My gallant, gifted, and noble brother Frederick! how bright was the

star which shone over thy boyhood! Alas! that its flickering light

should only beam o'er thy pallid couch!--He was several years my

senior, and had been sent to Europe for the purpose of acquiring a

military education, but had returned at the age of nineteen with a

broken and impaired constitution. He was studious, solitary and

reserved; while the hectic flush of consumption, which irradiated his

cheek, nerved alike the fortitude of his character, and awakened the

sympathy of every eye. His heart was gentle, though his studies were

severe--and he saved from the wreck which ambition ever makes of

feeling, no jewel so rich as the untainted tenderness of his

character. He had become a member of the bar; and I have often gazed

on his high and marbled brow, as a living monument, on which destiny

had inscribed its fiat of despair. Political life! that maddening

turmoil of empty nothingness! was the goal on which he had fixed his

dream of hope; and, though ill health prostrated him to the earth, his

sunny smile breathed a freshness, and a gloom, as brilliant, and as

melancholy as the tremulous twilight of an autumn sky. He cared naught

for wealth, love or pleasure. Ambition was the demon which moved

around him, in a track of its own desolation; and though {518} beauty

had lured him almost to the confines of matrimony, he could trample

down the sympathies of his nature beneath its despotic rule.

My sister Lucy, was two years younger than myself; she was fair,

delicate, and singularly beautiful. Her raven and luxuriant hair, fell

in prodigal ringlets over a brow of Parian whiteness, giving that

struggling halo of beauty which darkness throws around the solitude of

the snow drift. She was deeply versed in the fashionable

accomplishments of female education, and had added to them the

acquirements of solid learning. The old library was the resort of her

solitary hours; and as her light and sylph-like form, would flit

through its darkened walls, fancy might easily personify her into

Fame, hovering over the tomb of Genius.

The coachman, ostler, and dining room servants, are all important

characters in the _dramatis personæ_ of a Virginian household. With

them I was a pet. The first, taught me to drive--the second, initiated

me into the mysteries of Tree Hill and Broad Rock; while the third,

corrected with severity, any breach of etiquette or violation of

morals, inconsistent with his own or the Granby's dignity.

Such was the Granby family. Where are they now? The spider has woven

her web, and the owl has built her nest in the crumbling walls of

Chalgrave. The silent grave reads but one lesson--for the breeze which

sighs over its dewy grass, tells me that _I_ alone, am the last of

that proud and gifted name.

THETA.

DAGGER'S SPRINGS,

IN THE COUNTY OF BOTETOURT, VIRGINIA.

Among the numerous watering places in Virginia, our attention has been

drawn to that which is named at the head of this notice, by several

individuals who tested its virtues during the last season, and who

speak highly of the situation and management of the Springs, and the

efficacy of its waters. The mineral qualities of these Springs have

been long known, and they have been resorted to for some years by

persons living in their vicinity. But the character and circumstances

of the original proprietor, a descendant of the early Dutch settlers

of the country, prevented their improvement until within the last year

or two. He had a full sense of the mineral treasure which enhanced the

value of his property, and refused all offers from those who wished to

purchase the site of the Springs; while he had not the means of

bringing them into profitable use, by erecting buildings for the

accommodation of visiters. Many individuals were, nevertheless, in the

habit of drinking the waters of the Springs during the warm season,

and of sojourning for a few days in the rude and imperfect dwellings

which he had erected: and with the moderate income thus obtained from

this mine of natural wealth, its sturdy proprietor seemed well

satisfied. At his death, his successors disposed of the Springs and

the adjacent lands to the present proprietors; and buildings were

erected last year, on a limited scale, with every regard to the

comfort of the traveller and the invalid. The consequences of a more

liberal arrangement were immediately felt. The number of visiters last

season exceeded the means of accommodation; and the managers have in

the interim, made the most active exertions to meet the growing

popularity of their establishment, having completed additional

apartments, which will enable them to provide for the comfort of one

hundred persons. The scenery in the vicinity of the Springs has been

described to us in glowing colors, as combining every variety of the

magnificent and the beautiful--and we have also been assured that the

fare and attendance are worthy of all praise; so that we feel safe in

recommending the enlarged establishment of the proprietors (Messrs.

Dibrell and Watkins,) to the attention of travellers for health or

pleasure.

Dagger's Springs are situated within easy distances from some of the

most interesting towns in the Valley of Virginia--they are forty-five

miles from the White Sulphur; twenty-two from Lexington; eighteen from

Fincastle, and sixteen from Pattonsburg. The following letter from a

distinguished physician, affords all necessary information as to the

medicinal properties of the waters, and the management of the

establishment:

_Danville, April 28, 1835_.

I visited Dagger's Spring on the 24th of last July, and on the next

day proceeded to subject the water to a number of chemical tests. The

experiments performed, though not as full and as satisfactory as I

could have wished, were sufficient to demonstrate that the water

possesses highly valuable properties, and sufficient also to make us

somewhat acquainted with the _nature_ of those properties. The most

active mineral ingredients in the water are carbonated alkalies. In

this it differs materially from the White and Salt Sulphur, and is

more nearly assimilated in its qualities to the Red and Gray Sulphur.

It is however more decidedly alkaline than either of those Springs.

This peculiarity will ever recommend it to persons subject to

acidities of the stomach, and to the other concomitants of dyspepsia;

while the large quantity of hydrogen that it contains, will render it

useful in all of those complaints for which sulphur water is usually

prescribed.

The following experiment was performed with the view of ascertaining

the quantity of gas contained in the water. Three measures of the

water were placed in a retort, and the bulb of the retort plunged in

water, heated to the temperature of 108 Fahrenheit. The gas, as it was

extricated, was received over mercury, in a graduated measure. The

result was, that the three measures of water yielded one measure of

gas. This gas was subsequently tested, and found to consist of

sulphuretted hydrogen, azote, and atmospheric air--principally of the

former.

The presence of iron is not detected by the usual tests; but the

water, when treated with prussiate of potash, and subsequently with

sulphuric acid, yields a blue precipitate, which is evidently

prussiate of iron--the sulphuric acid having a stronger affinity for

potash than the prussic acid, disengages the latter. The acid thus

disengaged, unites with the iron in the water, and forms the prussiate

of iron or prussian blue.

Although the water contains but about 36 grs. of mineral substances to

the gallon,[1] it acts, under certain circumstances, with great

promptness. It effects upon the system are invigorating: it promotes

digestion and improves the secretions generally; it strengthens

without producing an undue excitement, and may therefore be used

beneficially in some cases, in which the water of the White Sulphur,

from its stimulating properties, would prove destructive.

[Footnote 1: The smaller of two springs at the Red Sulphur contains

about 60 grs. per gal. The larger, which is most used, does not

contain but about 24 grs. per gal.]

I will only say in conclusion, that I was pleased with the manner in

which the establishment appeared to be conducted, with the spirit of

enterprise manifested, and the taste displayed in the plan of

improvement, which was kindly exhibited to me. I met with no situation

among the mountains susceptible of as great improvement as that

selected for the buildings. It may be made a second Eden.

I am engaged in preparing a work for the press, in which this Spring

will be more particularly noticed, and attention directed to objects

of interest in the surrounding country. It would have {519} been

completed before this, but for the peculiarities of my situation,

which allow me but little leisure for literary pursuits.

I was told of another spring belonging to the establishment, from

which I was informed it was designed to supply the bathing house. From

the account given of it, I have no doubt but that it is highly

alkaline. I regret very much that it was not in my power to examine

and test its properties.

THE RED SULPHUR SPRINGS.

We have received, and shall insert in the next No. of the Messenger, a

continuation of the "_Visit to the Virginia Springs_," the first

portion of which will be found in the preceding pages. The second part

contains much valuable information, relating particularly to the Red

Sulphur, which has recently risen into importance under the management

of Mr. Burke, whose amiable and intelligent character is well known to

the citizens of Richmond. As we consider it important, that the

qualities of the healing waters which abound in this state, should be

made known as extensively as possible, we anticipate the more ample

information of our correspondent, by making the following extract from

a circular just issued by the proprietor of the Red Sulphur Springs,

(Mr. Burke):

"In that species of pulmonary disease attended by hemorrhages, unless

the energies of life are completely exhausted, it never fails to

afford relief. Sometimes, when the pulse beats 110 to 115, and the

emaciated figure of the patient too plainly indicates the ravages made

by repeated hemorrhages, and the unavailing efforts of physicians to

arrest them, he comes to the Red Sulphur, drinks about four quarts of

the water in twenty-four hours, lives upon plain farinaceous articles

of diet, takes all the exercise his case will admit, and at the end of

that brief period, his pulse falls to 80 or 85;--his spirits revive,

he continues daily to improve, and almost invariably, to gain a pound

in weight every day. At the expiration of fifteen days, he becomes

renovated, and pours forth his gratitude, by extolling the virtues of

the waters on every occasion. This is the usual action of the waters,

but there are cases in which their advantages are not perceived for

two or three weeks. Such is the exhilarating effect of confidence and

hope, that he soon forgets his late deplorable condition, and becomes

guilty of some unhappy imprudence that endangers his prospects.

"The luxuries of the table, or violent exercise, if indulged in, at

this crisis, will cause incalculable mischief. In affections of the

bronchia, this water, visited early, affords certain relief. In

asthma, it is highly valuable. In the early stage of genuine

phthisical consumption, it will arrest its progress; and, by repeating

the visit annually, and using the utmost self-denial, life may be

protracted for many years, and rendered comparatively comfortable; but

in the later stages, it is vain to hope for relief from any earthly

remedy; and it is therefore unwise to remove from the consolations and

comforts of home, the unfortunate patient, whose approaching

dissolution is apparent to all except himself and his nearest

relatives.

"When the patient has alternate chills and fevers, copious night

sweats, and a pulse at 120 or 130; moreover, when it becomes necessary

to check diarrhoea by opiates, and to sustain his sinking strength by

juleps, what rational hope can be afforded by any remedy whatever?

"In diseases of the liver, this water is highly efficacious. In

dropsy, rheumatism, gravel, gout, dyspepsia, tic doloreux, and

epilepsy, it has been used with advantage. In cutaneous diseases, it

seldom fails to effect a cure."

From the same circular we learn, that the accommodations at the Red

Sulphur have been much enlarged since the last season, and that

provision has been made for the reception of two hundred and twenty

visiters, with their servants and horses. The efficacy of the waters

in cases of incipient consumption, renders this an important place of

resort for a large class of invalids, who may be assured of finding in

Mr. Burke, a humane and considerate entertainer.

FEMALE EDUCATION.

Young Ladies Seminary, at Prince Edward Court House.

There is no subject which claims greater attention than the judicious

education of females. It has justly been considered by some of the

most eminent writers, of vast importance that the minds of the gentler

sex should be cultivated and enlarged by every practicable means; that

the _mothers_ of an enlightened nation should be well prepared to

train the mental faculties of their offspring; and that, as the

earliest intellectual as well as physical nutriment is derived from

the mother by the child, she should be fitted with care for her

responsible and momentous duty. Much greater attention is now bestowed

upon the culture of the female mind than formerly; and parents

generally seem more impressed with the propriety of giving to their

daughters a solid education. Accomplishments, which at one time seemed

to make up the sum of their acquirements, are beginning to be

considered as secondary to those studies which strengthen the

intellect and store the mind with useful knowledge. We have no doubt

that a change which carries such beneficial consequences into the

bosom of every well-ordered family, will gain ground. The importance

and the advantages of a thorough course of study for females, in the

present enlightened state of society, are too obvious to need

enforcement. The parts they have to act in this world's drama, require

that their early years of freedom from care and anxiety, should be

employed in preparation for the performance of the high duties of

their after lives, with ease, with dignity and usefulness. The time

has, we trust, arrived when the general cultivation of the female

intellect will be deemed, (as it is) absolutely necessary for her

happiness, and for the well-being of those whom providence may render

dependent upon her guidance, her councils, or her affections--when she

will be educated with a view to her becoming the companion, and not

the plaything of the other sex. The importance of her position in

{520} civilized society, and the vast influence of her benignant

qualities, demand that she should be prepared to fill the one, and to

exercise the other with dignity and effect.

Our attention has been called to this subject by the encomiums

bestowed by many intelligent individuals, on the "YOUNG LADIES

SEMINARY _at Prince Edward Court House, Va._," which is conducted by

Mr. E. Root, in the most satisfactory manner. This institution has

been established about four years, and has met with great success, as

is shown by the fact that it had upwards of one hundred pupils during

the past year. It has been the object of its director to fix upon a

thorough course of study, rigidly to be pursued, under the

superintendence of the best teachers in the various departments;

rendering solid study the main object of attention, but without

neglecting those ornamental branches which embellish and refine the

more important acquirements. Music and the French language are taught

by proficients in each, and in fact every means is afforded at this

seminary for giving young ladies a finished education. To build up an

institution of this description, where every important branch of study

is ably and faithfully imparted, is a work of no ordinary difficulty,

as it is one of great public benefit: and Mr. Root and his assistants

are deserving of public commendation for the manner in which this

establishment is conducted, divested as we believe it to be of the

faults too often found in such schools, and which have rendered the

epithet "Boarding School Miss," almost a term of contempt. We can

conscientiously recommend the Prince Edward Seminary, for its

efficient _method_ of instruction--not short and easy, but such as is

best adapted to the developement and strengthening of the mental

energies--for able and well qualified teachers--a discipline which

combines kindness and gentleness with order and propriety--a careful

attention to the manners and morals of the pupils--and moderate

expense. Believing such to be the characteristics of Mr. Root's

Seminary, we have deemed it our duty to call to it the public

attention by these brief remarks.

