INAUGURAL ADDRESS, DELIVERED BY THE REV. STEPHEN OLIN, President of
Randolph-Macon College, on the occasion of his induction into office,
5th March, 1834. _Richmond: Nesbitt & Walker._
Randolph-Macon College is a new institution, in Mecklenburg county,
Virginia; and President Olin, we believe, is a late comer into the
state: at least we are so ignorant as not to have heard of him before.
If we are permitted to judge from the "inaugural address," we
congratulate the commonwealth upon the acquisition of an instructor of
solid endowments, sound practical views, and elegant taste. He treats
the subject of education like one who had thoroughly mastered the
philosophy upon which it is founded--and who evidently prefers to be
guided by the safe lights of experience, rather than by the specious
but uncertain theories which acquire a transient popularity--but which
cannot bear the test of sound investigation and analysis. President
Olin, we think, combats with effect a very popular error, to wit: that
education ought to be so directed as to subserve a particular
profession or pursuit; in other words, that the profession or pursuit
of a young man ought to be previously selected, and the course of
instruction made to conform accordingly. Now nothing, in our view, can
be more preposterous; and we concur entirely with the President in the
opinion, that _one of the objects of education it to develop the
intellectual aptitudes and moral qualities_, and that these when
developed, should entirely control the preference or choice of a
profession. Not that if these aptitudes and qualities when manifested,
should point in an evil direction, they should therefore be indulged.
By no means. The primary object of education should be--the highest
development of morals and intellect. In the pursuit of this great
object however, if the course of instruction is rightly ordered, the
predominant aptitudes and qualities will appear--and then is the time
for the judicious parent or guardian to co-operate with the wise
indications of nature.
In conformity to this view of the subject, the President urges the
choice of such studies in a collegiate course, as have a tendency to
_enlarge_, _invigorate_ and _discipline_ the mind. To the mathematics
he assigns a high rank. "They habituate the mind to protracted and
difficult efforts of attention, and to clear and lively perception of
truth, and at the same time furnish it with principles and facts of
inestimable value in many of the departments of useful industry and
philosophical research."
Nor does he attach less importance to the study of the Greek and Roman
languages. In the opinion of President Olin they "give useful
employment to the intellectual faculties at a period when they are
incompetent to more abstract and severe occupations. They call up the
attention to such short and easy, but repeated efforts, as are best
calculated to correct its wanderings and increase its energies. The
mind is accustomed to analysis and comparison, and its powers of
discrimination are improved by frequent exercises in declension,
inflexion and derivation, and by the constant necessity that is imposed
upon it, of deciding between the claims of rival definitions. The
memory is engaged in the performance of such tasks as are precisely
fitted for its development, and the judgment and other reasoning
faculties find ample and invigorating employment in the application of
grammatical rules, and the investigation of philological principles."
We wish we had space for the whole of Mr. Olin's remarks upon classical
learning. He considers the growing scepticism in reference to its
utility and importance as an evil omen.
Next to pure and mixed mathematics and the learned languages, the
President is inclined to give a place to intellectual philosophy. "It
familiarises the student with the laws and the phenomena of mind, and
with such efforts of subtle analysis and difficult combination as are
best fitted to enlarge and fill the grasp of the highest intellectual
capacities." He also recommends as subordinate, but highly important
studies--composition and eloquence--moral and natural
philosophy--chemistry--the French language--and geology and mineralogy.
Mr. Olin opposes with much force the excessive multiplication of
studies without a correspondent prolongation of the collegiate term.
"The industry which was profitably directed to a few, may be divided
amongst a multitude of objects; but it will incur the inevitable
penalty of fitful and dissipated intellectual exertion--superficial
attainments and vicious intellectual habits." In what is denominated
the art of education, the President is not inclined to set as high a
value upon the lecture system as upon the mode of frequent recitations
from well digested text books. From the history of the two
universities, and of the literature of Scotland and England for the
last century, he is led to draw the conclusion that the "lecture system
is more favorable to the improvement of the professor, and the
reputation of the university--whilst the opposite method has been more
productive of thorough and accomplished scholars."
Upon the subject of moral restraint and college discipline, Mr. Olin is
forcible and interesting. With a mind well organized for the clear
perception of truth, we take the President to be fearless in
proclaiming his convictions, without stopping to calculate the strength
of opposing prejudices and opinions. He does not hesitate to come up
boldly to the mark, and to advocate the only rational system by which
our erring nature, and especially our youthful nature, can be brought
to a just sense of what is due to its own interests, as well as to the
requirements of society. Upon this subject, however, we prefer that the
President should speak for himself.
"In proportion as virtue is more valuable than knowledge, pure and
enlightened morality will be regarded by every considerate father the
highest recommendation of a literary institution. The youth is
withdrawn from the salutary restraints of parental influence and
authority, and committed to other guardians, at a time of life most
decisive of his prospects and destinies. The period devoted to
education usually impresses its own character upon all his future
history. Vigilant supervision, employment, and seclusion from all
facilities and temptations to vice, are the ordinary and essential
securities which every institution of learning is bound to provide for
the sacred interests which are committed to its charge. But safeguards
and negative provisions are not sufficient. The tendencies of our
nature are retrograde, and they call for the interposition of positive
remedial influences. The most perfect human society speedily
degenerates, if the active agencies which were employed in its
elevation are once withdrawn or suspended. What then can be expected of
inexperienced youth, sent forth from the pure atmosphere of domestic
piety, and left to the single support of its own untested and unsettled
principles, in the midst of circumstances which often prove fatal to
the most practised virtue! I frankly confess that I see no safety but
in the preaching of the cross, and in a clear and unfaltering
exhibition of the doctrines and sanctions of christianity. The beauty
and excellence of virtue are excusable topics, though they must ever be
inefficient motives, with those who reject the authority of revelation;
but in a christian land, morality divorced from religion, is the
emptiest of all the empty names by which a deceitful philosophy has
blinded and corrupted the world. I venture to affirm, that this
generation has not given birth to another absurdity so monstrous, as
that which would exclude from our seminaries of learning the open and
vigorous inculcation of the religious faith which is acknowledged by
our whole population, and which pervades every one of our free
institutions. Our governors and legislators, and all the depositaries
of honor and trust, are prohibited from exercising their humblest
functions till they have pledged their fidelity to the country upon the
holy gospels. The most inconsiderable pecuniary interest is regarded
too sacred to be entrusted to the most upright judge or juror, or to
the most unsuspected witness, till their integrity has been fortified
by an appeal to the high sanctions of christianity. Even the exercise
of the elective franchise is usually suspended upon the same condition.
