The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 12, November, 1836

By Various

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Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 12, November, 1836

Author: Various

Editor: Edgar Allan Poe

Release date: April 1, 2025 [eBook #75770]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: T. W. White, Publisher and Proprietor, 1836

Credits: Ron Swanson


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 12, NOVEMBER, 1836 ***


THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu’au gré des vents.
                                      _Crebillon’s Electre_.

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


RICHMOND:
T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
1835-6.


{733}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.  RICHMOND, NOVEMBER, 1836.  NO. XII.

T. W. WHITE, PROPRIETOR.  FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.




STANZAS.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.


  Would’st thou know, stranger, wherefore the vain cares,
  And envious strifes, and ills of this sad world
          Vex not my thoughts serene,
          Nor fright my peace of soul?

  Wherefore its wild commotions fret me not,
  And the vain pageants of its summer smile,
          (More fleeting than the light)
          Nor dazzle, nor distract?

  It is not that a swelling pride doth lift
  My spirit ’bove the reach of changeful Fate,
          Or shield me from the ills
          To mortal lot assigned;

  Or teach me with a scorn unwise to turn
  From good on all bestowed, the boon of Heaven:—
          ’Tis not that spells I bear
          By stern cold Reason wrought:—

  But in my spirit’s inmost treasure-house
  There is a blessed world, from evil free,
          Nor wearying cares come nigh
          The chambers of the soul!

  In this fair home hath Thought her palace reared,
  And planted living flowers; there flow the springs
          Of Fancy, pure and bright,
          In sweet rejoicing streams.

  There bends the golden heaven of Poesy,
  With gladdening sunlight fraught; there blandest airs
          Breathe o’er the fragrant soil,
          And palmy groves ascend.

  Thus is it that Life’s clamors and complaints,
  And idle vaunts, unheeded pass me by,
          Like the dull streamlet’s voice,
          Or inarticulate wind.

  Amid the jarring storm’s discordant strife,
  O, searcher after rest! may’st thou too hear
          That mightier melody
          From chords attuned of Heaven!




MODERN TRAVELLING.


Forty years ago, I used to be a great traveller, and was pretty well
acquainted with the means of transportation then in use; but about
that time, I retired to the country and settled upon a small farm,
where I have, until lately, pursued the even tenor of my way. During
the last summer, some business compelled me to set out for a distant
point, and I left my little home with extreme reluctance. As I was to
travel in a world about which I knew but little, except through the
newspapers, I thought it right to rig myself out in somewhat better
style than usual, so I put on my best _bib_ and _tucker_ and repaired
to town and sought a barber’s shop to get my hair cut and my beard
shaved, humming, as I went along, the old song,

  “I called to the barber, come shave me boy, do you hear,
   And I’ll give you sixpence for to spend in ale or beer;
   Shave me, shave me, barber come shave me,
   Make me look neat and spruce that Molly may have me.”

Sixpence quotha!—it cost me four and sixpence, at the least. When I
opened the door, I was so much astonished at the elegance of the
apartment, that I drew back, and would have retired, thinking I had
made some mistake, when two or three fellows flew out upon me, and
began brushing my coat with such impetuous violence, that I could not
escape from them; indeed, it was with much ado that I could prevent my
ears from being brushed off, by their whizzing brooms. I was as
restive, you may depend upon it, as my horse is under a cedar broom;
twice they struck me severe blows on the cheek, but always begged
pardon, so I could not be offended; and, indeed, I had made up my mind
when I left home, not to betray my ignorance of present customs. All
this time two small _shavers_ were dusting my boots, and I protest it
was with much difficulty I could keep my legs. After considerable
suffering on my part, and repeated declarations of my being satisfied
with their services, and paying each of them something, (for I saw
they expected it,) they desisted. I now expressed a wish to be shaved
and trimmed, and was immediately disrobed, and ushered to a
high-backed chair, where my head was roughly thrown back, my chin
tucked, and the operation of shaving performed in the _twinkling of an
ejaculation_. It did not take long to cut my hair and strangle me with
cologne water; but what was my surprise, when they were done with me,
to find the whole of my occiput as bare as the palm of my hand, and
nothing left upon my head but a few straggling locks at the side, time
having already stripped naked my forehead. I was sadly vexed, but what
could I say? I had voluntarily put myself in their power, and was
devoutly glad when I got into the street, that I had escaped alive
from their hands. Well, I had now paid four-and-sixpence; I had lost
all my hair; my face had been scratched by brooms and lacerated by a
razor, and I had learned in exchange, that barbers were different
folks now-a-days from what they used to be, and that men were brushed
down like horses—rather a bad speculation! I had not been in this
world, it is true, “ever since king Pepin was a little boy,” but I was
pretty old, and had never been treated so unceremoniously in my life.
I had imagined when I entered the house, that I was going into just
such a shop as my old friend Kippin used to keep, who received me with
the profoundest of bows, and shaved me with a solemnity of manner that
suited my temper exactly. No tawdry ornaments hung upon his walls; no
mirrors flashed wheresoever you turned; no newspapers lay scattered
around; no {734} Helen Jewetts or other engravings caught your eye.
His walls were mute as “Tara’s Halls”—a piece of broken looking-glass
stood upon the table, and an old shaving-can, encrusted with the smoke
of a thousand fires, sat disconsolately in the chimney; but,
nevertheless, these modern fellows cannot shave as Kippin “_used to
could_.” There is too much hurry in every thing now-a-days! It is
true, shaving must be done by steam—the water ought to be hot, but the
razor travels too incontinently fast, and the whirlpools in my beard
cannot be crossed over with such despatch—but pshaw! this is nothing
to what I have to tell of the changes in this world. My first trip was
to be made in a steamboat which was to _start_ (fly, perhaps, would be
a better word) at ten o’clock at night. I had never been in one,
having been of the same opinion with old what’s his name, who never
could be induced to go on board, not even when the boat was lying at
the wharf without a particle of fire—when urged to go, and told that
there was no earthly danger, he always shook his head doubtingly, and
declared “_there was no knowing when accidents might happen_.”
However, go I must; my business required despatch, and there was no
mode of travelling so expeditious. Accordingly, I went on board, and
passing the fire-room, where they were just _firing up_, I stopped,
with unfeigned horror, and asked myself if, indeed, I was prepared to
die! I almost fancied myself at the entrance of the infernal regions,
and the firemen, all begrimed and black and covered with sweat, seemed
like the imps of the devil, tossing the damned spirits into the
flames. I shuddered and turned away, inwardly vowing if heaven would
be graciously pleased to spare me this time, I would never again,
voluntarily, put myself in the way of being burnt to death. I
proceeded to the cabin, which I found, as yet, unoccupied, and you may
be certain if the barber’s shop had surprised me, my amazement was now
complete, at finding myself in the most splendid apartment I had ever
beheld. I shall not attempt any description, because I have no doubt,
Mr. Editor, you have seen many a one; all I shall say is, that having
examined every thing with as much wonder as did parson Polyglott when
“_he dinner’d wi’ a Lord_,” I laid myself down in a birth, and could
not satisfy myself of my personal identity, any more than could _he_
who went once to see some great man, and was treated with so much
distinction, that when he retired to bed, he lay some time revolving
all that had passed, and the scene around him, and exclaimed, “can
this be me!” Putting his foot out of bed, (he had a remarkable foot,)
egad! he cried, that is certainly _my foot_. Just so, clapping my hand
to the back of my head, and feeling that the barber had nearly scalped
me, I became assured that it was indeed your humble servant, and was
trying to compose myself, when I heard a cry of “the stage is come,”
and in a few moments in walked the captain and seated himself at his
writing-table, and immediately afterwards forty passengers, at least,
rushed into the cabin, all talking in the loudest key, and dressed in
every variety of mode, and seeming to strive with one another who
should get first to the captain to pay his money. What does this mean?
thought I; wherefore such hurry? “Why need they be so forward with
death who calls not on them?” as Falstaff says. I soon found out the
cause; they were securing births, and as they passed mine, they
severally peeped into it; at length, one prying more earnestly than
the others, exclaimed, “halloo, my hearty, you are in the wrong box;
you must come out.” I made no reply, and he repeated his command to me
to turn out—still I said nothing, and he turned to the captain: “I say
captain, here’s a Jackson man in my birth.” “Yes,” said I, feeling my
dander rise, as honest Jack Downing says, “and I shall assume the
responsibility of staying in it.” Alas! I reckoned without _my host_,
for the captain came up and desired me to evacuate the premises.
“Why,” said I, “captain, I thought possession was eleven points of
law.” “None of your nonsense, sir,” returned he, and took hold of my
arm. Seeing how matters stood, I fixed myself, Dentatus-like, with my
back to the side of the boat, and seizing my hickory stick, defended
myself manfully, but numbers prevailed over valor, and I was, at last,
ignominiously dragged forth, like Smith from the Chickahominy Swamp,
to the no small amusement of the company, some of whom hurraed for old
baldpate. Here was a pretty commencement of my journey! In the end, I
was compelled to sleep upon a table, think o’ that! and imagine my
horror when I found myself stretched out like a corpse, with a sheet
over me!! All my previous fears of being scalded to death rushed upon
my mind, and I made sure that this was indeed my winding-sheet. The
thumping of the boat; the groans of the lever above, leaping and
pitching like some vast giant struggling to be free; the snoring and
snorting around me; the intense heat, produced by the juxta-position
of so many human bodies, effectually banished sleep from my eyelids; I
was “_in a state of dissolution and thaw_,” and wished myself anywhere
else, even in “_the Domdaniel caves under the roots of Ocean_,” if
there were such a place, so that I could escape my present thraldom.
How often have I wondered, said I to myself, that people could be so
foolhardy as to live at the foot of Mount Ætna or Vesuvius, where they
are liable to be overwhelmed in a moment by burning lava; and here am
I, lying near the crater of a volcano, without the hope of escape if
there should be an eruption!! Overwhelmed by the oppressive weight of
my thoughts, I sunk, from absolute exhaustion, about daybreak, into a
doze, from which I was almost immediately aroused by a bell, which I
mistook for the last trump, and springing up, perceived that it
announced our arrival at the place of destination, and I was forced to
huddle on my clothes as fast as possible. Such a scene of confusion
and hurry as now presented itself, baffles my poor powers of
description. Passengers, porters, trunks, wheelbarrows, hackmen, every
body and every thing, in one moving mass upon the wharf, so completely
confounded the few brains I had, that I stood like a fool, while
“hack, sir?” was bawled in one ear, “hack, sir?” in another—“omnibus,
sir? do you go in the omnibus?” One pulled me by the right, another by
the left, until my limbs were almost dislocated. At last, remembering
a little of my latin, I concluded it must be right to go _with all_,
and I cried out “omnibus!” “Your baggage, sir, where is it?” “God only
knows, my friend,” said I. “Is this it, sir?” “Yes, yes.” Into the
omnibus they shoved me, with such despatch, that had I been the
“_stout gentleman_” himself, I am sure none could have seen even the
“broad disk of my pantaloons.” It was the first time in my life, that
I had ever travelled in a carriage without shutting the door, {735}
except once, upon compulsion, when my horses ran off with me; but if
you will credit me, sir, there is no door to an omnibus; so I suppose
omnibus means without a door, but in what language is more than I
pretend to know. Perhaps it may be the _Garamna_ language, but none
but the author of the Doctor can tell that. If you should be
acquainted with the tongue, Mr. Editor, just drop me a hint in your
next number, and I shall be much obliged to you.

Well, praised be heaven, I had escaped the death of a hog, and felt
somewhat revived by the morning air. Away we whirled with great
rapidity to the rail road depot, where the cars were ready to receive
us. We were told that from some irregularity, I never knew what, we
were to be drawn for some miles by horses, and I blessed my stars at
the occurrence, as I had been anticipating, with some dread, that
wonderful velocity of the engines of which I had heard and read so
much; but short-lived indeed was my joy, as it began to be a matter of
interesting speculation whether the cars meeting us, might not,
peradventure, be driven by steam. We had not proceeded far, before our
apprehensions were realized. Just as we turned an abrupt curvature in
the road, there came the engine roaring and snorting upon us!! Mr.
Editor, I have been pursued in my time by a mad bull; I have been upon
the point of being tossed upon his horns; I have been in the imminent
peril of being run over by squadrons of wild horses which had taken
the stampado; I have seen perils by sea and perils by land, but never
had I felt such alarm, such destitution of all hope of escape as now.
Our driver sprang from his seat, and had just time to unhitch his
horses, but what were we to do? One man jumped out and broke his leg,
the rest of us kept our seats. I _could_ not leave mine—I was
transfixed with horror—my eyes were starting from my head and my mouth
wide open. Breathless, we awaited the shock, and soon it came like a
thunder-crash. What happened to others I cannot tell. All I remember
distinctly is that the concussion was so tremendous, that it brought
my two remaining teeth so violently together, that they were both
knocked out; they were the last of the Capulets, and I would not have
taken a thousand dollars a piece for them; it is a wonder I did not
die of fright—my hair, if I had had any, must have turned grey; but
thanks to the barber, I had none. I was taken up more dead than alive,
and nothing could induce me to hazard my life again. I consigned to
the devil all cars, steamboats, rail-roads, their projectors and
inventors, solemnly vowing never to be in a hurry again as long as I
lived, but to remember the old maxim, festina lente—make haste slowly.

My business I abandoned in despair,—bought the dullest horse I could
procure,—sold my trunk and got a pair of saddle-bags, and resolved to
jog slowly and safely homeward. After a fatiguing journey, I reached
my own house, where nobody knew me. When I told my wife who I was and
what had occurred to me, she said it was a judgment upon me for being
such a fool as to cut my hair in _that_ fashion. She will never listen
to me now when I attempt to repeat the particulars of my excursion,
and that is the reason that I have concluded to trouble you with my
history. If it should entertain you, and serve as a warning to my
countrymen not to be in such a confounded hurry in doing every thing,
I shall be repaid for my trouble. The whole world seems to me to be in
a sort of neck-or-nothing state; all the sobriety, frugality and
simplicity of our forefathers seems to be forgotten, and the only
object is, to grow rich suddenly, and time and space must be
annihilated in the pursuit.

I am, sir, very respectfully, your most obedient, humble servant,

SOLOMON SOBERSIDES.




FRIENDSHIP,[1]
AN ESSAY.

Solem e mundo tollere videntur, qui amicitiam a vitâ tollunt; quâ a
Diis immortalibus, nihil melius, nihil jucundius, habemus.

_Cicero de Amicitia_.

[Footnote 1: When New York was in possession of the English during the
war of the revolution, the officers, to relieve the monotony of a
garrison life, established a society in which some subject of a
literary character was discussed at every meeting. Before this society
was read this essay, by Mr. Gilchrist—which we print from his original
MS. Of their author, personally, we know little, except that he was
not an officer in either the army or navy, nor a member of either of
the learned professions, although a gentleman of literary taste and
extensive acquirements. Henry K. White, in a letter to his brother
Neville, mentions a Mr. Gilchrist as one of the contributors to the
“Monthly Mirror,” with Capel Lofft, Robert Bloomfield and others. If
Mr. G. returned to England he was probably the author of most of the
articles in the Monthly Mirror over the signature of _Octavius_. Judge
Hoffman and Mr. Dunlap of New York, may be able to give some account
of him, as well as of the “_Literary Society_.”

About this same time there existed, perhaps in opposition to, or in
ridicule of the “_Literary Society_,” a junto formed by the young
ladies, together with the students of medicine, and other young men of
New York, and called the “_Dreaming Society_” one or more of whose
members were appointed at each meeting to prepare an essay for the
next, (either in prose or verse,) which essay was either to be a
dream, or to represent the essayist as having obtained it by means of
a dream, or to have written it while asleep. The sisters of Lindley
Murray; the late Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell; Mr. Dunlap, (we believe,) the
author of the “History of the American Theatre;” and Judge Hoffman,
were members.]


Pleasure, to be really such, must be the matter of our own free choice
and voluntary election; whatever is commanded immediately becomes a
duty; and though by the goodness and wisdom of the commander, the
paths of duty may lead to pleasure; yet strictly and properly
speaking, pleasure can never be enjoined by any authority, can never
submit to the bonds of obligation.

