsar! Slay him! At an army's head
He dictates to the Senate! Hush! he comes—
Alone, unarmed, save with the sword of truth,
And beards the monsters in their very den.
They quail, and freedom's sons arouse.
Then thou, poor sufferer, Louis had not died,
Nor hapless Antoinette, thy beauteous neck
Had never fed the greedy guillotine,
Nor yet had Olmutz' dreary dungeon held
That noble man, had ye but trusted him.
O'er the broad page of history, there comes
A meteor glare. Napoleon rises!
Other lights grow dim, or fade away;
But plagues are scattered from the burning trail—
Lafayette's star, tho' hid, moves on unquenched;
O'er fair La Grange it shines with beauteous ray,
And fosters in its beams domestic joy.
The comet sinks beneath Helena's rocks;
The star remains, undimmed, a guide to France.
But hath Columbia no gratitude?
She woos her brave deliverer to her arms!
Again he rides the wave; not now, as once,
The banner'd eagle droops the pensive wing,
But proudly fluttering, o'er his favorite's head
Bears high the starry crest.
He comes! resounds
Along Manhattan's strand and o'er her waves;
The city is unpeopled, thronged the shore,
Gay pennons wave, and cannon roar; men shout,
Children leap up, and aged veterans weep.
Even here he came; within these walls we saw
His face benign, and heard his kindly voice;
And here we blessed him in our artless song,
And raised our tearful eyes, and called him "father;"
And with a father's love he looked on us
And wept. And now HE sleeps in death, 'tis meet
That we should mourn. Would we could seek his grave,
With those the sorrowing ones, he loved the best,
There too would we, the mourning flowers of France,
And drooping willows plant, and kneel and weep.
Take comfort ye his offspring! God's own word
Is pledged to you; seed of a righteous man!
Lift up your downcast hearts, and joy for this,
That he hath died unchanged, as long he lived.
And tho' the perils of his age, outwent
The dangers of his youth, yet he hath stood,
And calm and fearless, tower'd above the storms
That scared the timid and o'erwhelmed the vile.
His fame shall be a light to future times;
But it shall fall in glance portentous,
On tyrants and their leagues; on the oppressed,
In gentle rays of pity and of hope,—
On dark hypocrisy, that hymns the name
Of liberty, to cheat for power, it falls,
Revealing guilt and shame. Meanwhile it shows
The good even as they are, not to be bought
No sold, nor daunted. Such a man was he,
Your father and your friend; nor yours alone;
Whoever bears man's image, he hath lost
A countryman, a father, and a friend!
Thus human nature mourns, and sympathy,
Wide as his generous heart, shall sooth your grief.

DIRGE,

Commemorative of the deaths Gen. Lafayette—of Miss Mary A. Coley, and Miss Helen Stuart Bowers.²

Sweep—slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe,
Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low;
For sorrow flows—a strange and mingled tide,
The Beautiful are gone—the Brave hath died!
So good, so dauntless, generous, and kind,
Our Country's Father leaves no peer behind;
But ah our Sisters! must the bright and gay,
Leave the fair earth, and moulder in the clay!
Thus saith the Word, "Be not of little faith;"
Prepare for life,—prepare for early death;
So shall ye calmly part, or peaceful stay,
Be honor'd here, or sweetly pass away.
Sweep—slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe,
Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low,
For sorrow still, will flow in mingled tide,
The BEAUTIFUL are gone—the BRAVE hath died!

² Miss Bowers (who was a young lady of exquisite personal beauty) had a remarkably peaceful and happy death.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE OLD PARISH CHURCH.

MR. WHITE,—The attention of the traveller through Lower Virginia, is often powerfully arrested by the fine old churches in a state of dilapidation and decay, and he reverts with a melancholy feeling to the days when they were built, and the people who worshipped within them. During our last war with Great Britain, these churches served as quarters for our soldiery, and sometimes as stables for the horses of our cavalry.

NUGATOR.

Yon ruined church! how it dimly stands
With its windows sunk and broken—
Of the parent scoff'd at the children's hands,
'Tis a sad and a guilty token.
Thou'rt a noble work and a lofty pile!
With thy spacious, vaulted ceiling;
These massy pillars, and long deep aisle,
Touch the heart with a holy feeling.
'Twas a proud, proud day, when our fathers laid
This stone of the mould'ring corner;
Ah! they did not dream 'twould so soon be made
A jest for the passing scorner.
Cold, cold in death are the hearts which throbb'd
To view thy rising glory—
Are we their sons, who have basely robb'd
What Time had left so hoary?
Long years have pass'd, now silent fane!
Since you rang with the solemn warning,
And years may pass, but for thee, in vain
The return of the Sabbath morning.
Ye slumbering dead! what a change is here,
Where once ye worshipp'd—kneeling—
No sound is heard but my hollow steps, near
Where the full tones once were pealing.
Lo! the sacred desk where your pastor read,
While angels smiled—impending—
There the ceaseless worm hath in silence, fed
With your dust, 'tis slowly blending.
God's tables torn from the sacred wall!
What hand was so rashly daring?
And their whiteness stain'd by the fiend-like scrawl
Of some lost spirit—despairing.
Oh, sight of woe!—the altar gone!
That spot of the Christian union,
Where once ye sought the eternal throne,
With the cup of the lov'd communion.
E'en soldiers here, beneath this roof,
Have held their midnight orgies,
And without hath tramp'd the charger's hoof,
Till the grave well nigh disgorges.
Adieu! adieu! lone house of God!
I shrink from thy profaning—
The impious foot of war hath trod
Where the Prince of Peace was reigning.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ESTELLE.

I'm standing at thy couch Estelle—
Thy hand in mine—awake my love!—
O'er silent lake and leafy dell
Calm eve is sinking from above;
Wilt thou not look upon the scene
Which from yon casement woos thine eyes?
The light shines beauteously between
The far off mountains where its last blush dies.
I kiss thee sweet—how cold thy lip!—
How pale thy cheek!—thy brow how white!—
And chill as unsunned flowers that dip
Their colorless leaves in dews of night.
In vain—in vain I call on thee—
Thou answerest not that once loved call—
Thou hast no word—no look for me—
How heavily from mine thy hand doth fall!
Yet dearest, while I gaze on thee,
Whom I have loved so long—so well—
It seems not all reality
That I have lost thee quite, Estelle.
I have a sense, though vague and dim,
Of something which my heart hath stilled—
The formless shadow of a dream
That with oppressive thoughts my mind hath filled.
The mist is fading—yet so fair!
Can this be death?—this, beauteous sleep!—
Yes!—Yes!—and they will lay thee where
The earth is damp and worms do creep—
Oh! God!—that reptiles—horrid thought!—
Must banquet on those lovely limbs,
Whose faultless outline, seemeth not
Traced for this world of dark and sullen dreams.
It must be so—the grave—the grave
Relentless swallows all we love,—
Mind—Beauty—Virtue—naught can save—
And yet there is a God above!—
I only know—I only feel
Thou'rt doomed to be the earthworm's prey,
The newt will o'er thy bosom steal,
And loathsome things through thy rich tresses stray.
* * * * *
* * * * *
I hear the sound of many feet—
A moment more, they will be here—
One kiss—one more.—Farewell my sweet,
Let others weep around thy bier,
Who loved thee well—yet loved thee less—
I cannot weep—the fount is dry
In sorrow's utter wilderness—
And with a tearless voiceless thought I die.¹

¹ But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought sheathing it as a sword.
[Childe Harold, Canto III. Stanza xcvii.
Not a plagiarism but a coincidence; a softer term, and more in vogue.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

——through the vigils of the joyless day and the broken dreams of the night, there was a charm upon his soul—a hell within himself; and the curse of his sentence was never to forget.—Falkland.

There is a thought that still obtrudes in lone and festive hours;
It falls upon my withered heart like desert winds on flowers:
Oh! read it in my altered brow and in my sunken eye,
I cannot speak it, for the words upon my lips would die.
At evening when I muse alone and calmer visions rise,
Such as will sometimes swim before the veriest wretch's eyes,
That thought will start up suddenly, like spectre from the graves,
And rend the fragile web of joys poor Fancy idly weaves.
In scenes of mirth and revelry I mingle—'tis in vain—
My spirit finds no Lethe in the cup I madly drain;
And when I strive to laugh, like those whose hearts are light and free—
What ghastly echo of their mirth!—what bitter mockery!
Alas! the silver chord is loosed—the golden bowl is broken;
Remembrance strews my blighted path with many a bitter token;
And on my heart a fearful sign is set forever more—
A burning seal like that they say the wandering Hebrew bore.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FAREWELL TO ROSA.

Rosa, Rosa, first and fairest,
Best beloved and ever dearest,
How shall I tear myself away,
Nor all the tender thoughts convey,
Which my swoll'n bosom bursts to tell
At bidding thee this last farewell.
But mark not thou the changing cheek,
The swimming eye, and accent weak,
The quivering lip, and pallid brow,
These signs of grief, oh! mark not thou,
Nor see my vain attempt to hide
Love's softness in the look of Pride.
My gloomy look, my mournful sigh,
Thou must not see, thou must not hear,
Nor, Rosa, must thou ask me, why
I brush away the gathered tear;
Thou must not seek the veil to move,
Which honor throws o'er hopeless love.
I know 'twould grieve they gentle heart
To feel that thou art all the cause,
That these unnumbered tears now start
In eyes which were, while hope yet was,
As bright as ever Love lit up,
To beam on Pleasure's sparkling cup.
My peace of mind forever fled,
My hopes of future fame destroyed,
My only tree of promise dead,
Its fruit all blighted ere enjoyed,
And gone the light that cheered my morn
Of life, ere half its hours were worn.
Live thou unconscious of the grief
A hopeless passion wakes in me;
It would not yield my heart relief
To know its pangs were shared by thee;
Let me but feel thy bliss secure,
And know no sorrows threaten thee,
And I can unsubdued endure
All Fortune's malice heaps on me.
But when some wild secluded spot
Shall mark my life's eventless round;
And when an humble lonely cot
My once ambitious hopes shall bound;
Oh! Rosa, let one sigh regret
The hours that I can ne'er forget.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. II.

For scarcely entering on my prime of age,
Grief marked me for her own.

[Camoens, by Lord Strangford.

My education had been superintended exclusively by my mother. Under her intelligent control I had mastered the common rudiments of learning, and had acquired, from my intellectual association with her, a taste for poetry and light philosophy. I read every thing with an earnestness which knew no satiety. In my fifteenth year, my mind was a rude mass of incongruous erudition; possessing learning without accuracy, and information without wisdom. My character derived a rudeness from the unbroken solitude of my studies, taking, like the insect of the forest, the hue of the leaf on which it lived and banqueted. The "Book of Martyrs," awakened into melancholy the sympathies of my heart, and lashed into bitterness the fierce intolerance of my passions. I was religious only in the vengeance of persecution! How often have I felt, beneath the prayers of my mother, the gentleness of a hallowed contrition stealing over my proud heart. Alas! that this contagious sympathy should leave no impression; for I would return to my favorite feast of blood, and arise from its enjoyment a tyrant and a bigot.

The day on which I was sent to school, is deeply marked on my memory. The preparations for my departure, the advice of my mother, the remonstrances of my nurse, and the tears of Scipio, were the gloomy heralds of my utter desolation of heart. Our slaves, as I passed them in the chariot, left their work and ran to bless me. Many of them bade me farewell with struggling emotion, while several of the old ones told me to be of stout heart, and never forget that I was a Granby. I sobbed aloud in the fulness of my heart, when I gave them my hand. The sternness of manhood has never blushed for those tears.

My teacher was a native of Scotland, and officiated as the minister to the parish in which he resided. Like most scholars, he could turn to the example of Socrates for resignation under the rule of the shrillest of all Xantippes. It was the principal weapon he used in his marital patience, but with that success which always made him doubt his own victory. He was a curious compound of pedantry, simplicity, and erudition. His existence was a verb, and his whole life was a dull routine of plain theology and pompous verbosity. He was under many ties of gratitude to our family, and my arrival was greeted by him with demonstrations of pleasure and affection.