The interesting moralities of the domestic relations--the laws of
marriage and divorce--the mutual obligations of parents and
children--are all borrowed from the christian scriptures. The fears of
the vicious and the hopes of the upright--the profane ribaldry of the
profligate, no less than the humble thanksgiving of the morning and
evening sacrifice, do homage to the gospel as the religion of the
American people. Our eloquence and our poetry--our periodical and
popular literature in all their varieties--the novel, the tale, the
ballad, the play, all make their appeal to the deep sentiments of
religion that pervade the popular bosom. Christianity is our
birthright. It is the richest inheritance bequeathed us by our noble
fathers. It is mingled in our hearts with all the fountains of
sentiment and of faith. And are the guardians of public education alone
'halting between two opinions?' Do they think that in fact, and for
practical purposes, the truth of christianity is still a debateable
question? Is it still a question whether the generations yet to rise up
and occupy the wide domains of this great empire--to be the
representatives of our name, our freedom and our glory, before the
nations of the earth, shall be a christian or an infidel people? Can
wise and practical men who are engaged in rearing up a temple of
learning to form the character and destinies of their posterity, for a
moment hesitate to make 'Jesus Christ the chief corner stone?"
It is not to be supposed, however, that Mr. Olin is in favor of
subjecting our public seminaries to the control of any particular
religious denomination, or that the faith of the student is either to
be influenced or regulated by sectarian views. On the contrary, he
considers that such a course would be a manifest violation of the
principles of free government. His remarks upon the internal discipline
of a college are sound and excellent. He is decidedly opposed to that
"multitude of vexatious enactments," and those frivolous and arbitrary
regulations which too often disgrace our seats of learning. In the
administration of such wise and salutary laws, however, as experience
has proved to be necessary, President Olin refers to the co-operation
of parents and guardians as absolutely essential. We wish that
conviction on this subject was more general than it is, and that all
who are in any wise responsible for the intellectual and moral training
of youth, whether at colleges, academies, or private schools, would
consider the importance of sustaining, by parental authority, the just
and wholesome government of the teacher. A weak or capricious parent,
who from false tenderness, countenances the wayward inclinations of a
child in opposition to school authority, is not only inflicting upon it
irreparable mischief, but is doing equal injury to others by the
encouragement of a bad example.
A DISCOURSE ON THE LIFE AND CHARACTER OF WM. WIRT, late Attorney
General of the United States; pronounced at the request of the
Baltimore Bar before the Citizens of Baltimore, on the 20th of May,
1834, by John P. Kennedy. _Baltimore: Wm. & Joseph Neal._ 1834.
Mr. Kennedy is favorably known as an eloquent lawyer and literary
writer of distinction. The task therefore of delineating the character
and genius of Mr. Wirt, could not have been confided to abler hands. We
have read his oration with great pleasure; a pleasure it is true,
alloyed by the reflection that the country has sustained a bereavement
so afflicting and irreparable. There is a mournful satisfaction in
recalling the eminent virtues, and matchless accomplishments of the
deceased,--in dwelling upon his bright example, and retracing the
incomparable graces and excellencies which adorned his public and
private character. Mr. Kennedy has touched with the hand of a master,
the sad but brilliant theme, and has poured forth in "thoughts that
breathe and words that burn"--a most eloquent tribute to the memory of
one of the brightest and purest spirits of the age. Mr. Wirt, though a
native of Maryland, was in truth a Virginian, by all the endearing ties
of social and domestic life. He spent the prime of his youth and
manhood among us, and it was here in the Metropolis of the Old
Dominion, that he reared that enduring fabric of illustrious talent and
virtue which placed him first among his equals--and which will long be
embalmed in the recollection of his contemporaries. Hundreds in this
city, still remember those surpassing triumphs of his genius as an
orator and advocate, achieved in the celebrated trial of Burr;--how he
depicted in colors glowing and beautiful the enchanting island of
Blennerhassett--the misery of his disconsolate wife--and the wiles of
that evil genius who entered the Paradise of the Ohio, and withered
forever its enjoyments. Hundreds here and elsewhere have hung with
ecstasy over the rich pages of the "British Spy" and "Old
Batchelor"--have listened to the magic of his voice both in public and
colloquial discourse--and have been constant eyewitnesses of the "daily
beauty" and sublime morality of his life. Proudly and sacredly however
as his native and adopted states ought to cherish his memory--the fame
of such a man as Wirt, must be regarded as the property of the whole
nation. His great and commanding genius illustrated and adorned the age
and country in which he lived, and thousands and tens of thousands of
American bosoms have exulted at the thought that _he was their
countryman_.
In one respect especially, Mr. Wirt was an uncommon man. Most persons
distinguished for their moral and intellectual qualities, have at some
time or other, been the objects of illiberal censure. Greatness is
almost invariably the mark of envy, and envy gives birth to detraction.
The deceased however, it is believed, lived and died without an enemy.