LITERARY NOTICES.

I PROMESSI SPOSI, or the Betrothed Lovers; a Milanese Story of the

Seventeenth Century: as translated for the Metropolitan, from the

Italian of Alessandro Manzoni, by G. W. Featherstonhaugh. Washington:

Stereotyped and published by Duff Green. 1834. 8vo. pp. 249.

The appearance of this work strongly reminds us of the introductory

remarks with which the Edinburg Review, thirty years ago, prefaced its

annunciation of Waverley. We would gladly appropriate them, were it

fair to do so; but "honor among thieves!" Reviewers must not steal

from Reviewers; and what is it but theft, when he who borrows, can

never have anything worthy of acceptance to give in return?

We may, nevertheless, so far imitate "the grand Napoleon of the realms

of criticism," as to congratulate our readers on the appearance of a

work, which promises to be the commencement of a new style in novel

writing. Since the days of Fielding, unimitated and inimitable--and of

Smollett, between whose different productions there was scarce a

family likeness, we have had a succession of _dynasties_ reigning over

the regions of romance. We have had the Ratcliffe dynasty, the

Edgeworth dynasty, and the Scott dynasty; each, like the family of the

Cæsars, passing from good to bad, and from bad to worse, until each

has run out. Partial movements in the provinces have occasionally set

up the standard of rival aspirants: but these have soon passed away.

Heroines from the bogs, and heroes from the highlands of Scotland, or

the Polish wilds, could not maintain their pretensions, though uniting

in themselves all that is admirable both in the civilized and the

savage character. Perhaps this was the reason. We like to read of

things that may a little remind us of what we have seen in real life.

Sir Charles Grandison in the Scottish Kilt, is a startling apparition.

The younger D'Israeli has indeed, occasionally flashed upon us the

light of his capricious genius; but one of his caprices has been to

disappoint the hope that he had raised. He has shown us what he could

do, and that is all. Mr. Bulwer too, in a sort of freak of literary

radicalism, has set up for himself. He scorned to add to the number of

those who dress themselves in the cast-off habiliments of Scott; and

study, as at a glass, to make themselves like him, as if ambitious to

display their thefts. _He_ learned the craft of plagiarism in the

Spartan school, where _detection_ was the only disgrace. He would not

steal, not he, from any but "the poor man, who had nothing save one

little ewe lamb, that lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a

daughter." He would imitate none but himself, and draw from no other

models. His novels are all echoes of each other. There is hardly a

page which might not be known for his, nor a favorite character which

is not an exhibition of one of the phases of his _exquisite_ self. The

variety is between what he imagines himself to be, and what he

imagines that he might have been, had he been a cavalier of the

seventeenth century, or had circumstances made him a highwayman or a

murderer. We are aware that he denies all this, and may be unconscious

of it: but his identity can no more be mistaken than that of the

one-eyed companion of Hogarth's "idle apprentice." We are aware too,

that Mr. Bulwer is a member of a certain literary cabal, who aspire to

direct the public taste, and bring all the influence of wealth and

fashion and political connexion in aid of their pretensions. He is a

sort of literary Jack Cade. "His mouth is the law." We know that the

"amphitrion on l'on dire" is always the true amphitrion. But we never

expect to travel as caterers for a public journal. We in the south do

not do that sort of thing. We are not taught so to "raise the wind."

We are not up to perpetual motion, nor to the art of making our living

by taking our pleasure. We feel ourselves therefore under no

obligation to admire Mr. Rogers's poems, though he be a banker--nor

Mr. Bulwer's novels, nor himself, though he be a member of Parliament;

nor though his female _doublure_ Lady Blessington, "have the finest

bust," and "the prettiest foot," and be "the finest woman in London."

_We_ do not put the names {521} of our fine women in the newspapers.

The business of female education with us, is not to qualify a woman to

be the head of a literary _coterie_, nor to figure in the journal of a

travelling coxcomb. We prepare her, as a wife, to make the home of a

good and wise and great man, the happiest place to him on earth. We

prepare her, as a mother, to form her son to walk in his father's

steps, and in turn, to take his place among the good and wise and

great. When we have done this, we have accomplished, if not _all_, at

least _the best_ that education can do. Her praise is found in the

happiness of her husband, and in the virtues and honors of her sons.

Her name is too sacred to be profaned by public breath. She is only

seen by that dim doubtful light, which, like "the majesty of

darkness," so much enhances true dignity. She finds her place by the

side of the "Mother of the Gracchi," and of her whom an English poet,

who well knew how to appreciate and how to praise female excellence,

has simply designated as

"SIDNEY'S SISTER, PEMBROKE'S MOTHER."

We much fear, that after all this, the author of the work before us

will have no reason to thank us for our praise. On the contrary, there

may be danger of involving him in the displeasure, which we may draw

upon ourselves from that same cabal, which has its members on both

sides of the Atlantic. "Ca me; Ca thee," is the order of the day. If

half the praise be due, which is lavished on the works that daily

issue from the press, we may live to see the writings which instructed

and delighted our youth, laid on the same shelf with Thomas Aquinas

and Duns Scotus. Men can no more read every thing than they can eat

every thing; and the _petits plats_, that are handed round

hot-and-hot, leave us no room to do honor to the roast beef of old

England, nor to the savory Virginia ham. But these are the food by

which the thews and sinews of manhood are best nourished. They at once

exercise and help digestion. Dyspepsia was not of their day. _It_ came

in with _French Gastronomy_. Are we mistaken in thinking, that we see

symptoms of a sort of intellectual dyspepsia, arising from the

incessant exhibition of the _bon bons_ and _kickshaws_ of the press?

Well! here is something that will stick by the ribs; a work of which

we would try to give a sort of outline, but that it cannot be

abridged. The machinery of the story is not intricate, but each part

is necessary to the rest. To leave anything out is to tell nothing.

It might be too much to say that this novel is, in every sense of the

word, original. The writer is obviously familiar with English

literature, and seems to have taken at least one hint from Sir Walter

Scott. The use made by that writer of the records and traditions of

times gone by, has suggested this hint. It naturally occurred to

Manzoni, a native of Italy, that much of the same sort of material was

to be found among the archives of the petty Italian states, now

blotted from the map of Europe. It is obvious that the collisions of

small states, though less interesting to the politician than those of

mighty nations, must afford more occasion for a display of individual

character, and the exercise of those passions which give romance its

highest interest. But what is known of the great and good men who

nobly acted their parts in these scenes, when the very theatre of

their acts is crushed and buried beneath the rubbish of revolution? To

drag them from beneath the ruins, and permit the world to dwell for a

moment on the contemplation of their virtues is a pious and

praiseworthy task. It is sad to think how the short lapse of two

centuries can disappoint the hope that cheered the last moments of the

patriot and the hero. "For his country he lived, for his country he

died;" his country was all to him; but his country has perished, and

his name has perished with it. With the civil wars of England we are

all familiar; and our hearts have glowed, and our tears have fallen,

in contemplating the virtues and the sufferings of those who acted in

those scenes; but, if we may credit the traditions imbodied in this

book, a contemporary history of the Italian Republics would display

characters yet more worthy of our admiration and our sympathy. The

Cardinal Borromeo is an historical character. The writer obviously

means to paint him as he was; and the annals of mankind may be

searched in vain for a more glorious example of the purity, the

enthusiasm, and the inspiration of virtue.

We might suspect that something of a zeal for the honor of the Romish

Church had mingled itself in the rich coloring of this picture. But

Manzoni was as much alive, as Luther himself, to the abuses of that

church. In an episode, which will be found at page fifty-eight, he

discloses some, of the precise character of which we were not hitherto

aware. We knew that something was wrong, but what that something might

be, was never certainly known. The author has unveiled the mystery. He

has withdrawn a curtain, behind which we had never been permitted to

look. We had guessed, and we had read the guesses of others; but we

never knew precisely what was there. The moral coercion, more cruel

than bodily torture, by which a poor girl, the victim of the heartless

pride of her parents, without command, without even persuasion, (for

both it seems are forbidden) is driven to the cloister, that her

brother may have more ample means to uphold his hereditary honors;

this was a thing inscrutable and inconceivable to us. In reading such

works as Mrs. Sherwood's Nun, we feel that we are dealing with

conjectures. We turn to the scene exhibited in this work, and we

_know_ it to be real life. We would gladly grace our pages with it. It

would probably be read with more interest than any thing we can say;

but it is before the public, and we have no right to discharge our

debts to our readers, by giving them what is theirs already. We will

only pray their indulgence so far as to offer a short extract, as a

specimen of the writer's power. It is a picture of some of the horrors

of the plague, as it raged in Milan in the year 1628. It may serve to

show us that the pestilence, which lately stooped upon us, was in

comparison, an angel of mercy.

The cars spoken of in the following extract, are those in which the

uncoffined bodies of the dead were borne to a common receptacle,

"naked for the most part, some badly wrapped up in dirty rags, heaped

up and folded together like a knot of serpents." The "monalti" were

men who, having had the plague, were considered exempt from future

danger, and were employed to bury the dead.

"A lady came from the threshold of one of the houses, whose aspect

announced youth advanced, but not yet passed away. Her beauty was

obscured, but {522} not obliterated, by distress and mortal languor;

that sort of beauty, at once majestic and soft, which is so

conspicuous in the Lombard race. She walked with pain, but did not

stagger; her eyes shed no tears, but bore marks of having done so

abundantly. There was, in her grief, a something inexpressibly quiet

and deep, betokening a soul imbued and filled with it. But it was not

her own appearance alone, that in the midst of so much wretchedness,

marked her especially for commiseration, and awakened in her favor a

feeling now deadened and worn out in all hearts. She bore in her arms

a girl about nine years old,--dead, but dressed in a white frock of

spotless purity, with her hair divided in front, as if her own hands

had adorned her for a feast, long promised as the reward of her

goodness. She held her, seated on one of her arms, with her breast

upon the lady's breast; and she might have been thought to be alive,

but that her young white hand hung heavy and lifeless on one side,

like wax-work, and her head lay upon her mother's shoulder, with an

air of abandonment heavier than that of sleep. Her mother! If the

resemblance had not proclaimed the relation, the distress of the

survivor announced it too plainly.

"A coarse monalti drew near the lady, and silently offered to relieve

her from her burthen, but with an air of unwonted respect and

involuntary hesitancy. But she, with an action betokening neither

disgust nor scorn, drew back, and said, 'No; do not touch her now; I

must lay her on that car myself; take this.' She opened her hand,

showed a purse, and dropped it into his. She then continued: 'Promise

me not to take a thread from her, and to suffer no other to do so, and

to put her in the ground just as she is.'

"The monalti placed his hand on his breast, and then with an

obsequious zeal, rather like one subdued by a new and strange emotion,

than as if prompted by the unexpected gift, he busied himself to make

room on the car for the little corpse. The lady placed her there, as

on a bed, laid her straight, kissed her cold brow, spread over her a

white sheet, and then spoke for the last time. 'Adieu, Cecilia! Rest

in peace! This evening we meet again, to part no more. Pray for us, my

child, and I will pray for thee, and for the rest. You,' added she to

the monalti, 'when you pass again at vespers, will come and take me

too, and not me alone.'

"Having said this, she re-entered the house, and presently appeared at

the window, holding in her arms a still younger darling, alive, but

with the marks of death on its face. She stood, as if contemplating

the unworthy obsequies of the first, until the car moved, and while it

remained in sight, and then she disappeared. What remained, but to lay

her only surviving babe upon the bed, place herself by her side, and

die with her; even as the stately blossom, with the bud beside it on

its stem, falls before the scythe that levels all the plants in the

meadow."

There is a power in this to which we do not scruple to give great

praise. We regret to say that the translation has many faults. We

lament it the more, because they are obviously faults of haste. The

translator, we fear, was hungry; a misfortune with which we know how

to sympathize. The style is, for the most part, Italian, in English

words, but Italian still. This is a great fault. In some instances it

would be unpardonable. In this instance, perhaps, it is more than

compensated by a kindred excellence. In a work like this, abounding in

the untranslatable phrases of popular dialogue, it gives a quaint

raciness which is not unacceptable. It does more. Such translations

_of such works_, would soon make the English ear familiar with Italian

idioms, which once naturalized, would enrich the language. It is

already thus incalculably enriched by the poetry of Burns and the

novels of Scott. A familiarity with Shakspeare, (which is not the

English of the present day,) preserves a store of wealth which would

else be lost. The strength of a language is in the number and variety

of its idiomatic phrases. These are forms of speech which use has

rendered familiar, and emancipated from the crippling restraint of

regular grammar. They enable the speaker to be brief, without being

obscure. His meaning, eliptically expressed, is distinctly and

precisely understood. Should any other work of Manzoni fall into the

hands of Mr. Featherstonhaugh, we hope he may have time to correct

those inaccuracies of which he is doubtless sensible; but we trust he

will not consider his popular Italian idioms as among his faults.

