Anxious thought that wished
To go, yet whither knew not well to go,
Possessed his soul and held it still awhile:
He listened and heard from far the voice of fame,
Heard and was charmed, and deep and sudden vow
Of resolution made to be renowned,
And deeper vowed to keep his vow.--_Pollock_.
The summer of 18--, was the fourth which I had spent at C---- College,
and with it, ended my collegiate life. The scenes, which my long
residence there had made sacred to the memory, were now becoming still
more sacred as the time of my departure drew near. Every object, which
was at all associated with meeting-scenes and parting-adieus, had
become a magician's wand,--recalling the absent and the dead--towering
hopes, now buried in the tomb, and anguish, which, thus recalled, is
but the bliss which the dreamer enjoys, when he wakes and feels
himself secure from the precipice, from whose edge a moment before he
was plunging into a gulph below. No scene was to me so sacred as the
student's grave-yard; for in it, I often mourned over the woes and
ills of life, and almost unconsciously wished for a fate like the
young men's who slept in its repose. There were then only four
graves--three were side by side, having tomb-stones, epitaphed to the
memory of those whose ashes reposed beneath them. The fourth stood
alone--over it was a rude stone, on which was visible no tribute to
him, whose remains were there. His was a destiny which often made me
look upon the unlettered stone with the deepest sympathy. One only
thing seemed to be known of this grave--one tribute only did time pay
to his memory--for to the pilgrim who passed by and hastily inquired
"who sleeps there?" naught was ever replied but the simple, yet
eloquent elegy, "that is the '_Grave of the Forgotten Genius_.'" In
this unconscious elegy, there was that which made me look upon it,
almost as the grave of a brother.
It was here that I often retired during the last days of my stay at
C---- College. Here I could enjoy an uninterrupted revery, and call
before me the spirits of the dead and weep o'er the destiny of
forgotten genius; yet, even then, I sometimes thought their fate the
happiest which could fall to the lot of man. Perhaps they have prayed
for the gift of oblivion. Perhaps they have wished not to be
remembered. Their last desire may have been,
"Silent let me sink to earth
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth
Nor startle friendship with a tear."
A few days before my departure from the college, I was walking
thoughtfully through the grove, which surrounded this little
grave-yard, when suddenly I beheld a stately figure, standing near the
unepitaphed grave. He stood for a moment--then approached the
gravestone--seemed to take something from it, and pressing his hand to
his forehead for a moment, look fixedly at the stone. He
arose--hastily left the grave and directed his course towards a little
village below. Here was a mystery! Is this a relative--a brother of
the "forgotten genius," who has at last come to pay a tribute to his
long neglected memory? I ran to the grave. Behold! the name of him who
had so long been forgotten! The mysterious stranger had discovered the
name of the being who was buried there, which had been almost covered
by the moss that had collected upon the stone, and which till then I
had never observed.
At twilight I was again in the grove, and again saw the same figure
approach the grave. He stood over it, and I distinctly heard these
words, "hapless being! Would that I had been here to ease thy dying
agony. Yet 'tis well! I grieve not! Thy spirit is at rest."
I did not hesitate, but immediately approached the stranger, who
seemed a little surprised, but by no means disconcerted.
"Stranger," I said, "thou grievest not alone! Pardon me for intruding
upon thy grief. I wish only to add my sympathy to your anguish."
"Thou'rt welcome!" said the stranger, "I thank thee for thy sympathy:
but tell me? Is the tale of him, who sleeps in that grave still
known?"
"It is only known that he was once a student of C---- College, and
that his tomb has long been called the 'Grave of the Forgotten
Genius'" I replied. But the stranger seemed not to hear me--made no
answer and approached again to the grave, and by the light of the moon
which now shone brightly, read the name "Walter ----," exclaiming,
"yes 'tis my younger brother, who died fifteen years ago." "And were
none of his friends" I inquired, "at his side during his last
illness?"
"Alas" said he, "his spirit was gone, ere the news reached them, that
he was sick!" and then after a short silence the stranger continued.
"But come with me to yonder village? I will there give you all the
information you want." I immediately gave my assent, and after the
stranger had again stood silently over the grave seemingly engaged in
supplicating the favor of heaven, we approached the village. We
entered the village inn,--the stranger left me for a moment, but soon
reentered the room in which he had left me, bearing in one hand a
small manuscript, and in the other a purse. "This manuscript" said he,
"will give you the tale of him, who is now known only as the Forgotten
Genius. This purse contains one hundred and fifty crowns, half of
which you must cause to be applied to the erection of a monument over
my brother's grave, and the other half to be deposited in the county
treasury, the interest to be applied to the cultivation of the grove
around the student's grave-yard."
