THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:
DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.
Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents.
_Crebillon's Electre_.
As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.
RICHMOND:
T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
1835-6.
{293}
SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
VOL. II. RICHMOND, APRIL, 1836. NO. V.
T. W. WHITE, PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.
MSS. OF BENJ. FRANKLIN.[1]
[Footnote 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 {294} 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 {295} 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 200_l_. 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 200_l_. 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 20_l_.; 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 3_l_. 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.
* * * * *
{296} 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.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
'Star of descending night!'
How lovely is thy beam;
How softly pours thy silv'ry light,
O'er the bright glories of the west,
As now the sun sunk to his rest,
Sends back his parting stream
Of golden splendor, like a zone
Of beauty, o'er the horizon!
'Star of descending night!'
First of the sparkling train,
That gems the sky, I hail thy light;
And as I watch thy peaceful ray,
That sweetly spreads o'er fading day,
I think and think again,
That thou art some fair orb of light,
Where spirits bask in glory bright.
'Star of descending night!'
Oft hast thou met my gaze,
When evening's calm and mellow light,
Invited to the secret bower,
To spend with God the tranquil hour,
In grateful pray'r and praise,-- {297}
Then thy soft ray so passing sweet,
Has beamed around my hallowed seat.
And I have loved thee, star!
When in night's diadem,
I saw thee lovelier, brighter, far
Than all the stellate worlds, and thought
Of that great star the wise men sought,
And came to Bethlehem,
To view the infant Saviour's face,
The last bright hope of Adam's race.
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 {298}
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 {299} 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 {300} 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]
[Footnote 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: {301}
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.
O.
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.
{302} _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."
P.
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!
M.
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, {303} 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 {304} 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]
[Footnote 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 {305}
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.