Should any person doubt the preference usually given to what are

called accomplishments, over matters of infinitely higher real value,

let them ask as many pupils as they please, "what inquiries do your

parents, guardians, and friends most frequently make relative to your

studies and progress at school?" The answers will furnish undeniable

proof; for a very large proportion will be found to have been

substantially like the following: "How do you come on in your Music,

your Dancing, your Drawing, or your French?" according as they have

been striving to acquire one or more of these inestimable outfits for

their progress through Time to the realms of Eternity. It is pitiable,

most pitiable, to see the thousands of innocent little girls

throughout our country, many of them without the slightest taste or

talent for these things, still laboring four, five, or six hours in

every twenty-four, to gain a little elementary knowledge of what they

will generally abandon immediately after leaving school, or at

farthest, as soon as they get married--to gain which knowledge has

been the chief object, the painful toil for so many irrevocable years

of all this warring against nature, common sense, and moral fitness.

But suppose the success of such training as ample as heart can wish,

and the poor little creatures are made prodigies of early proficiency

in arts, which are very soon to be of little or no real use to them?

Is it politic--is it wise--in fact, is it not a most sinful breach of

parental duty, to impart to our daughters, as among the most desirable

things in life, strong tastes which they can scarcely gratify at all

without frequently seeking company abroad, nor often indulge at home,

unless by neglecting some of those important, indispensable domestic

employments which devolve exclusively on the mistress of the family?

Let it not be inferred from any of the foregoing remarks, that I am an

enemy to what are called fashionable schools--my enmity extends _only

to some of their practices_. Let _them_ be reformed, and I shall have

no enmity whatever to the title "fashionable," if it be deemed

essential to gain scholars for those who keep them. Let them make it

fashionable to fit their pupils for private life, and for all its

necessary duties, by giving them genuine moral and religious

principles first and above all things; then let accomplishments follow

in their proper, but very subordinate place, and they will have no

warmer friend than myself.

I am well aware that I subject myself to the charge of great

presumption in censuring, as I have done, many of the principal

matters taught at present in fashionable, as well as other schools,

both for boys and girls; and to this charge I am prepared patiently to

submit, provided it be made, if at all, after a full, fair, and candid

examination of all that I have said on these topics. To retract

however, my accusations, will be impossible, unless I could rid myself

of the conscientious belief, and thorough conviction, that not only

the temporal, but eternal happiness, both of the present and future

generations, depends on a radical change being made in regard to the

principal objects of Education, as well as in the means of attaining

them. These _must be_ to prepare us for this life--not as an _end_,

but only as the means of attaining happiness in the next.

My business, however, being more to point out faults, than

remedies--rather to describe diseases, than to offer nostrums for

their removal, I shall leave the curative process to other hands,

sincerely hoping that it may be attempted by some much abler moral

physicians, who will apply themselves to the Herculean task with a

degree of zeal, vigor, and perseverance fully commensurate to the

difficulty and vital importance of the undertaking. There can be no

greater object of human ambition--no more exalted purpose for human

effort--nor any human occupation, the results of which, if the

laborers in this sacred vineyard be successful, can compare with this

either in degree or extent--since human happiness, both temporal and

eternal, is its end, and must be its final consummation. Riches often

perish, and are followed by poverty, wretchedness, and extreme

suffering. Honors frequently fade away, or are snatched from us, to be

succeeded by persecution, calumny, hatred, and disgrace. Sensual

gratifications may never come at all, or _if they do_, bitter

recollections, bodily diseases--nay, incurable remorse for their

indulgence, rarely fail to come soon after; and all this too in

defiance, as it were, of what the world generally calls "good

Education." But pure Religion and true Christian morality impart a

peace to the soul which nothing in nature can destroy, nor even long

disturb; while the unutterable joys and delights of a well spent life

are the sure fruits, the certain rewards of every system of

instruction well followed out, which, without any exclusion either of

science, literature, foreign languages, or tasteful accomplishments,

makes the gospel of our blessed Saviour its beginning, its middle, and

its end.

Milton is indebted for some of the finest passages in the Paradise

Lost to Marino's "Sospetti D'Herode."

{735}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LOSS OF BREATH.

A TALE A LA BLACKWOOD. BY EDGAR A. POE.

O breathe not, &c.--_Moore's Melodies_.

The most notorious ill-fortune must, in the end, yield to the untiring

courage of philosophy--as the most stubborn city to the ceaseless

vigilance of an enemy. Salmanezer, as we have it in the holy writings,

lay three years before Samaria: yet it fell. Sardanapalus--see

Diodorus--maintained himself seven in Nineveh: but to no purpose. Troy

expired at the close of the second lustrum: and Azoth, as Aristæus

declares upon his honor as a gentleman, opened at last her gates to

Psammitticus, after having barred them for the fifth part of a

century.

* * * * *

"Thou wretch!--thou vixen!--thou shrew!"--said I to my wife on the

morning after our wedding--"thou witch!--thou hag!--thou

whippersnapper!--thou sink of iniquity!--thou fiery-faced quintessence

of all that is abominable!--thou--thou--" Here standing upon tiptoe,

seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth close to her ear, I

was preparing to launch forth a new and more decided epithet of

opprobrium which should not fail, if ejaculated, to convince her of

her insignificance, when, to my extreme horror and astonishment, I

discovered that _I had lost my breath_.

The phrases "I am out of breath," "I have lost my breath," &c. are

often enough repeated in common conversation, but it had never

occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak could _boná

fide_ and actually happen! Imagine--that is if you have a fanciful

turn--imagine I say, my wonder--my consternation--my despair!

There is a good genius, however, which has never, at any time,

entirely deserted me. In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a

sense of propriety, _et le chemin des passions me conduit_--as

Rousseau says it did him--_à la philosophie veritable_.

Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree the

occurrence had affected me, I unhesitatingly determined to conceal at

all events the matter from my wife until farther experience should

discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity. Altering my

countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its bepuffed and distorted

appearance, to an expression of arch and coquettish benignity, I gave

my lady a pat on the one cheek, and a kiss on the other, and without

saying one syllable, (Furies! I could not,) left her astonished at my

drollery, as I pirouetted out of the room in a _Pas de Zephyr_.

Behold me then safely ensconced in my private _boudoir_, a fearful

instance of the ill consequences attending upon irascibility--alive

with the qualifications of the dead--dead with the propensities of the

living--an anomaly on the face of the earth--being very calm, yet

breathless.

Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was entirely

gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my life had been

at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror. Hard fate!--yet

there was some alleviation to the first overwhelming paroxysm of my

sorrow. I found upon trial that the powers of utterance which, upon my

inability to proceed in the conversation with my wife, I then

concluded to be totally destroyed, were in fact only partially

impeded, and I discovered that had I, at that interesting crisis,

dropped my voice to a singularly deep guttural, I might still have

continued to her the communication of my sentiments; this pitch of

voice (the guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the

breath, but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the

throat.

Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed in

meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory kind. A

thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession of my

soul--and even the phantom Suicide flitted across my brain; but it is

a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the obvious and

the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I shudderd at

self-murder as the most decided of atrocities, while the tabby cat

purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very water-dog wheezed

assiduously under the table, each taking to itself much merit for the

strength of its lungs, and all obviously done in derision of my own

pulmonary incapacity.

Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length heard

the footstep of my wife descending the staircase. Being now assured of

her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart to the scene of my

disaster.

Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous

search. It was possible, I thought, that concealed in some obscure

corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be found the lost

object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory--it might even have a

tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many points of philosophy, are

still very unphilosophical. William Godwin, however, says in his

"Mandeville," that "invisible things are the only realities." This,

all will allow, is a case in point. I would have the judicious reader

pause before accusing such asseverations of an undue quantum of

absurdity. Anaxagoras--it will be remembered--maintained that snow is

black. This I have since found to be the case.

Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the

contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be only

a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle of

_billets-doux_ from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well here

observe that this confirmation of my lady's partiality for Mr. W.

occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lacko'breath should admire

any thing so dissimilar to myself was a natural and necessary evil. I

am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent appearance, and, at

the same time somewhat diminutive in stature. What wonder then that

the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance, and his altitude which has

grown into a proverb, should have met with all due estimation in the

eyes of Mrs. Lacko'breath? It is by logic similar to this that true

philosophy is enabled to set misfortune at defiance. But to return.

My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet after

closet--drawer after drawer--corner after corner--were scrutinized to

no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself sure of my prize,

having, in rummaging a dressing-case, accidentally demolished a bottle

(I had a remarkably sweet breath) of Hewitt's "Seraphic and

Highly-Scented Extract of Heaven or Oil of Archangels"--which, as an

agreeable perfume, I here take the liberty of recommending.

{736} With a heavy heart I returned to my _boudoir_--there to ponder

upon some method of eluding my wife's penetration, until I could make

arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had

already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I might,

with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my unhappy

calamity--a calamity calculated, even more than beggary, to estrange

the affections of the multitude, and to draw down upon the wretch the

well-merited indignation of the virtuous and the happy. I was not long

in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I committed to memory the entire

tragedies of ----, and ----. I had the good fortune to recollect that

in the accentuation of these dramas, or at least of such portion of

them as is allotted to their heroes, the tones of voice in which I

found myself deficient were altogether unnecessary, and that the deep

guttural was expected to reign monotonously throughout.

I practised for some time by the borders of a well-frequented

marsh--herein, however, having no reference to a similar proceeding of

Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and conscientiously my own.

Thus armed at all points, I determined to make my wife believe that I

was suddenly smitten with a passion for the stage. In this I succeeded

to a miracle; and to every question or suggestion found myself at

liberty to reply in my most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some

passage from the tragedies, any portion of which, as I soon took great

pleasure in observing, would apply equally well to any particular

subject. It is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of

such passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint--the

showing my teeth--the working my knees--the shuffling my feet--or in

any of those unmentionable graces which are now justly considered the

characteristics of a popular performer. To be sure they spoke of

confining me in a straight jacket--but good God! they never suspected

me of having lost my breath.

Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very early

one morning in the mail stage for ----, giving it to be understood

among my acquaintances that business of the last importance required

my immediate personal attendance.

The coach was crammed to repletion--but in the uncertain twilight the

features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without making

any effectual resistance I suffered myself to be placed between two

gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while a third, of a size larger,

requesting pardon for the liberty he was about to take, threw himself

upon my body at full length, and falling asleep in an instant, drowned

all my guttural ejaculations for relief, in a snore which would have

put to the blush the roarings of a Phalarian bull. Happily the state

of my respiratory faculties rendered suffocation an accident entirely

out of the question.

As however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the

outskirts of the city, my tormentor arising and adjusting his

shirt-collar, thanked me in a very friendly manner for my civility.

Seeing that I remained motionless, (all my limbs were dislocated, and

my head twisted on one side,) his apprehensions began to be excited;

and arousing the rest of the passengers, he communicated, in a very

decided manner, his opinion that a dead man had been palmed upon them

during the night for a living _boná fide_ and responsible

fellow-traveller--here giving me a thump on the right eye, by way of

evidencing the truth of his suggestion.

Thereupon all, one after another, (there were nine in company)

believed it their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising

physician, too, having applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and found

me without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was pronounced a

true bill; and the whole party expressed their determination to endure

tamely no such impositions for the future, and to proceed no farther

with any such carcasses for the present.

I was here accordingly thrown out at the sign of the "Crow," (by which

tavern the coach happened to be passing) without meeting with any

farther accident than the breaking of both my arms under the left hind

wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the driver the justice to

state that he did not forget to throw after me the largest of my

trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my head, fractured my skull in

a manner at once interesting and extraordinary.

