From 1798 to 1803, William Eaton, formerly a captain in the army of the United States, was their consul¹ in Tunis. As the character of this remarkable man will be best illustrated by the account of his proceedings in Barbary, it will be sufficient to premise that he had, before his mission to that country, given proofs of more than ordinary courage and capacity, and that the utmost confidence was placed in his honor and integrity by those who possessed the means of forming an opinion with regard to him. These are admirable qualities for a diplomatic agent; on the other hand, he was irritable and cynical, and was considered eccentric by persons who were unable to comprehend his views or his plans. Ever open and liberal himself, he could not easily conceal his contempt for those in whom he discovered signs of duplicity or meanness; and his irrepressible frankness on such occasions, was not calculated to render him an object of favor with a government which reprobated treachery only when it was unsuccessful.

¹ The consuls residing in the Barbary States, are considered as the representatives of their several governments, and are essentially diplomatic agents; although they are not so termed, out of respect for the Porte.

The Bey Hamouda, to whom Eaton was accredited, was a man vastly superior to the generality of Barbary sovereigns; though free from none of the vices which appear to have fixed their seat in that portion of the earth, he was yet by no means their slave, being neither a brutal ruffian nor a luxurious sybarite. His passions, though violent, seldom obscured his observation, or led him to the commission of imprudences or wanton cruelties; and it was only by means of sagacity, energy and laboriousness such as he possessed, that the throne of Tunis could have been held by one man for thirty-two stormy years (1782 to 1815).

The intercourse between these two shrewd and fiery spirits, was a continued series of discussions and struggles, of attempted encroachments on the part of the Bey, and of obstinate resistance on that of Eaton. The African Prince soon perceived that the American was of a different stamp from the consuls to whom he had been hitherto accustomed, and whom he regarded in general as mere intriguers, or instruments for the conveyance of flattery and presents; and Eaton, although he could not like or respect the Bey, yet seems to have excepted him from the anathema of contempt in which he involved all other inhabitants of Barbary. In the accounts of their interviews, we see Hamouda ever anxious to secure advantages, yet at times displaying something like a feeling of national pride; Eaton placing the honor of his country as the first consideration, yet mindful of its smallest interests when they could be reconciled with this primary object: the Bey endeavoring to inveigle or surprise the American consul into a promise of his influence to obtain some future concession from his government; Eaton carefully avoiding, or boldly refusing the slightest encouragement to such expectations, well knowing that it would be construed and afterwards quoted as a definite or a partial engagement. These accounts are indeed only to be found in the despatches of Eaton. But independently of the character of the writer, his details bear every mark of truth, and together present one of the most original and interesting specimens of negotiation to be found in the annals of diplomacy. The strength and the weakness of these anomalous governments are there clearly exposed; and after the demonstrations thus given, it would have been unpardonable in the Americans to have longer persisted in the submissive course which they had been induced to adopt.

Eaton's first business was to have amendments made in a treaty which had been concluded between the United States and Tunis, through the agency of a Frenchman named Famin; this was effected, after a display of great ingenuity on both sides, and some mutual concessions. Then came the arrangement of the presents from the American government, which the Bey attempted to raise far beyond the amount agreed on, hinting that war might be the consequence of refusal. It was on this occasion that Eaton commenced his solicitations for the despatch of an American squadron to the Mediterranean—"Send the stipulated presents," said he, "but accompany them by a respectable force, and let them be tendered under our guns; if then refused, the obligation is at an end; delay, and we shall soon be obliged to redeem our citizens from slavery." No ship of war appearing to support the resistance of the American consul, the Bey increased his demands, requiring at one time a frigate, and afterwards ten thousand stand of arms. At length the appearance of Dale's squadron (1801) induced him to lower his tone and to suspend his exactions.

The war between the United States and Tripoli soon occasioned new difficulties, in the course of which the Bey showed himself well acquainted with the received principles of national law; and unfortunately the manner in which the operations of the American squadron were conducted, gave him the advantage in the argument. Tripoli had been declared in a state of blockade; yet months elapsed during which no ship appeared on the coast to enforce it; indeed the frigates (of which, with the exception of the schooner Enterprize, the American squadron was entirely composed,) were nearly useless for that purpose; the shallowness of the water enabling lighter vessels to leave or enter the port, by running some distance close to the shore. Eaton was unceasing in his solicitations to his government, and to the officers of the squadron, for the pursuance of more energetic measures; but his government adhered to its system of caution, and the naval commanders appear to have been affected with that jealousy or distrust which always exists in the minds of such officers with regard to the representatives of their nation abroad, particularly towards those who are termed consuls. They received his recommendations with hauteur, and treated them with neglect; and on one or two occasions only could he obtain their co-operation.

The Bey seeing this, demanded passports for his vessels to carry grain to Tripoli, which they had been in the habit of supplying with that article. Eaton refused, alleging that it would be an infringement of the blockade. The Bey replied that no blockade existed de facto; and a series of discussions ensued, in which we see the Barbary Prince insisting on an observance of the rules of national law, and the American representative agent upholding a paper blockade.

The difficulties between Eaton and the Bey were much increased by the intrigues of the Tunisian ministers and officers; particularly by those of Sidi Yusuf, the Seid-e-Tapa, or Keeper of the Seal, commonly called the Sapatapa, a wretch who by the most infamous practices had amassed an immense fortune, and raised himself from the condition of a Georgian slave to the highest place in the ministry. To their ceaseless importunities for presents Eaton at first yielded; but finding that compliance only rendered them more frequent, and that the requests put on the form of exactions, he at length plainly refused, frequently clothing his denial in a sarcastic dress, or accompanying it by observations which no interpreter could soften into compliments. Indeed, on several occasions, when the inferior agents were insolent, he did not scruple to lay his cane over their shoulders; and even Famin the Frenchman, who had been the representative of his government in the negotiation of the treaty, felt the weight of his arm. These circumstances rendered him obnoxious to the whole Tunisian government, and every attempt was made to get rid of him, in order to obtain another consul who might be of more pliable stuff. Intimidate him they could not, but they succeeded fully in disgusting him.

Circumstances at length occurred which revived his hopes of seeing the honor of his country vindicated, and its relations with the Barbary powers established on a fair and firm basis. It has been stated that Hamet, the exiled Prince of Tripoli, had sought refuge in Tunis from the persecutions of his brother; he was there received and supported by the Bey, partly from compassion, but principally from political motives, as he might thus be employed to keep Yusuf in check. In the summer of 1801, it was suggested to Eaton by the ex-consul Cathcart, that the restoration of Hamet to the throne of Tripoli might in all probability be easily effected through the assistance of the United States, and that it would prove highly advantageous to American interests. Eaton at first paid but little attention to the suggestion; but afterwards having obtained information from Tripoli on which he could rely, that the Pasha was very unpopular, and his subjects ripe for revolt, he became acquainted with the Prince, and gradually communicated to him his views. He proposed that Hamet should proceed to Tripoli with the whole American squadron, and be there presented to the people as their rightful sovereign; if accepted, peace was to be made, on terms of which the principal were stated, one of them being the delivery of Yusuf to the Americans; if the inhabitants should however refuse to receive him, the war was to be prosecuted with vigor to a conclusion.

Hamet at first appeared to enter into the plan, and communicated information from which its success appeared still more probable; but his natural irresolution soon returned, and innumerable difficulties presented themselves to his imagination. The most serious ground of objection taken by him was, that his family were still retained as hostages in Tripoli, and the ruthlessness of his brother's character rendered it highly probable that he might exercise towards them any degree of violence, when prompted either by interest or revenge. To this, Eaton opposed the consideration, that the appearance of an overwhelming force, with the country too in arms against Yusuf, would impress upon him the inutility of resistance, and oblige him to enter into some arrangement for the release of Hamet's family, and the surrender of the throne. The exiled Prince would however make no promises, until he had been assured of the assistance of the American force, which Eaton immediately endeavored to obtain; but neither his instructions, nor those of the commander of the squadron, would warrant such proceedings; and indeed, as the proposition came from Eaton, it was of course reprobated and pronounced visionary by the latter. The consul therefore wrote to his government, detailing his plan, and urging its attention; and his health being much enfeebled, he determined to await an answer in Italy, for which country he sailed in December, 1801.

These projects could not be devised so secretly as to escape the vigilance of the Tunisian government; and they were soon communicated to Yusuf, by one of its ministers whom he kept in pay. They created in him the utmost alarm. He had just then involved himself also in a war with Sweden, and a fleet from that country had already entered the Mediterranean under Admiral Cederstrom, who had orders to act in concert with the Americans. His two largest vessels were lying useless at Gibraltar; and Morat Rais, without whom he could do little towards equipping others, was also at that place closely watched by his enemies.

In this state of things, he endeavored to amuse the Americans with propositions of peace; and the sovereigns of Algiers and Tunis being in consequence engaged by him as mediators, sounded the consuls of the United States at their respective courts, as to the dispositions of their government. Nothing definite could be drawn from either: they merely hinted what they hoped and believed, that nothing would be paid, either for peace or as tribute; and the mediators were not disposed to continue their good offices on such grounds. The Emperor of Morocco also undertook to load the ships lying at Gibraltar with wheat, and to procure for them, as his own property, American passports for Tripoli. These were however refused by the consul of the United States at Tangiers, and by the commander of their squadron; at which the Emperor was so much incensed, that he ordered the American consul to quit his dominions, and commenced hostilities against their commerce. Morat Rais, the Scotch renegade, was however conveyed on board a British ship of war to Malta, whence he easily passed over to Tripoli, much to the disappointment of Eaton, who considered him as the chief exciter of the difficulties, and as the only person in the Pasha's service at all acquainted with naval affairs. But very little advantage was derived from his skill; worthy Peter had indeed found it much easier to profit by the licenses of his new creed, than to submit to its restrictions, and some of his old propensities had probably been revived during his residence at Gibraltar; for after his return to Tripoli, he remained some time in a constant state of intoxication.

Yusuf still carried on his preparations for defence with great energy. Moors and Arabs were called in and enrolled, some principal persons from each village or tribe being kept as hostages in the castle. The Swedish and American prisoners were employed in repairing the fortifications, making gun carriages, &c.; and as no vessels could be built in Tripoli, some were purchased and prepared for use as cruisers.

But he had another object in view, of still greater importance; which was to get Hamet again in his power. In this the Bey of Tunis consented, it is said reluctantly, to aid him. Hamouda had no objection to see the Pasha of Tripoli in an embarrassed state, or indeed to have Hamet placed on the throne; but he was little inclined to favor the pretensions of the latter on the score of legitimacy, he himself being a usurper, and the heir to the throne of Tunis by regular descent, being a prisoner in his castle; he also apprehended that the success of Eaton's plan would encourage other christian powers to interfere in the concerns of Barbary. It was therefore proposed to Hamet to return to the government of Derne, which with his family, Yusuf offered to restore to him; and the proposition was accompanied by a hint that he would receive no farther supplies in case he remained in Tunis. The poor Prince thus driven to extremities was obliged to yield; a Russian vessel was in consequence engaged to convey him to Derne, and he was to be escorted by a guard of honor consisting of forty Tripoline soldiers, who had been sent to Tunis for the purpose.

Had these arrangements proceeded much farther, there can be little doubt as to what would have been the fate of Hamet; but information of them was conveyed to Eaton by the Sapatapa, whose services he had engaged before leaving Tunis. He was then at Leghorn, awaiting the determination of his government; no answer to his communication with regard to the restoration of Hamet had arrived, but he had just received a letter from the Secretary of State which authorized him to suppose that his plan would be favorably received. Therefore considering that the present circumstances were too important to permit delay, he hastily purchased and manned a vessel of fourteen guns, called the Gloria, and sailed in her for Tunis, where he arrived on the 18th of March, 1802. The Bey instantly demanded of him a passport for Hamet and his suite, who were on the point of departure. This he of course refused. Hamouda became outrageous, threatened to imprison him, and to declare war against the United States; but threats only suggested new resources to this energetic man, and his determination was soon taken. In order to secure himself however, he called a consultation of the principal Americans then in Tunis who having approved his measures, the Gloria was despatched with letters, to be delivered to the commander of the first American ship of war which could be met with, communicating the state of the affair, and requesting assistance to prevent the Prince from entering the Tripoline territory. The frigate Boston was luckily soon found; her commander, O'Neill, readily agreed to what was requested, and having commissioned the Gloria as an United States ship, to act against Tripoli, he sailed for the coast of Derne, in order to intercept the vessel carrying Hamet. The Gloria returned in a few days to Tunis. In the meantime Eaton had, by a promise of ten thousand dollars to the Sapatapa, to be given in case of the success of his plans, opened a communication with the Tripoline Prince, whom he was not permitted to see. Every means was used to operate on his hopes, his fears, and even his superstitious feelings. The prospects of his restoration by the aid of the United States, were contrasted with the danger, nay the certainty, of death, to which he exposed himself, by confiding in his cruel and perfidious brother; the prophecies of a Marabout, respecting his being replaced on the throne of Tripoli, by a people from the setting sun, were gravely and ingeniously repeated; and when all these representations had proved ineffectual, he was plainly assured that he would not be allowed to reach Derne, but that he would be attacked on his passage by the American squadron, and treated if taken, as a Tripoline enemy. The miserable exile had no other resource than to throw himself on the protection of the American consul. It was therefore arranged that he should sail ostensibly for Derne, furnished with a passport and also a private letter from Eaton, to be delivered to any American commander or other authority with whom he might fall in; and that the vessel should on the way put into Malta, under pretence of avoiding the Americans and Swedes. This was done, and Hamet landed safely at that island on the 11th of April.