Smollett, in his translation of Don Quixotte, through extreme

fastidiousness, threw away an opportunity of doubling the force of the

English language.

This work comes to us as the harbinger of glad tidings to the reading

world. Here is a book, equal in matter to any two of Cooper's novels,

and executed at least as well, which we receive at the moderate price

of forty-two cents! It forms one number of the Washington Library,

published monthly, at five dollars per annum. At this rate, a literary

gourmand, however greedy, may hope to satisfy his appetite for books,

without starving his children. The author has our praise, and the

translator and publisher have our thanks.

* * * * *

HORSE-SHOE ROBINSON; A Tale of the Tory Ascendency. By the Author of

'Swallow Barn.' Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard.

We have not yet forgotten, nor is it likely we shall very soon forget,

the rich simplicity of diction--the manliness of tone--the admirable

traits of Virginian manners, and the striking pictures of still life,

to be found in Swallow Barn. The spirit of imitation was, however,

visible in that book, and, in a great measure, overclouded its rare

excellence. This is by no means the case with Mr. Kennedy's new novel.

If ever volumes were entitled to be called original--these are so

entitled. We have read them from beginning to end with the greatest

attention, and feel very little afraid of hazarding our critical

reputation, when we assert that they will place Mr. Kennedy at once in

the very first rank of American novelists.

_Horse-Shoe Robinson_ (be not alarmed at the title, gentle reader!) is

a tale, or more properly a succession of stirring incidents relating

to the time of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina, during the

Revolution. It is well known that throughout the whole war this state

evinced more disaffection to the confederated government than any

other of the Union, with the exception perhaps of the neighboring

state of Georgia, where the residents on the Savannah river, being

nearly allied {523} to the Carolinians in their habits and general

occupations, were actuated, more or less, by the same political

opinions. But we will here let the author speak for himself.

"Such might be said to be the more popular sentiment of the state at

the time of its subjugation by Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis.

To this common feeling there were many brilliant exceptions, and the

more brilliant because they stood, as it were, apart from the

preponderating mass of public judgment.... There were heroes of this

mould in South Carolina, who entered with the best spirit of chivalry

into the national quarrel, and brought to it hearts as bold, minds as

vigorous, and arms as strong, as ever in any clime worked out a

nation's redemption. These men refused submission to their conquerors,

and endured exile, chains, and prison, rather than the yoke. Some few,

still undiscouraged by the portents of the times, retreated into

secret places, gathered their few patriot neighbors together, and

contrived to keep in awe the soldier government that now professed to

sway the land. They lived on the scant aliment furnished in the woods,

slept in the tangled brakes and secret places of the fen, exacted

contributions from the adherents of the crown, and, by rapid movements

of their woodland cavalry, and brave blows, accomplished more than

thrice their numbers would have done in ordinary warfare.... In such

encounters or _frays_, as they might rather be called, from the

smallness of the numbers concerned, and the hand to hand mode of

fighting which they exhibited, Marion, Sumpter, Horry, Pickens, and

many others had won a fame, that, in a nation of legendary or poetical

associations, would have been reduplicated through a thousand channels

of immortal verse. But alas! we have no ballads! and many men who as

well deserve to be remembered as Percy or Douglas, as Adam Bell or

Clym of the Clough, have sunk down without even a couplet epitaph upon

the rude stone, that, in some unfenced and unreverenced grave yard,

still marks the lap of earth whereon their heads were laid."

* * * * *

"One feature that belonged to this unhappy state of things in Carolina

was the division of families. Kindred were arrayed against each other

in deadly feuds, and not unfrequently brother took up arms against

brother, and sons against their sires. A prevailing spirit of

treachery and distrust marked the times. Strangers did not know how

far they might trust to the rites of hospitality, and many a man laid

his head upon his pillow, uncertain whether his fellow lodger might

not invade him in the secret watches of the night, and murder him in

his slumbers. All went armed, and many slept with pistols or daggers

under their pillows. There are tales told of men being summoned to

their doors or windows at midnight by the blaze of their farm yards,

to which the incendiary torch had been applied, and shot down, in the

light of the conflagration, by a concealed hand. Families were obliged

to betake themselves to the shelter of the thickets and swamps, when

their own homesteads were dangerous places. The enemy wore no colors,

and was not to be distinguished from friends either by outward guise

or speech. Nothing could be more revolting than to see the symbols of

peace thus misleading the confident into the toils of war--nor is it

possible to imagine a state of society characterized by a more

frightful insecurity."

It will here be seen at a glance that the novelist has been peculiarly

fortunate in the choice of an epoch, a scene and a subject. We

sincerely think that he has done them all the fullest justice, and has

worked out, with these and with other materials, a book of no ordinary

character. We do not wish to attempt any analysis of the story

itself--or that connecting chain which unites into one proper whole

the varied events of the novel. We feel that in so doing, we should,

in some measure, mar the interest by anticipation; a grievous sin too

often indulged in by reviewers, and against which, should we ever be

so lucky as to write a book, we would protest with all our hearts. But

we may be allowed a word or two. The principal character in the novel,

upon whom the chief interest of the story turns, and who, in

accordance with the right usage of novel writing, should be considered

the hero, and should have given a title to the book, is Brevet Major

Arthur Butler of the continental army, to whose acquaintance we are

first introduced about two o'clock in the afternoon of a day towards

the end of July, 1780. But Mr. K. has ventured, at his own peril, to

set at defiance the common ideas of propriety in this important

matter, and, not having the fear of the critic before his eyes, has

thought it better to call his work by the name of a very singular

personage, whom all readers will agree in pronouncing worthy of the

honor thus conferred upon him. The writer has also made another

innovation. He has begun at the beginning. We all know this to be an

unusual method of procedure. It has been too, for some time past, the

custom, to delay as long as possible the main interest of a novel--no

doubt with the very laudable intention of making it the more intense

when it does at length arrive. Now for our own parts we can see little

difference in being amused with the beginning or with the end of a

book, but have a decided preference for those rare volumes which are

so lucky as to amuse us throughout. And such a book is the one before

us. We enter _at once_ into the spirit and meaning of the author--we

are introduced _at once_ to the prominent characters--and we go with

them _at once_, heart and hand, in the various and spirit-stirring

adventures which befall them.

Horse-Shoe Robinson, who derives his nick-name of Horse-Shoe (his

proper _prænomen_ being Galbraith)--from the two-fold circumstance of

being a blacksmith, and of living in a little nook of land hemmed in

by a semi-circular bend of water, is fullly entitled to the character

of "an original." He is the life and soul of the drama--the bone and

sinew of the book--its very breath--its every thing which gives it

strength, substance, and vitality. Never was there a rarer fellow--a

more laughable blacksmith--a more gallant Sancho. He is a very prince

at an ambuscade, and a very devil at a fight. He is a better edition

of Robin Hood--quite as sagacious--not half so much of a coxcomb--and

infinitely more moral. In short, he is the man of all others we should

like to have riding by our side in any very hazardous expedition.

We think Mr. K. has been particularly successful in the delineation of

his female characters; and this is saying a great deal at a time when,

from some unaccountable cause, almost every attempt of the kind has

turned out a failure. Mildred Lindsay, in her confiding love, in her

filial reverence, in her heroic espousal {524} of the revolutionary

cause, not because she approved it, but because it was her lover's, is

an admirable and--need we say more?--a truly _feminine_ portrait. Then

the ardent, the eager, the simple-minded, the generous and the devoted

Mary Musgrove! Most sincerely did we envy John Ramsay, the treasure of

so pure and so exalted an affection!

With the exception of now and then a careless, or inadvertent

expression, such for instance, as the word _venturesome_ instead of

_adventurous_, no fault whatever can be found with Mr. Kennedy's

style. It varies gracefully and readily with the nature of his

subject, never sinking, even in the low comedy of some parts of the

book, into the insipid or the vulgar; and often, very often rising

into the energetic and sublime. Its general character, as indeed the

general character of all that we have seen from the same pen, is a

certain unpretending simplicity, nervous, forcible, and altogether

devoid of affectation. This is a style of writing above all others to

be desired, and above all others difficult of attainment. Nor is it to

be supposed that by simplicity we imply a rejection of ornament, or of

a proper use of those advantages afforded by metaphorical

illustration. A style professing to disclaim such advantages would be

anything but simple--if indeed we might not be tempted to think it

very silly. We have called the style of Mr. K. a style simple and

forcible, and we have no hesitation in calling it, at the same time,

richly figurative and poetical. We have opened the pages at random for

an illustration of our meaning, and have no difficulty in finding one

precisely suited to our purpose. Let us turn to vol. i. page

112.--"The path of invasion is ever a difficult road when it leads

against a united people. You mistake both the disposition and the

means of these republicans. They have bold partizans in the field, and

eloquent leaders in their senates. The nature of the strife sorts well

with their quick and earnest tempers; and by this man's play of war we

breed up soldiers who delight in the game. Rebellion has long since

marched beyond the middle ground, and has no thought of retreat. What

was at first the mere overflow of popular passion has been hardened

into principle--_like a fiery stream of lava which first rolls in a

flood, and then turns into stone_."

While we are upon the subject of style, we might as well say a word or

two in regard to _punctuation_. It seems to us that the volumes before

us are singularly deficient in this respect--and yet we noticed no

fault of this nature in Swallow Barn. How can we reconcile these

matters? Whom are we to blame in this particular, the author, or the

printer? It cannot be said that the point is one of no importance--it

is of very great importance. A slovenly punctuation will mar, in a

greater or less degree, the brightest paragraph ever penned; and we

are certain that those who have paid the most attention to this

matter, will not think us hypercritical in what we say. A too frequent

use of the _dash_ is the besetting sin of the volumes now before us.

It is lugged in upon all occasions, and invariably introduced where it

has no business whatever. Even the end of a sentence is not sacred

from its intrusion. Now there is no portion of a printer's fount,

which can, if properly disposed, give more of strength and energy to a

sentence than this same _dash_; and, for this very reason, there is

none which can more effectually, if improperly arranged, disturb and

distort the meaning of every thing with which it comes in contact. But

not to speak of such disturbance or distortion, a fine taste will

intuitively avoid, even in trifles, all that is unnecessary or

superfluous, and bring nothing into use without an object or an end.

We do not wish to dwell upon this thing, or to make it of more

consequence than necessary. We will merely adduce an example of the

punctuation to which we have alluded. Vide page 138, vol. i. "Will no

lapse of time wear away this abhorred image from your memory?--Are you

madly bent on bringing down misery on your head?--I do not speak of my

own suffering.--Will you forever nurse a hopeless attachment for a man

whom, it must be apparent to yourself, you can never meet

again?--Whom, if the perils of the field, the avenging bullet of some

loyal subject, do not bring him merited punishment,--the halter may

reward, or, in his most fortunate destiny, disgrace, poverty, and

shame pursue:--Are you forever to love that man?"--

Would not the above paragraph read equally as well thus: "Will no

lapse of time wear away this abhorred image from your memory? Are you

madly bent on bringing down misery on your head? I do not speak of my

own suffering. Will you forever nurse a hopeless attachment for a man

whom, it must be apparent to yourself, you can never meet again--whom,

if the perils of the field, the avenging bullet of some loyal subject,

do not bring him merited punishment, the halter may reward, or, in his

more fortunate destiny, disgrace, poverty and shame pursue? Are you

forever to love that man?"

The second of Mr. K's volumes is, from a naturally increasing interest

taken in the fortunes of the leading characters, by far the most

exciting. But we can confidently recommend them both to the lovers of

the forcible, the adventurous, the stirring, and the picturesque. They

will not be disappointed. A high tone of morality, healthy and

masculine, breathes throughout the book, and a rigid--perhaps a too

scrupulously rigid poetical justice is dealt out to the great and

little villains of the story--the Tyrrells, the Wat Adairs, the

Currys, and the Habershams of the drama. In conclusion, we prophecy

that Horse-Shoe Robinson will be eagerly read by all classes of

people, and cannot fail to place Mr. Kennedy in a high rank among the

writers of this or of any other country. We regret that the late

period of receiving his book will not allow us to take that extended

notice of it which we could desire.

* * * * *

JOURNAL--By FRANCES ANNE BUTLER. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

[Presented to the Editor of the Messenger, by Mr. C. Hall.]

