in the whole establishment. If folks want _warming_ here they must go
to mass Plumb's bar room, which is way down in the cellar."
"Bar room, sir!--Bar room!" I retorted, "can it be possible that men,
rational men, can abandon the Spring--nature's own sweet medicinal
compound, for those deleterious mixtures--those pernicious products of
the corrupt art of distillation?" I forgot however that Cato had not
entered into all the elaborate views and recondite reasonings of the
Temperance Society--and I forthwith checked the rein of my
imagination. I found that the best that I could do under all
circumstances, was to betake myself to rest, and although I must
confess that I had descended some few rounds on that golden ladder,
which like Jacob's of old, I verily believed had led to the seventh
heaven,--I consoled myself with the hope that _to-morrow_--delightful
to-morrow--would spread a new and brighter coloring over my prospects.
Cato being dismissed, I retired and slept soundly for the space of two
hours at least; at the expiration of which time, I was suddenly
startled by a noise immediately underneath me, which to my classical
fancy seemed to resemble the shrieks of the ancient Bacchæ, the
Priestesses of the Vine-loving God. Let that however pass! There was a
mixture of music in it, or of something intended for music, which kept
me in a tolerable humor and smoothed over those porcupine points which
began to shoot forth at the unpleasant disturbance to my repose. The
mystery was soon solved. Cato by direction of the Prime Minister, had
placed me directly over the ball room--a most confounded location to
be sure for a man fond of sleep--but still I thought that every one
was bound to make some sacrifice in order to promote the enjoyments of
others. "Tired nature's sweet restorer," lulled me once more into
oblivion as soon as the clamor and screeching (for music it was not)
had somewhat subsided. Again had the leaden God touched me with his
wand, and again were my slumbers invaded by the arrival of my fellow
lodger at midnight. _I began to descend a few more rounds on my golden
ladder._ I thought of Sancho's exclamation, "Blessed is the man who
first invented sleep!"--but what, thought I, is the invention worth if
a man cannot use it even in this free country.
Morning at last dawned--but oh! what a morning? The rain fell in
torrents--and the wind came whistling down the mountain hollows as if
old Æolus had resolved that his voice should be distinctly heard and
his strength clearly understood. What was I to do? To walk abroad was
impossible--so I even resolved to lay quietly ensconced in my cot,
_hard_ as it was, until my fellow lodger, who was one of the Saturnine
breed, should take his departure, and the merry bell should invite me
to breakfast. My naturally sweet temper had become a little soured at
my various discomforts--but my appetite was keen, and I thought with
the immortal dramatist, that "when the veins are unfilled, we are
neither apt to give nor forgive." When the hour arrived, I hastened
with the aid of umbrella and cloak to the banquetting hall. The crowd
had assembled in the long portico awaiting the signal of admission. A
few only of the fairer part of creation were interspersed, and
they--were any thing but fair. I presumed that the more delicate and
fragile of the sex would not encounter "the peltings of the pitiless
storm." The doors being opened, the multitude rushed in. What a
resistless force thought I, is caused by the concurrent movement of
400 human appetites about to engage at the breakfast table. It was a
new discovery in mechanical philosophy, and I felt confident that the
_momentum_ was at least equal to a hundred horse power. "Body of
Bacchus!" as the Italians say, what a furious set-on there was! I sat
at one end of the table in silent consternation! At length I ventured
to ask one waiter for a hot cup of coffee--of another I civilly
requested a chop--and a third I respectfully solicited to hand me a
roll. I might as well have addressed my language to the door post. The
menials rushed by me like a whirlwind. It seems, as I afterwards
learned, that every mother's son of them had been bribed to wait on
particular gentlemen; and if I had screamed at them loud enough to
rupture a blood vessel, the knaves would have been as deaf as adders.
At length I addressed myself to a juvenile looking man who was sitting
not far to my right, and who though young in years was evidently a
veteran in that sublime science called _Number One_; for I perceived
that by a good understanding with the members of the Kitchen Cabinet
and the black Alguazils of the breakfasting room, he had gathered
around him as many tit-bits as would have feasted a London Alderman.