I was now almost alone in the world. The silken luxury, the aristocratic pride, and the unsubdued temper in which I had been bred, utterly disqualified me for the democracy in which I was placed. In the solitude of my pride I turned to the resources of study, and by a severity of character I chilled into cold contempt the incipient friendship of many a noble and ingenuous heart. I made but one friend, and to him I clung with affectionate enthusiasm. To Arthur Ludwell I disclosed the secret feelings and desires of my nature. He could reprove me without inflicting pain, and excite me to labor without flattery. His heart was the chosen citadel of every virtue under heaven, and he was wont to bear the whirlwind of my passions without a murmur of resentment. On one occasion I had treated him with excessive rudeness. He bore my pride with his accustomed fortitude; and that night, after I had retired to bed, he entered my room, and thinking me asleep, he bent over my face and wept like a child. Could I ask a keener reproach? Could I demand a better proof of the purity and delicacy of his affection?

In this school there was a student named Pilton, the only son of one who had been many years before my birth, an overseer on the plantation of my father, and who had amassed, by economy and industry, a large fortune. He was a rude, vulgar, and unfeeling boy, with a harsh countenance and coarsely built frame. His hair was a dingy red, and his frame uncouth and repulsive; yet he possessed a genius which could grasp every difficulty, and an intellect which could master the asperities of every science. I hated him with a vindictive and uncompromising energy. I did not envy him, for I could not so far disgrace the dignity of that passion (the cousin-german of school-boy emulation) as to extend its malevolence to such a being. My feelings towards him, were disgust and unalterable contempt. He was frank without liberality, and candid without honor. Deceit flung its patched mantle over the chronic vice of his character, and duplicity ruled a heart in which nature had thrown neither fire, delicacy, nor elevation. From the influence of his mind he had attached to himself a considerable party of the timid, irresolute, and indolent; yet he shrunk from the merciless venom of my scorn. Though a coward he could display the courage of necessity, and would sometimes retort my sarcasms with severity and firmness. Shortly before our separation, we had quarrelled with implacable fierceness. I called him a coward, and an ill-bred vagrant. He replied to my attack in these words, which ever in after-life, writhed around my memory in a cold and scorpion-like embrace:

"Mr. Granby! I know the history of your proud family. You are seventeen years of age. Do you not dread the mystery of that number, which made your grandfather a premature dotard? Beware! I am revenged. You will live a lunatic and die a driveller."

I was silent under this fearful curse. The narrative of my grandfather's precocious youth and imbecile adolescence, his lofty chivalry and stubborn pride, which I had often drank from the garrulity of my nurse, was borne before me in a full and freshening tide. I controlled my struggling passions, and quitted my adversary humbled more by the agony of my own feelings, than excited by the bitterness of his retort. This scene constituted an era in the history of my hate. Revenge hourly lashed itself into frenzy; and amid the bustle of the day and the solitude of the night, I never ceased from the pursuit of an opportunity to gratify the deeply seated passion of my heart. I never forgave him! I banqueted on that merciless revenge, which dripping in a steady and uniform course through the recesses of my heart, formed a cold and impenetrable stalactite of withering malignity. It was a treasured, honored, and hoarded hate which planted itself firmly in my bosom, and which eagerly longed for its time of fruition. Even now, when time has worn down the fierceness of my life and softened into resignation the frown of destiny, this passion blooms on, with more freshness and constancy than the mistletoe which scatters its wild luxuriance around the blasted and ruined oak.

The period now approached when I was to quit school. I had never returned home, but the pains of absence had been alleviated by the monthly visits of Scipio, always laden with letters of reproof from my mother, love from Lucy, ambition from my brother, and scraps of Horace and quaint gallantries from my uncle. I had learned rapidly and accurately, mastering the spirit and elegance of the Latin language, and acquiring that measure of Greek literature which enables the Virginian scholar to play the pedant on it for one year, and authorises him to forget it in two.

Arthur Ludwell had promised to accompany me home; and in a short time the Chalgrave chariot, with its massy doors, conceited driver, tangled harness and gazing postilion, brought the glad tidings of my return to the home of my fathers. I quitted school without regret, for there I had spent some of the most miserable hours of my existence. With how much delusive philosophy do we dwell on the vapid pleasures of our schoolboy days! and when tired of the poor farce of cheating ourselves into a little happiness, we labor to coax ourselves into tenderness by invoking the remembrance of some shadowy and negative dream. Our cares, vexations and disappointments, as men, make us envy the apparent tranquillity of the boy, while we forget that youth, though a smaller circumference of mortality, has yet the same centre of passion, hope and disappointment. In the spring-time of life we are full of elastic anticipation; and over the brilliant horizon which it creates, each cloud drifts rapidly by and none sojourns to darken the brilliant outline. We fondly believe that all beyond is a candid and generous world, eager to applaud our genius or reciprocate our sympathies. How soon is this gossamer fabric crushed beneath the rugged grasp of reality, and how truly do we find that anticipation is folly, and retrospection an utter foolishness of heart.

On a laughing morning in spring I quitted school for home, with all my buoyant feelings of filial and fraternal love chastised into wretchedness by the curse of Pilton.

CHAP. III.

Even the pine forests in which he rambled in boyhood, are still hallowed in his recollection.—Farmer's Register.

There is a bright and glowing loveliness in the climate of Virginia. Its sudden vicissitudes, like the smiles of the coquette, bring with them all the excitements of pleasing variety, and we half forget its momentary frowns in the constancy of its brightness. Spring dallies away all its freshness and gentleness among the hills, the flowers and the forests of Virginia; at this season of the year the cloudless sky, the exhilarating luxury of the noontide sun, the dark yet bright green of her woods and meadows, and the busy hum of animated nature, steal over the heart with a holy and impassioned sympathy. Habit, with all its deadening attritions, cannot wear off that admiration and rapture with which we revel in the softness of a Virginian day. Italy's burning sky awakens into ecstacy the sluggish native of England, and he breathes in polished verse the brilliancy of that clime which stands in bold relief against the gloomy fogs of his own sea-girt isle. We catch the delusive truth which poetry whispers, and forget that the climate of Italy is saddened, even in its brightness, by a tedious monotony which falls on the sated appetite. It is a spirit without animation, and burns on with the steadiness and glare of a sepulchral lamp. In Virginia it is diversified by endless and varied blushes of gentleness and beauty. The laziest cloud seems to roll away in voluptuous ether. The breeze murmurs through the forest, and lingers there to gather all its swelling fragrance. Every thing is redolent of that freshness of nature which fancy would invoke for the bridal of the earth and sky.

"And all the scene in short, sky, earth and sea
Breathes like a bright-eyed face—that laughs out openly."

It was in this beautiful season of the year that, on turning an angle of the forest, the Chalgrave plantation with its stately mansion, extensive champaign and numerous cottages, broke upon our anxious view. The last rays of the setting sun poured their struggling light over the broad bosom of the Chesapeake, which reflected in trembling obscurity the shadowy outline of the forest, hill and plain. One bound from the chariot, placed me in my mother's arms. She was dignified even in her tenderness; and disengaging herself from me with a kiss, she left me to the affectionate salutation of Lucy, the warm greeting of Frederick, and the smiles of my uncle. A scuffle now ensued among the negroes who should be the first to grasp my extended hand; for in the fulness of my joy, I had offered this simple politeness with more of feeling than generally characterizes this striking indication of the well-bred Virginian. My old nurse sobbed, and laughed aloud in the rapture of her pleasure; the ostler commenced a tedious history of the pedigree, form, and swiftness of every colt on the estate; while the dining room servant told me that he was (Je-oh) delighted I had not learned to chew tobacco or wear striped pantaloons. For every salutation I gave, I received a compliment remarkable for its wildness of metaphor and for the affection which accompanied it. "Mass Lionel (said one) is a true Diomed, every inch of him." "He is born like the eagle, (cried another) a gentleman, and a man of spirit." "He is prettier (exclaimed a third) than all Miss Lucy's flowers!" I laughed outright at their odd and curious courtesy, and dismissing them with a promise that I would visit the aged and infirm in the morning, I lingered at the door, listening to their light and frolic laugh, which mingled and lost itself in the murmuring breeze which was now dancing over the Chesapeake.

And this was slavery! That heart must be torpid—that sensibility obtuse, which could experience such a display of unbought affection, without emotion. This devotion disarms slavery of half its gorgons dire, and leaves us the gratifying consolation, that its abstract vice is softened into gentleness by the humanity of its practice. Laws are not always the truest indications of the moral tone of society. They are the heartless creations of policy, necessity and faction, and take their pride of place from the darkest passions of human nature. Power and obedience are the necessary components of their being; penalty and punishment the active spirit of their existence. Fully armed, they spring into the conflict of virtue and depravity, and bear an iron front, independent of season, time and circumstance. Policy may rivet their fetters, yet they fall inoperative and harmless beneath the silent force of that gigantic lever of society—public opinion. Slavery, considered with reference to the laws of Virginia, is a state of penalty, degradation and suffering. Viewed in relation to its practical existence, it is a condition of ease, tranquillity and protection. There is no misery where there is no complaint; no wretchedness where all is peace; and if happiness arise from comparative situation, the Virginian slave eminently enjoys it. He is far removed from the starvation and nakedness of European pauperism. He is a being who invites kindness by acknowledging gratitude; who excites humanity by the noiseless virtue of his life; and who awakens protection by the constancy of his fidelity. The master feels the pride of protection expanding into a chivalry of defence; the slave, in confiding in it, makes no other offering than that of fidelity. These blended feelings invigorate and form the strength and harmony of social life, and eloquently argue to us the truth of that simple maxim, that there can be no fear where all is confidence—no treachery where there is no oppression. The Virginian slave becomes a member of the family in which he was born, and what mutation soever of fortune attend him, his heart is never recreant to the scenes of his childhood. Proud in the prosperity of his "family," yet never faithless in its adversity, he is the living chronicler of its rise and elevation, and cannot—will not, believe that it can fall. He is the greatest aristocrat on earth; and the surest avenue to his friendship, is made by that vanity which induces him to believe that the family in which he was raised, is noble, prosperous and proud. Quick to perceive vulgarity, and constant in his hatred of it, he wears his pride gracefully, and his dignity with calm tranquillity. Public opinion will suffer no master to use him inhumanly. Undisturbed by the cares and vexations attendant on the support of a family, he is clothed with comfort, and has enough of finery to be a Sunday exquisite; and though he be degraded in the order of society, he feels and believes himself to be an important link in the chain of life. Claudian's beautiful lines convey no paradox when applied to the slavery of Virginia:

"Nunquam gratior, extat libertas
Quam sub pio rege."

Home, with all its endearments of early association and present enjoyment, was now within my eager embrace, and my affections poured out their suppressed enthusiasm, in the expanded circle of tranquil rapture, even as a bold stream which gushes up to the full fountain which gave it life. This was home!—that ideal abstraction which takes the deepened hue of reality, and which leaps into existence, independent of all control. Strange, powerful, unconquerable passion! It asks no aid from the sternness of reason; it demands no support from the habits or pursuits of life. The heart is its chosen dwelling place; and around this hallowed altar, memory invokes her active drama, and fancy scatters its opiate dreams. It burns on amid the eternal snows of the poles, and glows with unextinguishable ardor under the sunny skies of the equator. It breathes its soft melody to the slumbers of the child—stimulates the energy of virtue—nerves the arm of courage—chequers with light the gloom of despair—invigorates the hope of the exile—chastens into patriotism the wild riot of ambition—and while it is the first passion of our nature, it is the last vital fragment in the wreck of mortality.