The news of his arrival excited the strongest interest throughout Barbary. The Bey of Tunis pronounced that all was over with Yusuf, unless he made peace at once. The people of Tripoli were also much excited, as they expected an attack to be immediately made. Yusuf, though greatly alarmed, continued his preparations for defence; and it is said, assembled in the course of the summer, fifty thousand troops about the city; this was probably however, an exaggerated statement. His naval force ready for sea, amounted to one vessel of eighteen guns, one of sixteen, three of fourteen, and one of ten; with these, Morat Rais when a little sobered, proposed to sail for Gibraltar, and after releasing and manning the two vessels there lying, to put out on the Atlantic, where he expected to reap a rich harvest of prizes. In order to escape observation, he had provided his sailors with the dresses of christian nations; but this ruse, as well as the plan it was intended to promote, were soon communicated to the watchful Eaton, and by him to the officers of the squadron.

However Tripoli was so carelessly blockaded, that some of the vessels got to sea, one of which captured the brig Franklin, of Philadelphia, and carried her into Algiers, where an attempt was made to dispose of her and her crew. The American Consul at Algiers, remonstrated against this proceeding, and endeavored to procure the surrender of the brig and men, on the grounds that the Dey was bound, as guaranty of the peace between the United States and Tripoli, to cause her delivery. The Dey replied, that he had engaged to act only as mediator, but not to employ force in having the treaty respected; and that moreover the principal parties to it being then at war, and the United States actually holding Tripoli under blockade, the treaty as well as the guaranty were in fact at an end. However, after some delay, the Tripoline was ordered to quit the place, which he did, taking his prize with him, to the little port of Biserta, in the Tunisian territory, sixty miles from the capital; and the next day (July 8) the brig and her crew were advertised for sale at Tunis. What were the feelings of Eaton on this occasion may be conceived; his application to Commodore Murray who commanded the squadron nominally blockading Tripoli produced no effect; and to his mortification he saw the cruiser quit the place with the American captives in irons, (the brig being left at Biserta,) and heard of its safe entry into Tripoli actually in sight of the frigate Constellation. As a last resource, in order to alleviate the miseries of their captivity, he wrote a moderate and conciliatory letter to the Pasha, recommending him not to allow the American prisoners to be sold as slaves, but to have them treated with lenity, to refrain from farther hostilities, and even to receive Mr. Morris, the captain of the Franklin, as the agent of the United States until affairs could be arranged.

The American ships of war soon after quitted that coast, to which they did not return until the spring of 1803, leaving the consuls to defend as they could their refusal to grant passports for Tripoli. Eaton maintained his ground with obstinacy, the others yielded; the consul at Algiers gave his passport to vessels which he knew were to be laden with wheat for Tripoli; and the agent at Tangiers actually gave his, to one of the Tripoline vessels of war which had been lying at Gibraltar, and which accordingly sailed for Tripoli, laden with wheat from Morocco. These circumstances when known, put an end to all consideration and respect for the American consul, and even for the American name in Tunis; as Eaton says, "it was a matter of exultation at that piratical court, that the American consul had been abandoned by his countrymen, and the occasion was seized to humble his pride." He had involved himself in great expenses in furtherance of his plans respecting Hamet, without authorization from his government; a portion of the sums expended had been obtained in Tunis, and the ten thousand dollars promised to the Sapatapa as a bribe, and which had been forfeited by his treachery, were now demanded as the balance in a mercantile transaction. Neither party could bring any written proofs, the case was therefore referred to the Bey, who of course decided against Eaton, and the successful minister on retiring from the hall of justice, sarcastically remarked, that in Tunis they knew how to keep consuls to their promises. The demand for a frigate from the United States was renewed, which Eaton, in spite of threats and attempts to bribe him, having refused even to submit to his government, his brig, the Gloria, was seized and charged with the conveyance of a letter to the President, containing the requisition; she however got safely to Leghorn, where she was sold.

All these things Eaton could only represent to his government, which he did in forcible language; he demonstrated the weakness of the Barbary States, and showing that they had not a single ship capable of withstanding a sloop of war, again urged the employment of smaller vessels. Finally he expressed a desire to "be supported or displaced," and that "if farther concessions were to be made, he might not be the medium through which they were to be presented."

Although Eaton almost despaired of procuring the means for executing his plan upon Tripoli, yet he maintained an active correspondence with Hamet, for whose support he advanced the necessary funds. Soon after the arrival of that Prince at Malta, he had met with Captain O'Neill, of the Boston, who appeared ready to forward the project by every exertion in his power, as also did the Swedish commander. Commodore Murray too, who came there with the Constellation, thought better of the affair, and offered to take him to Derne; but he preferred going privately, in an English brig, which he had chartered, and at length sailed in November (1802) for that place, where he was received with every demonstration of affection by the inhabitants, and the surrounding Arab tribes. He was soon after joined by a nephew, who had been living in exile in Egypt, at the head of a considerable force; and thus considering himself strong enough to commence his march upon the capital, he despatched a confidential messenger to Eaton, in order to inform him of the state of his affairs, and to hasten the arrival of the expected succors; he even assured him that the appearance of a single American frigate before Tripoli, would be sufficient to cause its surrender.

The receipt of this information must have been martyrdom to Eaton; he restrained his vexation as he could, and kept the messenger concealed in his house. At length, on the 22d of February, 1803, Commodore Morris appeared off the harbor in the frigate Chesapeake, and soon after landed with one or two of his officers. The object of his visit was to contest the demand made by the Bey, for the restoration of some Tunisian property, which had been seized in an Imperial vessel while it was endeavoring to enter Tripoli. After some discussion, it was agreed that the property should be restored; but this compliance only emboldened the Bey and his minister, to demand immediate payment of all Eaton's debts in Tunis, real or pretended; and on refusal of both the commodore and the consul, the former was actually detained in Tunis, and not allowed to communicate with his ship. As they were thus completely in the power of the Bey, who had besides, at least the semblance of right in his pretensions, nothing was left but to pay the money, which was done. During these proceedings Eaton by his animated remonstrances, and by the charges which he openly advanced against the minister, had so far irritated the Bey, that he ordered him immediately to quit the place, declaring, "that he was a man of a good heart, but a wrong head; too obstinate and violent;" and that he "must have a consul more congenial with the Barbary interests." Eaton therefore took his leave, and quitted Tunis on the 10th of March. Before his departure he had introduced Hamet's agent to the commodore, and the plans and resources of that Prince were exposed to him. Morris however, either did not partake of Eaton's conviction relative to the practicability of the scheme, or did not anticipate from its success results so favorable to his country as to warrant his interference. He therefore refused all immediate assistance, and only promised to appear before Tripoli in June, when, "provided an equivalent were guarantied to the United States in the event of success," he would furnish Hamet with "twenty barrels of powder." He did indeed appear before Tripoli about the end of May, with five frigates and a schooner; but, with the exception of an unsuccessful attempt to destroy some vessels laden with wheat, which had been chased into the harbor of Old Tripoli, (the ancient Sabrata) he confined himself entirely to negotiations. Yusuf demanded two hundred thousand dollars and the expenses of the war "for a peace," and on this being refused, he told the Commodore that "the business was at an end, and that he must depart." Morris quitted the coast immediately, leaving two frigates to blockade the port; he soon after received orders to return to America, where he was tried before a court martial, and received severe censure for his inactivity and incapacity. Captain John Rodgers who was left in command, succeeded on the 21st of June in destroying the Tripoline ship of war of twenty-two guns, which as before stated had sailed from Gibraltar, loaded with wheat by the Emperor of Morocco. With Hamet no communication appears to have taken place.

Eaton arrived at Boston on the 5th of May 1803, and in June proceeded to Washington, to adjust his accounts and to urge the adoption of more rigorous measures towards the Barbary powers. He appears to have been coldly received. His expenses incurred on Hamet's account, were not allowed by the Department of State, nor indeed were they completely admitted until they had been before Congress during its two ensuing sessions. His desire to be relieved from his situation, unless a more determined course were pursued, was considered as a resignation of his office, in which Mr. Cathcart had been appointed to succeed him; and instructions had been forwarded to that gentleman to negotiate both with Tripoli and Tunis, on the amount to be paid as presents and yearly tribute. To crown all, a letter had been written to the Bey, in which Eaton was declared "to have gone beyond the letter and spirit of his instructions," and his acts were "disclaimed as in opposition to his orders." With all these circumstances he was not indeed made acquainted immediately; but the manner of his reception did not impress him favorably with respect to the members of the Administration, and much increased his natural irritability.

The American government did not however neglect to take advantage of his information and experience; and news having arrived of some success on the part of Hamet, it was determined to send a much larger force to the Mediterranean. This squadron sailed on the 13th of August, under the command of Commodore Preble; and after halting a few days in the Straits of Gibraltar, in order to settle affairs with the Emperor of Morocco at Tangiers, it joined the other ships off Tripoli in October. A circumstance here occurred of the most disastrous nature, and which probably contributed more than any other, to prevent the dethronement of Yusuf, or the termination of the differences between the United States and the Barbary nations, in a manner entirely satisfactory to the former. The frigate Philadelphia, while in chase of a Tripoline ship on the 31st of October (1803), struck upon a rock at the entrance of the harbor of Tripoli with so much violence, that she remained immoveable by any means at the disposition of the crew, and consequently defenceless. Her situation being ascertained in the city, a number of gun boats were instantly sent out, to which, as no resistance could be made, she was of necessity surrendered. The crew, consisting of three hundred, with their captain Bainbridge, were transferred to the city; two days after the ship was got off, towed into port, and being easily repaired, was likely to prove a valuable accession to the naval strength of the Pasha.

The capture of the Philadelphia was however calculated to produce a moral effect infinitely more injurious to the American cause than the mere loss of the ship, and her acquisition by Tripoli. The skill, and even the personal bravery of the naval men of the United States, had been rendered doubtful by the proceedings of the two previous years; these doubts now assumed the form of a certainty, the most unfavorable and mortifying; and unless something had been immediately done to retrieve the honor of the flag, it must have quitted the Mediterranean in disgrace, or designated every ship over which it waved, as the bearer of tribute.

But there were noble spirits in the American squadron who determined that this should not be. On the night of the 15th of February, 1804, Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, accompanied by seventy resolute men, entered the harbor of Tripoli, in a small schooner which he had previously taken and called the Intrepid, and succeeded in boarding the Philadelphia, then lying under the guns of the castle. In a few minutes the Tripoline crew were overpowered; many were killed, others swam to the shore, and communicated the astounding facts. A terrible fire was instantly opened upon the ship from the castle and batteries, aided by those of two vessels lying near; and it being impossible to carry off the Philadelphia, she was set on fire. The Americans retreated to the Intrepid; a breeze fortunately sprung up; they were soon beyond the power of their enemies, and reached the ship which awaited them, without losing a man. The Philadelphia was totally destroyed.

This heroic achievement restored confidence to the Americans, and determined Commodore Preble to make a desperate attempt upon the city. His force had however been much reduced by the loss of the Philadelphia and the recall of other ships; and judging that an addition was necessary to afford any prospect of success, he proceeded to Naples, where he obtained from the King the use of two bomb vessels and six gun boats. These were strong, heavy, flat bottomed vessels, bad sailers, but manageable by oars, and well calculated for harbor operations. The gun boats mounted each a long twenty four pounder, and were manned by thirty-five men; the bombs carried thirteen inch mortars and forty men; several Neapolitan gunners and bombardiers were also engaged to assist in working them. The whole American force thus amounted to one frigate, (the Constitution,) three brigs, three schooners, two bombs, and six gun boats, carrying in all about one hundred and twenty guns, and one thousand and sixty men; and with this armament Preble appeared before Tripoli on the 25th of July, 1804.

Yusuf was not however taken unawares, and he had made formidable preparations for resistance. The number of his troops in the city was supposed to be twenty-five thousand; the batteries mounted one hundred and fifteen pieces of cannon; besides which, the harbor was defended by nineteen gun boats, two gallies, two schooners of eight guns each, and a brig of ten guns.