The landlord of the "Crow," who is a hospitable man, finding that my

trunk contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little trouble he

might take in my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon of his

acquaintance, and delivered me to his care with a bill and receipt for

five and twenty dollars.

The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations

immediately. Having, however, cut off my ears, he discovered signs of

animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring apothecary

with whom to consult in the emergency. In case, however, of his

suspicions with regard to my existence proving ultimately correct, he,

in the meantime, made an incision in my stomach, and removed several

of my viscera for private dissection.

The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I

endeavored to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might, and

making the most furious contortions--for the operations of the surgeon

had, in a measure, restored me to the possession of my faculties. All,

however, was attributed to the effects of a new Galvanic Battery,

wherewith the apothecary, who is really a man of information,

performed several curious experiments, in which, from my personal

share in their fulfilment I could not help feeling deeply interested.

It was a source of mortification to me nevertheless, that although I

made several attempts at conversation, my powers of speech were so

entirely _in abeyance_, that I could not even open my mouth; much less

then make reply to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which,

under other circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the

Hippocratian Pathology would have afforded me a ready confutation.

Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners remanded

me for further examination. I was taken up into a garret; and the

surgeon's lady having accommodated me with drawers and stockings, the

surgeon himself fastened my hands, and tied up my jaws with a pocket

handkerchief--then bolted the door on the outside as he hurried to his

dinner, leaving me alone to silence and to meditation.

I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken had

not my mouth been tied up by the pocket-handkerchief. Consoling myself

with this reflection, I was mentally repeating some passages of the

{737} ----, as is my custom before resigning myself to sleep, when two

cats, of a greedy and vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the

wall, leaped up with a flourish _à la Catalani_, and alighting

opposite one another on my visage, betook themselves to unseemly and

indecorous contention for the paltry consideration of my nose.

But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the

throne of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the cutting

off his nose gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the loss of a few

ounces of my countenance proved the salvation of my body. Aroused by

the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst, at a single effort,

the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking across the room I cast a

glance of contempt at the belligerents, and throwing open the sash to

their extreme horror and disappointment, precipitated myself--very

dexterously--from the window.

The mail-robber W----, to whom I bore a singular resemblance, was at

this moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected for his

execution in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long-continued ill

health, had obtained him the privilege of remaining unmanacled; and

habited in his gallows costume--a dress very similar to my own--he lay

at full length in the bottom of the hangman's cart (which happened to

be under the windows of the surgeon at the moment of my precipitation)

without any other guard than the driver who was asleep, and two

recruits of the sixth infantry, who were drunk.

As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the vehicle.

W----, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity. Leaping up

immediately he bolted out behind, and turning down an alley, was out

of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits aroused by the

bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of the transaction.

Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart of the felon, standing

upright in the cart before their eyes, they were of opinion that "the

rascal, (meaning W----) was after making his escape," (so they

expressed themselves) and, having communicated this opinion to one

another, they took each a dram, and then knocked me down with the

but-ends of their muskets.

It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of course

nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my inevitable fate. I

resigned myself thereto, with a feeling half stupid, half acrimonious.

Being little of a cynic, I had all the sentiments of a dog. The

hangman, however, adjusted the noose about my neck. The drop fell. My

convulsions were said to be extraordinary. Several gentlemen swooned,

and some ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit, too, availed

himself of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the

spot, his admirable painting of the "Marsyas flayed alive."

I will endeavor to depict my sensations upon the gallows. To write

upon such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author

should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony

wrote a treatise upon drunkenness.

Die I certainly did not. The sudden jerk given to my neck upon the

falling of the drop, merely proved a corrective to the unfortunate

twist afforded me by the gentleman in the coach. Although my body

certainly _was_, I had, alas! no breath _to be_ suspended; and but for

the shaking of the rope, the pressure of the knot under my ear, and

the rapid determination of blood to the brain, should, I dare say,

have experienced very little inconvenience.

The latter feeling, however, grew momentarily more painful. I heard my

heart beating with violence--the veins in my hands and wrists swelled

nearly to bursting--my temples throbbed tempestuously--and I felt that

my eyes were starting from their sockets. Yet when I say that in spite

of all this my sensations were not absolutely intolerable, I will not

be believed.

There were noises in my ears--first like the tolling of huge

bells--then like the beating of a thousand drums--then, lastly, like

the low, sullen murmurs of the sea. But these noises were very far

from disagreeable.

Although, too, the powers of my mind were confused and distorted, yet

I was--strange to say!--well aware of such confusion and distortion. I

could, with unerring promptitude determine at will in what particulars

my sensations were correct--and in what particulars I wandered from

the path. I could even feel with accuracy _how far_--to _what very

point_, such wanderings had misguided me, but still without the power

of correcting my deviations. I took besides, at the same time, a wild

delight in analyzing my conceptions.[1]

[Footnote 1: The general reader will I dare say recognize, in these

_sensations_ of Mr. Lacko'breath, much of the absurd

_metaphysicianism_ of the redoubted Schelling.]

Memory, which, of all other faculties, should have first taken its

departure, seemed on the contrary to have been endowed with quadrupled

power. Each incident of my past life flitted before me like a shadow.

There was not a brick in the building where I was born--not a dog-leaf

in the primer I had thumbed over when a child--not a tree in the

forest where I hunted when a boy--not a street in the cities I had

traversed when a man--that I did not at that time most palpably

behold. I could repeat to myself entire lines, passages, names, acts,

chapters, books, from the studies of my earlier days; and while, I

dare say, the crowd around me were blind with horror, or aghast with

awe, I was alternately with Æschylus, a demi-god, or with

Aristophanes, a frog.

* * * * *

A dreamy delight now took hold upon my spirit, and I imagined that I

had been eating opium, or feasting upon the Hashish of the old

Assassins. But glimpses of pure, unadulterated reason--during which I

was still buoyed up by the hope of finally escaping that death which

hovered, like a vulture above me--were still caught occasionally by my

soul.

By some unusual pressure of the rope against my face, a portion of the

cap was chafed away, and I found to my astonishment that my powers of

vision were not altogether destroyed. A sea of waving heads rolled

around me. In the intensity of my delight I eyed them with feelings of

the deepest commiseration, and blessed, as I looked upon the haggard

assembly, the superior benignity of _my_ proper stars.

I now reasoned, rapidly I believe--profoundly I am sure--upon

principles of common law--propriety of that law especially, for which

I hung--absurdities in political economy which till then I had never

been able to acknowledge--dogmas in the old Aristotelians now {738}

generally denied, but not the less intrinsically true--detestable

school formulæ in Bourdon, in Garnier, in Lacroix--synonymes in

Crabbe--lunar-lunatic theories in St. Pierre--falsities in the Pelham

novels--beauties in Vivian Grey--more than beauties in Vivian

Grey--profundity in Vivian Grey--genius in Vivian Grey--every thing in

Vivian Grey.

Then came, like a flood, Coleridge, Kant, Fitche, and Pantheism--then

like a deluge, the Academie, Pergola, La Scala, San Carlo, Paul,

Albert, Noblet, Ronzi Vestris, Fanny Bias, and Taglioni.

* * * * *

A rapid change was now taking place in my sensations. The last shadows

of connection flitted away from my meditations. A storm--a tempest of

ideas, vast, novel, and soul-stirring, bore my spirit like a feather

afar off. Confusion crowded upon confusion like a wave upon a wave. In

a very short time Schelling himself would have been satisfied with my

entire loss of self-identity. The crowd became a mass of mere

abstraction.

About this period I became aware of a heavy fall and shock--but,

although the concussion jarred throughout my frame, I had not the

slightest idea of its having been sustained in my own proper person;

and thought of it as of an incident peculiar to some other

existence--an idiosyncrasy belonging to some other Ens.

It was at this moment--as I afterwards discovered--that having been

suspended for the full term of execution, it was thought proper to

remove my body from the gallows--this, the more especially as the real

culprit had now been retaken and recognized.

Much sympathy was now exercised in my behalf--and as no one in the

city appeared to identify my body, it was ordered that I should be

interred in the public sepulchre early in the following morning. I

lay, in the meantime, without signs of life--although from the moment,

I suppose, when the rope was loosened from my neck, a dim

consciousness of my situation oppressed me like the night-mare.

I was laid out in a chamber sufficiently small, and very much

encumbered with furniture--yet to me it appeared of a size to contain

the universe. I have never before or since, in body or in mind,

suffered half so much agony as from that single idea. Strange! that

the simple conception of abstract magnitude--of infinity--should have

been accompanied with pain. Yet so it was. "With how vast a

difference," said I, "in life and in death--in time and in

eternity--here and hereafter, shall our merest sensations be

imbodied!"

The day died away, and I was aware that it was growing dark--yet the

same terrible conceit still overwhelmed me. Nor was it confined to the

boundaries of the apartment--it extended, although in a more definite

manner, to all objects, and, perhaps I will not be understood in

saying that it extended also to all _sentiments_. My fingers as they

lay cold, clammy, stiff, and pressing helplessly one against another,

were, in my imagination, swelled to a size according with the

proportions of the Antoeus. Every portion of my frame betook of their

enormity. The pieces of money--I well remember--which being placed

upon my eyelids, failed to keep them effectually closed, seemed huge,

interminable chariot-wheels of the Olympia, or of the Sun.

Yet it is very singular that I experienced no sense of weight--of

gravity. On the contrary I was put to much inconvenience by that

buoyancy--that tantalizing _difficulty of keeping down_, which is felt

by the swimmer in deep water. Amid the tumult of my terrors I laughed

with a hearty internal laugh to think what incongruity there would

be--could I arise and walk--between the elasticity of my motion, and

the mountain of my form.

* * * * *

The night came--and with it a new crowd of horrors. The consciousness

of my approaching interment, began to assume new distinctness, and

consistency--yet never for one moment did I imagine _that I was not

actually dead_.

"This then"--I mentally ejaculated--"this darkness which is palpable,

and oppresses with a sense of suffocation--this--this--is indeed

_death_. This is death--this is death the terrible--death the holy.

This is the death undergone by Regulus--and equally by Seneca.

Thus--thus, too, shall I always remain--always--always remain. Reason

is folly, and Philosophy a lie. No one will know my sensations, my

horror--my despair. Yet will men still persist in reasoning, and

philosophizing, and making themselves fools. There is, I find, no

hereafter but this. This--this--this--is the only Eternity!--and what,

O Baalzebub!--_what_ an Eternity!--to lie in this vast--this awful

void--a hideous, vague, and unmeaning anomaly--motionless, yet wishing

for motion--powerless, yet longing for power--forever, forever, and

forever!"

But the morning broke at length--and with its misty and gloomy dawn

arrived in triple horror the paraphernalia of the grave. Then--and not

till then--was I fully sensible of the fearful fate hanging over me.

The phantasms of the night had faded away with its shadows, and the

actual terrors of the yawning tomb left me no heart for the bug-bear

speculations of Transcendentalism.