The history of one day at Chalgrave, was the history of the year. Its portals were ever open to the neighbor and stranger, and a constant throng of company, attracted by its easy hospitality, rendered it gay, social and animated. Each morning the old bell summoned the household to prayers, which by their simplicity, awakened religious awe, without melancholy, and excited humble piety, without fanaticism. Breakfast was a feast, where the mongrel compound of dinner and supper appeared like the relics of a banquet for giants. Earth, sky and sea produced their tributary luxuries; and we were left not to wonder at its extravagance, but at that generous hospitality which found its honor in profusion. This important hour, so useful in dividing the day, having passed, the old chariot was regularly wheeled to the door; ponies for the ladies, blooded horses for the gentlemen, and colts for the boys, were brought out, and the whole household prepared for a ride. Any route would suffice—any highway would be agreeable; but the ride was as necessary to a Virginian's existence, as sedentary grumbling is to an Englishman's. He is then happy—for early and unbroken habit has made him for one half of his life a perfect centaur. On horseback he experiences no solitude, and in its exhilarating exercise, he can forget his much loved politics. The excursion being finished, the company to please their own feelings as much as the pride of their host, would gather around the stables, and for hours critically examine, and earnestly dispute the merits and points of every blooded colt. Dinner was the feast of a caravan. At its close, my mother would retire, followed by the ladies—and at the door she would make a curious old fashioned court'sy, which my uncle, graceful as he was, uniformly returned by a bow, equally aboriginal and grotesque. The pure wine of Madeira now sparkled on the board, and awoke flashes of wit from the indolent, and started from its dream of torpor that spirit-stirring eloquence which sleeps in the intellectual quiescence of the Virginian character. Festivity was never prolonged to debauch, and a firm step carried the gentlemen into the parlor, where the ladies, chess and newspapers, beguiled the lethargy of time.

Arthur Ludwell had resolved to pursue his studies at the College of William and Mary, and his determinations had influenced my mother to send me to the same institution. In a few days I was summoned into the library, where my mother and Frederick were prepared to persuade me into the scheme,—she by the resistless weapon of maternal tenderness, and he by the deceitful logic of ambition. I heard with patience their advice and flattery; and first learned to dread, from an intimation of my brother, that fiend-like spectre, which in the guise of a chancery suit, greets the rising opulence of every family in Virginia—lends a hue of melancholy to its prosperity, and never quits its iron grasp, until it shriek a requiem over the utter ruin and despair of its victim.

"You are affluent," said Frederick, "but whether we gain or lose one chancery suit, it is highly probable that you may yet be forced to engage in some profession which can ensure an honorable support. Can you object to the practice of law? It is a profession full of profit and honor—the highway to intellectual distinction and political advancement. Enter then diligently on its study, and how rude soever may be its details, you will quickly find that its pursuit will imperceptibly fashion your mind into a passionate love for its wisdom and philosophy. Look on it as a jealous coquette; give it all your attention or none; and success will be as honorable to your genius as it is gratifying to your pride."

"Go! my dear boy," said my uncle, who now entered the room, "for we all belong to William and Mary—it is the cradle of our genius, and the nurse of our chivalry. I care naught about your profession, but for God's sake, learn something about the mystery of this fatal chancery."

I might have been stubborn! My indolence reeled under the fear of this dark suit, and I instantly resolved to propitiate the demon by becoming a priest in his temple.

THETA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,

During the Summer of 1834.
NO. II.

SALT AND RED SULPHUR.

Having engaged a seat in the best line, I took a last look at the beauties of the White Sulphur, and soon found myself rolling away for the Salt. The morning was dark and cloudy, with occasional showers, and having shut up our splendid coach, we were left to our own reveries except when disturbed by an occasional "long yarn" from an ex-gentleman of the box, narrating his adventures among the mountains of North Carolina, or ever and anon by the nasal melody from the olfactory organs of some fellow traveller, who had resigned himself into the arms of Morpheus. Our whole company, however, seemed to partake somewhat of the gloom which the aspect of the day was calculated to inspire, whilst our driver, on the contrary, with all imaginable glee, took advantage of the smooth turnpike and a noble team, to whirl us at a jehu rate over the first part of our journey. The joys of a good road and rapid travelling, were, however, very soon terminated, for our way left the turnpike and led us for several miles up the rough, stony bed of a creek, and over long and rugged hills, much to the annoyance of one or more fair fellow passengers. The day began to brighten as we approached Union, the seat of justice of Monroe county, and a neat village, containing a wealthy and intelligent population. Most of the country, after leaving the White Sulphur, had been wild and uncultivated, although it had the appearance of natural fertility; but now some of the large grazing farms, for which this section of Virginia is so celebrated, spread out their clovered fields in rich luxuriance before us. The general aspect of this region is that of a newly settled country; most of the farm houses, even of men of wealth, being the log tenements erected in the rude style of the frontier settlements. Occasionally, however, there are handsome edifices, built in accordance with a more modern and refined taste. Large numbers of cattle are annually taken from this and the adjoining counties, to the northern markets. The natural growth of grass, found even in the forests, offers great facilities for amassing fortunes by speculations of this description.—After arriving at Union, there remained but three miles of our journey before us; and having taken leave of the worst of the rocks and hills, we forgot the unpleasantness of the morning, in the enjoyment of the beautiful scenery, and the fine, clear day, with which we were blessed, as we drew near the Salt Sulphur. On our right lay a continued range of mountains, upon one of the spurs of which could be seen the residence of a gentleman of South Carolina, who has erected a showy summer retreat upon this airy peak, which commands a view of the springs, the village of Union, and the adjoining country. On our left, was pointed out as we passed, amongst other attractions, the "royal oak," an immense and most noble tree, to which Mr. Jefferson has given this title in his "Notes on Virginia." The valley of the Sweet Sulphur opened to our view as we approached, but its beauties were forgotten, as through its further extremity we caught a glimpse of our place of destination, and especially as we soon plunged through the "creek," and into the gate at the Salt Sulphur.

A stranger who takes the White Sulphur, as a specimen, as to external appearance, of the other springs, would be disappointed, when, after the first glance, he gets a full view of the Salt Sulphur. Nature has not been so lavish of her gifts as at the White Sulphur, and art has as yet added but little to its outward charms. The Salt Sulphur is situated in a ravine, between two small mountains. One of these, slopes very gradually, and upon its side at the distance of some two hundred paces from the base, a row of cottages has been erected. Parallel with these, at the base of the hill, is a similar range, both fronting the level in the valley. Then on the same ascent, and in the direction of the gate, through which you enter upon the spring's premises, is a small hollow square, the farther side of which is connected with the range at the base of the hill, and runs up the acclivity at right angles to that range. Most of these buildings are constructed, according to the early fashion of the country, of hewn logs: many of them have piazza's, and all are close and comfortable. We understand that the proprietors will soon erect ranges of two-story stone buildings in their stead. The hotel is a noble building; the main body of the edifice is near two hundred feet in length, the entire lower floor of which is used as a dining room. A double piazza extends along the whole front, and the upper story is occupied as a dancing saloon, lodging rooms, &c. At right angles to this building, at the western extremity, and facing the long ranges on the opposite side of the level, are a few framed cottages, and a two-story stone building, affording very comfortable and pleasant accommodations. The spring, which is some hundred paces higher up the ravine, is protected by a temple somewhat similar to that at the White Sulphur, from the floor of which flights of cut stone steps lead down to the reservoir. The reservoir is a square of about two feet, and is also constructed of hewn sand-stone.

At the White Sulphur, the fairest prospects greet the visiter at his arrival, and every succeeding day of his sojourn only serves to make disclosures, such as mar the first impressions. At the Salt Sulphur, on the contrary, first appearances are rather unpropitious, but there is every thing to gain; we know of no more delightful place in the southern country for spending the sultry months of summer. Indeed we believe, that several families from the Carolinas, and one or more from the north, are accustomed to establish themselves here for the whole season. The proprietors are intelligent gentlemen, and more thoroughly skilled in the art of accommodating, than any men I have ever seen. Their table, which is so justly celebrated, is perhaps the finest in this country. The great danger, however, from this source, is, lest the refined luxuries of the culinary department, should destroy the medicinal effects of the waters. Every attention which could reasonably be required at such an establishment, is here received. All the arrangements are made with the most perfect system. During the last season, the visiters, generally, were of the very first order, and there was a smaller proportion of low characters than was to be found at perhaps any of the other springs. There was also much sociability and true Virginia feeling.

In the evenings, a fine band sent its notes over the still valley, and the more gay portion of the company passed the hours in the ball room. Among the visiters at this place also, was the Rev. Dr. Johns, of Baltimore, and other eminent ministers, and those disposed to enjoy the more abiding pleasures of religion, met, with the close of every day, and were led in their devotions by these men of God. On the Sabbath, too, there were always interesting and appropriate services.

The proprietors have provided for the visiters means of amusement and recreation, which serve to give a zest to the hours which sometimes hang heavily at these watering places, at the same time that they afford a substitute for those pernicious games which are so frequently resorted to in weary moments. Many of the younger visiters gratify their taste for horsemanship, by taking excursions along the wild and romantic roads, which wind through the country, on the fine Virginia steeds, which are found in this region.

The Salt Sulphur water has been particularly efficacious in affections of the stomach. It possesses most of the active, without the stimulating properties of the White Sulphur. On this account the Salt Sulphur water would probably be a more suitable preparative, in pulmonary cases, for those waters which act more directly upon the respiratory system. Indeed, some instances are mentioned where the use of this water alone has effected the cure of individuals subject to hemorrhage from the lungs. With an occasional use of the blue pill, its effect upon the liver is also very pleasant, although not so beneficial as the White Sulphur water. With dyspeptics, in addition to its other action, it has the peculiar property of neutralizing by its alkaline matter, the distressing acidity, to which they are subject. Cold and tepid sulphuretted baths, can be obtained at any time, so that the patient can have the combined effects of the external and internal action of the water upon his system at the same time.

At the distance of less than a mile, in the direction of Union, there is another spring called the Sweet Sulphur, which is also the property of the proprietors of the Salt Sulphur. This spring was a place of considerable resort, until the Salt Sulphur was discovered and improved: no separate accommodations are now provided, but it can be conveniently used by visiters at the Salt Sulphur. It is said to possess less sulphuretted hydrogen, and greater tonic properties than the latter spring.

We must now bid adieu to the Salt Sulphur, leaving with it our best wishes. The enterprising proprietors are continuing their improvements, so that this spring will, in every point of view, soon merit the praise of being the most inviting resort among the mountains.

RED SULPHUR.

After taking a lunch, we sat off early in the afternoon, with a crowded stage, for the Red Sulphur, seventeen miles west of the Salt. Our road wound by a very circuitous route, to the summit of the small mountain, in the rear of the Salt Sulphur. On our left, as we ascended, the mountain's side became quite precipitous, and at the base and immediately beneath us, lay the valley of the springs—its green lawn and white cottages presenting a most interesting and beautiful scene. This is one of the favorite strolling spots of visiters, since the view which it affords of the springs and the adjoining country, fully compensates for the labor of climbing the mountain. We believe, however, that most of our company would have preferred a situation on terra firma, to that which they occupied in the stage coach, which ever and anon, as it slowly grated over the rough and rocky way, gave fearful symptoms of carrying us down the dizzy steep which we had gained.