The weather was for several days unfavorable for an attack. At length on the 3d of August the American squadron approached the harbor, and began to throw shells into the town. The fire was returned from the batteries and vessels, and during five hours a constant cannonade was kept up on both sides. Three of the Tripoline gun boats were boarded and taken; their other vessels were materially injured, and much damage was done to the town and fortifications: but as nothing more could be effected, the squadron withdrew, having lost only one man, Lieutenant James Decatur, and had thirteen wounded.

The results not proving sufficient to bring Yusuf to terms, another attack was made on the 7th of August, which terminated less favorably to the Americans; one of their prizes having been blown up, and their whole loss amounting to fourteen killed, and four wounded, without having produced any notable injury to the Tripolines. On the evening of this day a frigate arrived from the United States, bringing information that a large reinforcement might be soon expected, under the command of Commodore Samuel Barron, who being the senior officer, would supercede Preble. This news caused a suspension of the attacks, during which Yusuf made offers of peace, on consideration of receiving five hundred dollars as the ransom of each of his prisoners. This offer was rejected at once, and the expected reinforcement not appearing, Tripoli was bombarded on the night of the 24th of August. On the 28th another attack was made, by which the castle and town suffered considerably, and three of the Tripoline gun boats were destroyed; and on the 3d of September another, with less success.

On the 4th a bold attempt was made to set fire to the vessels lying in the harbor, and injure the batteries. The schooner Intrepid, with which Decatur had executed his enterprise on the Philadelphia, was converted into a fire ship, being filled with powder and combustibles; and in it, with merely a boat attached in order to return after the fire had been communicated, Lieutenants Wadsworth, Somers and Israel embarked, and steered in the direction of the vessels. Two of the Tripoline gallies were seen to row towards the Intrepid, and place themselves one on each side of her; a terrific explosion then took place; the three vessels were shivered into atoms, and a number of shells fell, spreading destruction on the unfortunate town. Of those who had embarked in the Intrepid, nothing was ever heard. It is supposed that seeing escape impossible, they had involved themselves and their enemies in one common destruction.

No more attempts were made upon Tripoli during this season. The storms which prevail on that coast in the Autumn had commenced, and it was considered improper to expose the small vessels to their violence. They were therefore sent to Syracuse, the Constitution and two brigs remaining to keep up the blockade.

Information of the capture of the Philadelphia did not reach the United States until March, 1804; and it seems to have produced upon the American government the same effects which it had upon the officers of the squadron. It infused energy into its councils, and determined the President to act with more vigor than he had hitherto manifested; he resolved "to send to the Mediterranean a force which would be able, beyond the possibility of a doubt, to coerce the enemy to a peace, on terms compatible with the honor and the interests of the country." Four frigates were prepared for this purpose, and placed under the command of Commodore Samuel Barron, who was furnished with extensive authority, to act against or treat with the Barbary powers.

News had arrived that Hamet had met with some successes in his expedition from Derne against his brother, and the President "considering that concerted operations by those who have a common enemy were entirely justifiable, and might produce effects favorable to both, without binding either to guaranty the objects of the other," says in his instructions to Barron, "with respect to the ex-Pasha of Tripoli, we have no objection to your availing yourself of his co-operation with you against Tripoli, if you shall upon a full view of the subject, after your arrival upon the station, consider his co-operation expedient." Eaton had been appointed to accompany the squadron as navy agent for the Barbary states, with a view to his being employed, in case a junction with Hamet were determined on; but he was placed entirely under the orders of the Commodore, and is merely mentioned in the instructions to that officer as likely to be "extremely useful." Before the departure of the squadron, information was received that Hamet had been deserted by his followers, and had taken refuge in Egypt. Of his expedition no particulars appear to be on record, and no account can be obtained of the circumstances which led to his failure: but between Yusuf in possession, and Hamet as pretender, unsupported too by any man of strong character, and without resources, the contest could not have been doubtful. No change however was made in the destination of Eaton, who sailed with the squadron in the above mentioned capacity, in July, 1804, and arrived at Malta on the 5th of September following. He there learnt that Hamet, fearing to trust himself in the hands of the Turkish authorities in Egypt, had taken refuge among the revolted Mamelukes, in one of the provinces up the Nile. This did not discourage Eaton; determining at least to have an interview with the exiled Prince, he prevailed on Commodore Barron to commit the affair to his charge, and sailed with Captain Isaac Hull in the brig Argus for Alexandria, where he arrived on the 25th of November, 1804.

(To be continued.)

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

IMPROMPTU,

On seeing that the Publisher of the Messenger had changed the color of its covers.

So you're changing your colors, I see, master White,
But say now d'ye think it is perfectly right?
Yet I own, on reflection, it is not so wrong,
And the reason, I think, is sufficiently strong:
Give it up? Then I'll tell you at once to your shame,
You're a man of all colors yourself—by your name;
For all the seven colors, you know, must unite
To make the commixture that people call white.

P. Q.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,—On looking over a young lady's Album a few evenings since, I met with the following lines, of which, with her permission, I immediately took a copy. I now enclose them to you for insertion in the Messenger, hoping that some one of your numerous readers may not only be able to tell me in what language they are written, but let me still further into the secret by giving me a translation of them.

"'Adhmhur mar dhia neo bhasmhor 'ta
"'N t'oglach gu caidreach a shuis re d' sqa:
"Sa chluin, sa chìth re faad na hùin
"Do bhriara droigheal, 's do fhrea gradh cùin."

I was also allowed to transcribe from the same source, two other pieces which I send you herewith, under an impression that they are well worthy a place in your interesting miscellany.

* * *

STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO MISS ——.

Younger heads will bow before thee,
Younger hearts than mine adore thee,
Younger lips due praises sing thee,
Younger hands choice flowers shall bring thee—
But when Time's unmelting frost,
Once hath chill'd Love's altar-flame,
Breasts, to passion's impulse lost,
Never after burn the same:
Then what has Age like mine to do
With youthful Beauty, pretty Lou?
Brighter eyes will sparkle near thee,
Quicker ears rejoice to hear thee,
Gayer forms around thee pressing,
Woo thy gentle arms' caressing:
But when Fate's severest blow,
Bursts the heart's most cherish'd ties;
Lays its long-nurs'd wishes low,
Hope dismay'd from misery flies:
Then what has grief like mine to do
With joyous Beauty, pretty Lou?

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SYBIL'S LEAF.

Raven-hair'd! and yet so fair, in opening youth!
Dark-eyed! with snowy brow of beaming truth!
How can thy Destiny but happy be?
Loved of a hundred hearts! bright rising star!
Light that shall bless admiring eyes afar!
How many breasts shall wildly throb for thee?
Thine too, for one of kindred worth shall sigh,
With thought deep-seated in his soft blue eye,
air, but with sun-tinged roses on his cheek;
Liberal in speech, in action bold and free,
Save when with timid love he bows to thee
And silent muses what he dare not speak.
Thou hast not yet beheld, but shalt ere long—
And loved, drink in the music of his tongue,
And feel thy bosom a strange thrill pervade:—
Fortune and health shall on your union smile,
And lisping lips shall every care beguile,
Till late in peace, thy lamp of life shall fade.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.—Ruth i. 16, 17.

TO MY WIFE.

Where e'er thou goest I will go,
And share with thee in weal or wo—
And where thy wearied footsteps rest,
Thy head shall pillow on my breast.
Thy people shall my people be—
Thy kindred find a friend in me—
Thy God shall be my God—one hope
Shall bear our fainting spirits up.
My earthly joys with thee shall die,
And in thy grave forgotten lie—
So God in justice deal with me,
If aught but death part me and thee.

HANOVER.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE KISS.—A la Moore.

'Tis a sweet boy! his eye is bright,
Smooth is his cheek, and velvet soft,
And his rosy, pulpy lips invite
The kiss I give, in sooth, full oft.
How glows my eye, and my heart, how wild
It beats, as I kiss the lovely child!
But there's a cause ye little ken,
Why thus I love to kiss the boy!
If thou wert absent, Julia, then,
The kiss I love so soon would cloy,
'Twould not be half so oft as now,
'Twould not be half so sweet, I trow.
I mark when thy lip presses his,
And, ere the dewy moisture's flown,
I steal it with another kiss,
And dream I rip it from thy own!
E'en such a kiss thrills through my heart,
What bliss would thine own lips impart!

P. H.

Written in the summer of 1827.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LOVE—MUTUAL BUT HOPELESS.

O! the light of thine Eye is the beam that falls
Through the narrow grate, on the Dungeon floor,
To show the sad captive the strength of his walls,
And remind him of joys he must taste no more.
And that melting voice is Love's whispered breath,
By night through that grated casement stealing,
To rouse him from slumbers as heavy as death,
To hopeless wishes, and useless feeling.
But that voice is dear to his wasted heart,
And dear to his eye is that lonely ray;
Though they wound his bosom, he loves the smart,
Nor wishes for death, but when these are away.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO DESPAIR.

Hail to thy tranquil and secure abode,
The gloomy refuge of the tortured breast;
Where anxious Care resigns his weary load;
And wasted Sorrow sighs herself to rest.
No treacherous Hope here flatters and deceives,
No shortlived Rapture cheats the ravished sense;
No airy dreams delirious Fancy weaves;
Hope—Rapture—Fancy—all are banished hence.
Here Fear, with startling cry, no more appals,
For he who knows the worst no harm can dread:
And keen affliction's dart as harmless falls,
As the vain storm that pelts the senseless dead.
Here no fierce Passions agitate the breast,
But Rage is quelled, and Hate forgets his foe:
Pride stoops; Ambition vails his haughty crest;
And Envy covets nought that kings bestow.
But Love still feeds the never dying flame,
Whose cold pale light scarce breaks the settled gloom,
Like the Sepulchral lamp, whose livid gleam
Watches above the Silence of the Tomb.
That light no more the dazzled sense beguiles;
That flame no more the frozen bosom warms;
Yet dear, as when, all bright in rosy smiles,
It led my faithful Laura to my arms.
But she is lost; and now this calm abode
Affords a refuge to my weary breast;
And Care, at length resigns his weary load;
And wasted Sorrow sighs herself to rest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

My grandfather who had died at the age of eighty-six, was the first object I examined; his snowy locks had become, through the influence of the leaden mantle which enveloped him, of a blood color, &c. &c.—Prince Puckler Muskau's visit to the vault of his ancestors.

"Have ye torn away the fun'ral pall?—
Did ye strip each corpse to sight?—
Then leave me, in my ancestral hall,
I visit the dead to-night—"
The clock struck twelve and I took the lamp
With a solemn step and slow—
Down—down I went, and my echoing tramp
Rang deep in the vault below.
I saw the dust of centuries round;
And I felt my courage droop;—
My eyes were rivetted—strained—spell-bound—
By three of that awful group.
I stood in the charnel house of those,
Whose blood in my veins now ran;
My current of life seem'd nearly froze
As I strove the scene to scan.
An aged man with his "gory locks"
And sightless sockets was there,—
And staring seem'd from his leaden box
With a stern—reproachful air.
Wrapp'd in embroider'd cloth of gold,
Lay a noble knight and tall—
And I knew at once the warrior bold,
Who hung in my castle hall.
At head of his Cuirassiers,—there he
Was charging the flying Swede;
But here—oh pitiful sight to see!
The victor lay low indeed.
In a gorgeous robe of silk, here lay
The finest of female forms;
I did but touch her—she pass'd away—
My hand was alive with worms.
I sunk on my knees in fervent prayer;
Tears fell—and my bosom thaw'd;
Horror gave place to the feeling, there
Of trust in the mighty God.
I rose without or shudder or dread,
And I kiss'd that aged face;
I took a lock from the sightless head,
And calmly quitted the place.
But never again till I drink the cup
Of death—will I enter there—
The power of prayer, might bear me up—
But God, he hath said—forbear!!!

At the suggestion of a friend, whose fine taste selected the following effusion of the celebrated "Ettrick Shepherd," from some of the periodicals of the day, we gladly insert it in our columns. It is a most touching tribute of fraternal affection to an elder sister, from one of the most distinguished bards of modern times.

THERE'S NAE LADDIE COMING.

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean,
There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean;
I hae watch'd thee at mid-day, at morn, an' at e'en,
An' there's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean.
But be nae down-hearted though lovers gang by,
Thou'rt my only sister, thy brother am I;
An' aye in my wee house thou welcome shalt be,
An' while I hae saxpence, I'll share it wi' thee.
O Jeanie, dear Jeanie, when we twa were young,
I sat on your knee, to your bosom I clung;
You kiss'd me, an' clasp'd me, an' croon'd your bit sang,
An' bore me about, when you hardly dought gang.
An' when I fell sick, wi' a red watery ee,
You watched your wee brother, an' fear'd he wad dee;
I felt the cool hand, and the kindly embrace,
An' the warm trickling tears drappin aft on my face.
Sae wae was my kind heart to see my Jean weep,
I closed my sick ee, though I wasna asleep;
An' I'll never forget till the day that I dee,
The gratitude due, my dear Jeanie, to thee!
Then be nae down-hearted, for nae lad can feel
Sic true love as I do, or ken you sae weel;
My heart it yearns o'er thee, and grieved wad I be
If aught were to part my dear Jeanie an' me.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMARKS ON THE REVIEW OF GOVERNOR TAZEWELL'S REPORT.