I have before mentioned that my eyes were but imperfectly closed--yet

as I could not move them in any degree, those objects alone which

crossed the direct line of vision were within the sphere of my

comprehension. But across that line of vision spectral and stealthy

figures were continually flitting, like the ghosts of Banquo. They

were making hurried preparations for my interment. First came the

coffin which they placed quietly by my side. Then the undertaker with

attendants and a screw-driver. Then a stout man whom I could

distinctly see and who took hold of my feet--while one whom I could

only feel lifted me by the head and shoulders. Together they placed me

in the coffin, and drawing the shroud up over my face proceeded to

fasten down the lid. One of the screws, missing its proper direction,

was screwed by the carelessness of the undertaker deep--deep--down

into my shoulder. A convulsive shudder ran throughout my frame. With

what horror, with what sickening of heart did I reflect that one

minute sooner a similar manifestation of life, would, in all

probability, have prevented my inhumation. But alas! it was now too

late, and hope died away within my bosom as I felt myself lifted upon

the shoulders of men--carried down the stairway--and thrust within the

hearse.

During the brief passage to the cemetery my sensations, which for some

time had been lethargic and dull, {739} assumed, all at once, a degree

of intense and unnatural vivacity for which I can in no manner

account. I could distinctly hear the rustling of the plumes--the

whispers of the attendants--the solemn breathings of the horses of

death. Confined as I was in that narrow and strict embrace, I could

feel the quicker or slower movement of the procession--the

restlessness of the driver--the windings of the road as it led us to

the right or to the left. I could distinguish the peculiar odor of the

coffin--the sharp acid smell of the steel screws. I could see the

texture of the shroud as it lay close against my face; and was even

conscious of the rapid variations in light and shade which the

flapping to and fro of the sable hangings occasioned within the body

of the vehicle.

In a short time however, we arrived at the place of sculpture, and I

felt myself deposited within the tomb. The entrance was secured--they

departed--and I was left alone. A line of Marston's "Malcontent,"

"Death's a good fellow and keeps open house,"

struck me at that moment as a palpable lie. Sullenly I lay at length,

the quick among the dead--and _Anacharsis inter Scythas_.

From what I overheard early in the morning, I was led to believe that

the occasions when the vault was made use of were of very rare

occurrence. It was probable that many months might elapse before the

doors of the tomb would be again unbarred--and even should I survive

until that period, what means could I have more than at present, of

making known my situation or of escaping from the coffin? I resigned

myself, therefore, with much tranquillity to my fate, and fell, after

many hours, into a deep and deathlike sleep.

How long I remained thus is to me a mystery. When I awoke my limbs

were no longer cramped with the cramp of death--I was no longer

without the power of motion. A very slight exertion was sufficient to

force off the lid of my prison--for the dampness of the atmosphere had

already occasioned decay in the woodwork around the screws.

My steps as I groped around the sides of my habitation were, however,

feeble and uncertain, and I felt all the gnawings of hunger with the

pains of intolerable thirst. Yet, as time passed away, it is strange

that I experienced little uneasiness from these scourges of the earth,

in comparisons with the more terrible visitations of the fiend

_Ennui_. Stranger still were the resources by which I endeavored to

banish him from my presence.

The sepulchre was large and subdivided into many compartments, and I

busied myself in examining the peculiarities of their construction. I

determined the length and breadth of my abode. I counted and recounted

the stones of the masonry. But there were other methods by which I

endeavored to lighten the tedium of my hours. Feeling my way among the

numerous coffins ranged in order around, I lifted them down, one by

one, and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about

the mortality within.

"This," I reflected, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated, and

rotund--"this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word, an

unhappy--an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not to walk,

but to waddle--to pass through life not like a human being, but like

an elephant--not like a man, but like a rhinoceros.

"His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions--and his

circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step forward,

it has been his misfortune to take two towards the right, and three

towards the left. His studies have been confined to the Philosophy of

Crabbe.

"He can have had no idea of the wonders of a _Pirouette_. To him a

_Pas de Papillon_ has been an abstract conception.

"He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has never viewed from

any steeple the glories of a metropolis.

"Heat has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been

the days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and

suffocation--of mountains upon mountains--of Pelion upon Ossa.

"He was short of breath--to say all in a word--he was short of breath.

"He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was the

inventor of self-moving fans--wind-sails--and ventilators. He

patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker--and died miserably in attempting

to smoke a cigar.

"His was a case in which I feel deep interest--a lot in which I

sincerely sympathize."

"But here," said I--"here"--and I dragged spitefully from its

receptacle a gaunt, tall, and peculiar-looking form, whose remarkable

appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome familiarity--"here,"

said I--"here is a wretch entitled to no earthly commiseration." Thus

saying, in order to obtain a more distinct view of my subject, I

applied my thumb and forefinger to his nose, and, causing him to

assume a sitting position upon the ground, held him, thus, at the

length of my arm, while I continued my soliloquy.

--"entitled," I repeated, "to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed

would think of compassionating a shadow? Besides--has he not had his

full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the originator of

tall monuments--shot-towers--lightning-rods--lombardy-poplars. His

treatise upon 'Shades and Shadows' has immortalized him.

"He went early to college and studied Pneumatics. He then came

home--talked eternally--and played upon the French horn.

"He patronized the bag-pipes. Captain Barclay, who walked against

Time, would not walk against _him_. Windham and Allbreath were his

favorite writers. He died gloriously while inhaling gas--_levique

flatu corrumpitur_, like the _fama pudicitiæ_ in Hieronymus.[2] He was

indubitably a"----

[Footnote 2: _Tenera res in feminis fama pudicitiæ et quasi flos

pulcherrimus, cito ad levem marcessit auram, levique flatu

corrumpitur--maxime_, &c.--Hieronymus ad Salvinam.]

"How _can_ you?--how--_can_--you?"--interrupted the object of my

animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate

exertion, the bandage around his jaws--"how _can_ you, Mr.

Lacko'breath, be so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by

the nose? Did you not see how they had fastened up my mouth--and you

_must_ know--if you know any thing--what a vast superfluity of breath

I have to dispose of! If you {740} do _not_ know, however, sit down

and you shall see. In my situation it is really a great relief to be

able to open one's mouth--to be able to expatiate--to be able to

communicate with a person like yourself who do not think yourself

called upon at every period to interrupt the thread of a gentleman's

discourse. Interruptions are annoying and should undoubtedly be

abolished--don't you think so?--no reply, I beg you,--one person is

enough to be speaking at a time. I shall be done, by and bye, and then

you may begin. How the devil, sir, did you get into this place?--not a

word I beseech you--been here some time myself--terrible

accident!--heard of it I suppose--awful calamity!--walking under your

windows--some short while ago--about the time you were

stage-struck--horrible occurrence! heard of 'catching one's breath,'

eh?--hold your tongue I tell you!--I caught somebody else's!--had

always too much of my own--met Blab at the corner of the

street--would'nt give me a chance for a word--could'nt get in a

syllable edgeways--attacked, consequently, with Epilepsis--Blab made

his escape--damn all fools!--they took me up for dead, and put me in

this place--pretty doings all of them!--heard all you said about

me--every word a

lie--horrible!--wonderful!--outrageous!--hideous!--incomprehensible!--

et cetera--et cetera--et cetera--et cetera"----

It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a

discourse; or the extravagant joy with which I became gradually

convinced that the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman--whom

I soon recognized as my neighbor Windenough--was, in fact, the

identical expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with my

wife. Time--place--and incidental circumstances rendered it a matter

beyond question. I did not however, immediately release my hold upon

Mr. W.'s proboscis--not at least during the long period in which the

inventor of lombardy poplars continued to favor me with his

explanations. In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence

which has ever been my predominating trait.

I reflected that many difficulties might still lie in the path of my

preservation which extreme exertion on my part would be alone able to

surmount. Many persons, I considered, are prone to estimate

commodities in their possession--however valueless to the then

proprietor--however troublesome, or distressing--in precise ratio with

the advantages to be derived by others from their attainment--or by

themselves from their abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr.

Windenough? In displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was at

present so willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to the

exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world--I

remembered with a sigh--who will not scruple to take unfair

opportunities with even a next door neighbor--and (this remark is from

Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most anxious to

throw off the burden of their own calamities that they feel the least

desirous of relieving them in others.

Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my grasp

upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to model my

reply.

"Monster!"--I began in a tone of the deepest indignation--"monster!

and double-winded idiot!--Dost _thou_ whom, for thine iniquities, it

has pleased Heaven to accurse with a two-fold respiration--dost

_thou_, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an

old acquaintance?--'I lie,' forsooth!--and 'hold my tongue,' to be

sure--pretty conversation, indeed, to a gentleman with a single

breath!--all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the

calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer--to curtail the

superfluities of thine unhappy respiration." Like Brutus I paused for

a reply--with which, like a tornado, Mr. Windenough immediately

overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon protestation, and apology

upon apology. There were no terms with which he was unwilling to

comply, and there were none of which I failed to take the fullest

advantage.

Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered me

the respiration--for which--having carefully examined it--I gave him

afterwards a receipt.

I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in a

manner so cursory of a transaction so impalpable. It will be thought

that I should have entered more minutely into the details of an

occurrence by which--and all this is very true--much new light might

be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of physical philosophy.

To all this, I am sorry, that I cannot reply. A hint is the only

answer which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances--but I

think it much safer upon consideration to say as little as possible

about an affair so delicate--so _delicate_, I repeat, and at the same

time involving the interests of a third party whose resentment I have

not the least desire, at this moment, of incurring.

We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an

escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of our

resuscitated voices was soon efficiently apparent. Scissors, the Whig

Editor, republished a treatise upon "the nature and origin of

subterranean noises." A reply--rejoinder--confutation--and

justification followed in the columns of an ultra Gazette. It was not

until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy, that the

appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both parties to have

been decidedly in the wrong.

I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in a

life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again recalling to

the attention of the reader the merits of that indiscriminate

philosophy which is a sure and ready shield against those shafts of

calamity which can be neither seen, felt, nor fully understood. It was

in the spirit of this wisdom that, among the ancient Hebrews, it was

believed the gates of Heaven would be inevitably opened to that

sinner, or saint, who with good lungs and implicit confidence, should

vociferate the word "_Amen!_" It was in the spirit of this wisdom that

when a great plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain

attempted for its removal, Epimenides--as Laertius relates in his

second book of the life of that philosopher--advised the erection of a

shrine and temple _to prostekonti Theo_--"to the proper God."

The "Acajou et Zirphile" of Du Clos is a whimsical and amusing Fairy

Tale, ingeniously composed in illustration of a series of grotesque,

and extravagant engravings, whose figures, rats, apes, butterflies,

and men, have no earthly meaning or connection but that given by the

pen of the writer.

{741}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CUPID'S SPORT.

"And is this Cupid's realm?--if so, good by!

Cupid, and Cupid's votaries I fly:

No offering to his altar do I bring--

No bleeding heart, nor hymeneal ring."

In the third number of the Messenger, my good reader, you and I were

engaged in taking a peep at Cupid's Sport. Unless you have fallen out

with me, (as I certainly have not with you,) we will again travel

together, in a half merry, half serious mood, through some three or

four pages. We shall perhaps be forced to scramble over hedges matted

with brambles, or amble along some grassy mead or velvet lawn; it may

be we

"Must pore where babbling waters flow,

And watch unfolding roses blow."

You no doubt remember in what a sad plight we left our young friend

Timothy Wilberforce; how he had been gradually led on by Cupid, buoyed

up and transported, till he attained within a step of the pinnacle of

bliss--and then, how the mischief-making God had precipitated him to

the very brink of despair; how, like Sisyphus,

"Up the high hill he heav'd the huge round stone;"

and how

"The huge round stone resulting with a bound,

Thunder'd impetuous down, and smoked along the ground."