No virtue can be more amiable and excellent than _friendship_, no
pleasures more refined than that which it affords, and though
_friendship_ may be recommended as the most valuable acquisition and
the highest enjoyment, it cannot be enjoined as a duty, or as an
indispensable obligation; so that, if, after our utmost researches in
pursuit of it, we should be disappointed, we cannot be condemned as
criminal, or deficient in what we owe to our own happiness.

Friendship, to adopt the definition given by Lord Shaftsbury, is that
peculiar relation which is formed by a consent and harmony of minds,
by mutual esteem and reciprocal affection. Friendship, therefore, can
never be enjoined as a duty, since our lot in life may never be cast
amongst those whose minds will harmonize with our own; it is rather to
be considered a singular {736} blessing, vouchsafed, perhaps, to few,
but when vouchsafed, one of the most exquisite cordials in human life.
Intending man for social happiness, the author of his nature, in great
wisdom and goodness, hath given this impulse to the human heart; and
the heart rarely errs, or misleads us in its hints and admonitions.
What a pleasure, what a comfort is it, to have one in perfect amity
with us, to whom we can at all times unbosom ourselves with perfect
confidence and safety, with whom we can enjoy all the refinements and
peculiar pleasures of rational conversation; one who will tenderly
enter into and share all our griefs, or kindly participate in all our
joys; thus heightening the one, and alleviating the other. What
pleasure to have a friend upon the wisdom of whose counsels we can
safely rely in all our difficulties, in all our embarrassments; whose
power and interest will always be at hand to succor and assist, or
whose affection, at least, will always be forward to console and cheer
us. Providence gives nothing in mortal life more valuable than such a
friend; but the difficulty of the acquisition is in proportion to the
value.

I cannot express my sentiments better on the difficulties which attend
the acquisition of real friendship, than in the words of one of the
most masterly writers of the age. When Socrates, says he, was building
himself a house at Athens, being asked by one that observed the
littleness of the design, why a man so eminent would not have an abode
more suitable to his dignity, he replied, “That he should think
himself sufficiently accommodated, if he could see that habitation,
narrow as it was, filled with real friends.” Such was the opinion of
that great master of human life, concerning the unfrequency of such an
union of minds as might deserve the name of friendship.

Multitudes are unqualified for a constant and warm reciprocation of
benevolence, by perpetual attention to their interest, and unresisting
subjection to their passions; many varieties of dispositions also, not
inconsistent with the common degrees of virtue, may exclude friendship
from the heart. Some, ardent enough in their benevolence, are mutable
and uncertain, soon attracted by new objects, disgusted without
offence, and alienated without enmity. Others are soft and flexible,
easily influenced by reports and whispers, ready to catch alarms from
every dubious circumstance, and to listen to every suspicion which
envy and flattery shall suggest. Some are impatient of contradiction,
more willing to go wrong by their own judgment, than to be indebted
for a safer and better way to the sagacity of others, inclined to
consider counsel as insult, and inquiry as want of confidence. Some
are dark and involved, equally careful to conceal good and bad
purposes, and pleased by showing their design only in the execution.
Others are unusually communicative, alike open to every eye, and
equally profuse of their own secrets and those of others, ready to
accuse without malice, and to betray without treachery. Any of these
may be useful to the community, and pass through the world with the
reputation of uncorrupted morals, but they are unfit for close and
tender intimacy. He cannot properly be chosen for a friend, whose
kindness is exhaled by its own warmth, or frozen by the first blast of
slander—he cannot be a useful counsellor who will hear no opinion but
his own—he will not much invite confidence, whose principal maxim is
to suspect—nor can the candor and frankness of that man be much
esteemed, who spreads his arms to human kind, and makes every man,
without distinction, a denizen of his bosom. Such is the picture of
human disposition, drawn by the pen of that great moral master.

Having taken a view of the difficulties to be met with, I shall next
take notice of those qualifications which seem necessary to obtain
real and permanent friendship: and here we shall find that virtue is
the only sure solid basis on which it can be built: if founded on
other or less worthy motives, its continuance is short and precarious:
as those motives shift and vary, it will vary with them: Cicero, in
the treatise from which I have taken the prefatory lines says, “Nec
sine virtute, amicitia esse ullo pacto potest.” Such unions deserve
not the name of friendship; they are rather confederacies, so much the
more dangerous and hurtful, as the uniting causes are mean and
vicious.

To this mutual and virtuous complacency, is generally necessary, an
uniformity of opinions, at least of those active and conspicuous
principles which discriminate parties in government, or sects in
religion. When differences in regard to these subsist, debates will
arise; vehemence, acrimony and vexation, and, in time, an utter
extinction of benevolence, will ensue. Intercourse of civilities may
continue, but the poison of discord is infused, and though the
countenance may preserve its smile, the heart is hardening and
contracting; to use another quotation from the same author, “accedat
autem suavitas quædam oportet sermonum atque morum, haudquaquam
mediocre condimentum amicitiæ.”

Besides virtue and similarity of leading opinions and dispositions,
there are many other qualifications necessary to the refinement of
friendship; such as an openness and frankness of temper, joined with
the greatest faithfulness, prudence and discretion; a constancy and
firmness of mind; an evenness and uniformity of behavior, a suavity of
manners, an absence of all jealousy, a readiness to overlook little
faults and foibles, and an exquisite and generous sensibility—in
short, all the dispositions directly opposite to those before
mentioned; partly the produce of a kind and indulgent nature, and
partly of virtuous culture.

Let us not, however, forget, while we specify those good qualities
necessary to be found in another, that we are under every obligation
to cultivate them in ourselves; for as no friendship can either be
real or lasting which is not founded on virtue and the good qualities
above enumerated, it follows that our entry into the union must
encourage the cultivation of every right and amiable principle in the
soul. Two virtuous minds will stimulate each other in every laudable
pursuit, will guard each other from every wrong propensity, and
criminal deviation; and never dare either of them to commit an action
which the other would hear of with concern, or behold with a blush.

Nor is this union of less utility for the improvement of the lesser
virtues, the graces of life, the arts of pleasing, the “amiable
attentions”—as we will surely be solicitous to excel in those
attentions, and to become amiable in proportion as we wish to be
loved.

To enumerate all the advantages and all the pleasures of friendship,
were I equal to the task, would far exceed my limits—that friendship
which gives to human life {737} its highest relish, and affords to
virtue the strongest support and encouragement. I shall conclude,
therefore, with the sentiment with which I began, “quâ a Diis
immortalibus nihil melius habemus, nihil jucundius.”




MISPAH.


A late writer tells us, that being on board the packet ship Silas
Richards, on his way from New York to Liverpool, the captain one day
opened the letter bags in the round house, to sort the contents; and
to amuse the passengers standing about him, read aloud some of the
most singular superscriptions, when he came to a letter which had a
seal with an epigraph on it which ran thus: “Mispah—Gen. xxxi. 49.”
“Here,” said he to a clergyman by, (the writer himself, I suppose,)
“this is for you to expound.” But the clergyman not being able to do
so, ran for his Bible, and soon returning with it open at the place
referred to, read out, “Mispah: the Lord watch between me and thee,
when we are absent one from another.” “Beautiful!” said one.
“Beautiful!” said another. “A gem! a gem!” exclaimed a third. “A gem
indeed!” cried all together. “And surely,” adds the writer, “the
brightest, most precious gem of all, was to find, in such a place and
circle, these prompt and full-souled expressions of sympathy on this
announcement of religion and christian piety. There were, indeed,
powerful tendencies to such sympathy in the circumstances of us all.
For who present, whether going _to_ or _from_ his home, did not feel
himself separated from those he loved, and loved most dear? And who,
with a wide and fitful ocean before him, tossing on its heaving bosom,
would not feel his dependence, and looking back or forward to home and
friends, lift up his aspirations to that high Providence who sits
enthroned in Heaven, and rules the land and sea, and breathe to him
the sweet and holy prayer—‘The Lord watch between me and mine, while
we are absent one from another?’”

These reflections are all just and natural enough; but they are,
perhaps, a little too vague and indefinite. At least, they do not
strike me as quite true to the text. For the word “watch” here does
not mean simply _protect_, but rather _witness_, and Laban’s idea when
he said “Mispah,” was, “may the Lord stand witness, and look out to
guard against any infraction of the covenant which has just been made
between us.” So the author wanders a little from the point of the
thing. And he does so again when he proceeds to ask, “And whose was
the hand that fixed this stamp of piety on this winged messenger of
love—of love that grows more ardent and more holy as it is distant and
long away from its object? The first post-mark was Quebec, and the
letter was directed to a quarter-master in London. Was it then, from a
wife to a husband? or from a sister to a brother? or what was the
relation?” Obviously, such a seal could be used with strict propriety
only by one who either was, or was engaged to be, married, to the
writ_ee_, and who might very nicely use it at once to assure and
remind the absent partner of that conjugal, or connubial fidelity
which they had vowed before God. At any rate, it must be felt, I
think, by every one, that it would have a peculiar charm when used by
a person who might happen to be in such a predicament. And taking the
thing in this light, and putting myself for a moment in the shoes of
the fair young _fiancée_ who has just set the seal to her letter, I
would expound or explain the motto upon it, something in this way:

  O what can sooth the sorrow, love,
    This anxious absence brings,
  But to reflect that one above,
    With overshadowing wings,
  The witness of our plighted troth,
  Will hear, and help, and keep us both?

  O may he still our guardian be,
    As he hath ever been!
  And watch, my love, o’er me and thee,
    While ocean rolls between!
  And bring thee back, all perils past,
  To make our bonds more sweetly fast!

Q.




CHARACTER OF CORIOLANUS.


Coriolanus possessed those traits of character, which in an unpolished
age, and amongst a people so renowned for their chivalry as the
Romans, are fitted to command universal admiration. Of high birth—of a
frank, ingenuous nature—wise in the council-chamber, as he was ardent
and intrepid in the field, it would have been strange if he had not
soon won his way to the esteem and confidence of his countrymen.
Accordingly we find him, after having signalized his name by a series
of the most brilliant exploits in a campaign against the Volsci,
returning to Rome, to receive in the gratitude and applause of his
fellow-citizens, the reward of his heroic deeds. But neither the fame
of his splendid successes, nor his own intrinsic dignity, could exempt
him from the reverses of fortune. The chaplet with which the fickle
goddess one moment decks the conqueror’s brow, the next she snatches
away, and leaves him the wretched victim of disappointed ambition.
Thus was it with Coriolanus. The Tribunes of the People, those
infamous panders to the morbid appetites of the mob, finding it
necessary to sacrifice him, the panoply of virtue proved a poor shield
against their virulence. Taking advantage of that hauteur of which
there was certainly a spice too much in his composition, they very
dexterously managed to excite him to expressions of contempt for the
commons, on the one hand, and, on the other, to inflame their minds
with a sense of imaginary wrongs, and impress upon them a conviction,
that if they would not be trampled in the dust, they must dispute
every inch of ground with the Patricians, and omit no opportunity to
strike a blow at a class of men they were taught to consider their
natural enemies. As the influence of the tribunes with the people was
unlimited, so their success was complete—their machinations resulting
in the condemnation of Coriolanus to perpetual exile. Alas, that we
have to deplore that the magnanimity this great man had so often
exhibited, should desert him in the hour when most he needed it! Stung
to madness that his distinguished services to the state should meet so
base a return, he resolves, in an ecstacy of resentment, that Rome
shall suffer the meed of her dark ingratitude. He goes over to the
enemy, who {738} receive him with open arms, and signify their
readiness to do his bidding. An army is placed at his disposal, with
which he invades the Roman territory, and ravaging the country as he
passes along, at length draws up his legions within a few miles of the
city, prepared, in the event of a refusal to comply with his harsh and
extravagant requisitions, to whelm friend and foe in one
indiscriminate ruin. Seized with consternation at his sudden and
unexpected approach, the Romans sue for mercy. Successive deputations,
consisting of the friends who had fought at his side in battle, and of
the principal citizens who had stood by him when the decree was passed
for his unjust and cruel banishment, are in vain sent to intreat him
to lay aside his unnatural rebellion. Nothing can move him until, his
wife and mother coming out to the camp, and throwing themselves at his
feet, he reluctantly grants to their prayers and tears the amnesty
which all feebler considerations had not availed to obtain.

Now suppose, for a moment, that the reprobation which the Christian
code of morals pronounces on the principle of revenge, be laid out of
view; and let it be granted that Coriolanus had a right to retaliate
on the men who had so deeply injured him; yet how shall we excuse the
design he meditated of involving his innocent friends in the same
heavy penalty? When he was banished, it was by a majority of only
three tribes. The whole body of the Patricians were in his favor, and
profoundly sympathized in his calamity; and he must have foreseen that
if the Volscian soldiery, the ancient and uncompromising enemies of
Rome, were admitted into the city with Aufidius, his co-equal in
command, at their head, that nothing sacred or venerable would be
spared by their rapacious violence—that the rights of property, the
quiet and security of old men, the purity of virgins and matrons, and
the sanctity of temples—in a word, all that age, or innocence, or
religion had consecrated, would be made the inevitable victims of the
same ruthless invasion. And all this he contemplated unmoved. Surely,
in the very conception of an act implicating, in such tragical
consequences, not his enemies merely, but his friends also, and those
who should have been dearer to him than his own life—his family and
kindred—there was a monstrous perfidy from which every mind that has
not been too deeply corrupted to appreciate the force of any moral
motive, must revolt with horror.

But it may be asked, “How can Coriolanus be justly charged with the
crime of those consequences which his clemency prevented?” In
estimating character, the man who has once evinced the inveterate
malignity of his heart, must be branded with eternal infamy, unless it
appears that he subsequently became penetrated with profound
contrition, and changed his conduct from the purest and most virtuous
motives. Was this true of Coriolanus? Having contemned the higher
claims of his country, and thrown off her allegiance, his ultimately
yielding to the yearning voice of natural affection was a weakness—an
amiable weakness, it may be said—but still a weakness. Such is our
mental conformation, that we behold a congruous character with a
degree of complacency, even though the character be a bad one; and
although we may lend a measure of our sympathy to those good acts of
confessedly bad men, which are the mere gratification of a physical
propensity, the unbending rigor of reason sternly refuses to allow any
moral excellence to those deeds, or to insult the majesty of virtue by
assigning them as her offspring. We return, however, to a point
temporarily merged, in order to follow up another branch of the
argument. The principle of revenge is wholly, and under all
circumstances, inadmissible. Nor is it a proper reply to this
proposition to say, that ours is an age of moral and intellectual
light, and that it is unjust to apply to one who lived two thousand
years ago, the same rigid rule of judgment to which he would be
subjected at the present day. In the trial of questions involving an
abstract principle, there should manifestly be but one standard for
all ages and nations. Any other hypothesis will lead to the most
glaring absurdities. For if the moral quality of an action could be
modified by the unimportant circumstances of _time_ or _place_, there
is no crime in the decalogue which may not be justified. Modern
heathen nations almost universally allow polygamy; in certain portions
of the world murder is deemed innocent; and the ancient Spartan, we
know, regarded theft as the prince of virtues. Where is the man who
would presume to excuse these practices because they pertain to a
barbarous nation, or to a period of moral darkness? Yet may it as well
be done, as to justify the practice of revenge in the case under
consideration. The ignorance of the age or nation may _palliate_ the
conduct of an individual; it cannot justify what is intrinsically
wrong; and it would be in the last degree preposterous to put out the
lights by which we are surrounded, and go to seek the radiant form of
virtue in the dim twilight of heathenism. If Coriolanus had displayed
a fortitude in suffering equal to his bravery in action—if he had
never suffered a thought of retaliation upon his ingrate country to
invade his breast; but, when thrust out from home and kindred, and all
that on earth he held most dear, he had sought, in the conscious
purity of his heart, and, in a sense of duty discharged, that tranquil
happiness which, to a wise man, is of far higher price than the shouts
and huzzas of the multitude—that mental peace which can cheer the
gloom of solitude, and whose elastic energy can buoy up the soul under
the heaviest distresses, his name would have come down to posterity
circumvested with a halo of glory, ever enlarging, ever brightening.
As it is, there is a spot upon his fame which all his splendid
achievements may not wipe off. The man who courts toil, and suffering,
and danger in his country’s cause, earns well the patriot’s meed; but
he who conquers himself, achieves a nobler triumph. He bequeaths to
the generations of all time, in the bright example he leaves for their
emulation, a rarer and richer legacy.

