¹ It is with great pleasure that we are enabled, through the kindness of a friend in Philadelphia, to lay before our readers an Essay, never yet published, from the pen of Benjamin Franklin. It is copied from the original MS. of Franklin himself, and is not to be found in any edition of his works. The Letters which succeed the Essay are also copied from the original MS., but were first published in the Doctor's Weekly Pennsylvania Gazette, which was commenced in 1727. The Epistle from Anthony Afterwit appeared in No. 189—that from Celia Single in No. 191. Although these Letters are to be found in the file of the Gazette at the Franklin Library in Philadelphia, still they are not in either the 1809 or the 1835 edition of the writer's works. We therefore make no apology for publishing them in the Messenger.

A LECTURE

On the Providence of God in the Government of the World.

When I consider my own weakness and the discerning judgment of those who are to be my audience, I cannot help blaming myself considerably for this rash undertaking of mine, being a thing I am altogether unpracticed in and very much unqualified for; but I am especially discouraged when I reflect that you are all my intimate pot companions, who have heard me say a thousand silly things in conversation, and therefore have not that laudable partiality and veneration for whatever I shall deliver that good people commonly have for their spiritual guides; that you have no reverence for my habit nor for the sanctity of my countenance; that you do not believe me inspired or divinely assisted, and therefore will think yourselves at liberty to assert or dissert, approve or disapprove of any thing I advance, canvassing and sifting it as the private opinion of one of your acquaintance. These are great disadvantages and discouragements, but I am entered and must proceed, humbly requesting your patience and attention.

I propose at this time to discourse on the subject of our last conversation, the Providence of God in the government of the world. It might be judged an affront to your understandings should I go about to prove this first principle, the existence of a Deity, and that he is the Creator of the Universe, for that would suppose you ignorant of what all mankind in all ages have agreed in. I shall therefore proceed to observe that he must be a being of infinite wisdom, as appears in his admirable order and disposition of things, whether we consider the heavenly bodies, the stars and planets and their wonderful regular motions, or this earth compounded of such an excellent mixture of all the elements; or the admirable structure of animate bodies of such infinite variety, and yet every one adapted to its nature and the way of life it is to be placed in, whether on earth, in the air, or in the water, and so exactly that the highest and most exquisite human reason cannot find a fault and say this would have been better so, or in such a manner, which whoever considers attentively and thoroughly will be astonished and swallowed up in admiration.

That the Deity is a being of great goodness, appears in his giving life to so many creatures each of which acknowledge it a benefit, by their unwillingness to leave it; in his providing plentiful sustenance for them all, and making those things that are most useful, most common and easy to be had; such as water, necessary for almost every creature to drink; air, without which few could subsist; the inexpressible benefits of light and sunshine to almost all animals in general; and to men the most useful vegetable such as corn, the most useful of metals as iron &c. the most useful animals as horses, oxen and sheep he has made easiest to raise or procure in quantity or numbers; each of which particulars, if considered seriously and carefully, would fill us with the highest love and affection.

That he is a being of infinite power appears in his being able to form and compound such vast masses of matter, as this earth and the sun and innumerable stars and planets, and give them such prodigious motion, and yet so to govern them in their greatest velocity as that they shall not fly out of their appointed bounds, nor dash one against another for their mutual destruction. But 'tis easy to conceive his power, when we are convinced of his infinite knowledge and wisdom; for if weak and foolish creatures as we are by knowing the nature of a few things can produce such wonderful effects; such as for instance, by knowing the nature only of nitre and sea salt mixed we can make a water which will dissolve the hardest iron, and by adding one ingredient more can make another water which will dissolve gold, and make the most solid bodies fluid, and by knowing the nature of saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal, those mean ingredients mixed, we can shake the air in the most terrible manner, destroy ships, houses and men at a distance, and in an instant, overthrow cities, and rend rocks into a thousand pieces, and level the highest mountains; what power must he possess who not only knows the nature of every thing in the universe, but can make things of new natures with the greatest ease and at his pleasure?

Agreeing then that the world was at first made by a being of infinite wisdom, goodness and power, which being we call God, the state of things existing at this time must be in one of these four following manners—viz.

1. Either he unchangeably decreed and appointed every thing that comes to pass, and left nothing to the course of nature, nor allowed any creature free agency.

2. Without decreeing any thing he left all to general nature and the events of free agency in his creatures which he never alters or interrupts; or,

3. He decreed some things unchangeably, and left others to general nature and the events of free agency which also he never alters or interrupts; or,

4. He sometimes interferes by his particular providence and sets aside the effects which would otherwise have been produced by any of the above causes.

I shall endeavor to show the first three suppositions to be inconsistent, with the common light of reason, and that the fourth is most agreeable to it and therefore most probably true.

In the first place. If you say he has in the beginning unchangeably decreed all things and left nothing to nature or free agency, these strange conclusions will necessarily follow, 1. That he is now no more a God. It is true indeed before he made such unchangeable decree, he was a being of power almighty; but now having determined every thing he has divested himself of all further power, he has done and has no more to do, he has tied up his hands and has now no greater power than an idol of wood or stone; nor can there be any more reason for praying to him or worshipping of him than of such an idol, for the worshippers can never be better for such worship. Then, 2. He has decreed some things contrary to the very notion of a wise and good being; such as that some of his creatures or children shall do all manner of injury to others, and bring every kind of evil upon them without cause; that some of them shall even blaspheme him their Creator, in the most horrible manner; and which is still more highly absurd, that he has decreed, that the greatest part of mankind shall in all ages put up their earnest prayers to him both in private and publicly, in great assemblies, when all the while he had so determined their fate that he could not possibly grant them any benefits on that account, nor could such prayers be in any way available. Why then should he ordain them to make such prayers? It cannot be imagined that they are of any service to him. Surely it is not more difficult to believe the world was made by a God of wood or stone, than that the God who made the world should be such a God as this.

In the second place. If you say he has decreed nothing, but left all things to general nature and the events of free agency which he never alters or interrupts, then these conclusions will follow; he must either utterly hide himself from the works of his own hands and take no notice at all of their proceedings natural or moral, or he must be, as undoubtedly he is, a spectator of every thing, for there can be no reason or ground to suppose the first. I say there can be no reason to imagine he would make so glorious a universe merely to abandon it. In this case imagine the deity looking on and beholding the ways of his creatures. Some heroes in virtue he sees are incessantly endeavoring the good of others: they labor through vast difficulties, they suffer incredible hardships and miseries to accomplish this end, in hopes to please a good God, and attain his favors which they earnestly pray for, what answer can he make then within himself but this? Take the reward chance may give you, I do not intermeddle in these affairs. He sees others continually doing all manner of evil, and bringing by their actions misery and destruction among mankind, what can he say here but this, if chance rewards you I shall not punish you, I am not to be concerned. He sees the just, the innocent, and the beneficent in the hands of the wicked and violent oppressor, and when the good are at the brink of destruction they pray to him, Thou O God art mighty and powerful to save, help us we beseech thee! He answers, I cannot help you, it is none of my business, nor do I at all regard these things. How is it possible to believe a wise and an infinitely good being can be delighted in this circumstance, and be utterly unconcerned what becomes of the beings and things he has created? for thus, we must believe him idle and inactive, and that his glorious attributes of power, wisdom, and goodness are no more to be made use of.

In the third place. If you say he has decreed some things and left others to the events of nature and free agency, which he never alters or interrupts; still you un-God him if I may be allowed the expression—he has nothing to do; he can cause us neither good nor harm; he is no more to be regarded than a lifeless image, than Dagon or Baal, or Bell and the Dragon, and as in both the other suppositions foregoing, that being which from its power is most able to act, from its wisdom knows best how to act, and from its goodness would always certainly act best, is in this opinion supposed to become the most inactive of all beings, and remain everlastingly idle: an absurdity which when considered or but barely seen, cannot be swallowed without doing the greatest violence to common reason and all the faculties of the understanding.

We are then necessarily driven to the fourth supposition, that the Deity sometimes interferes by his particular Providence, and sets aside the events which would otherwise have been produced in the course of nature or by the free agency of men, and this is perfectly agreeable with what we can know of his attributes and perfections. But as some may doubt whether it is possible there should be such a thing as free agency in creatures, I shall just offer one short argument on that account, and proceed to show how the duty of religion necessarily follows the belief of a providence. You acknowledge that God is infinitely powerful, wise and good, and also a free agent, and you will not deny that he has communicated to us part of his wisdom, power and goodness; that is, he has made us in some degree, wise, potent and good. And is it then impossible for him to communicate any part of his freedom, and make us also in some degree free? Is not even his infinite power sufficient for this? I should be glad to hear what reason any man can give for thinking in that manner. It is sufficient for me to show it is not impossible, and no man, I think, can show it is improbable. Much more might be offered to demonstrate clearly, that men are in some degree free agents and accountable for their actions; however, this I may possibly reserve for another separate discourse hereafter, if I find occasion.

Lastly. If God does not sometimes interfere by his providence, it is either because he cannot, or because he will not. Which of these positions will you choose? There is a righteous nation grievously oppressed by a cruel tyrant, they earnestly intreat God to deliver them. If you say he cannot, you deny his infinite power, which [you] at first acknowledged. If you say he will not, you must directly deny his infinite goodness. You are of necessity obliged to allow that it is highly reasonable to believe a providence, because it is highly absurd to believe otherwise.

