their house; and for two days he was once more under the same roof as
Lucille. He never recurred voluntarily to Julie; he answered Lucille's
timid inquiry after her health briefly, and with coldness, but he spoke
with all the enthusiasm of a long pent and ardent spirit of the new
profession he had embraced. Glory seemed now to be his only mistress,
and the vivid delusion of the first bright dreams of the revolution
filled his mind, broke from his tongue, and lighted up those dark eyes
which Lucille had redeemed to day.
She saw him depart at the head of his troop; she saw his proud crest
glancing in the sun; she saw that his last glance reverted to her,
where she stood at the door; and as he waved his adieu, she fancied
that there was on his face that look of deep and grateful tenderness
which reminded her of the one bright epoch of her life.
She was right; St. Amand had long since in bitterness repented of a
transient infatuation, had long since discovered the true Florimel from
the false, and felt that, in Julie, Lucille's wrongs were avenged. But
in the hurry and heat of war he plunged that regret--the keenest of
all--which imbodies the bitter words, "TOO LATE!"
Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of Lucille's life
the brilliant apparition of St. Amand appeared as something dreamt of,
not seen. The star of Napoleon had risen above the horizon; the romance
of his early career had commenced; and the campaign of Egypt had been
the herald of those brilliant and meteoric successes which flashed
forth from the gloom of the Revolution of France.
You are aware, dear Gertrude, how many in the French as well as the
English troops returned home from Egypt, blinded with the ophthalmia of
that arid soil. Some of the young men in Lucille's town, who had joined
Napoleon's army, came back, darkened by that fearful affliction, and
Lucille's alms, and Lucille's aid, and Lucille's sweet voice were ever
at hand for those poor sufferers, whose common misfortune touched so
thrilling a cord of her heart.
Her father was now dead, and she had only her mother to cheer amid the
ills of age. As one evening they sat at work together, Madame Le
Tisseur said, after a pause--
"I wish, dear Lucille, thou couldst be persuaded to marry Justin; he
loves thee well, and now that thou art yet young, and hast many years
before thee, thou shouldst remember that when I die thou wilt be
alone."
"Ah cease, dearest mother, I never can marry now, and as for love--once
taught in the bitter school in which I have learned the knowledge of
myself--I cannot be deceived again."
"My Lucille, you do not know yourself; never was woman loved, if Justin
does not love you; and never did lover feel with more real warmth how
worthily he loved."
And this was true; and not of Justin alone, for Lucille's modest
virtues, her kindly temper, and a certain undulating and feminine
grace, which accompanied all her movements, had secured her as many
conquests as if she had been beautiful. She had rejected all offers of
marriage with a shudder; without even the throb of a flattered vanity.
One memory, sadder, was also dearer to her than all things; and
something sacred in its recollections made her deem it even a crime to
think of effacing the past by a new affection.
"I believe," continued Madame Le Tisseur, angrily, "that thou still
thinkest fondly of him from whom only in the world thou couldst have
experienced ingratitude."
"Nay mother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight sigh, "Eugene is
married to another."
While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid knock at the
door--the latch was lifted. "This" said the rough voice of a
commissaire of the town--"this, monsieur, is the house of _Madame Le
Tisseur_, and--_voila mademoiselle!_" A tall figure, with a shade over
his eyes, and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room. A
thrill shot across Lucille's heart. He stretched out his arms;
"Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had made the music of her
first youth--"where art thou, Lucille; alas! she does not recognize St.
Amand."
Thus was it, indeed. By a singular fatality, the burning suns and the
sharp dust of the plains of Egypt had smitten the young soldier, in the
flush of his career, with a second--and this time, with an
irremediable--blindness! He had returned to France to find his hearth
lonely; Julie was no more--a sudden fever had cut her off in the midst
of youth; and he had sought his way to Lucille's house, to see if one
hope yet remained to him in the world!
And when, days afterward, humbly and sadly he re-urged a former suit,
did Lucille shut her heart to its prayer? Did her pride remember its
wound--did she revert to his desertion--did she say to the whisper of
her yearning love--_"thou hast been before forsaken?"_ That voice and
those darkened eyes pleaded to her with a pathos not to be resisted; "I
am once more necessary to him," was all her thought--"if I reject him,
who will tend him?" In that thought was the motive of her conduct; in
that thought gushed back upon her soul all the springs of checked, but
unconquered, unconquerable love! In that thought she stood beside him
at the altar, and pledged, with a yet holier devotion than she might
have felt of yore, the vow of her imperishable truth.