In fine, he had been caught and caged, manacled, cuffed, and then

_kicked_, (that's the word,) by our good little, sweet little Molly,

to his heart's content. Alas! this truly is one of the miseries of

human life. Had Tim received a kick from a man fashioned like himself,

he might at least have returned the blow. Had it been bestowed by one

fashioned after the manner of the Houyhnims, with hock and hoof, or

had it been driven full in his face by an ass, shod with a double set

of irons, he might have consoled himself with the reflection that some

skilful surgeon would replace the mangled elements, or kind nature

reproduce a healthy action. But the impress of a damsel's foot upon a

generous heart was far more difficult to efface. The wound it

inflicted, had baffled through all ages the skill of anatomists,

phrenologists, and philosophers. Tim then, could only bewail the

hopelessness of his situation in the mournful strains of the gentle

Corydon:

"She is faithless, and I am undone.

Ye that witness the woes I endure,

Let reason instruct you to shun

What it cannot instruct you to cure."

These were the first sensations of his softened soul, but as time

moved on with his unslackened wing, other thoughts unbidden sprung

upon his mind. Memory indeed, for awhile continued to brood over "the

ills that flesh is heir to," but the good Tim, at last, came to the

same conclusion with the wise McPherson, that

"To cut his throat, a brave man scorns,

So, instead of his throat, he cut--his corns."

Tim, like all honest bachelors, swore most roundly, that he would

never more be caught by woman's wiles; that she was heartless,

faithless, deceitful, "and desperately wicked." Alas! poor Tim knew

not the susceptibility of his own heart; and Cupid but smiled to think

how easily he could hold our hero in magic thraldom. Tim indeed could

cry out in the agony of woe,

"Have I not had my brain sear'd, heart riven,

Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away?"

but still, blindfold and unconscious, he would find himself worse than

ever entangled and ensnared. A ringlet tastefully displayed, a soft

melting eye, it might be a keen piercing one, it mattered not to him,

a dimpled cheek, a laughter making mouth, were to him more attractive,

than a diamond to a miser, a ship with her canvass swelling to the

breeze to the jolly tar, or a well fed steed to a Dutchman's fancy.

The very hopes he once cherished, now nipped and blighted; his former

fondness for society which he now shunned and despised, served by the

contrast to make him doubly gloomy and alone,

"Lone--as the corse within its shroud,

Lone--as a solitary cloud,

A single cloud on a sunny day,

While all the rest of heaven is clear,

A frown upon the atmosphere,

That hath no business to appear

When skies are blue, and earth is gay."

Feeling so doubly lone, Tim would again seek a partner to sympathize

in his sorrows, and to whom could he go? to man--cold calculating man?

What is man worth in sorrow? Has he the tender sensibility, the warm

hearted sympathy that is ever alive in a female's bosom? If you tell

him your love sick tale, he will laugh you to scorn, he will frown you

down for a puling blockhead; but woman will listen to your griefs,

will alleviate your pain, assuage your sorrow, and if she but smiles,

Tim would exclaim,

"How she smiled, and I could not but love."

With feelings such as these, Tim _accidentally_ became acquainted with

"the lass with the auburn curls." These accidents occur sometimes, so

happily and apropos, that we are tempted to believe them not merely

the result of casualty; my own opinion is, that they are all devised,

planned and executed by that wily urchin cupid, to bring those

together, upon whom to sport his strange fantastic freaks.

One autumn's eve, when the sun was low, Catherine and her Cousin Tony

issued forth, to ramble along the winding banks of the James River

Canal. They were admiring the beauty of the scenery, and occasionally

turning to view the dazzling brilliancy of many of the windows in the

city, caused by the reflection of the setting sun, producing the

effect of an illumination shifting from house to house as they changed

their position.

They had progressed along the canal as far as the first water-fall,

the situation of which, many of my readers will no doubt remember; not

as it is at present, but as it existed a few years ago, before the

polishing hand of art had shorn it of half its beauties. There is an

arch turned there, spanning the ravine, over which the canal passes at

its usual level, and is thus raised, some thirty feet perhaps, above

the base of the ravine. Under this arch a pellucid rivulet gently

ripples, till reaching the brink of the acclivity below, it leaps and

bounds towards the river. Above the sides of this arch, the waste

water from the canal rushed headlong, mingling with the clear waters

of the rivulet, and dashing foamingly along, or eddying and bubbling

among a rugged bed of granite. On the east side of this fall, there

was once a rock, raised high above the rest, by the side of which a

little cedar grew, over and around whose boughs the wild grape and

sweet brier {742} intertwined their branches until they hung a verdant

canopy above. This place, adorned as it was with its native drapery,

had obtained the name of "Cupid's Cavern,"--for here, many a loving

couple, after an evening's walk, would rest, feasting upon the

beauties of the surrounding scenery. And here, many a tale of love had

been told, which the roar of the water-fall deafened to all, but the

ears into which they had been whispered. On the rock just mentioned,

by the side of the cavern, Tony and Kate at length seated themselves,

and will you believe it, Tony was actually endeavoring to persuade his

_cousin_ to permit him, to call her, by a more endearing title.

Tim too, had been attracted by the delicious softness of the evening,

to gaze upon the same beauties; he was a little behind them during the

walk, but had been so absorbed with his own reflections, that he had

scarcely noticed that any one was before him. Here, he had often

walked with his once sweet Molly in the days of his happiness, and

although he now boasted that his heart was free as air, association

necessarily brought to his mind, her whom he wished to banish, and

spite of himself, he more than once repeated,

"Alas! where with her I have stray'd,

I could wander with pleasure alone."

A few yards above the fall I have vainly endeavored to describe, there

was a little bridge across the canal, then formed of two logs, each

about a foot wide, but without railing or safeguard of any kind. From

its proximity to "Cupid's Cavern," it might well have been termed the

"Bridge of Sighs." These logs had been so long exposed to the weather,

and were so much used and worn, as to have become very much decayed

and absolutely dangerous. Still, through mere habit, they were daily

crossed by many, and their dilapidated condition was scarcely noticed.

One had evidently, already, partially given way near the middle, while

the other was not in a much more sound condition.

Upon the end of this bridge, Tim determined to rest, and while

thoughtfully musing, his eyes fell upon the cousins I have just

described, seated on the rock below.

Reader, I cannot tell you all that Tony or Kate said; I wish I could.

A word or two must suffice. It is not what they said I care about. I

desire you to look at Kate, and then tell me if you can blame Tim for

looking too.

"Cousin Kate," said Tony, "Did you ever feel as if you would choke

when you attempted to speak?" This was a plain, common place question,

and Catherine might have answered straight forward, "Yes, cousin Tony,

I have,"--or "No, Tony, I have not;" or "I do not know cuz;"--but,

some how or other, girls are strange beings. Catherine said not one

word, but began to blush. "I have called you _cousin_," said Tony,

"long enough, Kate." Here the perspiration stood upon Tony's brow, and

Kate blushed crimson. "Cousin Tony," said Kate, "It is time for us to

be returning home." "Ah Kate," said Tony, "you know how long and how

ardently I have loved you; may I not, one day, drop that epithet of

Cousin?" Tony looked at Kate for some reply. "Cousin Tony," said

Catherine, summoning up all her courage, "we can never be more than

friends and cousins." Then Kate's brow began to cool, but whenever

Tony would press the matter, all he saw was new blown blushes, for

Kate had seen that Tim's eyes were fastened upon her, and from Tony's

eager gaze and manner, she well knew a stranger's suspicions must be

roused.

Gentle reader, I have told you thus much of Tony's courtship, that

you, as well as Tim, might see a few of Katy's blushes. She was as

delicately refined in thought and sentiment as you can possibly

conceive. Her's was

"A beautiful transparent skin,

Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in;"

so soft, and thin, and white, that you might perceive each pulse as it

ebbed and flowed; indeed, whenever her heart was excited by any sudden

emotion, the delicate ruby would come and go, till the consciousness

of blushing would make her doubly crimson. She would endeavor to

conceal her emotions,

"But o'er her bright brow flashed a tumult strange,

And into her clear cheek the blood was brought,

Blood red, as sunset summer clouds, which range

The verge of heaven."

Good reader, I hate formal introductions, and therefore I have not

introduced you formally to my heroine, but since I have let you into

the secret that Kate's foible was blushing, I must go a little

further; when she did blush, she had a habit, as if to cool her brow,

of parting her ringlets, and then, carelessly, throwing them back,

there wantonly hung

"Down her white neck, long floating auburn curls,

The least of which, would set ten poets raving."

You are not to consider this a description of Katy's person; when I

attempt such a delineation, it will be with a flourish of trumpets,

louder and longer than Joshua made, when he encompassed the walls of

Jericho and blew them into fragments. At present, you see our

Catherine in a simple, neat, white dress, which

"Like fleecy clouds about the moon, play'd 'round her."

All this time, Tim, that most notorious contemner of beauty, and the

man of all others who could most manfully resist loveliness, "in any

shape, in any mood," sat drinking in these unconscious exhibitions of

Katy's character and mind. He saw not Tony, much less did he hear or

imagine what he said. All he perceived was Catherine's face, and those

rich, floating curls. It was indeed cruel in Cupid to place him there.

At every succeeding blush, a poisoned arrow flew from his silver bow,

and Tim's poor heart fluttered in his bosom. Determining for once,

however, to out general Cupid, Tim gallantly resolved upon a hasty

flight; accordingly, he took himself across the little bridge, and

began sauntering away on the opposite hill.

About the same time, Catherine again insisted upon returning, and Tony

finding all effort at persuasion perfectly hopeless, began to put upon

the matter the best face he could muster. Taking his cousin's arm he

insisted she should vary the walk, by crossing to the other side of

the canal, and return to the city in that direction. Kate expressed

her uneasiness at crossing this insecure bridge, but as Tony was

importunate, she reluctantly consented, not desiring farther to add to

his mortification by a positive refusal. Tony, as a man of gallantry

naturally would do, placed Catherine upon the soundest of the logs, he

himself walking by her side on the weaker of the two, not reflecting

that the weaker log would much more easily bear her weight than his.

As fate would have it, Catherine became alarmed by the trembling of

the bridge, and leaned the more heavily {743} upon Tony for support,

and as he was not in a mood to care much whether he broke his own neck

or not, he insisted upon proving to his cousin, that the bridge was

perfectly secure, and that all her fears were totally groundless. So

taking her by the arm, in a careless way, and telling her gaily, "Now

mind what you are about," he raised himself upon his feet several

times, so as to produce an oscillating motion in the log. At this

moment, Tim had turned about to cast one lingering look, merely to

inquire with himself, what lassie that might be, when perceiving the

danger they were in, he shouted at the top of his voice, "Take

care!"--but it was too late,--down went the log with a terrible crash,

and poor Tony and sweet Kate were precipitated into the water below,

in the middle of the canal, at the deepest point. If ever you have

seen in the hand of some ruthless urchin, an innocent bird (which he

has just succeeded in securing from his trap,) flurried, gasping and

panting with fright, you will have a correct idea of Katy. She gave

one shriek as she fell, and then rose almost breathless, gasping and

panting in an agony of alarm. Luckily the water was not more than

waist deep. Tony went down feet foremost, following the decayed

timbers, (pity he had not fallen on his head,) but Catherine, clinging

to his arm at the time of the accident, and having her support

suddenly taken from her, was precipitated at full length into the

water. In an instant, Tim rushed to the spot. Into the canal he went,

and catching the terrified Kate in his arms, he brought her safely to

the shore. Tony did all he could, but poor fellow he was completely

involved among the broken fragments, and though he strove to rescue

Kate, it was as much as he could do to extricate himself. Tim knew

there was no danger of Tony's drowning, and so he left him to struggle

for himself, giving all his attention to Kate, who was truly an object

worthy of his care, and yet not the less of his admiration. She,

though thoroughly wet, withal looked so grateful, and her countenance

expressed so many thanks, and her pitiable situation, together with

the freshness of the water, heightened the bloom of her cheek to such

a degree, that Tim never once noticed her dress. Well might he have

imagined her the beauteous Goddess Thetis, with her silvery drapery,

as she issued from her watery mansion. But when she took off her

fragile bonnet, to adjust her dishevelled hair, and he viewed

"O'er her white forehead the gilt tresses flow,

Like the rays of the sun on a hillock of snow,"

who could have blamed him, if he had given way to his raptures, and

exclaimed,

"My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,

And bartered my freedom for ringlets of gold."