  There may be glory in the might
  Which treadeth nations down;
  Wreaths for the crimson conqueror,
  Pride for the kingly crown;
  But nobler is that triumph hour
  The disenthralled shall find,
  When evil passion boweth down
  Unto the Godlike mind.

In his contempt of this sentiment consisted Coriolanus’ great error.
Alas for his fame, that he had not discerned its truth and acted
accordingly!


{739}


MR. EDITOR,—Reading the “Belles of Williamsburg” in your July number
of the Messenger, induced me to search amongst some old papers for the
enclosed graphical and beautiful lines, which though not written at
quite so early a period as 1777, will serve to show that in 1799 the
halo of refinement and wit was still shining around that classical
spot so famed in Virginia history.

P.


BEAUTY TO THE
BEAUX OF WILLIAMSBURG.


  Gallants! who now so brisk and gay
  From night to morn can dance away
    As if you ne’er could tire,
  Can beauty only warm your heels?
  What, is there not one beau that feels
    Her flame a little higher?

  Have Phœbus and the sacred Nine
  Been banished from their wonted shrine
    Where Love his tribute paid?
  Unaided by Apollo’s rays
  Will hymeneal altars blaze
    Though sacrifice be made?

  Gods! shall Amanda pass unsung?
  Shall Stella fair and gay and young
    Not swell the note of praise?
  Shall blythe Cassandra’s art and fire,
  Her tuneful voice and tuneful lyre
    No kindred effort raise?

  Shall gentle Mira’s sparkling eyes,
  In ambuscade where Cupid lies,
    Still sparkle on in vain,
  As if, instead of lambent fire,
  Like Leoparda’s filled with ire
    Or clouded with disdain?

  Shall twenty other Nymphs beside
  Unnoticed pass adown the tide
    Of Time so swiftly flowing,
  Without one stanza to their praise
  To tell the folks of future days
    That they were worth the knowing?

  Should Valentine’s once blythesome day
  Thus quite neglected pass away,
    Like some dull Sunday morning,
  Narcissa may begin to frown,
  Nay, Flora with disdain look down,
    So Beaux, I give you warning.

BEAUTY.

_Idalian Grove, 14th February 1799_.




PHILOSOPHY OF ANTIQUITY.


NO. I.

Of all the benefits that modern times owe to antiquity, the most
important but at the same time the least often acknowledged, is the
boon of philosophy. The poets, orators, and historians of Greece and
Rome are in the hands of every school-boy, and are the pleasure and
study of all who pretend to education, while the works of Plato,
Aristotle, Plotinus, and the other lights of antiquity (the heralds,
they have been called, of the true cross) languish here and there on
the shelves of some old library, or in the shop of some antiquarian
Bibliopole. There is this remarkable difference between philosophy and
the lighter literature of antiquity. Homer and Herodotus, Demosthenes
and his fellow orators, flashed out, as it were, from the bosom of the
people with no warning—no precursor, and first established that order
or sequence of literary cultivation which the experience of subsequent
ages has proved infallible; I mean first, poetry and eloquence—next,
history, and last of all, philosophy. Philosophy itself was no child
of the moment. As the sea-beach gains something as each wave rolls
over it, so was it with philosophy. Each age made its deposit at the
bank of truth, and slowly and imperceptibly, but with not less
security, was that mountain raised, which, however wildly raged the
storms of the middle ages—how much so ever its fair face was
obscured—still never ceased to exist, but served as a place of rest to
the weary bird of literature, a rest whence the yet callow philosophy
and unfledged history might wing their infantine flight. We may give
an era to history—for there is great difference between it and
tradition—we may positively ascertain the first poet, but we cannot
approximate to the first philosopher. Socrates is not the only sage
who never gave his lucubrations to posterity, and we learn from its
very name, (love of wisdom,) that it is coeval with mind, nay, almost
one of its principles. Were we to treat as philosophy only what has
been written, we should be forced again to bound our researches by
what has descended to us, and short indeed would be our course; but it
is not so. We know with as much certainty the opinions of those who
never wrote, as we do those of Plato and his followers, and are thus
able to trace philosophy _ab ovo usque ad mala_, from the alpha not to
the omega, for that has not been reached, but to the point at which we
find it now.

Philosophy first presents itself to the historian about the
commencement of the sixth century. The country where we first behold
it, is Asia Minor; beneath its warm climate the Grecian colonists, who
from time to time had settled there, grew day by day more and more
cultivated, till at length they were the tutors of their father-land.
Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mytelene in Lesbos, Bias of Priene
flourished in a quick succession, while as yet Hellas had produced but
Solon, who was more lawgiver than sage, and who would better be
associated with Lycurgus than with Thales.

The philosophy of Ionia was echoed back with increased vigor from
Magna Grecia. It is customary for the imagination, when Italy is its
theme, to fly back to the days of Rome—to revel with Horace and with
Cicero, with Virgil and Macænas. How great so ever may be our
veneration for those later ages, they should never blot out from
memory Italy’s earlier civilization, when Apuleia and Brutium were
seats of learning instead of Tuscany, and when Pythagoras was master
of its philosophy instead of Cicero and Seneca.

The _point de depart_ of philosophy was the origin of the world and
its elementary principle. Perhaps it was necessary that the mental
machinery should first be employed upon the grosser matter ere it
should seize hold of that most delicate of all materials, mind—that
{740} the artillerymen of logic should first acquire skill in
battering to pieces erroneous opinions on natural philosophy ere his
piece should be directed against errors in ethics and psychology. Its
_modus operandi_ was, generally, that of empiricism. This is in a
degree true of all from Thales to Plato.

As the astrologers and alchemists of all ages, so did the philosophers
of the time of Thales. Though arguing on correct bases, they obtained
the most improper results. Pushing their analysis beyond the bound of
reason—not content with the phenomena of matter, of which experience
has taught us more than suffices for the mind of man, they sought to
discover the _arcanum_, the hidden principle of the world’s existence.
They failed of course, and it is a humiliating though not less
instructive task to glance in succession at the varied, though not
less incoherent, labors of those great spirits who, notwithstanding
that absurdity which belonged more properly to their age than to them
individually, yet emitted occasional glimpses of what we in vain would
hope had led to better results.

According to Thales the principle of the world is water. He is said to
have been induced to adopt this, in consequence of some partial
experiments. There was besides another principle, prime mover of all
things, which he called _nous_. To him we are indebted for that best
and most ancient of maxims, _Know thyself_.

Friend and townsman of Thales was Anaxamander. He lit his lamp at the
same light and cast its blaze on the same subjects. His _point de
depart_ is infinity, which he surnamed all-containing and divine,
without determining it more precisely. Perpetual changes of earth and
of things can take place in infinity. These were his _principia_, but
from them he developed multitudes of doctrines which it is not now
important to examine. He bent his attention to astronomy, and nearly
similar were the doctrines of Pherecydes of Syros. He called his
trinity of principles, God, time, and matter. He attempted to explain
animated bodies and mankind. He considered the soul as imperishable.
Anaxamander and Pherecydes were the two first philosophers who wrote
their doctrines out.

Now bursts on us a genius of the most astounding kind—Pythagoras.
Mighty as was his fame—great as the influence he exerted on
posterity—Homer-like, it seems his doom was to have “no place of
burial or of birth.” Iamblychus, in his life of Pythagoras, makes him
appear even from his infancy a sage and a philosopher. Where he was
instructed—how—by whom—we know not. There are accounts that he
travelled far and wide in search of science, studied among the
Egyptians for twenty-two years, and travelled so far as to meet and
converse with the Indian Gymnosophists. His life was a varied one—now
persecuted from town to town—now a prisoner at Babylon. With the sages
of Egypt he doubtless there met with, and imbibed a portion at least
of that God-revealed doctrine, which we have reason to believe had
sent some glimmerings of its glorious radiance to Babylon, the Rome,
the Athens of the East.

In our days, when the genius of the press flits from clime to
clime—when distance is annihilated, it seems a small matter to us to
study the philosophy, to pour over the lucubrations of distant lands;
but it was not so then. Each dogma was learned with difficulty and
attained with labor; we may then judge how great was that philosophic
spirit which prompted its possessor to so long and painful voyages,
and how strongly circumstances favored him, turning even apparent
obstructions into favorable events. For another paper we reserve the
philosophy of Pythagoras.




THE GIRL OF HARPER’S FERRY.


  Ah! tell me not of the heights sublime,
    The rocks at Harper’s ferry,
  Of mountains rent in the lapse of time—
    They’re very beautiful—very!
  I’m thinking more of the glowing cheek
    Of a lovely girl and merry,
  Who climb’d with me to yon highest peak—
    The girl of Harper’s ferry.

  She sailed with me o’er the glassy wave
    In yonder trim-built wherry;
  Shall I ever forget the looks she gave
    Or the voice which rang so merry?
  To the joy she felt, her lips gave birth—
    Lips, red as the ripest cherry—
  I saw not Heaven above, nor Earth—
    Sweet girl of Harper’s ferry!

  We clamber’d away over crag and hill
    Through places dark and dreary;
  We stooped to drink of the sparkling rill
    And gather the blushing berry;
  Dame Nature may sunder the Earth by storms
    And rocks upon rocks may serry,
  But I like her more in her fragile forms,
    My girl of Harper’s ferry.

  I followed her up the “_steps of stone_”
    To where the dead they bury;
  On Jefferson’s rock she stood alone,
    Looking on Harper’s ferry—
  But I, like Cymon, the gaping clown,
    Stood, lost in a deep quandary,
  Nor thought of the river, the rock, the town,
    Dear girl of Harper’s ferry.

  She carv’d her name on the well known rock,
    The rock at Harper’s ferry;
  You would not have thought me a stone or stock
    Bending o’er charming Mary—
  Insensible rock! how hard thou wert
    Hurting her fingers fairy,
  Deeper she writ upon my soft heart—
    The girl of Harper’s ferry.

  Ye who shall visit this scene again,
    This rock at Harper’s ferry,
  Come pledge me high in the brisk Champaigne
    Or a glass of the palest Sherry—
  And this is the name which ye shall quaff,
    The name of Mary Perry!
  She’s fairer than all your loves by half—
    The girl of Harper’s ferry.


{741}


THE KIDNAPPER’S COVE.


I have always felt deeply interested in the past history of the
Aborigines of our country; and with a pleasure amounting to
enthusiasm, embrace every occasion of retracing the annals of that
once noble and heroic, but now degraded and scattered race. Who that
has any taste for the wild and picturesque, would not love to roam
along the Susquehanna, and call up the associations with which its
leafy forests are rife? They were once the favorite hunting grounds of
the numerous tribes of Indians, belonging to the empire of the Five
Nations, whose sway extended over every mountain, plain and river,
from Champlain to Carolina.

I set out upon my summer ramble, attracted by the feelings I have
mentioned, to visit scenes of so much traditionary interest; and being
unacquainted with the topography of the adjacent country, I sought out
one of its oldest settlers in the hope of obtaining a guide, and some
information respecting the most remarkable relics of the past. I was
so fortunate as to fall in with a real old forester, one who loved
nature in her wildness, who had trod her labyrinths of shade ere the
woodman’s axe was heard clearing the way for rising villages and busy
factories. I found him animated with antiquarian zeal, with a memory
filled with stories of by-gone days, and a spirit of poetic fervor,
which could re-people every spot with living images of the wild beings
who had there fulfilled their mysterious destiny. He readily offered
to be my guide in Indian antiquities, and we set out on our
pilgrimage; Oliver Oldham (thus was my cicerone called) beguiling the
way, now with a story, now with a song of ancient time, suggested by
this well-remembered pass, that over-hanging rock, or steep waterfall.
All was animated, all interesting, on the tongue of this old narrator.
He carried me back to the days when the Indians and the white settlers
were united in bonds of amity and love; when the unsuspecting red man
showed no dispositions but those of the most friendly and confiding
nature, towards the race before which he was so soon to disappear, and
from which he was fated to receive such injuries. He retraced the
history of aggression, and related several incidents of harrowing
barbarity, in which the power of our race was perverted to oppress and
finally to crush our ancient friends and allies. My mind retaining
some historical recollection of the massacre of the Conestogo Indians
by the white inhabitants of Pextang, I requested my companion to
proceed towards the site of that ancient settlement. As we advanced,
we saw nothing to remind us of the first masters of the soil, save the
magnificent features of nature, still bearing the appropriate epithets
of their language. The mighty voice of the Susquehanna still roared
through its breakers, and the dark form of the Black Warrior lifted
itself on high. Having arrived at the supposed spot of the cruel
massacre, Oliver gave me a short history of the war-like and generous
tribe who once inhabited the extensive and flourishing settlement,
lying between the Susquehanna and Conestogo creek. Among the rocks and
fastnesses to which it is said the Indians fled for refuge in the
general destruction of their tribe, he particularised one, called the
“Rock of Sacrifice,” with which, he remarked, there was a singular
tradition connected; and another story of still deeper interest, with
a bend in the river just below it, which he pointed out as the
“Kidnapper’s Cove;” thus designated from a remarkable circumstance
which once happened there. “But,” said he, “as both places are
inseparably connected in my own mind, I will begin with the ‘Rock of
Sacrifice,’ and tell you what the Indian legends relate of both.”

The tradition is, that only six warriors escaped the murder of their
people; and not wishing to survive the fall of their nation,
sacrificed themselves on this spot to the god of vengeance, believing
they should be permitted in the land of spirits to behold the day of
just retribution on their murderers. One of these chiefs was known by
the appellation of the “Spread Eagle,” from his power and majesty. He
was a famous chief; his word in council, and his arm in war, were
alike irresistible. He was the friend and ally of the whites. He said,
“they are wise, they will teach us their arts, there is room enough
for us both, let them fell the trees and till the soil, the wilderness
stretches to the great waters, our young men can follow the chase, and
our old ones learn to grow a great nation. Our white brethren must
dwell among us.” His counsel was followed, and mutual amity
established between the two races. At length the rapacious thirst for
gain fomented discord, and the Indians were assailed and murdered in
cold blood. The Spread Eagle, by his wonderfully muscular strength,
fought through the enemy, bearing two children (the only remaining
members of his family) on his shoulders. He fled to the habitation of
Colonel Carlisle, who in the general defection had maintained the
cause of the persecuted Indians. His confidence in this tried friend,
while all around was treachery and bloodshed, wavered not; and he
rushed through the infuriated crowd to the covert of his protection.
Exhausted by exertion and mental anguish, he had scarcely reached the
door, when he beheld his murderers in close pursuit. Darting forward
with a last effort, he threw his children at the feet of Carlisle,
exclaiming, “is there mercy, is there faith, in the heart of one white
man?” “Fear not,” replied the voice of his protector, “I will defend
you from every assault of your enemies.” The Indian’s emotion was
overwhelming. He vented not in words the deep feelings with which his
heart was torn, but his large chest heaved with the inward struggle.
After a few moments he became tranquil, and uttered his determination
in a few brief words—“Carlisle, my people are gone—their blood dyes
the ground—the smoke of their wigwams darkens the sky—I will not stay
to see their ashes scattered by the wind—I will join my brothers in
the spirit-land—see you yonder rock? It points upwards. To night its
blaze will tell that the last Conestogo chiefs have gone to call down
vengeance on their murderers. The Great Spirit drinks the blood of the
brave, but he calls not for the death of the young, they must live to
do deeds of glory. Carlisle, your children have sported with mine on
the brink of the roaring stream—let them roam together until ten
winters have stripped the leaves off the trees: then, my children,
mind the course of the sun—he rises in the east, but he goes down in
the west—follow his path until you find the home of the red man.
Arrowfoot and Caraola, my children, remember the words of your father.
Make not your home with the white man—get far away from him, but shed
not his blood—you have eaten of his bread, and slept by his fire: die
sooner {742} than do him harm, lest the frown of the Great Spirit
darken your souls, but forget not he has shed the blood of your
people, and broken the faith of his promise.” He rose, and unloosing
his wampum belt, presented it to Carlisle, which he received as the
pledge of faith and friendship. The next moment the “Spread Eagle” was
gone. As soon as it was dark, Colonel Carlisle looked towards the
beacon rock. Its fires were just kindling, but soon six figures were
seen within the circle of their ravages. They stood, like the rocks
around, unmoved and unterrified by the fury of the conflagration. He
watched, until the fiery billows swept over the self-devoted victims.
Arrowfoot and Caraola were also spectators of the scene. Their
sympathies, unlike those of the little group around, were not
expressed in tears of grief, or shrieks of terror. In silent and fixed
attention they stood with their backs against a tree, until the last
flickering spark was gone. Then each took the hand of the other, and
pointing to the extinguished pile, promised to obey their father’s
command.