Perhaps no book has, for many years, been looked for, long previous to

its publication, with such intense curiosity, as this record of Miss

Fanny Kemble's observations and opinions of men and women, manners and

customs, in the United States. We say Miss Fanny Kemble's

opinions--for while bearing that name, most of those opinions were

formed. Under that name she was hailed in this country, as the

inheritress of the genius of Mrs. Siddons, whose fame is connected in

the minds of Americans with all that is noble, and majestic, and

powerful in the dramatic art. Under that name she received the

admiration of thousands, was made a sharer of the hospitality of many

of the most {525} distinguished citizens of the country--and received

a homage to which nothing but the highest genius, and the purest moral

worth could have entitled her. It is not therefore as Mrs. Frances

Anne Butler, the wife of an American citizen, that we look upon her in

her character of authoress--but as the favorite actress, applauded to

the echo, surfeited with flattery, and loaded with pecuniary

rewards.[1] It is impossible to consider this book in any other than a

personal point of view. Its very form forbids our separating the

author from the work--the opinions and sentiments, from the individual

who utters them. The idea of both exist in an indivisible

amalgamation. Nor we fear, will it be possible for nine-tenths of her

readers to weigh a single expression of Fanny Kemble the authoress,

unmingled with the idea of Fanny Kemble the actress, the star--the

"observed of all observers." Hence this Journal will have an effect

probably far beyond the anticipations of its writer. It will not only

be looked upon as the test of Mrs. Butler's ability as an author; but

it will, whether justly or not, convey to the thousands who have

already perused, and the tens of thousands who will hereafter peruse

it, a picture of her character and dispositions. The picture may, and

doubtless will be an exaggerated one--few _pictures_ are otherwise;

but still it will be received as true, because the outlines have been

traced by the original herself. We are sorry to say that the

"counterfeit resemblance" of the fair authoress, presented by her

book, displays many harsh and ill-favored lineaments, and the traces

of passions which we could wish did not disfigure its many noble and

magnanimous features. Mrs. Butler cannot claim for herself the

immunity which she awards with great justice to poetical writers, of a

distinction between their _real_ and their _written_ sentiments.[2] If

this book contains as we suppose, the faithful transcripts of her

daily observations and opinions, revised long after they were penned,

and thus exhibiting her true, unexaggerated impressions, by them must

she be judged--and in passing judgment upon her work, a candid critic

will find much, very much, to admire and approve, and much also to

censure and condemn.

[Footnote 1: We are far from wishing to convey the idea that a popular

actor of real merit is in any way placed under obligation, (especially

such an obligation as would render it improper or ungrateful for him

to speak with freedom of the communities of which his audiences formed

parts,) by the pecuniary benefits received from the public for the

exhibition of his talents. Mrs. Butler has, we think, settled that

question in her book; and it will be better for both the audiences and

the actors, whenever differences arise between them, to consider each

other on the footing of equality, which she points out as the

equitable and common-sense relation of the two parties. Nothing can be

more rational than the following:

"It may not be amiss here to say one word with regard to the

_gratitude_ which audiences in some parts of the world claim from

actors, and about which I have lately heard a most alarming out-cry.

Do actors generally exercise their profession to please themselves and

gratify their own especial delight in self-exhibition? Is that

profession in its highest walks one of small physical exertion and

fatigue, (I say nothing of mental exertion) and in its lower paths is

it one of much gain, glory, or ease? Do audiences, on the other hand,

use to come in crowds to play-houses to see indifferent performers?

and when there do they out of pure charity and good-will, bestow their

applause as well as their money upon tiresome performers?--I will

answer these points as far as regards myself, and therein express the

gratitude which I feel towards the frequenters of theatres. I

individually disliked my profession, and had neither pride nor

pleasure in the exercise of it. I exercised it as a matter of

necessity, to earn my bread,--and verily it was in the sweat of my

brow. The parts which fell to my lot were of a most laborious nature,

and occasioned sometimes violent mental excitement, always immense

physical exertion, and sometimes both. In those humbler walks of my

profession, from whose wearisomeness I was exempted by my sudden favor

with the public, I have seen, though not known, the most painful

drudgery,--the most constant fatigue,--the most sad contrast between

real cares and feigned merriments,--the most anxious penurious and

laborious existence imaginable. For the part of my question which

regarded the audiences, I have only to say, that I never knew, saw,

heard or read of any set of people who went to a play-house to see

what they did not like; this being the case it never occurred to me

that our houses were full but as a necessary consequence of our own

attraction, or that we were applauded, but as the result of our own

exertions. I was glad the houses were full, because I was earning my

livelihood, and wanted the money; and I was glad the people applauded

us, because it is pleasant to please, and human vanity will find some

sweetness in praise, even when reason weighs its worth most justly."

Vol. ii. pp. 109-110.]

[Footnote 2: "Moore talks about Byron's writing with the same pen full

of ink, 'Adieu, adieu, my native land,' and 'Hurra, Hodgson, we are

going.' It proves nothing, except what I firmly believe, that we must

not look for the real feelings of writers to their works--or rather

that what they give us, and what we take for heart feeling, is head

weaving--a species of emotion engendered somewhere betwixt the bosom

and the brain, and bearing the same proportion of resemblance to

reality that a picture does--that is--like feeling, but not

feeling--like sadness, but not sadness--like what it appears, but not

indeed that very thing: and the greater a man's power of thus

producing _sham realities_, the greater his qualification for being a

poet." _Journal_, vol. i., pp. 21-22.]

We have read Mrs. Butler's work with untiring interest--indeed the

vivacity of its style, the frequent occurrence of beautiful

descriptions, of just and forcible observations, and many sound views

of the condition of society in this country--the numerous

characteristic anecdotes, and some most discriminating criticisms of

actors and acting, must stamp her work as one of no ordinary merit.

And these attractions in a great measure neutralize, although they

cannot redeem, her innumerable faults of language, her sturdy

prejudices, her hasty opinions, and her ungenerous sarcasms--These

abound in the Journal, and yet it is more than probable that her

censorious spirit has to a great extent been suppressed, as almost

every page is studded with asterisks, indicating, we may presume, that

her sins of hasty censure have been greatly diminished to the public

eye, by the saving grace of omission.

The defects of the work are not confined to the exhibition of

prejudices and the expression of unjust opinions: the style and

language is often coarse, we might say vulgar; and her more

impassioned exclamations are often characterized by a vehemence which

is very like _profanity_, an offence that would not be tolerated in a

writer of the other sex. We cite a few, from among the many passages

which we have noted, as specimens of undignified, unfeminine and

unscholarlike phraseology: The word "_dawdled_" seems a great favorite

with Mrs. Butler--as, for instance: "Rose at eight, _dawdled_ about,"

&c. vol. i. p. 18. "Rose at {526} half past eight, _dawdled_ about as

usual," p. 21. "Came up and _dawdled_ upon deck," p. 47. "Came home,

_daudled_ about my room," p. 97.--And in numberless other instances

this word is used, apparently, to signify loitering or dallying,

spelled indiscriminately da_w_dled, or da_u_dled. Indeed so much does

our fair authoress seem to have been addicted to the habit which the

word implies--be it what it may--that in the second volume she speaks

of having "dressed for once without _dawdling_," as an uncommon

occurrence. She is also fond of the word "gulp," and uses it in

strange combinations, as--"My dear father, who was a little elated,

made me sing to him, which I greatly _gulped_ at," p. 61. "I _gulped_,

sat down, and was measured," (for a pair of shoes,) p. 103--"on the

edge of a precipice, several hundred feet down into the valley: it

made me _gulp_ to look at it," &c.

At page 97, she tells us, that "when the gentlemen joined us they were

all more or less 'how come'd you so indeed?'" and shortly after, "they

all went away in good time, and we came to bed:

------------------------------------To bed--to sleep--

To sleep!--perchance to be bitten! aye--there's the scratch:

And in that sleep of our's what bugs may come,

Must give us pause."

She thus describes the motions of persons on ship-board, in rough

weather: "Rushing hither and thither in all directions but the one

they purpose going, and making as many angles, fetches, and ridiculous

deviations from the point they aim at, as if the _devil had tied a

string to their legs_, and jerked it every now and then in spite." p.

18.

At page 99: "Supped, lay down on the floor in absolute _meltiness

away_, and then came to bed." "When I went on, I was all but tumbling

down at the sight of my Jaffier, who looked like the apothecary in

Romeo and Juliet, with the addition of some _devilish_ red slashes

along his thighs and arms," p. 107. "Away _walloped_ the four horses,"

&c. p. 131. "How they did _wallop_ and shamble about," &c. p. 149.

"Now I'll go to bed; my cough's enough to kill a _horse_," p. 153.

"Heaven bless the world, for a _conglomerated amalgamation_ of fools,"

p. 190. "He talked an amazing quantity of _thickish_ philosophy, and

moral and sentimental _potter_." In truth, "_potter_" and

"_pottering_," seem to be favorites equally with _daudling_, and she

as frequently makes use of them. For instance, "He sat down, and

_pottered_ a little," p. 58. They "took snuff, eat cakes, and

_pottered_ a deal," p. 182. "After dinner _pottered_ about clothes,"

&c. p. 220. "Sat stitching and _pottering_ an infinity," p. 230--and

many other varieties of the same word. But of the infinite number of

literary novelties of this sort, it would be impossible, within the

limits we have prescribed to ourselves, to give more than a few

specimens. We will take two or three more at random: "My feet got so

perished with the cold, that I didn't know what to do," p. 230. "He

was most exceedingly odd and _dauldrumish_. I think he was a little

'_how come'd you so indeed_.'" p. 195; "yesterday began like May, with

flowers and sun-shine, it ended like December, with the _sulks_, and a

fit of crying. The former were furnished me by my friends and Heaven,

the latter by myself and the _d----l_." p. 198. "At six o'clock, D----

roused me; and _grumpily_ enough I arose." _1b._ "At one o'clock, came

home, having danced myself fairly off my legs." p. 227.

Such blemishes as these, apparently uniting the slang of the boarding

school and the green room, deform the work of Mrs. Butler, and are

much to be lamented, became they may have the effect of blinding the

hasty, prejudiced or fastidious reader, to the many beauties which are

to be found in its pages. Indeed the work has already encountered the

severest criticisms from the newspaper press, imbittered by the many

censorious remarks of Mrs. B. upon the manners and institutions of the

country; her severe, and in many instances just strictures upon the

state of society in the cities in which she sojourned; and the

supercilious sneers which she has uttered against the editorial

fraternity, "the press gang," as she uncourteously denominates that

numerous and powerful body. The censures of her book, are doubtless,

in the main, well deserved; but in their excess, the merits which the

"Journal" unquestionably possesses in great abundance and of a high

order, have in many cases been passed by unheeded by her indignant

critics. And here we cannot refrain from the utterance of a remark

which has frequently occurred to us, and which is brought forcibly to

mind by the reception which Mrs. Butler's criticisms upon America have

met with: we think that too much sensitiveness is felt by our

countrymen, at the unfavorable opinions expressed by foreigners, in

regard to our social, political, and moral condition--and that the

press, as the organ of public sentiment, is prone to work itself into

a superfluous frenzy of indignation, at what are generally considered

"foreign libels" upon us. To be indignant at gross misrepresentations

of our country, is an exhibition of patriotism in one of its most

laudable forms. But the sentiment may be carried too far, and may

blind us to evils and deficiencies in our condition, when pointed out

by a foreigner, which it would be well for us rather to consider with

a view to their amendment. It may so far blunt our sense of the

justice of the maxim "_fas est, ab hoste doceri_," as to induce us to

entertain jealousy and aversion for the most judicious suggestions, if

offered by others than our own countrymen. Entertaining these views,

we have read Mrs. Butler's work, with a disposition to judge of it

impartially; and while we have perceived many instances of captious

complaints in regard to matters of trifling importance in themselves;

and frequently a disposition to build up general censures upon

partial, individual causes of disgust, displeasure or

disappointment--we feel bound to say, that, taking the work as a

whole, we do not think a deliberate disposition to misrepresent, or a

desire to depreciate us, can be discovered in it. The strictures upon

our modes of living, our social relations, &c. are often unworthy the

writer. She complains for instance, that "the things (at the hotel in

New York,) were put on the table in a slovenly, outlandish fashion;

fish, soup, and meat, at once, and puddings, and tarts, and cheese, at

another once; no finger glasses, and a patched table cloth--in short,

a want of that style and neatness which is found in every hotel in

England. The waiters too, remind us of the half-savage highland lads,

that used to torment us under that denomination in Glasgow--only that

they were wild Irish instead of Scotch." vol. i. p. 49.

Frequently too, she complains of the audiences before {527} whom she

performed, with occasional reproof of their ungracious conduct in not

sufficiently applauding her father or herself: She says, of the first

appearance of the former at the Park Theatre:

"When he came on they gave him what every body here calls an immense

reception; but they should see our London audience get up, and wave

hats and handkerchiefs, and shout welcome as they used to do to us.

The tears were in my eyes, and all I could say was, 'they might as

well get up, I think.'" Vol. i. p. 93.--And on another occasion: "The

people were stupid to a degree to be sure; poor things, it was very

hot. Indeed I scarcely understood how they should be amused with the

School for Scandal; for though the dramatic situations are so

exquisite, yet the wit is far above the generality of even our own

audiences, and the tone and manners altogether are so thoroughly

English, that I should think it must be for the most part

incomprehensible to the good people here,"--p. 110.