"Pray sir," said I, "will you be so kind as to help me to one of those
extra dishes in your vicinity!" The youngster looked at me with
perfect amazement. I might as well have asked him for one of his
wisdom teeth! By the by, I am not certain that he had cut either of
them,--at all events I was confident of one thing, and that was, that
the youth had never graduated in good manners. So I let him pass. But
why relate my melancholy and fruitless efforts and my innumerable
rebuffs at the table. There I had to sit a full three quarters of an
hour at least, before my longing appetite was appeased. _Regaled_ it
was not,--unless a cold mutton chop which retained the flavor of the
wool, and a cup of decoction compounded by the rule of three grains of
coffee to a gallon of water--can be said to constitute the highest
felicity of eating.
I arose from the table and _descended a few more rounds on my gilded
ladder of hope_. What was I to do? The rain continued to fall in such
torrents that Neptune himself could not have surpassed them, had he
held his throne in the clouds. Cato had informed me the over night
that there was no drawing room--and I was cold--my limbs were
shivering. I resolved to visit the subterranean regions of the bar
room and post office. There, to my unutterable grief, I found groups
of individuals gathered together in such motley disorder, and withal
forming so complete a blockade to every avenue approaching the
fire--that I stood like a statue of despair. A cluster on my right
were discoursing in grandiloquent style on the recent discoveries in
the moon--another on my left were discussing the attempted
assassination of the King of the French--a third were denouncing the
whole army of abolitionists and lamenting that Tappan and Thompson did
not find it convenient to visit the White Sulphur Springs--a fourth
were denouncing the vengeance of Judge Lynch against the _Chevaliers
D'Industrie_--anglicè black legs,--a fifth were pouring a volley of
exterminating epithets upon the head of Amos Kendall and the Little
Magician; and a sixth, did not even spare his majesty King Calwell
himself and his minister of the home department, for putting them in
_Fly Row_ to be devoured by those _cantackerous_[1] vermin, the fleas.
I forgot that there was a seventh circle standing near Mr. Plumb's
cabinet--who were very intently engaged at the early hour of ten--not
in discussing domestic or foreign politics--lunar discoveries or
abolition--but with all the ardor which distinguished the disputants
on those several topics, were trying experiments upon a quart glass of
genuine ice-crowned mint julep; and judging from the rapid fall of the
fluid in the vessel which contained it, I thought that their
experiments were likely to prove very successful. Unhappy me, that I
was unable to participate in any of these conversational or bibaceous
enjoyments! "I will not despair," thought I to myself, as between the
hours of eleven and twelve the elements had ceased their strife, and a
few spots of azure were already visible in the clouded vault.
Presently the monarch of day himself peeped out from behind the black
curtain which had hidden his shining countenance. I looked out and saw
multitudes hastening to the Spring. This, said I, is the grand
climacteric of my happiness!--now will I revel in the joys of that
ambrosial fount which will console me for the sorrows of
disappointment. The statue of the Nymph Hygeia[2] which surmounted the
dome of the Spring house, looked more white and beautiful, as
refreshed by the morning's shower bath she reflected the beams of her
venerable grandsire.[3] Down I went to the Spring--and whilst the
throng which preceded me were eagerly quaffing the delicious beverage,
I had leisure to survey their countenances and to gather materials for
reflection. It was evident that upon the pallid cheeks of some,
wasting consumption had fixed her fatal seal. Others bore the
jaundiced and cadaverous marks of obstructed bile. A few were the
hobbling victims of hereditary or acquired gout, and were either
suffering for the sour grapes which their fathers devoured, or paying
the penalties of their own luxurious indulgence. By far the greater
portion however had the ruddy complexions and smiling countenances of
health. "Wonderful elixir!" said I to myself--"incomparable panacea!
which not only cures all diseases, but is even beneficial to health
itself." I hastened to dip my glass in the flowing nectar, and realize
my fond anticipations. Alas! alas! the saying of the wise man of
Greece rushed upon my memory--"_Desire nothing too much!_" My dream of
bliss was suddenly dispelled! Instead of nectar, I smelt and tasted a
mixture of brimstone and eggs in a state of putrescency! What an
extinguisher to my air-built hopes and delusive fancies! And is it for
this, I exclaimed within myself, that hundreds and thousands toil up
craggy precipices and swelter under August suns? _Is it worth eight
dollars per week to partake of this "villainous compound?"_ Must we
sacrifice home and comfort, and real enjoyment, in order to
_sacrifice_ also to this heathen block[4] which sits upon the top of
the dome? Reason, prudence and common sense forbid it! I left the
Spring with a degree of disappointment bordering upon despair! In the
fulness of time the dinner bell tolled. It was indeed the knell of
sorrow rather than the merry peal which invites to innocent enjoyment.
