The present number closes the first volume of the Messenger; and accompanying it, the Publisher will transmit to each subscriber a title page and copious Index to the volume. Gratified that his past endeavors to please, have been crowned with success—the Publisher anticipates with confidence that, with the continued patronage of the public, the forthcoming volume shall in no respect be behind, if it does not greatly outstrip its predecessor.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States.

No. VIII.—[Continued.]

In the beginning of April 1816, Admiral Lord Exmouth, Commander of the British naval forces in the Mediterranean, arrived at Algiers commissioned by his Government to negotiate with the Dey, in favor of some of the inferior powers, which were in alliance with or under the protection of Great Britain, and in order to give greater weight to his arguments, he was accompanied by a fleet consisting of six sail of the line, and nineteen frigates and smaller vessels.

The particulars of this negotiation have never been made public; from what has transpired, it appears that the Admiral began by exacting conditions much less favorable to Algiers, than those which he finally subscribed. Whatever may have been those terms, the Dey refused to admit them, and demonstrations were made on both sides, of an appeal to arms; the negotiations were however renewed, and on the 4th, engagements were concluded, to which upon the whole the Dey could have made no objections. The Ionian Islands which had been placed under the protection of Great Britain, were to be respected as part of the British dominions; and thirty-three slaves, natives of Malta and Gibraltar (British possessions) were liberated without ransom. A treaty of peace was made with Sardinia, by which that country was placed on the same footing with Great Britain, except that a present not exceeding in value five thousand pounds sterling, was to be paid on the arrival of each of its Consuls at Algiers; the Sardinian captives were to be restored, on payment by that Government of five hundred dollars per man. These terms may be considered as fair, and the King of Sardinia who had just received Genoa from the hands of the British, acknowledged his obligations for this additional favor. But the treaty by which the Government of the Two Sicilies was bound to ransom its subjects at the price of one thousand dollars each, and to pay an annual tribute of twenty-four thousand dollars, besides Consular presents, could scarcely have been considered as a boon in Naples, and it must have consoled Omar for the concessions made to other two powers.¹

¹ The King of Sardinia, besides the Island from which his title is derived, possesses Savoy, Piedmont and Genoa on the continent of Europe; he likewise styles himself sovereign of Corsica, Sicily, Rhodes, Cyprus and Jerusalem. The King of Naples is styled the King of the Two Sicilies.

Before the departure of Lord Exmouth, an American squadron of two frigates and two sloops of war, under Commodore Shaw, came to Algiers with the ostensible purpose of presenting to the Dey a copy of the treaty, signed in the preceding year, with the ratifications by the President of the United States. Other circumstances however had rendered its appearance necessary.

The treaty concluded with the United States under the guns of Decatur's ships, was more mortifying to the Algerines than any which had previously been made with a Christian nation; captives had been surrendered without ransom, property seized had been restored, and the right of demanding tribute or presents had been distinctly renounced. The Dey saw that his credit would be seriously impaired when these engagements should become publicly known; he suspected that had he held out longer, he might have escaped the humiliation, and he flattered himself that he might still retrieve what had been lost. No Barbary sovereign ever considered it incumbent on him to observe a treaty longer than it was compatible with his interests; yet every man, however rude may be his ideas of moral conduct, knows the advantage of being, or of seeming to be in the right. With these views Omar determined to seek, and he accordingly soon found a pretext for quarrel.

It has been stated that the Algerine brig taken by the Americans and sent into Carthagena, had been there detained by the authorities, on the plea of irregularity in the capture, but really in order that the Spanish Government might obtain some concessions from the Dey in return for the vessel. Omar did not fail to express to the Consul, at first his surprise, then his indignation at this delay, which he insisted was a violation of the treaty. Mr. Shaler endeavored to reason with him, and renewed his assurances that the brig would be soon restored; but he became daily more open in his threats, and more insulting in his language, until the Consul not knowing to what lengths his arrogant folly might lead him, requested Commodore Shaw who had just reached Mahon, to come with his whole force to Algiers.

Immediately after the arrival of the squadron the Consul demanded an audience of the Dey, and presented to him the ratified treaty, in which no alteration had been made by the American Government. Omar was at that moment elated by his success in obtaining such immense sums from Sardinia and Naples, through the agency of their kind and generous patrons the British, and he determined if possible to make the Americans pay as dearly for his friendship. He therefore at first pretended not to understand the meaning of this second treaty as he termed it; he however admitted though with apparent unwillingness the explanation of Mr. Shaler, and having called for the original Arabic copy signed in the preceding year, compared it with that now offered. This examination being ended, the Dey insisted that the treaty ratified by the President was essentially different from his own copy; that several clauses had been varied, and others which he had been particular in having inserted, were altogether omitted; among the latter he cited one binding the United States to pay a certain sum on the presentation of each of their Consuls, which indeed existed in the Arabic version but had been fraudulently introduced without the knowledge of the American Commissioners. He dwelt on the delay in restoring the brig, as an instance of flagrant disregard of engagements on the part of the Americans, who he considered had thus shewn themselves unworthy of confidence, and concluded by declaring that the treaty with them was null and void. The next day the Prime Minister returned the ratified copy to Mr. Shaler using the most insulting language on the occasion; and when the Consul warned him of the consequences which might ensue, he replied with a sneer that his master entertained no apprehensions, "as he had been assured by the British that the Americans had neither ships nor money."

Mr. Shaler at this immediately retired on board the squadron; Omar then became more reasonable, and after some days negotiation, he agreed to submit the questions of the brig and of the future relations between the two countries to the President of the United States in a letter from himself, and to observe the treaty of 1815 until the answer could be received. He accordingly wrote to the President on the 24th of April, recapitulating, according to his own views, the occurrences which attended the signature of the treaty, and declaring that as it had been violated by the Americans themselves, a new one must be made, to which effect he proposed a renewal of the treaty of 1796.

Lord Exmouth having obtained the results above stated at Algiers, sailed with his fleet for Tunis where similar arrangements were subscribed at once by the Bey; the Sardinian captives were restored without ransom, and the Neapolitans were liberated on payment by the Sicilian Government of three hundred dollars for each. The Pasha of Tripoli also willingly got rid of his remaining slaves from those countries at the prices proposed by the British Commander, and the Sovereigns of both these Regencies promised, that prisoners taken in war with Christian nations should not in future be made slaves. The Admiral then returned to Algiers, where he at length ventured to require from the Dey a similar abolition of slavery in his dominions. Omar in reply manifested his surprise at this demand, which was indeed at variance with those made and assented to a few weeks before; he however submitted it to his Divan² and soldiery, and having received assurances of their support, he declared that as Algiers was a dependency of the Porte, he could not enter into such an engagement without authority from his Suzerain, and he therefore required six months delay before he could give a final answer. Lord Exmouth granted him but three hours, and gave evidences of an intention to bombard the city. Omar showed no backwardness, and considering the war begun, he imprisoned the British Consul, and sent orders to the Governors of the other ports of the Regency to seize all vessels which might be lying in them under the flag of his enemies; the Admiral however thought proper to agree to a truce during the time demanded by him, and even sent a frigate to bear his Ambassador to Constantinople.

² The Divan of Algiers consisted originally of all the soldiers and civil officers of the Government; it had however become a mere name, and was scarcely ever convened, until Omar formally assembled one, on a much more limited scale however, in order to deliberate upon the propositions of Lord Exmouth. It then again acquired importance; which it lost when the Dey in 1817 transferred his residence to the Casauba. The members of the Government of Algiers besides the Dey were, the Hasnagee or Minister of Finance, the Aga who was Commander in Chief and Minister of War, the Vikel Adgee or Minister of Marine, the Khogia de Cavallas or Adjutant General, and the Bet el Mel or Judge of inheritances.

The treaty between the United States and Algiers having been by this time published in Europe, its conditions excited great attention, as they were infinitely less favorable to the latter party than those which had been obtained up to that period, by any Christian Power; numerous speculations were formed by politicians as to the probability of their being maintained, and the movements of the American squadron in the Mediterranean were attentively noted in the public prints. The eighteenth article of this treaty provides—that American armed vessels should be allowed to bring their prizes into the ports of the Regency and to dispose of them there, while those of nations at war with the United States were to be obliged to depart with their prizes as soon as they had procured the requisite supply of provisions and water. The evident partiality displayed in this article induced Lord Exmouth to demand explanations on the subject from the Dey; Omar however soon satisfied his Lordship by an assurance that he had no intention to observe it or any other stipulation contained in the treaty.

The British fleet quitted Algiers about the middle of May and returned to England where a great portion of the seamen were discharged, and the ships were ordered to be dismantled. No official announcement had been made of the results of the expedition, but the general tenor of the engagements entered into were sufficiently understood, and the newspapers of England and France were filled with articles, in which they were severely reprobated and contrasted with those dictated by the Americans with the aid of a trifling force. In Parliament Mr. Brougham on the 18th of June, called for the production of the treaty which had been made with Algiers, declaring that if the terms were really such as were supposed, "a great stain would be fixed on the character of the country, as they distinctly acknowledged the right of depredation exercised by these Barbarians by providing a ransom for the slaves whom they had made." Lord Cochrane insisted that "two sail of the line would have been sufficient to compel the Dey of Algiers to any terms." Lord Castlereagh the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs evaded the call for the treaty, stating however "that the cause of humanity had been materially advanced by the negotiations which had been carried on, as it was for the first time agreed to by the Dey of Algiers, that captives should be considered and treated on the European footing as prisoners of war, and set at liberty at the conclusion of every peace." This declaration was probably considered by that ingenious statesman as a necessary fiction. The British Government however felt that more was required of it by the nation, and a circumstance soon occurred which afforded an excuse for the employment of measures better calculated to secure the public voice in its favor.

The rocks at the bottom of the sea near some parts of the shores of Algiers and Tunis are covered with coral of the finest quality; on these coasts, the British and French have long maintained establishments, to which persons provided with their license annually resorted in the spring in order to fish for this substance. The establishments of the French were at Calle and Bastion-de-France, where they had forts and even claimed the sovereignty of the territory, paying however a large sum yearly to the Governments of those Regencies. The coral fishers under British license were nearly all natives of the Italian States and islands; they assembled principally at Bona, a small and ruinous place in Algiers about four hundred miles west of the capital, occupying the site of the celebrated ancient city of Hippo-Regius, where resided a Vice Consul of Great Britain, and a number of magazines were erected for the reception of the coral and of goods brought for sale; there was no fort and no pretension was made to jurisdiction over the territory. While the British fleet was lying before Algiers, and the Dey was momentarily in expectation of an attack, he despatched an order to his Aga or Governor of Bona, to secure all persons living there under the protection of Great Britain. Owing to the great distance from Algiers, this order did not arrive until the 23d of May, by which time the truce with Great Britain had been agreed to, and the fleet had quitted the African coast. The Aga on receiving the commands of the Dey, instantly sent out his whole force to seize the Christians, but the latter being more numerous than the Algerines, made resistance and several persons were killed on both sides. The people of the country and neighborhood, however coming to the aid of the soldiers, the Europeans were overpowered, some escaped in their boats, and some were murdered by the exasperated soldiers and populace; the rest were dragged to prison, and their magazines and dwellings including that of the British Vice Consul were pillaged. This is a simple statement of the facts as subsequently ascertained; the occurrence was indeed to be lamented, but there is no reason for attributing it to any predetermined motive either on the part of the Dey or of his agents; it might have happened in the best regulated country, and as Shaler observes, is by far more defensible than the massacre of the American prisoners by the British soldiers at Dartmoor. That the Dey had a right to order the seizure of persons living in his dominions under the flag of a nation with which he conceived himself engaged in hostilities, cannot be disproved; and the Europeans by their resistance subjected themselves to the chances of war. Mr. Shaler justly censures Lord Exmouth for not having taken measures to protect the sufferers at Bona which he might easily have done as he passed by the place on his way from Tunis.

The British government however chose to regard the affair as an act of signal atrocity, and without waiting to demand explanations on the subject, prepared immediately to avenge the cause of humanity, and to chastise the Algerines for the insult offered to the national flag. A fleet of five sail of the line, five frigates, five sloops of war and forty smaller vessels, accordingly sailed from Gibraltar under Lord Exmouth on the 14th of August, 1816; and having been joined by a Dutch squadron of five frigates and a sloop, under Admiral Van Capellen, the whole armament appeared before Algiers on the 27th of that month. Before detailing the operations of this force, it will be proper to give some account of the situation and defences of the place against which it was sent.

Algiers stands on the western side of a semicircular bay, the shore of which between the two Capes at its extremities, extends about fifteen miles. Of these Capes the eastern is called Cape Matifou; the shore of the bay on this side and on the south, is low and level, offering every where facilities for landing, which circumstances induced Charles the Fifth to disembark his army there, on his unfortunate expedition in 1541. Since that period, a number of strong batteries have been erected along the edge of the bay, connected by lines which if well manned would render landing impracticable. The western side of the bay is formed by a ridge of hills, which terminate on the north in a bold promontory called Ras Acconnater or Cape Caxine; this ridge separates the bay of Algiers from that of Sidi Ferruch where the French forces landed in 1830.

The city is built upon the declivity of a steep hill, about three miles south-east of Cape Caxine. Its general form presents a triangular outline, and the houses being all white it has the appearance of a sail when seen from a distance at sea. One side is on the bay, the walls on the other two sides extend up the hill from the water's edge; they are about thirty feet in height and twelve in thickness, built of brick, with towers at intervals, and a shallow ditch on the outside. At the place where these walls meet, is situated the Casauba or citadel, an octagon fort separated from the houses of the town by a deep moat, and which has served since 1817 as the treasury and palace of the Dey. About a mile south-east of the Casauba on a hill completely commanding the city, was a square castle of brick, mounting sixty guns, called the Kallahai or Emperor's Castle, which name it derived from occupying the spot where Charles the Fifth pitched his tent. Two other forts situated near the shore, one north of the city called Akoleit, and the other south called Babazon, mounting about thirty guns each, completed the fortifications of the place on the main land as they existed in 1816. They were of little importance in a military point of view, being intended principally to keep the inhabitants in order; they however served as effectual protections against the attacks of the Arabs and Kabyles. The whole circumference of the town does not exceed a mile and a half, and there are scarcely any suburbs, the ground around the walls being devoted to cemeteries and gardens. The houses are closely built, the streets being with one or two exceptions narrow tortuous lanes, many of them covered over: the mosques, bazaars and public buildings are generally inferior in size and style. The population has been variously estimated, but the researches made by the French since their capture of the place, show that it has never exceeded fifty thousand, including the Turkish garrison, the number of which varied between seven and ten thousand.

The defences on the sea side were indeed formidable. Opposite and eastward of the city, at the distance of two hundred and fifty or three hundred yards was a little island, from which the place derives its name Al Gezeir or the island; it has been however connected with the main land by a solid causeway of stone, and the whole together forms a continued mole. The space of sea opposite the city thus partially enclosed by the mole is the harbor, which opens directly to the south, and does not exceed seven acres in extent. On the mole are the offices and magazines of the marine department which are surrounded by fortifications, mounting at that time two hundred large guns and fourteen mortars.

The Dey had received notice of the approach of this expedition, and made every exertion to place his capital in a state to resist it. The ships were all called in and disposed in the harbor so as to present of themselves a formidable show of guns; the fortifications were strengthened, and temporary batteries were thrown up on proper points which made the whole line not less than three miles in length. In addition to the garrison on the bay a number of Arabs said to be forty thousand, were collected to secure the place against an attack by land.

The combined squadrons having every thing in readiness, on the morning of the 27th a flag of truce was sent to Algiers, to urge the Dey once more to accept the conditions of peace; after a delay of three hours, the flag returned without any answer having been received. Omar did not think proper, or did not dare assent to the terms offered; there was probably however much discussion in the Divan: it is otherwise difficult to account for the circumstance that the British Consul was not disturbed until after the action was begun, or for the oversight committed by the Algerines, in allowing the enemy's ships to advance and take their stations without interruption. Lord Exmouth was so much surprised at this inaction, that as he says, "he began to suspect a full compliance with the terms offered." Omar afterwards endeavored to excuse his fault, by asserting that he had been deceived by the advance of the British, under the false pretext of the flag of truce.