Arrowfoot and Caraola were immediately taken as inmates into Colonel
Carlisle’s family, and the natural shyness and suspicion of the Indian
character, dispelled by the affectionate attention bestowed on them by
every member of the household.

Colonel Carlisle had been very unfortunate in his domestic ties. Death
had successively swept to the grave six children; and last of all his
beloved wife, who sunk under the repeated strokes of family
affliction. Eva and Eldred were now the melancholy father’s only ties
to existence. She was the oldest. Eleven summers had fanned the auburn
ringlets on her snowy brow, and health and joy sparkled on her radiant
cheek. But little Eldred, though nine years old, was feeble and
infantine; claiming a double share of his father’s care and
tenderness. The Indian children soon became the favorite and happy
companions of Carlisle’s own. They bounded with them through the wild
woods of the Susquehanna, Caraola bearing Eldred on her shoulder as
lightly as a bird skipped over the rocks; and Arrowfoot teaching the
nimble foot of Eva where to rest in climbing the steep precipice. His
dexterity in the use of the bow was an unceasing source of amusement:
and the young foresters often spent the day pursuing the chase, and at
night brought home a fawn, the trophy of Arrowfoot’s skill.

Such was the childhood of Eva and Eldred—passed amidst the
magnificence of nature, with two of her untutored children to teach
them how to love and commune with her in the thundering waterfall, the
deep voice of the coming storm, or the whispers of the evening
wind—each was alike delightful, because each was alike expressive of
her beauty or her grandeur. The disposition of Arrowfoot was naturally
contemplative—that of Caraola, tender and romantic. While he, in
thoughtful mood, watched the swift current of the mighty river,
journeying to meet its kindred fountains in the deep, and imagined
himself also a traveller in ceaseless step in pursuit of an unknown
destiny, she would sit on the beetling rock, overhung by the dark
hemlock, and chant the funeral dirge of her tribe, and, pointing to
the Indian mound, describe to her little group of wrapt listeners, the
mysterious rites of interment, and the plentiful supplies which are
left with the dead, to sustain them till they reach the spirit-land.
Her soul seemed to live in the memories of the past, associating with
the majestic scenery around her recollections of the faded glory of
her people.

Colonel Carlisle thought it his duty to instruct these young orphans
in some of the most useful branches of education; but he soon found
that their spirits could not be tamed down to con over the dull
elements of the white man’s language. They loved better to climb some
rocky steep in search of the young eaglet, or follow the bounding deer
into the depths of the near forest. It was only when the young Eva
became his teacher, that Arrowfoot listened to the page of
instruction, and even then his eye would stray from the lesson, to the
bright countenance that hung over it, in which his musing fancy beheld
all it could picture of beauty and happiness. Believe not those who
say the Indian’s heart is only susceptible of the fierce emotions.
Love, in all its strength and purity, often lies hidden in the deep
recesses of his nature, prompting him to deeds of high daring and
self-sacrifice, which the energies and feelings of civilized life,
dissipated upon a thousand objects, are too weak to achieve. Arrowfoot
looked on young Eva’s face of sunshine, and felt the pride and
sternness of his soul melt before it. At first he was happy, for it
beamed on him in his lonely walks, and gladdened the darkest wood
path. But a change came over him, when he attempted to analyze the
feelings that soon warred within his bosom. He became moody and sad,
for he knew the vision he had so long dwelt on would never pass away
from his soul, and he remembered the promise that bound him. He held
it sacred, for it was made to the parent and the chief; but darkness
fell upon his soul, and no star lighted the dim and dreary destiny to
which he was hastening. The struggle was however fearful between the
dignity and firmness of the Indian character, and the softer but still
powerful feelings that are called forth in men of every tribe and
language, by the fascinations of beauty, and the smiles of artless
affection. One day, when Eva was trying to awaken his interest in the
records of history, he exclaimed, turning on her a countenance of
grief and wounded pride, “Does Eva wish Arrowfoot to forget the
misfortunes of his race? Then tell him not of the triumphs, the
glories of other nations. Once the Indian could boast of the valor of
his warriors, and the number of his captives, but now he is driven
from his war-paths, and his hunting grounds. He is robbed of his
rights; and his injuries swell the page of your nations triumphs. If
he receives justice, it is because the oppressor grows weary of
trampling on the fallen. If he receives kindness, he is base enough to
forget the wrongs of his people. But Eva, my father’s death-song
sounds in my ears. His voice calls to me from the spirit-land, and
bids me break the spell that has bound me even near the grave of my
nation. He says the daughter of the white man has smiled on me, and
the coil of the serpent is around my heart. Oh, start not! The bright
sun warms into life the poison hemlock, and the healing balsam. But I
must go. It is the hand of destiny that shapes our lot; we may war
against it, but we cannot control it.”

The spring of the young Indian’s activity seemed gone. He no longer
took delight in the difficult and perilous adventure. He wandered amid
the solitude of nature, only to indulge the musings of a sensitive and
unhappy mind.

{743} Colonel Carlisle marked, with deep interest, the change which
had come over the boy. He knew too well the silent, dignified
fortitude of the Indian, to make any direct inquiry as to the cause of
his sadness. His sympathy was only shown in redoubled acts of
kindness, which availed nothing but to make Arrowfoot throw a deeper
covering of reserve over his feelings, and avoid, as much as possible,
the society of those he loved best. Months passed away, and still
there was on his countenance, “the settled shadow of an inward
strife.” The cause was a mystery to all, but it acted as a check upon
the full tide of joyful existence, which animated Eva and Eldred.

The lapse of two years wrote its changes on the brows of all that
household. In Eva, the lovely child expanded into the fair and
beautiful proportions of womanhood. Eldred’s pale cheek was exchanged
for the ruddy glow of health and exercise, and his frame became more
vigorous as he grew old enough to share the mountain sports of the
young Indian, who, now tall and athletic, displayed all the physical
powers of his race. His constitutional fortitude, strengthened by the
habits of reflection acquired in civilized life, enabled him to bear
his fate with great endurance; and he looked on the object of his
affections with the fixed and melancholy gaze, which some lovely
wanderer might cast towards the pure star, that shone bright and far,
above him. He sought not to attain her; he made no effort even to gain
her sympathy: but his way was not altogether so dark as if the beam
had been withdrawn.

Colonel Carlisle had resided in Pennsylvania from early manhood: one
sister shared with him the valuable funded property left by their
father, a wealthy Bristol merchant; but a large proportion of the
estate he had realized, was vested in land, which, according to the
custom of the country, only descended in the male line. The feeble
state of Eldred’s health through infancy and childhood, led many to
anticipate the time when these large estates would pass from Colonel
Carlisle’s family, to that of his sister; who, married to an East
Indian, was the mother of a wild and roving boy. Communication was
tardy and uncertain in those days; for the hidden powers of earth, air
and water, had not then been called into action, by the commanding
energies of man; and Colonel Carlisle having united his fortune with
the early adventurers in the colonies, while animated by the ardor of
youth, soon felt that the ties which bound him to the home of his
childhood, were feeble, compared with those man frames for himself in
maturer years.

He was sitting one evening, revolving in his mind some of the pleasant
memories of days long past, and scenes in which that sister had been
always at his side, when a purpose he had formed, of writing forthwith
to inquire after her welfare, and inform her of the health and
happiness of his own domestic circle, was frustrated by the arrival of
tidings from New York, that an officer in the British Navy, the son of
his sister Mrs. Fitzgerald, had just arrived in port, and would come
down to visit him in a few days. The heart of the affectionate old man
throbbed with joy at the prospect of embracing his young relative. “He
is a noble fellow I doubt not,” said he to his daughter. “A little
wild in his youth, I have heard that his strange adventures gave my
sister much pain, but young men will be thoughtless, and women’s fears
often outrun discretion, you know, my little Eva.” “Yes,” he continued
to himself, as she went dancing on, to spread the joyful news of the
arrival of a gay young visitor, through the house, “the boldest and
finest spirits often commit extravagancies, before education and
experience give them the right bent, ‘the upward and onward course.’
Poor fellow! he has had little of that best instruction, a father’s
high and pure example. Fitzgerald is an honest man, as the world goes,
but I doubt if he could teach his son any thing better than to scrape
together ingots. But half the blood in his veins is _Carlisle_, and
that could not flow on in the same current with any thing mean or
dishonorable. Besides, he wears his majesty’s uniform; so, as his
father would say, _the balance_ is in favor of his being a brave man
and a true.”

The expected guest at length came, and was welcomed by Colonel
Carlisle with honest warmth. As he surveyed the noble figure of his
nephew, in the imposing costume of the British navy, he felt assured
that all his hopes for him were realized; and was proud of the
relationship between them. Eva and Eldred with beating hearts gave a
timid welcome to their dashing kinsman, but were not perfectly at ease
until, with the frankness of a sailor, he inquired if they believed
him to be “the old man of the sea,” told of in children’s story books?
“Ah,” he said, taking Eva by the hand, “I have dreamed of your blue
eyes and sunny curls, but I never _even dreamed_ that you would not be
glad to see your own cousin Julian. You will not confess it, but I
hope this warm hand and mantling cheek, tell another tale.” Then
turning to Eldred, he exclaimed, “Is this the little fellow I have
often heard my mother talk of, who was’nt quite large enough to be
elected king of the fairies? Why here he is a sturdy boy, who could
heave the anchor of my schooner.” Then the young Indians were
introduced, and a few particulars added to what Julian already knew of
their history. Caraola was struck with the glitter of the young
officer, but Arrowfoot looked coldly on him, and soon turned away.
Between the visitor and the stern Indian there existed, from the
first, a sort of repulsion, such as we see between substances of the
most opposite nature. It was attributed by those around them, to the
difference of nature and habit, which had brought all the feelings and
mental qualities of the sailor to the surface, and buried those of
Arrowfoot in impenetrable reserve. This assumed the rigidity of marked
dislike towards the stranger, who evidently felt uneasy at “the keen
encounter” of his dark eye. The Indian was often reproached by the
open-hearted company, for avoiding their society, and taking part in
none of their plans of amusement: but as he gave no reason, his
coldness was attributed to some trivial prejudice, or intuitive
dislike. This was a check upon the hilarity of the young party: for
Julian was the spring of all their gaiety. Now, gathered around him,
they hung with breathless interest upon the fascinating adventures of
the sailor’s life; now, seated in the pleasure boat, they skimmed the
clear waves of the Susquehanna, he chanting some merry or sentimental
air, and keeping time with the graceful dip of his oar. The person of
the young officer never appeared to so much advantage as when borne on
the surface of his own element; his spirits seemed to acquire an
elasticity which gave grace to every motion, while {744} his full,
black eyes sparkled through the thick curls that floated in the
evening breeze. Arrowroot never failed to join these excursions;
though apparently unobservant of what was passing, he sat silent and
apart. Julian was evidently incommoded by his presence, and sometimes
seemed to shrink from his searching eye. What could there be about the
gay visitant to awaken the suspicion or the hatred of the Indian! It
could not be jealousy. The young foreigner had disclaimed all
pretensions to the hand of his fair cousin, by urging her, with the
freedom and affection of a brother, to accept the addresses of a
youthful admirer in the neighborhood. Indeed, Eldred appeared Julian’s
favorite, from the deep interest he took in all the boy’s amusements,
and the fatigue and self-denial he would undergo to promote his
pleasure. With all the zest of fifteen, he hunted, sailed or angled as
suited the whim of Eldred; and declared he would joyfully exchange the
deck of his schooner, for the hunting grounds of the Susquehanna. He
had so completely won the boy’s heart, that Eldred talked boldly of
forsaking his books and going abroad with Fitzgerald. The proposition
was actually made to Colonel Carlisle, who, at first, treated it as a
jest; but when he perceived that his nephew was serious in urging the
thing, and that he had gained Eldred’s hearty assent, he firmly but
affectionately refused to suffer his son to go beyond parental
restraint at his early age. Eldred was disappointed, but with the
gentleness which marked his disposition, cheerfully submitted to his
father’s wishes; but Julian was not only disturbed, but displeased.
This was the first time he had exhibited any thing of a sensitive or
suspicious nature. He asked if his uncle had not confidence in the
affection he had evinced for Eldred, or in the promises he had made to
guard him from all evil? His feelings were only calmed by new
assurances on the part of Colonel Carlisle, that his confidence in the
regard of his nephew was greatly heightened by this last expression of
it.

The day following, Julian, with a melancholy countenance, informed
Colonel Carlisle, that he had received orders to leave port in less
than a week, and of course he must reach his vessel in time to make
the necessary arrangements; two or three days more were all he could
spend with the beloved relatives to whom his heart was doubly bound by
the ties of kindred and affection. These tidings spread gloom over
every face but Arrowfoot’s. With a penetrating glance, he sought to
read the secret purposes of the stranger, whose words he heeded not.
Julian turned from the inquisitive look; and, with averted eyes,
remarked to Colonel Carlisle, that business called him immediately to
the neighboring town; but as he should only be detained a few hours,
he hoped to return in time to take a last sail with the little party
on the noble river, which would ever dwell in his memory, the mirror
of many past joys.

But I see you are curious to know whether the young Eva was proof
against the attractions of the gallant officer? Did her guileless
heart receive no arrow from the vagrant Cupid, who is so apt to make
one in water excursions and rambles in search of the picturesque; and
who, often an unbidden guest, forces himself into pleasant country
parties, to disturb their harmony and mar all their pastimes. She
remained “fancy free;” for Julian Fitzgerald deigned not to borrow
from the quiver of the mischievous boy, and Eva’s was not a love to be
bestowed, unsought. She was a being, too, of deep affections: and
though her cousin was handsome, brave, full of recitals of wild and
varied interest, and amusing sketches of life and manners, which she
knew only through books, his character was not one to excite her
enthusiasm. It seemed to her romantic spirit, deficient in the lofty
qualities which could alone call forth the enduring love of a refined,
feeling woman; though she admitted that it must be a very pleasant
world where the men were all as gay, and agreeable, and courteous as
he. With his knowledge of the human heart, he might have found it no
very difficult matter to deceive his cousin Eva’s penetration, had his
pride or vanity, or any of the thousand springs of action by which men
are actuated, been put in motion: but he existed for more stirring
scenes; though, now like a bird pursuing its mysterious way from one
far land to another, he paused to rest for awhile amid song and
sunshine.

The hours of Fitzgerald’s absence were spent by the family in
preparing mementos of regard, for him to take to their mutual friends
in England. He returned before Eva had completed her package; and, as
if to drive away care, rallied her on the Quaker taste of her
presents. But though he assumed gaiety, he was restless and uneasy,
and sometimes fell into fits of abstraction, from which he would
suddenly start, and attribute his unusual sadness to the prospect of
parting so soon from his only friends in America. Eldred hung on him,
persuading him with artless and disinterested affection to renounce
his wandering life, and share with him the large domains that would be
his in a few years. But the young officer smiling at the boy’s
simplicity, replied that he would “owe fortune only to his own arm,
and to the favoring gale.”

The evening came on, and the little party embarked on the bright
river. The breeze was fresh, dimpling it with smiles, and soft and
fleecy clouds flitted over them, on their way to form a canopy of
splendor the retiring monarch of day. The scene seemed to revive the
spirits of Julian, and he resumed his animated tone, as he called over
the roll for the excursion. “Where is our pilot Arrowfoot?” said Eva,
looking round. “Oh, the Indian boy,” replied Julian, “I did not
perceive he was missing. But you will not deny me the pleasure of
commanding your little bark this last cruise we shall make together? I
am sure I shall steer as gallantly as he, and as safely too.” “No
doubt of it, dear cousin,” answered Eva, “but there is something
singular in his leaving his post, without giving us any reason for
it.” “I thought,” said Eldred, “he had gone with you, Julian. I hav’nt
seen him since your return.” “No, indeed,” replied the young officer,
“I believe he has no desire for my companionship. These Indians are
strange beings; I would as soon think of taming the mountain eagle as
of civilizing them.” “Slacken sail,” cried Eldred, “if I mistake not,
that speck on the waters is Arrowfoot’s bark canoe. Yes, I know the
dash of his paddle; he is making towards us with all his strength.”
“What can the boy have been after?” remarked Fitzgerald, in rather an
anxious tone: but the next moment the Indian came alongside, and
bounded into the boat, leaving his own light canoe to drift down the
current.