Shall I describe that dinner?--no, not for a thousand dinners, "with
all their appliances and means to boot;"
"I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Whom you all know are _honorable_ men."
Neither will I describe what occurred "about the sixth hour when men
sit down to that nourishment they call supper." I went to my
apartment, all desolate and fireless as it was, to prepare for the
_Ball_.
[Footnote 1: See Mr. Forsyth's Speech in the United States Senate.]
[Footnote 2: The gift of Mr. Henderson, a wealthy gentleman of New
Orleans.]
[Footnote 3: Hygeia was the daughter of Æsculapius, and was
granddaughter of Apollo or the Sun.]
[Footnote 4: Mr. Henderson's White Lady was no doubt a liberal
donation; but alas! it is nothing but a block of painted wood.]
* * * * *
(_To be continued_.)
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
JOSEPHINE.
Suggested by a Scene in the Memoirs of the Empress Josephine.
In sorrow's stern and settled gloom,
The father sat--the silent tomb
Enclosed his earthly joy and pride;
His son, his only son had died.
His bosom heaved no natural sighs--
No tears relieved his burning eyes;
Alive to love's sweet voice no more,
The look of dark despair he wore:
Unmoved and hopeless, heeding not
Soft words of comfort, he forgot
That yet a source of joy remained--
That earth a blessing still contained.
Fair Buonaparte the mourner sought,
By pure maternal feelings taught--
Saw with an angel's pitying eye
His deep and hopeless agony.
She led, in all her beauty's pride,
His blooming daughter to his side;
To her kind heart his babe she press'd,
And kneeling thus before Decrest,
Seemed a bright spirit from above
Sent on some embassy of love.
Surprised and startled at the view,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
While tears, the balmy dew of grief,
Gave to his bursting heart relief--
And conscious, once again he blessed,
And clasped his children to his breast.
Yes, Josephine-'twas thine to feel
The joys of sympathy--to heal
The wounded heart,--while he whose fate
Heaven linked with thine, was _called_ the great,
Thine was true greatness of the soul,
Swayed by pure virtue's soft control:
Patient in sorrow--meek in power--
Beloved e'en to thy latest hour--
Thou hadst a bliss he could not know,--
Thou ne'er hadst caused a tear to flow.[1]
While victory's wreath his temples bound,
Thou wast with brighter honors crowned;
For by the poor thy name was blessed,
And thy sweet influence confessed
By him whose proud, ambitious mind,
Scarce earth's vast empire had confined.
Thou wast his solacer in care,
His triumphs thou didst fondly share--
And even when exiled from his throne,
Thy faithful heart was all his own.
A happier lot than his was thine!
Brighter thy name on Mem'ry's shrine!--
Whilst blood-stained laurels o'er him wave,
_Love_ placed the marble on thy grave![2]
E. A. S.
[Footnote 1: In her last hours she said, that "she had never caused a
single tear to flow."]
[Footnote 2: Her tomb was erected by her children.]
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO CLAUDIA.
Oh! dost thou remember that gladsome hour,
When I bowed the knee to thee,
And feigned the love of thy captive knight,
In playful mimicry?--
When the chiding word, on thy trembling lip,
Died, faintly murmuring, there,
And the ill-feigned smile, on thy blushing cheek,
Was drown'd in a bursting tear?
Ah! little thou think'st of the years of pain
I've paid for that giddy hour,
And the anxious thoughts that have ever lain
In its memory's magic power:
Yet, with all its sorrow, and all its care--
Its dreary and hopeless woe--
I'd not, its luxury of despair,
For the wide world's hopes forego.
'Tis my bosom's dearest and purest shrine,
And fountain of holiest thought,
Where all that is sacred or divine,
Is in deep devotion brought.