His manners were so bland and gentle--his purposes so pure--and his
life so blameless--that even malice had no nourishment left whereon to
feed. In the language of Mr. Kennedy "he possessed, in a remarkable
degree, that trait which has been called simplicity of heart--it was
single mindedness, straight forward candor. His manners had the wayward
playfulness of a boy, that won upon, and infected with their own
buoyancy every class of his associates, from the youngest to the
oldest--from the humblest retainer about his person, or casual
stranger, to the most eminent and most intimate."
In analyzing the intellectual qualities of the deceased, Mr. Kennedy is
inclined to the opinion, that powerful as was his legal acumen, and
almost unsurpassed his eloquence, yet, that if circumstances had
permitted an exclusive devotion to literary pursuits, his fame might
have become still more brilliant. We cannot forbear to extract from the
oration, the whole passage which illustrates this idea.
"In taking this survey of the chief productions of Mr. Wirt's pen, I am
tempted to pause for a moment, to express my regret that the pursuits
of his life had not been more decidedly applied to literary labors,
than either circumstances or his own choice seem to have permitted. He
was remarkably qualified by the character of his mind, and, I think I
am warranted in saying, by his inclination, to attain great distinction
in these pursuits. A career, in a larger degree, directed to this end
would certainly have been not less honorable to himself, nor less
useful to his country, and, I would fain persuade myself, not less
profitable,--although the consideration of gain be but an unworthy
stimulant to the glorious rewards which should interest the ambition of
genius. He had, however, a large family around him who depended upon
him for protection; and it may be that, surveying the sad history of
the gifted spirits who have lighted the path of mankind with the lamps
of their own minds and made their race rich with the treasures of
wisdom and science, he has turned distrustfully from the yearnings of
his ambition, and followed the broader and more certain track that led
to professional fame and wealth. I can excuse him for the choice,
whilst I lament over the dispensation of human rule by which the latter
pursuits should have such an advantage.
"As a literary man he would have acquired a more permanent renown than
the nature of professional occupation or the exercises of the forum are
capable of conferring upon their votaries. The pen of genius erects its
own everlasting monument; but the triumphs of the speaker's eloquence,
vivid, brilliant and splendid as they are, live but in the history of
their uncertain effects and in the intoxicating applause of the
day:--to incredulous posterity they are distrusted tradition, the
extravagant boasting of an elder age prone by its nature to disparage
the present by the narrated glories of the past. So has it, even now,
befallen the name of Patrick Henry, whom not all his affectionate
biographer's learned zeal has rescued from the unbelieving smile of but
a second generation. The glory of Cicero lives more conspicuously in
his written philosophy than even in his speeches, which, although
transmitted by his own elaborate and polished hand, may rather be
assigned to his literary than to his forensic fame.
"Mr. Wirt had many inducements to the cultivation of letters. He might
have entered upon the field, in this country, almost without a rival.
Our nation, young in the career of liberal arts, had but few names to
reckon when asked, as she has sometimes been in derision, where were
the evidences of her scholarship. Her pride would have pointed to a man
like William Wirt with a peculiar complacency. His comprehensive and
philosophical mind, acute and clear-sighted, was well adapted to master
the truths of science: it was fruitful and imaginative and full of
beautiful illustration. He had wit and humor of the highest flavor,
combined with a quick and accurate observation of character: his taste,
sensitive and refined, delighted in the harmony and truth of nature:
his full memory furnished him abundant stores of learning: his style,
rich and clear, like a fountain of sparkling waters played along a
channel of golden sands and bright crystals and through meads begirt
with flowers. Above all, the tendency of his mind was to usefulness: he
indited no thought that did not serve to inculcate virtuous sentiments,
noble pursuits, love of country, the value of generous and laudable
ambition, trust in Heaven, or earnest attachment to duty. He has
embellished and vivified the grave experience of age with all the warm
enthusiasm of youth, and has taught his countrymen the most severe and
self-denying devotion to purposes of good, in lessons of so amiable a
tone, as to win many a young champion to virtue by the kindness of his
persuasion. His sketches of character are pleasantly graphic, and leave
us room to believe that, either, in the drama or in that species of
fictitious history which the great enchanter of this age has made so
popular a vehicle for profound philosophy, he would have attained to an
exalted fame. In short, there are but few amongst us who, in
scholarship, learning, observation or facility and beauty of
expression, may claim to be ranked with William Wirt."
Our readers must not be denied the pleasure of another quotation in
which Mr. Wirt's powers of oratory are sketched with a graphic pencil.
"He was a powerful orator, and had the art to sway courts and juries
with a master's spirit. The principal traits of his eloquence were
great clearness and force in laying the foundations of an argument, and
the steady pursuit of it through the track of logical deduction. He was
ingenious in choosing his position, and, that once taken, his hearers
were borne to his conclusion upon a tide almost as irresistible as that
which wafts the idle skiff upon the Potomac, downward from the
mountains to the last cataract that meets the ebb and flood of the sea.
In this train of earnest argumentation the attention of his auditory
was kept alive by a vivid display of classic allusion, by flashes of
wit and merriment, and by the familiar imagery which was called in aid
to give point to his demonstrations, or light to what the subject
rendered obscure to the common apprehension. He sometimes indulged in
satire and invective, and, where the subject called for it, in stern
denunciation. Many have felt with what indignant power these weapons
have been wielded in his hand. His utterance, in early life, was said
to have been confused and ungraceful. Practice had conquered these
defects, and no man spoke with a more full, effortless and unobstructed
fluency. His diction was scrupulously neat, and might have often
deceived an audience into the opinion that his speeches were prepared
in the closet. His manner was remarkably impressive. Endowed with a
commanding figure, a singularly graceful carriage and with a
countenance of manly and thoughtful beauty, that struck an instant
sense of respect into all that looked upon him, he was pre-eminent in
that most significant trait of an orator, action. We can all remember
the rich and flowing music of that voice which was wont to stir the
inmost souls of our tribunals and bring down the loud applause of
delighted bystanders; the dignity with which we have seen his majestic
person dilate itself before the judgment seat; the ineffable grace that
beamed upon the broad expanse of his brow, and the kindled transport of
his fine face, in those wrapt moments when his mind was all in a blaze
with the inspirations of his own eloquence. These were the rare gifts
that imparted a charm to his oratory, which often wrought more
powerfully for the success of his cause than even the efficacy of
'right words set in order.'"