Now, if it is unreasonable to suppose it out of the power of the Deity to help and favor us particularly, or that we are out of his hearing and notice, or that good actions do not procure more of his favor than ill ones; then I conclude, that believing a providence, we have the foundation of all true religion, for we should love and revere that Deity for his goodness, and thank him for his benefits; we should adore him for his wisdom, fear him for his power, and pray to him for his favor and protection. And this religion will be a powerful regulator of our actions, give us peace and tranquillity within our own minds, and render us benevolent, useful and beneficial to others.

LETTER FROM ANTHONY AFTERWIT.

Mr. Gazetteer,—I am an honest tradesman who never meant harm to any body. My affairs went on smoothly while a bachelor; but of late I have met with some difficulties of which I take the freedom to give you an account.

About the time I first addressed my present spouse, her father gave out in speeches that if she married a man he liked, he would give with her 200l. in cash on the day of marriage. He never said so much to me, it is true, but he always received me very kindly at his house, and openly countenanced my courtship. I formed several fine schemes what to do with this same 200l. and in some measure neglected my business on that account; but unluckily it came to pass that when the old gentleman saw I was pretty well engaged and that the match was too far gone to be easily broke off, he without any reason given, grew very angry, forbid me the house, and told his daughter that if she married me he would not give her a farthing. However (as he thought) we were not to be disappointed in that manner, but having stole a wedding I took her home to my house, where we were not in quite so poor a condition as the couple described in the Scotch song, who had

Neither pot nor pan
But four bare legs together,

for I had a house tolerably furnished for a poor man, before. No thanks to Dad, who, I understand, was very much pleased with his politic management; and I have since learned that there are other old curmudgeons (so called) besides him, who have this trick to marry their daughters, and yet keep what they might well spare, till they can keep it no longer. But this by way of digression, a word to the wise is enough.

I soon saw that with ease and industry we might live tolerably easy and in credit with our neighbors; but my wife had a strong inclination to be a gentlewoman. In consequence of this, my old fashioned looking glass was one day broke, as she said, no one could tell which way. However, since we could not be without a glass in the room, My dear, saith she, we may as well buy a large fashionable one that Mr. Such-a-one has to sell. It will cost but little more than a common glass, and will look much handsomer and more creditable. Accordingly, the glass was bought and hung against the wall, but in a week's time I was made sensible by little and little, that the table was by no means suitable to such a glass; and a more proper table being procured, some time after, my spouse, who was an excellent contriver, informed me where we might have very handsome chairs in the way; and thus by degrees I found all my old furniture stowed up in the garret, and every thing below altered for the better.

Had we stopped here it might have done well enough. But my wife being entertained with tea by the good women she visited, we could do no less than the like when they visited us, and so we got a tea table with all its appurtenances of china and silver. Then my spouse unfortunately overworked herself in washing the house, so that we could do no longer without a maid. Besides this, it happened frequently that when I came home at one, the dinner was but just put in the pot, and my dear thought really it had been but eleven. At other times when I came at the same hour, she wondered I would stay so long, for dinner was ready about one and had waited for me these two hours. These irregularities occasioned by mistaking the time convinced me that it was absolutely necessary to buy a clock, which my spouse observed was a great ornament to the room. And lastly, to my grief, she was troubled with some ailment or other, and nothing did her so much good as riding, and these hackney horses were such wretched ugly creatures that—I bought a very fine pacing mare which cost 20l.; and hereabouts affairs have stood for about a twelvemonth past.

I could see all along that this did not at all suit with my circumstances, but had not resolution enough to help it, till lately receiving a very severe dun which mentioned the next court, I began in earnest to project relief. Last Monday, my dear went over the river to see a relation and stay a fortnight, because she could not bear the heat of the town air. In the interim I have taken my turn to make alterations, viz.—I have turned away the maid, bag and baggage—(for what should we do with a maid, who beside our boy, have none but ourselves?) I have sold the pacing mare and bought a good milch cow with 3l. of the money. I have disposed of the table and put a good spinning wheel in its place, which methinks looks very pretty: nine empty canisters I have stuffed with flax, and with some of the money of the tea furniture I have bought a set of knitting needles, for to tell you the truth I begin to want stockings. The fine clock I have transformed into an hour glass, by which I have gained a good round sum, and one of the pieces of the old looking glass squared and framed, supplies the place of the great one, which I have conveyed into a closet where it may possibly remain some years. In short the face of things is quite changed, and methinks you would smile to see my hour glass hanging in the place of the clock,—what a great ornament it is to the room! I have paid my debts and find money in my pocket. I expect my dear home next Friday, and as your paper is taken at the house where she is, I hope the reading of this will prepare her mind for the above surprising revolutions. If she can conform herself to this new manner of living, we shall be the happiest couple perhaps in the province, and by the blessing of God may soon be in thriving circumstances. I have reserved the great glass because I know her heart is set upon it; I will allow her when she comes in to be taken suddenly ill with the headache, the stomach ache, fainting fits, or whatever other disorder she may think more proper, and she may retire to bed as soon as she pleases. But if I should not find her in perfect health both of body and mind the next morning, away goes the aforesaid great glass with several other trinkets I have no occasion for, to the vendue that very day—which is the irrevocable resolution

Of, Sir, her loving husband and
Your very humble servant,
ANTHONY AFTERWIT.

P. S. I would be glad to know how you approve my conduct.

Answer. I dont love to concern myself in affairs between man and wife.

LETTER FROM CELIA SINGLE.

Mr. Gazetteer,—I must needs tell you that some of the things you print do more harm than good, particularly I think so of the tradesman's letter, which was in one of your late papers, which disobliged many of our sex and has broken the peace of several families, by causing difference between men and their wives. I shall give you here one instance of which I was an eye and ear witness.

Happening last Wednesday morning to be at Mrs. W.'s when her husband returned from market, among other things he showed her some balls of thread which he had bought. My dear, says he, I like mightily those stockings which I yesterday saw neighbor Afterwit knitting for her husband, of thread of her own spinning. I should be glad to have some such stockings myself. I understand that your maid Mary is a very good knitter, and seeing this thread in market I have bought it that the girl may make a pair or two for me. Mrs. W. was just then at the glass dressing her head, and turning about with the pins in her mouth, Lord, child, says she, are you crazy? What time has Mary to knit? Who must do the work, I wonder, if you set her to knitting? Perhaps, my dear, says he, you have a mind to knit them yourself. I remember, when I courted you, I once heard you say that you had learned to knit of your mother. I knit stockings for you, says she, not I, truly! There are poor women enough in town who can knit; if you please you may employ them. Well, but my dear, says he, you know a penny saved is a penny got, and there is neither sin nor shame in knitting a pair of stockings; why should you have such a mighty aversion to it? And what signifies talking of poor women, you know we are not people of quality. We have no income to maintain us but arises from my labor and industry. Methinks you should not be at all displeased when you have an opportunity of getting something as well as myself. I wonder, says she, you can propose such a thing to me. Did not you always tell me you would maintain me like a gentlewoman? If I had married the Captain I am sure he would have scorned to mention knitting of stockings. Prythee, says he, a little nettled, what do you tell me of your Captain? If you could have had him I suppose you would, or perhaps you did not like him very well. If I did promise to maintain you as a gentlewoman, methinks it is time enough for that when you know how to behave yourself like one. How long, do you think, I can maintain you at your present rate of living? Pray, says she, somewhat fiercely, and dashing the puff into the powder box, dont use me in this manner, for I'll assure you I wont bear it. This is the fruit of your poison newspapers: there shall no more come here I promise you. Bless us, says he, what an unaccountable thing is this? Must a tradesman's daughter and the wife of a tradesman necessarily be a lady? In short, I tell you if I am forced to work for a living and you are too good to do the like, there's the door, go and live upon your estate. And as I never had or could expect any thing with you, I dont desire to be troubled with you.

What answer she made I cannot tell, for knowing that man and wife are apt to quarrel more violently when before strangers, than when by themselves, I got up and went out hastily. But I understand from Mary who came to me of an errand in the evening, that they dined together very peaceably and lovingly, the balls of thread which had caused the disturbance being thrown into the kitchen fire, of which I was very glad to hear.

I have several times in your paper seen reflections upon us women for idleness and extravagance, but I do not remember to have once seen such animadversions upon the men. If we were disposed to be censorious we could furnish you with instances enough; I might mention Mr. Billiard who loses more than he earns at the green table, and would have been in jail long since had it not been for his industrious wife. Mr. Husselcap, who every market day at least, and often all day long, leaves his business for the rattling of half pence in a certain alley—or Mr. Finikin, who has seven different suits of fine clothes and wears a change every day, while his wife and children sit at home half naked—Mr. Crownhim always dreaming over the chequer board, and who cares not how the world goes with his family so he does but get the game—Mr. Totherpot the tavern haunter, Mr. Bookish the everlasting reader, Mr. Tweedledum and several others, who are mighty diligent at any thing besides their proper business. I say, if I were disposed to be censorious, I might mention all these and more, but I hate to be thought a scandalizer of my neighbors, and therefore forbear; and for your part I would advise you for the future to entertain your readers with something else besides people's reflections upon one another, for remember that there are holes enough to be picked in your coat as well as others, and those that are affronted by the satires that you may publish, will not consider so much who wrote as who printed, and treat you accordingly. Take not this freedom amiss from

Your friend and reader,
CELIA SINGLE.

T. J. S.

Frederick Co. Va.

GENIUS.