That smile and tear are the relics there--
Embalmed in tears of mine--
And the image that claims each fervent prayer,
Is that bright, fair form of thine.
Thou wast then just op'ning to life's gay bloom,
Like springtide's sweetest gleam;
And I played with thee, without thought of gloom,
Or of startling "Love's young dream."
'Twas the last glad hour of my mirthful youth--
My parting hour with thee--
And of thy sweet smile of light and truth,
'Twas the last I'll ever see.
Since, many a care-cloud of dark'ning blight
Hath shaded my youthful brow;
And many a sorrow of deadly weight,
Lies cold on my bosom now.
I've tested the falsehood of life's whole scope,
And heed not the clouds that lower;
But, mid all the wrecks of my early hope,
I cling to that parting hour.
Oft, from the dance, and its wild delight,
The world, and its hollow glee,
I've fled to the silence of moonlit night,
To live o'er that hour with thee.
'Tis the one bright spot in this wide, wide waste,
That blooms in its beauty yet;
And to that I'll turn, while life shall last,
From the world's whole love and hate.
_Augusta, Ga._
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
CANTILENA AMATORIA.
BY GILES McQUIGGIN.
Not love thee, Lelia! ask the rocks
That gird the mountain stream;
Whereon I've knelt and notch'd thy name,
By Cynthia's borrowed beam.
Not love thee! ask the moss that spreads
From Wye-head to the tide,
How oft I've roved at midnight's noon,
And thought of thee and sigh'd.
The ravine winding through the wood,
The terrace walk, the grove,
Are all the faithful witnesses
Of my enduring love.
Night's latest star can tell the times
I've watch'd it as it rose,
When none but it, lone wanderer,
Was watcher of my woes.
Pale Cynthia! how I've gaz'd on thee,
And thought of her whose frown
To sorrow's deepest ecstasy
Had borne my spirit down.
Her doubt is worse than death to one
Whose all of earthly bliss
Is in the smile that gives her love
In sweet return for his.
Not love thee, Lelia! witness Heaven,
How oft before thy throne,
I've bent in humble attitude,
To worship thee alone;
And her dear image intervened
Between my thoughts and thee:
Forgive the sin, her sacred form
Seemed dear as _thou_ to me.
Not love thee! when the life-blood chills
That warms my system now--
And to the monster's mandate all
My body's powers must bow,--
Then Lelia thou shalt just begin
A holier love to share;
And if there are blest homes on high,
We'll meet and feel it there.
CRITICAL NOTICES.
_Mephistopheles in England, or the Confessions of a Prime Minister, 2
vols. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard._ In a long poetical
dedication this book is inscribed "to the immortal spirit of the
illustrious Goethe"--and the design, title, and _machinery_ are
borrowed from the Faust of that writer. The author, whoever he may be,
is a man of talent, of fine poetical taste, and much general
erudition. But nothing less than the vitiated state of public feeling
in England could have induced him to lavish those great powers upon a
work of this nature. It abounds with the coarsest and most malignant
satire, at the same time evincing less of the power than of the _will_
for causticity--and being frequently most feeble when it attempts to
be the most severe. In this point it resembles the English Bards and
Scotch Reviewers. The most glaring defect, however, in the structure
of the book is its utter want of _keeping_. It appears, moreover, to
have no just object or end--unless indeed we choose to consider _that_
its object which is the object of the _hero proper_ himself--"the
hell-doomed son of Sin and Death Mephistopheles"--to cherish and
foster the malice, the heart-burnings, and all evil propensities of
our nature. The work must, therefore, as a whole be condemned,
notwithstanding the rare qualities which have been brought to its
composition. To prove that these qualities exist in a very high degree
in the writer of Mephistopheles, it would only be necessary to spread
before our readers the scene of the Incantation in the Hartz. It is
replete with imagination of the most etherial kind--is written with a
glow and melody of language altogether inimitable--and bears upon
every sentence the impress of genius. It will be found a seasonable
relief from the mingled coxcombry, pedantry, and gall which make up
the body of the book. But we will confine ourselves at present to an
extract of a far different nature, as affording a better
exemplification of what we have previously said.