As for Tony, if you could have seen him, as he crept out of the water,

with his "long tailed blue," tapering to a point, and dripping like an

old rooster under a cart, on a rainy day, with his head up and his

tail down, you really would have pitied him; he knew not which way to

look, nor what to say. I have seen a dog caught in the act of killing

sheep; have seen a wet rat creeping out of a tub; and I saw the gay

Tony sneaking out of the canal after having been turned off by his

sweetheart, and each of these animals, dog, rat, and Tony, had the

same identical sickly phiz. The dog slunk to his kennel, the rat crept

to his hole, but Tony was forced to his mistress, who with all

imaginable sweetness forgave him in an instant. He ought, if he could,

to have crept into an augur hole and hid himself there forever.

However, finding Tim was an old friend of his, he thanked him kindly

for his timely assistance, and introduced him to her, of all others,

with whom Tim most desired some farther acquaintance.

In a little time, our three friends began to laugh the matter over as

well as they could, and being thoroughly drenched, they endeavored to

keep each other in countenance, on their way homeward. Tim accompanied

Kate to her door, and then, wishing she might experience no farther

inconvenience from her accident, and having received a polite

invitation to visit the family, retired with Tony to procure a drier

suit.

My kind reader, you must listen to me with patience; hereafter, I will

not ramble so much at large, but will hasten on with my story. Time's

magic wing sped on, and days, weeks and months rolled by. In the mean

time, Tim continued his visits to Kate. Sometimes, at an interval of a

fortnight; at other times but a week would elapse; then this short

week began to appear an entire month; finally, weeks were reduced to

days, and days to hours, and Tim was not satisfied unless he paid a

visit at least twice a day.

The gossips of the city were thus furnished with a new theme to run

riot with, and Tim and Catherine were bandied about at a merciless

rate. Some thought it passing strange--others thought it natural

enough. "Did you hear Mr. Wilberforce was courting?" said one; "Did

you know Miss Catherine was engaged?" said another; "I'll bet my life

they will be married!" "I know she has turned him off!" "She will

never have him in the world," said a third, "for she is already

engaged to her cousin Tony." And thus, Tim was known to be courting,

engaged, turned off and jilted, before he himself had ascertained what

his fate would be; but the latter opinion, that he was certainly

turned off, gained the more currency, particularly as our friend was

suddenly called off, by business, to a distant city, where he was

compelled to remain for several months. The busy bodies could not but

notice, with what a heavy heart he departed, and there could be no

possibility of doubt about it. Tim had certainly received his walking

papers. No matter, friend Tim, thou must learn

"What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire."

My best wishes attend thee wherever thou goest.

Most persons would suppose, that after the honest denial, and the

decent ducking Tony had obtained, that the ardor of his love would

have been somewhat cooled, and that he would have been the last person

who would ever have attempted again to mention love in Catherine's

presence. Not so, Tony. He had been more than once rejected already by

his cousin, but because they were cousins, and Catherine had always

treated him kindly, Tony was still induced to harbor hope, when almost

any other person would only have welcomed despair. He found it

impossible "to look and not to love." He was one of those luckless

wights, who love and are not beloved, and yet cannot bring themselves

to give up the loved object--who, though driven from the presence of

their fair ones, continue to cast a lingering look behind, to catch a

glimpse of relenting compassion. He reminded me of the glowing {744}

description of Lot's wife, once given by an humble divine, when he

endeavored to explain to his flock why it was that she continued to

look back as she fled from the ill-fated Sodom. "Ah, my brethren," he

said, "no doubt the good woman had a pleasant little garden there,

filled with all kinds of vegetables, and the remembrance of her

greens, and her turnips, her potatoes, tomatoes, her squashes and

beans, about which she had experienced many moments of anxiety and

vexation, caused her heart to cling to the world, and so from the top

of every little knob, she looked,--and looked,--and there she stands,

a pillar of salt." If Tony but received a look of recognition, it was

sufficient encouragement for him. If he accidentally received a civil

bow, in return for a gracious smile, he would imagine himself welcomed

to her arms. If he offered his hand, and she did not put her arms

akimbo, and look like a very virago, he would return the next morning,

and if he was again told of _friendship_ merely, Tony would only

express his astonishment, and say, "Why then did you give me such

encouragement,--why did you look in that way?" Look in that way! Now

the fact is, no matter which way Catherine might have looked, it would

have been all the same to Tony. If she looked mild and placid, or

fierce and acid; if she had been pensive and musing, or laughing and

romping; had she looked out of her right eye athwart her nose, or out

of her left athwart her shoulder, or had she not looked at all, "like

Paddy, when he shut his eyes to peep in the glass, to see how he

looked when asleep," Tony would have discovered ample cause for

indulging in hope in each smile, frown, curl of the lip, or play of a

muscle. But though, continuing in the same hopeless condition, he

always consoled himself by saying,

"She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew,

My path I could hardly discern,

So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return."

Time still moved onward. And Catherine still attracted and received

the admiration of all who beheld her. One day, as she was seated alone

in her parlor, in a somewhat melancholy mood, (for it was a rainy,

dreary day,) with a book in her hand, her back to the door, and her

head leaning against the sash of the window, she began to hum to

herself a little song a friend had lately given her. She would sing a

line or two, and pause,--and then again would raise her mellow voice.

"If he return not, ah, she said,

I'll bid adieu to Hope to-morrow."

And this was sung with so much feeling, you could plainly see her

heart had given utterance to its inmost sentiments. Her singing was so

sweet, we might truly say,

"It was the carol of a bird;

It ceased, and then it came again,

The sweetest song ear ever heard."

The notes however died away, and Kate still sat in a seeming reverie.

When we are fairly in one of these musing moods, we will sit for

hours, without being able to tell upon what object our eyes or

thoughts have been so keenly rivetted. Our senses seem to be closed

against ordinary impressions. At any rate, while Catherine continued

thus leaning, some one walked lightly into the room, and discovering

he was not noticed, gently placed his hands over her eyes without

speaking.

"Now, cousin Tony," said Kate, "none of your tricks; I am not in a

humor for trifling to-day." Tony was not satisfied with feeling cousin

Katy's eyes, but turning her head gently back, was feasting on the

face, which a little vexation had slightly ruffled. "I'll pay you for

this, Tony," she said, in a sprightlier tone, "I know it is you, so

let me go." Tony had often played this trick before. "I thought, after

what passed," said Kate, and she was about saying something harsh, but

checking herself, she added, "Never mind, Tony." "Indeed, Kate, it is

not Tony," said the gentleman, releasing his prisoner.

Reader, you have seen blushes! Had you been with me that day, you

would have witnessed "smiles playing with dimples, suffused with

blushes, Aurora alone could rival." You would have seen surprise and

joy chasing away sorrow from a pensive brow; and from the "joy

sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem," you would have sworn that

these were acknowledged lovers.

"Oh, there are looks and tones that dart

An instant sunshine through the heart."

Who do you think could have thus intruded and taken such a liberty,

other than cousin Tony? It was our old friend Timothy Wilberforce,

returned from his travels.

Any one of ordinary comprehension, who could have witnessed this

meeting, and seen these looks, would have felt no hesitation in making

affidavit to the fact, that Kate had not only never rejected Tim, but

that they were upon _pretty reasonable terms_.

Some of my fair readers, I have no doubt, have already determined, if

any engagement actually existed, that Tim was a cold, phlegmatic,

inanimate being, or he would have kissed her at every hazard. I know

one young lady, who jilted a beau, because he never offered to salute

her,--she "had no idea of icicles"--not she. And I know another, who

swears! (ladies never swear,) who "vows, 'pon honor, she would turn

off any man under the sun, who would have the presumption to approach

her with such an intention even." But if the doors were closed, blinds

drawn, and they were all alone, and she was sure nobody could see

them, I rather think it would not be quite as shocking as some people

might imagine. The fact is, my dear madam, Tim was excessively remiss

on this occasion, but he must be excused, because, just as he was in

the very act, with one hand under Katy's chin, and the other at the

back of her head, and just as her little lips began to crimson, in

came Katy's dear old aunty! I take my oath, I would have gone the

whole figure, and old aunt Tabby might have gone to the ----. (I beg

pardon.) Tim and Kate took it out in looking, and

"In the large dark eyes mutual darted flame,"

enough was said and felt to compensate the loss.

Now, you must understand, that for some cause, I never could divine

what, aunt Tabby had taken up a mortal antipathy to our friend Tim;

indeed, she was his evil genius, and she always managed to step in, at

the very moment of all others, when her company was least desired. If

he paid a morning visit, and the rest of the family kindly dropped off

one by one, (each, by the bye, making a lame excuse for his or her

absence,) just as Tim would draw up his chair close along side, and

begin those endearments, which all know how to use, but few to

express, {745}

"The gentle pressure and the thrilling touch,

The least glance, better understood than words,"

in would pop aunt Tabby, and down she would sit, like a cat at a hole,

and sit there for hours. Oh how Tim's heart would sicken. If he made

an evening call, and sat till all the family retired to repose, good

aunt Tabby did not think it proper for young ladies to be left alone

with young gentlemen; such things were not tolerated in her day. Thus

did the old lady keep her nightly vigils, rattling away about ten

thousand fooleries, and fretting honest Tim more than a legion of

devils, and at last, after vainly spending the evening, the poor

fellow would slowly depart, growling smothered curses:

"So turns the lion from the nightly fold,

Though high in courage, and with hunger bold,

Long galled by herdsmen, and long vex'd by hounds,

Stiff with fatigue, and fretted sore with wounds:

The darts fly round him from an hundred hands,

And the red terrors of the blazing brands:

'Till late, reluctant, at the dawn of day,

Sour he departs, and quits the untasted prey."

Some readers will say, "what difference would it make if aunt Tabby

was present?" I set all such down as utter boobies; for if any one

could carry on a courtship, or after engagement could carry on a

conversation with his intended, when the "Mother of Vinegar" was

present, in the shape of an old maid, and that old maid a sworn enemy,

I would unhesitatingly pronounce, that Cupid had nothing in the world

to do with the matter.

Tim and Kate however, found opportunities, at other times, to elude

even the vigilance of aunt Tabby, and the old lady finding matters

were going on swimmingly, in spite of her interruptions and vigils,

only became the more determined to break off the match, if it could by

possibility be accomplished. The dear old lady never failed to whisper

into Katy's ear, every idle slander that the fertility of her own mind

enabled her to invent, or that she accidentally picked up among the

malicious gossips of the neighborhood, and more than once Katy's faith

had been shaken by her plausible inventions. Nevertheless, as yet, Tim

was smoothly gliding on the unruffled wave of happiness; all was quiet

and calm, and but a few days had elapsed since Kate appointed the

period for the consummation of their nuptials.