And Lucille found, in the future, a reward which the common world could
never comprehend. With his blindness returned all the feelings she had
first awakened in St. Amand's solitary heart; again he yearned for her
step--again he missed even a moment's absence from his side--again her
voice chased the shadow from his brow--and in her presence was a sense
of shelter and of sunshine. He no longer sighed for the blessing he had
lost; he reconciled himself to fate, and entered into that serenity of
mood which mostly characterizes the blind. Perhaps, after we have seen
the actual world, and experienced its hollow pleasures, we can resign
ourselves the better to its exclusion; and as the cloister which repels
the ardor of our hope is sweet to our remembrance, so the darkness
loses its terror when experience has wearied us with the glare and
travail of the day. It was something, too, as they advanced in life, to
feel the chains that bound him to Lucille strengthening daily, and to
cherish in his overflowing heart the sweetness of increasing gratitude;
it was something that he could not see years wrinkle that open brow, or
dim the tenderness of that touching smile; it was something that to him
she was beyond the reach of time, and preserved to the verge of a grave
(which received them both within a few days of each other,) in all the
bloom of her unwithering affection--in all the freshness of a heart
that never could grow old!
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SONG--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.
On the brow of the mountain
The grey mists darkle--
On the wave of the fountain
Star images sparkle--
Wild lights o'er the meadow
Are fitfully gleaming--
In the hill's dark shadow
A spirit is dreaming.
The birds and the flowers
With closed eyes are sleeping,
All hushed are the bowers
Where glow-worms are creeping--
There's quiet in heaven,
There's peace to the billow--
A blessing seems given
To all--save my pillow.
Alas! do I wonder
I too cannot sleep,
Like the calm waves yonder,
And dream all as deep?--
There's beauty beside me,
A love-heaving breast--
Ah! my very joys chide me,
And rob me of rest.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
LINES ON FINDING A BILLET FROM AN EARLY FRIEND AMONG SOME OLD PAPERS.
I gaze on this discolored sheet
Which time has tinged with many a stain,
And sigh to think his course should bring
To nought, that friendship nursed in vain.
Here in your well known hand I see
My name, with terms endearing traced,
And vows of firm fidelity,
Which other objects soon effaced.
Strange does it seem, that in these words
A dead affection I should find,
As if some early buried friend
Resumed his place among his kind.
Yes--after many a chilling year
Of coldness and of alter'd feeling,
This tatter'd messenger is here,
Worlds of forgotten thought revealing.
As once my faith was purely thine,
For thee my blood I would have pour'd
As freely as the rich red wine
We pledged around the jovial board.
It seem'd that thou wert thus to me,
Loyal and true as thou didst swear:
I knew not then, as now I know,
That oaths are but impassion'd air.
And even now, a doubt that they
Were falsehoods all, will cross my brain:
That thought alone I seek to quell,
That thought alone could give me pain.
To be forgotten has no sting--
For friendships every day grow cold;
But 'tis a wounding thought, that I
Have purchased dross, and paid in gold.
Tho' thou hast changed, as worldlings change
Amid the haunts of sordid men,
I cannot bid my feelings range--
But cling to what I deem'd thee _then_.
S.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE CEMETERY.--_From the Russian_.
FIRST VOICE.
How sad, how frightful the abode,
How dread the silence of the tomb!
There all surrounding objects speak
The haunt of terror and of gloom--
And nought but tempests' horrid howl we hear,
And bones together rattling on the bier!
SECOND VOICE.
How peaceful, tranquil is the tomb!
How calm, how deep is its repose!
There flow'rets wild more sweetly bloom,
There zephyr's breath more softly flows;
And there the nightingale and turtle-dove
Their notes pour forth of happiness and love.
FIRST VOICE.
Against that dark sepulchral mound,
Funereal crows their pinions beat;
There dens of ravenous wolves are found,
And there the vulture's foul retreat;
The earth around with greedy claws they tear,
Whilst serpents hiss and poison all the air.
SECOND VOICE.
There, when the shades of evening fall,
The sportive hares their gambols keep;
Or, fearless of the huntsman's call,
Upon the verdant herbage sleep;
While midst the foliage of the o'erhanging boughs
The feathered tribe in slumbers soft repose.
FIRST VOICE.
Around that dank and humid spot
A noisome vapor ever clings,
Exhaled from heaps which there to rot
Death with untiring labor brings;
Devoid of leaves the trees their branches spread,
And every plant seems withering, or dead.
SECOND VOICE.
In what soft accents whispers there
The evening breeze about the tomb,
Diffusing through the balmy air
Of countless flowers the rich perfume,
And speaking of a place of peace and rest,
Where e'er mid breathing fragrance dwell the blessed!