“I thought,” said Eldred joyfully, “that our old pilot {745} would not
desert us altogether. But where have you been? Out of breath, and as
pale as a corpse! Have you been fighting with a wolf, or capsized by
the water-fiend?” “You will not speak,” exclaimed Eva, as he turned
silently away, and fixed his eyes on the dark cove they were nearing;
“can you not tell us whether the spirit who haunts yon depths will be
propitious, for we are going to invade his realms?” “You have nothing
to fear from the water-spirit,” replied Arrowfoot, “but why do you not
sail up the river as you have always done before?” “Because Julian
wishes to see the cove,” said Eva gaily; “and with you at the helm we
fear nothing.” “Trust not to that,” replied he, in a low tone, “I
would guard you from danger with my life, but—I would we were sailing
up the stream,” he continued with increased anxiety. “What can you
mean, Arrowfoot?” cried the now alarmed girl, but immediately
recovering her natural buoyancy of spirit, she rallied him on his
superstition. “Have you seen a raven hovering over us, or does the
moon dip her horn?” she laughingly inquired. “Believe not the omen,
but let us follow these merry waves that go dancing by us, to ‘the
cave of their slumbers,’ and hear the wild song of the water-spirit
soothing them to rest under yon rude canopy of rock.” Fitzgerald now
approached. “I do not like to see my cousin’s bright countenance
wearing this shadow? What gloomy forebodings are these that disturb
you, Eva?” “I wish,” answered she, “that we had taken the usual
course, for Arrowfoot thinks we are not quite safe in venturing into
the cove this evening. Night is coming on, and perhaps we may strike
upon some hidden rock.” “Never fear,” rejoined he, “I am an old
cruiser, who has doubled Cape Horn and been baptized by Neptune. I
want to show you how we steer through dangers in real nautical style.
This young Indian,” he continued in a lower tone, “knows nothing about
it.” “More perhaps than you think he does,” said Arrowfoot, sternly;
for the almost whispered accents had reached his acute ear. Julian
turned away apparently disconcerted, but in a few moments was himself
again, and that he might obliterate every uneasy feeling from the
breasts of the little party, played off Jack-tar for their
entertainment with so much odd singularity and humor, that all, save
the lone Indian, entered into the spirit of his drollery, and forgot
every thing but the fantastic drama before them. He stood apart,
gazing first on the dark masses of rock which overhung the river, then
down its broad and deep solitudes of water, on which no skiff or
fishing boat was visible. They were now entering the unfrequented
cove. Seldom was it that even the canoe of the wild Indian disturbed
the stillness of this spot. How strange was it then to see a small
boat rise as it were out of the waters, and emerge from the shadow of
the rocks within a few hundred yards of them. Arrowfoot, whose wary
ear had heard the dash of oars before it was visible, stood with
straining eye fixed upon it as it rapidly approached them. “I’ll
declare, the water-spirit you were talking of,” said Fitzgerald, “has
taken the form of a fishing boat, and Arrowfoot is going to answer his
demand why we presume to come into his presence. But let me speak him
as we do a ship at sea, and lo! the charm will dissolve, and the whole
affair turn out to be nothing more than a trader going down stream.”
In a moment he took out an instrument something like a bugle, but of a
peculiar tone, and blew a few notes, which were answered by another of
the same kind, and an attempt on the part of the trader to overhaul
them. “I told you,” said Julian, “it was no water-witch. See she
wishes to give us a friendly salute, and learn where we are bound.”
Eva’s looks were directed first to her cousin and then to the Indian,
but for whose look of alarm and defiance she would have enjoyed the
adventure. The boat came nearer, and yet seemed steered by invisible
hands, for no one could be seen beneath the awning which was raised at
one end of it. “What lazy hulks,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, “to let their
boat float on with the current, while they lie dozing there. I’ll pipe
them again, and if they dont answer more gaily I’ll board them
straightway.” He raised his bugle just as they were in the act of
passing, and sounded a note, which was replied to by two figures
masked and muffled in short cloaks, springing on the side of their
little bark. “Good God! who are you? what is your purpose?” cried he,
in a tone of consternation. “Villains! Murderers!” shouted Arrowfoot,
straining the terrified Eldred close to his bosom. The ruffians rushed
upon him, and the cry of despair he uttered when he found he could not
retain his hold upon the boy, revealed their success. The struggle had
been momentary. The Indian was shaken off into the water, by men whose
nerve had been strengthened by many a scene of blood and strife; and
the child he had so vainly striven to defend was heaved into the boat
of the strangers. One wild shriek pierced the silence of the cove and
all was still, while the pirates pushed silently down the stream. Eva
sunk lifeless on the bosom of Caraola, who seemed stunned by the
events which had just occurred, but soon her mournful wail told her
utter hopelessness. Julian Fitzgerald stood silent and unmoved. Where
was his vaunted courage, which had made no effort to rescue a helpless
boy? “Caraola,” he at length said, “I have been thinking what course
we had best pursue, to overtake these murderers before they have
completed their bloody purpose. I would follow them immediately, but
we must first get assistance for this fainting girl.” “Oh go,” cried
she, “I can steer the boat—I can revive Eva.” Her voice, as it dwelt
on the emphatic word “go,” roused the unconscious sufferer to a sense
of her wretchedness. “Go—haste—save him—my brother, my father’s
darling,” she shrieked in agony. “Julian, do you hesitate?” “No, Eva—I
am rowing with all my strength—I must leave you in safety. My plan is
formed. Your father will approve it. We must raise forces and scout
the country around, for the ruffians will not dare to execute their
design on the river. We can rescue the boy before they reach a place
of concealment.” “Oh Julian, speed, speed fast,” she said, in a tone
of touching entreaty, “my brother’s life depends upon your arm. Oh
Caraola, is Arrowfoot too gone? I know he clung to him as long as life
remained. Did they kill him?” “They threw him off,” replied Caraola,
“but he lives still. I saw him striving to reach yonder shore. His
heart is strong, and though his young arm bends like the sapling, I
know the Great Spirit will strengthen it.”

The night had fallen dark and gloomy ere they reached Colonel
Carlisle’s door. Eva’s cry of anguish caught her father’s ear, and he
rushed to meet them. {746} “Is it my child’s voice I hear?” exclaimed
he, with alarm. “Speak Eva! where is your brother? Oh God! what has
befallen him?” “He is gone, father—gone! seized by strangers; hasten
to pursue—Julian, tell him all!” she said, as she gasping, fell into
Caraola’s arms. He briefly sketched the events of the evening, and the
probable design of the ruffians, to obtain the costly watch and
diamonds which it was ascertained Eldred wore as a pledge of the
inheritance to which he was heir. It might be from some motive of
revenge to the father, but that Colonel Carlisle’s open heart and
hand, his high-minded and useful career, checked the supposition of
his having a secret enemy.

The necessity for instant exertion prevented the old man’s heart from
bursting under this unexpected calamity. A company was raised for
immediate pursuit. Julian co-operated in every plan to regain the lost
boy, and set out as the leader of a party to search every spot where
it was possible the villains had found a harbor. Colonel Carlisle
himself headed another, but being scarcely able to guide his own
steps, he yielded to his nephew’s counsel, and returned home, that he
might not delay others in their search.

We will leave Fitzgerald engaged in this fruitless enterprise, and
follow the trace of the boat which bore Eldred away from all he loved
on earth. He lay still in the bottom of it, with a gag in his mouth
and his tender frame enveloped in a seaman’s cloak. He heard but the
splash of the oars and the shrill cries of the night-hawk scared from
its solitary resting place. The hardened wretches, whose victim he had
become, heeded not his stifled sobs, but leaving the wide Susquehanna,
rowed up Conistoga creek until they came to a little inlet, which
formed a very secluded cove, overhung by precipitous banks and
surrounded by unbroken wood. There they lifted out the now senseless
boy, and making fast their boat to the rocks, bore him through rugged
paths to an old tenantless habitation, which had once been a
mill-house, but all its works having been destroyed by a recent flood
it had been left a wreck in the midst of desolation. Not until they
had deposited their burden in the remotest corner of the building, did
these murderers break the profound silence in which they had
travelled. Having descended the ladder by which they had entered the
upper story, and carefully concealed it from view, they began to
consult upon the best means to adopt. “Did he say,” asked McMurdough,
“that he would be here before day light? I am against delaying the
thing. A bird in the hand may flutter.” “He said we might depend on
him,” replied Hawkins. “I would rather obey orders in these things. It
is enough for my conscience to do the deed; let them bear the
responsibility that get the money.” “Hush!” whispered the other;
“didn’t you hear the leaves stir?” “Nothing,” said his comrade, “but
that cursed whippoorwill going to set up its screech. I’ll tell you,
Hawkins, I had just as lief tap the boy on the head as to crack an
egg, but this Antonio is a cunning fellow. He always leaves some hole
to creep out at himself, but his poor followers must take care of
themselves. He likes to get others to do his dangerous deeds too, but
I know I must hear the clink of the Spanish dollars or he never sets
foot on the deck of the Scudder again, and so I’ve told him.”
“McMurdough,” said Hawkins, “did I tell you what I heard them Yankee
lubbers say, as we cruised off Newport?” “Who cares for their guesses?
As soon set a parcel of clams to privateering as such as them.” “Not
so fast. They showed some cuteness in their talk. One tapped the other
as our vessel was gliding by and said, ‘Jonathan, as ever I hope to
eat pumpkin pie thanksgiving day, that’s no English trader, though she
does spread their colors. Notice how clear she keeps of “old
Ironsides.” I bet you don’t find her shaking hands, if she can help
it. I’ll stake a Jews-harp she hoists other colors before she gets
much farther.’ ‘And strikes them too,’ replied the other. ‘That's all
talk,’ said the first: ‘I’ve heard all about the Buccaneers, as they
call ’em, and what nice traps are laid for ’em, but where’s one they
have ever catched? Catch a pirate before you hang him say I.’” “So say
I too,” said McMurdough, laughing. “As long as we have satisfaction
among ourselves we may defy the devil; but some things must be
altered, or I don’t serve under, Antonio.” “McMurdough, the boy keeps
very quiet,” observed Hawkins: “like as not you fixed him, so he’ll
die before his time.” “May be so—he’s but an unfledged bird, and will
not stand rough handling. No concern of mine, I did but _his_
bidding.” “The moon is wrapping herself up in as black a cloak as
ours,” remarked Hawkins, “so we might as well take a little rest. But
first I’ll step above and see about the child. If he’s smothered, all
the better; I never had so little mind to a job in my life.” “Why so?
he says there is no doubt of the fortune—just put this one out of the
way, and he’s the next heir.” “It goes against my conscience,
McMurdough, to shed the blood of the young and innocent; let there be
guilt where I strike.”

He ascended the ladder, and groped for the spot where lay the victim
of their cruelty. No sound escaped from him, and it was not until he
pulled away the gag and uncovered his face, that he perceived the boy
still breathed. His pulses were quick and faint, betokening exhausted
and failing life. He was evidently locked in a deep slumber, which
neither the terrors of his situation nor the gripe of the iron screws,
had power to break. Folded in the sweet mantle of forgetfulness, he
was insensible to every thing but the busy fancies that sported in his
brain. Even the stern heart of the murderer relented, when a
straggling moonbeam fell on the pale face, and revealed the bruises
made by the hand of violence. The fresh air seemed already to revive
the young slumberer, and he had not the heart to shut it out, but
turned his head towards the rent in the wall, and then endeavored to
seek repose in another part of the building.

The covering of night was not so secure as the banditti supposed. The
faithful Arrowfoot, with untiring step, had followed all the windings
of their rugged course. Resolving not to lose the traces of their
flight, he had traversed dangers which by day light would have
appeared impassable; and while they were placing their charge in the
upper story of the house, crept within hearing and laid himself down
in a thick underwood, where his ear caught every word which passed
between them. It was his presence which had scared the whippoorwill
from its perch, and gave occasion to the imprecation of the ruffian.
He listened intently to their discourse, which revealed all he
suspected, that Julian was the contriver of the whole scheme of {747}
abduction and murder. As soon as he heard this, he moved off as
lightly as the air itself, and making his way to the boat they had
left, seized the oars, and with the skill of a practised hand pushed
over the water, straining every nerve to give the alarm before
Fitzgerald’s arrival at the designated spot.

He was conscious of his danger in meeting the false-hearted villain,
and blessed the thick veil of darkness which concealed his little bark
from view. His only thought was to reach home before the star of
Eldred’s fate had set forever; and kind nature almost seemed to stay
her rapid wheels, to give the devoted Indian the only boon he sought,
time to arrest the murderer’s knife. Having reached the landing, he
bounded like the shot arrow, to the chamber where the wretched father
paced the floor in the phrensy of despair. Arrowfoot rushed into his
presence, exclaiming, “Where is Fitzgerald?” “Not returned,” replied
the deep voice of agony, “the search is fruitless—Julian delays to
confirm the fatal tidings.” “Hasten, Carlisle, if ever you hope to see
your son again—he lives, but the hour for his death is appointed—the
assassin waits but the sentence from the mouth of your nephew
Fitzgerald to despatch him. Stand not motionless. Doubt not the
certainty of what I tell you. I have pursued the ruffians and heard
all the plot. In two hours, Eldred’s fate may be sealed: for the
ruffians wait but the return of their leader, Julian Fitzgerald. Arm
yourselves and follow me,” he cried to the gathering retainers of the
household, as, seizing the first weapon that came to his hand, he
darted towards the river where he had fastened the little skiff.

While Arrowfoot is leading the way towards the lonely habitation where
he had left the imprisoned boy, we will follow the covert footsteps of
Julian. After he had prevailed on Colonel Carlisle to retire from the
search, he dispersed the band under his guidance, in every direction,
but the right one, and under pretence of making inquiries at a small
fishing station, sailed down the river alone, intending to take this
opportunity to meet the instruments of his dark purposes.

The brow of McMurdough lowered with angry impatience, as leaning
against an overshadowing tree, he waited the appearance of Fitzgerald.
The assassin knew too well his rapacity for wealth to believe that any
trivial cause could detain him, and yet the “slow paced night” had
nearly finished her circuit without his coming. At length the glimmer
of twilight gave place to the broad day, and still he came not. In a
state of fearful doubt and uncertainty McMurdough strode backwards and
forwards, resolving the part he should take.