On a former occasion, when Tim and little Molly were engaged, my

readers will remember how Tim endeavored to break the matter to his

mother. How he began with a desire to have the old house in which they

lived, newly painted, and how, before they came to the conclusion to

do so, the matter was suddenly terminated, by the unlucky intrusion of

a small _friendly_ epistle, which not only rendered it unnecessary to

paint the house, but actually caused Tim to kick up more dust and

soot, than could be effaced by the best coat of English lead that

could be procured.

At the present juncture, the first intimation the old lady had of the

matter, was afforded her by an army of carpenters, bricklayers,

stone-masons and painters, scaling her house with ladders and

scaffolds, and turning the whole concern, topsy turvy, from the garret

to the cellar. Here ran the painters devils, rubbing every thing with

sand paper; there shouted the bricklayer, "mortar! bricks here!" Here

whistled the carpenter, and jarred the old timbers with his hammer,

banging and whacking away with the force of a giant.

"In the name of common sense," said the old lady, "good people what do

you mean?" If ever you saw a hen fluttering when a hawk made a sudden

dart at one of her brood, you would have some idea of the old lady on

this memorable occasion. It was as plain as the nose in her face, that

something was to pay, and she half suspected what it was; but that Tim

should go to work without any consultation was unaccountable, and more

than that, it was unreasonable. She hallooed for Tim; he was not

forthcoming. She asked the carpenter what he was about? "Mr.

Wilberforce had ordered him to mend every thing that required

mending." She inquired of the bricklayer what he was doing? "Mr.

Wilberforce told him to cap the chimnies, relay the hearths and mend

the whole concern." She asked the painter what he meant by all this

preparation? "Mr. Wilberforce sent him to paint the house all over."

"You must have made a mistake in the house," said Tim's mother.

"No--there was no mistake. It was to be done, and in the best style,

and in the shortest possible time." The old lady packed off the

servants in all directions for Tim, and in the mean time continued

fluttering about, stowing away this thing and that thing, into this

hole and that cuddy, until she had fatigued herself into a perfect

fever. At length, Tim arrived. "My dear son," said she, "what in the

world has got into you? Do you mean to ruin yourself, Tim?" "Mother,"

says Tim, kindly, "I told you I was going to be married." "No you

did'nt." "Well, I tell you so now, and I think our house wants a

little furbishing." Now, the old lady had frequently of late, been

charging Tim with being in love with Kate, and though he never exactly

denied it, yet he never had admitted it; and though she had no decided

objection to the match, yet she never had made up her mind to it, and

therefore she seated herself and began to cry. She did'nt ask Tim, who

he was to marry? Where the young lady lived? What she was like?

Whether she had a fortune or not? But she sat down, as one bereft of

all hope, and tuned up her pipes. Alas for Tim! He had been too

precipitate. Such matters require some introduction.

The truth was, nothing could give the old lady so much happiness, as

to contribute in any way to Tim's comfort and felicity, or to know

that he was happy; but then, she and Tim had lived so long together,

now that he was going to be married, it seemed to her as though she

and he were to be divorced forever, and a thousand conflicting

feelings rushed into her bosom. Tim asked his mother if she was

dissatisfied with the match? "No," she said, in a tone of

inextinguishable grief, and then burst forth into fresh weeping.

Now, gentle reader, I have told you that the painters were making

terrible preparations for their work, and while Tim and his mother

were engaged, as we have just seen,--he, endeavoring to soothe the old

lady's unreasonable and ill-timed grief, and she, exhibiting as much

woe as she could possibly have done, had Tim been wrapped in his

winding sheet before her,--one of these aforesaid daubers kept

continually passing in and out at the door, until he had heard enough

to satisfy him that Tim was going to be married, and that the old lady

was most vehemently opposed to the match. He had not heard her deny

her opposition, but he had seen and heard her weepings and wailings,

which {746} convinced him that she would never consent to the match in

the world. So, on his way home that day, he happened to meet his

cousin Patsy Wiggins, and stopping her in the street,--"Did you know,

cousin Patty, that young Mr. Wilberforce is going to be married?" said

brushy. "But I tell you what, it has kicked up a terrible rumpus. I

just left the old lady, breaking her heart about it, and poor Mr. Tim

is in a peck of troubles." Brushy went his way, and so did cousin

Patty, but meeting her dear friend Miss Deborah Dobbins, as she was

gossiping about the neighborhood; "Ah, my dear Deb," says she, "have

you heard the news? Old Mrs. Wilberforce says, she will see her son in

his grave, before she will give her consent to his marrying, and

what's more, Miss Catherine Turberville shall never darken her doors

while her head is hot. You may rely upon it, they will have monstrous

work of it." So off posted the friendly Deborah Dobbins, to visit her

crony, good Miss Catherine's dear aunt Tabby. "Aunt Tabby," said Deb,

"I am afraid I have bad news to tell you." "What is it child?" "I know

it will _distress you_ to hear it, but Mrs. Wilberforce has just heard

that her son and your niece are engaged, and she has told her son, in

the most peremptory manner, that her family shall never be disgraced

by such a connexion--that your niece is beneath his notice, and if he

does not break off the match immediately, he never more shall see her

face. Now, Mr. Tim swears he will marry her in spite of all

opposition, and so the whole house is in an uproar. If I were Kate,

I'd let them know who was disgraced."--"Beneath them!" said aunt

Tabby, turning up her nose until it nearly twisted over the back of

her head--"Beneath them, indeed!" "Darken her doors!" "She disgraced

by my niece!" "She!"

Gentle reader, you may readily imagine what else these good people

said and devised; but while this tale was going the rounds, gathering

as it rolled, Tim had entirely reconciled his mother to his intended

marriage, and as he unfolded his little plans, for his own and her

future comfort, the old lady cheered up and resumed her wonted good

humor.

The next day, Tim as usual, called to see his dearest Catherine, but

he was told she was not at home that morning. In the evening he called

again. "Miss Catherine was so unwell, she had taken to her bed." Early

the day after, Tim called to inquire how Catherine was. "Tell Miss

Catherine," said Tim, "I called to see her, and hope she is better."

Tim rambled about the lower part of the house. "Miss Catherine was not

so well." In this way, Tim called for several days, vainly hoping to

see his Kate, or at any rate to receive some kind word or message. At

last, he was honored with the following letter.

"_Richmond, March 10th_.

"I hope Mr. Wilberforce will pardon me for having denied myself so

often. At first, it was to me as painful as it could have been to him,

but if he knew the reason which prompted the course I have adopted, he

could not fail to applaud, what he now, no doubt, condemns. In

determining not to see him again, I have consulted not only his peace,

and the felicity of those dearest to him, but I am convinced, my own

happiness also. My reasons would satisfy the most scrupulous--but as I

cannot divulge them, I must bear the scoffs of the world, for the

fickleness and coquetry which my conduct apparently justifies. I hope

my friend will bear this blow with becoming fortitude. The

determination I have made is painful to myself, but it is irrevocable.

If it will afford my friend any satisfaction to know, that nothing

that he has said or done, has produced this sudden change in my

purposes, I freely acknowledge the fact. He is in every respect worthy

of the best and loveliest. Forgive me, as freely as I acquit you. Our

engagement is terminated.

CATHERINE TURBERVILLE."

Tim sat down,--his elbow on the table,--his head on his hand.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY TONGS. BY ----.

During the very cold weather which ushered in our last spring, I was

one night sitting in my dormitory, before a blazing fire, luxuriating

in that most selfish of all pleasures, _vulgo_ a "brown study." There

was something so indescribably comfortable in my situation, that,

although I had half a dozen unprepared lectures for the next morning

staring me in the face, I found it a matter of utter impossibility to

open a text book, still less to direct my attention even for the

shortest time to its contents. Stretched in my capacious arm chair--my

feet toasting before the aforesaid blazing fire--I lay listening with

a dreamy sort of consciousness, to the continual, dull, unceasing hum

of the falling snow. Regardless and entirely independent of the cold

and storm without, my eyes fixed on the fanciful figures, changeable

as the images of the Kaleidescope, which the burning coals assumed--in

a word, settled in that position, a description of which has been so

often attempted--and which every man who has one particle of soul

about him has often and oftentimes enjoyed, I fell into a long train

of reflections as absorbing and delightful as they were false and

illusory. The future--the present--the past--castles in the air--my

far distant home--were the most prominent and strongly marked images

in the scenes which flitted across the magic mirror of my fancy.

"I thought about myself and the whole earth,

Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,

And how the deuce they ever could have birth;

And then I thought of earthquakes and of wars;

How many miles the moon might have in girth;

Of air balloons, and of the many bars

To perfect knowledge--of the boundless skies."

I know not how long I had been in this situation, when my dreaming was

suddenly interrupted in a most singular manner. My tongs, which were

but little removed from the direct line of my vision, seemed suddenly

to become extremely uneasy. The simple, unoffending tongs, which,

except when used, had quietly occupied their allotted station in the

corner during the whole session, appeared to be seized with a strange

propensity for locomotion, and at the same time to be altering the

figure of their outward self in a manner singular, wonderful,

unaccountable. The general appearance--the "_tout ensemble_" was, it

is true, nearly the same, but still there seemed to have been effected

a certain change, which attracted my wandering attention rather more

immediately towards them. You may smile perhaps, and say that either I

was rather light headed, or that I was neither more nor less than

dreaming in reality. But there before my eyes, which were as wide

awake {747} as they are at this moment, upon the round knob which I

had so often and so unceremoniously grasped, was as quaint and

humorous a face as ever came from the pencil of Hogarth. A slight

glance now gave me an insight into the whole figure. Imagine the long

spindle legs cased in a pair of rusty looking "shorts"--the body, what

little there was of it, surrounded by one of those comfortable old

garments, which have been, not inaptly denominated quaker coats--and

the rest of the clothing in strict keeping with a style which, all who

can recollect, or even have heard much of the good old days of our

grandfathers, will at once recognise. Just imagine, I say, this odd

figure, thus garmented up, and you will form a good idea of the

general appearance of my visiter--(For I cannot believe it was the

same _boná fide_ pair of tongs, which are now so peacefully reposing

before me.) The first glance was sufficient for an introduction. A

slight start on my side, and a familiar "at home" sort of nod on

his--and all was settled. His first motion was to seat himself on my

fender, where he deliberately crossed his legs--his first remark was

on the subject that last engaged my thoughts. A voice sweet and

delightful as the first waking notes of distant serenade, but

perfectly full and distinct, stole over my enraptured senses.