The British Admiral being thus undisturbed, passed the morning in arranging his forces according to the plan previously resolved on, which was to concentrate their effects entirely on the mole and shipping, his object being to destroy the fortifications and navy as soon as possible, and to do no injury which could be avoided to the town. His own ship the Queen Charlotte of one hundred guns was drawn up and anchored within fifty yards of the southern extremity of the mole, the others were distributed at points more or less distant from the batteries, but all much nearer than had been customary on previous occasions of a similar nature. At three o'clock the action was begun by a shot from the mole at the Queen Charlotte which being instantly returned the action became general. In twenty minutes the marine batteries were silenced, and the defenders endeavoring to escape from them along the causeway, were mowed down by the guns of the ships; they however returned to their posts and kept up a desultory fire throughout the afternoon. At eight o'clock the whole of the Algerine shipping in the harbor was in flames, presenting a spectacle of terrific sublimity; the fortifications of the mole were soon after abandoned by the defenders, being reduced to an untenable state by the effects of the bombardment and of the explosion vessels. At ten o'clock the ammunition of the attacking fleet began to fail, but the British Admiral saw that sufficient damage had been done; he therefore took advantage of a breeze which sprung up at that time and drew off his ships.

The next morning Lord Exmouth again sent to know whether the Dey would accept the terms offered on the 27th. Omar declared his own unwillingness to yield, and his readiness to abandon the city in preference; but he was overruled by his Divan, and having reluctantly agreed to submit to them, the Chevalier d'Ankarloo the Swedish Consul, (since Chargé d'Affaires of Sweden in the United States,) was requested by him to go on board the British fleet and make the necessary arrangements in behalf of Algiers. On the 29th a convention was signed, the conditions of which were—the delivery of all slaves in Algiers without ransom, and the abolition of christian slavery in those dominions for ever—the restitution of all sums paid as ransom within the year 1816, including three hundred and fifty-seven thousand dollars which had been paid by Naples and twenty-five thousand five hundred by Sardinia, according to the terms of the treaty signed in April preceding—reparation to the British Consul for all losses sustained by him in consequence of his confinement, and an apology to be made by the Dey publicly in presence of his ministers and officers.

Of the combined fleets no vessel was lost; the number of killed on board them was one hundred and fifty-one, of wounded seven hundred and fifty-seven. On the side of the Algerines, there is no means of ascertaining with precision the amount of killed and wounded; the result of the inquiries made, however, gives every reason for believing it to have been much less than that sustained by the attacking party. The city was severely damaged; the houses bordering on the harbor being but little protected by defensive works, were nearly demolished; among these was the dwelling of the American Consul, who did not leave it during the action, but continued at his post calmly recording his observations, while the shells were bursting around him. The fortifications of the mole were much injured; the arsenal and magazines of the marine, with the greater part of the timber, ammunition and stores were destroyed; and the whole navy, consisting of four large frigates, five corvettes, and thirty gun-boats was consumed.

Information of what had been effected at Algiers, was instantly communicated to the British Consuls at Tunis and Tripoli, who were instructed to recommend to the sovereigns of those Regencies the instant liberation of their Christian slaves. To this, under the influence of their fears, they immediately assented; and since that period, it is supposed that no Christians have been held in slavery in any part of Barbary; captives have however been since compelled to labor, and ransom has been paid for them. Treaties were also negotiated on terms of equality between each of them, and the Kingdoms of Sardinia and of the Two Sicilies. The Dutch Admiral also concluded a treaty, "renewing and confirming all the articles of peace and friendship agreed to in 1757, between the States' General and the Government of Algiers." He then sailed with his victorious fleet for Tripoli, where he signed another convention, by which his Government engaged to pay to that Regency an annual tribute of five thousand dollars!!

The bombardment of Algiers by the combined fleets was made the subject of triumph in Great Britain, and of congratulation throughout Europe; it was extolled as "one of the most glorious achievements in the history of naval warfare," and "as most truly honorable to the British nation, which had, with its characteristic generosity, entirely at its own expense, and purely for the general benefit of mankind, performed this great public service of putting down, with the strong hand, a system of rapacity and cruelty." We may be permitted to examine how far this eulogium is merited.

From the accounts already given of the occurrences in April and May preceding the expedition, some judgment may be formed of the motives by which it was occasioned. It has been stated that the British Admiral in May, gave up the immediate prosecution of the demands to enforce which he had visited Algiers with his immense fleet, agreeing to await the decision of the Sultan, with regard to their admission by the Dey. Now the independence of Algiers had long been recognized by treaties, and was known to exist de facto; the reference to the Porte could only have been a pretext on the part of the Dey, in order to adjourn the decision of the question, and it is difficult to conceive how Lord Exmouth could have viewed it in any other light. However the British Government on his return must either have calculated upon the Dey's accession to the conditions required, or have determined to abandon their enforcement; for certainly we cannot otherwise account for the dismantling of the fleet, and the discharge of the seamen, when they would have been required at the end of six months. The probability is strong, that the ministry had no intentions to quarrel with "their ancient ally," until public opinion forced them to do so; and that they seized on the "massacre at Bona," as the pretext, when there was no other means of escaping the necessity.

The British expedition against Algiers was indeed prepared and supported entirely at the expense of the British nation, and conducted to its conclusion with that skill and gallantry, for the display of which the experience of ages gave the strongest assurance. For the first time also, was the abolition of Christian slavery in general, and the delivery of all Christian slaves required of a Barbary Power. These were indeed benefits to mankind, and the fact that Christians have not been since enslaved in Barbary, would seem of itself to offer a sufficient justification of the expedition; but history in every page warns us against estimating the propriety of measures by the importance of their consequences, however well ascertained. The engagement made by the Dey to abolish slavery in his dominions, was only of value as it gave those to whom it was made, a right to enforce its observance; experience had already proved that national faith was unknown in Barbary, and within three years after the promise had been given by Omar, his successor refused to abide by it. Algiers was left by Lord Exmouth in enjoyment of all the rights of an independent nation; the Dey could make war on whom he pleased, provided he did not enslave his prisoners, that is to say compel them to labor. Now this enslavement was but a small portion of the evil caused by the Barbary States; the number of persons reduced to servitude in them was never large, and the produce of their labor added to the sums received for their ransom, was scarcely more than sufficient to pay the expense of keeping them; their condition was indeed generally better than that of the prisoners of war in other countries. Piracy was the true ground of complaint against the Barbary Regencies, and more on account of the restraint it imposed upon the commerce of the lesser nations, than of the outrages actually committed. Without the support and encouragement of Great Britain, it would long since have ceased, and if the world owes her Government any thanks, it is for the adoption of a more just course of conduct by itself, for the abandonment of that selfish policy to which the Barbary States had so long been indebted for their impunity. Those who now entertain the political opinions which guided the British Administration in 1815 regard the bombardment of Algiers as a blunder, similar to the destruction of the Turkish fleet at Navarino, and the Conservative Journals of London occasionally express their regrets at the pursuance of that system which allows the vessels of all nations to navigate the Mediterranean without dreading the pirates of Africa.³

³ That no war was expected, appears clearly from the statement made in the House of Lords on the 3d of February, 1817, by Viscount Melville, then first Lord of the Admiralty, that "in the month of June when Lord Exmouth returned from the Mediterranean, with the fleet under his command, as usual at the close of a war, that fleet was dismantled and the crews paid off and disbanded. When the expedition against Algiers was determined upon, it became necessary to collect men," &c. On the same day Lord Castlereagh stated in the House of Commons, that "during the last session, when the thanks of the House were given to several of our gallant officers for their conduct in the late war, he entertained an earnest hope that a long course of years would have elapsed before it would be again necessary to perform that ceremony."

Notwithstanding the Dey's promise to Mr. Shaler, that he would observe the treaty of 1815 with the United States, the Consul saw from various circumstances, that he had determined to break it on the first favorable opportunity; and as a large American force was expected in the Mediterranean in the course of the summer, he sent letters to Gibraltar requesting the officer who might command it, to visit Algiers as soon as convenient. The American squadron consisting of a ship of the line, three frigates and two sloops under Commodore Isaac Chauncey, entered the Mediterranean about the middle of August, and appeared before Algiers immediately after the departure of the combined fleets. On its arrival Omar saw that he had been deceived as to the power of the Americans, and he therefore at once requested, that things might remain as they were until the receipt of the President's letter. Algiers was then entirely defenceless, the fortifications were in ruins, the soldiers dispirited and the people rebellious; a few broadsides from the American force would have battered the town to pieces. But it was determined between the Consul and Commodore Chauncey, that no advantage should be taken of the condition of things, to exact a specific acceptance of the treaty, and the Dey's request was acceded to; Mr. Shaler however quitted Algiers with the squadron, which sailed for Gibraltar to await the arrival of orders from the United States.

The President's reply came in December; it is but justice to the eminent persons (Madison and Monroe) who signed it, to say that it is remarkable for the dignity and temperance which pervade it. A series of arguments based on abstract principles of International Law or Political Economy, would have been addressed in vain to a merely clever barbarian, while diplomatic finesse would have been equally ineffectual, with those who never sincere themselves always suspect knavery in others. The impropriety of the complaints respecting the delay in restoring the brig, is simply and dearly exposed; and the fixed determination of the American Government with regard to a return to the principles on which the treaty of 1798 had been based, is conveyed in the assurance that "the United States while they wish for war with no nation, will buy peace with none, it being a principle incorporated into the settled policy of America, that as peace is better than war, so war is better than tribute." In conclusion, Mr. Shaler and Commodore Chauncey were authorized to communicate with the Dey, "for the purpose of terminating the subsisting differences by a mutual recognition and execution of the treaty of 1815."

The Commodore and Mr. Shaler on receiving their commissions, instantly sailed for Algiers with two of the ships, and proposed that the negotiation should be immediately commenced. Omar had been actively engaged, since the departure of Mr. Shaler in repairing his fortifications; but not considering them yet able to withstand an attack, he endeavored to gain time by insisting that the statu quo should continue for eight months, on the plea that the President had taken that space to make a reply to his letter. The Commissioners refusing to admit of any delay the Dey yielded; accordingly, the conduct of the negotiation on the part of the United States having been committed entirely to Mr. Shaler, he landed and on the 17th of December presented a note containing the ultimatum of his Government. The Dey was required to admit as a preliminary, that the stipulations of the treaty with regard to the restoration of the vessels had been scrupulously fulfilled by the United States; this being admitted, the treaty was to be renewed exactly in its original form, except that the eighteenth article might be altered, so as to annul that portion of it, which gave to the United States advantages in the ports of Algiers over the most favored nations; finally, as it was ascertained that a clause had been introduced into the Arabic translation of the said treaty, contrary to the understanding between the Dey and the American Commissioners who signed it, by which the United States were made to engage to pay a certain sum to Algiers, on the presentation of each of their Consuls, it was distinctly declared, "that no obligation binding the United States to pay any thing to the Regency or to its officers on any occasion whatever, will be agreed to."

The Dey struggled to avoid this additional humiliation, which he had brought upon himself by his ill-timed breach of faith; for he saw clearly that by submitting to it he was hastening the downfall of Algiers and his own destruction. But Shaler possessed in an eminent degree, these two essential qualities of a negotiator, courage and knowledge of the human heart; his contempt of danger had been manifested during the bombardment of the 27th of August; he had never deceived Omar, nor ever suffered him for a moment to suppose that he had been deceived by him, and by thus acting always, fairly and honestly towards him, he had acquired his respect and confidence. After a few days of discussion, the Dey in despair declared, that as misfortune had deprived him of the means of resistance, he would agree to the terms proposed or to any others which might be demanded, provided the Consul would give him a certificate under his hand and seal, that he had compelled him to do so. This was a strange request from an absolute sovereign; however Shaler saw that the unfortunate Omar was no longer at liberty to act as he pleased, but was the mere agent of his Divan; he therefore gave him the required acknowledgment, and the treaty was signed as dictated by the American Commissioners on the 23d of December, 1816.

From that period to the overthrow of the Algerine Government, the intercourse between the United States and this Regency was strictly peaceful. The treaty was rigidly observed by both parties, and a few trifling differences of a personal nature which occurred between the officers of the Government and those attached to the Consulate, were speedily and satisfactorily arranged. This continuation of pacific intercourse, is to be attributed in a great measure to the personal character of the American Consuls, to the respect which they acquired, nay, we are even warranted in saying, to the influence which they maintained over the members of the Algerine Government.

Omar continued his exertions to repair the losses occasioned by the bombardment, and he soon placed the city in a defensible condition; the Sultan presented him with a frigate and two corvettes, and he caused other ships of war to be built at Leghorn. But his popularity had been destroyed by the many adverse circumstances which had marked his reign; he was stigmatized as the unlucky, and a plague which ravaged Algiers in 1817 was attributed by the ignorant populace and soldiery to the influence of their ruler's evil star. Several conspiracies were formed against him, which he eluded by his vigilance, but he saw that his end was near, and with honorable forethought, he placed his mother and relations out of danger, by sending them back to his native isle of Mytelene. A plot was at length arranged, which was successful; the principal contrivers were Ali, a violent and fanatical Turk, who had assumed the title of Khogia or the scribe, a high literary and theological distinction, and Hussein an officer of repute for his talents, bravery and military skill. The soldiery and Divan entered into the conspiracy, and Omar was strangled on the 8th of September, 1817, without a hand or a voice having been raised in his defence.

Ali Khogia was immediately proclaimed Pasha, and he showed his gratitude to his coadjutor Hussein by making him his Prime Minister. The new Sovereign soon proved himself to be a monster of vice and cruelty, which were rendered still more shocking by his affectation of superior learning and sanctity. "When on public occasions, he was visited by the foreign Consuls," says Shaler, "they, after stumbling over scores of murdered carcases on their way to the hall of audience, always found the Pasha superbly dressed, surrounded by his guards, with a book in his hands, in the contemplation of which he would affect to be interrupted and precipitately lay it aside on their entrance." He set at naught the treaties with foreign nations, acting with violence towards persons living under the protection of their flags, and sending his cruisers to sea with orders to search their vessels, while the plague was raging in Algiers. By the active interposition of Mr. Shaler, the commerce and flag of the United States were respected, but several French and Sardinian vessels were taken under various pretences and brought into the ports of the Regency.

Ali Khogia was one of the many Deys, who endeavored to get rid of the foreign soldiery, and to render the crown hereditary in his own family. With this view he transferred his residence and the immense treasures of the State, from the old palace in the city, to the more secure residence of the Casauba, where he surrounded himself by a guard formed of natives; he then commenced his attacks on the Turks, of whom he is said to have despatched fifteen hundred during his short reign of four months. His course was suddenly arrested by the plague, of which he died in January, 1818.

On the death of Ali Khogia, Hussein his Prime Minister assumed the crown, without election and without opposition. He was a native of Salonica, and then about fifty-four years old, a man of bold and unscrupulous character, possessing much sagacity, and even some ideas of true policy; but his irascibility often led him into difficulties, from which his haughtiness and obstinacy prevented his retreating. He was supposed to have councilled the persecution commenced against the Turks by his predecessor; but if so, he must have despaired of its success, for he instantly put an end to it, and invited other soldiers from the East to supply the place of those who had fallen. He however retained the Moorish guards, and continued to reside at the Casauba.

In November, 1818, a Congress composed of Representatives of the Sovereign Powers of Europe, was convened at Aix la Chapelle; where among other things, a resolution was taken, to oblige the Barbary States to conform with the usages of Christian nations, in their intercourse or wars with them; that is to say, to abstain from piracy, not to require tribute as the price of peace, and not to enslave their prisoners taken in war, but to treat them with humanity until they were exchanged. The Kings of Great Britain and France were charged by the other Powers with carrying this resolution into effect; and in consequence a combined English and French squadron under Admirals Freemantle and Jurien de la Graviere appeared at Algiers on the 1st of September, to make known to the Dey the will of their Sovereigns, and to require his compliance. Hussein after deliberating some days, formally refused "to surrender rights, which had been recognized by solemn treaties, and respected by all the world during a succession of ages;" and declared that he would "maintain his privilege to enslave the subjects of those nations with which he had no treaties, or which paid him no tribute." This reply was certainly at variance with the engagements to Lord Exmouth in 1816, but the Admirals could get no other by negotiation, and their force was not sufficient to authorize an attack on the place; perhaps also, they conceived that the appeal made by the Dey to the past, might find a responsive echo in the bosoms of those by whom they were commissioned, and who were so careful in resisting innovations in their own States. The squadrons therefore sailed for Tunis where the answer obtained from Mahmoud was even less satisfactory. In Tripoli, the Pasha met them by expressing his surprise that such a demand should be made of him, when it must have been well known, that he had long reprobated the practice, and shewn every disposition to live in harmony with Christian nations. This latter reply was trumpeted throughout Europe, as a signal advantage secured for the interests of humanity, through the exertions of France and England, while those given by the rulers of Algiers and Tunis were studiously concealed.

This appears to have been the only effort made by the European powers in concert, to enforce the observance by the Barbary States of the principles which regulate intercourse and warfare among more civilized nations; the Governments of Britain and France however, as we shall see, continued separately to maintain those principles; of the other powers each acted for itself, paying, threatening or fighting, as it conceived most proper for its own interests and honor.