The return of light roused the sleeping senses of Eldred. The
unfinished dream still floated in his fancy, and gave color to his
words. “Oh! Arrowfoot you have saved me from falling headlong down the
precipice. I should have perished but for you.” “Who?” muttered the
hoarse voice of Hawkins. Shuddering, at the sound the boy looked up,
and beheld the savage visage of the robber bending over him. His
recollection suddenly returned, and clinging to the cloak of the
robber who was endeavoring to withdraw, he plead for mercy in the most
moving terms. “What have I done,” he exclaimed “how have I wronged
you, or any one else? Tell me, and I will restore you fourfold. Only
spare my life, that is all I ask, and you shall be rewarded. I am my
father’s darling, he will give all he has for my life. Think, were you
a father, had you but one son, the hope of your age, the pillow of
your widowed heart, and he were torn——” “Boy, boy, your words
pierce me like a sword! And yet it is not the voice of a child that
can shake the mind from its purpose. It is the voice of the Almighty,
crying _blood for blood!_ What! can nothing pay the forfeit of blood,
but blood again? Whose blood must pay this boy’s? The deep answer
speaks in my soul, my own child’s blood is the price. I dare not, no I
will not shed a drop of yours. Let others answer for their own deeds,”
he said, slowly retiring. As soon as he was alone, Eldred lifted up
his heart to God, and prayed that he who hears the young ravens when
they cry, would deliver him out of the hands of his enemies. Feeling
tranquillized by casting himself upon the Almighty arm, he calmly
surveyed the waving woodlands, and rushing streams, where had been the
pastime and joy of his childhood. His eye caught the upwards flight of
the “cloud cleaving eagle” soaring with unchained wing in boundless
air, and he thought of the days when his heart bounded on wing as free
and joyous, and the tears gushed from their full fountains as his head
sunk on the broken aperture of the wall on which he was leaning.
Absorbed in deep sorrow he heeded not the angry colloquy of the
Kidnappers below, debating the point of his instant death or release,
Hawkins refusing to take any further part in his destruction, and
McMurdough in brutal ferocity at Fitzgerald’s delay, threatening his
immediate assassination. A confused noise of voices approaching, broke
in upon their dialogue, putting every other idea to flight, but that
of immediate escape; and they fled towards a deep ravine, hoping to
secrete themselves in it, until the pursuit was over; but it was too
late. The wary Indian had placed a guard at every pass, and they were
soon made prisoners. What was their astonishment to see Fitzgerald in
the train of their pursuers? The unusual darkness of the night,
prevented his finding the secret path to the place of rendezvous, and
seeing himself totally at fault, he was obliged to await the glimmer
of day light, in order to proceed more securely. Arrowfoot’s ear
caught the sound of his stealthy tread, and warning his followers to
advance cautiously, he darted forward, and intercepted Fitzgerald, at
the spot where his followers had left the boat. It instantly flashed
across his mind that his base design was known to the Indian; and
resolving that his secret should perish with him, he drew his sabre
and attempted to close with his adversary. But the movement was
perceived in time for Arrowfoot to place himself on his guard; and
although Julian was quick of eye and firm of foot, he gained no
vantage ground. He was confident of success, for few had ever resisted
that arm who encountered it in deadly strife: but Arrowfoot, with
agile spring, always eluded the sweep of his weapon, and repaid his
efforts by honest downright blows with a battle axe which he had
seized from the boat of the Pirates. In the first moment of conflict,
a shrill cry had given signal to the band of pursuers, but before they
reached the spot, Julian Fitzgerald lay prostrate and disarmed at the
feet of their leader. The skill and self possession which until now
had always ensured him victory, failed in his struggle with the
Indian. Conscience, defied so {748} long, at last asserted its power,
and unnerved his arm. He uttered no word of wrath or of fear; but his
clenched teeth, and the wild glare of his eye, spoke the roused
ferocity of the demon within. Arrowfoot, leaving the prisoners in the
care of the rest of his party, flew to the captive boy. Eldred was
aroused from his slumber by his hurried steps. Thinking his murderers
had returned to do the work of death, he dropped from his resting
place on the wall, and terror depriving him of every other sensation,
he heeded not the rush of many feet, or the cries of his distracted
father calling his name. The deeply moving voice of Arrowfoot at
length awoke him to the consciousness of life and hope. A faint sob
was the only expression he was able to give to these overpowering
emotions. In speechless ecstasy he gazed on the haggard face of his
father; who, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, gave thanks to the
Almighty for his merciful interposition.

The Indian soon became aware of the danger of such a reaction in the
feelings of the boy, and bore him from Colonel Carlisle’s presence
into the near forest, where placing him on the bank of a murmuring
rivulet, he bathed his temples, and, aided by the soothing sights and
sounds of nature, soon restored him to tranquillity, and enabled him
to return with his father and friends to the home where his sister
watched with straining eyes, for some messenger who would tell her of
his safety or his death.

Meantime the officers of the law took charge of the criminals. The
general delight at receiving the lost one again shut out for a time
all recollection of the traitor from the hearts of this affectionate
family. But the indignation of the community was strongly excited, and
numbers surrounded the prison, calling loudly for the instant trial of
the prisoners. On examination, Fitzgerald protested that he was
innocent of the crime laid to his charge. McMurdough maintained an
obstinate silence. But Hawkins confessed the whole plot, and further
added, that Fitzgerald had joined the Buccaneers in the West Indies in
the preceding year—had distinguished himself in their piratical
depredations by his daring courage; and was now commander of a small
cruiser on the Chesapeake. Fitzgerald, he said, had not specified to
him the person to be put out of the way, but only that one life stood
between him and a large fortune, which all should share, provided his
hand was not seen in the business. This evidence was sustained by that
of Arrowfoot. When asked why he suspected the pretended affection of
Fitzgerald for the boy, he replied in the sententious manner of his
race, that he “saw him cast an evil eye on him, when he first met
him.” When questioned as to his knowledge of the scheme laid to entrap
Eldred, he said that he saw “something dark working in Fitzgerald’s
mind, and followed him to the fishing town. There unperceived he saw
him meet two men drest as fishers, and all three walked off together.
After a while, the fishermen returned, but Fitzgerald was gone, where,
he knew not; he only suspected some evil was intended against the boy,
for his fortune.” When it was inquired why he did not reveal his
suspicions? he replied, that he “scorned the part of a meddler or tale
bearer, and he had no positive evidence of what he believed.” The
testimony was now summed up, and the jury retired to consider the
verdict. Colonel Carlisle sent in a petition, recommending his guilty
nephew to the mercy of the court, but the intercession was rejected,
and sentence of death pronounced on Fitzgerald and McMurdough.
Hawkins, who was considered less guilty and who was penitent, was
doomed to ten years imprisonment. The night preceding the day fixed
for their execution, the prison was discovered to be on fire; and
before any aid could be procured, the devouring flames had enveloped
the building, and rendered all access to the prisoners’ rooms
impossible. The next morning diligent search was made for their
skeletons, but as they were never found, it was universally believed
that the arch-villain Fitzgerald had found means to fire the prison,
and taken advantage of the general confusion to fly with his
associates from the penalty of the law.

Another cloud was soon to rest on Colonel Carlisle’s family. The
period destined for the departure of their Indian friends was at hand.
Arrowfoot spoke not of his purpose, until his plans were matured, but
his countenance betrayed the struggle within. There was something
almost solemn in the secrecy and silence with which these young
Indians made preparation for their pilgrimage. Lest they should yield
to the sympathies of nature, in receiving the expressions of the love
and gratitude of the companions of their childhood, they kept almost
aloof from them; and it was only by stealth that Eva and Eldred
conveyed to their secret depository, stores for their long journey,
and mementos of attachment.

Colonel Carlisle, while he lamented deeply the obligation which must
separate the Indian orphans from their only earthly friends, could not
violate his pledge to their father by attempting to detain them. He
restored to Arrowfoot the wampum belt of the Spread Eagle, remarking,
that it contained something which he must not examine till he had
crossed the great western river. The Indian made the promise, deeming
it some mysterious token left him by his father; and Colonel Carlisle
hoped the large sum of gold he had prevailed on him by this stratagem
to accept, would be of use to him in after life.

The evening preceding his departure, Arrowfoot’s heart seemed lighter
than usual. He led Eva to one of the favorite haunts of their
childhood. “Eva,” he said, “you have seen my dark and sad countenance;
you have thought me ungrateful and unhappy. Yes, the soul of Arrowfoot
is debased; it has rebelled against the command of my dying father,
and preferred degradation and pity to the high hopes of my brethren in
the West. Eva, you know it not, but it was the spell of Eva’s voice,
the charm of Eva’s eye, that darkened my soul; but now, that dream is
gone, my soul rises from its sleep, and brushes away the dew that
dimmed its sight.” The tears of Eva flowed fast, to think that she had
ever caused grief in such a noble heart. She turned to speak some word
of comfort to him, but he had left her side, and plunged into the
forest to regain calmness.

That night, when sleep had prest down the eyelids of Eva, and she lay
in sweet unconsciousness of all, save the gay visions of happier years
which floated through her brain, the beloved Caraola hung over her
earliest friend, kissing her cheek and wetting it with her tears. The
lovely sleeper heard not the deep sigh of suppressed sorrow, or the
light foot which was passing forever from the home, where love and
protection had {749} been extended to the children of the savage. The
morning light revealed the truth. A fan of eagles’ feathers was lying
on Eva’s pillow, and a bow and arrow were placed near Eldred’s
couch—the sole traces of their Indian friends. A melancholy void was
left in the little group who had been wont to gather with cheerful
faces round the hearth; and many a sigh and heartfelt prayer were
breathed for the wanderers who came not again. Thus passed away, like
the shadows of evening, the last scions of the Conistoga Indians.


UNIVERSAL SYMPATHY.

A WINTER’S NIGHT THOUGHT.

BY EDWIN SAUNDERS.


    The night is cold, the wind is bleak,
  The nearest road the shepherds seek
  To gain their home, to share the smile
  That shortens, sweetens all their toil—
  The smile of love, that well repays
  The labor of the darkest days.
  The driving snow comes down amain,
  Across the field and down the lane;
  The lucid stream that rolled along,
  With rapid course and ceaseless song,
  And wantoned in the sunny ray,
  Now hushed and still’d its course doth stay:
  The flowers and herbs that graced its side
  In nature’s general death have died.
  Along the hedge and in the grove
  No more are heard, around, above,
  The thousand songs, and chirps, and cries,
  That thro’ the leafy arches rise.
  The birds are gone, the trees are bare,
  And sadly mourns the very air—
  Their echo is no longer there
  Their fitful sheep-bell on the gale,
  Like some lost spirit’s dismal wail,
  Now borne in fearful loudness near,
  And now slow dying on the ear,
  Comes with a witchery o’er the soul,
  And seems like nature’s funeral toll—
  The knell of beauty, life and grace,
  And this her last sepulchral dress.
  Is there a heart so hard, so cold,
  Without emotion can behold
  This general death, this quick decay
  Of all that’s beautiful and gay?
  What, shall the happy woodland chime
  Be hushed, or seek a milder clime?
  What, shall the garden and the grove
  Be stripped of all that moved your love?
  The yielding stream, whose glassy face
  Gave back your form with tenfold grace,
  Be dulled and stiffened, and your eye
  Not know a tear, your heart a sigh?
  It cannot be!—regrets must steal
  O’er human souls, for we do feel.
  Yes, there’s a close-linked sympathy—
  For this we know our fate must be;
  Though lord of nature, man’s a part,
  And every change speaks to his heart;
  But yet he hopes that spring shall come,
  And call her favorites from the tomb—
  That Flora shall descend and stand,
  And cast her garland round the land;
  And beauty, light, and joy, and bliss,
  Bring back creation’s loveliness.
  And so it is, (the thought I love,)
  With the pure spirits from above.
  Man has his winter, and they stoop
  To give desponding mortals hope.
  Sent by their Maker, they sustain
  The drooping soul when worn with pain,
  And point the heart with sorrow riven
  To the pure joys of love and heaven.
  Yet though they know man soon shall rise
  In holy rapture to the skies,
  They feel such grief as spirits may
  At all the trials of the way,
  And long to bear him from the earth
  To waken in that glorious birth.
  Yes, there’s a sympathy between
  The world without and world within,
  And there’s a sympathetic band
  Connects us with that happy land.

_London, January 1836_.




CRIME AND CONSEQUENCE.

  Fons fraudum et maleficiorum.
  ’Tis the fountain of cozenage and villainy.

_Anatomy of Melancholy_.


There resided, many years ago, in a small town in one of the West
India islands, an individual known by the name of Waring, whose
singular habits attracted much attention, and procured for him no
small degree of notoriety. He was apparently between sixty and seventy
years of age, tall and thin, but well formed; and the few locks of
hair that time had spared, were as white as snow, and strangely
contrasted with the bushy jet-black brows beneath which the large eyes
yet shone with the lustre of youth, and told of passions which had
once been stormy, if they were even now at rest. The upper part of his
face indicated intellect and daring, but there was a degree of
feebleness about the lips; and the smile, which sometimes curled them,
spoke of any thing but joy. He lived in almost total seclusion,
avoiding all intercourse which was not absolutely necessary, and
entirely confining himself to his own humble residence. In the front
part of his house he kept a small retail shop, and there he was to be
found from early dawn to dark; and for many years he had pursued this
avocation, without ever attempting to increase his business, or
holding communion with the people about him, save in the way of trade.
Those of whom he purchased his goods were in the habit of calling on
him to offer their wares, for he was a good customer, higgling, it is
true, about the price, and standing out for the last farthing, but
always paying in ready money, and ever exhibiting the most scrupulous
honesty. In his small way his trade was extensive, for curiosity
induced many from the neighboring country to call upon him; and in the
{750} town, the lower classes and the negroes preferred dealing with
one who they were sure would not take advantage of their ignorance to
defraud them—a degree of integrity remarkably rare among the petty
shopkeepers of ——. Of his early history nothing was known. He had come
to the island in a small schooner, from some port in North America,
and, soon after his arrival, took on lease the house in which he
established himself, and which he afterwards purchased. In the rear of
his dwelling was a tolerably large lot, which he had enclosed with a
high paling, so as effectually to prevent his neighbors from watching
his movements, and here he had resided for years, entirely alone. The
delicious fruits and vegetables of that sunny clime and fruitful soil,
which constituted his only food, were brought to his door for sale;
and his habits of untiring industry enabled him easily to dispense
with the attendance of a domestic. As he was not known to make any
deposit or investment of the money he received, a notion generally
obtained, that he was in the habit of burying it somewhere in the lot
of ground which he had fenced in so carefully. Following up this idea,
a plot had been laid by some desperadoes, to discover, if possible,
the place of concealment, and possess themselves of the treasure.
Three of them, one night, scaled the fence, and concealing themselves
behind some empty hogsheads, awaited the coming forth of their
intended victim, who, they conjectured, would visit his hidden
treasure. Their motions, however, did not escape the vigilance of Mr.
Waring. He came forth, it is true, and they rushed upon him, but two
of them received the contents of a blunderbuss, by which they were
instantly killed, and before the third recovered from his surprise, he
was cut down by the blow of a sabre.

The noise of course occasioned an alarm, and a crowd collected to
inquire into the cause. All information was refused, however, until
the civil authorities should be present. They were sent for, and, upon
their arrival, Mr. Waring unbarred his door, and led the way into the
yard.

“I have been saving the courts and the hangman trouble,” said the
gray-haired old man, as he pointed, with a grim smile, to the bodies
that lay drenched in gore; “take the carrion away.”

From that time this singular being remained unmolested, by either the
intrusions of curiosity, or the assaults of villainy. The house that I
occupied was within a few doors of his, and the business in which I
was engaged led to some transactions between us. It so happened, that
in examining my books, I detected an overcharge which had been made
against him by the inadvertence of one of my clerks. I of course
hastened to inform him of the error, and to correct it. It was with
some little difficulty that I persuaded him of the fact, but when it
was made clear to him, he fixed his large eyes upon me with a peculiar
expression, and taking my hand, pressed it with warmth.

“I do not thank you,” said he, “merely for the trouble you have taken,
or for the information you have given, which has enabled me to save,
though a small sum of money, yet an important one to me. These,
however, merit, and they have my gratitude; but I thank you, more
particularly, for exhibiting a trait of honesty that my experience had
scarcely led me to expect among the merchants of this place. You are
from Virginia, I believe?”

I replied in the affirmative, and inquired if I might not greet him as
a countryman.

“I never speak of the place of my birth,” was the gloomy answer.

I have had too many, and too important affairs of my own, to care to
busy myself much about those of other people; but, I must confess, I
entertained a strong desire to learn something of this old man, and of
the events which probably superinduced his eccentricities. My
curiosity was destined to be gratified, though not immediately.

Years rolled on, my affairs had prospered, and I was preparing to
return to my home, there to enjoy the fruits of my toil: the soil
where he was born, is the _only home_ to a true Virginian. One
morning, to my great surprise, I received, by a negro boy, a note from
Mr. Waring, saying that he desired an interview with me, which must be
strictly private, and requesting me, if it suited my convenience, to
call upon him at dusk. No trifling cause would have prevented my
obedience to this summons. Accordingly, at the time appointed, I
repaired to Mr. Waring’s shop. He was busy, waiting on some customers,
and I was about to retire; but he detained me, saying, “I will attend
to you in a moment, Mr. S——.” As soon as they had left him, he pointed
to the back room—“Step in there, quickly, quickly!” he exclaimed, “and
wait quietly my coming.” I instantly obeyed. About a quarter of an
hour elapsed before he joined me, and in the meantime I took a survey
of the apartment. I have seldom seen a more wretched abode. An old
leathern couch, a ricketty table, two chairs, (one I strongly
suspected for the _nonce_,) and an old wooden clothes chest, comprised
the main portion of the furniture. The walls were bare, save where the
spiders had hung their tapestry; bundles of rags and nondescript
remnants of various useless things, were stuffed into every corner,
and the whole wore the appearance of squalid poverty or pinching
avarice. “Strange infatuation!” thought I, “that men should devote
their prime of years, their powers of mind, to the acquisition of that
which is to raise them above poverty, and yet when they have obtained
the means to make life comfortable, voluntarily condemn themselves to
the very privations which they had originally fled from as a curse!
The measures we adopt to escape the evil, bind us by the chains of
habit, to the condition itself which we deprecated.”

