to your thoughts_ for the last half hour. But know" said he, a little
pompously I thought, "that if your breast had in it the imaginary
window of Momus, your slightest meditations would not be more plain
and open to inspection than they are to me now. They have been running
rather in a scattered and unconnected manner, but like those of most
young men, they are principally directed to your own future destiny
and the choice you are to make with regard to your pursuits and
efforts hereafter. In a word, as a matter of considerable importance
to yourself, you are weighing the comparative advantages of political
and literary fame. Both are sufficiently attractive, but to most young
men, and particularly to those of your country, the former is
especially enticing. Perhaps there are at times, doubts resting upon
the minds of all men, whether these attractions are not far greater in
anticipation than the reality would authorize. Even if these doubts
were well founded, I would not attempt to damp your bright and
delightful hopes, by pouring into your ears the dull, cold voice of a
desponding prophesy. But such is not the case. The pleasure of
possession is real, and though in our ignorance we sometimes decide,
that when a balance is struck between the bitter and sweet, in that
mixture called the enjoyment of honors, it is heavy in favor of the
former--though we hear the pursuit after worldly honors daily decried
as a chase after some gaudy and painted insect, which, when gained
with difficulty, when grasped with all the fervor and delight of
gratified success, vanishes from the sight and leaves nothing behind
but the pain and agony of its sting--though men who have never enjoyed
them, often condescend to pity their unhappy possessors--still do I
assure you that possession _is_ delightful--even as delightful perhaps
as your wildest dreams may have painted it. The very eagerness with
which all strive for it, who can do so with any probability of
success--the unconquerable perseverance with which they hold it when
obtained--are sufficient proofs that it _is_ worth the pursuit, and
well rewards the winner. But you have already decided on this point;
perhaps your only doubts are, upon which of the two principal (and in
the present peaceful days, I may almost say _only_,) roads to honor,
will a man find the best reward for the necessary exertions required
to obtain it.
"The Hill of Fame on which your attention is fixed, is divided into
two summits. To the one every step of the path is plain, and open to
your view. You are at once sensible of the enjoyments as well as the
difficulties, which are found in the various parts of the ascent,
while those who journey upward are seen by all from the moment they
start. You perceive along this path the most delightful pleasures
awaiting those who may be so happy as to reach them--and increasing in
number as they rise. But you see dangers and difficulties of every
kind interspersed among them and also increasing to the very top. The
flowers when plucked have often a poisonous insect enclosed in
them--the finest fruit grows upon precipices the most steep and
frightful--or when gathered 'turns to ashes in the mouth.' Yet in
spite of these dangers you see many rising free and uninjured, higher
and higher, till they attain even to the summit. But here, though
pleasures are more abundant, the dangers are likewise
increased--though the flowers are more beautiful and more numerous,
the fruit large, and more delicious--the poison is also more deadly,
the precipices are higher, and the fall from them more certainly
fatal. But still is that summit, bright and glorious as it is--the
brilliant object on which is fixed the ardent, anxious, devoted gaze
of all who toil up the sides of the mountain. This is the Hill of
Political Fame. Now let us turn to the other; it presents us quite a
different aspect; its sides and bottom are covered with a dim mist,
through which no objects are distinctly seen; we can only perceive
that the way, though extremely steep and laborious, is as free from
the precipices and dangers of the first, as it is deprived of its
pleasures and enticements. Those who are toiling on their way to its
summit, have nothing to cheer them in their dreary task but the
prospect of the bright vision above them--which like the beacon signal
to the worn mariner, holds out comfort and repose--cheering and
inspiring him with fortitude--nerving his limbs with new vigor, and
instilling renewed hope into his heart. Nor _do_ you see them assailed
by many imminent perils; yet many faint and sink on their tedious
way--and few, very few are so fortunate as to gain the bright summit
which rears its head above--free from the shades and mists which
envelope the skies--brilliant and glorious as its opposite neighbor,
and at the same time undisturbed by its dangers. Even of those who do
ultimately reach this rich goal of their hopes--this happy end of
their labors--how very few enjoy their hard earned rewards--many of
them supported alone by their hopes on their wearisome journey--fall
as soon as they reach the top, and gain only after death the glorious
distinction for which they spent--to which they devoted their lives.