In 1812 and 1823, when the insurrection of the Greeks had already assumed so formidable a character, as to require the utmost exertions on the part of the Sultan, each of the Barbary States sent ships to his aid; on this occasion, the Government of Great Britain exacted from the Bey of Tunis a declaration that the Greeks who might be taken by his forces should not be enslaved, but be treated as prisoners of war. No such promise appears recorded on the part of the Dey of Algiers, and the propriety of requiring it for the interests of humanity, may be doubted; a powerful incentive to the continuance of the war against the Greeks would indeed be thus removed; but on the other hand, it might have been supposed that little mercy would be shown to captives who if preserved were to be supported at an expense, while nothing was to be obtained from their labor or for their ransom. This supposition is strengthened by the fact, that an Algerine Ambassador who was sent to London in 1819, propounded to the Secretary for Foreign Affairs the question—"Whether, as his Government had engaged to make no Christian slaves, its cruisers might without offending Great Britain, put to death those of their prisoners whom by treaty they could not reduce to slavery?"

The Algerines sent eight ships to the Archipelago, which returned in the autumn of 1823; how they conducted themselves in the war it is not easy to ascertain; the Dey chose to consider that they had acquired a title to immortal renown, and while elated by their real or fancied successes, he ventured to commit an act of violence against the British Consul, which caused Algiers to undergo another humiliation.

The greater part of the laborers and domestic servants of Algiers, particularly those employed by Foreign Consuls, are of the race of Kabyles, who as before stated, inhabit the mountainous districts of the Regency, and are with good reason supposed to be the descendants of the aboriginal Nomades. One of these tribes having made some attacks on the people in the vicinity of Bugia, the Dey on the 22d of October, ordered all the Kabyles in Algiers to be put in confinement. The Consuls of some of the smaller European powers, after a little hesitation, surrendered those in their service; the Agent of the Netherlands offered to his the choice of remaining under his protection, or of escaping; they chose the latter, and his premises were not disturbed. The French Consul at first made a show of refusal to deliver his domestics, but afterwards adroitly got rid of the difficulty, by paying and discharging them; they were of course immediately arrested. Mr. Shaler and the British representative Macdonnell each indignantly resisted this invasion of privileges, which had always been held as most sacred in Barbary. Mr. Shaler placed his Kabyle servants in his cabinet, where he remained with them, declaring to the Dey that they could only be removed from thence by force, and warning him of the consequences which would attend such an insult to his nation; this determined conduct produced the desired effect, the guards were withdrawn, and the servants of the American Consulate were effectually protected. In treating with semi-barbarians, much depends on the personal character of the agent; Mr. Macdonnell, a mild and amiable old gentleman, devoted to rural pursuits, could not secure for himself that respect, which was enjoyed by the shrewd, energetic and intrepid Shaler; so that notwithstanding he had hoisted the flag of his nation, and placed its seal on the doors of his house, it was forcibly entered by the Algerine guards, and its most private apartments were ransacked in search of the unfortunate servants.

Mr. Macdonnell complained to his Government of this insult, and a frigate was in consequence despatched to Algiers in January 1824, for the purpose of demanding satisfaction, and of requiring that the rights of British Consuls should be guarantied by additional articles to the treaty. These articles were presented to the Dey for his signature; he refused to agree to them, and Mr. Macdonnell embarked with his family on board the frigate, leaving his property under the care of Mr. Shaler.⁴ A large British force was soon collected before the city under the command of Admiral Sir Harry Burrard Neale, who endeavored to negotiate the acceptance of the conditions proposed; the Divan were unanimous in wishing to yield points so unimportant, but Hussein was obstinate, and although he at length on the 28th of March agreed to admit the articles, he would not consent that Mr. Macdonnell should return as Consul to Algiers. The Admiral then declared that war was begun, and that the place was blockaded; but he continued his endeavors to make peace on the terms he had first proposed. At length on the 24th of July, the British force being increased to twenty-three sail, a fire was commenced on the city and batteries, which was instantly returned. On this occasion, a steam vessel was employed, for the first time it is believed in naval warfare; its appearance excited much astonishment on the part of the Algerines, and caused them to direct their fire particularly at it, which was done with so much effect that the wheels were in an instant rendered useless. After a few minutes the Admiral displayed a flag of truce, which having been answered by a similar signal from the Casauba, the firing ceased on both sides, and an officer was sent on shore again to submit the demand which had first been made. Two days having been spent in messages and negotiations, the affair was adjusted; the Dey signed the articles containing stipulations for the protection of the British Consul and the support of his rights, and confirmed the engagement made with Lord Exmouth in 1816, that in any future wars with European powers, the prisoners should not be consigned to slavery, but be treated with humanity until regularly exchanged. Respecting the return of Mr. Macdonnell nothing is said in the documents signed by the Dey; in the negotiation, he declared that he had no personal objections to that gentleman, yet that he had made himself most obnoxious to the inhabitants, and that no assurance could be given of his safety should he attempt to land. This was notoriously untrue, yet the Admiral thought proper to waive a point which he had before considered so important, and after the trouble and expense of a four months blockade and an attack upon the city, he accepted exactly what had been offered in March. Thus by the determination of the American Consul, were his privileges maintained, and a rupture between his Government and that of Algiers was prevented; while the agent of the most powerful nation on earth, from possessing less energy, was himself insulted, and his country placed in the necessity of requiring satisfaction by arms.

⁴ Mr. Shaler quitted Algiers in 1829 having been appointed Consul of the United States in Havana, where he died of cholera in the spring of 1833. He was succeeded as Consul General for the Barbary Regencies, by Henry Lee of Virginia, who remained in that office at Algiers, until the city was taken by the French.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE VICTIM OF DISAPPOINTMENT.

'Tis vanishing!—'tis vanishing!—
The last bright star that shed
Its cheering light upon a path,
Whence all light else had fled!
'Tis vanishing!—'tis vanishing!—
As night steals on the day,
And slowly wraps the glowing west,
In its dark cloak of gray.
So, silently, o'er me advance
The shades of dark despair,
And fade away the hopes that shone
But yesterday, so fair!
Aye! when they shone so fair, and seemed
As soon to be enjoyed,
And I (fond fool!) believed so, came,
The blight that hath destroyed!
I might have known it would be so!
There is an evil sprite,
That, ever present, watches me,
My every joy to blight!
I never grasp'd the cup of bliss,
And, raising, thought to sip,
But, straight, the envious demon came,
And dash'd it from my lip!
I never keenly strove to win
What heart was set upon,
But, when I thought it surely mine,
And grasp'd at it—'twas gone!
And now, the cherished dream, that hath
So long, so deeply blessed—
That gave me heart to struggle on,
Hath vanished—with the rest!

P. H.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,—Having long believed that Education was by far the most important subject on which the talents of either public or private men could be exercised, I have ever deemed that man in some degree a public benefactor, who contributed even a mite towards its promotion. To the study therefore of this subject, much more than of any other, I have devoted my time and thoughts for the last twenty or thirty years; vainly perhaps, hoping that I also might contribute something in aid of this most momentous work. How far the labor has been productive of any good, must be determined by others; but their approbation, although it would certainly gratify my feelings, has operated, I trust, only as a secondary motive. To contribute something, be it ever so little, towards the good of my fellow creatures, has been the chief purpose of my existence since I came to years of serious reflection; and the consciousness of having achieved this good in any degree, would be (could I once possess it) my highest reward in the present life.

Influenced by such sentiments and considerations, I now send you five manuscript lectures, delivered about two years ago, before the Lyceum of Fredericksburg, "On the Obstacles to Education arising from the peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers, Scholars, and those who direct and control our Schools and Colleges."

Trite as the subject of Education is, it can never cease to be deeply—nay, vitally interesting, so long as the happiness of the whole human race—both in their private and public relations—both in this world and the next, so entirely depends upon the nature of the objects embraced by it, and the manner in which it is conducted. Deep and deadly too will be the guilt of any wilful neglect, error, or perversion, on the part of all those who direct the physical and intellectual training of the youth of our country. Unless both become what they should be, neither our forms of government, nor our political nor literary institutions, can ever accomplish any of the great ends for which they were designed.

I remain, dear sir, yours with regard,

JAMES M. GARNETT.

Elm-Wood, August 1835.

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE

To a Course on "The Obstacles to Education arising from the peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers, Scholars, and those who direct and control our Schools and Colleges," delivered before the Fredericksburg Lyceum, by James M. Garnett.

Once more, my friends, I am about to address you—although at present, on a subject by far the most important that can engage the attention of intelligent, social, and moral beings. This subject is Education; in regard to the true meaning and object of which, as many and as fatal errors have been committed, as in relation to any other term in our language—although nothing less than our happiness in both worlds depends upon its being rightly understood, and properly applied. From the earliest ages to the present day, men have differed widely, not only as to the particulars which should be comprehended under the term itself, and the modes and the means by whose instrumentality they should be taught; but a large portion of society have attached the utmost importance to certain acquirements which others have deemed at least useless, if not actually and deeply pernicious. Literally, Education means an elicitation, a drawing or leading forth—and when applied to a human being, should be understood to indicate such a full development of all his powers and faculties, both physical and intellectual, as will best promote his own happiness, and that of his fellow-creatures; in a word, it embraces "every influence by which man becomes what he is, or may be made what he should be," and never ceases until death terminates our earthly pilgrimage. Every one, I think, may agree that any other general definition less comprehensive of this all-important term would be false, and consequently lead to mistakes. But the great misfortune is, the moment we approach the details, vital differences of opinion present themselves, which often give rise to practices decidedly hostile to each other—thereby demonstrating, that until all such as are erroneous can be exploded, the good will be unavoidably counteracted if not entirely superseded, by the bad. The removal then, of all the obstacles to the universal adoption of the former, is the great, the truly arduous task to be performed; and the first step towards its achievement, will be to show what these obstacles really are.

Although perfectly aware that many of the ablest writers in every age and nation, have been so frequently and long engaged in efforts to promote the cause of Education, as almost to preclude the possibility of saying any thing new on the subject, still I believe there is one view of it which has not yet been taken to a sufficient extent for all the salutary purposes to be accomplished by it:—I mean a connected and full exposure, apart from all other matter, of the various obstacles which have long impeded, and still greatly retard its progress among us. These I propose to examine thoroughly, and to trace to their respective sources, in such a manner as to lead, if possible, to their final removal. All of them, I believe, will be found in what may be called the peculiar mental maladies, and moral diseases, (if I may so express myself,) of parents, teachers, scholars, and that portion of society by whom our literary institutions are directed and controlled. This shall hereafter be made more fully to appear. In the meantime, before I commence the very delicate task of apportioning censure among such large classes of my fellow-citizens, I beg to premise that special care shall be taken so to generalize my remarks, that no just cause of offence shall be afforded either to any individual persons or schools. Nothing shall intentionally be said which can, by possibility, be fairly construed into invidious personalities, nor be with justice ascribed to any motives whatever but such as I have avowed. Having no other object in view—none other at heart, than to mark for universal reprobation and avoidance the many fatal obstructions to the general adoption of those great fundamental principles of instruction, without which neither public nor private Education can ever become what it should be, my hearers may rest perfectly assured, that every example, allusion, argument, or illustration I may use, shall be directed, in perfect sincerity and good faith, to this end and to this alone. Previously however, to any specifications of the obstructions interposed by either of the classes of persons already enumerated, I beg to be indulged in several general observations. These appear to me essential, by way of introduction to that minute exposure of their respective prejudices, faults, and vices which I design to exhibit—not like a faint hearted recruit, who shuts his eyes when he pulls trigger, and recoils from the report of his own piece—but with the resolute purpose of killing, if I can, what I wish to destroy.

The attainment of most of the objects of human pursuit, would be a work of comparative ease, if nothing was necessary to be done but to devise the best ways and means of acquiring them. By far the most difficult achievement is to remove those numerous obstacles to their attainment which the ignorance, the folly, and the vices of mankind either create entirely, or aggravate; for unless this be first done, all our labor will be utterly thrown away, or must fall very short of accomplishing what otherwise might be effected. While these obstacles remain, the task of applying the proper ways and means, and producing the desired end, is little less discouraging than to begin building a house without foundation or scaffolding, or to render the earth productive of wholesome food without first clearing away the stumps and roots, the briers and noxious weeds with which it is encumbered. To nothing within the whole scope of our desires and efforts does this remark apply with more truth and force, than to the great object of Education. Hindrances and impediments, vast in number, and formidable in degree, surround it on almost every side. Many of these have their source in long established, but very erroneous practice—while others are intrenched in some of the most deeply rooted prejudices of mankind. Hence they oppose barriers of nearly insurmountable strength to all individual skill, however great—to all isolated exertion, however well directed.