Pope says in the preface to his works, "What we call a genius is hard to be distinguished, by a man himself, from a strong inclination." Such a distinction is certainly hard to make, and in my opinion has no existence. Genius, as it appears to me, is merely a decided preference for any study or pursuit, which enables its possessor to give the close and unwearied attention necessary to ensure success. When this constancy of purpose is wanting, the brightest natural talents will give little aid in acquiring literary or scientific eminence: and where it exists in any considerable degree, it is rare to find one so ill endowed with common sense as not to gain a respectable standing.

Genius is of two sorts, which may be termed philosophical and poetical. When the mind takes most pleasure in the exercise of reason, the genius displayed is philosophical; when the fictions of fancy give the greatest delight, the cast of mind is poetical. All the operations of the human intellect may be referred to one of these, or to a combination of both. Books of this last character are much the most numerous; for we seldom find a work so severely argumentative as to exclude all play of imagination even as ornament, or so entirely poetical as never to allow the restraint of sober reason.

These two kinds of genius require different and peculiar faculties. In philosophy, where the great end proposed is the discovery of truth, the coloring of imagination should be carefully avoided as useless and deceptive. It is necessary to divest the mind as far as possible of all pre-conceived opinions, that so the proofs presented may make just the impression which their character and importance demand. No prejudice or association of former ideas must be allowed to bias the judgment; but the question should be decided in strict accordance with the deductions of the sternest reason. And yet this perfect freedom from prejudice, however necessary to the proper use of right reason, is perhaps the most difficult effort of the human mind. "Nemo adhuc," says Lord Bacon, in a passage quoted by Stewart in the introduction to his mental philosophy, "Nemo adhuc tanta mentis constantia inventus est, ut decreverit et sibi imposuerit theorias et notiones communes penitus abolere, et intellectum abrasum et æquum ad particularia de integro applicare. Itaque illa ratio humana quam habemus ex multa fide et multo etiam casu, necnon ex puerilibus quas primo hausimus notionibus, farrago quædam est et congeries. Quod si quis, ætate matura et sensibus integris et mente repurgata, se ad experientiam et ad particularia de integro applicet, de eo melius sperandum est." Such was the opinion of the great father of modern philosophy.

On the other hand these vulgar errors and superstitions, these "theoriæ et notiones communes," supply the means of producing the strongest effect of poetry. The dull scenes of real life can never be suffered to chill the ardor of a romantic imagination. And as the poet finds truth too plain and unadorned to satisfy his enthusiastic fancy, he is compelled to seek subjects and scenery of more faultless nature and brighter hues than this world affords. He delights in combinations of the most striking images. The grand and imposing, the dark and terrific, the furious and desolating—whatever serves to fill the mind with awe and wonder, are his favorite subjects of contemplation. The legends of superstition contribute largely to the effect of poetical composition. The enthusiast loves to fancy the agency of supernatural beings, and endeavors to feel the influence of those emotions which such a belief is suited to inspire. This seems to be the spirit of Collins in the following lines of his ode to fear.

"Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought,
Be mine to read the visions old
Which thy awakening bards have told;
And lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true."

In combinations of poetical images, no regard is had to their consistency with truth and reason. It is the part of philosophy to discover relations as they exist in nature; but to search out and combine into one glowing and harmonious whole the brightest and grandest images which art or nature supplies—this is the province of poetry. The utmost calmness and most collected thought are necessary to that patient and laborious reasoning by which progress is made in the science of truth. The fury of impassioned feeling, on the other hand, supports the loftier flights of poetry. Hence philosophy and poetry rarely meet in the same individual. Yet the smallness of the number of those who have gained renown both as poets and philosophers, is to be ascribed less to any incompatibility between the habits of mind peculiar to each, than to the fact that the short space of human life will not allow to both the attention necessary for their highest attainments. I speak now of poetical and philosophical genius, not of poetry and philosophy. Between the two last there is an incompatibility, as may easily be shown. Euclid's elements, for example, contain as pure specimens of mere reasoning as can be conceived; but in them simplicity, clearness and precision of terms are all the ornament they need or will admit: nor can poetical language be used by any arrangement without producing obscurity and disgust. And the wild conceptions of unbridled fancy will as little brook the restraint of heartless reason. In short, poetry and philosophy are so distinct and opposed in character, that neither can ever be used to heighten the proper effect of the other.

A most extraordinary combination of poetical and philosophical talent in one individual was displayed by Lucretius. I might challenge the whole circle of science or literature to furnish examples of clearer, closer and more irrefutable argument than his work presents. And for purity, sublimity, delicacy, strength and feeling, passages of his poetry might be selected scarcely inferior to any effort of ancient or modern times. Yet his work may well be chosen to furnish proof that even the brightest genius cannot combine austere logic and gorgeous poetry, so as that each shall produce its due effect. For although where the reasoning is not deep the embellishments of fancy may be borne and even relished, yet where the argument requires close and laborious thought, the reader is willing to sacrifice all the ornaments of poetry to the simpler grace of perspicuity. But it is mostly in episodes and illustrations that the fire of his poetic genius burns so brightly; and here we see him throw off the fetters of truth to wander in the haunted fields of fiction. And although his work displays intense thought and burning poetry, we rarely find them united in the same passage.

Confirmed habits of philosophical reflection, it is not improbable, will in time give a character of sobriety and apathy to the mind. Quick susceptibility of impressions is one mark of a poetical temperament; and of course if habits of calm reasoning destroy this sensibility, philosophy and poetry cannot exist in perfection in the same mind. But this apathetic coldness appears not to be the immediate effect of philosophical habits, but rather to result from disuse of the imagination while the attention is turned to graver studies. Lucretius has shown what attainments may be made in pure philosophy without lessening the strength and grace of fancy. He was a man of the most acute and accurate observation, and of the most rigid and cautious reasoning, yet possessed a quick perception of the grand and beautiful, and had imbibed the warmest spirit of poetic enthusiasm.

Poetry delights in personifications. According to Dryden,

"Each virtue a divinity is seen:
Prudence is Pallas, beauty Paphos' queen;
'Tis not a cloud from which swift lightnings fly,
But Jupiter that thunders from the sky;
Nor a rough storm that gives the sailor pain,
But angry Neptune ploughing up the main;
Echo's no more an empty, airy sound,
But a fair nymph that weeps her lover drown'd:
Thus in the endless treasure of his mind,
The poet does a thousand figures find."
Art of Poetry, Canto 3.

Philosophy on the contrary seeks to disrobe the subject of every factitious charm, and present it to the mind in its naked simplicity. It dispels the clouds of error, though gilded with the bright colors of fancy; and boldly brings even objects of superstitious veneration to the light of reason.

These conflicting qualities are eminently shown in Lucretius; and it is not without interest to mark how he contrives to blend in the same work the solid simplicity of argument with the lighter graces of imagination. As a poet he opens his work with an address to Venus the mother and guardian of the Roman people, whose aid he invokes as the companion of his song. He prays her to avert the frowns of rugged war from the nation by the softening power of her charms. He tells her that she alone governs the universe; that nothing springs into the light of day without her; and ascribes to her, as the source of all pleasure, whatever is joyous or lovely.

"Nec sine te quidquam dias in luminis oras
Exoritur, neque fit lætum neque amabile quidquam."

Yet in the next page the philosopher avows his intention of waging eternal war with superstition; and gives exalted praise to Epicurus because he suffered no feelings of religious awe to interfere with his philosophical investigations. In this passage superstition (or religion, to use his own term) is personified, and represented as some hideous monster thrusting her head from out the skies, and regarding mankind with an awful and terrible aspect. The whole image presented is eminently grand and poetic.

"Humana ante oculos fede quam vita jaceret
In terris oppressa gravi sub religione;
Quæ caput a cœli regionibus obtendebat,
Horribili super adspectu mortalibus instans;
Primum Graius homo mortaleis tollere contra
Est oculos ausus, primusque obsistere contra:
Quem neque fama deum, nec fulmina, nec minitanti
Murmure compressit cœlum; sed eo magis acrem
Inritat animi virtutem effringere ut arta
Naturæ primus portarum claustra cupiret."

Thus we see that although one great part of his purpose was to divest the mind of popular superstitions, he found the language of philosophy too barren, and the images which truth presented too cold and lifeless to supply the materials of poetry. Hence his personifications, and his digressions, which abound in the richest ornaments of fancy.

As a philosopher Lucretius was led to reject the legends of ancient superstition, because such terrors kept the human mind in darkness and error.

"Nam velutei puerei trepidant, atque omnia cæcis
In tenebris metuunt; sic nos in luce timemus
Interdum nihilo quæ sunt metuenda magisquam
Quæ puerei in tenebris pavitant, finguntque futura.
Hunc igitur terrorem animi tenebrasque, necesse est,
Non radiei solis neque lucida tela diei
Discutiant; sed naturæ species, ratioque."
Lib. 2, lin. 54.

But the spirit of poetry alone would have persuaded him to increase the gloom and mists of superstition; for fancy's favorite range is among regions darkened by the shades of ancient and venerable error. The intrusion of cold reason is always unwelcome to a romantic imagination. There is a passage of Campbell, (I cannot remember the words,) in which he laments the dispersion by the clearer light of reason of some fanciful notions in regard, I think, to the rainbow, which had formerly been the delight of his youth. Collins too regrets the restraint of imagination imposed by philosophy. He bids farewell to metaphysics, and declares his purpose of leaving such barren fields of speculation, and of retiring

"to thoughtful cell
Where fancy breathes her potent spell."

So much to mark the difference between poetical and philosophical genius. The remainder of this essay shall be devoted to the peculiarities which distinguish the genius of poetry in particular.