This is the Hill of Literary Fame.
"And now examine each and decide for yourself, which you will choose
as the scene of your future efforts--choose, and pursue that choice
with determination. One road alone can you follow. Some, it is true,
have, when tired of the one, pursued the other for a time. _But no man
ever reached the top of both._ You are then to decide in favor of
_one_, and having decided, steadily to pursue it, or content yourself
with remaining unnoticed in the crowd which fills the plain beneath.
That you may form your decision more correctly, look into the history
of those who have sought and gained pre-eminence, in either kind of
fame. Let us then (laying aside our metaphors) judge from past
history, and by that let your future course be decided. In the
histories of those who have even stood highest as writers, poets, &c.
you often find much calculated to disgust you with the pursuit which
they followed--how little do you find to envy in the lot of the beggar
Homer--the blind and half starved Milton--the miserable Otway dying,
choked with the morsel of food which he had begged of a friend;
Goldsmith, Johnson, &c. It is true, that in contrast to these we may
name Newton, Bacon, Shakspeare, Byron, who succeeded in gaining during
(and some of them early in) their lives the fame they so eagerly
sought. But more numerous are the instances on record, where literary
merit has been unrewarded except by posthumous renown. Of genius the
most brilliant--of minds the most powerful, which have gained their
hard earned mede of praise--when their bodies were mouldering in the
grave--when the head which conceived, and the hand which penned their
bright aspirations, as well as the heart which so ardently beat for
glory and honor--have mingled with the dust, alike unmindful and
indifferent to praise or reproach, to fame or obloquy. When the bright
etherial spirit, which once so strongly throbbed for a 'name among
men,' has taken its flight to a truer home, where the glory of this
world is nothing--then is paid to the memory the honor which the man
deserved--which would have made him so completely happy. His life
perhaps was spent in grinding poverty, in misery and wretchedness,
imbittered by that chill cold neglect of the world, which so withers
the sensitive heart--for what? A name after death. Let us turn from
this dismal picture, to the other. Here at least, are some substantial
pleasures, however they may be alloyed by the attendant evils, dangers
and difficulties. Here at least, honor is nearly always rendered, if
bestowed at all, whilst it can be appreciated. And now let us see
whether the dangers and difficulties I have mentioned, may not be
really less than we were at first inclined to believe them, and
whether with care they may not be almost entirely avoided. It is true,
that he who once becomes a public servant, throws his character in the
hands of every man, and lays himself open to the attacks of every
scribbler. He is exposed to the malicious accusations of men, who are
neither able nor anxious to see his actions in their true light; his
slightest faults held up on high to become marks of scorn among
men--buts at which every vindictive slanderer may wing a poisoned
shaft--even his very virtues distorted and perverted till they become
in appearance vices. This I grant, _is_ the life which all public men
must lead; but let not this picture startle you. If really innocent,
he will rise above the abuse which is poured upon him. Confident in
the great decision of a candid _world_, he is superior to this sort of
scandal. And have we not reason to believe that here as in other
cases, custom renders one indifferent to that which at first would
make him miserable? And that the most sensitive mind may soon begin to
look on these as troublesome insects, which may at the time incommode,
but which should create no lasting disturbance. The best proof of
this, as I have before told you is, that men who have succeeded at all
in public life, will, however disagreeable it may appear, cling to it
as strongly as if in this, lay the very light of their existence. How
sweet it is to have one's name in the mouths of all--to be the theme
of admiration and wonder with the crowd--to have power. But there is
even a purer and better enjoyment. How perfect the pleasure which
animates the bosom of the statesman when he knows that to his
talents--to his efforts--millions are indebted for their greatest
comforts--that a whole nation looks up to him as their
benefactor--that through his means"----
My visiter had proceeded thus far, when a villainous log of wood
became suddenly discontented with its situation and rolled out upon
the hearth, scattering its sparks over me. Though deeply interested,
my first and most natural impulse was to grasp the tongs and set every
thing to rights. At the next instant my recollection returned and I
carefully replaced them. But it was too late. I saw nothing before me
but the cold and senseless instrument. The mild expression of the
features was gone--the quaint old figure had vanished, and the faint
sound of that sweet voice melted away on my ear, like the dying ring
of a harp, leaving me alone and disconsolate in my solitary room.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO MRS. ----,
Whose husband was absent in the United States Navy. On seeing her in a
gay company.