We shall conclude with one more passage, in which the man who filled so
large a space in the public eye--whose eloquence placed him on the
highest pedestal of fame, and whose writings have charmed by their
richness and beauty so many thousand readers--is exhibited in a light
more attractive and enduring than the highest human attainments are
able to bestow. Mr. Wirt looked far beyond the narrow bounds of earth
for his reward. He saw that neither wealth, nor power, nor fame, could
satisfy the immortal cravings of the mind--and he lifted up his
thoughtful eye to another and more permanent state of being.
"Lastly, he was a zealous and faithful christian. In such a mind as
his, so inquiring, so masterly, so discriminating, religion was the
child of his judgment, not the creation of his passion. It was an
earnest, abiding sense of truth, and showed itself in daily exercise
and constant acknowledgment. With the sublime system of revelation
resting ever in his thoughts, the christian law hung like a tablet upon
his breast, and duty ever pointed her finger to the sculptured commands
that were graven there to serve him as a manual of practice. He loved
old forms and old opinions, and, with something like a patriarch's
reverence, he headed his little family flock on their Sunday walks to
church: morning and evening he gathered them together, and on bended
knee, invoked his Father's blessing on his household; and at the daily
meal bowed his calm and prophet-like figure over the family repast, to
ask that grace of the Deity, on which his heart rested with its
liveliest hope, and to express that thankfulness which filled and
engrossed his soul. Such was this man in the retirement of his domestic
hearth, and thus did his affections, in that little precinct, bloom
with the daily increasing virtues of love of family, of friends, of his
country and of his God."
We hope that Mr. Kennedy's discourse will be extensively circulated and
read. We confess that we rose from its perusal much wiser, better, and
happier than before. It not only gave play to the imagination, but it
distilled precious dews of thought and feeling, the memory of which is
still delightful.
A LETTER TO HIS COUNTRYMEN. By J. Fenimore Cooper.--_New York: John
Wiley._ 1834.
Mr. Cooper's letter is partly private and controversial, and partly
political, and therefore any thing like an extended notice or review of
it does not fall within the range which has been prescribed for the
"Southern Literary Messenger." We cannot but express our regret,
however, that Mr. Cooper should have suffered himself to be seduced
into the arena of party politics. Upon that theatre he will meet with
many distinguished rivals--whereas he had none or few to contend with
on his favorite ground of romantic fiction. Is it possible that Mr.
Cooper will suffer himself to be driven from the field on which he has
earned so many enduring laurels, by the criticisms or even illnature of
a few newspaper editors? Why, if we had been fortunate enough to write
the "Red Rover," or even the "Bravo," we would have good humoredly
defied the whole fraternity from Maine to New Orleans. Mr. Cooper
forgets that there are thousands, who form their own opinions of
literary works, without ever once thinking to turn over the pages of a
daily or semiweekly instructor in order to learn its opinion. What if
some of his finest romances have been criticised? Is there any human
production which can be said to be perfect? Even Walter Scott
acknowledged that his "Monastery" and probably some of his other works
were total failures. We hope to spend many a long winter night yet in
reading some of Mr. Cooper's new novels.
DIARY OF AN ENNUYEE. _Boston: Lilly, Wait, Colman & Holden._ 1833.
We opened this book, we confess, with some reluctance. The reading
world has been so completely surfeited, especially in late years, by
works of the same description,--by the diaries and letters of
travellers and tourists,--and many of them have been so obviously
designed to encourage the art of _book making_, rather than to impart
solid instruction or intellectual pleasure, that we had almost resolved
to proscribe altogether that branch of literature. France, Switzerland
and Italy, have, moreover, been so often described, that neither the
theatre of Napoleon's glory, nor the sublimities of Alpine scenery--nor
the classical antiquities of the "Eternal City"--could impart any
longer, it was supposed, the grace or freshness of novelty to the
sketches of a new adventurer. Fortunately for us, however, we did not
carry our resolution into effect, until we looked into the charming
volume whose title is at the head of this article. For rich and
powerful thought,--for glowing and beautiful description,--for chaste
composition and elegance of taste, we have seldom or never seen it
surpassed. It is, too, the production of a lady,--an Englishwoman of
rank and fortune, who seems to have visited the sunny clime of Italy in
order to restore a constitution wasted by disease, and if possible,
alleviate some secret misery which was "feeding on her damask cheek"
and withering her heart.--Notwithstanding her efforts to conceal her
wretchedness, enough is told to excite the reader's sympathy and impart
a melancholy interest to the narrative. She finally fell a victim to
her sufferings, and found at the age of twenty-six, a premature grave
at Autun, in France, on her return to her native England.
In the course of her pilgrimage she visited Paris, Geneva, Milan,
Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, Genoa, and various other cities. All
the wonders of art and glories of nature in Italy's elysian land, seem
to have borrowed additional splendor and beauty from the touches of her
magic pencil--and in her reflections upon men and manners there is a
purity of sentiment which could neither be sullied by the temptations
of wealth and fashion, nor by the prevalence of licentious customs in
that voluptuous climate.
We cannot deny to our readers the pleasure of a few extracts, which
will fully justify the estimate we have placed upon this delightful
volume.