At the Philadelphia audiences, she grumbles as follows:

"The audiences here, are without exception, the most disagreeable I

ever played to. Not a single hand did they give the balcony scene, or

my father's scene with the friar; they are literally immoveable. They

applauded vehemently at the end of my draught scene, and a great deal

at the end of the play; but they are nevertheless intolerably dull,

and it is all but impossible to act to them,"--p. 157.

Of the ladies of this country, she seems to have formed a low estimate

in many respects, and to look upon them generally with no little

contempt. Of those in New York, she says: "The women dress very much,

and very much like French women gone mad; they all of them seem to me

to walk horribly ill, as if they wore tight shoes."--And again: "The

women here, like those in most warm climates, ripen very early, and

decay proportionably soon. They are, generally speaking, pretty, with

good complexions, and an air of freshness and brilliancy, but this I

am told is very evanescent; and whereas, in England, a woman is in the

full bloom of health and beauty, from twenty to five and thirty; here,

they scarce reach the first period without being faded, and looking

old. They marry very young, and this is another reason why age comes

prematurely upon them. There was a fair young thing at dinner to-day,

who did not look above seventeen, and she was a wife. As for their

figures, like those of the French women, they are too well dressed for

one to judge exactly what they are really like: they are, for the most

part, short and slight, with remarkably pretty feet and ancles; but

there's too much pelerine and petticoat, and 'de quoi' of every sort

to guess any thing more,"--p. 88.

This is a delicate subject, and one on which we should be averse to

enter the lists with Mrs. Butler, prejudiced as she most probably is.

But some of her observations on the mode of nurturing females, strike

us as exhibiting good sense: In the following note to the above, we

apprehend there is much truth:

"The climate of this country is made the scape-goat upon which all the

ill looks, and ill health of the ladies is laid; but while they are

brought up as effeminately as they are, take as little exercise, live

in rooms heated like ovens during the winter, and marry as early as

they do; it will appear evident, that many causes combine with an

extremely variable climate, to sallow their complexions, and destroy

their constitutions."

We are sorry to be forced to say, that there is also much sound sense

and unwelcome truth in her remarks upon the situation of married

females in our fashionable circles generally, (although the picture is

overwrought and is more peculiarly applicable to northern females,)

which we quote from Vol i. p. 160.

"The dignified and graceful influence which married women among us

exercise over the tone of manners, uniting the duties of home to the

charms of social life; and bearing, at once, like the orange tree the

fair fruits of maturity with the blossoms of their spring, is utterly

unknown here. Married women are either house-drudges and

nursery-maids, or, if they appear in society, comparative cyphers; and

the retiring, modest youthful bearing, which among us distinguishes

girls of fifteen or sixteen is equally unknown. Society is entirely

led by chits, who in England would be sitting behind a pinafore; the

consequence is, that it has neither the elegance, refinement, nor the

propriety which belong to ours; but is a noisy, racketty, vulgar

congregation of flirting boys and girls, alike without style and

decorum."

This view of manners is drawn from the society of the cities of New

York and Philadelphia;--appended to the above extract, is a note,

entering more into the details of her impressions regarding their

fashionable circles, which we give entire:

"When we arrived in America, we brought letters of introduction to

several persons in New York; many were civil enough to call upon us,

we were invited out to sundry parties, and were introduced into what

is there called the first society. I do not wish to enter into any

description of it, but will only say, that I was most disagreeably

astonished; and had it been my fate to have passed through the country

as rapidly as most travellers do, I should have carried away a very

unfavorable impression of the _best_ society of New York. Fortunately,

however, for me, my visits were repeated and my stay prolonged: and in

the course of time I became acquainted with many individuals whose

manners and acquirements were of a high order, and from whose

intercourse I derived the greatest gratification. But they generally

did me the favor to visit me, and I still could not imagine how it

happened that I never met them at the parties to which I was invited,

and in the circles where I visited. I soon discovered that they formed

a society among themselves, where all those qualities which I had

looked for among the self-styled _best_, were to be found. When I name

Miss Sedgewick, Halleck, Irving, Bryant, Paulding and some of less

fame, but whose acquirements rendered their companionship delightful

indeed, amongst whom I felt proud and happy to find several of my own

name; it will no longer appear singular that they should feel too well

satisfied with the resources of their own society, either to mingle in

that of the vulgar _fashionables_, or seek with avidity the

acquaintance of every stranger that arrives in New York. It is not to

be wondered at, that foreigners have spoken as they have, of what is

termed fashionable society here, or have condemned, with unqualified

censure, the manners and tone prevailing in it; their condemnations

are true and just as regards what they see: nor perhaps, would they be

much inclined to moderate them, when they found that persons

possessing every quality that can render intercourse between rational

creatures desirable, were held in light esteem, and neglected, as

either bores, blues, or dowdies, by those so infinitely their

inferiors in every worthy accomplishment. The same separation, or if

anything a still stronger one, subsists in Philadelphia, between the

self-styled fashionables, and the real good society. The distinction

there, is really of a nature perfectly ludicrous; a friend of mine was

describing to me a family whose manners were unexceptionable, and

whose mental accomplishments were of a high order; upon my expressing

some surprise that I had never met with them, my informant replied,

'Oh, no, they are not received {528} by the Chestnut street _set_.' If

I were called upon to define that society in New York and

Philadelphia, which ranks (by right of self-arrogation,) as first and

best; I should say it is a purely dancing society, where a fiddle is

indispensable to keep its members awake; and where their brains and

tongues seem, by common consent, to feel that they had much better

give up the care of mutual entertainment to the feet of the parties

assembled, and they judge well. Now, I beg leave clearly to be

understood, there is another, and a far more desirable circle; but it

is not the one into which strangers find their way generally. To an

Englishman, this _fashionable_ society presents, indeed, a pitiful

sample of lofty pretensions without adequate foundation. Here is a

constant endeavor to imitate those states of European society, which

have for their basis the feudal spirit of the early ages; and which

are rendered venerable by their rank, powerful by their wealth, and

refined, and in some degree respectable, by great and general mental

cultivation. Of Boston I have not spoken. The society there, is of an

infinitely superior order. A very general degree of information, and a

much greater simplicity of manners render it infinitely more

agreeable,"--pp. 161-2.

As few matters, worldly or spiritual, escaped the observation of our

authoress, it is not wonderful that her pen was occasionally dipped in

the political cauldron. But as her ideas are in most instances tinged

with her own national prejudices, we shall not dwell upon them longer

than to say that she sees already a decided aristocratic tendency

among us, and to quote the following summary of her opinion as to the

permanence of our institutions and government:--"I believe in my heart

that a republic is the noblest, highest, and purest form of

government; but I believe that according to the present disposition of

human creatures, 'tis a mere beau ideal, totally incapable of

realization. What the world may be fit for six hundred years hence, I

cannot exactly perceive--but in the mean time, 'tis my conviction that

America will be a monarchy before I am a skeleton." p. 56. If argument

with a lady on such a subject could be reconciled to the precepts of

gallantry, it would certainly be unprofitable where the causes of her

belief are so vaguely stated. And we think she has furnished the best

argument against herself in her frequent comparisons of the condition

of the mass of the people of this country to that of the laboring

class in England, in which she constantly decides in favor of America.

It will scarcely be argued that a people enjoying such blessings as

she ascribes to the condition of the mass of American citizens, could

easily be induced to change their government, and yield up a certain

good for a doubtful improvement--far less that they would willingly

submit to a form of government which they look upon as particularly

odious. The following passage shows what are her views of the

condition of the laboring classes among us:

"I never was so forcibly struck with the prosperity and happiness of

the lower orders of society in this country, as yesterday returning

from Hoboken. The walks along the river and through the woods, the

steamers crossing from the city, were absolutely thronged with a

cheerful, well-dressed population abroad, merely for the purpose of

pleasure and exercise. Journeymen, laborers, handicraftsmen,

tradespeople, with their families, bearing all in their dress and

looks evident signs of well-being and contentment, were all flocking

from their confined avocations, into the pure air, the bright

sunshine, and beautiful shade of this lovely place. I do not know any

spectacle which could give a foreigner, especially an Englishman, a

better illustration of that peculiar excellence of the American

government--the freedom and happiness of the lower classes. Neither is

it to be said that this was a holiday, or an occasion of peculiar

festivity--it was a common week-day--such as our miserable

manufacturing population spends from sun-rise to sun-down, in

confined, incessant, unhealthy toil--to earn, at its conclusion, the

inadequate reward of health and happiness so wasted--the contrast

struck me forcibly--it rejoiced my heart; it surely was an object of

contemplation, that any one who had a heart must have rejoiced in."

We had intended to make several additional extracts from what we think

the better portions of the Journal, such as would exhibit the

authoress in her most favorable light. But we have "_daudled_" so long

on the way, that those extracts must be brief, and will probably fail

to do the justice we proposed to the fair writer. As however, we have

not selected the _worst_ of the passages from those which we deemed it

our duty to censure, we may be forgiven, if we should fail to quote

the _best_ of those which exhibit her good sense and ability as a

writer.

Of the fate of the aborigines of this country, she says:

"The chasing, enslaving, and destroying creatures, whose existence,

however inferior, is as justly theirs, as that of the most refined

European is his; who for the most part, too, receive their enemies

with open-handed hospitality, until taught treachery by being

betrayed, and cruelty by fear; the driving the child of the soil off

it, or, what is fifty times worse, chaining him to till it; all the

various forms of desolation which have ever followed the landing of

civilized men upon uncivilized shores; in short, the theory and

practice of discovery and conquest, as recorded in all history, is a

very singular and painful subject of contemplation.

"'Tis true, that cultivation and civilization, the arts and sciences

that render life useful, the knowledge that ennobles, the adornments

that refine existence, above all, the religion that is its most sacred

trust and dear reward, all these, like pure sunshine and healthful

airs following a hurricane, succeed the devastation of the invader;

but the sufferings of those who are swept away are not the less, and

though I believe that good alone is God's result, it seems a fearful

proof of the evil wherewith this earth is cursed, that good cannot

progress but over such a path. No one, beholding the prosperous and

promising state of this fine country, could wish it again untenanted

of its enterprising and industrious possessors; yet even while looking

with admiration at all they have achieved, with expectation amounting

to certainty to all that they will yet accomplish; 'tis difficult to

refrain from bestowing some thoughts of pity and of sadness upon

those, whose homes have been overturned, whose language has past away,

and whose feet are daily driven further from those territories of

which they were once sole and sovereign lords. How strange it is to

think, that less than one hundred years ago, these shores, resounding

with the voice of populous cities--these waters, laden with the

commerce of the wide world, were silent wildernesses, where sprang and

fell the forest leaves, where ebbed and flowed the ocean tides from

day to day, and from year to year in uninterrupted stillness; where

the great sun, who looked on the vast empires of the east, its

mouldering kingdoms, its lordly palaces, its ancient temples, its

swarming cities, came and looked down upon the still dwelling of utter

loneliness, where nature sat enthroned in everlasting beauty,

undisturbed by the far off din of worlds 'beyond the flood.'"

There is eloquence and good feeling in the following:

"In beholding this fine young giant of a world, with all its

magnificent capabilities for greatness, I think every Englishman must

feel unmingled regret at the {529} unjust and unwise course of policy

which alienated such a child from the parent government. But, at the

same time, it is impossible to avoid seeing that some other course

must, ere long, have led to the same result, even if England had

pursued a more maternal course of conduct towards America. No one,

beholding this enormous country, stretching from ocean to ocean,

watered with ten thousand glorious rivers, combining every variety of

climate and soil; therefore, every variety of produce and population;

possessing within itself every resource that other nations are forced

either to buy abroad, or to create substitutes for at home; no one,

seeing the internal wealth of America, the abundant fertility of the

earth's surface, the riches heaped below it, the unparalleled

facilities for the intercourse of men, and the interchange of their

possessions throughout its vast extent, can for an instant indulge the

thought that such a country was ever destined to be an appendage to

any other in the world, or that any chain of circumstances whatever,

could have long maintained in dependance a people furnished with every

means of freedom and greatness. But far from regretting that America

has thrown off her allegiance, and regarding her as a rebellious

subject, and irreverent child; England will surely, ere long, learn to

look upon this country as the inheritor of her glory; the younger

England, destined to perpetuate the language, the memory, the virtues

of the noble land from which she is descended. Loving and honoring my

country, as I do, I cannot look upon America with any feeling of

hostility. I do not only hear the voice of England in the language of

this people, but I recognize in all their best qualities, their

industry, their honesty, their sturdy independence of spirit, the very

witnesses of their origin, they are English; no other people in the

world would have licked us as they did; nor any other people in the

world, built upon the ground they won, so sound, and strong, and fair

an edifice.

"With regard to what I have said in the beginning of this note, of the

many reasons which combined to render this country independent of all

others; I think they in some measure tell against the probability of

its long remaining at unity with itself. Such numerous and clashing

interests; such strong and opposite individuality of character between

the northern and southern states; above all, such enormous extent of

country; seem rationally to present many points of insecurity; many

probabilities of separations and breakings asunder; but all this lies

far on, and I leave it to those who have good eyes for a distance."