Canst thou forget, amidst the gay and heartless,
One far away whom thou hast vowed to love?
Thou'rt lovely, and thou seemest pure and artless,
And innocent and gentle as the dove.
Dost thou forget, or do thy blue eyes brighten
Only with thoughts of his return to thee?
Dost thou the pains of absence seek to lighten,
In scenes like this of mirth and revelry?
Ah, pause awhile, mid sounds of song and dancing,
While thoughts of conscious beauty paint thy cheek,
While eyes, admiring eyes, around thee glancing,
Volumes of warmest admiration speak--
Think, if 'tis well for one whose faith is plighted,
To shine among the free unfettered gay--
Think, should those lovely eyes with smiles be lighted
At homage which no heart but one should pay?
Oh keep those smiles, so full of light and gladness,
To welcome one whom thou canst call thine own;
And may no darkling shade of gloom or sadness
Come o'er thy life, thou bright and peerless one!
E. A. S.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
Eliza!--let thy generous heart
From its present pathway part not:
Being every thing which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways--
Thy unassuming beauty--
And truth shall be a theme of praise
Forever--and love a duty.
E. A. P.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
GENERAL WARREN.
STORIES ABOUT GENERAL WARREN--By a Lady of Boston, 1835, pp. 112,
12mo.
The sneers of those grown up readers,--who may choose to sneer at a
review of so very juvenile a book as this, we brave, for the sake of
bringing it, and its subject, somewhat into notice--pointing out some
phraseological errors--doing justice to its merits--and, above all,
freshening the memories, if not informing the minds, of the less
fastidious among our countrymen, as to a few of the incidents
preceding and attending the commencement of that great struggle, of
which the cherished remembrance conduces so much to preserve in
American bosoms a catholic, American, liberty-loving spirit. These
incidents will be found naturally to imbody themselves in a brief
account of the life of General Warren, drawn chiefly from the volume
above mentioned. Those who may incline to despise either so simple a
book, or a narrative of (to them) such trite facts, as these of which
we shall speak, are probably not aware how shallow and narrow is the
knowledge existing through the country, and even in some minds that
claim to be considered as _enlightened_, with regard to our own
history. "Mr. President!"--recently, at a public dinner in Virginia,
vociferated a young orator of the Milesian school--a lawyer, we took
him to be--"Mr. President! I give you, sir, the memory of the gallant
General Warren, who fell at the battle of LEXINGTON!" And but a few
months before, a friend as dear to us as ourselves, and whose age and
opportunities should certainly have made him know better, confounded
_Sir William Berkeley_, Governor of Virginia in the times of Charles I
and II, with Norborne Berkeley, Lord Botetourt, viceroy of George III,
in 1769 and 1770! It would not surprise us, to hear a lawyer or a
physician--still less a gentleman at large--talk of the burning of
Charles_ton_ as simultaneous with the battle of Sullivan's Island,
because Charles_town_ burned while the battle of Bunker Hill was
fighting--as "John Bull in America" passes in half an hour from
Boston, where the folk make wooden nutmegs, roast witches, and bake
pumpkin pies, into Charleston, where they gouge and stab, drink mint
juleps, eat young negroes, and feed old ones upon cotton seed.