"You will doubtless be surprised to learn that I have been _listening

to your thoughts_ for the last half hour. But know" said he, a little

pompously I thought, "that if your breast had in it the imaginary

window of Momus, your slightest meditations would not be more plain

and open to inspection than they are to me now. They have been running

rather in a scattered and unconnected manner, but like those of most

young men, they are principally directed to your own future destiny

and the choice you are to make with regard to your pursuits and

efforts hereafter. In a word, as a matter of considerable importance

to yourself, you are weighing the comparative advantages of political

and literary fame. Both are sufficiently attractive, but to most young

men, and particularly to those of your country, the former is

especially enticing. Perhaps there are at times, doubts resting upon

the minds of all men, whether these attractions are not far greater in

anticipation than the reality would authorize. Even if these doubts

were well founded, I would not attempt to damp your bright and

delightful hopes, by pouring into your ears the dull, cold voice of a

desponding prophesy. But such is not the case. The pleasure of

possession is real, and though in our ignorance we sometimes decide,

that when a balance is struck between the bitter and sweet, in that

mixture called the enjoyment of honors, it is heavy in favor of the

former--though we hear the pursuit after worldly honors daily decried

as a chase after some gaudy and painted insect, which, when gained

with difficulty, when grasped with all the fervor and delight of

gratified success, vanishes from the sight and leaves nothing behind

but the pain and agony of its sting--though men who have never enjoyed

them, often condescend to pity their unhappy possessors--still do I

assure you that possession _is_ delightful--even as delightful perhaps

as your wildest dreams may have painted it. The very eagerness with

which all strive for it, who can do so with any probability of

success--the unconquerable perseverance with which they hold it when

obtained--are sufficient proofs that it _is_ worth the pursuit, and

well rewards the winner. But you have already decided on this point;

perhaps your only doubts are, upon which of the two principal (and in

the present peaceful days, I may almost say _only_,) roads to honor,

will a man find the best reward for the necessary exertions required

to obtain it.

"The Hill of Fame on which your attention is fixed, is divided into

two summits. To the one every step of the path is plain, and open to

your view. You are at once sensible of the enjoyments as well as the

difficulties, which are found in the various parts of the ascent,

while those who journey upward are seen by all from the moment they

start. You perceive along this path the most delightful pleasures

awaiting those who may be so happy as to reach them--and increasing in

number as they rise. But you see dangers and difficulties of every

kind interspersed among them and also increasing to the very top. The

flowers when plucked have often a poisonous insect enclosed in

them--the finest fruit grows upon precipices the most steep and

frightful--or when gathered 'turns to ashes in the mouth.' Yet in

spite of these dangers you see many rising free and uninjured, higher

and higher, till they attain even to the summit. But here, though

pleasures are more abundant, the dangers are likewise

increased--though the flowers are more beautiful and more numerous,

the fruit large, and more delicious--the poison is also more deadly,

the precipices are higher, and the fall from them more certainly

fatal. But still is that summit, bright and glorious as it is--the

brilliant object on which is fixed the ardent, anxious, devoted gaze

of all who toil up the sides of the mountain. This is the Hill of

Political Fame. Now let us turn to the other; it presents us quite a

different aspect; its sides and bottom are covered with a dim mist,

through which no objects are distinctly seen; we can only perceive

that the way, though extremely steep and laborious, is as free from

the precipices and dangers of the first, as it is deprived of its

pleasures and enticements. Those who are toiling on their way to its

summit, have nothing to cheer them in their dreary task but the

prospect of the bright vision above them--which like the beacon signal

to the worn mariner, holds out comfort and repose--cheering and

inspiring him with fortitude--nerving his limbs with new vigor, and

instilling renewed hope into his heart. Nor _do_ you see them assailed

by many imminent perils; yet many faint and sink on their tedious

way--and few, very few are so fortunate as to gain the bright summit

which rears its head above--free from the shades and mists which

envelope the skies--brilliant and glorious as its opposite neighbor,

and at the same time undisturbed by its dangers. Even of those who do

ultimately reach this rich goal of their hopes--this happy end of

their labors--how very few enjoy their hard earned rewards--many of

them supported alone by their hopes on their wearisome journey--fall

as soon as they reach the top, and gain only after death the glorious

distinction for which they spent--to which they devoted their lives.

This is the Hill of Literary Fame.

"And now examine each and decide for yourself, which you will choose

as the scene of your future efforts--choose, and pursue that choice

with determination. One road alone can you follow. Some, it is true,

have, when tired of the one, pursued the other for a time. {748} _But

no man ever reached the top of both._ You are then to decide in favor

of _one_, and having decided, steadily to pursue it, or content

yourself with remaining unnoticed in the crowd which fills the plain

beneath. That you may form your decision more correctly, look into the

history of those who have sought and gained pre-eminence, in either

kind of fame. Let us then (laying aside our metaphors) judge from past

history, and by that let your future course be decided. In the

histories of those who have even stood highest as writers, poets, &c.

you often find much calculated to disgust you with the pursuit which

they followed--how little do you find to envy in the lot of the beggar

Homer--the blind and half starved Milton--the miserable Otway dying,

choked with the morsel of food which he had begged of a friend;

Goldsmith, Johnson, &c. It is true, that in contrast to these we may

name Newton, Bacon, Shakspeare, Byron, who succeeded in gaining during

(and some of them early in) their lives the fame they so eagerly

sought. But more numerous are the instances on record, where literary

merit has been unrewarded except by posthumous renown. Of genius the

most brilliant--of minds the most powerful, which have gained their

hard earned mede of praise--when their bodies were mouldering in the

grave--when the head which conceived, and the hand which penned their

bright aspirations, as well as the heart which so ardently beat for

glory and honor--have mingled with the dust, alike unmindful and

indifferent to praise or reproach, to fame or obloquy. When the bright

etherial spirit, which once so strongly throbbed for a 'name among

men,' has taken its flight to a truer home, where the glory of this

world is nothing--then is paid to the memory the honor which the man

deserved--which would have made him so completely happy. His life

perhaps was spent in grinding poverty, in misery and wretchedness,

imbittered by that chill cold neglect of the world, which so withers

the sensitive heart--for what? A name after death. Let us turn from

this dismal picture, to the other. Here at least, are some substantial

pleasures, however they may be alloyed by the attendant evils, dangers

and difficulties. Here at least, honor is nearly always rendered, if

bestowed at all, whilst it can be appreciated. And now let us see

whether the dangers and difficulties I have mentioned, may not be

really less than we were at first inclined to believe them, and

whether with care they may not be almost entirely avoided. It is true,

that he who once becomes a public servant, throws his character in the

hands of every man, and lays himself open to the attacks of every

scribbler. He is exposed to the malicious accusations of men, who are

neither able nor anxious to see his actions in their true light; his

slightest faults held up on high to become marks of scorn among

men--buts at which every vindictive slanderer may wing a poisoned

shaft--even his very virtues distorted and perverted till they become

in appearance vices. This I grant, _is_ the life which all public men

must lead; but let not this picture startle you. If really innocent,

he will rise above the abuse which is poured upon him. Confident in

the great decision of a candid _world_, he is superior to this sort of

scandal. And have we not reason to believe that here as in other

cases, custom renders one indifferent to that which at first would

make him miserable? And that the most sensitive mind may soon begin to

look on these as troublesome insects, which may at the time incommode,

but which should create no lasting disturbance. The best proof of

this, as I have before told you is, that men who have succeeded at all

in public life, will, however disagreeable it may appear, cling to it

as strongly as if in this, lay the very light of their existence. How

sweet it is to have one's name in the mouths of all--to be the theme

of admiration and wonder with the crowd--to have power. But there is

even a purer and better enjoyment. How perfect the pleasure which

animates the bosom of the statesman when he knows that to his

talents--to his efforts--millions are indebted for their greatest

comforts--that a whole nation looks up to him as their

benefactor--that through his means"----

My visiter had proceeded thus far, when a villainous log of wood

became suddenly discontented with its situation and rolled out upon

the hearth, scattering its sparks over me. Though deeply interested,

my first and most natural impulse was to grasp the tongs and set every

thing to rights. At the next instant my recollection returned and I

carefully replaced them. But it was too late. I saw nothing before me

but the cold and senseless instrument. The mild expression of the

features was gone--the quaint old figure had vanished, and the faint

sound of that sweet voice melted away on my ear, like the dying ring

of a harp, leaving me alone and disconsolate in my solitary room.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MRS. ----,

Whose husband was absent in the United States Navy. On seeing her in a

gay company.

Canst thou forget, amidst the gay and heartless,

One far away whom thou hast vowed to love?

Thou'rt lovely, and thou seemest pure and artless,

And innocent and gentle as the dove.

Dost thou forget, or do thy blue eyes brighten

Only with thoughts of his return to thee?

Dost thou the pains of absence seek to lighten,

In scenes like this of mirth and revelry?

Ah, pause awhile, mid sounds of song and dancing,

While thoughts of conscious beauty paint thy cheek,

While eyes, admiring eyes, around thee glancing,

Volumes of warmest admiration speak--

Think, if 'tis well for one whose faith is plighted,

To shine among the free unfettered gay--

Think, should those lovely eyes with smiles be lighted

At homage which no heart but one should pay?

Oh keep those smiles, so full of light and gladness,

To welcome one whom thou canst call thine own;

And may no darkling shade of gloom or sadness

Come o'er thy life, thou bright and peerless one!

E. A. S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

Eliza!--let thy generous heart

From its present pathway part not:

Being every thing which now thou art,

Be nothing which thou art not.

So with the world thy gentle ways--

Thy unassuming beauty--

And truth shall be a theme of praise

Forever--and love a duty.

E. A. P.

{749}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

GENERAL WARREN.

STORIES ABOUT GENERAL WARREN--By a Lady of Boston, 1835, pp. 112,

12mo.

The sneers of those grown up readers,--who may choose to sneer at a

review of so very juvenile a book as this, we brave, for the sake of

bringing it, and its subject, somewhat into notice--pointing out some

phraseological errors--doing justice to its merits--and, above all,

freshening the memories, if not informing the minds, of the less

fastidious among our countrymen, as to a few of the incidents

preceding and attending the commencement of that great struggle, of

which the cherished remembrance conduces so much to preserve in

American bosoms a catholic, American, liberty-loving spirit. These

incidents will be found naturally to imbody themselves in a brief

account of the life of General Warren, drawn chiefly from the volume

above mentioned. Those who may incline to despise either so simple a

book, or a narrative of (to them) such trite facts, as these of which

we shall speak, are probably not aware how shallow and narrow is the

knowledge existing through the country, and even in some minds that

claim to be considered as _enlightened_, with regard to our own

history. "Mr. President!"--recently, at a public dinner in Virginia,

vociferated a young orator of the Milesian school--a lawyer, we took

him to be--"Mr. President! I give you, sir, the memory of the gallant

General Warren, who fell at the battle of LEXINGTON!" And but a few

months before, a friend as dear to us as ourselves, and whose age and

opportunities should certainly have made him know better, confounded

_Sir William Berkeley_, Governor of Virginia in the times of Charles I

and II, with Norborne Berkeley, Lord Botetourt, viceroy of George III,

in 1769 and 1770! It would not surprise us, to hear a lawyer or a

physician--still less a gentleman at large--talk of the burning of

Charles_ton_ as simultaneous with the battle of Sullivan's Island,

because Charles_town_ burned while the battle of Bunker Hill was

fighting--as "John Bull in America" passes in half an hour from

Boston, where the folk make wooden nutmegs, roast witches, and bake

pumpkin pies, into Charleston, where they gouge and stab, drink mint

juleps, eat young negroes, and feed old ones upon cotton seed.