It has been often remarked that men of brilliant fancy are never satisfied with the productions of their own minds. The images of grandeur or beauty continually present to their imaginations, it would seem, are so far superior to all efforts they can make to embody them in language, that their own works never yield them the pleasure which they give others. The following quotation is from the seventh chapter, sixth section, of Stewart's Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind. "When the notions of enjoyment or of excellence which imagination has formed are greatly raised above the ordinary standard, they interest the passions too deeply to leave us at all times the cool exercise of reason, and produce that state of the mind which is commonly known by the name of enthusiasm; a temper which is one of the most fruitful sources of error and disappointment; but which is a source, at the same time, of heroic actions and of exalted characters. To the exaggerated conceptions of eloquence which perpetually revolved in the mind of Cicero; to that idea which haunted his thoughts of aliquid immensum infinitumque, we are indebted for some of the most splendid displays of human genius: and it is probable that something of the same kind has been felt by every man who has risen much above the level of humanity either in speculation or in action." To the want of this high imaginary standard of excellence, Dr. Johnson ascribes the dullness of Blackmore's poetry. "It does not appear," he says, "that he saw beyond his own performances, or had ever elevated his views to that ideal perfection which every genius born to excel is condemned always to pursue and never overtake. In the first suggestions of his imagination he acquiesced; he thought them good and did not seek for better. His works may be read a long time without the occurrence of a single line that stands prominent from the rest."

Examples of such ardent aspirations after the grande et immensum, are frequent among our best poets. Let the following from Lord Byron suffice. In this will plainly appear that agony in giving birth to the sublime conceptions of his imagination, which metaphysicians say is a sure mark of lofty genius. After describing a terrific thunderstorm in language suited to the majesty of his subject, he proceeds:

"Could I embody and unbosom now
That which is most within me,—could I wreak
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe—into one word,
And that one word were lightning, I would speak;
But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword."

The same burning enthusiasm prevails throughout the odes of Collins, whose works breathe as much the soul of poetry as is shown by any bard of Greece or Rome.

This trait of genius often betrays young writers into a style of affected grandiloquence, which their feebleness of thought makes doubly ridiculous. Yet this pompous style of writing is often a genuine mark of superior powers. Quintilian thinks extravagance a more favorable sign in a very young writer, than a more sedate simplicity; for his maturer judgment may be safely left to prune such luxuriance, but where the soil is barren by nature, no art of cultivation will produce a vigorous growth. Scarcely any writer was ever guilty of more extravagance than Lucan; but his poem was written in the earliest spring of manhood, and shows such strength of genius as would probably have made him equal to Homer, had his rising powers been suffered to reach their utmost elevation, and receive the corrections of his finished taste.

But here it may not be amiss to mention that a style of such affected pomp is tolerable only in young writers. When the fancy is fresh and vigorous, and the judgment unformed, redundance in words and ornament may be pardoned; but it is a sure evidence of feeble genius to continue the same style in riper age. Hortensius, Cicero's rival, was in his youth admired for his florid oratory; but in after life was justly despised for the same childish taste. The most elegant writers always select the simplest words. Learning should appear in the subject, but never in the language. Even the powers of Johnson were too weak to preserve his ponderous learned style from ridicule. It may be assumed as a universal rule, that when two words equally express the same meaning, the shortest and simplest is always the best.

When the enthusiasm of poetry is joined with a correct and chastened judgment, the utmost fastidiousness in composition is often produced. To this may be ascribed the small number and extent of writings left by some of our best authors. "I am tormented with a desire to write better than I can," said Robert Hall in a letter to a friend: and yet his works are said by Dugald Stewart (himself an admirable writer in point of style) to combine the beauties of Addison, Johnson and Burke, without their defects, and to contain the purest specimens of the English language. And of Pascal too, it is told that he spent much time in revising and correcting what to others appeared from the first almost too perfect for amendment. Gray, who had genius to become a pre-eminent poet, was never content with the polish which repeated revisions were able to give his works. The conclusion of Boileau's second Satire is so appropriate to my purpose, that I will give it in full.

"Un sot, en écrivant, fait tout avec plaisir:
Il n'a point en ses vers l'embarras de choisir;
Et toujours amoureux de ce qu'il vient d'écrire,
Ravi d'étonnement, en soi-meme il s'admire.
Mais un esprit sublime en vain veut s'élever
A ce degré parfait qu'il tache de trouver;
Et, toujours mécontent de ce qu'il vient de faire,
Il plait a tout le monde, et ne saurait se plaire."

And in a note on this passage, "Voila, s'écria Molière, en interrompant son ami a cet endroit, voila la plus belle vérité que vous ayez jamais dite. Je ne suis pas du nombre de ces esprits sublimes dont vous parlez; mais tel que je suis, je n'ai rien fait en ma vie dont je sois veritablement content." Horace too speaks much the same language in several places.

Of Shakspeare, the greatest poetical genius probably which the world ever produced, our ignorance of his life permits us to speak only from his works. But the fact that he scarcely ever condescended to revise his plays, and took no care to preserve them from oblivion, is ample proof how little his mind was satisfied with its own sublime productions. Shakspeare is an illustrious example of transcendent genius joined with unfinished taste. He had to depend entirely on his own resources, for the best models he had access to were not more faultless than his own writings, while they fell infinitely below him in every positive excellence. His works, in parts, show sublimity, delicacy, and grace of poetry, unequalled perhaps by the productions of any writer before or since. Yet his warmest admirers are often scandalized by the strange conceited witticisms and other evidences of bad taste so abundant in his writings. Still, the Bard of Avon's works will ever rank among the noblest efforts of dramatic poetry.

Poetical genius is always united with a love of sympathy. This is the reason why men of warm imaginations so seldom fully relish a poem when read alone. Robert Hall, in one remarkable passage, says, that the most ardent admirer of poetry or oratory would not consent to witness their grandest display on the sole condition that he should never reveal his emotions.

It is also generally, and perhaps always, joined with a thirst of fame. This feeling impels the poet to make arduous exertions. It is the passion which, as metaphysicians say, is implanted in the human breast as an incentive to deeds beneficial to society. Whether it be in its nature culpable or not, is perhaps a difficult question. Quintilian says that if it be not itself a virtue, it is certainly often the cause of virtuous actions; and this assertion few will venture to question. And at all events, this passion has ever been a characteristic of the greatest men. Few have risen to eminence without its aid. It existed largely in Byron. In verses written shortly after the publication of his English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, he says:

"The fire in the cavern of Ætna concealed,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length in a volume terrific revealed,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
Oh, thus the desire in my bosom for fame
Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise:
Could I soar with the Phœnix on pinions of flame,
With him I could wish to expire in the blaze."

How happy for the world had his genius led him to seek applause in works designed for the good of mankind—in recommending religion and virtue by the melody of his verse and the influence of his life, instead of adorning vice with the beauties of poetry!

When the thirst of glory is disappointed, the aspirant is apt to become a gloomy misanthropist, who envies others the reputation which he cannot attain. Much of the sullen melancholy shown by men of genius may doubtless be ascribed to the perverted operation of this principle. The portion of fame which falls to their share is not sufficient to satisfy their wishes.

But after all, the most brilliant genius will avail nothing without study. No illiterate man ever gained renown as a writer. Some have become great without the aid of foreign learning; but all have read and thought. No man is born a poet in the ordinary sense of the word. Whatever his own conceptions may be, he cannot reveal them without the use of words; and this knowledge can be acquired only by diligent study. In all time it has been true that they who have read and thought most, have made the greatest writers, whatever line of science or literature they pursued. Or perhaps there ought to be exceptions made in cases where the mind has been misdirected, as among the schoolmen, who spent their lives in perplexing themselves and others with subtle questions which it was of no use to solve. But however fruitless such labors as wasted their energies may be, this at least is certain, that without study no man will become great, whatever be his natural talents. Even such towering geniuses as Homer, Aristotle, Cicero, Virgil, Shakspeare, Bacon, Newton, and Byron were not exempt from this necessity.

To conclude: Locke has sufficiently proved that all our ideas are originally derived from the senses. These first impressions form the basis of all human knowledge. General conclusions drawn from comparison of such sensations are abstract thought. Reasoning and reflection on these abstract ideas thus obtained, constitute speculations of still greater refinement. Comparing and combining ideas in the mind, for the purpose of discovering relations as they exist in nature, is argument. Such comparisons and combinations made for the purpose of pleasing, are works of fancy, or poetry. He then who most carefully preserves his impressions, most attentively considers and revolves his ideas, and most closely and accurately compares them for the purpose of discovering such combinations as nature has made, or of combining anew the separate images into such grand and beautiful fabrics as may suit the taste of fancy, is likely to make the best philosopher or poet, as his attention is mainly turned to one or the other. Some difference in natural faculties no doubt exists, but this is probably small.¹

¹ Of course no Editor is responsible for the opinions of his contributors—but in the present instance we feel called upon in self-defence to disclaim any belief in the doctrines advanced—and, moreover, to enter a solemn protest against them. The Essay on Genius is well written and we therefore admitted it. While many of its assumptions are indisputable—some we think are not to be sustained—and the inferences, generally, lag far behind the spirit of the age. Our correspondent is evidently no phrenologist.—Ed.

A LOAN TO THE MESSENGER.

No. II.

Here is a scrap from another of my poetical friends, which has never seen the light, and which I will lend to the readers of the Messenger for the month. I give it as it came to me, apology and all, and doubt not it will be well received by those to whom I now dedicate it.

J. F. O.

My Dear O,—Instead of writing something new for your collection, I copy a few lines from a bagatelle, written a few days ago to a woman who is worthy of better verses: and, as they will never be published, of course, they may answer your purpose.