A great part of the road between the Salt and Red Sulphur, leads over long hills and continuous ridges, out of the sides of which it has been in many places cut, in order to obtain the proper inclination. From some reason, most probably a scarcity of funds, the road is so narrow as to render it often dangerous, and entirely unsuitable for so public a thoroughfare. The reflections of the traveller, as he dashes down these narrow descents, are by no means pleasant. He involuntarily transfers himself to the upper side of the stage, as he gets a glimpse from the window, of the deep ravine, along the verge of which he is rolling at so furious a rate. The anticipation too, as well as the actual fact, of meeting other vehicles in these passes, is not at all agreeable. The driver of the coach, however, obviates, as far as possible, the difficulty from this source, by sounding his horn as he approaches and travels through these narrow parts of the road. Perhaps, however, we are conveying rather too unfavorable an impression of the way between the Salt and Red Sulphur. If, however, the traveller wishes to avoid all unpleasant reflections on account of his personal safety, it may be as well for him to adopt one of the expedients of the hero of "Sleepy Hollow," as he trod its gloomy paths, amidst the tortures of a fertile imagination, and shut his eyes, at least, if the presence of fellow passengers will not admit of one's raising his voice in a consolitary solo. We can, however, present to our readers, the prospect of a resource, which will be a more satisfactory expedient than this. Arrangements were making during the last summer, for the immediate construction of a turnpike over this ground; then the trip would present many attractions. The country is wild and generally uncultivated, and often delightfully romantic. About half way between the two springs, we saw the wreck of the family carriage of a gentleman from South Carolina. This accident, however, was not, at least, the immediate consequence of the roughness of the road; for it occurred on a perfect level, and on, perhaps, the smoothest part of the whole way. Carriages constructed for the Carolina sands, are badly adapted to the mountains of Virginia.

Our driver quickened his speed as the distance before us diminished, and we reached the Red Sulphur just after night had drawn his sombre curtains around the silent hills. Our first impressions of this spring, were very favorable: the effect was exceedingly imposing. On our arrival the whole establishment had been lighted up, and from every range of buildings, streams of light were pouring across the area. The large hotel presents at any time a beautiful appearance. The whole building has a light and airy piazza connected with each story, and on the flank of the edifice most conspicuous on approaching the spring, the upper floor is open and surrounded by a balustrade. The first story of this building contains a large dining room, connected with which is a drawing and reading room. When we approached, these piazzas were all lighted up, and from the doors and windows of the halls and apartments of the hotel, the chandeliers were pouring forth their brilliant streams. Two long and handsomely set tables, were visible through the doors of the dining room, and every thing had the aspect of comfort and even of luxury. The lower piazza was thronged with cheerful groups of visiters, eagerly awaiting the arrival of our coach, which on that evening was rather behind its usual time.

For the last hour our meditations had been excited only by the gloom and wildness of the dark mountain hollows, and the song of the frogs from the neighboring creeks, or the cry of the screech owl as the rattling of our coach echoed through his dark domains. In the midst of the pensive reveries incident upon such circumstances, the buildings of the Red Sulphur burst upon us in all their brilliancy. The scene of light, and life, and bustle, came over us like enchantment. The valley before us presented a picture of brightness and refinement, whilst on each side the venerable peaks of the Alleghany rose in all their wildness, and spoke to our hearts in silent sublimity, as we discerned their rugged outline against the evening sky. One might have found it almost difficult to convince himself, that he was not taking for reality the romantic visions of his sleeping hours. This impression is not diminished by the winding of the post horn from the "western stage," as it rattles over the crags of the mountain above, or by the plaintive notes of "Home, sweet home," wafted from the band stationed in the drawing room.

The Red Sulphur has recently been purchased by Mr. Burke, an intelligent and enterprising gentleman, who has already given to the place an almost entirely new aspect. Many of the old houses have been removed—a large and beautiful building, in addition to the hotel, has been constructed, and most of the log cabins have been exchanged for neat white cottages. The irregularity occasioned by the projection of the mountain spurs, has prevented the arrangement of the buildings in the order calculated to produce the most pleasant effect. The Red Sulphur is completely enclosed by mountains, except a narrow space by which you enter the circumscribed valley. On each side they rise almost perpendicularly to a considerable height. One of these, we understand, the proprietor intends laying out with terraced walks, so that you can with ease ascend to the summit, and enjoy the extensive prospect. The buildings are erected close under the base of the mountains. The intermediate area will be set in green sward, with gravelled walks and shrubbery. The temple at the spring is very similar to those at the White and Salt Sulphur. There are, however, two springs, and two separate and beautiful reservoirs. One of these is about four, and the other about two feet square. They are constructed of white marble, which agrees beautifully with the lilac and peach blossom sediment, and the clear limpid water of the springs.

The Red Sulphur, though but lately improved for the comfortable accommodation of visiters, has been for some years known as a place of considerable resort by pulmonary patients. The company bears much more the aspect of sickness, than that at the other springs. Their death-like countenances can be seen on every hand; and the deep hollow cough, which is heard almost incessantly, has at first a tendency to affect the sympathies and to throw an air of melancholy over the feelings. Many in the last stages of consumption, are taken to the Red Sulphur as the final resort, and many, during almost every season, find their long, last home, among the hills near the Red Sulphur. The funeral of Gen. Alston, of South Carolina, was attended on the day of our arrival, and another individual soon followed him to the tomb. The Red Sulphur is well calculated to remind a reflecting man of his mortality.

Many cases are also mentioned of astonishing cures, which have been effected by the use of these waters. Their properties are singular, and apparently contradictory. They deplete and strengthen the system at the same time: they reduce the quantity of blood, and still act with all the power of a tonic. The most peculiar property, however, is that which effects an almost immediate reduction of the pulse. Instances are known where the pulsations have been reduced from one hundred and twenty to eighty in the space of twenty-four hours. The effect of these waters, is at first apparently unfavorable. They frequently, and perhaps generally occasion a feverish excitement, and an unpleasant sensation of fulness throughout the whole system. I have been informed, however, by those who attribute the renovation of their constitutions to the Red Sulphur, that this excitement ceases after perhaps ten days or two weeks, and often much earlier, and then, if at all, unless the ravages of disease have been excessive, they begin to produce the desired effect. I met with a gentleman, in returning from the Red Sulphur, who had been pronounced past recovery by the most eminent physicians in this country, from a chronic affection of the lungs, but who, at the time I saw him, was enjoying excellent health, and as he believed, was entirely free from any pulmonary symptoms. He attributed his restoration solely to a residence during several seasons at the Red Sulphur.

We must, however, in closing this brief notice of the Red Sulphur, record some complaints against that establishment. We do it, however, with a spirit very far from that of reproach. Our object is rather the comfort of the public, and the more extensive encouragement of the gentlemanly proprietor. The great defect at the Red Sulphur arises principally from the want of system. The irregularity in the arrangements is exceedingly unpleasant to the visiters, and especially to those who are invalids. There is also a great want of proper attention, on the part of those who have charge of the establishment, and particularly from the servants. We must also express the same opinion of the manager of the Red Sulphur, which we have advanced in relation to the person who holds the same office at the White Sulphur. He may be admirably adapted for some other situation, but, in our opinion, he is not suited for that which he now occupies. Both of these gentlemen have certainly seen enough of the world to know, that something more substantial than promises, is necessary to satisfy the wants of men. We again affirm, that we have spoken nothing in ill will, either toward the White or Red Sulphur, nor to the gentlemen to whom we have alluded. Our remarks have reference to them only as managers of extensive public establishments, and not as private men.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CONVERSATION PARTIES, SOIREES AND SQUEEZES.

MR. WHITE,—If I may be permitted to imitate in my exordium, the happy brevity of the time-saving merchant in auditing his letters, I will begin by expressing the hope, that "my last of —— date has been received and contents duly noted." The excuse for following it up so speedily with another, is not so easily found. Indeed I know of none, unless you will accept as such the old plea—"in for a penny, in for a pound." Even this implies a less risk of censure than I fear my rashness may very possibly bring upon me. Methinks I already hear some of your younger readers demand—"what the deuce has such an old croaker as this impertinent Oliver Oldschool to do with the inroads that we, his juniors and therefore his betters, may choose to make on any or all of those antiquated manners, customs and fashions which seem to be the gods of his idolatry? Age, which stamps their value upon wine and ardent spirits, is precisely that very thing which renders fashion of no value at all. In this, novelty and unexpectedness are our grand, and often our sole desiderata; and for their attainment, we want neither grey headed matrons, nor grey bearded old men to advise us. What they call their experience! (of which they are so fond of boasting,) if listened to at all, serves only to cramp and to trammel our youthful inventions. Therefore, to all such we say:—Ladies and Gentlemen, both hands and tongues off, if you please; laissez nous faire—let us alone."

The bare expectation of any such flouting, you will probably say, should keep me silent, if I was a man of only a moderate degree of prudence. But like many other obstinate people, my inclination to persist seems to augment inversely to my chances of success. Maugre then the danger and forlornness of my undertaking, I must go on. But before I come to the main purpose of the present letter, pray have patience with me, while I offer a few more remarks in anticipation of another still more serious charge, which I expect will be made against me. I must make them too, with the perfect recollection of the maxim, that "he who begins to plead before he is accused, knows himself to be guilty."—True, however, as this may be in general, my case, I hope, will be excepted, after you hear me. The charge to which I allude is,—the odious one of being a Cynic. With you, sir, I am very sure my bare denial would suffice; but you have many readers who know nothing of me. In deference to them therefore, I feel bound to offer some stronger proof of my innocence; if that which is of a negative character (and it is all I can adduce,) will be accepted. Be it known then, to all whom it may concern, that I, Oliver Oldschool, have always denied, and do hereby deny, the truth of the most important, prominent and offensive of all the cynical dogmas, which is,—that "men are nothing but monkeys without tails!" and furthermore, that I hold myself bound and always ready to make battle in this behalf, "pugnis et calcibus, unguibus et rostro:" and all this too, notwithstanding the following most startling and humiliating resemblances which have been traced by the true Cynics between the two species. For instance—"Man" (say they) "is a biped"—so is a monkey; at least so nearly one, that his anterior legs serve him admirably well for arms, and accordingly it is still a mooted point, a much vexed question among naturalists which to call them, arms or legs. Man generally walks erect, although sometimes, when top-heavy, he moves quadruped fashion. The monkey, at least the kind called the ourang outang only reverses the practice, by going more frequently on his two certain and his two quasi legs, than on the two first alone. Man has a facial angle by which those curious, prying fellows, called craniologists, measure the degree of his intelligence and infer the nature of his dispositions. Monkeys also have this angle, often so nearly the same, (mathematically speaking,) with that which we discern in many of our race, that few things are more common than to hear the exclamation "such a one has a monkey face." Lastly, man is most decidedly and conspicuously an imitative animal, so is a monkey, and in a degree so very striking, that there is scarcely an outward movement, action, or gesture of ours which his mimetic talents do not enable him to take off to the life. This is especially true of all those peculiar airs indicative of self-complacency and vanity which mark these two races of animals in contradistinction to all others,¹ and may be termed an idiosyncracy of intellect. The coxcomb's ineffable smile of fascination; the witling's pert and sudden smirk of self-conceit; the vain pedant's awkward cachination at his own ill-timed, out-of-place strokes of classic humor; the despicable miser's self-gratulating chuckle at inordinate gain; the great man's gracious grin to his supposed inferiors, and the little man's side-shaking, obstreperous laugh at the abortive joke of some superior from whom he is courting favors; all these and more, your true monkey can enact with such perfect verisimilitude, that if properly dressed for the occasion, he might pass off for the real man in each case, instead of his counterfeit, without the least danger of detection. His mimickry, in addition to its fidelity, has this other remarkable circumstance about it, that in applying it, he seems to have no particular choice of objects, but imitates all external actions alike, whether they be praiseworthy or the reverse. Man, on the contrary, in the exercise of his imitative propensities, shows too often a stronger inclination for the bad than the good—for the faulty than the commendable—for the fantastical and the ridiculous rather than the becoming. In nothing is this more remarkable, than in the greedy, ever restless perseverance with which he seeks foreign fashions and customs, and the reckless pertinacity, under all possible discouragements, with which he strives to imitate and adopt them. Of this assertion I have already endeavored to furnish you with some proofs, which to me at least appeared irrefutable. But I will now attempt to supply a few more. These also shall consist of remarks on certain foreign fashions, which may be said to be still under the process of naturalization, having proved so entirely uncongenial to our principles, habits and opinions, as not yet to be firmly established. They may, therefore, be considered as still within the reach of that exterminating power—public opinion.