The frivolous extravagance which in many things characterises the
French people, and especially the Parisian circles, is thus described:
"_La mode_ at Paris is a spell of wondrous power: it is most like what
we should call in England a rage, a mania, a torrent sweeping down the
bounds between good and evil, sense and nonsense, upon whose surface
straws and egg-shells float into notoriety, while the gold and the
marble are buried and hidden till its force be spent. The rage for
cashmeres and little dogs, has lately given way to a rage for Le
Solitaire, a Romance written, I believe, by a certain vicomte
d'Arlincourt. Le Solitaire rules the imagination, the taste, the dress
of half Paris: if you go to the theatre, it is to see the 'Solitaire,'
either as tragedy, opera, or melodrame: the men dress their hair and
throw their cloaks about them _à la Solitaire_; bonnets and caps,
flounces and ribbons are all _à la Solitaire_; the print shops are full
of scenes from Le Solitaire; it is on every toilette, on every work
table;--ladies carry it about in their reticules to show each other
that they are à la mode; and the men--what can they do but humble their
understandings and be _extasiés_, when beautiful eyes sparkle in its
defence, and glisten in its praise, and ruby lips pronounce it divine,
delicious, 'quelle sublimité dans les descriptions, quelle force dans
les caractères! quelle âme! quel feu! quelle chaleur! quelle verve!
quelle originalité! quelle passion!' &c.
"'Vous n'avez pas lu le Solitaire?' said Madame M. yesterday; 'eh mon
dieu! est-il donc possible! vous? mais, ma chère, vous êtes perdue de
reputation, et pour jamais!'
"To retrieve my lost reputation, I sat down to read Le Solitaire, and
as I read, my amazement grew, and I did in 'gaping wonderment abound,'
to think that fashion, like the insane root of old, had power to drive
a whole city mad with nonsense; for such a tissue of abominable
absurdities, bombast, and blasphemy, bad taste and bad language, was
never surely indited by any madman, in or out of Bedlam: not Maturin
himself, that king of fustian,
'---- ever wrote or borrowed,
Any horror half so horrid!'
and this is the book which has turned the brains of half Paris, which
has gone through fifteen editions in a few weeks, which not to admire
is '_pitoyable_,' and not to have read '_quelque chose d'inouie_.'"
Again,
"This is the place to live in for the merry poor man, or the melancholy
rich one; for those who have too much money, and those who have too
little; for those who only wish like the Irishman, 'to live all the
days of their life,'--_prendre en légère monnoie la somme des
plaisirs_--but to the thinking, the feeling, the domestic man, who only
exists, enjoys, suffers through his affections--
'Who is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noonday grove--'
to such a one, Paris must be nothing better than a vast frippery shop,
an ever varying galanty show, an eternal vanity fair, a vortex of
folly, a pandemonium of vice."
At Milan the fair invalid was induced to visit the Scala, where she saw
the _Didone Abandonnato_, a ballet by Vigano. This piece was founded
upon the loves of Dido and Eneas, and the celebrated cavern scene in
the 4th book of Virgil was copied _almost_ to the life. A noble English
family just arrived at Milan, was present at the performance, and the
effect upon one of its members is thus described:
"In the front of the box sat a beautiful girl, apparently not fifteen,
with laughing lips and dimpled cheeks, the very personification of
blooming, innocent, _English_ loveliness. I watched her, (I could not
help it, when my interest was once awakened,) through the whole scene.
I marked her increased agitation: I saw her cheeks flush, her eyes
glisten, her bosom flutter, as if with sighs I could not overhear, till
at length, overpowered with emotion, she turned away her head, and
covered her eyes with her hand. Mothers!--English mothers! who bring
your daughters abroad to finish their education--do ye well to expose
them to scenes like these, and _force_ the young bud of early feeling
in such a precious hotbed as this?--Can a finer finger on the piano,--a
finer taste in painting, or any possible improvement in foreign arts,
and foreign graces, compensate for one taint on that moral purity,
which has ever been, (and may it ever be!) the boast, the charm of
Englishwomen? But what have I to do with all this?--I came here to be
amused and to forget:--not to moralize, or to criticise."
The picture of Venice, "throned on her hundred isles," is vivid and
beautiful.
"The morning we left Padua was bright, lovely and cloudless. Our drive
along the shores of the Brenta crowned with innumerable villas and gay
gardens was delightful; and the moment of our arrival at Fusina, where
we left our carriages to embark in gondolas, was the most auspicious
that could possibly have been chosen. It was about four o'clock: the
sun was just declining towards the west; the whole surface of the
_lagune_ smooth as a mirror, appeared as if paved with fire;--and
Venice with her towers and domes, indistinctly glittering in the
distance, rose before us like a gorgeous exhalation from the bosom of
the ocean. It is farther from the shore than I expected. As we
approached, the splendor faded: but the interest and the wonder grew. I
can conceive nothing more beautiful, more singular, more astonishing,
than the first appearance of Venice, and sad indeed will be the hour
when she sinks, (as the poet prophecies) 'into the slime of her own
canals.'
"The moment we had disembarked our luggage at the inn, we hired
gondolas and rowed to the Piazza di San Marco. Had I seen the church of
St. Mark any where else, I should have exclaimed against the bad taste
which every where prevails in it: but Venice is the proper region of
the fantastic, and the Church of St. Mark, with its four hundred
pillars of every different order, color, and material; its oriental
cupolas, and glittering vanes, and gilding and mosaics, assimilates
with all around it: and the kind of pleasure it gives is suitable to
the place and people.