The narrative before us is couched in a dialogue, between a mother and

her two children; and, being obviously designed for gentlemen and

ladies not much higher than mamma's rocking chair, has frequently an

infantine simplicity of style, that makes us marvel at our own moral

courage, in daring to serve up such a baby's mess. Convinced, however,

that _children's reading_ may afford both amusement and instruction to

grown people, (witness "Early Lessons," "Frank," "The Parent's

Assistant," "Sandford and Merton," and "Evenings at Home," _cum

pluribus aliis_;) believing, at any rate, that among the palates for

which it is our duty to cater, there are some youthful ones to which

this dish may be both pleasant and useful; hoping, too, that by having

her faults of composition noted, the authoress may be induced to cure,

or "others in like cases offending" be moved to shun them, we make the

venture. Indeed, not only the book's childishness of style, but many

offences far more atrocious in a critic's eyes--sins against grammar,

idiom, and good taste--are in great part redeemed by the good sense

and justness of its reflections, the interesting tenor of its

incidents, and the virtuous glow it is calculated to kindle. The sins

are very many. "_Lay_," used for "_lie_," is wholly

unwarranted--scarcely palliated--even by the example of Byron, in the

Fourth Canto itself: for he was compelled by duress of rhyme; a

coercion, which the most tuneful and the most dissonant are alike

powerless to resist. "Mr. Warren, the father of Joseph, while walking

round his orchard to see if every thing was in good order, as he was

looking over the trees, _he_ perceived," &c. Here is a nominative

without any verb. There is a four or five fold vice in the second

member of the following sentence, in which, as it stands, the writer

may be defied to show a meaning: "It often happens that a mother is

left with a family of young children, and is obliged to bring them up

without the controlling power of a father's care; it is therefore the

duty of every female so to _educate_ her own mind, and _that_ of her

daughters, as to _enable_ her, if she should be placed in this

responsible situation, _to be able_ to guide aright the minds of those

under her care." _Enable_ her _to be able!_ _Educate_ her own mind!

and _that_ of her daughters! Are they to be supposed to have but _one_

mind among them, as the Sirens had but one tooth? The use of _educate_

for _train_, is a match for the Frenchman's blunder, who, finding in

the Dictionary that to _press_ means to _squeeze_, politely begged

leave to _squeeze_ a lady to sing. "Enable HER." Enable whom? Why

_herself_ and _her daughters_: and she should have said so. Never,

surely, was prosing, _bona fide_, printed prosing, to so little

purpose. Again: "A mother should always possess ... _a firm principle_

of action." Does she need _but one_ firm principle of action? If so,

it is to be hoped the next edition will say what that one is; for it

must be valuable. A common blunder in the _times_ of the infinitive

mood, occurs repeatedly in this book: "How I should have admired _to

have gone_ to see her!" "It would have been a pity for us to _have

followed_ his example, and thus have _lessened_," &c.--"must have

ardently desired _to have been_ present"--"must have wished very much

_to have seen_," &c. We cannot see the propriety of using the word

"_admired_," as it is in one of these quotations. "Tell us if he did

get in, and how he contrived to?" We protest against this fashion

which our Yankee brethren are introducing, of making _to_, which is

but the _sign_ of the infinitive, stand for the infinitive itself.

This is one of the few cases, in which we are for _going the whole_.

"He began to _practice_"--"I know it was not _him_"--"he _whom_ I told

you was the first one"--"to respect, _was_ added admiration and

love"--"this tax bore very _heavy_"--"soldiers _which_"--"your country

has much to hope from you, both in _their_ counsels and in the field."

These errors, a very moderate skill in orthography and syntax would

have sufficed to avoid. Such a vulgarism as "_nowadays_," or such

provincialisms as "pay _one single copper_," and "walked _back and

forth_ the room," (meaning _to and fro_, or _backwards and forwards_

in the room) would not have occurred, if the author had remembered,

that the _simplicity_ which suits children's minds, is altogether

different from _vulgarity_. There is such a thing as _neat_ and

_graceful_ simplicity in writing, as well as in dress and manners.

"They had contemplated making some attack on the British, or at least

to endeavor to destroy their shipping." Contemplated _to_ destroy! We

will not further pursue this unwelcome {750} task; pausing, short of

the middle of the book, and having already passed over several faults

without animadversion. Let the author be entreated to get the aid of

some friend who is master (if she is not mistress) of grammar and

taste enough, to reform these and the other errors of her little work,

and then give us a new edition, calling in all the copies of the

first, that are within her reach.--And now to our tale.

JOSEPH WARREN was born in 1741, in the village of Roxbury, one or two

miles south from Boston, Mass. His father, a rich farmer, inhabited a

house, the ruins of which are still visible; and was famous for

raising the best fruit in that neighborhood. He was killed by a fall

from one of his own apple trees, leaving a widow and four sons, of

whom Joseph, the eldest, was 16, and John, the youngest, was 4 years

old. This excellent woman appears to have much resembled the mother of

Washington, in the skill and care with which she infused generous

sentiments and virtuous principles into the bosoms of her children:

and she reaped almost as richly as Mrs. Washington, the fruits of her

labors. Her sons passed through life, all honored and loved, and more

than one of them distinguished. Her nature seems to have had more of

amiable softness than Mrs. Washington's; who, it must be confessed,

blended something of the sternness with the purity and nobleness of a

Spartan matron. Mrs. Warren's door was always open for deeds of

hospitality and neighborly kindness. It is not easy to imagine a

lovelier scene than one paragraph presents, of the evening of a well

spent life, still warmed and brightened by the benign spirit, which

had been the sun of that life's long day.

"In her old age, when her own children had left her fireside, it was

one of her dearest pleasures to gather a group of _their_ children, or

of the children of others around her. She did all in her power to

promote their enjoyment, and her benevolent smile was always ready to

encourage them. On Thanksgiving-day,[1] she depended on having all her

children and grand children with her; and _until she was 80 years of

age, she herself made the pies with which the table was loaded!_ Not

satisfied with feasting them to their heart's content while they were

with her, she always had some nice great pies ready for them to take

home with them."

[Footnote 1: _Thanksgiving-day_ is in New England, what Christmas is

in the Southern States and England. It is always in November, on a day

fixed by Proclamation of the Governor of each State, in each year.

Christmas, from the anti-Catholic zeal of the Puritan Pilgrims, is

almost entirely neglected; being, with all its train of quips, cranks,

gambols and mince-pies, thought to savor too strongly of popery.]

Joseph's education, till his fourteenth year, was at the public school

in Roxbury; one of those _common schools_, which, from the earliest

times of New England, have been planting and nurturing in her soil the

seeds and shoots of virtue and freedom. Even in boyhood, our hero was

manly, fearless and generous: always taking the part of his weaker

school-fellows against a strong oppressor--always the

"village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood."

At fourteen, he entered Harvard University. His talents, perseverance,

gentleness and courage, here gained him unrivalled popularity. That he

did not acquire or preserve the regard of his fellow students by any

base compliances with vice or disorder, the following incident shews.

Some of them had once resolved on some breach of the laws, which, from

the sturdiness of his principles, they knew that young Warren would

disapprove, and by his powerful influence probably prevent. They

therefore met in an upper room of the college, to arrange their plans

secretly; fastening the door against him. He found what they were

about; and seeing the window of their room open, crept out, through a

_scuttle door_, upon the roof--crawled to the eaves--and there,

seizing a water-spout nearly rotten with age, he swung and slid down

by it to the window, and unexpectedly sprang in amongst the

conspirators. The spout, at the instant of his quitting it, fell with

a crash to the ground, and was shivered to pieces. Only saying, in

answer to the exclamations of astonishment that burst from his

comrades, "it stayed up just long enough for my purpose," he commenced

an expostulation against their intended misdemeanor, and _succeeded in

diverting them from it_.

On leaving college, he studied medicine, and began to practise at the

age of 23, just previously to a visit of the small pox to Boston, with

those fearful ravages which usually attended its march, before the

virtues of vaccination were known. Dr. Warren's judgment, tenderness,

and skill, made him pre-eminently successful in treating the disease.

And it is said, that his gentle and courteous deportment completely

neutralized the usual tendency of such professional success, to

enkindle the jealousy of his brethren. His mild features and winning

smile, true indexes, for once, to the soul within, gained every heart;

his knowledge and talents added respect to love. Thus, by the same

qualities which had distinguished him at school and at college, did he

acquire among his fellow townsmen an influence which no other man of

his age and day possessed.

When the British Parliament and Crown began, in 1764, that course of

unconstitutional legislation, which was destined, after eleven years

of wordy war, to end in a war of blood, Dr. Warren was among the first

to stand forth for the rights of America--to assert, and to labor in

demonstrating to his countrymen, that the _power to tax them_

(claiming, as they did, all the liberties of Englishmen) could not

exist in a government of which no representatives of theirs formed a

part. Fostered by him, and by others like him, the spirit of

resistance to tyranny grew daily more strong. The inhabitants of the

whole country, and especially of Boston, gave token after token of

their fixed resolve, to spurn the chain which they saw preparing for

them. In 1768, Col. Dalrymple with two royal regiments, reinforced

afterwards by additional troops, entered that devoted town, with more

than the usual "pomp and circumstance" of military bravado; and there

remained in garrison, to repress what the king and ministry were

pleased to call "the seditious temper" of the people. Never was

attempt at restraint more impotent; nay, more suicidal. The curb,

feebly and capriciously or unskilfully plied, served but to infuriate

the noble animal it was meant to check and guide: and no wonder that

the rider was at length unseated, and stretched in the dust. The New

Englanders--we should rather say, the _Americans_--were too stubborn

to be driven, and too shrewd to be circumvented. Every measure of

tyranny, they met with an appropriate measure of resistance. {751} Tea

had been brought from India, to be the vehicle of unconstitutional

taxation. They threw part of it into the sea; another part they

hindered from being landed; and the remainder they excluded from use,

by mutual pledges to "touch not, taste not" "the unclean thing."

Judges were sent over to judge them--creatures of the king--the

panders of ministerial oppression. The people would not suffer them to

mount the judgment seat--closed the court houses--referred all their

differences to arbitrators chosen by the parties--and even so far

tamed the spirit of litigation and disorder, as to make tribunals of

any sort in a great degree needless.[2] Between the British troops and

the Boston people, animosities soon ran high. The soldiers seized

every opportunity to exasperate the people: the people assembled in

mobs, to revenge themselves on the soldiers. Amidst these tumults, Dr.

Warren repeatedly exposed his life to soothe and restrain his

countrymen. His eloquent persuasions were generally successful. At

first, the more violent would endeavor to repel him, and would clamor

to drown his voice. "While they did this, he would stand calmly and

look at them. His intrepidity, his commanding and animated

countenance, and above all, their knowledge that he was on their side

so far as it was right to be, would soon make them as eager to hear as

he was to speak: and finally, they would disperse to their homes with

perfect confidence that they could not do better than to leave their

cause in such hands." Those who seek to restrain the excesses of

contending factions, may always expect rough usage from both sides.

Warren incurred the occasional displeasure of his own party; but he

did not escape insult and outrage from the British. They often called

him _rebel_, and threatened him with a rebel's doom. One day, on his

way to Roxbury, to see his mother, he passed near several British

officers, standing in the _Neck_, which joins the peninsula of Boston

to the main land. Not far before him stood a gallows. One of the

officers called out, "Go on, Warren, you will soon come to the

gallows:" and the whole party laughed aloud. Walking directly up to

them, he calmly asked, which of them had thus addressed him? Not one

was bold enough to avow the insolence, and he left them, crest-fallen

and ashamed.

[Footnote 2: We have grouped together here, the events of several

years, in the rapidity of our narrative. The dependence of the judges

for their salaries on the _Crown_, instead of on the Colonial

Legislatures, (whence we date their meriting to be called _creatures_

and _panders_,) began in 1772: and the tea was thrown into Boston

Harbor, Dec. 16th, 1773.]

Distinguished for his eloquence, our young physician was repeatedly

called on to address the people, upon the great and soul-stirring

topics of the times. Far the most interesting of these, was the

Massacre of the Fifth of March. Our authoress has passed too slightly

over this incident. Let us be a little more full.