The most prominent and pernicious of these barriers or obstacles are so glaring, that any attempt to point them out will escape, I hope, all imputation of presumption. No extraordinary sagacity is necessary to detect, nor any great power of language to expose, what all who have had any thing to do with the business of Education must long have experienced, and deeply deplored. In fact, the undertaking to educate the youth of our country as they should be educated, will be almost a hopeless task, until most of these impediments are removed; and the fortunate individual who could discover the effectual means to eradicate them, would much better deserve a public triumph for so glorious a victory over human prejudices and passions, than any warrior ever gained by the most splendid of his conquests. The more free our government and institutions generally, the more necessary will good Education continually become to preserve them, since neither sound morals, nor wise and salutary laws, nor social and political happiness can exist without its general diffusion. But before such Education can possibly be imparted to any great extent, the minds of all the parties concerned must be entirely disenthralled from every opposing obstacle. In regard to bodily maladies, to know the cause and nature of the disease is said to be half the cure. Why then, may it not be equally true in relation to the mind? Experience tells us that so much depends upon this previous knowledge, as to render the course both of the mental and bodily physician exceedingly dangerous without it. Neither must make a quackery affair of his business. No guess-work nor chance-medley will do in either case; for the death both of soul and body often follows the administration of improper medicine. Many constitutions of excellent original stamina have been utterly destroyed by physic, when all that was really wanting was healthful diet, and proper exercise; and numerous minds of the fairest promise have been blasted forever, by the equally injudicious—equally fatal application of unsuitable intellectual regimen. This surely ought to happen much less frequently than in bygone times, since schools of every grade, especially for females, have greatly multiplied of late years—and consequently, many more mothers than formerly, ought to be qualified so far as schools can effect it, for the arduous task of imparting to children at least the elementary branches of knowledge. Yet I believe it is unquestionably true that private, domestic Education, is less common than it used to be. But two rational explanations can be given of this fact. Either mothers and fathers must be so naturally averse to teaching their own children as very rarely to do it when avoidable, and therefore less often attempt it, since it has become easier to transfer the duty to others—or the prevalent systems of Education itself have had the effect of preventing parental affection from exerting itself in this way. To the last cause I hope it must be ascribed; for it would be shocking to believe that parents generally were so barbarous, as voluntarily to surrender the care and instruction of their helpless, innocent offspring, to others, when they themselves were equally well qualified for this most tender and all-important office; at the same time that nature herself seems evidently to have destined them to fulfil, whenever practicable, these paramount duties. Home is, unquestionably, the best place suited in all respects, at least for female education; nor should it ever be relinquished for any other, but in cases of the strongest, most obvious necessity—such as a thorough conviction of incompetency on the part of the parents, and of very superior qualifications in those to whom the sacred trust is to be confided. It is under the parental roof, and immediately under the parental supervision and guidance, that young girls can most easily be protected from the corrupting influence of bad companions and bad examples. It is there, if any where, that all the best affections of the heart can be most readily excited and cultivated; and it is there alone that they can best acquire all those admirable domestic virtues and habits, to the exercise of which much the greater part of their lives, after they leave school, should be devoted, as the sure means of imparting to private life its greatest charm and highest embellishment. If this be admitted, as I think it must, then the nearer the management of any public school, whether large or small, especially for girls, can be made to resemble that of a well regulated private family, the better it will be calculated to attain the true, legitimate purposes of all seminaries of Education. The more easy will it be also to prove, when this point is conceded, that there are very many radical defects in a large portion of such establishments in our country. For example, in what well regulated private family will you ever find numerous restraints enforced, which obviously have nothing else in view but the more ease and convenience of the heads of the establishment, entirely apart from all moral influence to be produced on the individuals upon whom these restraints are imposed? In what family of the kind do you see the children often exhibited for show, as at public examinations—always encouraged and goaded to strive with might and main for victory over each other in all their scholastic exercises, and continually stimulated to toil and struggle for public applause, as the highest earthly felicity; and all this too without the least regard for the sufferings and mortifications of the unsuccessful competitors? So far is this from ever being done in any private family under proper management, that every imaginable cause of jealousy, ill-will, heart-burning and envy, is most carefully avoided—every symptom of distrust and animosity anxiously removed—and brotherly love of the most tender, affectionate kind, sedulously cultivated, as the best possible preparation of the intellectual soil for the reception, growth and maturity of the seeds of knowledge and virtue. Here then, at once, in the very threshold of our temples of public instruction, do we meet with an obstacle of such magnitude, as effectually to bar, if it be not removed, all attempts to decorate and embellish the interior of the building with any ornaments, such as good taste, sound judgment, and just principles would deem most appropriate. In the moral code of far too many of these temples, the admirable virtue of true Christian humility—that virtue which so pre-eminently adorned the character of the blessed Saviour himself, has no abiding place whatever; but numerous expedients and artifices are adopted to prevent the possibility of its entrance. The pupils are not even taught what it means, unless they find it out while turning their dictionaries for other words; and so far are they from ever being required to act on the principle of not letting one hand know what the other doeth, that every effort, both of hands and head, is most studiously directed towards giving the greatest possible publicity to all their proceedings: first, and above all, that the fame of their school and its teachers may be widely diffused; and secondly, that they themselves may be talked about every where. To accomplish this, weeks and months are spent by the students in preparing for public examinations, during which no advances are made in the general course of their studies, but the whole time is sacrificed to the feeding their vanity and ambition at the expense of real utility, common sense, and intellectual progress in useful knowledge. A great portion of this period of strenuous uselessness is consumed, by all the aspirants after collegiate honors, in composing, writing, committing to memory and reciting again and again something which is to be called an oration. This too, is often in a language utterly unintelligible to nine-tenths of the auditors, or rather spectators, commonly assembled upon such occasions, who are drawn together more by idle curiosity than by any other motive. I will readily admit that occasional revisions of past studies may be useful to fix them in the memory; I will also admit, that to be examined in them by or before good judges, convened especially for the purpose, but without any notice to the scholars of the precise time when such examination would take place, would also be beneficial, particularly in schools for boys. But any thing beyond this, whether it be called examination, commencement, or what you please—especially if exhibited (after many weeks preparation) before hundreds and thousands of spectators who know little or nothing of what is going on—is, to speak the plain, unvarnished truth, sheer waste of time, if nothing worse. It is to treat young men as if they were always to be children, incapable of being interested in any thing much above the toys and playthings of childhood. Such shows, for they deserve no better name, should never be suffered in female schools; for their only use there is to discourage the timid, the bashful, the modest—and to render the bold, the forward, and the presumptuous still more conspicuous for these disgusting, unfeminine qualities. Already too anxious, like rival milliners, always to be displaying their finery at their shop-windows, to the public gaze, the more opportunities you give them for making this exhibition, the more eager they become to attract visiters, admirers, and purchasers. Flattery is the chief thing they covet; base as it really is, it is the treasure upon which this kind of scholastic training learns them to set their hearts, and seldom are they paid with any thing better. Whatever they do is to be done because it will be popular, becoming, and will make a great noise—not because it is recommended and enjoined by the precepts of our holy religion. Moreover, to insure that the former shall be the ruling, all-efficient motive of action, the ever restless, soul-corroding spirit of emulation is infused into them in every possible way that ingenuity can devise. That this is utterly incompatible with the pure spirit of Christian humility, it needs no argument to prove; in fact, oil and water could just as soon coalesce, or enter into complete chemical union. Does it not, then, most deeply concern us all to inquire whether this principle of emulation, which may truly be called the present master-spirit of nearly all our literary institutions, should still be suffered to prompt and to govern all their operations? Can any societies—but especially such as have been avowedly established for the great, the Godlike purpose of making men wiser and better, be rationally expected to thrive, if they run counter to the plainest dictates of wisdom and virtue, which command us to do nothing that the gospel of Christ either expressly forbids, or impliedly, but plainly discountenances? Does not this code most explicitly enjoin us to "be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love, in honor preferring one another." "That nothing be done through strife or vain glory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better than themselves." And does it not class emulations with "idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies, envyings," &c.? Are these nothing more than mere abstract texts for ministers of the gospel to preach on; or are they practical, imperative rules of conduct to govern us both for time and eternity? If they are the latter, as all true believers in the gospel of Christ pronounce them to be, how can they possibly be obeyed, when every effort of our bodies and our minds, while at school, is made to induce the world to prefer, to honor, and to esteem us far above all our companions and associates, at whatever expense of mental suffering and anguish it may be done to them? Shall we be told that such feelings should not be indulged by those whom we conquer or surpass in the scholastic struggle for pre-eminence, and therefore, that their mortification, however deep and distressing, should not disturb us? But how can they help it, when they also have been taught that their greatest honor, their highest pleasure, was to consist in conquering and surpassing us, and that we had disappointed them? Yet this principle of emulation is a cardinal article in the creed and practice of almost every public school of which I have any knowledge; indeed, I might add, of a great majority of private families. To this article might be added several others, all going to prove that the whole course of proceeding in these schools, whatever may be the religious principles of their managers, partakes much more of the compromising spirit of worldly wisdom and worldly ethics, than of the unbending, self-denying morality of the gospel of Christ. It can never be a question among true Christians, which should govern not only all schools, but all mankind; yet it would be well worth the attention of all who are not Christians, to inquire which would be best, even for the present life only. I would send them no farther on this search for proof than to the past history of the government—the monied institutions, and trading associations of our own country. In this history they would most assuredly find, that for every cent which these bodies had lost by any acknowledged member of any Christian society, they had been defrauded and robbed of thousands upon thousands by the open scoffers at, and known despisers of religion. This fact alone speaks volumes of most salutary instruction to the present generation, if they would only read them right. It proclaims as intelligibly as if it were written on the vault of heaven by the finger of God himself, in letters visible as the cloudless sun, that the much lauded code of your mere worldly morality, (admitting every thing that can be said in its favor,) is utterly insufficient even for this poor world; although it is admitted that thousands have lived, and do live under it alone, with very fair, amiable characters. It is, however, like living in the midst of contagious, pestilential and deadly diseases, without any sure charm or antidote to protect us from destruction. I say not this to wound unnecessarily the feelings of any one—no, God forbid! but because I consider it a most momentous truth, which should be placed before the public in as strong relief as language can exhibit it—since it involves the safety, welfare and happiness, not only of thousands yet living, but of millions yet unborn. If this highly boasted code, founded merely on human opinion, subject to all its fluctuations, and which tolerates drunkenness on the pretext of conviviality, while it makes murder a duty under the term duelling, will not, with any thing like certainty, restrain its professors from the meanest, most degrading vices, from the most shocking and atrocious crimes, what can it possibly avail in withholding them from committing acts of far more dubious character, but often little less injurious to the peace, order, and happiness of society? Could this code bear any sort of comparison with that which we have ventured to contrast with it, as furnishing the best possible rules for human conduct, even considering the present life as the only one, would it not be able to support its claim to our preference, by producing a greater number of persons reclaimed from the paths of vice by its superior power, than have ever been recovered by the influence of the Christian code? But how stands the fact? Examine it, I beseech you, as impartially as possible. I may answer, I believe, without fear of contradiction, that while the Christian code can show its thousands, rescued by its agency from the lowest depths of profligacy and crime, not one solitary case can be found, nor indeed has ever been heard of, wherein the code of worldly morality has alone effected any such restoration. The utmost scope of its power has never extended beyond carrying a small minority of its votaries through the world, with fair characters, who have never been strongly tempted to give them up for something which they more passionately desired. Its influence, at best, is merely of the preventive, not the reclaiming kind, and therefore never brings back, under the power of its own laws, any who have once broken through the feeble barriers which they interpose. The worldly code, besides sanctioning many practices which the Christian code pronounces criminal, looks not beyond the outward seeming of our actions, because when man, who is made the sole judge of its fulfilment, attempts to penetrate to their source, he is incapable of doing more than making mere approximations to the truth. On the other hand, the Christian code, having an all-wise, infallible God for its judge, allows no actions to be right, but such as proceed from right motives. These being the only certain test—the test by which every Christian assuredly believes that we shall all be finally tried, make the latter code, from this circumstance alone, as far superior to the former, as absolute certainty is, at all times and under all circumstances, much better than uncertainty. All who faithfully obey the requisitions of the last, must really be what they seem to be, or they are not moral in the Christian sense. Whereas the professors of the last, who look only to the present life for their rewards, can obtain them all, simply by feigning well the character they wish to possess.

No sweeping denunciation is here intended against those who have the unspeakable misfortune to be destitute of religion; for I know many, and doubt not that many more are to be found in every class of society, who fulfil the duties of the present life in such an exemplary manner, as to be well worthy of our esteem and love. What I mean to assert, and deem it all important for the cause of Education to establish, is, that the above fact furnishes no adequate proof of the sufficiency of the worldly code of morals, either to preserve or to reclaim mankind from vice and crime. If their propensities happen to be vicious, their desires criminal, no obstacle whatever exists to their indulgence, but the ever variable opinions of the particular society in which they live, and the fear of detection by mere human, frail, and fallible witnesses. Their code may well be called a system of compromise between sensual appetites and regard for appearances—a calculation of chances and probabilities—a rule for conduct whose standard has no well defined, certain marks, by which right and wrong can always be accurately distinguished—no omnipotent sanction to sustain all its requirements; and consequently, that, as the governing principle of our whole lives, it will bear no just comparison whatever with the Christian code of morality, where every thing is not only sure, but forever unchangeable—full not only of the happiest assurances in regard to the present life, but of the most soul-cheering hopes as to that which is to come.

I have expressed the belief, justified, as I think, by my own observation, that the prevalent system of Education, has had the effect of diminishing the number of instances wherein mothers teach their own children. Yet it is unquestionably true, that the progress and improvement which girls or boys either make at public schools, depend much more upon this domestic, elementary Education, than upon any subsequent course of scholastic discipline under which they may be elsewhere placed. First impressions, and above all, those made by a mother, are always more permanent than almost any that can be made at a later period of life, after parental instruction is changed for that of strangers. In confirmation of my own observations, teachers of great experience have assured me, that where natural talent has been equal, they have invariably found those pupils the most docile, most intelligent, most correct in their conduct, and best informed, who have longest received the benefit of a parent's tuition, although they may not actually have gone to school longer than others who have been taught only in public seminaries. It is therefore of the highest imaginable importance that the lessons given to children at home, previously to going abroad to school, should all be such as are calculated to give them good tempers, amiable dispositions, and sound moral principles; for unless this all essential work be performed under the parental care, it is rarely, if ever accomplished afterwards. The power indeed, of feigning them, may be acquired by the constant suggestion of worldly and prudential considerations; but the actual possession is scarcely ever gained under any other instructer than the parent. Nay, how can it be, when the proportion of pupils under public teachers, compared with the children of one mother, is often ten, fifteen, twenty to one; when the indispensable attention of the instructers to the usual scholastic exercises of their scholars, engages nearly their whole time; and when the forming the heart to virtue, the regulation of the passions, the strengthening the understanding and judgment, which are the only really valuable ends of all Education, cannot possibly be attained in the very short time commonly allowed for the public instruction, (at least of our daughters,) and under all the circumstances in which they must necessarily be placed at all large public schools. Hence, in a great measure, the numerous failures of the best public teachers to do what is too often expected of them; that is, in a few months, or even in a year or two, to reform the dispositions and characters of their pupils, at the same time that their minds are required to be stored with all imaginable learning; although the conviction alone of the vicious propensities and bad habits which they may have contracted at home, would require a much longer period than the whole time usually allotted for all scholastic acquirements put together. Public schools may well be called moral hospitals, which, like some others of a different kind, contain not only many patients the removal of whose diseases requires a very long course of most skilful and judicious treatment, but others who may well be designated "incurables"—rendered so too, by moral distempers contracted under the parental roof, but for which these hospitals and their doctors have very often to bear all the blame.

Well aware that the charges which I have brought against our prevalent systems of Education, both private and public, (greatly improved as I admit them to be in many important respects) are of a very serious nature, I feel myself bound to endeavor to establish them. But in these introductory remarks, I shall do no more, in addition to what has already been said, than give the general heads of my accusation—reserving "the counts in the indictment" (as the lawyers would say) for another time. These heads are—that mere external observances are much too often substituted for internal principles—that a puerile smattering in many comparatively trivial things, has been made to pass for thorough knowledge in essentials—that emotions of the body and limbs in attitudinizing (if I may so express myself,) at the harp, at the piano, and in the dance, have been much more cultivated than the emotions of the heart and soul; and that the mere mechanical operations of the fingers and feet have been preferred to that heavenly operation of the spirit of God on the mind, which alone can give any real value to actions, or intrinsic worth to character. The sciences and arts for acquiring wealth, fame, and aggrandizement—for securing bodily comforts, luxuries, and amusements are taught every where, with quite as much assiduity and zeal as any can believe they deserve. But the great art of extracting from all the events, circumstances, and conditions of life, whatever true substantial good and happiness they are capable of affording, and using the whole as a preparation for entering into another state of existence, where we must account for all we have done in this, is no where systematically taught, unless from the pulpit. Even there it is far too often pretermitted, for the sake of indulging in vague speculations which lead to no profitable result, and the useless discussion of those deeply mysterious doctrines which all believe it passeth man's understanding to comprehend, except those rash theological sciolists who vainly imagine that it is given to them alone to penetrate them.

The great majority of mankind who judge solely from appearances, are deceived by this external Education, into a pernicious belief that all must be right within, because all which they behold without, is fair to the eye and agreeable to contemplate; and so superficial is their examination generally, that if they find all the pupils presented for their inspection, have pleasing exteriors, and voluble tongues in their public exercises, every thing else is taken for granted. It is never even suspected, that like the trees of the forest, many may be hollow-hearted and worthless, although all their branches and leaves appear in the full vigor of perfect health. Boys who go passably well through certain evolutions, for which they have been regularly drilled for weeks and months together, doing little if any thing else the whole time, are held forth in all public journals as rapid and successful travellers in the high road to the greatest attainable mental improvement—while a large portion of the individuals engaged in this pernicious puffing, know little or nothing of the real progress of the pupils thus lauded, who may, for aught their eulogists can tell, have only the parrot's knowledge of nearly all they have been heard to repeat. Many instances I have known of this in our colleges, and still more in schools of inferior grade. Here many of the examiners (as they are called,) are not unfrequently persons destitute of literature and science themselves, who still boldly certify to the quantum of each possessed by those whom they are supposed to examine; and their awards go forth to the world, as satisfactory proofs of the excellence of particular schools, and the proficiency of the scholars in them, when in fact, such testimonials are proofs of nothing but the inexcusable vanity or thoughtlessness of the certifiers. The case of girls, at their public examinations, is far worse. Much less being expected from them, fewer qualified judges assemble to witness their performances; and if they manage to appear with clean faces and frocks, in regular marchings to and fro, with nicely measured steps, with prim and demure looks in the presence of their unknown viewers, a rapid volubility in their often repeated recitations, and all this finished off with a little music, dancing, and drawing, they pass with their surface-skimming spectators for marvellously accomplished girls. But woful indeed is often the mistake, and pregnant with evil consequences. The constant tendency of such exhibitions, although not always producing their full effect, is to make the pupils of such schools greatly undervalue that species of acquirement, which, although it can hardly become the subject of newspaper notice, should always be considered of transcendent importance in every school for either sex; I mean moral and religious knowledge—moral and religious habits. It is true, that there is almost always a kind of general promise promulgated of great and unremitted attention to these matters. But every body's experience, who has taken much notice of the manner in which schools are generally conducted, is sufficient to convince them that such promises are more matters of profession than practice; or, that they are complied with in such a way, as unavoidably to impress the pupils with a belief that it is rather an affair of form than substance. Does any one doubt this fact? let him only take the trouble to ask the majority of the scholars of any school the following questions, and his skepticism will soon vanish. "What has been the course of your moral and religious instruction? What books have you read, or have been read to you on these subjects? What do you know of the principles of Ethics and Christianity? How many times a week or month have you received lessons on them? If nothing has been read specially on these all-important topics, what has been the manner in which they have been recommended to your attention? Has it been both by precept and example, or by the first only; and what rank have your teachers assigned to such studies, in the scale of importance?" Need I add, that unless such questions can be answered to the entire satisfaction of all such persons as really believe that the eternal welfare of the rising generation is a matter of infinitely deeper interest than any thing which can possibly happen to them in the present life, the conclusion is inevitable, that in all such cases, by far the most important part of Education has been either shamefully neglected, or miserably and wickedly perverted. Let such tests be applied to all schools, from the highest to the lowest, and we shall soon remove much the most powerful of the many causes which prevent them from answering so fully as they ought to do, the great purposes for which they have been established and should be sustained, until the heads of every family become capable of educating their own children—the girls entirely, and the boys until the few last years of their pupilage.