FIRST VOICE.
When to this dismal vale of tears,
The pilgrim comes with weary pace,
O'erpowered by appalling fears,
In vain his steps he would retrace;
Urged onwards by a hand unseen, unknown,
He's headlong in the wreck-strewed torrent thrown.
SECOND VOICE.
Worn out by life's sad pilgrimage,
Man here at length his staff lays down--
Here feels no more the tempest's rage,
Nor dreads the heav'ns impending frown--
Reposes from his toil in slumbers deep,
And sleeps of ages the eternal sleep!
EDITORIAL REMARKS.
We flatter ourselves that our patrons will not be displeased with the
feast which we have set before them in the present number of the
Messenger. We have not commenced with the egg and ended with the apple,
(_ab ovo usque ad malum_,) according to the ancient custom; nor placed
the substantials before the dessert, as in modern entertainments; but
have rather chosen to mingle them without order or arrangement,--that
our guests may partake as their respective tastes and inclinations may
dictate. The scientific reader will be attracted by the communications
of Dr. POWELL, and PETER A. BROWNE, Esq. of Philadelphia. By the former
gentleman, who is now actively engaged in geological and antiquarian
researches in the western country, we are kindly promised occasional
aid; and, to the latter distinguished individual, we owe our thanks for
the warm interest he has evinced in our infant enterprize.
Of Mr. WIRT'S letter, it would be superfluous to speak, more especially
as it is accompanied by some excellent remarks by a highly intelligent
friend,--himself destined to become an ornament to the profession of
which he speaks.
The general reader cannot fail to be pleased with many, if not all the
communications which are inserted. In the article headed "_Example is
better than Precept_," he will recognize an elegant and vigorous
pen;--and, in the "_Recollections of Chotank_," it will not be
difficult to perceive that the hand employed in describing the generous
customs and proverbial hospitality of that ancient portion of our
state,--is one of uncommon skill in the art and beauty of composition.
The article from the Petersburg Intelligencer, entitled an "_Extract
from a Novel that never will be published_," (but which we hope _will_
be published)--though not expressly written for the "Messenger," will
be new to most of our readers. If we mistake not, the writer has
furnished strong evidence of talent in a particular department of
literature, which needs only to be cultivated in order to attain a high
degree of success.
The poetical contributions, which are entirely _original_ in the
present number, whilst they do not need our eulogy, we cannot permit to
pass without some special notice at our hands. The "_Power of Faith_"
will not fail to attract the lover of genuine poetry, especially if his
heart be warmed with christian zeal. It is written by a gentleman whose
modesty is as great as his merit; and whose writings, both in prose and
verse, will do honor to his native state. The sprightly effusion among
the prose articles which is headed "_Sally Singleton_," is from the
same hand. Of "_Death among the Trees_," it would be unnecessary to
speak, as it will be readily recognized and admired, as the production
of a distinguished female writer already known to fame. We take
pleasure in placing in the same company two other charming effusions,
by writers of the same gentle sex, whose assistance in our literary
labors we shall always be proud to receive. We allude to the "_Address
of the Genius of Columbia to her Native Muse_," and the "_Lines to an
Officer of the United States Navy, by E. A. S._" The "_Sonnet, written
on the Blue Ridge_," and the "_Stanzas, composed at the White Sulphur
Springs of Virginia_," are both the productions of the same superior
mind. There is not only decided power, but a most attractive pathos and
bewitching melancholy in the two productions referred to. We hope that
the author will continue to adorn our columns with the offspring of his
gifted muse. The author of "_Lines on a Billet from an Early Friend_,"
will always be a welcome guest at our literary table. We know him as a
gentleman of fine taste and varied endowments. The "_Cemetery_" is from
the pen of a young Philadelphian of fine talents. He need not at any
time apprehend exclusion from our columns.
If we have chosen to speak last of the author of "_Musings_," it is not
because he is least in our estimation. On the contrary, we sincerely
esteem him as among the favored few, to whom it is given,---if they
themselves will it,--to reach the highest honors, and the most enduring
rewards, in the empire of poesy. The beautiful and graceful picture of
Venice, presented in our present number,--of Venice despoiled of her
ancient glory--yet still glorious in ruin,--will command, if we mistake
not, general admiration. Successful as the author always is, in his
light and fugitive pieces, he gives evidence of a power to grasp the
highest themes, and to sport with familiar ease in the least accessible
regions of fancy. Why does he not seize the lyre at once, and pour
forth a song which shall add to his country's honor, and insure for
himself a chaplet of renown? Why does he not at once take rank with the
HALLECKS, the BRYANTS and PERCIVALS, of a colder clime? He is every way
qualified to do it.