As I made this reflection, he who suggested it entered. After a brief
interval, during which he gazed upon me as if to search my very soul,
he said, “Mr. S. you are curious to know who and what I am. Nay, never
blush, man, it is natural enough. You cannot think it otherwise than
strange, that one who is connected by no ties of consanguinity with
his fellow men, who has no apparent motive for hoarding his gains, for
whom ambition has no charms, and who is looked upon by no earthly
being with the eye of affection, should condemn himself to the want of
every comfort, for the acquisition of that, which in a brief space of
time, must be snatched from him by the cold hand of death. You, no
doubt, think it strange too, that one, whose language gives evidence
of education, and I may say of capacity, which would place him at
least on an equality with his {751} fellow men, should confine himself
to the petty and despised occupation, in which for years I have been
engaged. You probably deem me a miser; in one sense of the word I am
one, for God’s sun shines not on a greater wretch; but there breathes
no human being, for whom wealth has fewer charms or smaller power. The
coarsest raiment, the simplest food, and a bare shelter from the
storm, are the limits of my bodily wants, and as for my mind riches
cannot purchase it peace. Still, my aim has been to gather them; for
what purpose you shall be informed. I have requested this interview,
because I had reason to think you an honest man, and none but such
would answer my purpose. I desire your agency and assistance in the
performance of an act of justice, the execution of which has been the
main object of my life. For your mere trouble you will be amply
compensated; for the satisfaction you will afford me it is out of my
power to offer an equivalent. Having thus stated my wishes, I shall
proceed, irksome and degrading to me as is the task, to recount to you
the narrative of my early life. I claim from you simply the promise
that you will not, during my life time, reveal what I am now about to
utter to you.” I gave my promise. “Listen then,” said the old man.

“I, as well as yourself, was born in Virginia; my real name is W——. My
father was descended from the English aristocracy, and was not a
little proud of the circumstance. During the Revolutionary War,
although his feelings were certainly on the side of the British
government, he maintained a neutrality sufficiently strict to enable
him to preserve his estate, which was a very large one. At an early
age I was sent to England, where I received my education, and remained
until I was twenty-three. Soon after my return to America my father
died, (my mother had expired many years before) and I was left in the
uncontrolled possession of one of the largest fortunes in Virginia.
Young, well-born, good-looking and rich, every noble quality was of
course attributed to me, and every where my society was courted. I
lived in an atmosphere of sunny smiles, amid the rich the gay and the
beautiful. Among the latter there was one pre-eminent. It was no dream
of love that robed her with surpassing beauty—it was no perversion of
fancy that invested her with the perfection of womanhood. If ever
there were a heart untainted by a single impurity, it beat within the
bosom of Emily C——, and that heart, with its boundless love, its
thousand charities, its noble confidence, its unbending honor—that
heart, I, _I_, _the miserable_, worthless, degraded object that you
see, won by my seeming virtue, and broke by my glaring villainy!”

He paused, and wiped the drops of agony from his brow; at length he
resumed.

“I did not mean to anticipate my tale, but I was forced onward by the
tide of memory. Such a creature as I have described could not but be
surrounded by admiration, and among the many who aspired to her hand,
was one, whose perseverance was untiring, notwithstanding the frequent
rejections which he had encountered. His name was Roberts. He was a
young man of good family and fair education, with prepossessing
appearance and manners, and was a general favorite with his
acquaintance. His father, it was understood, had ruined himself on the
turf, but the son, although launched on the busy scenes of life
extremely poor, had contrived to accumulate a comfortable sum of
money; how, none exactly knew; some said by speculations in lands,
others by the purchase of bonds, while some hinted that he was
indebted to his science in horse-racing and his skill in cards, for
the greatest portion of his success. For my own part I made no
inquiries about the matter. I met him in good society, his deportment
was gentlemanlike, and moreover, he was a delightful companion. He
sung a good song, told a good story, and had no small share of
original wit. I do not know whether he loved Emily, or whether his
motives were mercenary (for she was wealthy) but as I before observed,
though repeatedly discarded, he nevertheless continued his attentions.
I, alas! was more favorably received, and in the course of time Emily
became my wife.

“Though memory ever reverts to that blissful period of my existence,
conjuring up the past amid the pauses of occupation by day, and
peopling the dark hours of the night, when remorse has banished sleep,
with the shadowy forms of the loved—the lost—there are times when I
lose the consciousness of its reality. I remember, but as a dream,
amid the storm-blackened waves on which I am tossed, the bright skies
that once cheered, and the blessed sun that beamed upon my course. My
fortune enabled me to indulge in an extensive hospitality, and the
pleasures of my abode offered every inducement to society. Among the
most frequent of my guests was Roberts, the former assiduous suitor of
my wife. He seemed to have entirely overcome his disappointment, and
indeed no one congratulated me upon my marriage with more seeming
cordiality than he. Emily did not like him, for she doubted the
soundness of his principles; but she tolerated him, because she saw
that he was entertaining to me, and probably thought my mind and
morals beyond the reach of his influence. Fatal error! and, common as
fatal! There is in the mind a principle somewhat resembling the
phenomenon of heat in matter, which is imparted from one substance to
another, as they come in contact, until uniform temperature is
established,—so, when the vicious and the virtuous are in the habit of
association, the bad qualities of the former are imbibed, not
producing a moral medium, it is true, but creating propensities
equally criminal. I grew in a short time, in consequence of this
intimacy with Roberts, very fond of the turf, and that which was at
first mere delight in the exhibition of the beauty and speed of the
noble animals in their fierce struggle for victory, changed into a
desire of being personally interested in the event. I betted freely,
and though constantly flattered by my associates, and more especially
by Roberts, upon the correctness of my judgment, I very rarely won. My
losses, however, were not larger than my ample income could well
afford. By and bye I became an owner of horses, and as I determined to
procure the best, and did so, I was obliged to pay large sums for
them. From ignorance, mismanagement, and probably knavery, but few
purses fell to my lot. On one occasion, there was what is termed a
sweepstake, in which I had entered a colt of great promise. From
previous trials I was very sure that there were but few who could
match him, and the event justified my confidence. Besides the stake,
which was very considerable, my private wagers amounted to {752} some
thousands. I invited the members of the club to dine with me at the
tavern kept by the proprietor of the course. Shortly after we sat
down, a storm which had been gathering all day, broke forth with great
violence, and continued without abatement until long after night-fall.
As it soon became apparent that the tavern must be our quarters for
the night, a general disposition was evinced to pass the time as
pleasantly as possible, and even to exceed the bounds of sober
merriment. The wine flowed freely; the song, the jest, and the merry
tale gave their zest to the entertainment, and when we rose from the
table we were most of us in a situation to be led into any amusement
that might be suggested, how far soever beyond the bounds of prudence.
Cards were introduced, and various parties formed at various games. I
knew that I possessed no skill, and flushed as I was with wine, I
still retained sufficient sense not to engage in a contest with those
whom I felt assured must, without extraordinary fortune on my side,
transfer my money to their pockets. As I sat looking on at some of the
players, I was accosted by Roberts.

“‘What!’ said he, ‘are you an idler as well as myself?’

“‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but that is not extraordinary, for you know very
well that I am not able to cope with these gentlemen. But how happens
it that you, who are an experienced hand, should refuse to try the
chances?’

“‘Why,’ said Roberts, ‘I make it a rule never to play at any game that
depends on science, unless my head is perfectly cool. Now, I have
swallowed rather too much of the good wine, to be able to rely upon my
judgment. I should not object to try my luck at any thing that
depended on the toss of a die or the turn of a card, because if
fortune smiled upon me I should play the bolder for what I have drunk,
and win the more, and if I lost, why the affair would be the sooner
ended, and I should get to sleep the earlier.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘can you find no such game?’

“‘I don’t know,’ replied he, ‘some of the party are talking of faro;
if they open a bank I will bet against it. Would _you_ like to do so?’

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘I shall content myself with being a spectator.’

“‘Pooh!’ said Roberts, ‘you’ve plucked the knowing ones to-day, and
got your pockets full of cash; you can afford to part with some of it,
even if you lose; but what should prevent you from doubling what you
have?’

“‘But, Roberts,’ said I, ‘I do not even know how the game is played.’

“‘It is as simple as two and two make four—here,’ continued he, taking
up a pack of cards, ‘I will show you,’ and he went on to explain the
game.

“‘Is this all the mystery?’ inquired I, when he had got through; ‘I
have heard it said that the odds were in favor of the banker, but I
can’t see how.’

“‘Oh, so they are, generally,’ said Roberts, ‘but merely because it is
the disposition of most men, when they have a run of luck, to stake
with prudence, and when they are losing to exercise a corresponding
degree of rashness.’

“‘And what should make me an exception?’

“‘The fact that I warn you of the error, and more than that,’ said
Roberts, ‘you have the power, I have observed it frequently, of
exciting yourself to boldness when it is required, and of bringing
your passions under curb when it is necessary they should be still. He
who possesses this self-command, although he may meet with occasional
reverses, will ultimately prove successful. But I do not wish to
persuade you against your inclination, and as I see that they are
preparing to commence the game, I will leave you; or suppose you sit
by and see how the fickle dame is disposed to treat me.’

“‘I do not object to that,’ said I, carelessly, and I accompanied him
to another part of the room.

“‘Who are the bankers?’ said Roberts, as we approached the group who
were busy with the preparations.

“‘Who?’ cried one, ‘why, only think, Wallis here takes it all upon
himself, and he is bragging that he will soon empty all our pockets.’

“‘Indeed! I have seen a bolder bird than he cut down. But we’ll play
low, Wallis?’

“‘Oh, of course. Ten checks are my limit, and we’ll put them at ten
dollars each.’

“‘And you call that low?’ said I.

“‘Why, not so very low, to be sure,’ said Roberts, ‘but not quite so
high neither as two thousand upon a three year old, eh! friend?’

“I was silent; the game proceeded for an hour. I looked on, and there
was but little change in the situation of the parties.

“‘Now,’ said Roberts, as the banker commenced a deal, ‘I think I have
you.’

“He placed the limited sum of a hundred dollars in such a situation,
as to be effected by three cards. He won—doubled—won again—again—and
pressed on, until he was winner about four thousand dollars. This was
the work of a few minutes. I was astonished; the dealer looked aghast.

“‘A glass round to my luck,’ cried Roberts. We drank that, and
another, and another, as Roberts continued to win. My whole attention
was taken up with _his_ play; I did not observe that the other betters
were generally losing. Presently, what with the wine I had drunk, and
the excitement necessarily induced by the spectacle before me, I began
to feel desirous to adventure, myself. I _did_ adventure, at first,
with success, while, on the contrary, Roberts’s luck began to desert
him.

“‘Hang it!’ said he, ‘it seems as if every one who comes in contact
with you to-day, were destined to suffer. You hammer us on the course,
and you are now mauling Wallis, at cards; but confound it, man, I wish
you would let somebody win besides yourself.’

“It is unnecessary to protract this scene; suffice it to say, the fate
of all other tyros was mine of course, that after acquiring moderate
gains, I began to lose, that as I lost my money, I lost my prudence,
that although, to outward seeming, I was calm as a stoic, (for my
pride was strong enough to effect that falsity,) within me there raged
a boiling hell of passion, and as stake after stake was swept from me,
I verily do believe I could have stabbed the winner to the heart. When
the game ceased, I had been stripped of all my ready money, and was
largely in debt. It was near morning. I threw myself into a chair and
fell into what was rather stupor than sleep.

{753} “With the early dawn, I shook off my lethargy, and with a head
fevered, and a heart aching from the dissipation of the night, I set
out on my return home, which was but a few miles distant. Although my
absence, on the previous night, had been unpremeditated and
unavoidable, my conscience, as it whispered over the list of my late
transgressions, numbered this as one of them. I knew I should be
greeted with affectionate smiles, and felt how unworthy I was to
receive them, and that was a bitter pang. Is it not a marvel that men
should ever be tempted to the commission of a second moral offence,
when the punishment for the first is so severe? But the head-ache of
the drunkard and the repentance of the gambler are alike forgotten,
when temptation again assails them.

“As I rode along, a prey to remorse, I made many excellent
resolutions. I determined to sell off my racing stock, content myself
with viewing the sport, and never again to bet upon it. Cards I would
never touch; my time should be occupied in the cultivation of my
estates, and for relaxation, I would depend on literature and the
conversation of my domestic circle. Finally, I resolved to communicate
to my wife all that had occurred, and give her the promises I was
making to myself. By the time I reached home, I had contrived, by
these means, to restore, in a great measure, my self-complacency, and
I almost flattered myself that I had gained a moral victory before I
had even encountered the foe.

“Emily met me at the door, with a thousand welcomes. ‘How kind it is
in you,’ she said, ‘to come so early! I knew when the storm came on,
that I could not see you last night, and I hardly hoped you would have
been so early a riser.’ ‘But dearest,’ continued she, ‘you must have
passed an uncomfortable night, your eyes are heavy, and inflamed. Are
you not well?’

“‘Oh yes, very well,’ I replied, ‘but there was a great crowd at the
tavern, and I could not sleep; a good breakfast, however, will soon
restore me.’

“‘Were you successful yesterday, Charles?’

“‘Quite so,’ said I; ‘my colt surpassed my expectations; I shall not
take a trifle for him.’

“‘Why, do you mean to sell him?’

“‘Him, and all the others. I am determined to quit the turf, Emily.’

“‘Indeed!’ exclaimed she, ‘how I rejoice to hear you say so, my dear
Charles, and particularly as you are not induced to the resolution by
loss. I feared that if you were a winner, you would have been more
wedded to the sport. I have never interfered with this passion of
yours, Charles, but it has always been a source of regret to me, to
see you waste your intellect on pursuits, to say the least, so
frivolous, and which lead you into society that I cannot but think
unworthy of,—perhaps, disreputable to you.’

“I eagerly, rather angrily I fear, defended myself from the latter
charge, and asserted, that my associates were, in general, men of
station in society and respectability equal to my own, and that if
there were a few whose characters were less estimable, they were
merely the necessary instruments of our pleasures, and not held in the
light of companions.

“‘I care but little for station, if it be not worthily held,’ replied
Emily. ‘Whilst I would pay to those whom adventitious circumstances
place above the mass of mankind, the formal respect which society
demands, I should hold education and virtue to be the fit companions
of a husband whose cultivation of mind I admired, and whose natural
goodness of heart I dearly loved. Now, Charles, let me ask you, are
not your associates, generally, persons of dissipated habits; nay,
vicious ones? for I cannot look upon gambling as less than a vice. Do
you derive from them any moral benefit? are you sure that they
contribute even to your amusement? I do not, for a moment, believe
that you have learned to look upon play as an amusement.—Oh! God
forbid it should ever come to that! I had a friend once who was
married to a gambler, and Charles, I have seen the deep anguish that
pressed upon her heart, and graved its lines upon her pallid brow,
though her tongue never uttered a complaint. When the wretch who had
trampled upon her affections had basely reduced himself to absolute
want, he, as basely, deserted the family who relied on him for
support, by destroying himself, and they were left, in their utter
feebleness and misery, to the cold charity of the world. Poor Mary!
God had mercy on thee, and gathered thee to himself,’ sighed Emily, as
a tear stole down her cheek. ‘Ah, Charles, you see I have good reason
to hate gaming.’

“‘You cannot detest it more than I do, Emily,’ replied I; ‘never fear
that I shall be caught in its snares.’