The neglect of moral and religious instruction in schools generally, may arise, in a great measure, from a belief in the teachers, that this all essential work has been properly attended to at home. But it should never be forgotten, that the injunction "to train up a child in the way he should go," should be deemed obligatory during the whole period of pupilage, on all concerned in his Education, lest if it be intermitted at any time, the effects of the whole previous training should be lost. It should always be remembered too, by those who have the care of youth of either sex, that the oftener the young coursers are permitted to run out of this track of moral and religious training, the more apt they will be "to fly the way," not only while the training is managed by others, but after it becomes their own exclusive duty. It must therefore, be made a primary and vital object, throughout the entire course of Education—not only at home, but abroad—not only in the private, domestic circle, but in every public school to which young people may be sent, or the great moral ends and purposes of instruction will inevitably be defeated. The hearts of the pupils must first be educated, and all their motives and dispositions brought, as nearly as practicable, to what they ought to be, or it will be utterly vain to expect that their actions can be either generally or permanently right. It is true, that a right action—that is, one so called—because beneficial to others, may sometimes be performed from a wrong motive. But this can do no possible good to the agent, whose condemnation in the eyes of God is only the greater, when he plays the hypocrite to gain his ends.

I will not go so far as to affirm that the prevalent systems of our schools will certainly make vain, ambitious, worldly minded men of our sons, and actresses and figurantes of our daughters, rather than qualify the boys for fulfilling all their moral and religious duties in the best possible manner, and the girls for becoming modest, virtuous, intelligent, exemplary wives and mothers. But I will say, that if these systems do not work such mischief in most cases, it will be more owing to some powerfully counteracting anterior cause, over which they have had no control, than to the doctrines which they inculcate, the branches of human learning which they most recommend, or the practices which they cause to be followed. It is entirely immaterial what, or how much instruction they profess to give, or really do impart in all other things, but such as will insure the fulfilment of our moral and religious duties; the vital objects of all correct Education will be utterly lost, if matters are so managed in our schools, that the ever restless, insatiate desire for general admiration becomes the main spring of action, rather than the love of knowledge for its own sake, and for the power it will give us of contributing to human happiness. If once such desire be substituted for such love, the fountain head of our whole conduct is literally poisoned. No pure water can possibly flow from such a source; no essential good—none I mean, which can impart real value to character, or contribute one mite towards the eternal felicity of the individual, can ever be effected by him. The only result to be calculated on with any certainty is, that an eager pursuit of merely external arts and showy attainments, will take the place of sincere, steady, deep solicitude to enrich the heart and adorn the understanding with all those principles of really useful knowledge and exemplary conduct, which alone can fit us both for time and eternity. Let the project be tried when, where, and by whom it may, of stamping indelibly on the human heart such principles of action as all admit it should have, at least all whose opinions should be regarded in so momentous and vital a concern, and it will prove abortive as certainly as it is undertaken, unless "religion, pure and undefiled" as it came from the voice of God himself, be made the basis of the whole proceeding. Is this generally done in our schools, either public or private? I most conscientiously believe it is not—at least, as the gospel commands us—"line upon line, and precept upon precept;" or even as a matter to be taught first and above all others. But if any man attempt "to build on other foundation,"—if he strive ever so much to erect the edifice of Education on any other groundwork, he may possibly rear a very showy and even attractive house, but most assuredly his materials will be nothing better than "straw and stubble," continually liable to take fire from every flying spark—forever in danger of being blown down by every assailing wind.

In determining on the proper course of Education for our children, is it not of the highest importance, first to decide in regard to the situations in which they will probably be placed, and the circumstances under which they are most likely to spend their lives, that all the instruction given may have some bearing on such destination—some peculiar aptitude to fit them for the particular stations which they will fill? Until society is organized differently from what it is, all the various honest trades, professions and callings into which it is divided, must have persons specially educated for them. But how can this all essential plan be accomplished, if our children are made too proud for any thing but playing ladies and gentlemen, or following some two or three professional pursuits, distinguished from the rest by the dignified title—"liberal?" Ought it to suffice with people in their sober senses, to hear it urged in opposition to so reasonable a scheme as that of adapting early Education to the probable destiny of each individual in after life, that in our country every child ought to be educated for all imaginable conditions in what is called high life, because any, possibly, may be attained by any? Surely this would be the perfection of folly, unless it amounted almost to certainty that a very large majority of our youth of both sexes would reach such elevated situations. But it so happens that there is a moral certainty the other way, and that an infinitely larger portion of mankind will live and die in obscurity, than can ever become conspicuous for the possession of wealth, extraordinary talent, or official station. This obscurity however, would be no bar to the enjoyment of great happiness, provided half the pains were taken to inculcate principles, tastes and habits suitable to the future circumstances in which they would probably be placed, that are very frequently taken to impress their minds with insatiate cravings after all the highest conditions of society. This world, and this alone, with all its vanities, follies, and seductive vices, is made the God of their idolatry; and every thing in future life which is calculated to impede their worship, becomes a source of unavailing discontent, if not of actual and lasting misery. To pursue such a course with children is little short of real madness, even on the supposition that there is no other state of existence but the present; unless indeed, this life had been made a scene of uninterrupted enjoyment, instead of one abounding with much unavoidable suffering—a scene in which to escape sickness, pain, and poverty, is among our greatest blessings—a scene whose modicum of happiness consists not in any of those merely selfish, sensual pursuits, so generally deemed the chief good of life, but in the diligent culture and exercise of all the powers of our mind—of all the best affections of our hearts. How is this to be done, especially in our female schools, which in fact are the great laboratories for forming elementary teachers for our whole population,—if nearly, or quite half the time of the pupils be taken up in learning to dance, to draw, to play on musical instruments, and to acquire polite manners, by going at stated times to private assemblies, to plays, and operas, as we have heard is the practice in some city schools. One of two things invariably follows from this course; either the whole stock of accomplishments, (as they are called,) however costly it may have been, is entirely abandoned the moment the girls get married, because the acquisition has always been to them a kind of up-hill work, for which they had not the smallest taste—or, such a passionate fondness is contracted for them, that they can find pleasure in no other occupation. The fatal disease of discontent is the result in both those cases. But suppose the last to be the most common. Are domestic habits, so indispensable to the comfort and happiness of married life, to be formed by acquiring a passion for public spectacles, for company-keeping, and for all the preparatory equipments of costly apparel, and other personal decorations? Can the tranquil pleasures of retirement, the occupations of housekeeping, the necessary management of all the domiciliary concerns of which the mistresses of families must always take cognizance, have any charms for ladies educated in what is called the fashionable style? Will not all such things rather be insupportably irksome, if not actually disgusting? How will such ladies be prepared to meet the numerous inconveniences and troubles, the many unpleasant, and often painful occurrences that take place, sometimes even in the happiest families? How can they bear all the fatigues, the various trials of temper, the actual labors incident to domestic life, if the sole object of the chief lessons which they have received at school, has been to attract attention and admiration to themselves? What, but the most inordinate selfishness and vanity can be the fruit of such training? Will such preparatory studies teach them how to keep their houses and families in order—to train their offspring in the paths of knowledge and virtue—to administer consolation to the sick and the dying—in a word, to turn all the numerous incidents of domestic life to the moral and religious improvement of those over whom it is their business and sacred duty to exercise a constant and parental supervision? Alas! my friends, there is scarcely any thing in all nature so illy qualified to fulfil these momentous obligations, as a young lady educated in what is called the fashionable style—unless, by the providence of God, she may have been first imbued under the parental roof, with moral and religious principles too strong to be overcome by such powerful engines of destruction as are constantly at work to destroy them, in what are called, by way of pre-eminence, "fashionable schools." I do not mean to say that the extirpation of moral and religious principle is really the object there aimed at. No, far from it; for I dare affirm that many of the persons thus busily engaged, perhaps the whole of them, really believe that they are fast accomplishing a very great and good work. But the sum and substance of it, when stript of all its vain illusions, is nothing more nor less, in fact, than a very laborious and excessively expensive process to unfit the unfortunate subjects of it for every kind of life but such as they are taught to lead at school; and that is, to value all merely external acquirements far above every moral qualification, and to seek their chief happiness in the amount of admiration they can procure for these very superficial and comparatively worthless attainments. They come forth admirably prepared for a life of alternate excitement and gratification; but for the real Christian life of self-control, self-denial, and humble righteousness, they probably have not so much as heard of it, unless perchance when they have gone to church. They can use their hands, feet and eyes most exquisitely in attracting admiration; but when compelled to apply themselves to any of the homely, but really essential purposes of life, they find themselves most sadly embarrassed, if not utterly at a loss how to proceed. Are the poor girls to blame for all this? Far from it; they must have been something more or less than human beings to turn out differently. The fault—nay, I must call it the crime—if such misapplication of the talents which God has given them for far different purposes be criminal, lies chiefly at the parent's door. But for them there would be no such course of Education in the world. It is indeed a course which prepares them admirably for what may truly be called public life; instead of qualifying them to adorn that which is almost entirely private and domestic—that in which an immense majority of females are destined to live and to die. What is the consequence of this incongruity—this manifest disagreement between the matters taught, and the ends to which they must generally be applied? What is the aptitude of the means to the great purposes which parents should aim to accomplish? Are they favorable or not to domestic happiness? If music, drawing, dressing, and dancing, with a smattering of some living foreign language, garnished with a few beggarly elements of Natural Philosophy, Chemistry, Geology, and Botany, are the principal ingredients in this happiness, then are the chief pursuits of fashionable female Education eminently calculated to promote it. But if the following view from one of our most distinguished moral and religious writers of what female Education should be, has any truth or justice in it, our prevalent systems of fashionable Education exhibit a most lamentable deficiency in almost all essential points. This admirable writer says, in the form of advice to a young man—"For my own part, I call Education—not that which smothers a woman with accomplishments, but that which tends to consolidate a firm and regular system of character—that which tends to form a friend, a companion, a wife. I call Education, not that which is made of the shreds and patches of useless arts, but that which inculcates principles, polishes taste, regulates temper, cultivates reason, subdues the passions, directs the feelings, habituates to reflection, trains to self-denial, and more especially, that which refers all actions, feelings, sentiments, tastes, and passions to the love and fear of God." Elsewhere the same author remarks—"In character as in architecture, just proportion is beauty. The ornaments which decorate, do not support the edifice." Again it is said—"A man of sense who loves home, and lives at home, requires a wife who can and will be at half the expense of mind necessary for keeping up the cheerful, animating, elegant intercourse which forms so great a part of the bond of union between intellectual and well bred persons. The exhibiting, the displaying wife may entertain your company; but it is only the informed, the refined, the cultivated woman, who can entertain yourself; and I presume whenever you marry, you will marry primarily for yourself, and not for your friends; you will want a companion—an artist you may hire."

Should any person doubt the preference usually given to what are called accomplishments, over matters of infinitely higher real value, let them ask as many pupils as they please, "what inquiries do your parents, guardians, and friends most frequently make relative to your studies and progress at school?" The answers will furnish undeniable proof; for a very large proportion will be found to have been substantially like the following: "How do you come on in your Music, your Dancing, your Drawing, or your French?" according as they have been striving to acquire one or more of these inestimable outfits for their progress through Time to the realms of Eternity. It is pitiable, most pitiable, to see the thousands of innocent little girls throughout our country, many of them without the slightest taste or talent for these things, still laboring four, five, or six hours in every twenty-four, to gain a little elementary knowledge of what they will generally abandon immediately after leaving school, or at farthest, as soon as they get married—to gain which knowledge has been the chief object, the painful toil for so many irrevocable years of all this warring against nature, common sense, and moral fitness. But suppose the success of such training as ample as heart can wish, and the poor little creatures are made prodigies of early proficiency in arts, which are very soon to be of little or no real use to them? Is it politic—is it wise—in fact, is it not a most sinful breach of parental duty, to impart to our daughters, as among the most desirable things in life, strong tastes which they can scarcely gratify at all without frequently seeking company abroad, nor often indulge at home, unless by neglecting some of those important, indispensable domestic employments which devolve exclusively on the mistress of the family?

Let it not be inferred from any of the foregoing remarks, that I am an enemy to what are called fashionable schools—my enmity extends only to some of their practices. Let them be reformed, and I shall have no enmity whatever to the title "fashionable," if it be deemed essential to gain scholars for those who keep them. Let them make it fashionable to fit their pupils for private life, and for all its necessary duties, by giving them genuine moral and religious principles first and above all things; then let accomplishments follow in their proper, but very subordinate place, and they will have no warmer friend than myself.

I am well aware that I subject myself to the charge of great presumption in censuring, as I have done, many of the principal matters taught at present in fashionable, as well as other schools, both for boys and girls; and to this charge I am prepared patiently to submit, provided it be made, if at all, after a full, fair, and candid examination of all that I have said on these topics. To retract however, my accusations, will be impossible, unless I could rid myself of the conscientious belief, and thorough conviction, that not only the temporal, but eternal happiness, both of the present and future generations, depends on a radical change being made in regard to the principal objects of Education, as well as in the means of attaining them. These must be to prepare us for this life—not as an end, but only as the means of attaining happiness in the next.

My business, however, being more to point out faults, than remedies—rather to describe diseases, than to offer nostrums for their removal, I shall leave the curative process to other hands, sincerely hoping that it may be attempted by some much abler moral physicians, who will apply themselves to the Herculean task with a degree of zeal, vigor, and perseverance fully commensurate to the difficulty and vital importance of the undertaking. There can be no greater object of human ambition—no more exalted purpose for human effort—nor any human occupation, the results of which, if the laborers in this sacred vineyard be successful, can compare with this either in degree or extent—since human happiness, both temporal and eternal, is its end, and must be its final consummation. Riches often perish, and are followed by poverty, wretchedness, and extreme suffering. Honors frequently fade away, or are snatched from us, to be succeeded by persecution, calumny, hatred, and disgrace. Sensual gratifications may never come at all, or if they do, bitter recollections, bodily diseases—nay, incurable remorse for their indulgence, rarely fail to come soon after; and all this too in defiance, as it were, of what the world generally calls "good Education." But pure Religion and true Christian morality impart a peace to the soul which nothing in nature can destroy, nor even long disturb; while the unutterable joys and delights of a well spent life are the sure fruits, the certain rewards of every system of instruction well followed out, which, without any exclusion either of science, literature, foreign languages, or tasteful accomplishments, makes the gospel of our blessed Saviour its beginning, its middle, and its end.

Milton is indebted for some of the finest passages in the Paradise Lost to Marino's "Sospetti D'Herode."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LOSS OF BREATH.

A TALE A LA BLACKWOOD. BY EDGAR A. POE.

O breathe not, &c.—Moore's Melodies.

The most notorious ill-fortune must, in the end, yield to the untiring courage of philosophy—as the most stubborn city to the ceaseless vigilance of an enemy. Salmanezer, as we have it in the holy writings, lay three years before Samaria: yet it fell. Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself seven in Nineveh: but to no purpose. Troy expired at the close of the second lustrum: and Azoth, as Aristæus declares upon his honor as a gentleman, opened at last her gates to Psammitticus, after having barred them for the fifth part of a century.

* * * * *

"Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!"—said I to my wife on the morning after our wedding—"thou witch!—thou hag!—thou whippersnapper!—thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced quintessence of all that is abominable!—thou—thou—" Here standing upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and more decided epithet of opprobrium which should not fail, if ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance, when, to my extreme horror and astonishment, I discovered that I had lost my breath.

The phrases "I am out of breath," "I have lost my breath," &c. are often enough repeated in common conversation, but it had never occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak could boná fide and actually happen! Imagine—that is if you have a fanciful turn—imagine I say, my wonder—my consternation—my despair!

There is a good genius, however, which has never, at any time, entirely deserted me. In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a sense of propriety, et le chemin des passions me conduit—as Rousseau says it did him—à la philosophie veritable.

Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree the occurrence had affected me, I unhesitatingly determined to conceal at all events the matter from my wife until farther experience should discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity. Altering my countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its bepuffed and distorted appearance, to an expression of arch and coquettish benignity, I gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and a kiss on the other, and without saying one syllable, (Furies! I could not,) left her astonished at my drollery, as I pirouetted out of the room in a Pas de Zephyr.

Behold me then safely ensconced in my private boudoir, a fearful instance of the ill consequences attending upon irascibility—alive with the qualifications of the dead—dead with the propensities of the living—an anomaly on the face of the earth—being very calm, yet breathless.

Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was entirely gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my life had been at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror. Hard fate!—yet there was some alleviation to the first overwhelming paroxysm of my sorrow. I found upon trial that the powers of utterance which, upon my inability to proceed in the conversation with my wife, I then concluded to be totally destroyed, were in fact only partially impeded, and I discovered that had I, at that interesting crisis, dropped my voice to a singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued to her the communication of my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the breath, but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat.

Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed in meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory kind. A thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession of my soul—and even the phantom Suicide flitted across my brain; but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I shudderd at self-murder as the most decided of atrocities, while the tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very water-dog wheezed assiduously under the table, each taking to itself much merit for the strength of its lungs, and all obviously done in derision of my own pulmonary incapacity.

Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length heard the footstep of my wife descending the staircase. Being now assured of her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart to the scene of my disaster.

Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous search. It was possible, I thought, that concealed in some obscure corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be found the lost object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory—it might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many points of philosophy, are still very unphilosophical. William Godwin, however, says in his "Mandeville," that "invisible things are the only realities." This, all will allow, is a case in point. I would have the judicious reader pause before accusing such asseverations of an undue quantum of absurdity. Anaxagoras—it will be remembered—maintained that snow is black. This I have since found to be the case.

Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be only a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle of billets-doux from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well here observe that this confirmation of my lady's partiality for Mr. W. occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lacko'breath should admire any thing so dissimilar to myself was a natural and necessary evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent appearance, and, at the same time somewhat diminutive in stature. What wonder then that the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance, and his altitude which has grown into a proverb, should have met with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs. Lacko'breath? It is by logic similar to this that true philosophy is enabled to set misfortune at defiance. But to return.

My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet after closet—drawer after drawer—corner after corner—were scrutinized to no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself sure of my prize, having, in rummaging a dressing-case, accidentally demolished a bottle (I had a remarkably sweet breath) of Hewitt's "Seraphic and Highly-Scented Extract of Heaven or Oil of Archangels"—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the liberty of recommending.

With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—there to ponder upon some method of eluding my wife's penetration, until I could make arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I might, with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my unhappy calamity—a calamity calculated, even more than beggary, to estrange the affections of the multitude, and to draw down upon the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous and the happy. I was not long in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I committed to memory the entire tragedies of ——, and ——. I had the good fortune to recollect that in the accentuation of these dramas, or at least of such portion of them as is allotted to their heroes, the tones of voice in which I found myself deficient were altogether unnecessary, and that the deep guttural was expected to reign monotonously throughout.

I practised for some time by the borders of a well-frequented marsh—herein, however, having no reference to a similar proceeding of Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and conscientiously my own. Thus armed at all points, I determined to make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten with a passion for the stage. In this I succeeded to a miracle; and to every question or suggestion found myself at liberty to reply in my most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some passage from the tragedies, any portion of which, as I soon took great pleasure in observing, would apply equally well to any particular subject. It is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of such passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint—the showing my teeth—the working my knees—the shuffling my feet—or in any of those unmentionable graces which are now justly considered the characteristics of a popular performer. To be sure they spoke of confining me in a straight jacket—but good God! they never suspected me of having lost my breath.

Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very early one morning in the mail stage for ——, giving it to be understood among my acquaintances that business of the last importance required my immediate personal attendance.

The coach was crammed to repletion—but in the uncertain twilight the features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without making any effectual resistance I suffered myself to be placed between two gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while a third, of a size larger, requesting pardon for the liberty he was about to take, threw himself upon my body at full length, and falling asleep in an instant, drowned all my guttural ejaculations for relief, in a snore which would have put to the blush the roarings of a Phalarian bull. Happily the state of my respiratory faculties rendered suffocation an accident entirely out of the question.

As however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the outskirts of the city, my tormentor arising and adjusting his shirt-collar, thanked me in a very friendly manner for my civility. Seeing that I remained motionless, (all my limbs were dislocated, and my head twisted on one side,) his apprehensions began to be excited; and arousing the rest of the passengers, he communicated, in a very decided manner, his opinion that a dead man had been palmed upon them during the night for a living boná fide and responsible fellow-traveller—here giving me a thump on the right eye, by way of evidencing the truth of his suggestion.

Thereupon all, one after another, (there were nine in company) believed it their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising physician, too, having applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and found me without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was pronounced a true bill; and the whole party expressed their determination to endure tamely no such impositions for the future, and to proceed no farther with any such carcasses for the present.

I was here accordingly thrown out at the sign of the "Crow," (by which tavern the coach happened to be passing) without meeting with any farther accident than the breaking of both my arms under the left hind wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the driver the justice to state that he did not forget to throw after me the largest of my trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my head, fractured my skull in a manner at once interesting and extraordinary.

The landlord of the "Crow," who is a hospitable man, finding that my trunk contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little trouble he might take in my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon of his acquaintance, and delivered me to his care with a bill and receipt for five and twenty dollars.

The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations immediately. Having, however, cut off my ears, he discovered signs of animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring apothecary with whom to consult in the emergency. In case, however, of his suspicions with regard to my existence proving ultimately correct, he, in the meantime, made an incision in my stomach, and removed several of my viscera for private dissection.

The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I endeavored to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might, and making the most furious contortions—for the operations of the surgeon had, in a measure, restored me to the possession of my faculties. All, however, was attributed to the effects of a new Galvanic Battery, wherewith the apothecary, who is really a man of information, performed several curious experiments, in which, from my personal share in their fulfilment I could not help feeling deeply interested. It was a source of mortification to me nevertheless, that although I made several attempts at conversation, my powers of speech were so entirely in abeyance, that I could not even open my mouth; much less then make reply to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which, under other circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the Hippocratian Pathology would have afforded me a ready confutation.

Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners remanded me for further examination. I was taken up into a garret; and the surgeon's lady having accommodated me with drawers and stockings, the surgeon himself fastened my hands, and tied up my jaws with a pocket handkerchief—then bolted the door on the outside as he hurried to his dinner, leaving me alone to silence and to meditation.

I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken had not my mouth been tied up by the pocket-handkerchief. Consoling myself with this reflection, I was mentally repeating some passages of the ——, as is my custom before resigning myself to sleep, when two cats, of a greedy and vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall, leaped up with a flourish à la Catalani, and alighting opposite one another on my visage, betook themselves to unseemly and indecorous contention for the paltry consideration of my nose.

But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the throne of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the cutting off his nose gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the loss of a few ounces of my countenance proved the salvation of my body. Aroused by the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst, at a single effort, the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking across the room I cast a glance of contempt at the belligerents, and throwing open the sash to their extreme horror and disappointment, precipitated myself—very dexterously—from the window.

The mail-robber W——, to whom I bore a singular resemblance, was at this moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected for his execution in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long-continued ill health, had obtained him the privilege of remaining unmanacled; and habited in his gallows costume—a dress very similar to my own—he lay at full length in the bottom of the hangman's cart (which happened to be under the windows of the surgeon at the moment of my precipitation) without any other guard than the driver who was asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry, who were drunk.

As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the vehicle. W——, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity. Leaping up immediately he bolted out behind, and turning down an alley, was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits aroused by the bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of the transaction. Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart of the felon, standing upright in the cart before their eyes, they were of opinion that "the rascal, (meaning W——) was after making his escape," (so they expressed themselves) and, having communicated this opinion to one another, they took each a dram, and then knocked me down with the but-ends of their muskets.

It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of course nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my inevitable fate. I resigned myself thereto, with a feeling half stupid, half acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the noose about my neck. The drop fell. My convulsions were said to be extraordinary. Several gentlemen swooned, and some ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit, too, availed himself of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the spot, his admirable painting of the "Marsyas flayed alive."

I will endeavor to depict my sensations upon the gallows. To write upon such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony wrote a treatise upon drunkenness.

Die I certainly did not. The sudden jerk given to my neck upon the falling of the drop, merely proved a corrective to the unfortunate twist afforded me by the gentleman in the coach. Although my body certainly was, I had, alas! no breath to be suspended; and but for the shaking of the rope, the pressure of the knot under my ear, and the rapid determination of blood to the brain, should, I dare say, have experienced very little inconvenience.

The latter feeling, however, grew momentarily more painful. I heard my heart beating with violence—the veins in my hands and wrists swelled nearly to bursting—my temples throbbed tempestuously—and I felt that my eyes were starting from their sockets. Yet when I say that in spite of all this my sensations were not absolutely intolerable, I will not be believed.

There were noises in my ears—first like the tolling of huge bells—then like the beating of a thousand drums—then, lastly, like the low, sullen murmurs of the sea. But these noises were very far from disagreeable.

Although, too, the powers of my mind were confused and distorted, yet I was—strange to say!—well aware of such confusion and distortion. I could, with unerring promptitude determine at will in what particulars my sensations were correct—and in what particulars I wandered from the path. I could even feel with accuracy how far—to what very point, such wanderings had misguided me, but still without the power of correcting my deviations. I took besides, at the same time, a wild delight in analyzing my conceptions.¹

¹ The general reader will I dare say recognize, in these sensations of Mr. Lacko'breath, much of the absurd metaphysicianism of the redoubted Schelling.

Memory, which, of all other faculties, should have first taken its departure, seemed on the contrary to have been endowed with quadrupled power. Each incident of my past life flitted before me like a shadow. There was not a brick in the building where I was born—not a dog-leaf in the primer I had thumbed over when a child—not a tree in the forest where I hunted when a boy—not a street in the cities I had traversed when a man—that I did not at that time most palpably behold. I could repeat to myself entire lines, passages, names, acts, chapters, books, from the studies of my earlier days; and while, I dare say, the crowd around me were blind with horror, or aghast with awe, I was alternately with Æschylus, a demi-god, or with Aristophanes, a frog.

* * * * *

A dreamy delight now took hold upon my spirit, and I imagined that I had been eating opium, or feasting upon the Hashish of the old Assassins. But glimpses of pure, unadulterated reason—during which I was still buoyed up by the hope of finally escaping that death which hovered, like a vulture above me—were still caught occasionally by my soul.

By some unusual pressure of the rope against my face, a portion of the cap was chafed away, and I found to my astonishment that my powers of vision were not altogether destroyed. A sea of waving heads rolled around me. In the intensity of my delight I eyed them with feelings of the deepest commiseration, and blessed, as I looked upon the haggard assembly, the superior benignity of my proper stars.

I now reasoned, rapidly I believe—profoundly I am sure—upon principles of common law—propriety of that law especially, for which I hung—absurdities in political economy which till then I had never been able to acknowledge—dogmas in the old Aristotelians now generally denied, but not the less intrinsically true—detestable school formulæ in Bourdon, in Garnier, in Lacroix—synonymes in Crabbe—lunar-lunatic theories in St. Pierre—falsities in the Pelham novels—beauties in Vivian Grey—more than beauties in Vivian Grey—profundity in Vivian Grey—genius in Vivian Grey—every thing in Vivian Grey.

Then came, like a flood, Coleridge, Kant, Fitche, and Pantheism—then like a deluge, the Academie, Pergola, La Scala, San Carlo, Paul, Albert, Noblet, Ronzi Vestris, Fanny Bias, and Taglioni.

* * * * *

A rapid change was now taking place in my sensations. The last shadows of connection flitted away from my meditations. A storm—a tempest of ideas, vast, novel, and soul-stirring, bore my spirit like a feather afar off. Confusion crowded upon confusion like a wave upon a wave. In a very short time Schelling himself would have been satisfied with my entire loss of self-identity. The crowd became a mass of mere abstraction.

About this period I became aware of a heavy fall and shock—but, although the concussion jarred throughout my frame, I had not the slightest idea of its having been sustained in my own proper person; and thought of it as of an incident peculiar to some other existence—an idiosyncrasy belonging to some other Ens.

It was at this moment—as I afterwards discovered—that having been suspended for the full term of execution, it was thought proper to remove my body from the gallows—this, the more especially as the real culprit had now been retaken and recognized.

Much sympathy was now exercised in my behalf—and as no one in the city appeared to identify my body, it was ordered that I should be interred in the public sepulchre early in the following morning. I lay, in the meantime, without signs of life—although from the moment, I suppose, when the rope was loosened from my neck, a dim consciousness of my situation oppressed me like the night-mare.

I was laid out in a chamber sufficiently small, and very much encumbered with furniture—yet to me it appeared of a size to contain the universe. I have never before or since, in body or in mind, suffered half so much agony as from that single idea. Strange! that the simple conception of abstract magnitude—of infinity—should have been accompanied with pain. Yet so it was. "With how vast a difference," said I, "in life and in death—in time and in eternity—here and hereafter, shall our merest sensations be imbodied!"

The day died away, and I was aware that it was growing dark—yet the same terrible conceit still overwhelmed me. Nor was it confined to the boundaries of the apartment—it extended, although in a more definite manner, to all objects, and, perhaps I will not be understood in saying that it extended also to all sentiments. My fingers as they lay cold, clammy, stiff, and pressing helplessly one against another, were, in my imagination, swelled to a size according with the proportions of the Antoeus. Every portion of my frame betook of their enormity. The pieces of money—I well remember—which being placed upon my eyelids, failed to keep them effectually closed, seemed huge, interminable chariot-wheels of the Olympia, or of the Sun.

Yet it is very singular that I experienced no sense of weight—of gravity. On the contrary I was put to much inconvenience by that buoyancy—that tantalizing difficulty of keeping down, which is felt by the swimmer in deep water. Amid the tumult of my terrors I laughed with a hearty internal laugh to think what incongruity there would be—could I arise and walk—between the elasticity of my motion, and the mountain of my form.

* * * * *

The night came—and with it a new crowd of horrors. The consciousness of my approaching interment, began to assume new distinctness, and consistency—yet never for one moment did I imagine that I was not actually dead.

"This then"—I mentally ejaculated—"this darkness which is palpable, and oppresses with a sense of suffocation—this—this—is indeed death. This is death—this is death the terrible—death the holy. This is the death undergone by Regulus—and equally by Seneca. Thus—thus, too, shall I always remain—always—always remain. Reason is folly, and Philosophy a lie. No one will know my sensations, my horror—my despair. Yet will men still persist in reasoning, and philosophizing, and making themselves fools. There is, I find, no hereafter but this. This—this—this—is the only Eternity!—and what, O Baalzebub!—what an Eternity!—to lie in this vast—this awful void—a hideous, vague, and unmeaning anomaly—motionless, yet wishing for motion—powerless, yet longing for power—forever, forever, and forever!"

But the morning broke at length—and with its misty and gloomy dawn arrived in triple horror the paraphernalia of the grave. Then—and not till then—was I fully sensible of the fearful fate hanging over me. The phantasms of the night had faded away with its shadows, and the actual terrors of the yawning tomb left me no heart for the bug-bear speculations of Transcendentalism.

I have before mentioned that my eyes were but imperfectly closed—yet as I could not move them in any degree, those objects alone which crossed the direct line of vision were within the sphere of my comprehension. But across that line of vision spectral and stealthy figures were continually flitting, like the ghosts of Banquo. They were making hurried preparations for my interment. First came the coffin which they placed quietly by my side. Then the undertaker with attendants and a screw-driver. Then a stout man whom I could distinctly see and who took hold of my feet—while one whom I could only feel lifted me by the head and shoulders. Together they placed me in the coffin, and drawing the shroud up over my face proceeded to fasten down the lid. One of the screws, missing its proper direction, was screwed by the carelessness of the undertaker deep—deep—down into my shoulder. A convulsive shudder ran throughout my frame. With what horror, with what sickening of heart did I reflect that one minute sooner a similar manifestation of life, would, in all probability, have prevented my inhumation. But alas! it was now too late, and hope died away within my bosom as I felt myself lifted upon the shoulders of men—carried down the stairway—and thrust within the hearse.

During the brief passage to the cemetery my sensations, which for some time had been lethargic and dull, assumed, all at once, a degree of intense and unnatural vivacity for which I can in no manner account. I could distinctly hear the rustling of the plumes—the whispers of the attendants—the solemn breathings of the horses of death. Confined as I was in that narrow and strict embrace, I could feel the quicker or slower movement of the procession—the restlessness of the driver—the windings of the road as it led us to the right or to the left. I could distinguish the peculiar odor of the coffin—the sharp acid smell of the steel screws. I could see the texture of the shroud as it lay close against my face; and was even conscious of the rapid variations in light and shade which the flapping to and fro of the sable hangings occasioned within the body of the vehicle.

In a short time however, we arrived at the place of sculpture, and I felt myself deposited within the tomb. The entrance was secured—they departed—and I was left alone. A line of Marston's "Malcontent,"

"Death's a good fellow and keeps open house,"

struck me at that moment as a palpable lie. Sullenly I lay at length, the quick among the dead—and Anacharsis inter Scythas.