"It is now late" said the stranger, "my duty calls me one hundred
miles hence before to-morrow evening. I must rest a little, and
continue my journey."
I then pressed the stranger's hand. Neither spoke. The tears flowed
down the stranger's cheeks, and I felt that I was parting from a
brother; without the least hope that I should ever see him again, I
retired to my room, but it was only to give vent to the excess of my
feelings. I continued walking through my apartment until dawn, and on
going out, was informed that the stranger had just set out on his
journey. I rushed to my room again, full of doubt and grief--opened
the manuscript which had been given to me by the stranger, and read as
follows:--
* * * * *
Walter Dunlap was born in Chestatee Village, which is situated on one
of the tributary streams of the Tennessee river, and surrounded by
those beautiful vallies, so numerous on both sides of the Cumberland
mountains. His father had been the first, and was at his birth the
principal merchant in Chestatee Village. He was not wealthy, yet his
economy had enabled him to afford means for the education of his sons
at one of the first colleges in the east. The procurement of this had
been his whole ambition, and it may well be imagined, that any
evidences of talent and genius in his sons, would please him much. In
his infancy, Walter displayed in his slightest actions, a nobleness, a
generosity, and a dauntlessness which at once won the heart of his
father, and Walter had not been placed under the instruction of a
tutor more than six months, ere he was far in advance of those who had
spent years in the school-room. Already did the fathers and mothers of
Chestatee Village hold up Walter to their children as a model for
their imitation. He had not passed his twelfth year before he was sent
with an elder brother to a college three hundred miles distant from
his paternal home.
We arrived at C---- College full of hope and expectation, for the
writer of this narrative was the next elder brother of Walter. We
looked only for that continual flow of spirits and sprightliness,
which the changing and novel scenes of our journey had excited, and
were therefore illy prepared to meet the rigid confinement and
discipline of a college-life. At first we sat out with ardor, and
Walter especially, seemed delighted with the prospect of pleasure
which lay before him. Yet the most ardent and ambitious, are not
always the most successful students. A sudden prospect of an
adventure, full of romance and chivalry, seldom fails to bewitch their
imagination, and those who before were first and most ardent in the
pursuit of knowledge, are often, by a single incident of mirth and
pleasure converted into ring-leaders of insubordination, unwilling to
reap the advantages of a liberal education, and constantly contriving
means of interrupting the peace of those around them. There were such
at C---- College, and it was not long ere Walter was ranked among the
most ungovernable members of the institution. Six months had not
elapsed, ere he was represented to his father, as one who was no
longer fit for the station he occupied, and was thus privately
dismissed. These were the circumstances: Walter and myself were placed
under the guardianship of a distant relative who was connected with
the institution, and he was to supply us with whatever money we
needed. The frequent applications which Walter had made to his
guardian at last caused a prompt refusal, which greatly displeased
Walter. He went to the apartment occupied by his guardian, and took
the sum for which he had applied. This act he did not attempt to
conceal, for he was not yet able to distinguish between right and
wrong,--so that it could not have entered into his mind that he was
then committing a crime, which was subject to the severest punishment.
His guardian, offended at the indignity which he thought had been
offered him, reported the child who was placed under his peculiar
protection, to the president of the college, for _theft_. Thus was the
thoughtless, the generous and noble Walter, beloved by all his
companions, implicated and deemed guilty of an act, among the basest
in the catalogue of crimes. This news might well astonish the too
confiding father of Walter. He was scarcely able to think, or to
speak, when he received the request which the faculty had made. It was
a journey of several days, yet this did not stop the weeping father,
who hastened to the college to examine in person the nature of the
offence. On his arrival, he too was convinced of the guilt of his son.
In vain did his youthful eloquence attempt to make a distinction
between taking that which was his own, and that which was another's.
His father's rigid justice could not comprehend the distinction, which
though incorrect, was perfectly natural. Well do I remember the sad
and woe-worn countenance of our parent. Never have I seen, during a
lapse of almost twenty year's observation, a father lament so bitterly
over the fate of his son.
"My son," said he to me, as he was about to set out with Walter, to
leave me to solitude and tears, "act honorably for my sake," and as we
shook hands, tears came to relieve the agony which oppressed us.
Walter, too, who till now had been firm and unmoved, boldly informing
his companions of his situation and defending his actions, embraced me
tenderly, and then more than at any other time during my life, when my
feelings were only suggested by nature, did my heart respond to the
thrilling lines
"The word that bids us sever,
It sounds not yet, no, no, no!"
We parted! Months passed on and not a word from Walter. At last a
letter came from my father. It breathed still the same feelings and
anguish which he felt at our separation. "Walter," said he, "still
remains inexorable! He is ruined, and I am not able to control him.