¹ Goldsmith is the only natural historian, I believe, who has urged the claim of the goose to a participation in this enviable human quality, vanity. In his "Animated Nature" he has the following remark in his natural history of the goose, of which I can give only the substance, not having the volume before me. Speaking of the action commonly called "the strutting of the gander," he says: that in this situation, there is probably no animal on the face of the earth more important in the eyes of another, than a gander in the eyes of a goose!! Verily, I think, (with due submission) he is mistaken; for a fully whiskered, well mustached beau, with all his bristly honors thick upon him, is to a belle, as far above the gander in the estimation of a goose, as imagination can possibly conceive.

At the head of these fashions or customs, pre-eminent above the rest, we find the Conversation Party, the Soiree, and the Squeeze. The first is admitted to be an emigrè from Italy, although the term is here anglicised; the second is from France, and the third from —— nobody knows where, unless from our mother country Great Britain; for Johnson gives both a Saxon and a Welsh etymology to it, both meaning to press or crush between two bodies; which meaning their American derivative (much to its honor,) has most faithfully preserved.

The conversation party would naturally be deemed by one not in the secret, a party particularly formed for the pleasures of conversation; for imparting and receiving agreeable thoughts; for blending amusement with oral instruction; in a word, for such a voluntary and talented reciprocation of ideas as would improve the taste, gratify the feelings, and heighten the mental enjoyment of all the parties concerned. Is it this or any thing that bears the slightest resemblance to it? I ask an answer from any individual who has ever been to one of them, no matter with how much care it might have been selected. To these parties, such as they really are, I have no intention here to object. All I wish or aim at now, is, to have them called by their right names, as every thing ought to be, if we really desire to confine language to its proper use, which is, to make ourselves, at all times, clearly understood. But in styling these things Conversation Parties, before persons who had never been at them, we should practice the grossest deception. For instead of such an assemblage as the current meaning of the term would lead them to expect, and might induce them to seek, they would soon find themselves surrounded by a Babel-like confusion of tongues, where all sorts of odds and ends of unconnected exclamations and eliptical sentences are uttered simultaneously, and in the highest vocal key, by every member of the company—the mules only excepted. Why they should ever frequent such uncongenial spots, is more, I believe, than any one can tell. But certain it is that some of them will always be found there, although as much out of place as the Alumni of the Deaf and Dumb Asylums would be in Congress Hall, attempting to take a debating part in that other Tower of Babel, as John Randolph, with his customary felicity of conception, used to call it.

Of the Soirée, I may truly assert that it is an exotic, still so uncongenial, so illy suited to our people, and even to their organs of speech, that not one in a thousand has learned so much as to pronounce its name correctly. Some, even of those who are so far Frenchified as to have been to France, and consequently to interlard their mother tongue with unintelligible French phrases, by way of authenticating the extent of their travels, call it "Swar-ree;" as if it were a place where all the attendants were to have oaths of some sort or other administered to them, so as to entitle them to be designated Sware-rees. Others again, in a more sportsmanlike manner, pronounce it So-ree, which (as Mr. Jefferson has told us,) is the true Indian appellative for the Rallus, or water-rail. Such orthoepists, we may suppose, if asked where they had been, on returning from a party of the kind, might well answer, in the Virginia sportsman's dialect, "we have been so-russ-in;" for this twistification of the term from its original meaning would be nothing comparable to many that have been made by etymologists of the highest reputation. For instance, all Virginia sportsmen, living near fresh water marshes, know well, that at so-russ-in parties, (as they universally call them,) the great object is to kill and eat fat birds. But a principal object of a soirée party being to catch and use what may well be figuratively called fat birds, the substitution of the term "so-russ-in party" for a "soirée party" is amply justified upon all etymological principles. I therefore take the liberty of strongly recommending it, unless our soirée-giving gentry would suspend their operations long enough, at least to learn from some native French teacher how to invite a French gentleman to their parties, in language that he himself would understand; since to ask him to a swàr-ree or sò-rée would be quite unintelligible.

To gratify the curious I have consulted a friend as to the literal meaning of the French word "soirée," (being no French scholar myself) and find that the term, like thousands of others in all languages, has been pressed from its original signification into its present service, by a sort of metonymy, as the rhetoricians call it; and instead of being applied to designate that portion of the twenty-four hours which we call evening, is now used to express the receiving of short evening visits on any named day, by one's friends and acquaintance. This, according to one of Leontine's letters, published in your February number, seems to be the French fashion. But we Southerners of these United States, either from ignorance or design, have so innovated upon the foreign practice, that it would puzzle a much more experienced man than myself in such matters, to explain what is to be understood, in Virginia parlance, by swar-ree or so-ree, or whatever other barbarous pronunciation they choose to give the French word. I can only say, that I myself have seen a few thus variously called, each of which proved a kind of olla podrida or dish of all sorts; fish, flesh and fowl in one place; a non-descript, desultory kind of dancing in another; all talking-and-no-listening politicians battling in a third; and card playing, drinking and uproarious mirth in a fourth part of the general assemblage, wherein were gathered together, as many as could be, of all sizes and sorts of persons, "ring-streaked, speckled and spotted" to the full, as much as Laban's flocks themselves. Take notice, good Mr. Editor, that I am not now daring to censure, but only to describe, as well as I can, what my own eyes have beheld. I am not now "telling tales out of school;" for my school going days furnished me with no such secrets, however "the march of mind" may have since disclosed them to other tyroes in the pursuit of education.

The Squeeze I shall endeavor more particularly to describe; since my reminiscences, although "few and far between," are still so vivid, that I can venture to delineate them without fear of their suffering, at least from forgetfulness. It is true that I cannot say, as Æneas did to queen Dido, of his sufferings at and after the siege of Troy—"quorum pars magna fui;" as one or two experiments quite sufficed for me; but I can truly apply the same line to myself, could I only substitute the word patiens for "magna," without too much offence against the measure of the poetry, and I could then give in my experience, as the Trojan hero did, in perfect sincerity and good faith.

Know then, sir, that in the year and month ——, and on a certain night, I was seduced by curiosity—that fell destroyer of our race—to go, for the first time, to a party called a Squeeze, in the city of Washington, denominated by some "the Grand City of O," after the capital in Cunningham's amusing fiction of "The World without Souls." Being accompanied by one of the initiated, my debut was readily made as others made theirs. Without material obstruction we were ushered through the passage by the escorting valet; but when we reached the door of the principal pressing and crushing room, hic labor, hoc opus est! here commenced that series of efforts and struggles which was not soon to end, as I afterwards found, to the no small detriment of various parts of my body and limbs. Through this door also, my entrance was at last effected; for what obstacle may not perseverance overcome? A strong effort of my own in the van, and the unsolicited aid in the rear of those who, like myself, wished to see all that was to be seen, very soon protruded me "in medias res," which I beg leave to render in idiomatic English—"up to the hub" in the business. Not many minutes however elapsed, before the pressing and crushing became so intense as to excite an earnest desire for a change both of place and posture. Accordingly I bent my course towards another room, having understood there were several prepared for the accommodation! (strange misnomer, thought I,) of the company. This joint removal of body and limbs, which I had a particular fancy should not be disunited, having kept company with each other from my birth, I found toilsome and oppressive in no ordinary degree. For the instant I began to move I was met by a strong counter-current composed of a compact mass of my co-squeezers and squeezees—many of whom were of such "breadth and heft" as would verily have done great honor to a Massachusett's cattle show of the highest grade, had the subjects only been quadrupeds instead of bipeds, and in equal condition for market.

A forcible entry having been made into another room, I found myself standing within a few inches of a strange but very lovely young lady. She also was standing, apparently to execute her part of a cotillion, within a circle which the united pushing and shoving of the eight operatives required for the dance, had not been vigorous enough to enlarge beyond a diameter of some six or seven feet. Being compelled to stand immediately behind her, my eyes naturally fell upon her shoulders, which the dominant fashion then required to be literally half naked. With equal pain and wonderment I observed, that by some invisible machinery, the circulation of the blood was so checked on the visible side of the shoulder strap, as to give a livid appearance to the contiguous skin; while the opposite edges of the scapulæ (I would not for the world, in such a case, say shoulder-blades,) were forced as near touching as they could be without dislocation. This, thought I to myself, must surely be a fashion invented by some bright etherial genius, regardless of bodily suffering, for a squeeze; since its adaptation to that object could not admit of a doubt—an adaptation, by the way, more complete, beyond comparison, than the present much admired, although evidently incompatible fashion of the bishop sleeves.² True, there seemed to be no small loss in shoulder comfort; but the manifest gain in bodily compression, that grand desideratum in a squeeze, to which all else must be sacrificed, appeared far to overbalance it, since according to the best off-hand calculation I could make, ten bodies with their appendant limbs thus prepared, could readily be wedged into a space which before would suffice only for nine, dressed after any previous fashion. But what is there too arduous, too great, for the matchless genius of our fair countrywomen, when stimulated by an adequate cause, and exercised upon a suitable subject!!

² Most, if not all of our fair countrywomen, have vainly supposed this to be quite a modern fashion; but that it is nothing more than an old one revived, and as ancient as the days of the Prophet Ezekiel, when it was all the rage, is indisputably proved by the 18th verse of his 13th chapter. There, the good old man, in all the bitterness of his heart, exclaims—"Wo! to the women that sew pillows to all arm holes, and make kerchiefs upon the head of every structure, to hunt souls!!"

Although I felt much for the poor girls thus trussed, thus cross-hobbled, I resolved to wait a few moments to witness the "modus operandi" of this exhilarating dance, which, judging by all the methods that I had ever seen, required for its performance a circle at least three times as large as the one then before me. I knew too, enough of the prevalent fashion of dancing cotillions to be aware, that its most stylish mode then consisted in a kind of alert vigorous movement, which was most truly but somewhat coarsely called, "kicking out." This, it was manifest, could not there be executed according to the law "in that case made and provided," without imminent danger to the anterior tibiæ of the legs—in vulgar parlance, the "shin-bones" of the parties concerned. It was therefore with much apprehension of the danger, at least to "the woman kind," that I awaited the incipient gesticulations of this cotillion party. My fears were soon relieved, by perceiving that the operatives had substituted, with admirable ingenuity, a kind of lackadaisical slipping, sliding, flat-footed motion, which completely guarded them from the danger I had most ignorantly and unnecessarily anticipated. To be sure it no more resembled the lively animating exercise, called dancing in my boyish days, than the dreamy motions of the somnambulist do the elastic springs of the wide awake tight rope dancer. But it possessed the rare merit of perfectly adapted means to ends, and I could ask no more; for Harlequin himself could hardly have done better under similar duresse. By the way, Mr. Editor, I have been told that this somnambulizing motion has now become the very "tip-top" of the mode in all kinds of dancing,—the waltz and the horse-galloping dances only excepted. In this change the arbiters and reformers of our fashions seem to have displayed much more wisdom than we usually find exerted in matters of the kind, since it is the all levelling political principle carried out into our social amusements; for it places the active and the clumsy on a footing (if you will pardon a pun,) of perfect equality, the smooth and even tenor of which is never disturbed; unless when some credulous sexagenarian is over-persuaded to perpetrate the folly of turning out to dance among a party of girls and boys. They make a laughing stock of him, while he, in the sincerity of his heart, and with all the fast perishing vigor of his limbs, caricatures (for he can do nothing more,) the athletic cuts and shuffles of the by-gone century, to which nothing could possibly do anything like justice but an uncommon degree both of youthful vigor and activity. That you, sir, who are quite too young to have any personal knowledge of these important matters, may be sure that I do not exaggerate in making this last assertion, it will suffice to inform you, that the most celebrated steps of that time,—steps, which if perfectly executed, always stampt the performers as first rate dancers—were styled, in the metaphorical language of those merry making days, "forked lightning" and "chicken flutter" for the gentlemen, and "heel and toe" and "cross-shuffle" for the ladies. The first I confess, was rather "a far-fetched metaphor," to say the least of it; but the other three appellations were as perfectly appropriate as could well be conceived. It might also be truly affirmed of all, that there was nothing in any of them, in the slightest degree indecorous, as in the waltz and gallopade; for it seemed not then to have been imagined that dancing could be perverted to any such purpose as the excitation of highly culpable sentiments.