Vol. i. pp. 187-8.

From her description of a voyage up the Hudson river, which is one of

the most beautiful portions of the work, we can give but two brief

passages:

"We passed the light-house of Stoney Point, now the peaceful occupant

of the territory, where the blood in English veins was poured out by

English hands, during the struggle between old established tyranny and

the infant liberties of this giant world. Over all and each, the

blessed sky bent its blue arch, resplendently clear and bright, while

far away the distant summits of the highlands rose one above another,

shutting in the world, and almost appearing as though each bend of the

river must find us locked in their shadowy circle, without means of

onward progress." Vol. i. p. 207.

* * * * *

"Where are the poets of this land? Why such a world should bring forth

men with minds and souls larger and stronger than any that ever dwelt

in mortal flesh. Where are the poets of this land? They should be

giants, too; Homers and Miltons, and Goethes and Dantes, and

Shakspeares. Have these glorious scenes poured no inspirings into

hearts worthy to behold and praise their beauty? Is there none to come

here and worship among these hills and waters, till his heart burns

within him, and the hymn of inspiration flows from his lips, and rises

to the sky? Is there not one among the sons of such a soil to send

forth its praises to the universe, to throw new glory round the

mountains, new beauty over the waves? is inanimate nature, alone, here

'telling the glories of God?' Oh, surely, surely, there will come a

time when this lovely land will be vocal with the sound of song, when

every close-locked valley, and waving wood, rifted rock and flowing

stream shall have their praise. Yet 'tis strange how marvellously

unpoetical these people are! How swallowed up in life and its daily

realities, wants, and cares; how full of toil and thrift, and

money-getting labor. Even the heathen Dutch, among us the very

antipodes of all poetry, have found names such as the Donder Berg for

the hills, whilst the Americans christen them Butter Hill, the Crow's

Nest, and _such like_. Perhaps some hundred years hence, when wealth

has been amassed by individuals, and the face of society begins to

grow chequered, as in the old lands of Europe, when the whole mass of

population shall no longer go running along the level road of toil and

profit, when inequalities of rank shall exist, and the rich man shall

be able to pay for the luxury of poetry, and the poor man who makes

verses, no longer be asked, 'Why don't you cast up accounts?' when all

this comes to pass, as _perhaps_ some day it may, America will have

poets. It seems strange to me that men such as the early settlers in

Massachusetts, the Puritan founders of New England, the 'Pilgrim

Fathers,' should not have had amongst them some men, or at least man,

in whose mind the stern and enduring courage, the fervent,

enthusiastic piety, the unbending love of liberty, which animated them

all, become the inspiration to poetic thought, and the suggestion of

poetical utterance. They should have had a Milton or a Klopstock

amongst them. Yet after all, they had excitement of another sort, and

moreover, the difficulties, and dangers, and distresses of a fate of

unparalleled hardship, to engross all the energies of their minds; and

I am half inclined to believe that poetry is but a hothouse growth."

Vol. i. pp. 212-13.

Our friends, _Oliver Oldschool_ and _Anthony Absolute_, will be

pleased to observe that Mrs. Butler abjures the _Waltz_, and agrees

with them in objecting to its tendency:

"Dr. ---- called, and gave me a sermon about waltzing. As it was

perfectly good sense, to which I could reply nothing whatever, in the

shape of objection, I promised him never to waltz again, except with a

woman, or my brother.... After all, 'tis not fitting that a man should

put his arm round one's waist, whether one belongs to any one but

one's self or not. 'Tis much against what I have always thought most

sacred,--the dignity of a woman in her own eyes, and those of others.

I like Dr. ---- most exceedingly. He spoke every way to my feelings of

what was right to-day. After saying that he felt convinced from

conversations which he had heard amongst men, that waltzing was

immoral in its tendency, he added, 'I am married, and have been in

love, and cannot imagine any thing more destructive of the deep and

devoted respect which love is calculated to excite in every honorable

man's heart, not only for the individual object of his affection, but

for her whole sex, than to see any and every impertinent coxcomb in a

ball room, come up to her, and, without remorse or hesitation, clasp

her waist, imprison her hand, and absolutely whirl her round in his

arms.' So spake the Doctor; and my sense of propriety, and conviction

of right, bore testimony to the truth of his saying. So, farewell,

sweet German Waltz! next to hock, the most intoxicating growth of the

Rheinland. I shall never keep time to your pleasant measure again!--no

matter; after all, anything is better than to be lightly spoken of,

and to deserve such mention." Vol. i. pp. 227-28.

Mrs. Butler seems to have no great love of the dramatic _art_--that

is, the art of stage performance. {530} Several pages in the second

volume are devoted to this subject, (pp. 59, 60 and 61) in which she

argues with great force in support of the position, that acting is

"the very lowest of the arts." Like all her criticisms of subjects

connected with the stage, it is an admirable passage; but it is too

long for quotation. A shorter one conveys the same idea, in eloquent

language:

"I acted like a wretch, of course; how could I do otherwise? Oh,

Juliet! vision of the south! rose of the garden of the earth! was this

the glorious hymn that Shakspeare hallowed to your praise? was this

the mingled strain of Love's sweet going forth, and Death's dark

victory, over which my heart and soul have been poured out in wonder

and ecstacy?--How I do loathe the stage! these wretched, tawdry,

glittering rags, flung over the breathing forms of ideal loveliness;

these miserable, poor, and pitiful substitutes for the glories with

which poetry has invested her magnificent and fair creations--the

glories with which our imagination reflects them back again. What a

mass of wretched mumming mimickry acting is. Pasteboard and paint, for

the thick breathing orange groves of the south; green silk and oiled

parchment, for the solemn splendor of her noon of night; wooden

platforms and canvass curtains, for the solid marble balconies, and

rich dark draperies of Juliet's sleeping chamber, that shrine of love

and beauty; rouge, for the startled life-blood in the cheek of that

young passionate woman; an actress, a mimicker, a sham creature, me,

in fact, or any other one, for that loveliest and most wonderful

conception, in which all that is true in nature, and all that is

exquisite in fancy, are moulded into a living form. To _act_ this! to

_act_ Romeo and Juliet!--horror! horror! how I do loathe my most

impotent and unpoetical craft!" Vol. ii. pp. 16-17.

In another and sadder strain, there are many beautiful portions, from

which we can only select the following--and with this our extracts

must end:

"'Tis strange, that Messenger Bird threw more than a passing gloom

over me. If the dead do indeed behold those whom they have loved, with

loving eyes and fond remembrance, do not the sorrows, the weariness,

the toiling, the despairing of those dear ones rise even into the

abodes of peace, and wring the souls of those who thence look down

upon the earth, and see the wo and anguish suffered here? Or, if they

do not feel,--if, freed from this mortal coil, they forget all they

have suffered, all that we yet endure, oh! then what four-fold trash

is human love! what vain and miserable straws are all the deep, the

dear, the grasping affections twined in our hearts' fibres,--mingled

with our blood!--how poor are all things--how beggarly is life. Oh, to

think that while we yet are bowed in agony and mourning over the

dead,--while our bereaved hearts are aching, and our straining eyes

looking to that heaven, beyond which we think they yet may hear our

cries, they yet may see our anguish, the dead, the loved, the mourned,

nor see, nor hear; or if they do, look down with cold and careless

gaze upon the love that lifts our very souls in desperate yearning

towards them." Vol. ii. pp. 54-55.

We have thus endeavored to give our readers an idea of this very

remarkable book--a task of no little difficulty from its variable

features, its mixture of sense and silliness, of prejudice and

liberality--almost every page bearing a distinct and peculiar

character. There are many things which have elicited censure, on which

we have not laid any stress, and among these are the frequent

exhibitions of attachment to her native country, and preference of its

people, its customs, its laws, &c. to those of America. We cannot find

fault with her for so noble and so natural a sentiment, even though it

should lead her to depreciate and underrate us. Besides, she

acknowledges the blindness of her partiality to England, and speaks of

it with great candor, as a national characteristic:

"How we English folks do cling to our own habits, our own views, our

own things, our own people; how in spite of all our wanderings and

scatterings over the whole face of the earth, like so many Jews, we

never lose our distinct and national individuality; nor fail to lay

hold of one another's skirts, to laugh at and depreciate all that

differs from that country, which we delight in forsaking for any and

all others." Vol. i. p. 90.

The chief fault of the work will be found in the dictatorial manner of

the writer. A female, and a young one too, cannot speak with the

self-confidence which marks this book, without jarring somewhat upon

American notions of the retiring delicacy of the female character. But

the early induction of Mrs. B. upon the stage, has evidently given her

a precocious self-dependence and a habit of forming her own opinions.

There is perhaps no situation in which human vanity is so powerfully

excited, as that of the favorite actor. The directness of the applause

which greets his successful efforts is most intoxicating, and mingles

so much admiration of the performer with delight at the performance,

that he or she, whose vanity should resist its fascinations, must be a

stoic indeed.[3] The effects of this personal homage, added to the

advantages {531} of her birth, and her really masculine intellect, are

apparent in Mrs. B's Journal. But she also displays some fine feminine

traits, which the flatteries of delighted audiences, the admiration of

ambitious fashionables, and the consciousness of being the chief Lion

of the day, could not destroy. Her sympathy for a sick lady, lodging

in the same house in Philadelphia, is frequently and delicately

expressed; and various other incidents shew that kindness and

generosity are among her prominent qualities. Many pages are devoted

to the subject of religion, and as appears from them, she was

attentive to the performance of her devotions: Yet we cannot but think

her religion as displayed in this book, more a sentiment than a

principle; rather the imbodying of a poetical fancy, than that

pervading feeling of the heart which enters into and characterizes the

actions of those who feel its influence.--In conclusion, we will

repeat what we have said before, that there is much to admire and much

to condemn in this work--enough of the former to render it one of the

most attractive (as it is one of the most original) that has recently

issued from the press; and in censuring its faults it will be but

justice to bear in mind a sentiment of Mrs. B.; "After all, if people

generally did but know the difficulty of doing well, they would be

less damnatory upon those who do ill." p. 114, vol. i.

[Footnote 3: This position has been beautifully illustrated by some

modern English writer, but by whom we have forgotten. Mrs. Butler is

fully aware of the intoxicating nature of the applause bestowed on

actors, and speaks most sensibly on the subject, although she is

probably unconscious of its full effects upon her own feelings, and

manner of thinking and writing.

"Excitement," says she, "is reciprocal between the performer and the

audience; he creates it in them, and receives it back again from them:

and in that last scene in Fazio, half the effect that I produce is

derived from the applause which I receive, the very noise and tumult

of which tends to heighten the nervous energy which the scene itself

begets."

The idea is farther carried out in the following striking passage:

"The evanescent nature of his triumph, however an actor may deplore

it, is in fact but an instance of the broad moral justice by which all

things are so evenly balanced. If he can hope for no fame beyond mere

mention, when once his own generation passes away, at least his power,

and his glory, and his reign is in his own person, and during his own

life. There is scarcely to be conceived a popularity for the moment

more intoxicating than that of a great actor in his day, so much of it

becomes mixed up with the individual himself. The poet, the painter,

and the sculptor, enchant us through their works; and with very, very

few exceptions, their works, and not their very persons are the

objects of admiration and applause; it is to their minds we are

beholden; and though a certain degree of curiosity and popularity

necessarily wait even upon their bodily presence, it is faint compared

with that which is bestowed upon the actor; and for good reasons--he

is himself his work. His voice, his eyes, his gestures, are his art,

and admiration of it cannot be separated from admiration for him. This

renders the ephemeral glory which he earns so vivid, and in some

measure may be supposed to compensate for its short duration. The

great of the earth, whose fame has arisen like the shining of the sun,

have often toiled through their whole lives in comparative obscurity,

through the narrow and dark paths of existence. Their reward was never

given to their hands here,--it is but just their glory should be

lasting." Vol. ii. pp. 61-62.]

EDITORIAL REMARKS.

In presenting the ninth number of the Messenger to our readers, we

take occasion to make some brief references to its contents. Besides

contributions from old friends, to whom we have been formerly

indebted, it contains _seven_ prose articles from new correspondents,

some of whom are entirely unknown to us, all of whom are welcome to

our pages.

Of the sixth number of "_Sketches of the History of Tripoli_," it is

only necessary to say that it is worthy of and sustains the character

of the preceding numbers. The same may be said of the "_Letters of a

Sister_," in which the vivacity that has elicited so much praise of

the former numbers, is not diminished.

The descriptions of Virginia scenery, in the article on "_The House

Mountain_," and the "_Visit to the Virginia Springs_," are highly

attractive. The former is remarkable for its graphic delineations and

glowing imagery--the latter abounds with useful information, conveyed

in an attractive style; and its writer describes the scenes he visited

with great clearness.

The third number upon the "_Fine Arts_," is an admirable article. The

writer warms as he progresses with his subject.