The narrative before us is couched in a dialogue, between a mother and
her two children; and, being obviously designed for gentlemen and
ladies not much higher than mamma's rocking chair, has frequently an
infantine simplicity of style, that makes us marvel at our own moral
courage, in daring to serve up such a baby's mess. Convinced, however,
that _children's reading_ may afford both amusement and instruction to
grown people, (witness "Early Lessons," "Frank," "The Parent's
Assistant," "Sandford and Merton," and "Evenings at Home," _cum
pluribus aliis_;) believing, at any rate, that among the palates for
which it is our duty to cater, there are some youthful ones to which
this dish may be both pleasant and useful; hoping, too, that by having
her faults of composition noted, the authoress may be induced to cure,
or "others in like cases offending" be moved to shun them, we make the
venture. Indeed, not only the book's childishness of style, but many
offences far more atrocious in a critic's eyes--sins against grammar,
idiom, and good taste--are in great part redeemed by the good sense
and justness of its reflections, the interesting tenor of its
incidents, and the virtuous glow it is calculated to kindle. The sins
are very many. "_Lay_," used for "_lie_," is wholly
unwarranted--scarcely palliated--even by the example of Byron, in the
Fourth Canto itself: for he was compelled by duress of rhyme; a
coercion, which the most tuneful and the most dissonant are alike
powerless to resist. "Mr. Warren, the father of Joseph, while walking
round his orchard to see if every thing was in good order, as he was
looking over the trees, _he_ perceived," &c. Here is a nominative
without any verb. There is a four or five fold vice in the second
member of the following sentence, in which, as it stands, the writer
may be defied to show a meaning: "It often happens that a mother is
left with a family of young children, and is obliged to bring them up
without the controlling power of a father's care; it is therefore the
duty of every female so to _educate_ her own mind, and _that_ of her
daughters, as to _enable_ her, if she should be placed in this
responsible situation, _to be able_ to guide aright the minds of those
under her care." _Enable_ her _to be able!_ _Educate_ her own mind!
and _that_ of her daughters! Are they to be supposed to have but _one_
mind among them, as the Sirens had but one tooth? The use of _educate_
for _train_, is a match for the Frenchman's blunder, who, finding in
the Dictionary that to _press_ means to _squeeze_, politely begged
leave to _squeeze_ a lady to sing. "Enable HER." Enable whom? Why
_herself_ and _her daughters_: and she should have said so. Never,
surely, was prosing, _bona fide_, printed prosing, to so little
purpose. Again: "A mother should always possess ... _a firm principle_
of action." Does she need _but one_ firm principle of action? If so,
it is to be hoped the next edition will say what that one is; for it
must be valuable. A common blunder in the _times_ of the infinitive
mood, occurs repeatedly in this book: "How I should have admired _to
have gone_ to see her!" "It would have been a pity for us to _have
followed_ his example, and thus have _lessened_," &c.--"must have
ardently desired _to have been_ present"--"must have wished very much
_to have seen_," &c. We cannot see the propriety of using the word
"_admired_," as it is in one of these quotations. "Tell us if he did
get in, and how he contrived to?" We protest against this fashion
which our Yankee brethren are introducing, of making _to_, which is
but the _sign_ of the infinitive, stand for the infinitive itself.
This is one of the few cases, in which we are for _going the whole_.
"He began to _practice_"--"I know it was not _him_"--"he _whom_ I told
you was the first one"--"to respect, _was_ added admiration and
love"--"this tax bore very _heavy_"--"soldiers _which_"--"your country
has much to hope from you, both in _their_ counsels and in the field."
These errors, a very moderate skill in orthography and syntax would
have sufficed to avoid. Such a vulgarism as "_nowadays_," or such
provincialisms as "pay _one single copper_," and "walked _back and
forth_ the room," (meaning _to and fro_, or _backwards and forwards_
in the room) would not have occurred, if the author had remembered,
that the _simplicity_ which suits children's minds, is altogether
different from _vulgarity_. There is such a thing as _neat_ and
_graceful_ simplicity in writing, as well as in dress and manners.
"They had contemplated making some attack on the British, or at least
to endeavor to destroy their shipping." Contemplated _to_ destroy! We
will not further pursue this unwelcome task; pausing, short of the
middle of the book, and having already passed over several faults
without animadversion. Let the author be entreated to get the aid of
some friend who is master (if she is not mistress) of grammar and
taste enough, to reform these and the other errors of her little work,
and then give us a new edition, calling in all the copies of the
first, that are within her reach.--And now to our tale.