MR. WHITE:—I have just read the Review of Governor Tazewell's Report to the Legislature, upon the subject of a Deaf and Dumb Asylum, in your last number, and am sorry to find that, amongst many things which I like, it contains some misstatements which, I think, do great injustice to that document, and to its author; and which I must therefore beg leave to correct.

In the first place, in noticing that part of the paper in which the Governor argues that as the last census shews that the whole number of deaf mutes in our State is only about four hundred and twenty-two, and the experience of other States, particularly Pennsylvania and Connecticut, has proved that only one-fifteenth of the whole number in any community can be drawn to such an institution, it is fair to conclude that the actual number of pupils who could be drawn to our asylum would not exceed twenty-eight; the Reviewer remarks that the Governor "seems to have founded his argument upon the supposition that the deaf and dumb pupils to be educated at the proposed asylum in Virginia, are to be maintained from their own resources, or the private liberality of their friends; whereas the very object of applying for legislative aid, is to enable many of these indigent children of misfortune to obtain instruction at the public expense." But this is obviously a misapprehension of the document; for the Governor says expressly in a passage quoted by the Reviewer himself, "the question seems to be resolved into this,—Can the Legislature reasonably promise itself, that by the employment of any means which it ought to use, it may concentrate at any point within this State sufficient inducements to draw thither the proper number of such pupils?" But it is quite apparent that among the "any means," and "sufficient inducements," which he was here speaking of, he included a provision for the support of indigent pupils, as a matter of course. Indeed, the very object of the establishment, as the Reviewer himself remarks, implies the propriety of such a provision, and the whole tenor of the Report accordingly takes it for granted throughout.

But the Reviewer asks: "If this was not the ground of the Governor's reasoning, why does he suppose that not more than one-fifteenth of the whole number of deaf mutes could be induced to resort to a seminary for instruction?" Why, for the reasons which he has so clearly stated, and which the Reviewer ought to have understood; that such had been the experience of other States, particularly Pennsylvania and Connecticut, and there was nothing to authorize the hope of a different result in our own case. Yet he asks, "Does he mean that a larger number could not be obtained if the public expense were proffered for their education and subsistence?" Undoubtedly he means this; for he says expressly in a passage which the Reviewer quotes, that in those States to whose experience he refers, "the most liberal means have been employed to attract to their long established asylums all of that class who might be induced to resort thither;" and he adds still more explicitly in another passage which the Reviewer does not quote, but which he ought to have read, speaking of the same institutions of Pennsylvania and Connecticut, "The only other aid" (besides acts of incorporation,) "which either of these seminaries has ever received since, from the several States within the limits of which they are situated, has been the appropriation of a sum of money annually to pay for the instruction of a certain number of persons, the children of citizens of these States respectively, whose parents were in such indigent circumstances as not to be able to defray the charge of their education." It is apparent, then, that the Governor's reasoning on this point is entirely sound; whilst the criticism of the Reviewer upon it is founded altogether upon a mere misconception of his own.

But taking it for granted that the number of pupils in our asylum would not exceed twenty-eight, the Governor proceeds to inquire whether it would not be better to provide for the support and education of them, that is, of the indigent ones of course, at the asylum of one of our sister States, rather than to establish a new seminary for them within our own bounds; and suggests several reasons in favor of such a course. First, it would aid the cause of science, which he thinks would be much better promoted, in the "more sublime and long-hidden" branches of it at least, by all communities sending in their contributions to a common stock, wherever that may happen to have been first begun, rather than by their separately exerting themselves to domesticate those mysterious novelties prematurely within their respective bounds. Secondly, it would save money, which is the sinews of charity as well as of war, and ought therefore to be husbanded with great care. And thirdly, and above all, the proceeding, or rather perhaps the principle which it involves, would tend to strengthen the union, and bind the states together. Thus he says: "To all this let me add, that if there is any thing better calculated than any other to cement our union, and to keep bright the chain which I trust will bind these states together while time lasts, it will be found in the contribution of each to objects approved by all, without any jealous regard to the actual spot at which such a general good may commence. If a generous spirit of this sort is but once manifested, its effects will be soon seen and felt by all. Acts of kindness will not fail to induce forbearance, and to generate sympathy. When each State shall feel that for the aid it requires to accomplish any object of general utility, it may rely confidently on its co-states, there will be no more applications to the federal government to pervert the language of the constitution, in order to accomplish the unholy scheme of robbing a minority to enrich a majority. Then those who contend but for the spoils of the vanquished, may be safely left to the contempt which such a motive cannot fail to inspire with all the generous and the good. It would have been worthy of Virginia to set such an example; it is worthy of her to imitate that which others have already taught."

Now these views of the Governor may not be exactly correct, and I freely acknowledge that I do not adopt them myself; but what is there in any of them, I ask, that ought to excite the alarm, or kindle the indignation of the Reviewer? Obviously nothing at all. Yet after quoting them at full length, he proceeds to comment upon them in the following words: "It is in these passages that we think lurks the fallacy, and we might add the mischief of the Governor's views. He sets out first by deprecating all legislative interference on the subject." Where? In what part of the Report? For I have not seen such a thought in it; and I have read the whole, though the Reviewer it seems has not; and the passages under his notice most certainly do not suggest any thing like it. On the contrary, they directly advise that the Legislature shall interfere in the case, although not precisely in the Reviewer's way. But he goes on: "'Let us alone' is his cardinal maxim, and the maxim of the school of politicians to which he belongs. Let individuals take care of themselves, and of each other; but let not government presume to thrust its paternal care upon the community." And where does he get this idea from again? Not certainly from any thing in the Report before him. And was it right, then, was it courteous in him to travel out of the record to arraign the political opinions of the Governor, and the school of politicians to which he belongs? Was it proper even to glance at such a martial topic in the amicable columns of the Literary Messenger? Or if it was, and if the Reviewer believed that the favorite maxim of the Governor, and the school of politicians to which he belongs, is, "Let us alone," did he think it fair to represent him as holding it in all the extent of its terms, without limitation or reserve? Or, is the maxim itself utterly and absolutely false, to all intents and purposes whatever? And is there nothing—nothing at all—to which it may be properly applied? Is there nothing which the Legislature ought not to meddle with? If this is his opinion, it is easy to see to what class of politicians he belongs, and it is one whose latitudinarianism—but I will not follow the bad example which he has set me, and abuse your peaceable pages to expose the danger of its doctrines, and the folly of its flights.

But the Reviewer proceeds: "In the next place, however, if the State, according to his Excellency's notions, will officiously obtrude into these private matters, why then let the funds of the Commonwealth go abroad and enrich some sister State. These kind offices will brighten the chain of union which binds the states together. They will teach us all to rely more upon each other, and less upon the general government.—This is the sum and substance of the Governor's reasoning; and dangerous and fallacious as we believe it to be, we feel the stronger obligations, coming from the high quarter it does, to resist and refute it if we can." But is this a fair representation of the Governor's reasoning? Is it not rather a gross caricature of it? For, has the Governor hinted any thing like a proposal that our State should send her funds abroad to aid all the institutions of her sister states, instead of keeping them at home to support her own? On the contrary, does he not say expressly, "I will not admit that there is a single citizen within the limits of Virginia more desirous than I am to domesticate here every thing needful to the well being of the State?" And does he not accordingly take good care to confine his recommendation of a contribution to the institutions of other states, to cases of a peculiar character, in which, as in the instance of a deaf and dumb asylum, the object in view is to furnish a small portion of our citizens with the means of access to the "more sublime and long-hidden truths of modern science?" And does he not, moreover, declare it to be a part of his plan that every other State shall reciprocate the generosity of ours, so as to return a pretty fair quid pro quo into our exchequer? And what is there, then, that is so very "dangerous" in the Governor's reasoning? Nothing at all that I can see. Yet our Reviewer is so much alarmed at it, or rather at a phantom of his own imagination which he mistakes for it, that he flies off from the true point of inquiry, and instead of calmly answering the argument before him, as he might have done, breaks out into a warm and impassioned strain of protestation against a mere figment of his own, which is truly imposing; but unfortunately without object, and of course without point. Thus he asks, "did any one ever dream that Kentucky had given cause of offence to her sister states by erecting an asylum for the poor deaf mutes? We apprehend not." Why then does he ask the question? Has the Governor written any thing which fairly suggests such a singular query? Or was the Reviewer himself dreaming when he wrote? Yet he adds, "the truth is, that his Excellency the Governor is entirely mistaken in his views upon the subject!"—whereas the truth is, that his Highness the Reviewer is entirely mistaken in his views of the Report. But he keeps on, and adds: "What a ridiculous business it would be, if twenty-four families in the same neighborhood were to act upon the principle, that each was to take care of all the rest in preference to itself!" Very true; but it is his own idea. The Governor's seems to be, that if the good old lady at the head of any one of these families should choose to send her little deaf and dumb daughter to the learned French master who was teaching a class of sourd-muets in her neighbor's house, instead of importing another Frenchman, (or Yankee, who stands ready to take any body's place,) to open a similar school in her own domicile, it might save money and increase love—especially if all the rest would act on the same principle in return. And is there any thing so very ridiculous in this? The same sort of hallucination runs through the remainder of the paragraph; but I cannot think it necessary to expose it any further.

I will only add that I agree entirely with the Reviewer in much, and perhaps all, that he has written so handsomely in favor of internal improvement, in the fullest sense of the phrase. I agree with him, more particularly, and most cordially, in thinking that we ought, by all means, to furnish and adorn our native state, as soon as possible, with every thing that can promote her happiness and honor, and make her as perfect and complete within her own limits, as any kingdom or commonwealth on earth can be. Of course, I agree with him also in condemning and stigmatizing, as he does, that abject and disgraceful spirit of apathy which has so long paralyzed our citizens, but which, I trust, we have now shaken off forever. But, at the same time, I am persuaded that Governor Tazewell would cheerfully unite with us in these views, to a considerable extent; and I cannot think it right or fair to charge him, either directly or by implication, with errors which, I am confident, he does not hold, and which, most certainly, he has not avowed in his Report.

A READER.

We extract the following from the "Remains of the Rev. Charles Wolfe," being the description of the "Dargle," or "Glen of the Oak," an enchanting scene in Wicklow county, Ireland, of which country Mr. Wolfe was a native.

THE DARGLE.

We found ourselves at Bray about ten in the morning, with that disposition to be pleased which seldom allows itself to be disappointed; and the sense of our escape from every thing not only of routine, but of regularity, into the country of mountains and glens and valleys and waterfalls, inspired us with a sort of gay wildness and independence, that disposed us to find more of the romantic and picturesque than perhaps Nature ever intended. If, therefore, gentle reader, thou shouldest here meet with any extravagances at which thy sober feelings may be inclined to revolt, bethink thee, that the immortal Syntax himself, when just escaped from the everlasting dulness of a school, did descry a landscape even in a post,—a circumstance which probably no one had ever discovered before.

We proceeded to the Dargle along the small river whose waters were flowing gently towards us after having passed through the beautiful scenes we were to visit. It was here a tranquil stream, and its banks but thinly clothed; but at the opening of the Dargle-gate, the scene was instantly changed. At once we were immersed in a sylvan wilderness, where the trees were thronging and crowding around us; and the river had suddenly changed its tone, and was sounding wildly up the wooded bank that sloped down to its edge. We precipitated ourselves towards the sound,—and when we stopped and looked around us, the mountains, the champaign, and almost the sky had disappeared. We were at the bottom of a deep winding glen, whose steep sides had suddenly shut out every appearance of the world that we had left. At our feet a stream was struggling with the multitude of rude rocks, which Nature, in one of her primeval convulsions, had flung here and there in masses into its current; sometimes uniting into irregular ledges, over which the water swept with impetuosity;—sometimes standing insulated in the stream, and increasing the energies of the river by their resistance;—sometimes breaking forward from the bank, and giving a bolder effect to its romantic outline. The opposite side of the glen, that rose steeply and almost perpendicularly from the very brink of the river, was one precipice of foliage from top to bottom, where the trees rose directly above each other (their roots and backs being in a great degree concealed by the profusion of leaves in those below them,) and a broken sunbeam now and then struggled through the boughs, and sometimes contrived to reach the river.