Very truly yours,
WILLIS.

Boston, August, 1831.

TO ———.

Lady! the fate that made me poor,
Forgot to take away my heart,—
And 'tis not easy to immure
The burning soul, and live apart:
To meet the wildering touch of beauty,
And hear her voice,—and think of duty:
To check a thought of burning passion,
When trembling on the lip like flame,—
And talk indifferently of fashion,—
A language choked till it is tame!
Oh God! I know not why I'm gifted
With feeling, if I may not love!
I know not why my cup is lifted
So far my thirsting lips above!
My look on thine unchidden lingers,
My hand retains thy dewy fingers,
Thy smile, thy glance, thy glorious tone
For hours and hours are mine alone:
Yet must my fervor back, and wait
Till solitude can set it free,—
Yet must I not forget that fate
Has locked my heart, and lost the key;
These very rhymes I'm weaving now
Condemn me for a broken vow!

N. P. W.

N. B. My friend soon recovered from this sad stroke, and he has since recovered the "key," and locked within the fate-closed casket a pearl, I learn, of great price. So much for a sophomore's Anacreontics!

If this "loan" prove acceptable, I have a choice one in store for May.

SOME ANCIENT GREEK AUTHORS.

CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED.

Whether Homer or Hesiod lived first has never been determined. Herodotus supposes them both to have lived at the same time, viz. B.C. 884. The Arun. marbles make them contemporaries, but place their era B.C. 907. Besides the Iliad and Odyssey, Homer wrote, according to some, a poem upon Amphiaraus' expedition against Thebes; Also, the Phoceis, the Cercopes, the small Iliad, the Epiciclides, the Batrachomyomachia, and some Hymns to the Gods.

Hesiod wrote a poem on Agriculture, called The Works and Days, also Theogony, which is valuable for its account of the Gods of antiquity. His Shield of Hercules, and some others, are now lost.

Archilocus wrote elegies, satires, odes and epigrams, and was the inventor of Iambics; these are by some ascribed to Epodes. Some fragments of his poetry remain. He is supposed to have lived B.C. 742.

Alcæus is the inventor of Alcaic verses. Of all his works, nothing remains but a few fragments, found in Athenæus. B.C. 600.

He was contemporary with the famous Sappho. She was the inventress of the Sapphic verse, and had composed nine books in lyric verses, besides epigrams, elegies, &c. Of all these, two pieces alone remain, and a few fragments quoted by Didymus.

Theognis of Megara wrote several poems, of which only a few sentences are now extant, quoted by Plato and some others. B.C. 548.

Simonides wrote elegies, epigrams and dramatical pieces; also Epic poems—one on Cambyses, King of Persia, &c. One of his most famous compositions, The Lamentations, a beautiful fragment, is still extant.

Thespis, supposed to be the inventor of Tragedy, lived about this time.

Anacreon. His odes are thought to be still extant, but very few of them can be truly ascribed to Anacreon.

Æschylus is the first who introduced two actors on the stage, and clothed them with suitable dresses. He likewise removed murder from the eyes of the spectator. He wrote 90 tragedies, of which 7 are extant, viz. Prometheus Vinctus, Septem Duces contra Thebas, Persæ, Agamemnon, Chöephoræ, Eumenides and Supplices.

Pindar was his contemporary. Most of Pindar's works have perished. He had written some hymns to the Gods,—poems in honor of Apollo,—dithyrambics to Bacchus, and odes on several victories obtained at the Olympic, Isthmian, Pythian and Nemean games. Of all these the odes alone remain.

Sophocles first increased the number of actors to three, and added the decorations of painted scenery. He composed 120 tragedies—7 only of which are extant, viz. Ajax, Electra, Œdipus, Antigone, The Trachniæ, Philoctetes and Œdipus at Colonos. B.C. 454.

Plato, the comic poet, called the prince of the middle comedy, and of whose pieces some fragments remain, flourished about this time.

Also, Aristarchus, the tragic poet of Tegea, who composed 70 tragedies, one of which was translated into Latin verse by Ennius.

Herodotus of Halicarnassus, wrote a history of the Wars of the Greeks against the Persians from the age of Cyrus to the battle of Mycale, including an account of the most celebrated nations in the world. Besides this, he had written a history of Assyria and Arabia which is not extant. There is a life of Homer generally attributed to him, but doubtfully. B.C. 445.

Euripides, who lived at this time, wrote 75 or, as some say, 92 tragedies, of which only 19 are extant. He was the rival of Sophocles.

About the commencement of the Peloponnesian war, flourished many celebrated authors, among whom was Aristophanes. He wrote 54 comedies, of which only 11 are extant.

Also, Cratinus and Eupolis, who with Aristophanes, are mentioned by Horace—they were celebrated for their comic writings. B.C. 431.

Also, the mathematician and astrologer, Meton, who, in a book called Enneadecaterides, endeavored to adjust the course of the sun and moon, and maintained that the solar and lunar years could regularly begin from the same point in the heavens. This is called the Metonic cycle.

Thucydides flourished at this time. He wrote a history of the important events which happened during his command. This history is continued only to the 21st year of the war. It has been divided into eight books—the last of which is supposed to have been written by his daughters. It is imperfect.

Also Hippocrates;—few of his writings remain.

Lysias, the orator, wrote, according to Plutarch, no less than 425 orations—of these 34 are extant. B.C. 404.

Contemporary with him was Agatho, an Athenian tragic and comic poet—there is now nothing extant of his works, except quotations in Aristotle and others.

Xenophon, whose works are well known, lived about the year 398 before Christ.

Ctesias, who wrote a history of the Assyrians and Persians, which Justin and Diodorus have prefered to that of Herodotus, lived also at this time. Some fragments of his compositions have been preserved.

The works of Plato are numerous—they are all written, except twelve letters, in the form of a dialogue. 388.

Of the 64 orations of Isæus, 10 are extant. Demosthenes imitated him. 377.

About 32 of the orations of Isocrates, who lived at the same time, remain.

All the compositions of the historian Theopompus are lost, except a few fragments quoted by ancient writers. 354.

Ephorus lived in his time—he wrote a history commencing with the return of the Heraclidæ and ending with the 20th year of Philip of Macedon. It was in 30 books and is frequently quoted by Strabo and others.

Almost all the writings of Aristotle are extant. Diogenes Laertes has given a catalogue of them. His Art of Poetry has been imitated by Horace.

Æschines, his contemporary, wrote 5 orations and 9 epistles. The orations alone are extant. 340.

Demosthenes was his contemporary and rival.

Theophrastus composed many books and treatises—Diogenes enumerates 200. Of these 20 are extant—among which are a history of stones—treatises on plants, on the winds, signs of fair weather, &c.—also, his Characters, a moral treatise. 320.

Menander was his pupil; lie was called prince of the new comedy. Only a few fragments remain of 108 comedies which he wrote.

Philemon was contemporary with these two. The fragments of some of his comedies are printed with those of Menander.

Megasthenes lived about this time. He wrote about the Indians and other oriental nations. His history is often quoted by the ancients. There is a work now extant which passes for his composition, but which is spurious.

Epicurus also lived now. He wrote 300 volumes according to Diogenes.

Chrysippus indeed, rivalled him in the number, but not in the merit of his productions. They were contemporaries. 280.

Bion, the pastoral poet, whose Idyllia are so celebrated, lived about this time. It is probable that Moschus, also a pastoral poet, was his contemporary—from the affection with which he mentions him.

Theocritus distinguished himself by his poetical compositions, of which 30 Idyllia and some epigrams remain—also, a ludicrous poem called Syrinx. Virgil imitated him. B.C. 280.

Aratus flourished now; he wrote a poem on Astronomy, also some hymns and epigrams.

Lycophron also lived at this time. The titles of 20 of his tragedies are preserved. There is extant a strange work of this poet, call Cassandra, or Alexandra,—it contains about 1500 verses, from whose obscurity the author has been named Tenebrosus.

In the Anthology is preserved a most beautiful hymn to Jupiter, written by Cleanthes,—of whose writings none except this is preserved.

Manetho lived about this period,—an Egyptian who wrote, in the Greek language, a history of Egypt. The writers of the Universal History suspect some mistake in the passage of Eusebius which contains an account of this history.

This was also the age of Apollonius of Perga, the Geometrician. He composed a treatise on conic sections in eight books—seven of which remain. It is one of the most valuable remains of antiquity.

Nicander's writings were held in much estimation. Two of his poems, entitled Theriaca, and Alexipharniaca, are still extant. He is said to have written 5 books of Metamorphoses, which Ovid has imitated. He wrote also history. 150.

About this time flourished Polybius. He wrote an universal History in Greek, divided into 40 books; which began with the Punic wars, and finished with the conquest of Macedonia by Paulus. This is lost, except the first 5 books, and fragments of the 12 following. Livy has copied whole books from him, almost word for word—and thinks proper to call him in return "haudquaquam spernendus auctor."

TO AN ARTIST,

Who requested the writer's opinion of a Pencil Sketch of a very Lovely Woman.

The sketch is somewhat happy of the maid;
But where's the dark ethereal eye—
The lip of innocence—the sigh,
That breathes like spring o'er roses just betrayed?
And where the smile, the bright bewitching smile
That lights her youthful cheek with pleasure,
Where health and beauty hoard their treasure,
And all is loveliness unmixed with guile?
The spirit of the bloomy months is she,
Surrounded by the laughing hours:
Her very foot-prints glow with flowers!
And dared'st thou then successful hope to be?
Presumptuous man! thy boasted art how vain!
Too dull thy daring pencil's light
To shadow forth the vision bright,
Which flowed from Jove's own hand without a stain.
What mortal skill can paint her wond'rous eye
Or catch the smile of woman's face,
When all the virtues seem to grace
Its beams with something of divinity?
None but Apollo should the task essay;
To him alone the pow'r is given
To blend the radiant hues of heaven,
And in the look the very soul portray;
Then hold, proud Artist! 'tis the God's command;
Eugenia's face requires thy master's hand!