We would particularly recommend the article on the "_National

Importance of Mineral Possessions_," &c. The application of general

truths to our own peculiar situation, is made with much force in that

article.

Our stranger correspondent, _Anthony Absolute_, has very delicately

satirized the opposers of the amusement of dancing. His style is

evidently modelled after that of some of the numbers of the Spectator,

and he is uncommonly happy in keeping up a vein of quiet humor

throughout. His grave irony is highly amusing.

The writer of an article on "_Recent American Novels_," seems to us to

have expressed some opinions hastily, and to estimate the merits of

some of our native writers incorrectly. He has surely overlooked the

author of _Calavar_, in classing the successors of Cooper and Irving,

as "dwarfish," and their efforts as "puny." He was not in fault in

passing over the author of "_Horse-Shoe Robinson_," as that work had

not appeared when his article was penned; and _Swallow Barn_ does not

rank as a novel. We believe that Mr. Kennedy and Dr. Bird will prove

themselves worthy successors to Cooper and Irving (so far as the

latter may be considered a novel writer,) when the mantles shall fall

from their shoulders--nor will Mr. Sims, the author of Guy Rivers and

the Yemassie, (either of which, we apprehend, are superior to the

Insurgents,) be far behind. The reviewer seems to us rather

inconsistent in his allusions to Cooper, Irving, Paulding and Miss

Sedgewick: But we have not room to particularize. With regard to the

two former, the opinions of a _Young Scotchman_, in the interesting

letter which we publish in this number, are worthy of attention. We

are happy to say, that extracts from his "_Letters on the United

States_," will be continued in the Messenger. We doubt not they will

be read with avidity.

"_Lion-izing_," by Mr. Poe, is an inimitable piece of wit and satire:

and the man must be far gone in a melancholic humor, whose risibility

is not moved by this tale. Although the scene of the story is laid in

the foreign city of "_Fum Fudge_," the disposition which it satirizes

is often displayed in the cities of this country--even in our own

community; and will probably still continue to exist, unless Mrs.

Butler's Journal should have disgusted the fashionable world with

_Lions_.

The prominent article for this month, we have not yet alluded to; it

is the "_Dissertation on the Characteristic Differences between the

Sexes; the Influence of Woman_," &c.--a subject of great and abiding

interest, treated in a masterly manner. The comprehensive views taken

by the writer, of the whole subject; the copiousness of his

illustrations, and the happy manner in which they are brought to

sustain his various positions, are striking features in this able

article. We think we incur no risk in expressing the belief, that this

Dissertation when completed, will be the most perfect essay on the

subject, in the whole range of English literature.

"_The Grave of Forgotten Genius_," and "_Lionel Granby_," will have

their attractions, we doubt not, for many of our readers. The writer

of the latter possesses powers of description of no mean order. He

paints objects and characters skilfully, though at times his style is

somewhat overloaded with words. We shall receive his future chapters

with pleasure.

The poetical contributions for this number are generally excellent. We

are constrained to forbear any particular notice of them, by the

briefness of the space which we have to occupy.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The humorous strictures on modern fashions, by our friend "_Oliver

Oldschool_," did not reach us in time for insertion in the present

number; he will appear in our next. We have received two tales from

"an inexperienced girl of sixteen," entitled "_Lucy Carlton_" and

"_The Sanfords_," which, although they exhibit considerable talent,

are very deficient in incident. The {532} sketching of character is

mostly good, but the author fails to make effectual use of the

materials which she brings together. We shall insert "The Sanfords" in

our next, as the best of the two. The story entitled "_Remorse_," is

inadmissible. The narrative presents some dramatic scenes and

situations, of which the writer has but partially availed himself; but

defects of language form the principal objection to his story. In

answer to _Octavian's_ inquiry, we must say that his lines are by no

means equal to those from his pen formerly inserted in the Messenger.

And as it would be impossible to publish all the contributions

received, unless the Messenger were twice its size, we are constrained

to leave out some which are even passable. "_English Poetry_, Chap.

II," and further extracts from the _MSS. of D. D. Mitchell_, will

appear in the next No. "_The Curse of the Betrayed One_" possesses

considerable merit, but is deformed by faults of metre, easily

amendable. With the author's consent we will make a few corrections in

his poem, and insert it in our next number. We will exercise the same

pruning prerogative upon the tale of "_The Reclaimed_." The poetical

contributions of Mrs. Emma Willard, of Troy, are welcome, and will

appear as early as possible; also some beautiful effusions of a

deceased lady of Matthews county, Virginia. "_Extracts from the

Autobiography of Pertinax Placid_, Chap. I," will have an early

insertion.

In addressing the numerous correspondents whose favors have not yet

appeared in our numbers, we avail ourselves of the opportunity to make

a few general remarks, which are due both to ourselves and to those

who write for the Messenger.

Although our poetical contributions have in general met with high

approbation, and though many effusions which we have had the honor to

present to the public, have received the just praise due to the lofty

promptings of the muse--we have noticed some strictures upon certain

articles which we had considered it our duty to insert in that

department. We do not purpose to defend all our poetical contributions

from censure. It is far from us to claim for them the merit of uniform

excellence. But we wish to show our readers, that to look for such

uniformity in the contents of a work like ours, would be unreasonable,

and to inform them of the principle upon which our selections are made

from the mass of materials placed before us.

It must be held in mind that the Messenger is a new enterprise, in a

section of country where such a work has never before been sustained

for any considerable length of time--that one of its leading objects

is to draw forth and encourage literary talent, and to build up in the

south a literature distinct and separate from that which shines in the

legal forum or the arena of politics. In order to carry into effect

this object, (which we think laudable in itself,) it is necessary that

we should display a greater degree of forbearance with inexperienced

aspirants to literary honors, than would be expected from a

discriminating editor, placed in other circumstances. Had we merely

the task before us to amuse our readers, it would not be difficult to

select from other sources the materials for our work, and abandoning

all editorial responsibility, render the contents of our pages

unexceptionable, by a choice of the best productions from other

publications. But would this course fulfil the great object of the

Messenger?--would it compensate our readers for the suppression of the

many noble productions which we have already presented to them--works

which, although in a minor form, we trust those who have perused them

"would not willingly let die?" The duty we have assumed, is to foster

the productions of native writers--to awaken, especially in the south,

a literary spirit, an ambition to excel in the cultivation of polite

learning--and to give our humble aid in stimulating the ambition of

our youth, by offering a fit repository for the offspring of taste and

genius. Whether we collect and place on permanent record the fugitive

productions of men already known to fame in other walks, or bring

forward to public applause the first efforts of youthful talent, we

equally fulfil the main object of our labors, by exciting the

admiration and awakening the ambition of others, possessing latent

powers perhaps unknown to themselves, until struck forth by a natural

and praiseworthy emulation.

In the performance of the duty which this object enjoins upon us,

there are many sources of perplexity of which our readers can scarcely

be aware. Our judgment in regard to the numerous contributions which

we receive from all quarters, leans, as it ought, to "mercy's side."

The exhibition of ability, although qualified by many faults of

conception or manner, claims our attention and favor. We look to the

future; and if in the most faulty production we find promise of

improving excellence, or redeeming traits which counterbalance the

writer's errors, we think it our duty to afford him an opportunity and

stimulus for improvement. For these reasons articles are not seldom

inserted in the Messenger, which exhibit defects of conception and

style, which it is no part of our duty to amend, but which we believe

to be counterbalanced by beauties or merits indicating that their

authors are capable of better things.

One complaint that we have to make of our contributors, regards the

carelessness with which they write; for this want of correctness,

mostly verbal it is true, but frequently extending to the sense,

rendered obscure by faulty construction of language, imposes upon the

editor the constant task of revision, and the responsibility of

correcting manuscripts at his own discretion. The labor we do not

grudge; but it should be performed by the writers themselves; and we

cannot too strenuously urge upon our friends greater care than in many

instances they have thus far bestowed upon the finishing of their

articles. Their own careful revision would no doubt lead to the more

perfect amendment of inaccuracies than could be made by an editor, who

in most instances cannot be supposed to share the full views of the

writer on the matters in hand. Our own relief from the labor of

revision is a secondary consideration, and one which we should not

urge; but by relieving us from much of that labor, the writers would

greatly increase the value of their contributions.

DEFERRED ARTICLES.

Among the numerous articles for which room could not be found in the

present number, are, reviews of Lee's Napoleon, Bancroft's History of

the United States, Sparks's Washington Correspondence, The Infidel, a

novel, by Doctor Bird, and a notice of the excellent Inaugural Address

of President Vethake, of Washington College.

{533}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

Vol. I.] RICHMOND, JUNE 1835. [No. 10.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION.

The contents of the present number of the Messenger will be found

various and entertaining, many of them possessing uncommon merit. They

are, like those of the last preceding number, entirely original.

The continuation of the _Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell_, is highly

acceptable. The description of a Storm on the Prairies is told with

much vigor, and will compare favorably with a similar scene in Mr.

Hoffman's excellent itinerary of a Winter in the West.

Nos. XV and XVI of the "_Letters of a Sister_" are delightful. The

vivacity and elegance of the style, and the feminine grace which

breathes through the whole correspondence, are peculiarly observable

in these numbers.

The 2d and 3d chapters of "_Lionel Granby_" exhibit an improvement on

the first. But we think the writer has chosen a bad model, since he

displays sufficient ability to render his writings interesting without

imitation. Perhaps unconsciously, he has fallen into what may be

denominated the _Bulwerian_ style, one which pleases less than almost

any other in the hands of an imitator, as like that of Byron it is

essentially an egotistical style.

Our reforming friend, "_Oliver Oldschool_," has hit off with great

force some of the fashionable assemblages of the present day. Without

entertaining a zeal in the reproval of these extravagancies, quite

commensurate with his own, we are fully aware of the justness of his

strictures upon those modern customs which banish _social_ intercourse

from what are intended for social parties, and burthen the enjoyment

of pleasure with so many qualifications as to make it little better

than _pain_.

The story of "_The Sanfords_" is the production of a young girl; and

if the reader should not find in it the skill of riper years, or the

deep interest of more stirring fictions--still, we trust he will agree

with us in the opinion, that it is highly creditable to the talents of

a young lady of sixteen and promises better things, when experience

and observation shall have stored her mind with incidents, and taught

her the art of using them with effect.

"_English Poetry, Chap, II_," is highly meritorious. We scarcely

supposed that so trite a subject could have been rendered so

attractive. Our correspondent has evidently studied his subject with

great care, and, which is better, _con amore_. He does not follow in

the beaten track, but has the boldness to differ from many former

critics; and there is a freshness and originality in his remarks which

cannot fail of being admired by the classical reader.

Mr. Poe's story of "_Hans Phaall_," will add much to his reputation as

an imaginative writer. In these _ballooning_ days, when every "puny

whipster" is willing to risk his neck in an attempt to "leave dull

earth behind him," and when we hear so much of the benefits which

science is to derive from the art of aerostation, a journey to the

moon may not be considered a matter of mere moonshine. Mr. Poe's

scientific Dutch bellows-mender is certainly a prodigy, and the more

to be admired, as he performs impossibilities, and details them with a

minuteness so much like truth, that they seem quite probable. Indeed

the _cause_ of his great enterprise is in admirable harmony with the

exploits which it encourages him to perform. There are thousands who,

to escape the pertinacity of uncivil creditors, would be tempted to a

flight as perilous as that of Hans Phaall. Mr. Poe's story is a long

one, but it will appear short to the reader, whom it bears along with

irresistible interest, through a region of which, of all others, we

know least, but which his fancy has invested with peculiar charms. We

trust that a future missive from the lunar voyager will give us a

narrative of his adventures in the orb that he has been the first to

explore.

"_The Sale_" is one of Nugator's best sketches, and will be recognized

as true to the life, by those who best know the scenes and

circumstances described. The characters of the Hoe-Cake ridger and his

steed are admirably drawn.

Among our Reviews, those upon _Bancroft's History of the United

Stales_, and the _Writings of General Washington_, are from the gifted

pen of the reviewer of the orations of Messrs. Adams and Everett. The

former displays much research, and contains some highly interesting

details of our early history. The latter is the most eloquent tribute

to the character of Washington that has ever met our eye. It is not

our custom to notice our reviews; but it would have been indelicate in

us to assume for a moment, even indirectly, the authorship of two

articles of such transcendent merit.

The Poetical department in the present number is well supplied. "_The

Daughter's Lullaby_," a parody of Mrs. Hemans's Sunset Tree, but a

_parody_ only in the form of the verse, is a perfect gem. The _Lines

on Lafayette_, by Mrs. Willard, possess much merit. "_The Old Parish

Church_," will be read with feeling by the Virginia _antiquarian_--if

such a being exist among us. The stanzas to "_Estelle_," and the lines

which follow, were formerly addressed to us under the signature of

_Fra Diavolo_, and were not inserted, because accompanied by another

poem which the late editor deemed objectionable. The author has

requested us to suppress the latter, and has permitted the publication

of those pieces to which no exception was taken by our predecessor,

who was fully impressed with the spirit of true poetry which

characterizes these productions. The scene from the unpublished drama,

entitled "_Arnold and Andre_," will be read with uncommon interest.