You, my son, you alone can cheer my heart and recal me from the woe
which Waller has caused me." At the end of one year from the time I
had separated from my father, he informed me that he had just sent
Walter to live with an uncle, who resided on the Elk--a river whose
banks were then but thinly settled, where he hoped the retirement of
his situation and the good counsel of his uncle, would work a
reformation in the feelings and principles of Walter.
"If this fail," he concluded, "I am at an end--my last hope is
destroyed and my heart is broken." More than two years had elapsed
since my departure for the college, and for the first time was I
summoned to my paternal home. I returned, and oh, how changed was the
scene! I had left my father's a house of constant happiness, but now
scarcely a smile was familiar to the face of a person in the family.
My father was absent in mind, and talked of forsaking business. I
remained two months, and used all my endeavors to recal his thoughts
to the objects around him, and in some measure succeeded. I again
returned to C---- College--where I remained two years longer, not
forgetting to write often to my father in such a style as to make him
forget that subject which weighed so heavily upon his spirits; nor did
I forget Walter, to whom I often wrote, although my letters were never
answered, and had reason to hope that they were not only agreeable to
him, but gladly received. The last year of my collegiate life ended! I
flew to my home, in obedience to the urgent request of my father, who
still spoke of the disgrace and ruin of Walter, who had just returned.
I was greeted with the sincerest joy--and Walter, as my father
informed me, wept for the first time since our separation four years
before, and I felt, that I had been restored to a long lost brother.
He, indeed, seemed to be suddenly wrested from the gloom which had so
long surrounded him, and we rambled over the hills, sacred to the
memory of school-boy sports, again mingled together in the society of
youthful friends, and were again as happy and as joyous, as we were,
ere we experienced the pestilential influence of a college.
Immediately after my return home, my father entreated me to use every
means for the reformation of Walter, at the same time, evincing all
the bitterness of grief and despair. My whole object was now to gain
an ascendancy over the mind of Walter. We read together--talked and
laughed together--and indulged together those anticipations of the
future, so bright and enchanting to the minds of the young. Often did
his eye brighten at the suggestion of his future glory and greatness.
Thus, by slow but certain progress, did he allow himself to be dragged
from the despair and gloom by which he was surrounded. He read the
tales of the great and renowned, and again was fired with ambition
which prompted him to look for a name equal to theirs. Long had he
been accustomed to look upon himself as an offcast from society--as
one scorned and shunned by the good and the generous: for none had
encouraged him to hope even that the disgrace which had come so soon
to snatch him from the light of joy, and sink him to the depths of
despair could ever be forgotten. How many noble, ardent and ambitious
youths, have thus been driven to the night of woe and mental
desolation? How many have been urged to the extremity of human
depravity by the too rigid decree of a father's or a guardian's
justice? How many like Walter, have been driven before the gale of
prosperity, then suddenly abandoned, left scorched and desolate, as
the proud vessel which is cast upon the barren shore, and left to
moulder in the "winds and rains of heaven!" Yet there was one thing
which seemed to afford some ground for the hope that all was not lost.
For when we participated in the amusements of youth together, and he
again received such evidences of respect from those around him, that
he could not believe them insincere, and when he had forgotten his
hopeless destiny, there came over his spirit lucid intervals, in which
he explored the sublime philosophy of Locke and Paley, and became
master of all the descriptions and sentiments of Addison. As we
rambled one day in a solitary grove, Walter suddenly stopped, and
after a moment's silence, said in a firm but melancholy tone, "my
brother, the last four years of my life have been desolate, dreary
like--a solitary waste. Yet this was not my fault! I have been an
outcast--no human being sympathized with me--none trusted me--none
esteemed me--none would receive my company but the profligate and
abandoned, with whom I was taught to class myself ere I distinguished
between error and truth? Thou alone hast remained faithful, and I now
thank you for all your kindness and advice. I was exiled from my
paternal home, I returned heart-stricken and miserable, yet I received
no sympathy, until you came like an angel of mercy, to recal me to
light. May heaven----." Here his voice faltered, and a flood of tears
came to his relief. After a few moments he continued: "I have resolved
to return to C---- College and there retrieve the happiness, the honor
and character, which a youthful folly has taken from me. I thank you
for your tears of sympathy. You can participate in my feelings and do
justice to my motives." It was thus, in one of the most intensely
interesting conversations which I ever held, that Walter disclosed to
me the very purpose which I had prayed in all the fervor of
supplication he might resolve upon. I soon after made known his
feelings to his father, and soon, almost instantaneously, he again
left his paternal home to return to C---- College. He left us agitated
with doubt and the deepest anxiety for his success. He left us, warmed
with the admiration which his noble purpose could not fail to inspire,
but racked with that awful feeling of dread, which the uncertainty of
hope always occasions. Walter did not weep--he did not seem moved, and
yet there was that in his countenance which spoke eloquently of
feeling. And yet there were tears to hallow the memory of our
separation. A little brother, scarce able to realize the scene around
him, shed tears of childish sorrow--a sister, enthusiastic in her
affection for her brother shed tears--and a father too, whose locks
were whitened with grief, showed youthful sympathy at his son's
adieu--and I too, was not unmoved.