"After dinner I had a chair placed on the balcony of our inn, and sat
for some time contemplating a scene altogether new and delightful. The
arch of the Rialto, just gleamed through the deepening twilight; long
lines of palaces, at first partially illuminated, faded away at length
into gloomy and formless masses of architecture; the gondolas glided to
and fro, their glancing lights reflected on the water. There was a
stillness all around me, solemn and strange in the heart of a great
city. No rattling carriages shook the streets, no trampling of horses
echoed along the pavement:--the silence was broken only by the
melancholy cry of the gondoliers, and the dash of their oars; by the
low murmur of human voices, by the chime of the vesper bells, borne
over the water, and the sounds of music raised at intervals along the
canals. The poetry, the romance of the scene stole upon me unawares. I
fell into a reverie, in which visionary forms and recollections gave
way to dearer and sadder realities, and my mind seemed no longer in my
own power. I called upon the lost, the absent, to share the present
with me--I called upon past feelings to enhance that moment's delight.
I did wrong--and memory avenged herself as usual. I quitted my seat on
the balcony, with despair at my heart, and drawing to the table took
out my books and work. So passed our first evening at Venice."
At Florence she met with the poet Rogers, who seems to have been a
familiar acquaintance:
"Samuel Rogers paid us a long visit this morning. He does not look as
if the suns of Italy had _revivified_ him--but he is as _amiable_ and
amusing as ever. He talked long, _et avec beaucoup d'onction_, of
ortolans and figs; till methought it was the very poetry of epicurism;
and put me in mind of his own suppers--
'Where blushing fruits through scatter'd leaves invite,
Still clad in bloom and veil'd in azure light.
The wine as rich in years as Horace sings;'
and the rest of his description worthy of a poetical Apicius.
"Rogers may be seen every day about eleven or twelve, in the Tribune,
seated opposite to the Venus, which appears to be the exclusive object
of his adoration; and gazing, as if he hoped, like another Pygmalion,
to animate the statue: or rather, perhaps, that the statue might
animate _him_. A young Englishman of fashion, with as much talent as
espiéglerie, placed an epistle in verse between the fingers of the
statue, addressed to Rogers; in which the Goddess entreats him not to
come there _ogling_ her every day;--for though 'partial friends might
deem him still alive,' she knew by his looks he had come from the other
side of the Styx; and retained her _antique_ abhorrence of the spectral
dead, &c. &c. She concluded by beseeching him, if he could not desist
from haunting her with his _ghostly_ presence, at least to spare her
the added misfortune of being be-rhymed by his Muse.
"Rogers with equal good nature and good sense, neither noticed these
lines, nor withdrew his friendship and intimacy from the writer."
The fine arts which are cultivated with so much distinction in the
"Etrurian Athens," attracted the particular attention of our
accomplished traveller. Referring to the Dutch school and the Salle des
Portraits,--she says,
"The Dutch and Flemish painters (in spite of their exquisite pots and
pans, and cabbages and carrots, their birch brooms, in which you can
count every twig, and their carpets in which you can reckon every
thread) do not interest me; their landscapes too, however natural, are
mere Dutch nature (with some brilliant exceptions,) fat cattle, clipped
trees, boors and wind-mills. Of course I am not speaking of Vandyke,
nor of Rubens, he that 'in the colors of the rainbow lived,' nor of
Rembrandt, that king of clouds and shadows; but for mine own part, I
would give up all that Mieris, Netscher, Teniers and Gerard Duow ever
produced, for one of Claude's Eden-like creations, or one of Guido's
lovely heads--or merely for the pleasure of looking at Titian's Flora
once a day, I would give a whole gallery of Dutchmen, if I had them."
The following _coup-d'oeil_ of Florence is distinct and impressive:
"We then ascended the Campanile or Belfry Tower to see the view from
its summit. Florence lay at our feet, diminished to a model of itself,
with its walls and gates, its streets and bridges, palaces and
churches, all and each distinctly visible; and beyond, the Val d'Arno
with its amphitheatre of hills, villas, and its vineyards--classical
Fiesole, with its ruined castle, and Monte Ulivetto, with its diadem of
cypresses; luxuriant nature and graceful art, blending into one
glorious picture, which no smoky vapors, no damp exhalations, blotted
and discolored; but all was serenely bright and fair, gay with moving
life, and rich with redundant fertility."
But it was in Rome, "the city of the soul," that the spirit of the
authoress revelled amidst the magnificent trophies of art, and was
refreshed in spite of pain and despondency, by the reviving beauties of
nature.
"The weather is cold here during the prevalence of the tramontana: but
I enjoy the brilliant skies, and the delicious purity of the air, which
leaves the eye free to wander over a vast extent of space. Looking from
the gallery of the Belvedere at sun-set this evening, I clearly saw
Tivoli, Albano, and Frascati, although all Rome, and part of the
Campagna lay between me and those towns. The outlines of every
building, ruin, hill and wood, were so distinctly marked, and _stood
out_ so brightly to the eye! and the full round moon, magnified through
the purple vapor which floated over the Appenines, rose just over
Tivoli, adding to the beauty of the scene. O Italy! How I wish I could
transport hither all I love! how I wish I were well enough, happy
enough to enjoy all the lovely things I see! but pain is mingled with
all I behold, all I feel: a cloud seems for ever before my eyes, a
weight for ever presses down my heart. I know it is wrong to repine;
and that I ought rather to be thankful for the pleasurable sensations
yet spared to me, than lament that they are so few. When I take up my
pen to record the impressions of the day, I sometimes turn within
myself, and wonder how it is possible, that amid the strife of feelings
not all subdued, and the desponding of the heart, the mind should still
retain its faculties unobscured, and the imagination all its vivacity,
and its susceptibility to pleasure,--like the beautiful sun-bow I saw
at the falls of Terni, bending so bright and so calm over the verge of
the abyss, which toiled and raged below."
Having visited and examined in detail, with the feelings of an amateur,
almost every thing worthy of note in the ancient city--the sublime
architecture of St. Peter's--the treasures of the Vatican and the
Capitol--the numberless galleries of painting and sculpture--and having
loitered with the spirit of an antiquary amidst the ruins of tombs and
temples, our fair tourist describes the rapid _survey_ which she made
with a view to generalize the whole.