If you will pardon this digression, sir, in consideration that old men will be garrulous and prosing, I will now squeeze you back from the dancing-room to the one first entered, and with somewhat less difficulty, I hope, than I myself encountered.

There I was immediately attracted by a conspicuous gathering of heads; of bodies I could see none, except those in juxtaposition. It was drawn together, as I conjectured, by something rather beyond the common spectacles of the night. Being determined to have my share of the sight, I forced my way near enough to behold, in the midst of a circle not much larger than a hogshead hoop, a tall young lady, elegantly dressed, (that is as far as perfect conformity to the fashion could make her so) and quite a good figure, but too much "drawn" (as the racers say) in the waist. And what, think you, was her employment? Why—attitudinizing and thumping away most theatrically upon a tambourine! This was the finishing stroke—the finale of my squeeze-going days, or rather nights; and I hastened to squeeze myself out, with much more alacrity than I had squeezed myself in—marvelling all the way as I rode home with my equally surfeited companion, at the frequency with which we call actual and severe toils, pleasures; and at the innumerable contrivances to which the devotees of the latter resort intentionally, as we must presume, to gain, but in reality to mar, their object. Of these contrivances I had just swallowed my first and last dose, as I then designed it to be, of the one called a Squeeze; a contrivance which seemed to me altogether matchless in its unsuitability of means to ends; that is, if it was really designed for a party of pleasure! for after one or two hours most diligent search, I had utterly failed in finding a single spot, where even one individual could either sit, stand or walk, with the slightest degree of convenience or comfort!!

To give you a still better idea of the supreme folly justly attributable to such plain country folks as myself, for venturing into places so entirely unsuitable to us, I will conclude this long epistle by relating a real incident once told to me by a gentleman who had it from the sufferer himself.

Some years ago a kind of "Hickory Quaker," (as he called himself,) but whose real name it is needless to mention, found his way, "par hazard," from one of the middle States to Congress. Being thus ranked among the honorables of the land, it was not long before he received an invitation to a Squeeze. His intense curiosity to see something of which he could not, from the name, form the slightest conception, got the better of his prudence, and he very rashly determined to go; although, as he afterwards confessed, in relating his mishaps, not without many misgivings which he with difficulty suppressed. On consulting one or two of his friends, who were already initiated into all the mysteries of squeezes, as to the proper time to go, the only information given was, "be sure not to be the first of the company." This injunction relieved him of much of his apprehension, being very confident of his power to fulfil it. His confidence however, proved too overweening, for having waited and waited until his usual bed hour at home, the sudden fear seized him of erring in the contrary extreme, and finding the party broken up. Under this impression he hurried off, in his best Quaker dress, as fast as his legs could carry him, for taking a hack was out of the question. Having soon arrived, he knocked loudly at the door with his knuckles, not being yet cognizant of the bell-bolt contrivance,—demanding, at the same time, in his customary way, "who keeps the house?" The opening of the door immediately followed, and he was about to enter; but the finely dressed servant whom he mistook for the master of the house, manifesting, not only much surprise, but some strong symptoms of resistance, friend Ephraim (as I beg leave to call him,) deemed it best to say—"I have some particular business with the lady, who sent for me herself." This at once proved an "open sesamè," and in he marched, putting as bold a face on the matter as he could, and anxiously hoping to find, in a few minutes, some friends to keep him in countenance. But alas! it is not in man that liveth, to form hopes which shall not be disappointed; for upon being ushered into the lady's presence, he found her, to his utter astonishment, entirely alone, and looking at him as a perfect stranger; and well she might, having never cast eyes on him before. This most unexpected occurrence, this jumping, as it were, out of the frying-pan into the fire, so utterly confounded him, that he was very near taking to his heels with all possible speed, and escaping by the way he came, if he could find no shorter exit. Luckily however, he bethought him of producing his credentials for admission, which he had most fortunately slipped into his pocket, being yet ignorant of the fashion of leaving it in his room, as if through carelesness, but in reality to display the extent of his honors, so far as these depend upon the number of one's visiting acquaintance. The exhibition of his ticket instantly put matters to rights; the lady's countenance brightened up with smiles ineffable; he was overwhelmed with apologies for not knowing him, although greatly did he marvel how she should; and so much pleasure and happiness was expressed at his having honored her party by his presence, that he began to ask himself, with infinite self-complacency, whether there might not really be, as he had heard when a boy, such a thing as "love at first sight." The repetition however, of nearly the identical expressions to every gentleman who afterwards entered, brought to his mind the mortifying conviction, either that the boyish tale was false, or that his hostess must be in love with every gentleman of the company, which he at once pronounced impossible.

Until more company arrived, our quaker friend found himself in a sad predicament; for having no plausible excuse for escape, and deeming himself bound, at least to try to entertain the lady with some kind of conversation, he sat many minutes pondering over the few topics on which he thought himself able to converse, but finding none that exactly pleased him, he at length resolved to hazard something about cabbages, and peas, and poultry; shrewdly imagining that such matters would be more amusing, as well as instructive to her, than any contained in his "knowledge box." Great was his pleasure and wonderment to find her perfectly at home as to all these mysteries; so much so, indeed, that he could hardly suppress the exclamation, "Oh! that my old woman knew half as much." All things, however, must have an end, although friend Ephraim began to fear that the tête à tête between the lady and himself never would; and when their chat was fast dying away, like the flickering blaze in the nearly empty socket of a candlestick, suddenly the doors were thrown open, and in rushed pellmell, such a mixed multitude, as struck him with speechless astonishment. Very soon (as he himself described the scene,) he had to abandon his seat; and according to his notions of politeness, was every moment making room, first for one stranger and then for another, without having time so much as casually to shake the hand of an acquaintance, before they were thrust apart. Thus elbowed, and shoved, and bumped about on every side, and not knowing how to keep out of every body's way, which seemed a physical impossibility, he found himself, at last, most unexpectedly squeezed into the midst of a party altogether of ladies, whose united voices raised such an unintelligible din, as brought to his recollection what he had read in his Bible, about the confusion of tongues at the tower of Babel. Resolutely bent, however, upon "seeing the show out," he determined to persevere. But, at the same time, having the accommodation of others much at heart, he resolved to try a yet unessayed position, by way of making himself as small as possible. This was to thrust his hands behind him, the first moment space enough was given for the purpose; at the same time straightening his arms as much as practicable, and grasping one wrist with the other hand, to secure their union. He had but a few seconds for self-congratulation upon so ingenious a device, before some sudden, undesigned impetus in front, forced him back, so that his hand was pressed against something hard. Of this he involuntarily took hold, but without turning his head; that indeed being impracticable. He mistook this hard article (as he afterwards found to his cost,) for the end of a narrow shingle, although for the life of him he could not imagine why, or how it got there, as he had seen nothing like building going on about the premises. Scarcely, however, had he taken hold of it, before it was forcibly jerked from his grasp, and his hands were once more disengaged. His conjectures as to what it could possibly be, were still puzzling his brain, when a fierce Pendragon sort of a fellow, whiskered and mustached to the very tip of his nose, forced his way to him through the dense mass by which he was surrounded, and in a very authoritative, menacing tone, told him that Mrs. —— desired to see him. He obeyed the mandate as speedily as possible, but in mortal dread and astonishment as to the cause of it. The moment he reached his hostess, she demanded, with a look of indescribable indignation, "how he dared to insult a lady in her house?" Thunderstruck, as it were, at the accusation, for a few moments he was deprived of speech. But at length recovering the use of his tongue, he averred and protested, and affirmed, that he was utterly unconscious of having committed any such outrage; an outrage which he was altogether incapable of perpetrating. This so far appeased the lady's wrath, as to produce an awkward and embarrassing explanation on both sides, by which it was discovered, that the supposed shingle end had been, in reality, the projecting end of a lady's corset bone, unluckily squeezed out of place, in the general pressing and crushing of the crowd. The conference ended in the lady's being satisfied, and in our worthy quaker resolving from the very bottom of his heart, never again to trust himself in any place under the sun, be the temptation what it might, wherein he could not find a safe place, even for his hands!

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SANFORDS.

"Some wild desire, some sad mistake has cast
Severe remorse and sorrow for the past;
Some former fault shall present solace curb,
Or fair occasion lost, his peace disturb;
Some fatal chance has ruined every scheme,
And proved his brightest prospect all a dream."

About the year 18—, there lived in a populous neighborhood, in the state of Virginia, a lady and gentleman named Sanford. They possessed considerable wealth, which was to be inherited by their only son, whom they called Hugh. The life of this worthy couple, was as quiet and easy as an unruffled stream, save when some slight differences of opinion would occasionally arise, respecting the management of Hugh. But one point on which they always agreed, was, that he should never be thwarted in any wish of his heart.

At the time our story commences, Hugh Sanford was twenty, and had just left college. Whether he ever distinguished himself there, I have not been able to ascertain. However, I know with certainty, that he was by nature gifted with good sense, and he had many fine qualities of the heart. I know not whether the reader will think so, from the sketch I am about to write, but he must bear in mind, that Hugh's natural disposition was so warped by continual indulgence, that not until the fever of youth had subsided, was it truly developed.

A large party had been invited to spend several days at Mr. Sanford's, and his wife had promised them a little dance. We shall pass over the preparations which were made for the party, and which, in the country, always produce so much bustle and excitement; we will even say nothing of the more important business, (to the girls at least) of the toilette; but shall follow them all to the drawing room, which was brilliantly lighted.

Among the girls, Mary Linden, was the most commanding; her splendid dress and jewelry, gave her quite a magnificent air. She was the daughter of a rich widower. Ellen Lorval (the only child of a poor lawyer,) was also much admired. Her light muslin dress and simple wreath of wild flowers were peculiarly becoming.

"My dear Hugh," said Mrs. Sanford, "I wish to speak with you a moment before the dancing commences. Does not Mary look beautiful? Do go and engage her as your partner immediately."

"Not so fast mother," said he smiling.

"My son," said she, "I love Mary as my daughter: could I but think that she would be one to me." She looked at him intently, but he appeared not to understand her meaning, and turning the conversation, he went to join a group of young men.

The scene changes. The enlivening sound of the violin is heard; the couples are beginning to take their places on the floor, when Hugh, to the dismay of his parents, is seen leading out Ellen Lorval. Mary Linden is surrounded by beaux, and it seems has capriciously given her fair hand to the least deserving of them, a would-be-wit, whose whole conversation consists of long words and jests, which have been in print for ages. The party went off well, and all seemed to enjoy themselves, except some few unfortunate wall-flowers, for whom, however, Mrs. Sanford procured partners towards the close of the evening.

Hugh would probably never again have thought of his attentions to Ellen, had not his mother kept him in custody the next morning, while she spoke her mind on the subject. She represented to him "the folly of falling in love with her, when Mary Linden was in the house;" and she even went so far as to say that "there would be a great impropriety in his falling in love with Ellen."

Hugh was greatly astonished at hearing all this, for the idea of falling in love had never entered his imagination. He was sorry to see his mother pained, but since she had put such notions into his head, he could not but see, that if he could be so fortunate as to fall in love, and meet with opposition, it would give a peculiar zest to the monotony of his country life. So he stalked off to the drawing room, and began to think Ellen very interesting. The few succeeding days were passed as they usually are by a large party in the country. They read, talked, rode and played at battledoor; but at length the guests departed, and Mr. and Mrs. Sanford returned to the enjoyment of their usual tranquillity; but Hugh did not feel quite at his ease, as he was conscious that he had pained his parents, not so much by his attentions to Ellen, as by failing to fall in love with Mary Linden. Weeks passed on;—Hugh continued to meet Ellen at all the dinners and parties in the neighborhood, and to pay her attention. Mr. and Mrs. Sanford had seen all their hopes respecting Mary Linden laid low, and they had fretted themselves into ill humor about Ellen: a calm was now ensuing, they began to look on the bright side of things, and even to fancy that Ellen was to be their future daughter.