Walter Dunlap is again at C---- College! The farewell scene, which had
convinced him how deeply the happiness of his relatives could be
affected by his success--the powerful sympathy which such an occasion
had displayed, at once establish him in his purpose. Fame, honor, and
usefulness, were the beacon-lights which illumined his path, and the
eternal gratitude of a sister--a brother--a heart-broken father, the
ministering spirits which cheered him amid the storms of passion and
misery, incident to the human heart. Kirke White was the model which
he set before his mind--because there was a sympathy to his mind
between their destinies, although White had never received a moral
blight, yet it was enough that they had both been pursued by the rigor
of fate.
From the moment he entered the walls of the college, he began a rigid
discipline of the mind. What elevated Milton, he would ask, to an
equality with the gods? What gave to Newton a comprehension of the
mysteries of the universe, and to Franklin a power over the elements?
and then triumphantly answer, study--unceasing study. "If Socrates had
contented himself with only wishing and sighing to enter the field of
philosophical truth--if he had prayed, however fervently, could that
have sufficed to make him the Prince of Philosophers? Naught but the
deepest, unbroken thought could have made him sport familiarly with
the subtleties of philosophy, clothed as they then were, in all the
gloom of ancient mythology." So thought Walter Dunlap. Night after
night did he wear himself away by the intensity of his study and the
depth of his thought. A year had not passed, ere he had run through
much of the whole collegiate course--made himself master of the
ancient languages, and gained a prize in astronomical calculations.
Mind cannot conceive the joy which he felt at this success. The image
of a father, smiling with tenderness and approbation, blessing him
with the unbounded gratitude which a father only can feel, was ever
present to his mind. Who can measure the depth of his joy? Who can
count the sighs of anguish which these moments of joy now repayed?
Well might he say, in reference to his own life,
"One moment may, with bliss repay
Unnumbered hours of pain."
Yet he did not esteem his work yet ended--his purpose yet realized.
Innumerable difficulties, calling for energy to brave the prospect of
years of application, presented themselves. He resolved to banish from
his heart every image of despair, and if the attainment of glory and
usefulness required it,
"To drink even to the very dregs
The bitterest cup that time could measure out,
And having done, look up and ask for more."
He received no joy but in the action of mind--in converse with the
proudest philosophers of the world. If he was but allowed to walk with
Plato and Aristotle, in the grove of Academus, and listen to their
discourses he was content. And yet, philosopher as he was, he did not
wish to die unlamented, with no epitaph to his memory. How could he
remain in the world, and leave it, without having made one discovery
in science--established one truth which might benefit mankind--done
aught that could endear his name to posterity--caused one heart's
gratitude to follow him to the tomb? Such a thought was
sad--unutterable! It was thus he was hurried on in his mental
application, till at last it became far too incessant for the safety
of his life. He saw the consequence, yet could not stay the impetuous
workings of his own mind--now beyond his control. His last letter to
me, thus concluded, "since I cannot expect a long residence on this
earth, my only wish is, that I may have at least one kind friend who
will candidly inscribe upon my tomb, this simple epitaph,
"Here lies a heart, that beat for fame."
Soon after the reception of this letter, we were informed by the
president of C---- College, that Walter Dunlap had died suddenly, from
an inflammation of the lungs occasioned by an exposure to the air for
several hours, while observing the corruscations of the _Aurora
borealis_.
Thus died Walter Dunlap--a child of sorrow--a being of the strongest
aspirations--possessing a genius which would have elevated him to a
rank with the profoundest philosophers--and wept by his companions
whose tears form his only funeral eulogy.
His life may show the danger of exposing a child too early to the
contagion of a college--the folly of dealing too harshly with youthful
errors--the force of sympathy on the heart, and the elevation at which
a mind may instantly arrive. Farewell.
* * * * *
I will only add that the "student's grave yard" now contains a
monument over the tomb of the Forgotten Genius, and that in compliance
with my promise, I caused to be inscribed to the memory of Walter
Dunlap, the eloquent epitaph contained in his last letter to his
brother, so justly due to the actions of his short life.
_West Point, 18th April, 1835_.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.