"Between the acts the curtain rose for a _divertisement_, in which the
incomparable Taglioni made her appearance. She was greeted with the
loudest demonstrations of popularity from her numerous patrons, which
she acknowledged by several graceful courtesies. 'Behold!' said
Mephistopheles, directing my attention to the evolutions of the
dancer, 'the progress of civilization. If all this were not so
graceful it would be indecent, and that such an exhibition has a moral
tendency is more than doubtful. Look at that young girl in the pit.
She has seen sufficient to crimson her face, neck, and shoulders with
a blush of shame, and she hides her head from a sight which has
shocked her sense of decency. There is no affectation there. She is an
innocent girl fresh from the country who never saw a ballet in her
life. Yet all the rest, man, woman and child, gaze on delighted. Every
glass is raised the more closely to watch the motions of the
figurante. Look!--she makes a succession of vaults, and her scanty
drapery flying above her hips discloses to her enraptured admirers the
beauty of her limbs. A thousand hands beat each other in approbation.
Now she pirouettes, and observe the tumult of applause which follows.
She stands on her left foot, on the point of her great toe nail,
extending her right leg until the top of her foot is in a parallel
line with the crown of her head. In this position she bends with an
appearance of the greatest ease, till her body nearly touches the
ground, and then gradually rises with the same infinite grace amid
enthusiastic bravos and ecstatic applause. Now on her tip-toe, her
right leg still extended, she moves slowly round, liberally extending
to all her patrons within sight the most favorable opportunity of
scrutinizing the graces of her figure, while the whole house testify
their infinite gratification at the sight by every species of
applause. Again she comes from the back of the stage, turning round
and round with the speed of a tetotum but with an indescribable and
fascinating grace that seems to turn the head of every young man in
the theatre. During the storm of approbation which ensues she stands
near the footlights, smiling, courtseying, and looking as modest as an
angel. Then comes Perrot, who is as much the idol of the ladies as
Taglioni is the goddess of the gentlemen. He leaps about as if his
feet were made of India rubber, and spins around as if he intended to
bore a hole with his toe in the floor of the stage. Then a little
pantomime love business takes place between the danseur and the
danseuse, and they twirl away, and glide along, and hold eloquent
discourse with their pliant limbs; and the affair ends by the
gentleman clasping the lady round the waist, while he, bending his
body in the most graceful attitude, so that his head shall come under
her left arm, looks up in apparent ecstacy into her smiling face as
the lady raised high above him on the extreme point of her left foot,
extends her right hand at right angles with her body, and looks down
admiringly upon her companion. Thus grouped the curtain drops, and
every one cries _bravo!_ thumps the floor with his stick, or beats his
palms together till such a din is raised as is absolutely deafening.'
"'She is a charming dancer,' I observed.
"'Yes'--replied he--'she understands the philosophy of her art better
than any of her contemporaries; it is to throw around sensuality such
a coloring of refinement as will divest it of its grossness. For this
she is paid a hundred pounds a night, and is allowed two benefits in
the season which generally average a thousand pounds each. While you
are thus liberal to a dancer, some of the worthiest of your ministers
of religion receive about fifty pounds per annum for wearing out their
lives for the good of your souls; and many of your most exalted men of
genius are left to starve. Such is the consistency of human nature.'"
* * * * *
_The District School, or National Education, by J. Orville Taylor.
Third Edition. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard._ This work has
met with universal approbation, and is worthy of it. The book was
first published only a short time ago, and the third impression will
speedily be exhausted, as parents have a direct personal concern in
the matter, and in the important truths, duties, and responsibilities,
herein pointed out. Mr. Taylor is entitled to the gratitude of his
countrymen for that beneficial impulse which his work has been, and
will be the means of giving to the great cause of General Education.
"If a parent," says Mr. Taylor, "does not educate his child--the world
will." We sincerely hope so. As the _District School_ now appears it
has been entirely re-written, and such alterations and additions made
as the experience of the author suggested. We heartily wish it all the
success it so eminently deserves.
* * * * *
_The New England Magazine for September_ is unusually rich. Among its
numerous and very excellent articles we would particularly notice a
paper called "My Journal"--and more especially Scraps of Philosophy
and Criticism from a recent work of Victor Hugo's. One of these Scraps
_on Style_, we are sure we shall be pardoned for extracting.