"For this purpose, making the Capitol a central point, I drove first
slowly through the Forum, and made the circuit of the Palatine hill,
then by the arch of Janus (which by a late decision of the antiquarians
has no more to do with Janus than with Jupiter,) and the temple of
Vesta, back again over the site of the Circus Maximus, between the
Palatine and the Aventine (the scene of the Rape of the Sabines,) to
the baths of Caracalla, where I spent an hour, musing, sketching, and
poetizing; thence to the Church of San Stefano Rotundo, once a temple
dedicated to Claudius by Agrippina; over the Celian hill, covered with
masses of ruins, to the Church of St. John and St. Paul, a small but
beautiful edifice: then to the neighboring church of San Gregorio, from
the steps of which there is such a noble view. Thence I returned by the
arch of Constantine, and the Coliseum, which frowned on me in black
masses through the soft and deepening twilight, through the street now
called the Suburra, but formerly the Via Scelerata, where Tullia
trampled over the dead body of her father, and so over the Quirinal,
home.
"My excursion was altogether delightful, and gave me the most
magnificent, and I had almost said, the most _bewildering_ ideas of the
grandeur and extent of ancient Rome: every step was classic ground;
illustrious names, and splendid recollections crowded upon the fancy--
'And trailing clouds of glory did they come.'
On the Palatine Hill were the houses of Cicero and the Gracchi: Horace,
Virgil, and Ovid resided on the Aventine; and Mecænas and Pliny on the
Æsquiline. If one little fragment of a wall remained, which could with
any shadow of probability be pointed out as belonging to the residence
of Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, how much dearer, how much more sanctified
to memory would it be than all the magnificent ruins of the fabrics of
the Cæsars! But no--all has passed away. I have heard the remains of
Rome coarsely ridiculed, because after the researches of centuries, so
little is comparatively known, because of the endless disputes of
antiquarians, and the night and ignorance in which all is involved. But
to the imagination there is something singularly striking in this
mysterious veil which hangs like a cloud upon the objects around us. I
trod to-day over shapeless masses of building, extending in every
direction as far as the eye could reach. Who had inhabited the edifices
I trampled under my feet? What hearts had burned--what heads had
thought--what spirits had kindled _there_, where nothing was seen but a
wilderness and waste, and heaps of ruins, to which antiquaries--even
Nibby himself, dare not give a name? All swept away--buried beneath an
ocean of oblivion, above which rise a few great and glorious names,
like rocks, over which the billows of time break in vain."
Her journey from Rome to Naples was short and delightful. The following
is one among innumerable descriptive passages in her diary:
"In some of the scenes of to-day--at Terracina particularly, there was
a beauty beyond what I ever beheld or imagined: the scenery of
Switzerland is of a different character, and on a different scale; it
is beyond comparison grander, more gigantic, more overpowering, but it
is not so poetical. Switzerland is not Italy--is not the enchanting
_south_. This soft balmy air, these myrtles, orange groves, palm trees;
these cloudless skies, this bright blue sea, and sunny hills, all
breathe of an enchanted land; 'a land of Faery.'"
At Naples our traveller was fortunate enough to witness a brilliant
eruption of Mount Vesuvius--and overcoming the natural timidity of her
sex, she resolved to ascend the mountain at midnight attended by chosen
guides and companions. Her account of the terrible spectacle is too
graphic to withhold from our readers.
"Before eleven o'clock we reached the Hermitage, situated between
Vesuvius and the Somma, and the highest habitation on the mountain. A
great number of men were assembled within, and guides, lazzaroni,
servants, and soldiers were lounging round. I alighted, for I was
benumbed and tired, but did not like to venture among those people, and
it was proposed that we should wait for the rest of our party a little
farther on. We accordingly left our donkeys and walked forward upon a
kind of high ridge, which serves to fortify the Hermitage and its
environs, against the lava. From this path as we slowly ascended, we
had a glorious view of the eruption, and the whole scene around us, in
its romantic interest and terrible magnificence, mocked all power of
description. There were, at this time, five distinct torrents of lava
rolling down like streams of molten lead; one of which extended above
two miles below us, and was flowing towards Portici. The showers of red
hot stones flew up like thousands of sky rockets; many of them being
shot up perpendicularly, fell back into the crater, others falling on
the outside, bounded down the side of the mountain, with a velocity
which would have distanced a horse at full speed: these stones were of
every size, from two to ten or twelve feet in diameter.
"My ears were by this time wearied and stunned by the unceasing roaring
and hissing of the flames, while my eyes were dazzled by the glare of
the red, fierce light: now and then I turned them for relief, to other
features of the picture, to the black shadowy masses of the landscape
stretched beneath us, and speckled with little shining lights, which
showed how many were up and watching that night; and often to the calm
vaulted sky above our heads, where thousands of stars (not twinkling,
as through our hazy or frosty atmosphere, but shining out of 'heaven's
profoundest azure,' with that soft steady brilliance, peculiar to a
highly rarified medium) looked down upon this frightful turmoil, in all
their bright and placid loveliness. Nor should I forget one other
feature of a scene, on which I looked with a painter's eye. Great
numbers of the Austrian forces, now occupying Naples, were on the
mountain, assembled in groups, some standing, some sitting, some
stretched on the ground and wrapped in their cloaks, in various
attitudes of amazement and admiration; and as the shadowy glare fell on
their tall martial figures and glittering accoutrements, I thought I
had never beheld any thing so wildly picturesque."
After spending the day with a select party of friends amidst the ruins
of Pompeii, she draws the following picture of the celebrated environs
of Naples.
"Of all the heavenly days we have had since we came to Naples, this has
been the most heavenly; and of all the lovely scenes I have beheld in
Italy, what I saw to-day has most enchanted my senses and imagination.