JOSEPH WARREN was born in 1741, in the village of Roxbury, one or two
miles south from Boston, Mass. His father, a rich farmer, inhabited a
house, the ruins of which are still visible; and was famous for
raising the best fruit in that neighborhood. He was killed by a fall
from one of his own apple trees, leaving a widow and four sons, of
whom Joseph, the eldest, was 16, and John, the youngest, was 4 years
old. This excellent woman appears to have much resembled the mother of
Washington, in the skill and care with which she infused generous
sentiments and virtuous principles into the bosoms of her children:
and she reaped almost as richly as Mrs. Washington, the fruits of her
labors. Her sons passed through life, all honored and loved, and more
than one of them distinguished. Her nature seems to have had more of
amiable softness than Mrs. Washington's; who, it must be confessed,
blended something of the sternness with the purity and nobleness of a
Spartan matron. Mrs. Warren's door was always open for deeds of
hospitality and neighborly kindness. It is not easy to imagine a
lovelier scene than one paragraph presents, of the evening of a well
spent life, still warmed and brightened by the benign spirit, which
had been the sun of that life's long day.
"In her old age, when her own children had left her fireside, it was
one of her dearest pleasures to gather a group of _their_ children, or
of the children of others around her. She did all in her power to
promote their enjoyment, and her benevolent smile was always ready to
encourage them. On Thanksgiving-day,[1] she depended on having all her
children and grand children with her; and _until she was 80 years of
age, she herself made the pies with which the table was loaded!_ Not
satisfied with feasting them to their heart's content while they were
with her, she always had some nice great pies ready for them to take
home with them."
[Footnote 1: _Thanksgiving-day_ is in New England, what Christmas is
in the Southern States and England. It is always in November, on a day
fixed by Proclamation of the Governor of each State, in each year.
Christmas, from the anti-Catholic zeal of the Puritan Pilgrims, is
almost entirely neglected; being, with all its train of quips, cranks,
gambols and mince-pies, thought to savor too strongly of popery.]
Joseph's education, till his fourteenth year, was at the public school
in Roxbury; one of those _common schools_, which, from the earliest
times of New England, have been planting and nurturing in her soil the
seeds and shoots of virtue and freedom. Even in boyhood, our hero was
manly, fearless and generous: always taking the part of his weaker
school-fellows against a strong oppressor--always the
"village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood."
At fourteen, he entered Harvard University. His talents, perseverance,
gentleness and courage, here gained him unrivalled popularity. That he
did not acquire or preserve the regard of his fellow students by any
base compliances with vice or disorder, the following incident shews.
Some of them had once resolved on some breach of the laws, which, from
the sturdiness of his principles, they knew that young Warren would
disapprove, and by his powerful influence probably prevent. They
therefore met in an upper room of the college, to arrange their plans
secretly; fastening the door against him. He found what they were
about; and seeing the window of their room open, crept out, through a
_scuttle door_, upon the roof--crawled to the eaves--and there,
seizing a water-spout nearly rotten with age, he swung and slid down
by it to the window, and unexpectedly sprang in amongst the
conspirators. The spout, at the instant of his quitting it, fell with
a crash to the ground, and was shivered to pieces. Only saying, in
answer to the exclamations of astonishment that burst from his
comrades, "it stayed up just long enough for my purpose," he commenced
an expostulation against their intended misdemeanor, and _succeeded in
diverting them from it_.
On leaving college, he studied medicine, and began to practise at the
age of 23, just previously to a visit of the small pox to Boston, with
those fearful ravages which usually attended its march, before the
virtues of vaccination were known. Dr. Warren's judgment, tenderness,
and skill, made him pre-eminently successful in treating the disease.
And it is said, that his gentle and courteous deportment completely
neutralized the usual tendency of such professional success, to
enkindle the jealousy of his brethren. His mild features and winning
smile, true indexes, for once, to the soul within, gained every heart;
his knowledge and talents added respect to love. Thus, by the same
qualities which had distinguished him at school and at college, did he
acquire among his fellow townsmen an influence which no other man of
his age and day possessed.