The side along which we proceeded was equally high, but more sloping and diversified; and the wooding, at one time retiring from the stream, while at another a close cluster of trees of the freshest verdure advanced into the river, bending over it in attitudes at once graceful and fantastic, and forming a picturesque and luxuriant counterpart to the little naked promontories of rock which we before observed. Both sides of the glen completely enclosed us from the view of every thing external, except a narrow tract of sky just over our heads, which corresponded in some degree to the course of the stream below; so that in fact the sun seemed a stranger, only occasionally visiting us from another system. Sometimes while we were engaged in contemplating the strong darkness of the river as it rushed along, and the pensive loveliness of the foliage overhanging it, a sudden gleam of sunshine quietly yet instantaneously diffused itself over the scene, as if it smiled almost from some internal perception of pleasure, and felt a glow of instinctive exhilaration. Thus did we wander from charm to charm, and from beauty to beauty, endlessly varying, though all breathing the same wild and secluded luxury, the same poetical voluptuousness. This new region, set apart from the rest of creation, with its class of fanciful joys attached to it, seemed allotted to some creature of different elements from our own,—some airy being, whose only essence was imagination. As the thought occupied us, we opened upon a new object which seemed to confirm it. The profuse wooding which formed the steep and rich barrier of the opposite side of the river, was suddenly interrupted by a huge naked rock that stood out into the stream, as if it had swelled forward indignantly from the touch of cultivation, and, proud of its primitive barrenness, had flung aside the hand that was dispensing beauty around it, and that would have intruded upon its craggy and original majesty. It was here that our imaginations fixed a residence for the Genius of the river and the spirit of the Dargle. A sort of watery cell was formed by the protrusion of this bold figure from the one side, and the thick foliage that met it across from the other, and threw a solemn darkness over the water. In front, a fragment of rock stood in the middle of the current, like a threshold, and a spreading tree hung its branches directly over it, like a spacious screen in face of the cell. From this we began gradually to ascend, until our side became nearly as steep as the opposite, while the wooding was thickening on both at every step; so that the glen soon formed one steep and magnificent gulf of foliage. The river at a vast distance, almost directly below us; the glad sparkling and flashing of its waters, only occasionally seen, and its wild voice mellowed and refined as it reached us through thousands of leaves and branches; the variety of hues, and the mazy irregularity of the trees that descended from our feet to the river,—were finely contrasted with the heavier and more monotonous mass that met it in the bottom, down the other side.

In stepping back a few paces, we just descried, over the opposite boundary, the top of Sugar-loaf, in dim and distant perspective. The sensations of a mariner, when, after a long voyage without sight of shore, he suddenly perceives symptoms of land where land was not expected, could not be more novel and curious, than those excited in us by this little silent notice of regions which we had literally forgotten,—so totally were we engrossed in our present enchantment, and so much were our minds, like our view, bounded by the sides of the glen. This single object let in a whole train of recollections and associations: but the charm could not be more gradually and more pleasingly broken. The glen, still retaining all its characteristic luxuriance, began gracefully to widen,—the country to open upon us, and the mountains to rise; and at length, after a gentle descent, we passed the Dargle-gate, and found ourselves standing over the delightful valley of Powerscourt. It was like the transition from the enjoyments of an Ariel to those of human nature,—from the blissful abode of some sylphic genius, to the happiest habitations of mortal men,—from all the restless and visionary delights of fancy, to the calm glow of real and romantic happiness. Our minds that were before confused by the throng of beauties that enclosed and solicited them on every side, now expanded and reposed upon the scene before us. The sun himself seemed liberated, and rejoicing in his emancipation. The valley indeed "lay smiling before us;" the river, no longer dashing over rock and struggling with impediments, was flowing brightly and cheerfully along in the sun, bordered by meadows of the liveliest green, and now and then embowered in a cluster of trees. One little field of the freshest verdure swelled forward beyond the rest, round which the river wound, so as to give it the appearance of an island. In this we observed a mower whetting his sithe, and the sound was just sufficient to reach us faintly and at intervals. To the left was the Dargle, where all the beauties that had so much enchanted us were now one undistinguishable mass of leaves. Confronting us, stood Sugar-loaf, with his train of rough and abrupt mountains, remaining dark in the midst of sunshine, like the frowning guardians of the valley. These were contrasted with the grand flowing outline of the mountains to our right, and the exquisite refinement and variety of the light that spread itself over their gigantic sides. Far to the left, the sea was again disclosed to our view, and behind us was the Scalp, like the outlet from Paradise into the wide world of thorns and briers.

From the Cincinnati Mirror.

PHRENOLOGICAL EXAMINATIONS.

There never was an important discovery presented to the consideration of men, which was not opposed by all the force that scepticism could call to its assistance.—Truths, which at the present time are universally recognized, had to accomplish conquests over many obstacles, before their necessity or importance was admitted. The all-important and sublime discoveries of Galileo, Newton and Hartly, were first sneered at, then ridiculed, after a while considered, and subsequently adopted. Truths do not burst in splendor from heaven on the benighted understandings of men; but their progress ever has been and ever must be gradual. Night, in the intellectual as in the outward world, relinquishes its empire slowly; and hence, doctrines appertaining to science, which seem at this time to contain within themselves the qualities of their own illumination, were originally rejected as unworthy of the sanction of the understanding.

Phrenology has offered no exception to the general rule which we have referred to. Whether it be true or false, it has at least participated in the destiny common to truth. It has been met at every stage of its progress with whatever of reason, ridicule, or wit, subtlety or ingenuity could suggest. Ardent opponents have inflicted what they have supposed deadly wounds upon it, and have anticipated the epitaph which would be written to its memory. But these visions have not, unfortunately for the reputations of those who indulged them, been realized; and the period at which they predicted the extinction of the science, has been the season of its proudest triumphs. If it be a heresy, it is a bold one; and, like that of the Albigenses, spreads most where opposition is deadliest.

Phrenology is emphatically a science of observation;—by it, it has been built up; and on it, it mainly depends. Observation and application form the tests of scientific doctrines, and they are invoked as the formidable auxiliaries of this science. To a mind disposed to investigate before it decides upon the merits of doctrines, a few interrogations present themselves forcibly. Among the advocates of phrenology, have not some names, remarkable for ability and inquiry, been numbered? Were these men imposed on by the fallacies of the science, or did they wish to impose a fallacy upon the credulity of others? Are not these suppositions effectually silenced by an appeal to the well-determined moral and intellectual qualities of those advocates? If phrenology be false, how has it happened that a science which triumphantly appeals to observation, and which, in consequence, must be susceptible of easy support or overthrow, has for years sustained itself against the combined efforts of genius and intelligence? Is it asked why scientific individuals have not universally ranged themselves under the banners of this science? Two answers immediately suggest themselves:—First; the reluctance with which the human mind ever foregoes or substitutes its acquisitions; and, secondly, the disinclination which men always manifest at prosecuting inquiries into the nature of doctrines which are not corroborated by previous studies, and which they are pleased to term innovations.

Phrenology must stand or fall by facts; supported by them, it must be sustained; opposed in this wise, it must fall. Without committing ourselves in favor of, or in opposition to its doctrines—for, in truth, we have not yet yielded its doctrines our assent—we desire to record a few facts which make for its truth, and which have come within our notice.

Doctor Powell, well known as an able and enthusiastic advocate of phrenology, at present lecturing in the city, confident in the truths of the science, pronounces upon character agreeably to the external configuration of the crania with fearlessness the most perfect. Since his arrival here, we have known him examine three different crania, which were presented to him for the purpose of testing the truth of phrenological doctrines. The two first were handed him by Mr. Dorfeuille, the intelligent proprietor of the Western Museum. The first one, which Doctor Powell saw, he immediately perceived the preponderance of the vicious propensities over the moral sentiments, and unhesitatingly said, its owner, according to the laws of the land, deserved hanging, if he were not actually executed. The second one was presented, and he forthwith pronounced its possessor equally bad with the former, although unpossessed of his recklessness, and greatly more cautious and secretive. Mr. Dorfeuille then stated, that the sculls belonged to two negro fellows who were executed some years ago in New Orleans, and whose heads after execution were stuck on pikes. The first fellow was notoriously vile and daring; the other was more shy, and against him no absolute proof could be brought; but he was convicted on evidence so strong as to defy the resistance of the judgment. The delineation of their characters upon the principles of phrenology he acknowledged to be most complete.

On last Monday evening, professor Cobb, of the medical college, sent a cranium to Doctor Powell for examination, in the presence of his class. He took it up and pronounced its prominent developments to be those of combativeness, destructiveness, secretiveness, acquisitiveness: he said that each of these propensities might have manifested itself singly; but the probability was that they co-operated, and the consequence was, that their subject was addicted to robbery on the highways, and was highly combative. After he had finished his examination, he called on professor Cobb to state what he knew of the character of the individual. He arose, and said that, so far as he was aware, the lecturer had determined truly. The skull had belonged to a Spaniard confined under suspicion of piracy, in the Cincinnati jail last winter, and who, while there, had committed suicide, and thus escaped trial.—An examination of his body proved what the lecturer had said in regard to his combativeness, as it was scarified in many places. We have since understood, that this Spaniard was arrested for attempting to stab a person in the street, and while in confinement, was recognized as a pirate, and, in order to avoid the consequences of a trial on the charge of piracy, he had cut the principal arteries of both arms, and died from the wounds thus inflicted. Dr. Powell had no intimation of the character of either of the individuals, which he portrayed with such exactness; but relied solely on phrenological science. If the doctrines be untrue, how are these results ascertained by them to be accounted for?

Our only object has been to give the lecturer as well as the science he espouses, the benefit of facts we have narrated, and to which they are so justly entitled. We leave comment for those who are curious upon the subject. We feel assured that what we have stated must be interesting to those who are desirous of investigating the science, for the purpose of determining the amount of plausibility on which it is grounded.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,—As a subscriber and very sincere friend to your paper, let me beg of you to find room as soon as you can, for three extracts, all of which together, will not occupy more than three or four pages of the Messenger, and yet embrace as much deeply interesting matter on the all important subject of education, as can any where be found within the same compass. The first two you will find in the September number for the past year, of "The Annals of Education," a periodical published in monthly numbers of forty-eight pages each, for three dollars and fifty cents a year; or for three dollars if paid by the first of April, or for two dollars and forty cents if five copies are taken together and paid for in advance. Of this work I can affirm, without hesitation, that it contains more highly useful information on the subjects of which it treats, and at less cost, than all the other works together that are published in the United States on the same topics. Nay, I will venture farther to assert that there is not a parent or teacher in our whole country, who might not derive essential service from its perusal. This, my good sir, is no exaggeration, but my deliberate opinion; given, I acknowledge, with some hope of promoting the circulation of this highly valuable periodical from Yankee land, but without any other interest in it than every man ought to feel who is so thoroughly persuaded as I am, of the absolute necessity for educating our whole people on principles materially different from any that have yet been put into practice among us.

The third extract is from a new work by James Simpson, lately republished in New York and Boston, on "The Necessity of Popular Education as a National Object." The short introduction is all that I will ask you to insert in your paper, as I have persuaded myself to believe that no friend to popular education can read it without feeling a strong desire to peruse the whole volume. It contains a mass of facts, illustrations, and arguments, exhibited in a style at once so perspicuous, forcible, and persuasive, as must carry conviction to every understanding capable of comprehending and feeling the vital importance of the subject in all its bearings, both upon individual and national happiness. In numbers one and two of the appendix, the topics of criminal and medical jurisprudence are treated of in a manner which, although concise, is well worthy the deepest attention of every legislator and statesman, for they contain hints for improving our criminal code that seem to me of the utmost importance to the general good.

Deem me not importunate if I petition you to publish another extract of quite a different character from the foregoing. It is from the pen of the admirable Mrs. Norton, and expresses conjugal affection with so much touching pathos, that surely no married man, especially one from the Emerald Isle, can read it without deep emotion. It is called

SONG OF THE IRISH PEASANT WIFE.

Come, Patrick, clear up the storm on your brow,
You were kind to me once,—will you frown on me now?
Shall the storm settle here, when it from Heaven departs,
And the cold from without find the way to our hearts?
No, Patrick, no; surely the wintriest weather
Is easily borne, while we bear it together.
Though the rain's dropping through from the roof to the floor,
And the wind whistles free where there once was a door;
Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away
All the warm vows we made in love's early day?
No, Patrick, no; surely the dark stormy weather
Is easily borne,—so we bear it together.
When you stole out to woo me, when labor was done,
And the day that was closing, to us seem'd begun,
Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers,
Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers?
No, Patrick; we talk'd while we brav'd the wild weather,
Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.
Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by,
And our hearts be lit up by a beam from the sky;
Oh! let not our spirits, imbittered with pain,
Be dead to the sunshine that comes on us then:
Heart in heart—hand in hand—let us welcome the weather,
And sunshine or storm, we will bear it together.

From the New England Magazine.

A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL.