The view from the eminence on which the old temple stood, and which was
anciently the public promenade, was splendidly beautiful: the whole
landscape was at one time overflowed with light and sunshine; and
appeared as if seen through an impalpable but dazzling veil. Towards
evening, the outlines became more distinct: the little white towns
perched upon the hills, the gentle sea, the fairy island of Rivegliano
with its old tower, the smoking crater of Vesuvius, the bold forms of
Mount Lactarius and Cape Minerva, stood out full and clear under the
cloudless sky; and as we returned, I saw the sun sink behind Capri,
which appeared by some optical illusion, like a glorious crimson
transparency suspended above the horizon: the sky, the earth, the sea,
were flushed with the richest rose color, which gradually softened and
darkened into purple: the short twilight faded away, and the full moon,
rising over Vesuvius, lighted up the scenery with a softer radiance."
We intended to have quoted other passages, in which our fair authoress
sketches with striking eloquence, the exhibitions of _Sestine_, one of
that extraordinary race called _Improvvisatori_--a race which seems to
be almost peculiar to Italy; and which, far from being extinct, are
still to be found in almost every town from Florence to Naples. Her
description too of a splendid illumination at St. Peter's, and her just
observations upon the works of the great masters, particularly of the
_Divine Raffaelle_, are worthy of particular designation; but it would
be an almost endless task to select passages from a work, which from
beginning to end, and through almost every page, is a volume of
thrilling interest. We shall content ourselves with one or two
beautiful extracts distinguished for their deep moral tone, and
somewhat connected, as we suppose, with that all-engrossing and
mysterious source of melancholy which seems to have imbittered the
peace and hastened the dissolution of this interesting female.
"It is sorrow which makes our experience; it is sorrow which teaches us
to feel properly for ourselves and for others. We must feel deeply
before we can think rightly. It is not in the tempest and storm of
passions, we can reflect--but afterwards, when the _waters have gone
over our soul_; and like the precious gems and the rich merchandise
which the wild wave casts on the shore out of the wreck it has
made--such are the thoughts left by retiring passions."
Again; what can be more affecting than her final adieu to Naples.
"When we turned into the Strada Chiaja, and I gave a last glance at the
magnificent bay and the shores all resplendent with golden light; I
could almost have exclaimed like Eve, 'must I then leave thee,
Paradise!' and dropt a few natural tears--tears of weakness, rather
than of grief: for what do I leave behind me worthy one emotion of
regret? Even at Naples, even in this all-lovely land, 'fit haunt for
gods,' has it not been with me as it has been elsewhere? as long as the
excitement of change and novelty lasts, my heart can turn from itself
'to luxuriate with indifferent things:' but it cannot last long; and
when it is over, I suffer, I am ill: the past returns with tenfold
gloom; interposing like a dark shade between me and every object: an
evil power seems to reside in every thing I see, to torment me with
painful associations, to perplex my faculties, to irritate and mock me
with the perception of what is lost to me: the very sunshine sickens
me, and I am forced to confess myself weak and miserable as ever. O
time! how slowly you move! how little you can do for me! and how bitter
is that sorrow which has no relief to hope but from time alone!"
We shall quote only one of the many interesting specimens of poetry
with which the volume is interspersed. It is an extempore translation
of a beautiful sonnet of Zappi, an Italian poet.
"Love, by my fair one's side is ever seen,
He hovers round her steps, where'er she strays,
Breathes in her voice, and in her silence speaks,
Around her lives and lends her all his arms.
"Love is in every glance--Love taught her song;
And if she weep, or scorn contract her brow,
Still Love departs not from her, but is seen
Even in her lovely anger and her tears.
"When, in the mazy dance she glides along,
Still Love is near to poise each graceful step:
So breathes the zephyr o'er the yielding flower.
"Love in her brow is throned, plays in her hair,
Darts from her eye and glows upon her lip,
But oh! he never yet approached her heart!"
Upon the whole we earnestly recommend this book to the attention of the
public, and especially to our fair countrywomen, whose pride and
curiosity will be gratified in so rich an example of the taste and
intellectual power of their own sex.
THE MAGDALEN AND OTHER TALES. By Jas. Sheridan Knowles, author of
Virginius, The Hunchback, The Wife, &c. _Philadelphia: Carey, Lea &
Blanchard_, 1833.
SKETCHES, by Mrs. Sigourney. _Philadelphia: Key & Biddle_. 1834.
Both these volumes are by writers of distinction; the first a gentleman
well known to the British public, and the last an American lady who
devotes her delightful seclusion, near Hartford, Connecticut, to the
cultivation of the muses and to the moral improvement of society.
Though both are excellent in their way, each is adapted to a distinct
class of readers. Mr. Knowles will be particularly acceptable to those
who think that the happiness of reading consists in _amusement_. He
depicts with a graphic pencil, and his pictures will be highly
attractive to the young, the ardent and romantic. Mrs. Sigourney takes
a loftier aim. Though highly gifted with the powers of imagination, and
of course capable of exciting that faculty in others, her object seems
to be rather to touch the springs of the heart and awaken the moral
feelings of our nature. Her spirit is not only imbued with poetry but
religion. In all her productions that we have seen, there is a direct
tendency to improve as well as to delight. She is an example altogether
worthy of imitation among the professors of literature, in enlisting
all its allurements in the great cause of human virtue.
Mr. Knowles' book consists of various interesting tales, one of which,
"Love and Authorship," we have selected for publication as a fair
specimen of the rest. It is a genuine love story, and of course will
have its admirers. From Mrs. Sigourney's volume, we have transferred to
our own pages the story of the "Patriarch," in which the fair authoress
personates, in the narrator of the tale, a minister of the gospel. The
scene is laid in the state of North Carolina; and the few remarks in
allusion to Bishop Ravenscroft will strike many of our readers as
faithful notices of the eloquence and piety of that distinguished and
lamented champion of the cross.