From what I overheard early in the morning, I was led to believe that the occasions when the vault was made use of were of very rare occurrence. It was probable that many months might elapse before the doors of the tomb would be again unbarred—and even should I survive until that period, what means could I have more than at present, of making known my situation or of escaping from the coffin? I resigned myself, therefore, with much tranquillity to my fate, and fell, after many hours, into a deep and deathlike sleep.

How long I remained thus is to me a mystery. When I awoke my limbs were no longer cramped with the cramp of death—I was no longer without the power of motion. A very slight exertion was sufficient to force off the lid of my prison—for the dampness of the atmosphere had already occasioned decay in the woodwork around the screws.

My steps as I groped around the sides of my habitation were, however, feeble and uncertain, and I felt all the gnawings of hunger with the pains of intolerable thirst. Yet, as time passed away, it is strange that I experienced little uneasiness from these scourges of the earth, in comparisons with the more terrible visitations of the fiend Ennui. Stranger still were the resources by which I endeavored to banish him from my presence.

The sepulchre was large and subdivided into many compartments, and I busied myself in examining the peculiarities of their construction. I determined the length and breadth of my abode. I counted and recounted the stones of the masonry. But there were other methods by which I endeavored to lighten the tedium of my hours. Feeling my way among the numerous coffins ranged in order around, I lifted them down, one by one, and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about the mortality within.

"This," I reflected, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated, and rotund—"this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word, an unhappy—an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not to walk, but to waddle—to pass through life not like a human being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but like a rhinoceros.

"His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions—and his circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step forward, it has been his misfortune to take two towards the right, and three towards the left. His studies have been confined to the Philosophy of Crabbe.

"He can have had no idea of the wonders of a Pirouette. To him a Pas de Papillon has been an abstract conception.

"He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis.

"Heat has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and suffocation—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon Ossa.

"He was short of breath—to say all in a word—he was short of breath.

"He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was the inventor of self-moving fans—wind-sails—and ventilators. He patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker—and died miserably in attempting to smoke a cigar.

"His was a case in which I feel deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathize."

"But here," said I—"here"—and I dragged spitefully from its receptacle a gaunt, tall, and peculiar-looking form, whose remarkable appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome familiarity—"here," said I—"here is a wretch entitled to no earthly commiseration." Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct view of my subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to his nose, and, causing him to assume a sitting position upon the ground, held him, thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued my soliloquy.

—"entitled," I repeated, "to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed would think of compassionating a shadow? Besides—has he not had his full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the originator of tall monuments—shot-towers—lightning-rods—lombardy-poplars. His treatise upon 'Shades and Shadows' has immortalized him.

"He went early to college and studied Pneumatics. He then came home—talked eternally—and played upon the French horn.

"He patronized the bag-pipes. Captain Barclay, who walked against Time, would not walk against him. Windham and Allbreath were his favorite writers. He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu corrumpitur, like the fama pudicitiæ in Hieronymus.² He was indubitably a"——

² Tenera res in feminis fama pudicitiæ et quasi flos pulcherrimus, cito ad levem marcessit auram, levique flatu corrumpitur—maxime, &c.—Hieronymus ad Salvinam.

"How can you?—how—can—you?"—interrupted the object of my animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate exertion, the bandage around his jaws—"how can you, Mr. Lacko'breath, be so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you not see how they had fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if you know any thing—what a vast superfluity of breath I have to dispose of! If you do not know, however, sit down and you shall see. In my situation it is really a great relief to be able to open one's mouth—to be able to expatiate—to be able to communicate with a person like yourself who do not think yourself called upon at every period to interrupt the thread of a gentleman's discourse. Interruptions are annoying and should undoubtedly be abolished—don't you think so?—no reply, I beg you,—one person is enough to be speaking at a time. I shall be done, by and bye, and then you may begin. How the devil, sir, did you get into this place?—not a word I beseech you—been here some time myself—terrible accident!—heard of it I suppose—awful calamity!—walking under your windows—some short while ago—about the time you were stage-struck—horrible occurrence! heard of 'catching one's breath,' eh?—hold your tongue I tell you!—I caught somebody else's!—had always too much of my own—met Blab at the corner of the street—would'nt give me a chance for a word—could'nt get in a syllable edgeways—attacked, consequently, with Epilepsis—Blab made his escape—damn all fools!—they took me up for dead, and put me in this place—pretty doings all of them!—heard all you said about me—every word a lie—horrible!—wonderful!—outrageous!—hideous!—incomprehensible!—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera"——

It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a discourse; or the extravagant joy with which I became gradually convinced that the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman—whom I soon recognized as my neighbor Windenough—was, in fact, the identical expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with my wife. Time—place—and incidental circumstances rendered it a matter beyond question. I did not however, immediately release my hold upon Mr. W.'s proboscis—not at least during the long period in which the inventor of lombardy poplars continued to favor me with his explanations. In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence which has ever been my predominating trait.

I reflected that many difficulties might still lie in the path of my preservation which extreme exertion on my part would be alone able to surmount. Many persons, I considered, are prone to estimate commodities in their possession—however valueless to the then proprietor—however troublesome, or distressing—in precise ratio with the advantages to be derived by others from their attainment—or by themselves from their abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr. Windenough? In displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was at present so willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to the exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world—I remembered with a sigh—who will not scruple to take unfair opportunities with even a next door neighbor—and (this remark is from Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most anxious to throw off the burden of their own calamities that they feel the least desirous of relieving them in others.

Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my grasp upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to model my reply.

"Monster!"—I began in a tone of the deepest indignation—"monster! and double-winded idiot!—Dost thou whom, for thine iniquities, it has pleased Heaven to accurse with a two-fold respiration—dost thou, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an old acquaintance?—'I lie,' forsooth!—and 'hold my tongue,' to be sure—pretty conversation, indeed, to a gentleman with a single breath!—all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer—to curtail the superfluities of thine unhappy respiration." Like Brutus I paused for a reply—with which, like a tornado, Mr. Windenough immediately overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon protestation, and apology upon apology. There were no terms with which he was unwilling to comply, and there were none of which I failed to take the fullest advantage.

Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered me the respiration—for which—having carefully examined it—I gave him afterwards a receipt.

I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in a manner so cursory of a transaction so impalpable. It will be thought that I should have entered more minutely into the details of an occurrence by which—and all this is very true—much new light might be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of physical philosophy.

To all this, I am sorry, that I cannot reply. A hint is the only answer which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances—but I think it much safer upon consideration to say as little as possible about an affair so delicate—so delicate, I repeat, and at the same time involving the interests of a third party whose resentment I have not the least desire, at this moment, of incurring.

We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of our resuscitated voices was soon efficiently apparent. Scissors, the Whig Editor, republished a treatise upon "the nature and origin of subterranean noises." A reply—rejoinder—confutation—and justification followed in the columns of an ultra Gazette. It was not until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy, that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both parties to have been decidedly in the wrong.

I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in a life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again recalling to the attention of the reader the merits of that indiscriminate philosophy which is a sure and ready shield against those shafts of calamity which can be neither seen, felt, nor fully understood. It was in the spirit of this wisdom that, among the ancient Hebrews, it was believed the gates of Heaven would be inevitably opened to that sinner, or saint, who with good lungs and implicit confidence, should vociferate the word "Amen!" It was in the spirit of this wisdom that when a great plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain attempted for its removal, Epimenides—as Laertius relates in his second book of the life of that philosopher—advised the erection of a shrine and temple to prostekonti Theo—"to the proper God."

The "Acajou et Zirphile" of Du Clos is a whimsical and amusing Fairy Tale, ingeniously composed in illustration of a series of grotesque, and extravagant engravings, whose figures, rats, apes, butterflies, and men, have no earthly meaning or connection but that given by the pen of the writer.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CUPID'S SPORT.

"And is this Cupid's realm?—if so, good by!
Cupid, and Cupid's votaries I fly:
No offering to his altar do I bring—
No bleeding heart, nor hymeneal ring."

In the third number of the Messenger, my good reader, you and I were engaged in taking a peep at Cupid's Sport. Unless you have fallen out with me, (as I certainly have not with you,) we will again travel together, in a half merry, half serious mood, through some three or four pages. We shall perhaps be forced to scramble over hedges matted with brambles, or amble along some grassy mead or velvet lawn; it may be we

"Must pore where babbling waters flow,
And watch unfolding roses blow."

You no doubt remember in what a sad plight we left our young friend Timothy Wilberforce; how he had been gradually led on by Cupid, buoyed up and transported, till he attained within a step of the pinnacle of bliss—and then, how the mischief-making God had precipitated him to the very brink of despair; how, like Sisyphus,

"Up the high hill he heav'd the huge round stone;"

and how

"The huge round stone resulting with a bound,
Thunder'd impetuous down, and smoked along the ground."

In fine, he had been caught and caged, manacled, cuffed, and then kicked, (that's the word,) by our good little, sweet little Molly, to his heart's content. Alas! this truly is one of the miseries of human life. Had Tim received a kick from a man fashioned like himself, he might at least have returned the blow. Had it been bestowed by one fashioned after the manner of the Houyhnims, with hock and hoof, or had it been driven full in his face by an ass, shod with a double set of irons, he might have consoled himself with the reflection that some skilful surgeon would replace the mangled elements, or kind nature reproduce a healthy action. But the impress of a damsel's foot upon a generous heart was far more difficult to efface. The wound it inflicted, had baffled through all ages the skill of anatomists, phrenologists, and philosophers. Tim then, could only bewail the hopelessness of his situation in the mournful strains of the gentle Corydon:

"She is faithless, and I am undone.
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason instruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure."

These were the first sensations of his softened soul, but as time moved on with his unslackened wing, other thoughts unbidden sprung upon his mind. Memory indeed, for awhile continued to brood over "the ills that flesh is heir to," but the good Tim, at last, came to the same conclusion with the wise McPherson, that

"To cut his throat, a brave man scorns,
So, instead of his throat, he cut—his corns."

Tim, like all honest bachelors, swore most roundly, that he would never more be caught by woman's wiles; that she was heartless, faithless, deceitful, "and desperately wicked." Alas! poor Tim knew not the susceptibility of his own heart; and Cupid but smiled to think how easily he could hold our hero in magic thraldom. Tim indeed could cry out in the agony of woe,

"Have I not had my brain sear'd, heart riven,
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away?"

but still, blindfold and unconscious, he would find himself worse than ever entangled and ensnared. A ringlet tastefully displayed, a soft melting eye, it might be a keen piercing one, it mattered not to him, a dimpled cheek, a laughter making mouth, were to him more attractive, than a diamond to a miser, a ship with her canvass swelling to the breeze to the jolly tar, or a well fed steed to a Dutchman's fancy. The very hopes he once cherished, now nipped and blighted; his former fondness for society which he now shunned and despised, served by the contrast to make him doubly gloomy and alone,

"Lone—as the corse within its shroud,
Lone—as a solitary cloud,
A single cloud on a sunny day,
While all the rest of heaven is clear,
A frown upon the atmosphere,
That hath no business to appear
When skies are blue, and earth is gay."

Feeling so doubly lone, Tim would again seek a partner to sympathize in his sorrows, and to whom could he go? to man—cold calculating man? What is man worth in sorrow? Has he the tender sensibility, the warm hearted sympathy that is ever alive in a female's bosom? If you tell him your love sick tale, he will laugh you to scorn, he will frown you down for a puling blockhead; but woman will listen to your griefs, will alleviate your pain, assuage your sorrow, and if she but smiles, Tim would exclaim,

"How she smiled, and I could not but love."

With feelings such as these, Tim accidentally became acquainted with "the lass with the auburn curls." These accidents occur sometimes, so happily and apropos, that we are tempted to believe them not merely the result of casualty; my own opinion is, that they are all devised, planned and executed by that wily urchin cupid, to bring those together, upon whom to sport his strange fantastic freaks.

One autumn's eve, when the sun was low, Catherine and her Cousin Tony issued forth, to ramble along the winding banks of the James River Canal. They were admiring the beauty of the scenery, and occasionally turning to view the dazzling brilliancy of many of the windows in the city, caused by the reflection of the setting sun, producing the effect of an illumination shifting from house to house as they changed their position.

They had progressed along the canal as far as the first water-fall, the situation of which, many of my readers will no doubt remember; not as it is at present, but as it existed a few years ago, before the polishing hand of art had shorn it of half its beauties. There is an arch turned there, spanning the ravine, over which the canal passes at its usual level, and is thus raised, some thirty feet perhaps, above the base of the ravine. Under this arch a pellucid rivulet gently ripples, till reaching the brink of the acclivity below, it leaps and bounds towards the river. Above the sides of this arch, the waste water from the canal rushed headlong, mingling with the clear waters of the rivulet, and dashing foamingly along, or eddying and bubbling among a rugged bed of granite. On the east side of this fall, there was once a rock, raised high above the rest, by the side of which a little cedar grew, over and around whose boughs the wild grape and sweet brier intertwined their branches until they hung a verdant canopy above. This place, adorned as it was with its native drapery, had obtained the name of "Cupid's Cavern,"—for here, many a loving couple, after an evening's walk, would rest, feasting upon the beauties of the surrounding scenery. And here, many a tale of love had been told, which the roar of the water-fall deafened to all, but the ears into which they had been whispered. On the rock just mentioned, by the side of the cavern, Tony and Kate at length seated themselves, and will you believe it, Tony was actually endeavoring to persuade his cousin to permit him, to call her, by a more endearing title.

Tim too, had been attracted by the delicious softness of the evening, to gaze upon the same beauties; he was a little behind them during the walk, but had been so absorbed with his own reflections, that he had scarcely noticed that any one was before him. Here, he had often walked with his once sweet Molly in the days of his happiness, and although he now boasted that his heart was free as air, association necessarily brought to his mind, her whom he wished to banish, and spite of himself, he more than once repeated,

"Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure alone."

A few yards above the fall I have vainly endeavored to describe, there was a little bridge across the canal, then formed of two logs, each about a foot wide, but without railing or safeguard of any kind. From its proximity to "Cupid's Cavern," it might well have been termed the "Bridge of Sighs." These logs had been so long exposed to the weather, and were so much used and worn, as to have become very much decayed and absolutely dangerous. Still, through mere habit, they were daily crossed by many, and their dilapidated condition was scarcely noticed. One had evidently, already, partially given way near the middle, while the other was not in a much more sound condition.

Upon the end of this bridge, Tim determined to rest, and while thoughtfully musing, his eyes fell upon the cousins I have just described, seated on the rock below.

Reader, I cannot tell you all that Tony or Kate said; I wish I could. A word or two must suffice. It is not what they said I care about. I desire you to look at Kate, and then tell me if you can blame Tim for looking too.

"Cousin Kate," said Tony, "Did you ever feel as if you would choke when you attempted to speak?" This was a plain, common place question, and Catherine might have answered straight forward, "Yes, cousin Tony, I have,"—or "No, Tony, I have not;" or "I do not know cuz;"—but, some how or other, girls are strange beings. Catherine said not one word, but began to blush. "I have called you cousin," said Tony, "long enough, Kate." Here the perspiration stood upon Tony's brow, and Kate blushed crimson. "Cousin Tony," said Kate, "It is time for us to be returning home." "Ah Kate," said Tony, "you know how long and how ardently I have loved you; may I not, one day, drop that epithet of Cousin?" Tony looked at Kate for some reply. "Cousin Tony," said Catherine, summoning up all her courage, "we can never be more than friends and cousins." Then Kate's brow began to cool, but whenever Tony would press the matter, all he saw was new blown blushes, for Kate had seen that Tim's eyes were fastened upon her, and from Tony's eager gaze and manner, she well knew a stranger's suspicions must be roused.

Gentle reader, I have told you thus much of Tony's courtship, that you, as well as Tim, might see a few of Katy's blushes. She was as delicately refined in thought and sentiment as you can possibly conceive. Her's was

"A beautiful transparent skin,
Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in;"

so soft, and thin, and white, that you might perceive each pulse as it ebbed and flowed; indeed, whenever her heart was excited by any sudden emotion, the delicate ruby would come and go, till the consciousness of blushing would make her doubly crimson. She would endeavor to conceal her emotions,

"But o'er her bright brow flashed a tumult strange,
And into her clear cheek the blood was brought,
Blood red, as sunset summer clouds, which range
The verge of heaven."

Good reader, I hate formal introductions, and therefore I have not introduced you formally to my heroine, but since I have let you into the secret that Kate's foible was blushing, I must go a little further; when she did blush, she had a habit, as if to cool her brow, of parting her ringlets, and then, carelessly, throwing them back, there wantonly hung

"Down her white neck, long floating auburn curls,
The least of which, would set ten poets raving."