The author is not unknown to fame, and in this fragment of a work,

which he informs us it is his intention to complete, he has given

earnest of the merit which it will possess as a whole. The description

of the battle of Princeton (the only occasion as we believe, in which

Washington drew his sword during the whole war,) is powerfully

described by the Old Officer, as also the great influence which the

father of our liberties possessed and exercised over the minds and

actions of his followers. It is with great pleasure we announce the

writer of this admirable scene, as one from whom future contributions

to the Messenger may be anticipated.

{534}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES.

[From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esquire.]

I left the Fort early in the morning of the 28th December, accompanied

as usual by my Spaniard and a few Canadian servants. The season thus

far had been uncommonly fine, not a spot of snow was visible on the

prairies, and, as we passed along, the Elk, Antelope, and Fox, were

seen in various directions reposing with all that lazy listlessness

which the warm suns of March and April never fail to produce upon both

man and beast. There was in fact nothing to remind us of the presence

of winter, except the barren nakedness of nature, and the long range

of the rocky mountains whose snowy peaks glittered in the sun, and

whose hoary summits stretching far to the north and south, were

undistinguishable from the white vapory clouds which floated around

them. Towards evening, however, a fresh gale sprung up from the north,

and a very sensible change in the temperature was experienced. We drew

our Buffalo robes closer around us, and jogged on, talking and

laughing away the time, inattentive to the signs of the storm which

was rapidly gathering. A few flakes of snow began to descend, and the

sun became suddenly obscured. We were now sensible that a snow storm

of unusual violence was fast approaching, and we laid whip to our

horses, in the hope of reaching the shelter afforded by a spot of

timbered ground, about eight miles distant. The tempest however had

already burst upon us in all its fury; large snow-flakes came whirling

and eddying about our heads, which were caught up by the wind before

they could fall to the earth;--darkness and confusion increased every

moment, and in half an hour it was impossible to see ten paces before

us. Our horses now became blind and ungovernable, some dashing away

with their riders across the prairies, heedless of what direction they

took, and others taking a firm and immoveable position with their

heads opposite to the wind and refusing to stir an inch. Of course,

all of us became soon separated. It was of no use to call out to each

other, for our voices were drowned in the roar of the tempest, and

could not be heard twenty steps. In this emergency I dismounted from

my steed, and leaving him to his fate, endeavored to keep myself warm

by vigorous exercise. Blinded and chilled by the wind and snow, I

stumbled forward, groping my way in darkness, and regardless of the

route which I took. At length, having proceeded some distance, I

tumbled headlong into a deep ravine filled with snow, from which, with

all my efforts, enfeebled as I was by fatigue, I was unable to

extricate myself. After some rest and many unavailing trials, I at

length crawled out, and perceiving at some little distance a kind of

shelter formed by an overhanging rock, I immediately sought it, and

wrapping my cloak and blanket around me, sat down in no enviable mood,

contemplating my forlorn and apparently hopeless condition. After

remaining in the ravine about two hours, the fury of the storm

subsided, when on making a careful examination I discovered a place in

the bank which was of comparatively easy ascent, and accordingly

succeeded in gaining the level prairies. I looked around for my

unfortunate companions, but no vestige of them was to be seen. The

snow lay piled up in ridges several feet high, and the wind though

considerably abated, continued to throw its light particles into such

dense masses or clouds as to intercept the view beyond a short

distance. There was a kind of hillock or mound in the prairie, about a

half mile off, to which I directed my steps in the hope that from its

summit I might make some discovery, and I was not disappointed. I

thought that I saw a few hundred yards distant, the whole of my party

collected together, and I instantly turned to join them. Guess my

astonishment, however, when in lieu of my unfortunate comrades, I

recognized my horse standing all benumbed and shivering with cold, in

company with a few old buffalo bulls. I approached very near before

they saw me, but on reaching out my hand to seize my horse's bridle,

the buffaloes took to flight, and whether it was that my horse being a

regular hunter, followed them from habit, or clung to them in the

present instance as companions in misfortune, I do not know,--but so

it was that he scampered off with the rest, and by his ill timed

desertion greatly aggravated my distress. I was now thirty miles from

home,--the night was fast approaching and the weather intensely cold.

What was I to do? If I lay in the open prairie, without the means of

kindling a fire, I knew that the snow would at once be my winding

sheet and grave: the thought too of my companions, and their uncertain

fate, added poignancy to my reflections.

After a few moments of melancholy musing, I determined to pursue my

horse, and if he could not be reclaimed to shoot him on the spot, in

order that I might recover such articles as he carried on his back,

and which might aid me in repelling the cold. I followed for nearly a

mile, the horse and buffalo still walking off before me, when my

patience being entirely exhausted, I took deliberate aim and fired.

The ball however fell short of its mark, the buffaloes ran off at full

speed, and my horse, greatly to my surprise, instead of following the

bad example of flight, suddenly pricked up his ears and looked

inquiringly around. Whether it was that he knew the report of my gun,

which had so often brought down the buffalo, when mounted on his back,

or that he really took compassion on my desolate situation and

repented his ungrateful conduct, it is of course impossible to tell,

but so it was that he turned round and hastened to meet me at a brisk

trot. When he approached very near, he stopped and seemed irresolute,

but having reloaded my gun I was resolved that he should not again

escape. I made towards him as warily as possible, when making a sudden

spring I seized the bridle, and in a few moments was safely seated on

his back.

A moment before I could have exclaimed with the ill-fated Richard, "a

horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" but now that I had reclaimed

my own, I found my situation but little alleviated. The sun had

already sunk far behind the mountains, and the wind, which blew

directly from the north, came with such intense bitterness that in

spite of my clothing and robe, it seemed to penetrate my very vitals.

I gazed round on the boundless prairie, in the hope of descrying some

timbered spot which should serve as a place of refuge, but all was one

dreary waste. Nothing was to be seen but a broad expanse of plain,

undulated by ridges of snow--and nothing heard but the hollow and

mournful gusts which swept over the desolate scene and sounded like a

{535} funeral dirge. My apprehensions were gloomy enough, and losing

all confidence in my own half-bewildered reason, I threw the reins on

the neck of my horse, and giving him the whip, surrendered the choice

of the route to his own better instinct. The sagacious brute seemed

conscious of his new responsibility, and as if to atone for his unkind

treatment after the storm, he gave a loud neigh, and then sprung off

at a sweeping gallop which he continued for an hour and a half. It was

now completely dark, and I was so thoroughly benumbed with cold, that

I could scarcely retain my seat. I felt indeed like one lingering on

the very brink of despair, when my horse suddenly gave another loud

neigh which was instantly returned. He sprang forward with renewed

life and spirit, and in a moment after, upon reaching the top of some

rising ground, a large fire sent up its cheerful blaze to my view; and

to my utter surprise as well as delight, I beheld my companions who

were so recently dispersed by the storm, comfortably seated around it.

With a loud shout of congratulation I hurried down the hill and joined

them. A sailor who has been wrecked at sea, and who after buffeting

the stormy billows until nature is exhausted, is at length cast on

shore by some friendly wave, never felt a more thrilling sensation of

pleasure or thankfulness, than I did at that moment. In the fulness of

my heart I most fervently thanked heaven for its protection; then

seizing my horse around the neck, I tenderly embraced him, and poured

forth my gratitude and forgiveness to his unconscious ear. Many no

doubt would be disposed to smile at this seeming folly; but let them

reflect that when the spirit has been raised from the lowest depths of

despair to the highest summit of hope and enjoyment--the man must be

cold indeed who does not evince some extravagance in feeling or

conduct, as in the case of the poor man, whose fortunes are suddenly

made by a prize in the lottery, some excuse may be given for a few

irrational freaks and absurd eccentricities. Like all excessive joy,

however, mine was but temporary--or at least not unalloyed, for I soon

discovered that one of my men was missing, having been separated from

his companions during the storm, and not since seen or heard of.

With the aid of a large fire, a sufficient number of blankets, and a

bottle of old Jamaica, we contrived to pass the night in tolerable

comfort, notwithstanding the cold, which was tremendous. Early next

morning, we proceeded to scour the prairie in search of our lost

companion. We searched until late in the evening--but all our efforts

were vain, and we returned once more to the camp. The unfortunate man

had doubtless fallen a victim to the fury of the storm,--for we never

heard of him more. His body probably lay wrapped in its snowy shroud

until spring, when at last it was revealed to the eager eyes of

ravenous birds and beasts. Death is in any shape appalling; and his

near approach will for a moment shake the stoutest heart. It will even

blanch the cheek of the hero, surrounded by the "pomp and circumstance

of glorious war." What then must be the situation of him who is

overtaken by the violence of the wintry storm, and sinks, exhausted by

cold and weariness, on the trackless prairie. For the last time he

hears the night wind, as it chants his funeral dirge,--whilst the

mournful howl of the starving wolf, or the scream of the ill-omened

raven, as he circles in the air, and watches the last vital spark as

it vanishes--disturbs the dying moments of the victim!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER FIFTEENTH.

Foundling Hospital--Hotel Carnavalet--Count de Ségur.

PARIS, ----.

This morning, dear Jane, we visited the Foundling Hospital. Being told

we should go there very early to behold the emptying of the baskets in

which the babes are deposited at the gate during the night, we

hastened there ere seven o'clock; but we had been misinformed, and

were disappointed in our wishes. The infants are carried there at all

hours; none however were received during our visit. We were conducted

through the numerous wards, and saw many forsaken little creatures--a

distressing sight, indeed! Then to behold the sufferings of such as

were diseased! Some of them lying on hard beds, with a bright light

from opposite windows torturing their eyes, which were generally

inflamed from being thus exposed. Some of the nurses too, were

exceedingly rough. For instance, in an apartment attached to the sick

wards, four or five women were occupied in _dosing_ and feeding

several babes--one of them asked another who stood by a table, to hand

her a spoon; instead of handing it, she threw it, and so carelessly,

that the poor child received a blow on the cheek. I could have boxed

the vixen! Each infant is swathed, and wears on its wrist a piece of

pewter, telling the hour, the day of the month, and the year of its

reception at the hospital; this enables a parent who may desire to

reclaim a child, to find it. About six thousand children are annually

received here, and frequently as many as twenty in the course of a

day. A considerable number are sent into the country to be nursed, and

during our stay, a half a dozen carts drove off, filled with peasant

women and their helpless charges. The destiny of these we thought

enviable, when compared with that of those who remained. At two years

of age, the children are removed to another hospital, and there

instructed until old enough to be put to some trade.

After breakfast, we visited a place of a more pleasing description;

this was the Hotel de Carnavalet, formerly the residence of Madame de

Sévigné. It is now inhabited by a Monsieur de P----, an eminent

engineer, with whom we have become acquainted, and who kindly invited

us there, to see the very chamber and cabinet occupied by that lady,

when she penned those charming letters to the Countess de Grignan. The

window of the cabinet overlooks a small garden, in which is a

flourishing yew tree, that was planted by Madame de Sévigné herself.

As I viewed it, and thought of her who reared it, Lord Byron's

beautiful lines on the cypress came forcibly to my mind.

"Dark tree! still sad when other's grief is fled,

The only constant mourner o'er the dead."

The charming old Count de Ségur has returned to town, and we have paid

him our respects at his residence in the Rue Duphot. He was here

yesterday, and invited us to dine with him _en famille_ to-day; we are

going, and I shall close my letter with an account of the party, when

we come back. At present I must abandon the writing desk for the

toilet table.

{536} Eleven at night. We reached home a half an hour since, and

having changed my dress for a robe de chambre, behold me quite at my

ease, and again in possession of the pen. We spent our hours

delightfully at the Count's! On alighting there, we were for some

minutes sole tenants of the parlor, and thus had an opportunity of

examining a beautiful portrait that decorates the wall of the room,

and which we afterwards learned, is that of the late Countess de

Ségur. It was painted during her youth, and if the resemblance be a

good one, she must have been a lovely creature! Our observations were

interrupted by the entrance of the Count from his library, adjoining

the parlor--and our circle was soon increased by the addition of

several French gentlemen, to whom he introduced us, but I quite forget

their names. One of them had recently been in Greece, and described a

horrible scene of carnage he witnessed there. In the evening the Count

had many visiters, this being the time he prefers his friends to call

on him. Among those who came in, was the authoress of "Adèle de

Senange," that interesting novel we read together last winter. You may

depend I heard the name of Madame de S---- announced with great

satisfaction. She entered, and we beheld a plain looking woman,

apparently about fifty years old. Then there was Monsieur de Marbois,

who wrote the history of Louisiana, one of the United States; and

Count Philip de Ségur, author of the "Russian Campaign," who is

considered the ablest military historian of the age. I am now so

sleepy I can write no more, so bid you, in the name of all of us, a

fond adieu.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER SIXTEENTH.

Saint Denis--Montmorency--the Rendezvous--the Hermitage--Enghien--Mass

at the Tuileries' Chapel--the Bourbons.

PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane_:--