At the palace of the Prince Borghese in Rome, several young English and American artists were engaged, last winter, in copying the renowned productions of the old masters. Portray to yourself, kind reader, two large halls—the walls of which are lined with paintings, and intercommunicating by a side door, now thrown open for the benefit of the parties. In the first of these apartments are erected three easels—before which, in the attitude of painters, stand—first, a Virginian, intent upon the exquisite Magdalene of Correggio,—opposite, the native of a country town of Great Britain—transferring, as nearly as possible, the Prodigal Son, of the great Venetian,—while, within a few feet of the former, a Londoner is travailing for the inspiration of Titian, by contemplating his "Sacred and Profane Loves." The artists may thus be said to occupy, relatively, the three points of an isosceles-triangle. Gaze now, through the above-mentioned passage, and behold, at the extremity of the second and lesser hall, the figure of a Baltimorean—fancying, perchance, the surprise of the natives when they see his copy of the inimitable Cupid beside him.

These worthy followers of the rainbow art were wont to amuse themselves, and beguile the time, with conversations upon the merits and manners of their respective countries; and occasionally, by a very natural process, such amicable debates would assume not a little of the earnest spirit of controversy. Then would the brush fall less frequently upon the canvass—their eyes linger less devotedly upon the great originals around, and ever and anon the disputants would step a pace or two from the object of their labors, raise aloft their pencils—as though, like the styles of the ancients, they subserved equally the purposes of art and of warfare, or wave their mottled pallets as shields against the errors of argument. A full history of these discussions, hallowed by the scene of the combat, diversified by the characters of the combatants, and disguised by the nature of the points contested—would doubtless be a valuable accession to our literature. The great topics of national policy, domestic manners, republicanism, aristocracy, slavery, corn laws, etc. as unfolded, in the elegant and discerning disputations of the absentees in a Roman palace, would prove something new, vivid and seasonable. But to me falls the humbler task of narrating one scene of the drama, as illustrative of the wisdom and safety of keeping one's own secret.

On a day, when the war of words had ran unusually high, there was a momentary, and, as it were, a spontaneous quietude. After the manner of their predecessors in the same city—years bygone, the gladiators rested upon their arms. There was an interlude of silence. They gradually reassumed the appropriate occupations of the hour. A few unusually fine touches were bestowed upon the slowly-progressing copies—when the aspiring portrayer of the beautiful parable thus opened a new cannonade:

"Well, smooth over, as you may, the blot of slavery—and deny or palliate, as you best can, the charge of non-refinement, the world will never admit the existence of true civilization in a country where so barbaric a practice as gouging prevails."

At the commencement of this speech, the pencil of the Virginian had stopped transfixed within an inch of the pensive countenance on his canvass; and with nerves braced in expectancy, he awaited the issue. And when the orator, like a second Brutus, paused for a reply, his adversary was mute—perhaps from indignation, probably in the absorption consequent upon preparing to refute and chastise. The Londoner wheeled around, and, with a nod of congratulation to his brother islander, and a provoking and triumphant smile upon the Virginian, begged to be informed "of the origin and nature of the American custom of gouging?" When lo! there were heard quick steps along the polished floors, and as the eyes of the artists followed their direction, the form of the Baltimorean emerged from the adjoining hall. His painter's stick, pallet and brush, were grasped convulsively in his left hand, as with energetic strides he reached the centre of the arena, and gazed meaningly upon the disputants.

"You would know, sir," he exclaimed, eyeing fiercely the hero of the British capital, "what is gouging? Go, sir, to Basil Hall—your literary countryman: when ascending the Mississippi, he was put on shore by the captain of a steamboat for ungentlemanly deportment—and on the banks of that river, sir, he was gouged!" As the last emphatic words exploded, a gentleman, who had been viewing the paintings, abruptly left the room. The Londoner looked wonders, his compatriot tittered, the Cupid-limner wiped his brow. "Who was that?" inquired the Virginian. "That, sir, was Captain Hall!"

H. T. T.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA.

"The moan of mortal agony which arose from the despairing multitude became at this crisis for a moment so universal, that it rose shrilly audible over the voice of the elements and the thunders of war, above the wild whistling of the tempest and the sustained and redoubled hourras of the Cossacks. The witness from whom we have this information, declares that the sound was in his ears for many weeks. This dreadful scene continued till dark, many being forced into the icy river, some throwing themselves in, betwixt absolute despair and the faint hope of gaining the opposite bank by swimming, some getting across only to die of cold and exhaustion."—Scott's Napoleon, Vol. II. Page 385.

What scene is here? The dying moan, the wailing cry
Come on the gusty blast that speeds so swiftly by;
The river rolls heavy as it struggles with dead,
Who writhe in their blood ere the spirit hath fled—
And chafed by the winds in the wrath of the storm,
Its red clotted waters flow tortured and warm.
Thousands lie here; kindred and aliens in race,
They are rigid and fixed in death's cold embrace;
They clench and they cling in the last dying grasp,
And the living, the dead, reluctantly clasp:
Or, fearing a friend in his last cold embrace,
They spurn him beneath to his dark dreary place.
A many-voiced moan now saddens the air,
Whose tones are all blent with wild curses and prayer;
And the deep hollow moan that wails o'er the flood,
As spirits pass away in storm and in blood.
In the sad welkin tremble heart-rending shrieks,
So piercing, that startled, the deep echo speaks.
There's mirth that's of madness, one laughs in his fear,
And prayer thrills in tones of the wildest despair;
And the deep solemn curse from the blasphemer stern,
Who weeps not, who wails not, tho' his dying soul burn.
Oh spirits pass away so sad in their strife,
That the living still cling more closely to life:
With unearthliest cries, grim phantasied shapes
Brood o'er the senses ere the spirit escapes;
On the wings of the wind how swift speeds the blast,
With pinions all viewless it fleets as the past;—
Oh say, does it bear the spirits that have fled,
In the last bitter strife, ere the dying be dead?
To the last dying sense comes a vision more dread,
For Death flaps his wings o'er the fields of the dead:
His deep hollow tones called away and away
Spirits immortal, disengaged from their clay;
And rearing aloft his deep sable plume,
On wings of the wind rose in shadow and gloom,
Still bearing them on with invisible trace,
As he swept the broad fields of infinite space—
Whilst Terror, all wild in his deep, horrid lair,
Made sad with his moans the invisible air.
The night wind sighs drear, in its last dying breath;
The clouds fleet away, like the shadows of death,
From the face of the moon, whose sepulch'red light
Steals softly upon the dark bosom of night,—
As the last smile of hope, ere the spirit hath fled,
Lingers tranquil and bright o'er the face of the dead.

ALPHA.

The lines which follow ought to be preserved in a more permanent form than the columns of a newspaper. They were written and published before Mr. Johnston's lamentable death. It will be recollected that he perished by the explosion of a steamboat, ascending the Red River.

After the above was penned, the melancholy intelligence reached us of Mr. Davis's death. Patriotism will mourn his loss, and the Columbian Muse hang a garland over his tomb.

From the Augusta (Geo.) Chronicle.

The following beautiful parody, which we met with in the hands of a respected friend, and were permitted by him to take a copy for publication, is attributed to the Hon. Warren R. Davis of South Carolina—a gentleman no less distinguished, admired and beloved for his many and striking literary acquirements, private virtues, social qualities, fine manners, polished, varied and brilliant wit and vivid fancy,—than for his ardent patriotism, open and fearless honesty, independence, eloquence, and disinterested devotion to his gallant and glorious state. It is said to have been written, on the sportive suggestion of the moment, as a contribution to the Album of the talented, accomplished and witty lady of the Hon. Mr. Johnston of the United States Senate from Louisiana. The old air of "Roy's Wife of Aldavalloch" is, we think, one of the most rare and beautiful specimens of that class of Scottish music, which was probably introduced from Italy, in the time of the brilliant but unfortunate Queen Mary.

PARODY.

Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
The fairest flower that ever bloomed
In southern sun or gay savannah.¹
The Inca's blood flows in her veins—²
The Inca's soul her bright eyes lighten;
Child of the sun, like him she reigns,
To cheer our hopes, our sorrows brighten.
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
The fairest flower that ever bloomed
In southern sun or gay savannah.
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
She hath a way to win all hearts,
And bow them to the shrine of Anna!
Her mind is radiant with the lore
Of ancient and of modern story—
And native wit of richer store
Bedecks her with its rainbow glory.
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
She hath a way to charm all hearts,
And bow them to the shrine of Anna!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
The hapless bard who sings her praise,
Now worships at the shrine of Anna?
Twas such a vision, bright but brief,
In early youth his true heart rended,
Then left it like a fallen leaf,
On life's most rugged thorn suspended.
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
The hapless bard who sings her praise
Wept tears of blood for such an Anna!

¹ "The gayest scene in nature is a southern savannah, enamelled with its rich variety of flowers."—Humboldt.

² "The Incas claim their descent from the sun."—Las Casas.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BEAUTY WITHOUT LOVELINESS.

He looked on the chiselled form and face,
And the roseate blush beguiling,
And the arch of the eye-brow's pencilled trace,
And the lip in moisture smiling:
He looked on the raven curls that fell
O'er the brow of Parian whiteness,
And the silken lash that softened the spell
Of the eye that swam in brightness:
He looked on the slender hand that shone,
Where the sparkle of gems abounded,
Like the star of eve on her vesper throne,
By the pearls of the sky surrounded:
He looked on the arm, as in floating grace,
It waved o'er the chords entrancing,
And the feathery foot, as it marked each trace
Of the melody in dancing.
He looked on all these, while links of gold
With the silken chain were blended;
And yet in his bosom calm and cold,
No wave of the soul ascended.
No rapture glowed in his tranquil gaze,
The tremulous thought revealing;
He looked for the light of soul in the face,
And saw not a ray o'er it stealing.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HAPPY LOVE.

The Nightingale sings to the midnight air,
All darkling and alone:
And the Lover's lute, mid the gloom of despair,
Gives forth its sweetest tone.
But the Lark springs up with the morn's first blush,
And mounts the clouds above;
As he sings to his mate, in the hawthorn bush,
The tale of his happy love.
But hark, that note from the clustering shade!
It has reached his listening ear;
And, with pinions closed, to her leafy bed,
He comes, like a falling star.
O! happy Love! O happy pair!
O for that tuneful art!
That I might breathe in my Lucy's ear
The voice of a happy heart.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SORROWS OF LOVE.

TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON SEPARATION.

Oh! weep not tho' we're bid to part,
Since time nor distance e'er can sever
The links that bind my changeless heart,
To thy angelic form forever.
As summer clouds that hide the sun,
When once removed restore him brighter;
This night of woe as soon as done,
Will make our love-day morn the lighter.
Affliction now our hearts has proved,
And shown our passion's depth more clearly;
In joy we might have known we loved,
But grief has taught us, oh! how dearly.

The foregoing was written by a gentleman of fine genius, and is published without the author's knowledge.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTEMPORAL LINES.

On hearing Mr. Wickham's Speech at the Bar of the House of Delegates, on the 6th instant.

When Wickham stood up at the bar of the House,
And every one there was as still as a mouse,
I trembled myself, (to acknowledge the truth,)
Lest his age should forget the fine feats of his youth;
And I thought that his Horace had warned him in vain,
"Release the old racer in time from the rein,
Lest he falter at length in a laughable pace,
And finish his course in diverting disgrace."
But soon, very soon, all my fears were relieved,
And hopes took their places that were not deceived;
For I saw that his motions were sprightly and strong,
And, spite of his weights, he went gaily along,
Till, safe at the goal, pleasure broke from my lips,
And I cried out delighted, "hurrah for Eclipse!"¹

January, 1835.

¹ Solve senescentem maturè sanus equum, ne
Peccet ad extremum ridendus, et ilia ducat.
Hor. Epist. Lib. i. 1.

MRS. WOOD'S MANUSCRIPT POEMS.

The pious and excellent Mrs. JEAN WOOD, who died in this city some years since, was the relict of General James Wood, a distinguished officer of the revolution, and afterwards Governor of Virginia. The qualities for which she was remarkable, were familiarly known to a very large circle of friends, by whom, at least such as survive her, her memory is still held dear. She was indeed in the justest sense, a mother in Israel,—a lady of shining christian benevolence, whose kindly feelings towards her race did not consist in mere sentiment only,—but were evinced in a life of active, useful, and unostentatious charities and labors of love. Her piety moreover, though profound and ardent, was free from austerity; and there was a grace and cheerfulness in her manner and conversation, which won upon all of every age and condition who approached her. Well known as she was however, and universally respected for her virtues, there were but few comparatively who were apprised of her varied endowments or who knew that her practical good sense and experienced judgment were united to the lighter attractions and more ornamental graces of the intellectual character. Literature was to her the solace which refreshed the intervals in her works of goodness; it furnished that balmy repose to the spirit,—which it often needs amidst the conflicts and agitations of human life, even in its most favored condition. The proud, the selfish and avaricious, or the gay and luxurious, may each indulge in his own enjoyment or follow his own delusive phantom,—but next to the consciousness of doing good, there is no earthly happiness so pure and unalloyed as that which springs from the silent communion with our own spirits, or with the marvellous and multiform external objects which surround us. "There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know." There is an exalted sense of enjoyment in contemplating all that is beautiful and good in the moral and physical world, and this indeed constitutes the empire of poetry in its more general and unrestricted sense. We do not claim for Mrs. Wood very extraordinary powers in this enchanting department of literary effort,—for how few of the thousands who have ever essayed to climb the hill of Parnassus have reached its highest pinnacle; and on the contrary how many have been content to tune their unambitious lays in humble seclusion—without courting or even desiring renown. Mrs. Wood wrote neither for fame nor the public eye, and it is this circumstance alone which will impart an additional interest to the natural and unstudied effusions of her muse. Her numerous friends and relatives will at least experience a melancholy pleasure, in tracing in these memorolabilia of their deceased friend, some of those qualities of mind and heart, which rendered her in life an object of respect and love,—and in death,—of veneration and regret.