To our numerous correspondents and contributors, whose favors have not
yet appeared in print,--we owe our acknowledgments, and in some
instances an apology. Our space is exceedingly disproportioned to the
quantity of matter which we have on hand; and, of course, we are driven
to the painful, and rather invidious task of selection. We have many
articles actually in type, which we are necessarily obliged to exclude
from the present number. Among them may be enumerated "_A Scene in
Genoa, by an American Tourist_," the "_Grave Seekers_," and other fine
specimens of poetry. The "_Reporter's Story, or the Importance of a
Syllable_," "_The Cottage in the Glen_,"--the poems from Louisa and
Pittsylvania, and from various other quarters, shall all receive the
earliest possible attention. The high claims of our correspondents in
Mobile and Tuscaloosa in the state of Alabama, shall also be attended
to; and, we hope that others in distant states, will not deem
themselves slighted if not now particularly enumerated.
The "_Eulogy on Lafayette_," transmitted from France, and handed over
to us by a friend, shall appear in the next number.
We have read with pleasure, the love tale composed by an accomplished
young lady in one of the upper counties; and, whilst we do not hesitate
to render a just tribute to the delicacy of sentiment and glowing fancy
which distinguish her pages, candor compels us to urge one objection,
which we fear is insurmountable. The story is wrought up with materials
derived from English character and manners; and, we have too many
thousands of similar fictions issuing from the British press, to
authorize the belief that another of the same class will be interesting
to an American reader. We should like to see our own writers confine
their efforts to native subjects--to throw aside the trammels of
foreign reading, and to select their themes from the copious materials
which every where abound in our own magnificent country.
For a similar reason, our friend from Caroline must excuse us for
declining to insert his sketches. We have no "_dilapidated castles_,"
nor any "_last heirs of Ardendale_," in our plain republican land.
Neither can we insert in our pages (though we should like to oblige our
Essex correspondent,) any thing which bears the slightest resemblance
to a _fairy tale_. We prefer treading upon earthly ground, and dealing
with mortal personages.
To our highly respected correspondent, who addressed a letter to the
publisher in June last, from Prince Edward, we take this opportunity to
say, that our columns shall be freely open to discussions in behalf of
the interests of education. We conceive that the cause of literature is
intimately connected with it; and we have it in contemplation to
present ere long, to the public, some candid views, in regard to the
policy heretofore pursued in the Councils of our State, on this
interesting subject. We are enemies to every system founded upon
favoritism and monopoly; and we are advocates for the equal application
of those pecuniary resources which the bounty of the state has
dedicated to the cause of education. We have no idea that the Literary
Fund, the common property of us all, ought to be so managed as to
defeat the purposes of its founders; in other words, that it should be
so wrested from the original design of its creation, as to benefit only
two classes of society--the highest and the lowest,--the extremes of
wealth and indigence,--whilst the great mass of the community are
excluded from all advantages to be derived from it. This system may
suit particular individuals, and may subserve particular ends; but it
is at war with the best interests of the state, and ought to be
exposed, so far as the honorable weapons of truth and justice shall be
able to expose it.
The suggestions of our highly intelligent friend from South Carolina,
who we presume is a temporary resident in one of the northern states,
are entitled to much respect and consideration. We quote the following
just sentiments from his letter:
"American literature, although increasing, is still at an immense
distance in rear of that of England, and Germany and France. And why?
It is owing entirely to the _divided attention_ of our literary
characters. However profound and capacious their minds--and however
great their powers of thought, and brilliant and forcible those of
expression, it is impossible for them to succeed, at the same time, in
every department of knowledge. No man can distinguish himself in any
one pursuit, when his mind is applied to a dozen. Let him bend his
faculties upon a single object; and with industry and perseverance, he
will assuredly secure its attainment. Among us, we have no professed
students, whose lives are devoted to the acquisition and development of
learning. All men of talents rush early into the absorbing pursuits of
politics; and together with providing the means of support, continue in
them for life. So long as this is the case, it cannot be expected of us
to present eminent men, in any way calculated to compete with those of
the Old World.
"It would be a useful and an ennobling task for some one, well
qualified to examine the subject in all its bearings, to offer an
expose of the various causes for the low ebb at which our national
literature now stands, and the means by which they might be subverted."
We should be much gratified if some one of our many intelligent
subscribers would furnish us an essay upon this interesting subject.
None would be more likely to present it, in some of its strongest
lights, than the writer of the letter from which we have quoted.