MARCH COURT.

Court day!—what an important day in Virginia!—what a day of bustle and business!—what a requisition is made upon every mode of conveyance to the little metropolis of the county! How many debts are then to be paid!—how many to be put off!—Alas! how preponderate the latter! If a man says "I will pay you at Court," I give up the debt as hopeless, without the intervention of the la. But if court day be thus important, how much more so is March court! That is the day when our candidates are expected home from Richmond to give an account of their stewardship; at least it used to be so, before the number of our legislators was lessened with a view of facilitating the transaction of business, and with a promise of shortening the sessions. But somehow or other, the public chest has such a multitude of charms, it seems now to be more impossible than ever to get away from it.

"'Tis that capitol rising in grandeur on high,
Where bank notes, by thousands, bewitchingly lie,"

as the song says, which makes our sessions "of so long a life," and there is no practicable mode of preventing the evisceration of the aforesaid chest, but deferring the meeting of the Assembly to the month of February, and thereby compelling the performance of the Commonwealth's business within the two months which would intervene till the planting of corn. However, this is foreign to my present purpose, which is to describe a scene at which I have often gazed with infinite amusement. Would I had the power of Hogarth, that I might perpetuate the actings and doings of a March court; but having no turn that way, I must barely attempt to group the materials, and leave the painting to some regular artist to perfect. Picture to yourself, my gentle reader, our little town of Dumplinsburg, consisting of a store, a tavern, and a blacksmith shop, the common ingredients of a county town, with a court house and a jail in the foreground, as denoting the superior respect to which they are entitled. Imagine a number of roads diverging from the town like the radii of a circle, and upon these roads horsemen and footmen of every imaginable kind, moving, helter skelter, to a single point of attraction. Justices and jurymen—counsellors and clients—planters and pettifoggers—constables and cakewomen—farmers and felons—horse-drovers and horse-jockies, and so on, all rushing onward like the logs and rubbish upon the current of some mighty river swollen by rains, hurrying pell mell to the vast ocean which is to swallow them all up—a simile not altogether unapt, when we consider that the greater part of these people have law business, and the law is universally allowed to be a vortex worse than the Maelstrom. Direct the "fringed curtains of thine eyes" a little further to the main street—a street well entitled to the epithet main in all its significations, being in truth the principal and only street, and being moreover the political arena or cockpit, in which is settled pugilistically, all the tough and knotty points which cannot be adjusted by argument. See, on either side, rows of nags of all sorts and sizes, from the skeleton just unhitched from the plough, to the saucy, fat, impudent pony, with roached mane and bobtail, and the sleek and long tailed pampered horse, whose coat proclaims his breeding, all tied to the staggering fence which constitutes the boundary of the street. Behold the motley assemblage within these limits hurrying to and fro with rapid strides, as if life were at stake. Who is he who slips about among the "greasy rogues," with outstretched palm, and shaking as many hands as the Marquis La Fayette? It is the candidate for election, and he distributes with liberal hand that barren chronicle of legislative deeds, denominated the list of laws, upon which are fed a people starving for information. This is a mere register of the titles of acts passed at the last session, but it is caught at with avidity by the sovereigns, who are highly offended if they do not come in for a share of the Delegate's bounty. The purchase and distribution of these papers is a sort of carmen necessarium, or indispensable lesson, and it frequently happens that a member of the Assembly who has been absent from his post the whole winter, except upon the yeas and nays, acquires credit for his industry and attention to business in proportion to the magnitude of the bundle he distributes of this uninstructive record.

See now he mounts some elevated stand and harangues the gaping crowd, while a jackass led by his groom is braying at the top of his lungs just behind him. The jack takes in his breath, like Fay's Snorer, "with the tone of an octave flute, and lets it out with the profound depth of a trombone." Wherever a candidate is seen, there is sure to be a jackass—surely, his long eared companion does not mean to satirize the candidate! However that may be, you perceive the orator is obliged to desist, overwhelmed perhaps by this thundering applause. Now the crowd opens to the right and left to make way for some superb animal at full trot, some Highflyer or Daredevil, who is thus exhibited ad captandum vulgus, which seems the common purpose of the candidate, the jack, and his more noble competitor. But look—here approaches an object more terrible than all, if we may judge from the dispersion of the crowd who ensconce themselves behind every convenient corner and peep from their lurking holes, while the object of their dread moves onward with saddle bags on arm, a pen behind his ear, and an inkhorn at his button hole. Lest some of my readers should be ignorant of this august personage, I must do as they do in England, where they take a shaggy dog, and dipping him in red paint, they dash him against the signboard and write underneath, this is the Red Lion. This is the sheriff and he is summoning his jury—"Mr. Buckskin, you, sir, dodging behind the blacksmith's shop, I summon you on the jury;" ah, luckless wight! he is caught and obliged to succumb. In vain he begs to be let off,—"you must apply to the magistrates," is the surly reply. And if, reader, you could listen to what passes afterwards in the court house, you might hear something like the following colloquy—Judge. "What is your excuse, sir?" Juror. "I am a lawyer, sir." Judge. "Do you follow the law now, sir?" Juror. "No, sir, the law follows me." Judge. "Swear him, Mr. Clerk." Ah, there is a battle!!! see how the crowd rushes to the spot—"who fights?"—"part 'em"—"stand off"—"fair play"—"let no man touch"—"hurrah, Dick"—"at him, Tom." An Englishman thinking himself in England, bawls out, "sheriff, read the riot act"—a Justice comes up and commands the peace; inter arma silent leges; he is unceremoniously knocked down, and Justice is blind as ought to be the case. Two of the rioters now attempt to ride in at the tavern door, and for awhile all Pandemonium seems broke loose. To complete this picture, I must, like Asmodeus, unroof the court house, and show you a trial which I had the good fortune to witness. It was during the last war, when the vessels of Admiral Gordon were making their way up the Potomac to Alexandria, that a negro woman was arraigned for killing one of her own sex and color; she had been committed for murder, but the evidence went clearly to establish the deed to be manslaughter, inasmuch as it was done in sudden heat, and without malice aforethought. The Attorney for the commonwealth waived the prosecution for murder, but quoted British authorities to show that she might be convicted of manslaughter, though committed for murder. The counsel for the accused arose, and in the most solemn manner, asked the court if it was a thing ever heard of, that an individual accused of one crime and acquitted, should be arraigned immediately for another, under the same prosecution? At intervals—boom—boom—boom went the British cannon—British authorities! exclaimed the counsel; British authorities, gentlemen!! Is there any one upon that bench so dead to the feelings of patriotism as at such a moment to listen to British authorities, when the British cannon is shaking the very walls of your court house to their foundation? This appeal was too cogent to be resisted. Up jumped one of the Justices and protested that it was not to be borne; let the prisoner go; away with your British authorities! The counsel for the accused, rubbed his hands and winked at the attorney; the attorney stood aghast; his astonishment was too great for utterance, and the negro was half way home before he recovered from his amazement.

NUGATOR.

THE DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE.

SCENE I.

ROBESPIERRE'S HOUSE.
Robespierre and St. Just meeting.

St. Just.—Danton is gone!

Robespierre.—Then can I hope for all things,
Since he is dead whose shadow darken'd me;
Did the crowd cheer or hiss him?

St. Just.—Neither, sir:
Save a few voices, all look'd on in silence.

Robes.—Ha! did they so?—but when the engine rattled,
And the axe fell, didst thou perceive him shudder?

St. Just.—He turn'd his face to the descending steel,
And calmly smil'd. A low and ominous murmur
Spread through the vast assemblage—then, in peace,
They all dispers'd.

Robes.—I did not wish for this.

St. Just.—No man, since Louis Capet——

Robes.—Say no more
My worthy friend—the friend of France and freedom—
Hasten to guard our interest in yon junto
Of fools and traitors, who, like timid sheep,
Nor fight nor fly, but huddle close together,
Till the wolves come to gorge themselves among them—
And in the evening, you and all my friends
Will meet me here, deliberate, and decide
To advance, or to recede. Be still, we cannot;
And hear me, dear St. Just—A man like you,
Firm and unflinching through so many trials,
Who sooner would behold this land manured
With carcases and moistened with their blood,
Than yielding food for feudal slaves to eat,
True to your party and to me your brother—
For so I would be term'd—has the best claim
That man can have to name his own reward
When France is all our own. Bethink you then
What post of honor or of profit suits you,
And tell me early, that I may provide,
To meet your views, a part in this great drama.

St. Just.—Citizen Robespierre—my hearty thanks;
Financial Minister, by any name
Or trumpery title that may suit these times,
Is what I aim at—gratify me there
And I am yours through more blood than would serve
To float the L'Orient.¹

¹ A French line of battle ship. Burnt at the battle of Aboukir.

Robes.—'Tis well, St. Just,
But wherefore citizen me? I have not used
The term to you—we are not strangers here.