The first poem we have selected, entitled "Retrospection," appears to have been written in 1809—when a severe illness threatened the life of her husband. In the frame of mind natural under such circumstances, she recalls the principal sorrows of her life, and among them there was none more poignant than the loss of an only child, a daughter of eighteen years old. The closing lines will indicate the source to which she was accustomed to look in the season of human affliction.

RETROSPECTION.

Why should mysterious Heaven bestow
A warm and feeling heart—
Yet doom it naught but pain to know,
And rankle in its smart?
That it might agonize and bleed
At every suffering pore,
The soft affections why decreed
To centre in its core?
The tender ties my heart has proved
That heart has held most dear,
And those most dearly, fondly loved,
Have cost the bitterest tear!
A tender parent's weeping nurse
My early youth I pass'd;
And Heaven did but those tears disperse
To bid them flow more fast:
For rich in worth, a youth appear'd—
I gave my virgin heart;
But Hymen scarce our vows endeared
Ere we were doomed to part:
He, through war's ravaged fields to roam
Eight sad revolving years—
I, droop'd, a widow'd wife at home,
In unavailing tears:
But ah! the pang was yet to feel,
(The worst the heart can know,)
The pang no earthly power can heal,
The climax of all woe!
To me a cherub fair was given,
I placed it next my heart;
It seemed the choicest gift of Heaven—
My bosom's dearest part:
While yet I mark'd each opening charm
That graced its baby brow,
Disease approach'd, in direful form,
To lay each promise low.
And oh! how worse than death to see
The ruins of a mind,
Which, in its dawning, seem'd to be
For better hopes design'd;
To watch with anxious hopes and fears
The daily deep'ning gloom,
Till eighteen sad and suffering years
Had laid her in the tomb.
Though keen the parting pang I felt,
And did my child deplore;
Yet soon in gratitude I knelt—
Her sufferings were no more.
My mind's composure once regain'd,
A competence still ours;
My loved companion, too, remain'd
To cheer my lonely hours:
Fondly I hoped life's evening shade
Might yet in peace descend,
And grief no more my heart invade
Till closing life should end.
But now alas! the transient calm
Flits fast and far away—
The hope that o'er my fancy swam,
And soothed my wasting day;
For dire disease again appears
To break the mild serene;
Again commands my streaming tears,
And clouds our closing scene!
Why, then, my God! thus closely twine
Around this bursting heart,
Those fond affections which are mine,
Such misery to impart!
Dare I, presumptuous, seek to know
What mocks our mortal sight;
Enough for me, thou will'st it so—
It, therefore, must be right.

The piece which follows, our readers will agree with us, is not only very agreeable verse, but what is still better, is replete with pure moral sentiment.

THE CAPTIVE BIRD.

Say, little caged flutterer, say,
Why mournful waves thy drooping wing?
Why silent sit, the live-long day?
Nor Vespers chaunt, nor Matins sing.
When first a captive thou wert made
And in thy wiry dwelling swung,
Suspended in the leafy shade
Or sunny door, you gaily sung.
My careful hand supplied thee store
Of ripest berries from the hill;
Thy cup replenished, strewed thy floor
With glittering gravel from the rill.
Beneath the same luxuriant vine,
The same kind hand supplies thy fare;
The sun's first cheering rays are thine,
Yet thou art sad and silent there.
Ah! little captive, couldst thou see
What passes in this wayward breast,
Thou'dst ask, perhaps, the same of me,
And why vain wishes break my rest.
Thou'dst ask me, why this quiet shade
Which late a paradise I deem'd,
Though still in verdant sweets array'd,
A melancholy prison seemed?
And bid me mind, each passing day
That wholesome viands crown'd my board,
That flowers and fruits and sunshine gay
For me, too, vernal sweets afford.
Nay, more,—that liberty is mine
And lends a ray to every joy—
While sad captivity is thine,
Mingling with all its sad alloy.
Thou "still small voice" that will be heard,
Whose whispers thrill the inmost soul!
Reproving friend—beloved and feared—
Conscience, this is thy mild control!
Oft hast thou urged this conscious truth,
When gloomy tears have fill'd mine eye;
Or discontent, with brow unsmooth,
Was fain to force th' unwilling sigh.
'Tis thy reproving voice I hear,
When from the poor and lowly cot
Content and cheerfulness appear,
Though mark'd by penury their lot.
Then shall I bear a pining heart—
While friendship, health, and peace combine
Life's dearest comforts to impart—
Ah! shall a thankless heart be mine!
No sure—content's too cold a name
For what my bosom ought to feel;
Thus favored, gratitude's sweet claim
With thanks unceasing bids me kneel:
Bids me, thus lowly bending, vow
Before the awful throne of Heaven—
Children of want, to share with you
The good its gracious power has given.

In the lines which we next select, it will be perceived that to minds of delicate fibre and poetic temperament,—the most familiar objects in nature will often suggest mournful images and recollections. A flower will awaken affecting reminiscences of some long lost and beloved object.

THE BELLE DU JOUR, OR CONVOLVULUS MINOR.

Sweet floret! beauty of a day,
And transient as thou'rt sweet;
Scarce opening to the morning ray
Ere shrinking from its heat:
Noon faded sees each early charm,
Thy blue eye closed in death;
And evening's breeze, thy wasted form
Wafts lightly o'er the heath.
While thus, sweet child of summer skies,
I see thee bloom and die;
What tender recollections rise
To prompt the pensive sigh:
For once in this lone bosom grew
As fair, as sweet a flower,
That smiled and budded forth like you
In morn's propitious hour;
But ah! while joy and hope were new
And promised bliss secure;
Like you, it drooping faded too—
And sunk to bloom no more.
Oft as I through the twilight gloom
A wandering mourner stray;
Pale shadowy tenant of the tomb,
She seems to cross my way:
For every object, every scene
Does my lost love recall,
From cheerful morning's rising beam
To mournful evening's fall.

Our readers must not be induced to cast aside the following poem, from its length. It is full of genuine feeling and pious sentiment.

EVENTIDE.

[Written in a dejected and visionary state of mind.]

Sweet beams the cheerful morn o'er happy hearts,
And every smiling scene new bliss imparts;
Each gay unfolding bud, each new born flower
Exhaling odors, owns the sun's warm power;
The new-waked birds their notes of gladness raise,
The trembling dew-drop rainbow tints displays,
In pendant beauty gems the lofty bough,
Or glitters in the velvet turf below.
On active wing abroad, the industrious bees
Their busy hum mix with the passing breeze,
The light breeze curls the silver-bosom'd flood,
Or freshening whispers through the waving wood;
The sun, now mounting, gilds the eastern skies,
Bright'ning the landscape with its glowing dyes—
Gay beauty smiles along each field and grove—
Congenial smiles—for youth, for joy, and love.
But when the soul, long since, has ceased to prove
The tender fallacies of youthful love—
And soberer joys, no more, the way adorn,
The sad heart, sick'ning, turns from sprightly morn—
Turns, pensive eve, to seek thy milder charms,
And dewy haunts, which no gay sunbeam warms.
When closing day shuts o'er its busy cares,
And onward stealing, twilight meek appears,
Drowns in obscurity the distant scene,
And casts a softening charm o'er all between—
'Tis then the sad, the lacerated mind,
Does in thy gentle gloom a soother find—
Sighs with less pain beneath its load of cares,
And mourns its sorrows with relieving tears.
Disrobed of gayer tint and gaudy hue,
Sweet Eventide! thy objects meet the view;
In modest russet clothed each shrub and flower,
Shades ever sacred to thy silent hour—
Shades how congenial! every heart must find,
Which long, long suffering, feels, but is resign'd.
So we oft see in life's bright morn display'd,
A youthful beauty gorgeously arrayed!
Unbent by care, her form erect she bears,
Bright are her eyes, unsullied yet by tears;
By thought unclouded her fair polish'd brow,
Nor does her buoyant heart a sorrow know:
Gay as the lark's first carol is her song,
As with light agile step she moves along;
Each young unwary heart to love she warms,
A sparkling wonder, and a blaze of charms!
But when this dazzling radiance is o'er
And morn's bright beauties fade to bloom no more;
When noontide clouds for evening showers prepare,
And the gay crowd no longer hail her fair—
Then, if beneath this form so heavenly bright
Some latent virtues rest—obscured from sight,
(By suffering taught its own intrinsic worth)
The struggling heart first learns to call them forth:
Taught by her own to feel another's woes,
The sweets of Heaven-born charity she knows;
While sympathetic tears unbidden flow,
And gentle pity does its balm bestow.
Now softened every gaudy trait is seen
To milder russet changed her vivid green;
Her morning splendors caught the young and gay,
But the meek mourner loves her eventide ray.
Ah! hour of twilight russet—thou art past—
And hope, sweet star of eve! has shone its last—
Nor can a ray of cheering light impart
Where midnight darkness ever wraps the heart.
At thy soft silent hour, in pensive mood,
Sweet eventide, I love to seek the wood;
And as I, musing, wind my devious walk,
With visionary forms hold fancied talk;
Forms that the cold embrace of death enfolds,
But which my soul in fond remembrance holds,
Down the lone walk, or midst the cluster'd trees,
I hear a well known voice in every breeze—
The passing object, or the shadowy green
Through their tall bolls in dim perspective seen,
Soft flitting forms present to fancy's eye,
That seem to glide with gentle greetings by.
Hail gentle spirits! Shades of friends revered—
By tender recollections now endeared;
And you, my earliest loss, parental pair—
Though o'er your tombs the oft revolving year
Has shed its winters frost and vernal dew,
Still faithful memory fondly turns to you—
For often in idea still are seen
Your silver locks, and venerable mien.
If conscience tells me I have err'd in aught,
Your cold reproving frown straight strikes my thought;
But if my heart acquits me of all guile,
It feels the joy of your approving smile.
A brother here, the worthiest of mankind—
Oft I recall—with pain and pleasure joined;
Two sisters—one advanced in matron grace,
Strong sense and feeling blended in her face;
Plain worth and warm affections fill'd her heart,
And to each action did their hue impart:
Benevolence and truth still led her way
And held their tenor through each well spent day:
The other, just a bride, in youthful charms,
With grace and beauty fill'd her husband's arms—
When Heaven, aware a mind so finely wrought,
So mild, so gentle, so refined in thought,
With erring mortals peace could never know,
Hasted to call her from a scene of woe;
And early placed her in those blest abodes
Where care no more afflicts, nor grief corrodes.
Sure, thou Supreme! of all thy works, the part
Most form'd for woe, is the soft female heart;
Her breast, the seat of innocence and love,
Was doom'd, alas! composure ne'er to prove—
What others felt, with but a passing sigh,
Kept the meek tear forever in her eye;
The varying blush that mental suffering speaks
In quick suffusion on her lovely cheeks—
Ah gentle Anna! leave thy Heaven awhile,
Greet a lone sister with one tearful smile.
Aerial music oft I seem to hear
In gentle breathings, strike my listening ear—
Full and melodious sounds, in swelling strains,
Then soothing soft, each dying note complains;
High o'er my head in trembling cadence plays,
Or lightly passes on the sighing breeze—
The ambient air a balmy fragrance fills,
And the charm'd sense each earth-born sorrow stills;
A lambent light pervades the dewy scene,
Illumes each branch and brightens o'er the green.
Sweet powers of Fancy! can this work be thine,
Or are these sounds, these forms, indeed, divine?
For see, where lightly borne on seraph wing,
An angel band their hallelujahs sing—
Its course, a form etherial this way bends,
Stooping to earth, and at my feet descends!
Oh, beauteous shade of what was once my child!
Wept when I wept, and smiled but as I smiled;
Phantom of what long filled this vacant heart,
That still would claim thee as its dearest part—
That still must hold thy cherish'd memory dear,
And greet thy much loved image with a tear.
In thy translated spirit sure I trace
Each mortal beauty of thy gentle face;
Shaded by silken curls of auburn hue,
Meet thy soft eyes of mild etherial blue;
Their look of patient innocence still feel
Touch my heart's finest nerve, with tender thrill,
See them in silent fondness fix'd on mine,
See thee for my maternal kiss incline—
With offer'd lip and fond extended arms,
While love ineffable my bleeding bosom warms!
Oh vision fair, of many an airy dream!
Of all my youthful hopes the darling theme;
Wreck of an anxious mother's early cares,
Loved object of her late regrets and tears—
Why, beauteous messenger, why hither sent,
On what mild purpose is thy errand bent?
For thou couldst only leave the blest above
On errands mild, and purposes of love.
Comest thou to warn me from this life of pain?
To bid me hope we soon shall meet again?
Sure in thy dulcet voice I hear thee say,
"Come, poor lone mourner, come to peace away:"
Welcome the sounds, for wretched must I be
While weary life divides my soul from thee.
Ah, no! that softly sorrowing look declares
Thou comest to chide my impious grief and tears—
Grief, that would thee recall to pain and woe,
Tears, that alone from selfish motives flow:
To bid me sink on an adoring knee
And thank my God, whose mercy shelter'd thee!
Who, while he seem'd, in each severe command,
To press me with a harsh chastising hand,
Prepared the balm that now my heartfelt woes
And anguished bosom, can alone compose;
And bad me know, in the conviction blest,
Though here thy suffering body knew no rest—
That thy pure soul, as spotless as 'twas given,
By his creating hand has wing'd its way to Heaven.
With sad solicitude 'twas mine to watch,
In silent woe, my angel's midnight couch,
Guide her uncertain steps the live-long day,
Or pine in trembling terrors when away—
To see the impending stroke I could not ward,
And mourn the sufferer that no love could guard;
But this blest certainty my heart repays,
And bids it throb with gratitude and praise.
Yet pardon, Lord! my bosom's sorrowing swell,
When on past scenes I yet too fondly dwell;
And you who ne'er have felt the cruel pang,
Who still can o'er your cherish'd darlings hang;
Who have not learn'd how hard it is to part,
And bear about a sad bereaved heart—
Or not possessing, ne'er conceive the charm
With which maternal love the heart can warm—
With kind indulgence hear pale sorrow's moan,
Nor lightly judge the woes you have not known.
Should the Supreme a cherub fair bestow,
More sweet than all his hand e'er form'd below;
While all that helpless infancy endears
Wakes into life a mother's hopes and fears—
And if thy heart shall love as mine has loved,
And prove the bitter pangs that mine has proved,
Then may'st thou judge—for thou wilt truly know
That keenest pang, a tender mother's woe;
Then wilt thou, pitying, hear pale sorrow's moan,
And kindly mingle with her sighs, thy own.
Thus, shadowy eve, allured and soothed by thee,
A wand'ring visionary I shall be—
And when o'er earth thy dewy breezes sweep,
Seek thy sequestered shades to muse and weep;
Not bitter tears—or without comfort shed,
A tribute to the loved, the honor'd dead.
Hail gentle spirits! while thus memory true
In fancy's wanderings oft communes with you,
This world recedes—the silent grave appears
A blest asylum from all earthly cares!
And faith, the hope inspiring, sooths my breast,
That there the sad and weary shall have rest.