"My son," said Mr. Sanford, "I wish you to consult your own happiness in every thing. You love Ellen; you have now the consent of your parents to address her."

"Really father, I——." He stammered out something that was unintelligible.

"Say no more, I see you are embarrassed."

"Hear me father——."

"Not a word more at present; good bye."

There is an old saying, that "competition is the life of trade," and I think it is no less true, that "opposition is the life of love," or of something that is frequently mistaken for it by greenhorns, and very young ladies just from school. Now that all opposition was at an end, Hugh was somewhat surprised to find himself entirely OUT of love with Ellen; and indeed, he shrewdly suspected he had never been IN love with her. The gentle girl had seemed pleased with the attentions of the handsome Hugh Sanford, though she acted with the most perfect delicacy, nor have I ever found out whether she imagined him to be serious. I am sorry to say, that the utmost partiality cannot throw a veil over the conduct of Hugh in this instance; and many will say that he does not deserve the title of a hero. "Pshaw!" says a little girl, "I thought all heroes were perfect!" And so they are, in English novels, but not in Old Virginia!

Mrs. Sanford had a widowed sister living in the southern part of the state. Her name was Harrington, and she was the mother of two daughters, who were dashing belles and beauties. Thither Hugh now went, to pay a visit. On a bright evening, he came in sight of his aunt's dwelling. It was situated on a smooth green hill, which gradually sloped to the river ——, which was not very wide here. A tiny canoe was presently visible in the middle of the stream, and much to his surprise he perceived in it a single female figure. "Can that be one of my cousins?" said he; "what mad freak could induce her to go alone?" But, when he arrived at the house, he found both of his cousins and his aunt sitting together. They received him cordially, and while he was answering their inquiries, a light step was heard in the passage, and an eager voice exclaimed: "Oh, Mrs. Harrington, my pigeon flew away from me to the other bank, and I was so much afraid of losing it, that I went over for it by myself." The speaker entered the room, holding the bird triumphantly in her hand; but perceiving a stranger, she was retreating, when Mrs. Harrington recalled her, and she was introduced to Hugh by the appellation of Amy Larone. She was bright as a sunbeam, and beautiful as the roses of spring. Her hazel eyes were large; a delicate carnation bloomed on her cheek, and her brown hair was parted over her smooth brow, and gracefully twisted at the back of her head. She was below the middle size, and the plainest suit of mourning was neatly fitted on her slender shape. Hugh's interest was strongly excited by the air of mystery with which he fancied she was surrounded, and he seized the first opportunity to inquire who she was. Her simple story was soon told. She was nearly sixteen, and was the orphan child of poor and obscure, though honest parents. Her mother died when she was four years old, and she was left to the care of her father, an illiterate, although well-meaning man, who had no idea that education was at all necessary: if he could see his daughter neatly dressed, and hear the neighbors say how beautiful she was, he cared for nothing more. Her beauty and modesty were talked of by rich and poor. Her father had not been dead more than seven or eight months; and Mrs. Harrington pitying her forlorn condition, had taken her to her house. Maria and Theresa Harrington were kind to her, and were anxious to repair somewhat the total neglect of the education of the warm hearted Amy. She was grateful, but as her taste for study had not been formed in childhood, it was with reluctance that she now attempted the drudgery of learning, and, so far as concerned herself, she wished that the makers of books had never existed.

She seemed, however, to possess an instinctive knowledge of what was right and proper to be said or done, even on occasions that were perfectly novel to her; and when a subject was started of which she was ignorant, she acted wisely, and said nothing; or if in the course of conversation a few errors were committed by her, her transcendent beauty was sufficient to atone for all. True, her beauty was not of the spiritual kind, "the rapt soul beaming in the eyes;" but it was just such as is always admired by enthusiastic young men.

Company came in, and Hugh obtaining a seat near Amy, entered into conversation with her, in which to do her justice, she supported her part quite well. He rallied her upon her excursion after her truant bird. She replied—"It was the last thing my father ever gave me, and I love it for his sake."

Several weeks had been passed by Hugh at his aunt's, and he had become deeply interested in the orphan. Amy appeared dejected, and very rarely joined the family party in the sitting room. This conduct only strengthened Hugh's interest. He was now really in love—"fairly caught," as the young ladies express it. Walking out one evening by himself, he encountered Amy unexpectedly, and a gleam of joy lighted up his handsome features.

"Miss Larone," said he, "why have you deserted us; the time has been too, too long since we met."

"Three days, sir," said Amy, slightly smiling.

"I can hardly believe it possible," said he, "for it seems almost as many months to me."

Amy assumed a look of coldness, and said she did not understand him; but her countenance betrayed that she did.

They walked on in silence to the bank of the river, and Hugh looking on the beautiful stream and its romantic banks, said, "Could I but think that you would walk here after I am gone, and think of me—Amy, I will confess that from the first moment I saw you, I felt the strongest interest in you. Nay more, that I do now love you most ardently. Will you give me your heart?" She remained silent and agitated, and at length tears came to her relief. "Oh, why do you weep? Say to me Amy, that I may at least hope you love me!" She raised her mild tearful eyes, and that glance betrayed that her heart was his.—"Now, heaven bless you Amy, let us record our vows, and you will be my bride ere long." "Mr. Sanford," she said, "'tis true that I love you, but yet I can never be yours. Your parents would never receive me as their daughter." "Hush Amy," said he, "my parents love me too well to withhold their consent." Struggling with her emotion, she said, "There are other weighty reasons why I cannot be your wife. No, no, it cannot be." "Amy, you distract me; whatever those reasons are, they shall be overcome." She shook her head, and darted off from him ere he was aware of her determination. Hugh was bewildered; but he resolved to seek another interview with Amy. The next day he entreated her as a last favor, to walk with him. So reasonable a request could not be refused. He told her that unless she changed her determination, on the morrow he would depart, whither he neither knew or cared. Her compassion was so much excited, that before their return to the house, she had permitted him to hope. He told her he would set off directly for his home, and that he would return in a few weeks,—adding that he would write to her immediately. It was not until after much entreaty, that she consented to receive his letters; but when he requested her to answer them, her agitation knew no bounds. Poor Amy!

The next day he took leave of all; and ere long, a letter fraught with expressions of the most tender regard, was handed to Amy. She did not answer it. Another soon followed, gently chiding her for her silence. After this, all were answered. Mrs. Harrington and Maria were in arms about the match. His parents yielded a reluctant consent; and at the appointed time they were married. Hugh wrote to his mother to apprize her of it, and to appoint a time for their arrival at the home of his childhood—he now thought himself perfectly happy. The honey-moon was nearly past, when, one day as he was gazing with rapture on the loveliness of his young bride, Mrs. Harrington entered, saying, "Here is a letter directed to 'Mrs. Hugh Sanford,' from my sister, I think." She handed Amy the letter, with a look of peculiar significance. Amy broke the seal mechanically, blushed deeply, and bent her eyes on the ground.—"Amy," said Hugh, "why do you not read my mother's letter?" She sank down, and could only say, "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "For what, dearest? You that never in thought or word offended. Look up, Amy," said he, smiling, "you have no need of forgiveness." "Oh, you do not know; I—" She could scarce articulate; but at length came the terrible confession, that she could scarcely read, and could not write!

We have mentioned the total neglect of her education, and the "weighty reasons" which she told Hugh would prevent her from marrying him. All is now explained. But how, you may ask, did she manage to answer his letters, when she was unable to write? She made Theresa Harrington her confidant; and she, without thinking of the consequences, answered them in Amy's name. The deception was cruel; but Amy's conduct is not entirely without some palliation. Her love of Hugh, and the shame of her ignorance, combated fiercely in her bosom; and she did refuse him—partly.

Hugh had first been won by her beauty and her destitute condition; her refusal of his offered hand had only added fuel to the flame. Absence, "making the heart grow fonder," and the letters he received, all conspired to blind him. Sincerely was he to be pitied, for he possessed many fine qualities, and was nobly disinterested. The veil was now removed from his eyes, and the dream of love was fast deserting him, like shadows of the morning, when the bright sunlight rises o'er the hills. They went to his parents. We shall pass over the various mortifications which Hugh had to endure. Amy idolized her husband, and he was too kind-hearted to be proof against her fondness. He exerted himself day after day to instruct her, but I do not believe she went much beyond learning to read and write legibly. His parents lived only a few years after these events, and his beautiful wife was attacked about four years after they were married with a slight cough, which was soon followed by that bright flush, which is too frequently the harbinger of death. A southern climate, and every possible means were resorted to, for her restoration to health, but in vain! Her last prayers were offered up for her husband, and a daughter then two years old. Hugh never married again. He continued to live at the family mansion, occupied almost entirely with the education of Eva. When she was ten years of age, she was sent to New York to school. Her life has been attended with circumstances which are not without romance. Should any curiosity be felt on the subject, I may at a future time give a sketch of the life of Eva Sanford.

Years have passed since these events transpired, and the once young and handsome Hugh Sanford is now an old man. His appearance is very much changed, and his faults and foibles have been lost in his progress through life, or have become softened by the hand of time. Certain it is, he is now a very estimable man, and is looked up to with reverence both in public and private life.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SCENE FROM "ARNOLD AND ANDRE,"

An unpublished Drama, by the author of "Herbert Barclay," and translator of Schiller's "Don Carlos."

ACT I. Scene 2. New York, towards the end of the summer of 1780.

Sir Henry Clinton. Colonel Robinson. An Old British Officer.

SIR H. CLINTON.

Rebellion's tatter'd banner droops at last,
Wanting the breath of stirring confidence.
Discord, twin-brother to defeat, now lifts
Within the Congress walls her grating voice—
Fit sound for rebel ears—and in their camp,
Lean want breeds discontent and mutiny:
The while o'er our embattled squadrons waves
High-crested victory, and flaps her wings,
Fanning the fire of native valor. Soon
Shall peace revisit this oppressed land,
So long bestrid by war, whose iron heel
With her own life-blood madly stains her sides.

ROBINSON.

Our arms' success upon the southern shore,—
Whose thirsty sands are saturate with streams
From rebel wounds,—and the discomfiture
Of new-born hopes of aid from fickle France,
Brought on by Rodney's timely coming, have
Ev'n to the stoutest hearts struck black dismay.

OLD OFFICER.

Cast down they may be, but despair's unknown
To their determin'd spirits. Washington's
The same as when in seventy-six he pass'd
The Delaware, and in a darker hour
Than this is, rallied his dishearten'd troops,
And by a stroke of generalship, as shrewd
As bold, back turn'd the tide of victory.

ROBINSON.

But years of fruitless warfare, sucking up
Alike the people's blood and substance, weigh
Upon th' exhausted land, like heaped debts
Of failed enterprise, that clog the step
Of action.

OLD OFFICER.

Deem ye not the spirit dull'd,
Which first impell'd this people to take arms
And brave our mighty power; nor yet the hope
Extinct which has their roused energies
Upheld against such fearful odds. The blood
They've shed, is blood of martyrs—precious oil—
Rich fuel to the flame that's boldly lit
On Freedom's altar, and whose dear perfume,
Upward ascending, is by heroes snuff'd,
Strength'ning the soul of patriotic love
With ireful vengeance.

SIR H. CLINTON.

Whence, my vet'ran Colonel,
Comes it, that you, whose scarred body bears
The outward proofs of inward loyalty,
Do entertain for rebels such regard?

OLD OFFICER.

Custom of war has not so steel'd my heart,
But that its pulse will beat in admiration
Of noble deeds, ev'n though by foemen done.
Nor does my sworn allegiance to my king
Forbid all sympathy with men, who fight—
And fight too with a valiantness which naught
But conscious justice could inspire—for rights
Inherited from British ancestors.