You are not to consider this a description of Katy's person; when I attempt such a delineation, it will be with a flourish of trumpets, louder and longer than Joshua made, when he encompassed the walls of Jericho and blew them into fragments. At present, you see our Catherine in a simple, neat, white dress, which

"Like fleecy clouds about the moon, play'd 'round her."

All this time, Tim, that most notorious contemner of beauty, and the man of all others who could most manfully resist loveliness, "in any shape, in any mood," sat drinking in these unconscious exhibitions of Katy's character and mind. He saw not Tony, much less did he hear or imagine what he said. All he perceived was Catherine's face, and those rich, floating curls. It was indeed cruel in Cupid to place him there. At every succeeding blush, a poisoned arrow flew from his silver bow, and Tim's poor heart fluttered in his bosom. Determining for once, however, to out general Cupid, Tim gallantly resolved upon a hasty flight; accordingly, he took himself across the little bridge, and began sauntering away on the opposite hill.

About the same time, Catherine again insisted upon returning, and Tony finding all effort at persuasion perfectly hopeless, began to put upon the matter the best face he could muster. Taking his cousin's arm he insisted she should vary the walk, by crossing to the other side of the canal, and return to the city in that direction. Kate expressed her uneasiness at crossing this insecure bridge, but as Tony was importunate, she reluctantly consented, not desiring farther to add to his mortification by a positive refusal. Tony, as a man of gallantry naturally would do, placed Catherine upon the soundest of the logs, he himself walking by her side on the weaker of the two, not reflecting that the weaker log would much more easily bear her weight than his. As fate would have it, Catherine became alarmed by the trembling of the bridge, and leaned the more heavily upon Tony for support, and as he was not in a mood to care much whether he broke his own neck or not, he insisted upon proving to his cousin, that the bridge was perfectly secure, and that all her fears were totally groundless. So taking her by the arm, in a careless way, and telling her gaily, "Now mind what you are about," he raised himself upon his feet several times, so as to produce an oscillating motion in the log. At this moment, Tim had turned about to cast one lingering look, merely to inquire with himself, what lassie that might be, when perceiving the danger they were in, he shouted at the top of his voice, "Take care!"—but it was too late,—down went the log with a terrible crash, and poor Tony and sweet Kate were precipitated into the water below, in the middle of the canal, at the deepest point. If ever you have seen in the hand of some ruthless urchin, an innocent bird (which he has just succeeded in securing from his trap,) flurried, gasping and panting with fright, you will have a correct idea of Katy. She gave one shriek as she fell, and then rose almost breathless, gasping and panting in an agony of alarm. Luckily the water was not more than waist deep. Tony went down feet foremost, following the decayed timbers, (pity he had not fallen on his head,) but Catherine, clinging to his arm at the time of the accident, and having her support suddenly taken from her, was precipitated at full length into the water. In an instant, Tim rushed to the spot. Into the canal he went, and catching the terrified Kate in his arms, he brought her safely to the shore. Tony did all he could, but poor fellow he was completely involved among the broken fragments, and though he strove to rescue Kate, it was as much as he could do to extricate himself. Tim knew there was no danger of Tony's drowning, and so he left him to struggle for himself, giving all his attention to Kate, who was truly an object worthy of his care, and yet not the less of his admiration. She, though thoroughly wet, withal looked so grateful, and her countenance expressed so many thanks, and her pitiable situation, together with the freshness of the water, heightened the bloom of her cheek to such a degree, that Tim never once noticed her dress. Well might he have imagined her the beauteous Goddess Thetis, with her silvery drapery, as she issued from her watery mansion. But when she took off her fragile bonnet, to adjust her dishevelled hair, and he viewed

"O'er her white forehead the gilt tresses flow,
Like the rays of the sun on a hillock of snow,"

who could have blamed him, if he had given way to his raptures, and exclaimed,

"My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,
And bartered my freedom for ringlets of gold."

As for Tony, if you could have seen him, as he crept out of the water, with his "long tailed blue," tapering to a point, and dripping like an old rooster under a cart, on a rainy day, with his head up and his tail down, you really would have pitied him; he knew not which way to look, nor what to say. I have seen a dog caught in the act of killing sheep; have seen a wet rat creeping out of a tub; and I saw the gay Tony sneaking out of the canal after having been turned off by his sweetheart, and each of these animals, dog, rat, and Tony, had the same identical sickly phiz. The dog slunk to his kennel, the rat crept to his hole, but Tony was forced to his mistress, who with all imaginable sweetness forgave him in an instant. He ought, if he could, to have crept into an augur hole and hid himself there forever.

However, finding Tim was an old friend of his, he thanked him kindly for his timely assistance, and introduced him to her, of all others, with whom Tim most desired some farther acquaintance.

In a little time, our three friends began to laugh the matter over as well as they could, and being thoroughly drenched, they endeavored to keep each other in countenance, on their way homeward. Tim accompanied Kate to her door, and then, wishing she might experience no farther inconvenience from her accident, and having received a polite invitation to visit the family, retired with Tony to procure a drier suit.

My kind reader, you must listen to me with patience; hereafter, I will not ramble so much at large, but will hasten on with my story. Time's magic wing sped on, and days, weeks and months rolled by. In the mean time, Tim continued his visits to Kate. Sometimes, at an interval of a fortnight; at other times but a week would elapse; then this short week began to appear an entire month; finally, weeks were reduced to days, and days to hours, and Tim was not satisfied unless he paid a visit at least twice a day.

The gossips of the city were thus furnished with a new theme to run riot with, and Tim and Catherine were bandied about at a merciless rate. Some thought it passing strange—others thought it natural enough. "Did you hear Mr. Wilberforce was courting?" said one; "Did you know Miss Catherine was engaged?" said another; "I'll bet my life they will be married!" "I know she has turned him off!" "She will never have him in the world," said a third, "for she is already engaged to her cousin Tony." And thus, Tim was known to be courting, engaged, turned off and jilted, before he himself had ascertained what his fate would be; but the latter opinion, that he was certainly turned off, gained the more currency, particularly as our friend was suddenly called off, by business, to a distant city, where he was compelled to remain for several months. The busy bodies could not but notice, with what a heavy heart he departed, and there could be no possibility of doubt about it. Tim had certainly received his walking papers. No matter, friend Tim, thou must learn

"What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire."

My best wishes attend thee wherever thou goest.

Most persons would suppose, that after the honest denial, and the decent ducking Tony had obtained, that the ardor of his love would have been somewhat cooled, and that he would have been the last person who would ever have attempted again to mention love in Catherine's presence. Not so, Tony. He had been more than once rejected already by his cousin, but because they were cousins, and Catherine had always treated him kindly, Tony was still induced to harbor hope, when almost any other person would only have welcomed despair. He found it impossible "to look and not to love." He was one of those luckless wights, who love and are not beloved, and yet cannot bring themselves to give up the loved object—who, though driven from the presence of their fair ones, continue to cast a lingering look behind, to catch a glimpse of relenting compassion. He reminded me of the glowing description of Lot's wife, once given by an humble divine, when he endeavored to explain to his flock why it was that she continued to look back as she fled from the ill-fated Sodom. "Ah, my brethren," he said, "no doubt the good woman had a pleasant little garden there, filled with all kinds of vegetables, and the remembrance of her greens, and her turnips, her potatoes, tomatoes, her squashes and beans, about which she had experienced many moments of anxiety and vexation, caused her heart to cling to the world, and so from the top of every little knob, she looked,—and looked,—and there she stands, a pillar of salt." If Tony but received a look of recognition, it was sufficient encouragement for him. If he accidentally received a civil bow, in return for a gracious smile, he would imagine himself welcomed to her arms. If he offered his hand, and she did not put her arms akimbo, and look like a very virago, he would return the next morning, and if he was again told of friendship merely, Tony would only express his astonishment, and say, "Why then did you give me such encouragement,—why did you look in that way?" Look in that way! Now the fact is, no matter which way Catherine might have looked, it would have been all the same to Tony. If she looked mild and placid, or fierce and acid; if she had been pensive and musing, or laughing and romping; had she looked out of her right eye athwart her nose, or out of her left athwart her shoulder, or had she not looked at all, "like Paddy, when he shut his eyes to peep in the glass, to see how he looked when asleep," Tony would have discovered ample cause for indulging in hope in each smile, frown, curl of the lip, or play of a muscle. But though, continuing in the same hopeless condition, he always consoled himself by saying,

"She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew,
My path I could hardly discern,
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return."

Time still moved onward. And Catherine still attracted and received the admiration of all who beheld her. One day, as she was seated alone in her parlor, in a somewhat melancholy mood, (for it was a rainy, dreary day,) with a book in her hand, her back to the door, and her head leaning against the sash of the window, she began to hum to herself a little song a friend had lately given her. She would sing a line or two, and pause,—and then again would raise her mellow voice.

"If he return not, ah, she said,
I'll bid adieu to Hope to-morrow."

And this was sung with so much feeling, you could plainly see her heart had given utterance to its inmost sentiments. Her singing was so sweet, we might truly say,

"It was the carol of a bird;
It ceased, and then it came again,
The sweetest song ear ever heard."

The notes however died away, and Kate still sat in a seeming reverie. When we are fairly in one of these musing moods, we will sit for hours, without being able to tell upon what object our eyes or thoughts have been so keenly rivetted. Our senses seem to be closed against ordinary impressions. At any rate, while Catherine continued thus leaning, some one walked lightly into the room, and discovering he was not noticed, gently placed his hands over her eyes without speaking.

"Now, cousin Tony," said Kate, "none of your tricks; I am not in a humor for trifling to-day." Tony was not satisfied with feeling cousin Katy's eyes, but turning her head gently back, was feasting on the face, which a little vexation had slightly ruffled. "I'll pay you for this, Tony," she said, in a sprightlier tone, "I know it is you, so let me go." Tony had often played this trick before. "I thought, after what passed," said Kate, and she was about saying something harsh, but checking herself, she added, "Never mind, Tony." "Indeed, Kate, it is not Tony," said the gentleman, releasing his prisoner.

Reader, you have seen blushes! Had you been with me that day, you would have witnessed "smiles playing with dimples, suffused with blushes, Aurora alone could rival." You would have seen surprise and joy chasing away sorrow from a pensive brow; and from the "joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem," you would have sworn that these were acknowledged lovers.

"Oh, there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart."

Who do you think could have thus intruded and taken such a liberty, other than cousin Tony? It was our old friend Timothy Wilberforce, returned from his travels.

Any one of ordinary comprehension, who could have witnessed this meeting, and seen these looks, would have felt no hesitation in making affidavit to the fact, that Kate had not only never rejected Tim, but that they were upon pretty reasonable terms.

Some of my fair readers, I have no doubt, have already determined, if any engagement actually existed, that Tim was a cold, phlegmatic, inanimate being, or he would have kissed her at every hazard. I know one young lady, who jilted a beau, because he never offered to salute her,—she "had no idea of icicles"—not she. And I know another, who swears! (ladies never swear,) who "vows, 'pon honor, she would turn off any man under the sun, who would have the presumption to approach her with such an intention even." But if the doors were closed, blinds drawn, and they were all alone, and she was sure nobody could see them, I rather think it would not be quite as shocking as some people might imagine. The fact is, my dear madam, Tim was excessively remiss on this occasion, but he must be excused, because, just as he was in the very act, with one hand under Katy's chin, and the other at the back of her head, and just as her little lips began to crimson, in came Katy's dear old aunty! I take my oath, I would have gone the whole figure, and old aunt Tabby might have gone to the ——. (I beg pardon.) Tim and Kate took it out in looking, and

"In the large dark eyes mutual darted flame,"

enough was said and felt to compensate the loss.

Now, you must understand, that for some cause, I never could divine what, aunt Tabby had taken up a mortal antipathy to our friend Tim; indeed, she was his evil genius, and she always managed to step in, at the very moment of all others, when her company was least desired. If he paid a morning visit, and the rest of the family kindly dropped off one by one, (each, by the bye, making a lame excuse for his or her absence,) just as Tim would draw up his chair close along side, and begin those endearments, which all know how to use, but few to express,

"The gentle pressure and the thrilling touch,
The least glance, better understood than words,"

in would pop aunt Tabby, and down she would sit, like a cat at a hole, and sit there for hours. Oh how Tim's heart would sicken. If he made an evening call, and sat till all the family retired to repose, good aunt Tabby did not think it proper for young ladies to be left alone with young gentlemen; such things were not tolerated in her day. Thus did the old lady keep her nightly vigils, rattling away about ten thousand fooleries, and fretting honest Tim more than a legion of devils, and at last, after vainly spending the evening, the poor fellow would slowly depart, growling smothered curses:

"So turns the lion from the nightly fold,
Though high in courage, and with hunger bold,
Long galled by herdsmen, and long vex'd by hounds,
Stiff with fatigue, and fretted sore with wounds:
The darts fly round him from an hundred hands,
And the red terrors of the blazing brands:
'Till late, reluctant, at the dawn of day,
Sour he departs, and quits the untasted prey."

Some readers will say, "what difference would it make if aunt Tabby was present?" I set all such down as utter boobies; for if any one could carry on a courtship, or after engagement could carry on a conversation with his intended, when the "Mother of Vinegar" was present, in the shape of an old maid, and that old maid a sworn enemy, I would unhesitatingly pronounce, that Cupid had nothing in the world to do with the matter.

Tim and Kate however, found opportunities, at other times, to elude even the vigilance of aunt Tabby, and the old lady finding matters were going on swimmingly, in spite of her interruptions and vigils, only became the more determined to break off the match, if it could by possibility be accomplished. The dear old lady never failed to whisper into Katy's ear, every idle slander that the fertility of her own mind enabled her to invent, or that she accidentally picked up among the malicious gossips of the neighborhood, and more than once Katy's faith had been shaken by her plausible inventions. Nevertheless, as yet, Tim was smoothly gliding on the unruffled wave of happiness; all was quiet and calm, and but a few days had elapsed since Kate appointed the period for the consummation of their nuptials.

On a former occasion, when Tim and little Molly were engaged, my readers will remember how Tim endeavored to break the matter to his mother. How he began with a desire to have the old house in which they lived, newly painted, and how, before they came to the conclusion to do so, the matter was suddenly terminated, by the unlucky intrusion of a small friendly epistle, which not only rendered it unnecessary to paint the house, but actually caused Tim to kick up more dust and soot, than could be effaced by the best coat of English lead that could be procured.

At the present juncture, the first intimation the old lady had of the matter, was afforded her by an army of carpenters, bricklayers, stone-masons and painters, scaling her house with ladders and scaffolds, and turning the whole concern, topsy turvy, from the garret to the cellar. Here ran the painters devils, rubbing every thing with sand paper; there shouted the bricklayer, "mortar! bricks here!" Here whistled the carpenter, and jarred the old timbers with his hammer, banging and whacking away with the force of a giant.

"In the name of common sense," said the old lady, "good people what do you mean?" If ever you saw a hen fluttering when a hawk made a sudden dart at one of her brood, you would have some idea of the old lady on this memorable occasion. It was as plain as the nose in her face, that something was to pay, and she half suspected what it was; but that Tim should go to work without any consultation was unaccountable, and more than that, it was unreasonable. She hallooed for Tim; he was not forthcoming. She asked the carpenter what he was about? "Mr. Wilberforce had ordered him to mend every thing that required mending." She inquired of the bricklayer what he was doing? "Mr. Wilberforce told him to cap the chimnies, relay the hearths and mend the whole concern." She asked the painter what he meant by all this preparation? "Mr. Wilberforce sent him to paint the house all over." "You must have made a mistake in the house," said Tim's mother. "No—there was no mistake. It was to be done, and in the best style, and in the shortest possible time." The old lady packed off the servants in all directions for Tim, and in the mean time continued fluttering about, stowing away this thing and that thing, into this hole and that cuddy, until she had fatigued herself into a perfect fever. At length, Tim arrived. "My dear son," said she, "what in the world has got into you? Do you mean to ruin yourself, Tim?" "Mother," says Tim, kindly, "I told you I was going to be married." "No you did'nt." "Well, I tell you so now, and I think our house wants a little furbishing." Now, the old lady had frequently of late, been charging Tim with being in love with Kate, and though he never exactly denied it, yet he never had admitted it; and though she had no decided objection to the match, yet she never had made up her mind to it, and therefore she seated herself and began to cry. She did'nt ask Tim, who he was to marry? Where the young lady lived? What she was like? Whether she had a fortune or not? But she sat down, as one bereft of all hope, and tuned up her pipes. Alas for Tim! He had been too precipitate. Such matters require some introduction.

The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 13, September, 1835

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE

THE FINE ARTS.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I, NUMBER 13

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States.

THE VICTIM OF DISAPPOINTMENT.

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE

LOSS OF BREATH.

CUPID'S SPORT.