St. Just.—Pardon me, sir, (or Sire, even as you please)
The cant of Jacobins infects my tongue,
I had no meaning farther. One word more
Before we part—now Danton is cut off,
We may be sure that all his partisans
And personal friends are our most deadly foes,
And it were politic and kind in us
To spare their brains unnumbered schemes of vengeance
And seize at once the power to silence them.
To give them time were ruin; some there are
Whose love of gold is such that were it wet
With Danton's blood they would not less receive it.
These may be brib'd to league with us. Farewell.

Robes. (solus.) Blood on its base—upon its every step—
Yea, on its very summit—still I climb:
But thickest darkness veils my destiny,
And standing as I do on a frail crag
Whence I must make one desperate spring to power,
To safety, honor, and unbounded wealth,
Or be as Danton is, why do I pause?
Why do I gaze back on my past career,
Upon those piles of headless, reeking dead?
Those whitening sculls? those streams of guiltless blood
Still smoking to the skies?—why think I hear
The shrieks, the groans, the smothered execrations
That swell the breeze, or seem as if I shrank
Beneath the o'ergrown, yet still accumulating,
Curse of humanity that clings around me?
Is not my hate of them as fixed, intense,
And all unquenchable as theirs of me?
But they must tremble in their rage while I
Destroy and scorn them.
(reads a letter.)

"Exert your dexterity to escape a scene on which you are to appear once more ere you leave it forever. Your dictatorial chair, if attained, will be only a step to the scaffold, through a rabble who will spit on you as on Egalité. You have treasure enough. I expect you with anxiety. We will enjoy a hearty laugh at the expense of a people as credulous as greedy of novelty."

He but little knows,
Who wrote this coward warning, what I am.
I love not life so well, nor hate mankind
So slightly as to fly this country now:
No, I will ride and rule the storm I have rais'd,
Or perish in its fury.
(Madame de Cabarus enters.)
Ha! a woman!
How entered you?

Lady.—Your civic guard were sleeping;
I pass'd unquestioned, and my fearful strait
Compels appeal to thee, great Robespierre!
Deny me not, and Heaven will grant thy prayer
In that dread hour when every mortal needs it.
Repulse me not, and heaven thus at the last
Will not repulse thee from eternal life.
I am the daughter of the unhappy Laurens,
Who hath but one day more to live on earth.
Oh, for the sake of all thou holdest dear,
(kneeling before him.)
Spare to his only child the misery
Of seeing perish thus her much lov'd sire.
His head is white with age—let it not fall
Beneath yon dreadful axe. Through sixty years
A peaceful and reproachless life he led.
Thy word can save him. Speak, oh speak that word,
For our Redeemer's sake redeem his life,
And child and father both shall bless thee ever.

Robes. (aside.) I know her now—the chosen of Tallien
How beautiful in tears! A noble dame
And worthy to be mine. 'Twould sting his heart
To lose his mistress ere I take his head;
If I would bribe her passions or her fears,
As well I trust I can, I must be speedy.
Those drunken guards—should any see her here,
Then what a tale to spread on Robespierre,
The chaste, the incorruptible, forsooth——
(coldly approaching her.)
Lady, I may not save your father's life—
Duty forbids—he holds back evidence
Which would convict Tallien; nay, do not kneel,
I cannot interfere.

Daughter.—Oh, say not so.
He is too peaceful for intrigues or plotters—
Too old, too helpless for their trust or aid.
Oh, for the filial love thou bearest thy sire,
Thy reverence for his years——

Robes.—If he were living
And spoke in thy behalf, it were in vain.

Daughter.—For the dear mother's sake who gave thee birth
And suffer'd agony that thou might'st live——

Robes.—Not if her voice could hail me from the tomb,
And plead in thy own words to save his life.

Daughter.—If thou hast hope or mercy——

Robes.—I have neither.
Rise and depart while you are safe—yet stay,
One path to his redemption still is open—
It leads to yonder chamber—Ha! I see
Thou understandest me.

Daughter.—I trust I do not.
I hope that Heaven beholds not—Earth contains not
A being capable of such an offer.

Robes.—And dare you scorn me, knowing who I am?
Bethink you where you stand—your sire—and lover—
And hear my offer. Life and wealth for them,
Jewels and splendor and supremacy
Shall wait on thee—no dame shall breathe in France
But bends the knee before thee.

Daughter.—Let him die.
Better he perish now than live to curse
His daughter for dishonor. Fare you well.
There is a time for all things, and the hour
May come when thou wilt think of this again.

Robes. (laughing.) Ha! ha! Wouldst thou depart to spread this tale?
Never, save to such ears as will not trust thee!
Choose on the spot between thy father's death,
Thy lover's and thine own, or my proposal.

Daughter.—My choice is made, let me rejoin my sire.

Robes.—I'll furnish thee a passport—guards awake!
(seizing her arm.)
Without there! murder! treason! guards come hither!
(Jacobins rush in and seize her.)
A watchful crew ye are, to leave me thus
To perish like Marât by the assassins;
See that you guard her well, and keep this weapon
Which, but I wrench'd it from her, would have slain me.

Daughter.—And thus my father dies and one as dear.
'Tis joy to suffer with them, though I perish.
I feel assured thou canst not triumph long—
And I adjure thee by the Heaven thou hast scorn'd,
Whose lingering fires are not yet launch'd against thee,
And by the Earth thou cumberest, which hath not
Yet opened to entomb thee living, come,
Meet me, and mine, and thy ten thousand victims,
Before God's judgment seat, ere two days pass.
(the guards take her out.)

Robes.—She must have thought in sooth I was a Christian.

SCENE II.

TALLIEN'S HOUSE.
Tallien with a letter in his hand.

In prison!—In his power!—to die to-morrow!
My body trembles and my senses reel.
This is a just and fearful retribution—
Would it were on my head alone! Oh Heaven,
Spare but this angel woman and her father,
And let me die—or might my life be pardon'd,
The criminal excess to which these times
Have hurried my rash hand and wilful heart,
I will atone to outrag'd human nature,
To her and to my country. Wretched France!
Once the fair home of music and of mirth,
So torn, so harrassed by these factions now,
That even the wise and good of other lands
Cannot believe a patriot breathes in this!
And she complains that I am grown a craven!
My acts of late may justify the thought,
But let to-morrow show how much I fear him.
(A Servant enters.)

Servant.—The Minister of Police——

Tallien.—Attend him hither—
Fouché—perhaps to sound me; let him try—
I yet may baffle him, and one more fatal——
(Fouché enters.)

Fouché.—So you are in the scales with Robespierre,
And which do you expect will kick the beam?

Tallien.—Why should you think that I will stake my power,
Friends, interest, and life, in useless efforts
To thwart the destined ruler of the land?

Fouché.—Yourself have told me so. I did but mean
That he had risk'd his power and party strength
Against your life. You mean to strike at his.
Your faltering voice and startled looks betray
The secret of your heart, though sooth to say,
I knew it all before.

Tallien.—You see too far,
And are for once wise over much, Monsieur;
I never sought to oppose your great colleague,
But would conciliate him if I might.

Fouché. (sternly.) And do you hope to throw dust in my eyes?
What means this note from Madame de Cabarus
Now in your bosom—sent to you this morning—
And this your answer? (producing a billet.) Have I fathom'd you?
The mystic writing on the palace wall
Scar'd not Belshazzar more than this does you.
(Tallien goes to the door.)
Nay, never call your men or make those signals,
I have foreseen the worst that you can do.

Tallien.—Chief of Police, while you are in this house
Your life is in my hands—when you are gone,
Mine is in yours. Now tell me why you came?

Fouché.—To show you that I know of your designs.

Tallien.—And is that all?

Fouché.—Not quite. To offer service—
A politician should not start as you do
At every word.

Tallien.—Ah—can I—dare I trust you?

Fouché.—I do not ask created man to trust
Honor or oath of him whose name is Fouché.
I know mankind, and study my own interest—
Interest, Tallien—that mainstring of all motion—
Chain of all strength—pole star of all attraction
For human hearts to turn to. Let me see
My interest in supporting you, and I
Can aid and guard you through the coming peril.

Tallien.—Name your terms.

Fouché.—My present post and what
Beside is mentioned in this schedule.
(giving a paper.)

Tallien.—Your price is high, but I am pledged to pay it.
(giving his hand.)

Fouché.—Thou knowest I never was over scrupulous,
But he whom I was link'd with, Robespierre,
Can stand no longer. Earth is weary of him.
The small majority in the Convention
He calculates upon to be his plea
For wreaking summary vengeance on the heads
Of all who, like yourself, are not prepared
To grant him supreme power or dip their hands
In blood for any, every, or no profit.
A ravenous beast were better in the chair.
Henriot and the civic force here, stand
Prompt to obey him. Were we only sure
To raise the citizens, these dogs were nothing—
But, sink or swim, to-morrow is the day
Must ruin him or us. Do you impeach him,
And paint his crimes exactly as they are;
Have a decree of arrest, and I and mine
Will see he quits not the Convention Hall
But in the custody of friends of ours.
'Tis true I bargain'd to assist the fiend
The better to deceive him. Mark, Tallien,
A presage of his fall—not only I
Abandon him, but I can bring Barrère
And all his tribe to give their votes against him.
Give me carte blanche to pay them for their voices.

Tallien.—But think you I can move them to arrest him?

Fouché.—That is a chance unknown even to myself,
There are so many waiters on the wind,
Straws to be blown wherever it may list
That surety of success we cannot have,
But certain ruin if we pass to-morrow.

Tallien.—Is't true she aim'd a weapon at his life?

Fouché.—A lie of his invention. I have seen
The weapon he pretended to have snatch'd
From her fair hands, and know it for his own.
Though I seem foul compar'd to better men,
I claim to appear an angel match'd with him.