SIR H. CLINTON.

Their yet unconquer'd souls, and the stern front
They have so long oppos'd in equal strife
To our war-practis'd soldiery, attest
Their valor: and for us to stint the meed
Of praise for gallant bearing in the field,
Were self-disparagement, seeing that still
They hold at bay our far-outnumb'ring host.
But for the justice of their cause,—the wrong,
Skill'd to bedeck itself in garb of right,
Oft cheats the conscience broad credulity,
And thus will vice, with virtue's armature
Engirt, fight often unabash'd. Unloose
The spurs, wherewith desire of change, the pride
Of will, hot blood of restless uncurb'd youth
Wanting a distant parent's discipline,
And bold ambition of aspiring chiefs,
Do prick them on to this unnatural war;
And then, how tam'd would be their fiery mettle,
Heated alone by patriotic warmth.

OLD OFFICER.

My General, I know this people well.
And all the virtues which Old England claims,
As the foundations of her happiness
And greatness,—such as reverence of law
And custom, prudence, female chastity,
And with them, independence, fortitude,
Courage and sturdiness of purpose,—have
Been here transplanted from their native soil,
And flourish undegenerate. From these,—
Sources exhaustible but with the life
That feeds them,—their severe intents take birth,
And draw the lusty sustenance to mould
The limbs and body of their own fulfilment,
So that performance lag not after purpose.
They are our countrymen. They are, as well
In manly resolution as in blood,
The children of our fathers. Washington
Doth know no other language than the one
We speak: and never did an English tongue
Give voice unto a larger, wiser mind.
You'll task your judgment vainly to point out
Through all this desp'rate conflict, in his plans
A flaw, or fault in execution. He
In spirit is unconquerable, as
In genius perfect. Side by side I fought
With him in that disastrous enterprise,
Where brave young Braddock fell; and there I mark'd
The vet'ran's skill contend for mastery
With youthful courage in his wondrous deeds.
Well might the bloody Indian warrior pause,
Amid his massacre confounded, and
His baffled rifle's aim, till then unerring,
Turn from "that tall young man," and deem in awe
That the Great Spirit hover'd over him;
For he, of all our mounted officers,
Alone came out unscath'd from that dread carnage,
To guard our shatter'd army's swift retreat.
For years did his majestic form hold place
Upon my mind, stampt in that perilous hour,
In th' image of a strong-arm'd friend, until
I met him next, as a resistless foe.
'Twas at the fight near Princeton. In quick march,
Victorious o'er his van, onward we press'd;
When, moving with firm pace, led by the Chief
Himself, the central force encounter'd us.
One moment paus'd th' opposing hosts—and then
The rattling volley hid the death it bore:
Another—and the sudden cloud, uproll'd,
Display'd, midway between the adverse lines,
His drawn sword gleaming high, the Chief—as though
That crash of deadly music, and the burst
Of sulphurous vapor, had from out the earth
Summon'd the God of war. Doubly exposed
He stood unharm'd. Like eagles tempest-borne
Rush'd to his side his men; and had our souls
And arms with two-fold strength been braced, we yet
Had not withstood that onset. Thus does he
Keep ever with occasion even step,—
Now, warily before our eager speed
Retreating, tempting us with battle's promise
Only to toil us with a vain pursuit—
Now, wheeling rapidly about our flanks,
Startling our ears with sudden peal of war,
And fronting in the thickest of the fight
The common soldier's death, stirring the blood
Of faintest hearts to deeds of bravery
By his great presence,—and his every act,
Of heady onslaught as of backward march,
From thoughtful judgment first infer'd.

ROBINSON.

If that
You do report him truly, and your words
Be not the wings to float a brain-born vision,
But are true heralds who deliver that
Which will in corporal doings be avouch'd,
Then was this man born to command. And shall
Ingrate revolt be justified by fate,
And Britain's side bleed with the rending off
Of this vast member; they will find it so,
Who seek to gain a greater liberty
Than does befit man's passion-guided state.
Jove's bird as soon shall quail his cloud-wet plumage,
Sinking his sinewy wafture to the flight
Of common pinions,—or the silent tide
Break its mysterious law at the wind's bidding,
Remitting for a day its mighty flood
Upon this shore,—as that, one recogniz'd
To have all kingly qualities, shall not
Assert his natural supremacy,
And weaker men submit to his full sway.
Power does grow unto the palm that wields it.
The necks that bend to make ambition's seat,
Must still uphold its overtopping weight,
Or, moving, be crush'd under it.

OLD OFFICER.

And heads
That quit the roof of shelt'ring peace, and bare them
To war's fierce lightning for a principle,
Do crown the limbs of men, each one a rock
Baffling with loftiness ambition's step,
Whose ladder is servility. Were they
Susceptible of usurpation's sway,
This conflict had not been; and then the world
Had miss'd a Washington, whose greatness is
Of greatness born. Him have they rais'd because
Of his great worth; and he has headed them
For that they knew to value him. Had he
Been less, then they had pass'd him by; and had
Their souls lack'd nobleness, his tow'ring trunk,
Scanted of genial sap, had fail'd to reach
Its proper altitude. No smiling time
Is this for hypocritical ambition
To cheat men's minds with virtue's counterfeit.
What made him Washington, makes him the chief
Of this vast league,—and that's integrity,
The which his noble qualities enlinks
In one great arch, to bear the sudden weight
Of a new cause, and, strength'ning ever, hold
Compact 'gainst time's all-whelming step.

SIR H. CLINTON.

What now
You speak, you'll be reminded of, belike,
Ere many weeks are past. And well I know,
Your arm will not be backward, if there's need,
To prove your own words' falsity. Meanwhile,
Hold you in readiness for sudden march.

[Exit Old Officer.]

ROBINSON.

A better soldier than a prophet.

SIR H. CLINTON.

Yet,
Scarce does his liberal extolment stretch
Beyond its object's merits; for, were he
Not rooted in his compeers' confidence,
And in his generalship unmatched, this league
Had long since crumbled from within, and o'er
Its sever'd bands our arms had quickly triumph'd.
In all his mighty spirit's ordinant,
The while his warriors, rang'd in council round him,
Listen to plans of learned generalship.
Within the Congress is his voiceless will
Potential as the wisest senator's.
Ever between their reeling cause and us,
Comes his stern brow to awe fell Ruin's spirit.
'Tis a grand game he plays, and, by my soul,
Worthy the game and player is the stake.
A fair broad continent is't for a kingdom:
If he can win't, he's welcome to't.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. II.

I have heard it remarked, that the study of our early poets was like a journey through a country of rich groves and pleasant gardens. There surely is something pleasing in the study of old poetry. A ripeness of feeling meets us on the yellow and stained page, which, gradually mingling with the legitimate feelings of our own hearts, "makes us to glow with a rich fervor."

But this pleasure, like all other exquisite pleasures, is rather of the inexpressible kind. To impart it, condensation is necessary: and to condense it, is like bottling fragrance, or gathering foam into a beaker.

The reader may therefore prepare himself for nothing more than a straight forward story—broken in upon at intervals, by such rambling episodes of "remark" as I may think suitable.

I. Geoffry Chaucer, the poet

"That made first to dystylle and rayne
The gold dewe dropys of speche and eloquence,
Into our tunge thrugh his excellence."¹

has ever stood first among the writers who have drunk at "the well of English undefiled."² He has been called the father of English verse, and properly. He travelled several times into the countries of the south, and, as great minds are seldom idle ones, we might infer, without the proof which exists in so many shapes, that he became a pupil to the Italian masters.

¹ Lydgate.

² The term "well of English undefiled," was applied to Chaucer by Spenser, because he arranged and settled the language—stripping it of many barbarisms and foreign incumbrances. I am aware that he introduced as many foreign words as he cast out; but the rejected were corrupt fragments of the Norman French, which yet (though soft compared with the Saxon,) bore in part a mark of its parentage; and the selections made for the purpose of replacing them, were from the Langue D'Oc—the most beautifully musical of all tongues. He consequently did not defile the English language.

He was a student, and returned to England laden with the fruits of his study. It was his fate to come between the scholars of that and preceding ages, who worked their religious and scientific instructions into heavy Latin metre, and the court minions, who sang to their mistresses and patrons in Norman French, and lay a solid foundation out of the scattered fragments of real English poetry. With little fancy, less imagination, and the little of the first clipped, by his matter-of-fact employment as wool inspector, he has succeeded in story-telling better than any of his successors. In a tale, the more vivid the picture drawn, the more interesting the tale. To be minute and particular in description, is to beget a vivid picture: and this is the secret of Chaucer's popularity. He writes as if he were taking an inventory of, rather than describing, things around him. Ages after, when this same talent for descending skilfully into particulars, was used in the description of natural scenery and of the workings of the human breast, it gave Spenser's Pastorals, and the tragedies of Shakspeare and poor Shelly, a beauty which in the first two, men have long ago learned to appreciate, and which in the course of time, will place the last on the seat to which he is entitled. The whole secret of Chaucer's charm is, as I have said, particularity. If he had used this talent in describing the many workings of the human heart, he would probably have failed—for no man can describe that of which he is ignorant.³ If he had turned his attention to pastoral poetry, he might have succeeded; and indeed, in the descriptions of nature scattered throughout his various poems, he has succeeded admirably. But something more is wanting than this power of description, in the song of a shepherd. From his wild and unrestrained life among the hills of a legendary country—surrounded as he is, by "kids and lambs, and blithe birds," we not only look for minuteness of description, but affecting plaintiveness and imaginative imbodyings. This last is one great aid to Spenser's pastoral poetry. But I am anticipating my subject.

³ Chaucer has the reputation of being a great "painter of characters;" but he excels in describing manner, bearing, dress, &c.—not in picturing the workings of the "human heart."

Chaucer was the founder of a style which after poets have often attempted to imitate. Dryden and Pope have paraphrased his works; and Keates tells us that he is too weak to do other than "stammer where Dan Chaucer sung." The Canterbury tales were modelled after, and for the most part copied from the Decameron of Boccacio. The prologue to these is the most perfect thing of its kind extant. His satires are strong, and chiefly aimed against the enemies of Wickliffe, and his patron John of Lancaster. Chaucer was a philosopher too—a great one for his age. His treatise on the Astrolabe, intended for the benefit of his son, manifests more information than we would look for in the reign of Edward III. His satires against the opponents of Wickliffe are rather political than religious. In religious matters he seems to have possessed a praiseworthy spirit of toleration—a quality unknown for ages after to the "agents elect" of a peace-loving Christ.⁴ Altogether, Chaucer was a wonderful man, and certainly, for his time, a poet as "parfite" and as "gentil" as his own knight.⁵ His Canterbury tales are his great works: they gave a tone to English poetry. In these days, when all literature has lost its freshness, it would be a pleasant thing if we could

"Call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacè to wife,
That owned the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass
On which the Tartan king did ride."⁶

I should like to believe in the Pythagorean doctrine, if only for the pleasant consciousness that old Geoffry Chaucer had left his spirit behind him. He died on the 25th of October, (the same day of the same month on which died King Alfred,) in the year 1400; and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where for a long time these words were upon his tomb:

"Galfridus Chaucer, vates et fama poesis
Maternæ hac sacra sum tumulatis humo."

The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 10, June, 1835

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE

THE FINE ARTS.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I, NUMBER 10

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION.

A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER FIFTEENTH.

LETTER SIXTEENTH.

MY DAUGHTER'S LULLABY.

OCEAN HYMN.

LAFAYETTE.

DIRGE,

THE OLD PARISH CHURCH.

ESTELLE.

LINES.

FAREWELL TO ROSA.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. II.

CHAP. III.

A VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,

SALT AND RED SULPHUR.

RED SULPHUR.

CONVERSATION PARTIES, SOIREES AND SQUEEZES.

THE SANFORDS.

A SCENE FROM "ARNOLD AND ANDRE,"

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. II.