We shall for the present, conclude with the following "Lines written on hearing a lady use the expression of smiling autumn."

SMILING AUTUMN.

Autumn, how should that languid air
That smoothed thy brow erewhile,
Be (though a frown thou dost not wear)
Mistaken for a smile?
The glow that dyes thy tawny cheek,
The gleam that lights thine eye,
Nor smiling grace, nor joy bespeak—
Thy every breath's a sigh.
Or if, perchance, a transient smile
Breaks o'er the fading scene,
To cheer thy plaintive brow the while
And wake its sad serene;
'Tis like the sickly smile that sits
On hidden sorrow's brow,
Or with the last faint hectic flits
When life is ebbing low.
From such heart-chilling smiles as these
Winter, I turn to thee—
Thy frowning skies and leafless trees
More welcome are to me.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STUDY OF THE LATIN AND GREEK CLASSICS.

Of all the "death-bed sayings" on record, none please me more than that of Beausobre to his son: Go, said he,

"Argentum et marmor vetus, æraque et artis
Suspice.
Suspice, et forma non fragilis
Movebit in pectore delectationis multum.
Ibi, cum Euroauster, tum erit admiratio—
Flori felicitatis suavis et jucunda."

Moving among the solid temples of "silver," and of "marble," reared by ancient literature, the intruder finds the holy beauty around him giving softness to his step, and banishing all ungentle levity. The plastic mind gradually yielding to the touch of that loveliness which has crept in through the senses, becomes of itself grand and lovely. The heart too receives its coloring—even as the cheek is colored, when standing beneath the stained windows of some real temple.

These truths have come home to me, at too late an hour, and a quill or two will not be worn out sinfully, in an attempt to impress their importance upon younger men.

If I fail, as most probably I shall, the consciousness of having consumed a day in useful effort, will be a tolerable reward—perhaps reward enough.

"The inner man moulds the outer," is an old and true saw. Its truth may be seen, reader, by looking around you—indeed, by looking at yourself. If you are a philosopher—a genuine philosopher—your glass will image forth an aspect of serene dignity. If a sophist, one of perplexed cunning. In the first instance, your manner will be lofty yet affable—a key to the better feelings of all:—in the latter grovelling, yet scornful—to every one food for the most unreserved contempt. Yielding that these different appearances are produced by the workings of the inner man, can you hit upon a mode for ennobling these workings, in themselves confused and feeble, so evidently effectual as the introduction of knowledge and its all-arranging hand? Some may say that the manner is of no moment. The effects produced under every one's own observation would, if remembered, serve to stifle this assertion. Why was it that the most eloquent of Grecians struggled for years to remove the defects of a faulty bearing, if no valuable end was to be attained?

It follows then that dignity and suavity are of service: that these—in many cases essential—are the offspring of a confidence in one's own knowledge. And now, I ask, whence may we draw richer supplies of this than from the pages of ancient writers? Are they not rife with all the useful reasoning—the philosophic intelligence—the happiness of application, that cultivated man could devise for the assistance of untutored intellect?

From the logic of the sage we learn, by a spirit of imitation natural to human beings, to quicken our own powers of reasoning. The perspicuity of arrangement and expression, so admirable in our master, becomes gradually a part of our own style. We are led by the strength of example to lop off the redundancies of a corrupt method, and by the acquirement of correct notions of purity, enabled to render our productions chaste and clear. And these improvements in the reasoning powers are effected at the same time that we possess ourselves of the richest treasures of lore!

But this is only one source of advantage among many as valuable. Wit, a power of the mind seldom granted with a liberal hand by nature—receives, in the course of communion with the playful and keen, a training of no little value. Charmed by the attic grace which softens and mellows the satire of our companions, (for let us conjure up at the hearthside the great masters of the past, and through their works hold with them 'pleasant converse,') our efforts will be to increase by farther intercourse, the small store already laid up perhaps unintentionally. Thus may we, if naturally possessed of wit, so polish and sharpen the gift of nature, that no armor may resist its progress: or, if destitute of this strong weapon, form for ourselves one less beautiful indeed, but of scarce less real worth.

Without this chastening influence, native wit degenerates into a harshness excessively grating to the ear of refinement, and productive of no single good effect.

Thus is improved or created a quality allowed by all to be of much utility in the contests between mind and mind. And what is life but a field of conflict, wherein the passions of one—perpetually at strife with those of another—are forever calling to their assistance the weapons of intellect!

I have before spoken of the effect produced on the manner by a confidence in one's acquired resources. Carrying this a step farther, I will remark, that many of the qualities regarded as amiable among men, such as urbanity and modesty, may be gained not only by the act of storing the mind, but from the actual lessons and counsels of the bland teachers from whom these stores are received. Will any one deny the happy consequences of an urbane and modest deportment, in man's intercourse with his fellows? Surely none would so far forget the beauty of virtue as thus to sneer at its manifestations.

We can scarcely find among the various pursuits of men, one in which the pursuer may not be assisted by the experience and lessons of his predecessors on the same path. The painter esteems himself happy when able to collect in his studio the meanest of the antique models. The sculptor contemplates among the relics of the past those master-efforts, so deservedly famous, and is indefatigable in a study essential to the production of purity in his own manner. Extend this to eloquence. Most truly the orators of antiquity have been sturdy pioneers upon a noble path, and to neglect their guidance would retard the pursuer of the same course, and entangle him in many difficulties. Indeed, with the works of these, elocutionists have invariably recommended familiarity. The strength of Demosthenes,—monte decurrens velut amnis—the 'abundant grace' of the polished Tully, are of themselves milk for a giant's nurturing. But they have not come forth alone from the wreck of time. They are attended by worthy companions.

The depths of a strong mind teem with the seeds of fine thought. Ideas lofty and rich are then in embryo, and it is a tedious but an essential task to bring them to maturity. The lessons and practice of those by whom excellence was most nearly approached, cannot do other than afford aid of the strongest nature to the student, who has in immediate view an anxious care of these germs, and looking forward to the season when a gigantic growth has rewarded his culture, longs with a virtuous ambition for its coming, that he may scatter among men the fruits of mature strength. Let all remember this, and seek not only rule of guidance, but successful illustration among the pages of the past.

It would be no difficult matter to point out other important qualities, ripened by a study of the ancient classics. To show how strongly assisted the organs of judgment, &c. may be by the strength-infusing food of knowledge, winnowed as it has been by time, would be truly labor absque labore. But I have already trespassed on the reader's courtesy, and shall leave the unfilled catalogue to be completed, if he thinks it worth the while, at his own leisure.

It has been my object to show that "the classical student's own good and that of his fellows, would be advanced by his assiduity:" and as I have not yet remarked distinctly upon the latter, I will do so now, and briefly.

Men unable individually to defend and protect their rights, enter into compacts for mutual assistance. Certain laws are drawn up, guiding the administrator of justice. This justice is the main duct by which the social body is supplied. With it, order and tranquillity shed their light upon a nation's progress towards happiness. Without it, the members within, and the body sinks under a benumbing paralysis. It is, then, the part of every good citizen to see that justice be maintained free from impurity, and by precept and example to enliven its energies. And what is it that gives weight to counsel, if it be not the adviser's learning and reputation?

"Insani sapiens nomen ferat, æquus iniqui."

What, in a just man's practice, so softens down to our feelings all necessary roughnesses, as a secret veneration for himself?

I have shown, or attempted to show, that the character becomes chaste by communion with those exalted spirits from whom are drawn the supplies of wisdom; and we now see that both the possession of these supplies and the reputation gained thereby, are of service to the public—moreover that skill, necessary in the management of public affairs, is generated, or to say the least increased—so rendering the ruler more capable of furthering the interests of the ruled.

We see then, that the individual and the public good are advanced by the study in question. Let us now examine whether this advancement may not be effected by confining ourselves first to translations, secondly to our own legitimate literature.

With regard to the first, others have pointed out the futility of all such transfers. The Turk exchanges his turban and robe for the habiliments of the Christian. Through the mask of this assumed garb what eye can detect the original Mussulman? Is he swarthy! others of his adopted brethren are equally so. Does the tuft of long hair by which Houri hands are to draw the faithful into Paradise, differ from the unshorn locks of those around him? his assumed head-gear conceals the difference.—Thus does he lose all trace of his former being, and since the assumed qualities sit on him but indifferently, the change is always for the worse. Are we to doubt the truth of this illustration? All experience forbids us so to do. The sterling gold of Shakspeare—converted into French tinsel—was only so converted to meet with ridicule and contempt.

Secondly, may not these advantages be gained by researches into our own literature? I would say, in the first place, that this latter is but a branch engrafted on the ancient tree; and if we wish to effect thorough familiarity, we must examine downward—solving difficulties as we proceed—until we come to the root, from whence springs all lore. Farthermore:—Acquaintance with "our own literature" being but one move towards the attainment of thorough knowledge, this very admission stamps it as an inferior degree of excellence, and will any one doubt the utility of gaining the greatest in a generous pursuit?

This connexion of past lore with the present, suggests to me an important point, upon which I shall linger for a brief space.

The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 5, January, 1835

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE

THE FINE ARTS.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I, NUMBER 5

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

IMPROMPTU,

STANZAS

THE SYBIL'S LEAF.

TO MY WIFE.

THE KISS.—A la Moore.

LOVE—MUTUAL BUT HOPELESS.

TO DESPAIR.

THERE'S NAE LADDIE COMING.

REMARKS ON THE REVIEW OF GOVERNOR TAZEWELL'S REPORT.

THE DARGLE.

PHRENOLOGICAL EXAMINATIONS.

SONG OF THE IRISH PEASANT WIFE.

A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL.

THE PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA.

PARODY.

BEAUTY WITHOUT LOVELINESS.

HAPPY LOVE.

SORROWS OF LOVE.

EXTEMPORAL LINES.

MRS. WOOD'S MANUSCRIPT POEMS.

RETROSPECTION.

THE CAPTIVE BIRD.

THE BELLE DU JOUR, OR CONVOLVULUS MINOR.

EVENTIDE.

SMILING AUTUMN.

STUDY OF THE LATIN AND GREEK CLASSICS.