SCENE III.

ROBESPIERRE'S HOUSE.
Robespierre, Fouché, Henriot and others.

Henriot.—All things are ready now, six thousand men
And twenty cannon wait your word to-morrow.

Robes.—Henriot, I have a word to say to thee:
Thou hast one vice that suits not with a leader,
If that thou hopest to thrive in our attempt,
Taste not of wine till victory is ours.

Henriot.—I thank your caution.

Fouché.—I have seen Tallien
And offered peace between you; he knew not
That Laurens' daughter had assail'd your life,
Or he had mentioned it. Nor did he dream
Of what will peal upon his ears to-morrow.

Robes.—Then, friends, farewell until to-morrow dawns.

Fouché.—And ere its night sets in we hail thee Ruler,
Dictator of the land.

Robes.—If such your will—
Without you I am nothing—fare you well.
(they leave him.)
(looking up to the stars.)—Unchang'd, unfading, never-dying lights—
Gods, or coeval with them! If there be
In your bright aspects aught of influence
Which men have made a science here on earth,
Shed it benignly on my fortunes now!
Spirit of Terror! Rouse thee at my bidding—
Shake thy red wings o'er Liberty's Golgotha—
Palsy men's energies and stun their souls,
That no more foes may cross my path to-morrow
Than I and mine can drown in their own blood;
Or, let them rise by thousands, so my slaves
Fight but as heartily for gold and wine
As they have done ere now. When I shall lead them,
Then 'mid the artillery's roar and bayonet's flash
I write my title to be Lord of France
In flame and carnage, o'er this den of thieves.
Beneath th' exterior, frozen, stern demeanor,
How my veins throb to bursting, while I think
On the rich feast of victory and revenge
The coming day may yield me! Yes, this land
Of bigot slaves who tremble at a devil,
Or frantic atheists who with lifted hands
Will gravely VOTE their Maker from his throne,
This horde of dupes and miscreants shall feel
And own in tears, blood, crime and retribution,
The iron rule of him they trampled on—
The outrag'd, ruin'd, and despised attorney.
Though few the anxious hours that lie between
My brightest, proudest hopes, or sure destruction,
All yet is vague, uncertain, and obscure
As what may chance in ages yet to come.
How if the dungeon or the scaffold—Ha!
That shall not be—my hand shall overrule it—
Ingenious arbiter of life and death!
(looking to the charge of a small pistol.)
Be thou my bosom friend in time of need!
No—if my star is doom'd to set forever,
The cheeks of men shall pale as they behold
The lurid sky it sinks in. Should I fall
Leading my Helots on to slay each other,
Then death, all hail!—for only thou canst quench
The secret fire that rages in my breast;
If there be an hereafter, which I know not,
He who hath borne my life may dare its worst,
And if mortality's last pangs end all,
Welcome eternal sleep!—annihilation!

SCENE IV.

THE HALL OF THE NATIONAL CONVENTION.

Couthon concluding a speech from the Tribune. Tallien, Fouché, Carnôt, and others, standing near him. Robespierre, St. Just, and others, in their seats.

Tallien (to Fouché.)—Are you ready?

Fouché.—Doubt not my aid—denounce him where he stands—
And lose no time—this hour decides our fate.

Couthon (to the Convention.)—Our country is in danger—I invoke
Your aid, compatriots, to shield her now!
Fain as I am to avoid confiding power
Without control, in even patriot hands,
We cannot choose—and much as I abhor
To see blood flow, let punishment descend
On traitors' heads, for this alone can save us.

Tallien (approaching him.) Thou aged fangless tiger! not yet glutted?
Torrents of blood are shed for thee and thine—
Must thou have more? Descend—before I trample
Thee to the earth. Thou art not fit to live.
(he drags Couthon down by the hair of his head and mounts the Tribune.)
(addressing the Convention.) Yes, citizens, our country is imperiled,
And by a band of dark conspirators,
Soul-hardened miscreants, in whose grasp the ties
That bind mankind together are rent asunder
By spies—by fraud—by hope of power and spoils—
By baser fears, and by increasing terror
Of their dread engine, whose incessant strokes
And never failing stream astound mankind.
These men have pav'd the way, that open force
May crush the hopes of France, and bend our necks
Unto a despotism strange as bloody.
And who, my countrymen, hath been their leader?
Ye know him well—and every Frenchman breathing
Hath need to rue the hour which gave him birth—
A wretch accursed in heaven—abhorred on earth,
Hath dared aspire to sway most absolute
In this Republic—and the dread tribunals
Which for the land's protection were established
When pressed by foreign arms and homebred treason,
He hath converted to the deadly end
Of slaughtering all who crossed his onward path.
His black intrigues have occupied their seats
With robbers and assassins—whose foul riot,
Polluted lives, and unquenched thirst of gold,
Have beggar'd France and murdered half her sons.
Witness those long—long lists of dire proscription
Prepar'd at night for every coming day,
Even in the very chamber of the tyrant!
Witness the wanton, groundless confiscations,
Which ruin helpless men, to feed his minions!
Witness the cry of woe too great to bear,
That hath gone up to heaven from this fair land!
Yes—hear it, every man who loves his country—
France, for a ruler now, is ask'd to choose
The vampire who would drain her dearest blood:
A sordid slave, whose hideous form contains
A mind in moral darkness and fierce passions
Like nothing, save the cavern gloom of hell,
Which knows no light but its consuming fires!
I need not point to him. Your looks of terror,
Disgust and hatred turn at once upon him.
Though there be others of his name, this Hall—
This City—France—the World itself contains
Only one—Robespierre.
(the Assembly in great confusion.)

Robes. (to St. Just.) This blow is sudden.

St. Just.—Up to the Tribune—speed—your life—our power
All hang upon a moment. Art thou dumb?

Tallien (continuing.) The evil spirit who serv'd abandons him,
And I denounce him as the mortal foe
Of every man in France who would be free—
Impeach him as a traitor to the State
In league with Henriot, Couthon and St. Just.
To overawe by force and crush the Assembly!
I appeal for proof to those who plotted with him,
But now repentant have abjur'd his cause.
I move that he be instantly arrested
With Henriot and all accomplices.

Robes. (to St. Just.) See how they rise like fiends and point the hand
Of bitterest hatred at your head and mine,
Our veriest bloodhounds turn and strive to rend us.
(he rushes towards the Tribune, amid loud cries of "Down with the tyrant!")

Robes.—Hear me, ye members of the Mountain—hear me,
Cordeliers, who have prais'd and cheer'd me on—
Ye Girondists, give even your foes a hearing—
Ye members of the Plain, who moderate
The fury of contending factions—hear me
For all I have done or have designed to do,
I justify myself—and I appeal
To God—and——
(he pauses choked with rage.)

Tallien.—Danton's blood is strangling him.
Consummate hypocrite!—darest thou use
Thy Maker's name to sanctify thy crimes,
Thou lover of Religion! Saintly being!
The executioner! thou prayerless atheist!
To thy high priest. The scaffold is thy temple—
The block thy altar—murder is thy God.
And could it come to this? Oh, France! Oh, France!
Was it for this that Louis Capet died?
For this was it we swore eternal hatred
To kings and nobles—pour'd our armies forth—
Crush'd banded despots and confirmed our rights?
And have we bled, endur'd and toil'd, that now
Our triumph should be to disgrace ourselves
And bend in worship to a man whose deeds
Have written demon on his very brow?
What! style Dictator—clothe with regal honors
And more than regal power this Robespierre,
So steep'd in guilt—so bath'd in human blood!
It may not be—France is at last awake
From this long dreary dream of shame and sorrow,
And may her sons in renovated strength
Shake off the lethargy that drew it on!
Spirits of Earth's true heroes!—if ye see us
From the calm sunshine of your blest abodes,
Look with approval on me in this hour!
(turning to the statue of Brutus.)
Thee, I invoke!—Shade of the virtuous Brutus!
Like thee, I swear, should man refuse me justice
I draw this poignard for the tyrant's heart
Or for my own. Tallien disdains to live
The slave of Robespierre. I do not ask
Nor can expect him to receive the meed
Which should be his. Death cannot punish him
Whose life hath well deserv'd a thousand deaths,
But let us purge this plague-spot from among us,
And tell wide Europe by our vote this night
That Terror's reign hath ceas'd—that axe and sceptre
Are both alike disown'd, destroyed forever.
Let us impeach him, Frenchmen, with the spirit
That springs from conscious rectitude of purpose.
Patriots arise! and with uplifted hands
Attest your deep abhorrence of this man,
And your consent that he be now arrested!
(members rising in disorder.) Away, away with him—arrest him guards!
To the Conciergerie—away with him!

The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 5, April, 1836

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF

LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 5

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

MSS. OF BENJ. FRANKLIN.¹

A LECTURE

LETTER FROM ANTHONY AFTERWIT.

LETTER FROM CELIA SINGLE.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

GENIUS.

A LOAN TO THE MESSENGER.

TO ———.

SOME ANCIENT GREEK AUTHORS.

TO AN ARTIST,

MARCH COURT.

THE DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 5, April, 1836

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF

LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 5

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

MSS. OF BENJ. FRANKLIN.1

A LECTURE

LETTER FROM ANTHONY AFTERWIT.

LETTER FROM CELIA SINGLE.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

GENIUS.

A LOAN TO THE MESSENGER.

TO ———.

SOME ANCIENT GREEK AUTHORS.

TO AN ARTIST,

MARCH COURT.

THE DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

MSS. OF BENJ. FRANKLIN.¹