“‘But Charles, men acquire habits by degrees, and learn to love that
which they once loathed; and what pleasure is to be derived from
associating with those whose time is spent in play, if you do not join
in their occupation. They cannot converse with you; that would take
off their attention from the game; and they cannot listen to you,
their interest is absorbed in their desire to distress those whom they
call their friends, by winning their money. But, my husband, I did not
mean to read you a lecture,’ continued she smiling. ‘Ah, well do I
know, for your wife’s sake, for our cherub child’s sake, you never
will abandon yourself to the infamy of a gambler’s life.’ And she
threw herself into my arms. I pressed that form of loveliness to my
bosom, and felt the beating of its confiding heart, and, coward that I
was, I betrayed its confidence by withholding the communication I had
decided to make. I felt humbled by her purity, and rebuked by her
love, and I dared not tell her what I had done.

“The day wore on, not without sad reflection on my part, but I felt
self-assured that I would never so err again, and as this confidence
became strong, I persuaded myself that it was unnecessary to distress
my wife by any disclosures. I had only to pay off the debt I had
incurred, and there was an end of the affair. That evening, much to my
surprise, and very contrary to my wishes, Roberts called upon me. I
had no desire to see one who had been an eye-witness of my last
night’s madness, and I felt a dread lest he might allude to it in
Emily’s presence. There was no occasion, however, for any such
apprehension. He talked of various things, and in a most amusing
manner, but never referred to the races, except to observe, in a
slight and careless way, that I had missed no sport by having been
absent that morning. It was not until my wife retired that he touched
upon the subject.

“‘Why, in the name of common sense,’ he asked, ‘did you leave us this
morning so abruptly, W—— or rather, why did you not return?’

“‘Simply,’ replied I, ‘because I was guided by {754} common sense. I
had lost enough, and too much, and in a way that my feelings
disapproved of, and there was no pleasure to be derived from lingering
about the scene of my folly.’

“‘I lost too,’ said Roberts, ‘but I never sit down contented with a
loss. He were but a poor merchant, who would fold his arms, and
abandon all enterprise, because, forsooth, he found one adventure
unsuccessful.’

“‘It is the business of the merchant,’ said I, ‘to take such chances;
it is not mine to gamble, and yet I should think that merchant
foolish, who should take a hazard where he clearly saw that the
chances were against him.’

“‘And how do you know,’ asked Roberts, ‘that the chances are against
you?’

“‘Because every one lost last night but the banker,’ I replied.

“‘And he had to refund this morning all that he had won,’ said
Roberts, ‘and put a good round sum to the opposite side of the
account.’

“‘Indeed!’ said I, ‘did you play?’

“‘To be sure I did,’ was the reply, ‘and have got all my money back
again, with a tolerably comfortable stake besides. I regretted much
that you were not there. Our error, last night, is obvious enough; the
wine made us imprudent, or we both could have risen from the table
winners.’

“‘Perhaps it is better that we, at least that _I_, did not. I might
have been tempted to continue a course that I feel confident would
lead to disastrous consequences.’

“‘Well,’ said Roberts, ‘I dare say you are right; and right or wrong,
it is certainly not my wish to urge you to play. I merely thought you
might be desirous to recover what you had parted with, and would
therefore venture a trifle more to effect such a result; but let that
be. You will be on the field to-morrow, of course?’

“‘No,’ replied I, firmly.

“‘No!’ exclaimed Roberts, with great surprise. ‘Why, what becomes of
your horse, Velox? There is nothing in the stables to match him, and a
heavy purse to be won.’

“‘I have determined to sell out my racing stock.’ Roberts stared at
me.

“‘Indeed,’ he exclaimed at length. ‘What next? I am prepared now for
any marvel. Possibly you are going to turn Methodist; when may we
expect you to hold forth?’ ‘Pardon me,’ he cried, as he saw that I was
beginning to be displeased with his freedom, ‘but I cannot but wonder
that a man of your strength of mind and liberality of disposition,
should permit himself to be so worked upon by a trifling loss of
money, for trifling it is, compared with your means. What will your
friends say, when they hear that the wealthy Mr. W—— is going to
withdraw himself from their society and the fashionable amusements of
the day, because, in a luckless hour, he touched a card, and lost some
money, which he well could spare?’

“‘Mr. Roberts,’ I hastily replied, ‘I have not said what my motives
were, nor have you a right to impute petty ones to me. It may be, sir,
that you conceive good or ill luck to be the only principle which can
govern a man in such a case: I trust I can be, and am influenced by a
higher feeling; a sense of right and wrong.’

“‘Nay, nay,’ said he, ‘be not angry with me. _I_ question not the
correctness of your course, I only suggest what will be the probable
remarks of others. It is known that you were unsuccessful at faro last
night; you immediately proceed to dispose of your running horses, and
that too with every prospect before you of a fortunate campaign. Rumor
will increase forty fold the amount you have sunk, and it will be at
once supposed you were compelled to sell. For, be assured, that
however pure and correct your conduct may be, mankind will never
believe in the existence of a motive which would exalt, if they can,
by any possibility, pitch upon one that would have a contrary
tendency. However, I am done. I trust you will not ascribe what I have
said to any thing but friendly feelings towards you.’

“Can you believe, Mr. S. that I was fool enough to be worked upon by
this flimsy argument? Yes, sir, I was that fool! I did not abandon my
resolution, it is true, but I postponed its execution, and it amounted
to the same thing in the end. I will not tire you by detailing the
various contrivances which were resorted to to induce me to play. I
could not if I would, recount the various schemes of villainy by which
I was stripped of my personal property, and compelled to mortgage my
real estate. Usury, as well as gaming was now hurrying me on to
destruction. I was fully aware of my situation. The dark clouds that
hung over me were plain to my eye, the roar of the breakers was
distinct to my ear, but in sullen desperation I held on my course,
until the bark, freighted with reputation, fortune, earthly happiness,
and future hopes, was dashed upon the flinty rocks, and the shattered
fragments strewed upon the waves. Long, long before this, Emily had
been conscious of the course I was pursuing; my frequent and prolonged
absences from home, my moodiness when there, my altered looks, my
nights unblessed by sleep, or filled with horror-burthened dreams,
that spoke in deep groans of despair, told the tale in accents not to
be misunderstood. Oh! what efforts did she make to reclaim me—with
what kindness did she try to soothe me—with what eloquence did she
plead and urge me to abandon the vice that was pregnant with
destruction to us all! And how often did I promise—how often did I
_swear_ to reform, until perjury on perjury robbed her of all respect
for, and confidence in me, though they could not totally extinguish
the flame of undying love that burned on the pure altar of her heart.
Her health gave way at last; the bloom of beauty faded from her cheek,
and her form of graceful roundness was attenuated to a shadow. My
little boy, too, as if he sympathised with his drooping mother, wasted
away, and looked the very type of misery. What a heart had I, to
inflict all this! I have sometimes thought that a demon must have
possessed me, and was permitted, for some wise purpose, to work his
will. I know it was a foolish thought, a miserable attempt to shuffle
off, from my wounded conscience, the awful responsibility of my own
uninfluenced crime. But is it not strange? I was tempted by no
gratification of passion, by no smiles of success; there were no
changes of fortune to retard my downward progress, and yet, unvarying
loss could not teach me to despair, and the burning consciousness of
the wretchedness I was heaping upon all who were most dear to me,
could not prevail upon me to refrain. But let me proceed.

“My ruin was at length complete; every thing was swept away. I had
neither food for my family, nor a roof to shelter them. Before this,
Emily had been {755} repeatedly urged by her relations to accept of an
asylum with them, but she had refused to abandon me. She was as
wretched as one could be who was free from all crime, and bowing, with
unmurmuring meekness, to the hand that chastised her. She had nothing
but her own unequalled goodness to sustain her. I had forgotten even
to be kind, and yet she would not abandon me. But the time had now
come when it was necessary that she should look to her friends for the
bare necessaries of life; and the state of her health too required
comforts and assistance not to be procured by poverty. For the
present, therefore, she consented to remove, with our boy, to her
father’s house. I did not accompany her, for I was fully aware that my
society would be tolerated there only for her sake; and sunk as I was
in my self-esteem, and justly degraded in the eyes of others, my pride
could not brook any manifestation of the feelings entertained towards
me. From the physician who attended her, I had daily reports of my
wife’s health, which became more and more precarious. How could it be
otherwise? Had I not destroyed her peace of mind?—had I not violated
the sanctuary of her love?—had I not poisoned the source of her being?
and with her wrung heart, must she not pine away, till merciful Heaven
reclaimed its unequalled creation? My child too——but what claim had I
to a husband’s or a father’s name?

“One evening, as I sat in a room at a tavern, my temporary place of
abode, gloomily reflecting on my situation—recurring, in agony of
soul, to the happiness that I had forever cast from me, and painfully
endeavoring to suggest to myself some plan by which I might retrieve,
in part, my fallen fortunes, there was a knock at the door, and
Roberts entered the room. He had been absent for some time, in one of
the northern states, and he now approached me with seeming joy, and as
if he anticipated from me an equally cordial welcome. His presence,
however, was any thing but pleasing to me. I was largely indebted to
him for money lost and loaned at cards; and when did debtor meet his
creditor with joy at his heart? Besides, I had begun to feel, that but
for my association with this man, I should never have plunged into the
vortex that had overwhelmed me. He was aware of my coldness, and broke
out with—‘Why, W., my dear fellow, what is the matter? Is this the way
you receive an old friend after a six months’ absence? But you seem to
be in the dumps; has any thing unusual occurred to fret you?’

“‘Why do you put such a question?’ replied I; ‘do you not know that I
am a ruined man—that every thing I could call my own has been torn
from me—that I am a wanderer, covered with shame, heaped with obloquy,
steeped in poverty? and do you expect, under such circumstances, to
find my heart bounding with joy, or my face mantled with smiles? To be
plain with you, Roberts, I was thinking of you just as you made your
appearance, and I will tell you what was passing in my mind. Memory
had gone back to the time of our first acquaintance, when I was in
possession of all most valued by man: wealth, that seemed scarcely to
have a limit—a reputation, unbreathed upon by reproach—the affections
of one whose equal I have never met, and the unspeakable blessing of a
pure conscience. All, save one, of these have fled—perhaps that too is
gone; and all this is your work. Yes, sir, yours! But for you, I
should never have been tempted to play; but for you, I should have
abandoned in time the vile pursuit. Yes, sir, it was _you_ who urged
me on, by stimulating me with false hopes that fortune would not
always frown—that one lucky cast would retrieve all, and a thousand
specious tales that won upon my credulous ear; and when, amid
reflections such as these, you presented yourself in person, you can
hardly suppose that you could have been very welcome.’

“‘W——,’ replied Roberts, ‘I have had a long ride to-day, and feel
heartily tired. It was my intention to go to bed as soon as I should
reach this house. But the landlord informed me you were here, and as a
friend I hastened to see you. Some would feel offended at the
reception I have met with, but I can make every allowance for the
feelings that irritate you, and I feel it my duty not to leave you
until I have somewhat calmed your present mood. Whenever _I_ get into
trouble, and feel a disposition to give way to misfortune, the first
thing I do is to sit quietly down, with a comfortable glass and a good
cigar, and philosophize upon the matter; and by your leave, you shall
follow my prescription. Come, come, I will take no denial; we will
talk over your affairs soberly and calmly, and the odds are ten to one
but we strike upon some plan which, if boldly and industriously
pursued, will set all things straight again. You will not drive me
from you, will you? O no, I see that you will not.’

“When the refreshments he had ordered had been produced, Roberts
resumed. ‘Where is your wife, W., and how is she?’ I informed him.
‘And you, I suppose, are a less welcome guest than she at her
father’s? Well, all that will come right too. By the bye, the old
gentleman should not be quite so rigid about this matter of play as he
is. Many a cool hundred has he won of my father; but I have observed,
that your reformed sinner always makes a persecuting saint. Let that
rest, and tell me, candidly, are you entirely destitute?’

“‘Utterly, utterly,’ replied I.

“‘Are your debts all paid?’

“‘You know they are not; I have not paid you.’

“‘Pshaw!’ said Roberts, ‘never mind me. Have you paid others?’

“‘They have paid themselves.’

“‘Good! Have you formed any plan by which you expect to support
yourself and family.’

“‘None,’ replied I. ‘But if I had, what means do I possess to put any
scheme into execution?’

“‘Let us hit upon the scheme, and we shall find the means,’ said
Roberts; ‘my purse, as well as yours, is at present at the lowest ebb.
A rascal that I entrusted with a snug sum, has decamped, and left me
in the lurch; and a fellow whose bond I held, has smashed, and won’t
pay a shilling in the pound. But I started in life with nothing, and
have been so often reduced to the same condition as at first, that, as
you perceive, I take the thing quite coolly. It is true, I am a single
man, and there is no one depending upon me—otherwise, I might feel the
matter more seriously; but I should not sit down, and mope, and scold
my friends, W——: I should be but the more prompt, the more
decided, and the more persevering in my actions. Let me see; you have
as yet proposed nothing to yourself. What say you to turning
merchant?’

{756} “‘I know nothing about business,’ I replied, ‘and besides, I
have neither capital nor credit.’

“‘The law, then? Your talents and education combine to fit you for
that profession.’

“‘And what am I to live on, while I pursue the necessary study?’

“‘That’s true; one thing then is clear—money you must have, and that
at once. That being the case, there is but one way to obtain it.’

“‘And that is—’

“‘By winning it,’ replied Roberts.

“I started from my chair, and walked up and down the room with
violence.

“‘Now I pray you be calm, and listen to me attentively,’ continued the
tempter. ‘You would not, I presume, object to getting back some of
your losses by the same means that you made them?’

“‘And if I should not, how am I to know that I can? Has it not been,
all along, my endeavor to do so, and has not each attempt invariably
plunged me in deeper? Besides, I cannot play without a stake.’

“‘Let me put this question to you, W——,’ said Roberts. ‘Suppose you
knew that a man had defrauded you of a certain sum of money; you had
no proof, however, which could establish his guilt, and enable you to
recover in a court of law. Would you, if he were by accident placed in
your power, hesitate to force from him what he had deprived you
of—nay, would you not deem yourself justified in using artifice to
place him in that situation.’

“I replied that I could not tell; possibly under such circumstances I
might do so.

“‘To be sure you would,’ rejoined Roberts, ‘and all the world would
applaud the deed.’

“‘But whither does your question lead?’ asked I.

“‘Patience, and you shall hear,’ replied he. ‘Do you remember playing
a game of brag in company with C. and F. and myself, on which occasion
you and your humble servant were left minus a few thousands?’

“‘Certainly,’ said I, ‘I remember it but too well.’

“‘Well,’ resumed Roberts, ‘we, poor innocent lambs, were cursing our
ill-luck—luck indeed! ha, ha! there was no _luck_ in the matter; we
were fairly pigeoned—damnably cheated, sir!’

“‘How do you know, Roberts? By Heaven, if I thought so, I would make
an example of them.’

“‘Oh! sir, you could not prove it!’

“‘How do _you_ know the fact, I repeat?’

“‘Because I have seen them playing together since, when I was not
interested in the game, and could watch them coolly and closely, and I
did so; and I am perfectly satisfied in my own mind that there was
collusion between them. Now, for the drift of my question; I say, it
would be perfectly justifiable in us to pay these knaves in their own
coin—to turn the tables upon them, and so get back the cash they
fobbed from us, and that, I take it, would be a pretty little capital
to begin the world with again.’

“‘There is certainly nothing to object to on the score of justice,’
said I, ‘but I question if such a scheme would be deemed honorable
among gentlemen.’

“‘I cannot answer for their abstract opinions,’ said Roberts, ‘nor do
I greatly care for them; but this I know, that among the whole circle
of my acquaintance, which is tolerably extensive, there is not one who
would hesitate about the matter.’

“‘But what means shall we employ? If they be the rascals you have
described, will they not be keen enough to detect us?’

“‘I defy them,’ said Roberts. ‘Leave every thing to me. To-morrow you
shall be instructed; it is necessary now that I should sleep. Do you
so, likewise, and be assured that your situation will soon be changed
for the better. In the meantime you will need money; there are fifty
dollars, half of all I have—take them; you will soon be able to repay
me. Good night! and hark ye, no more despondency, but look the world
boldly in the face, and smile with contempt upon fate, as I do.’

“Perhaps, Mr. S., you are surprised that I should so easily have
assented to this vile proposal. There had been a time, sir, when I
should have treated it as a personal insult; but I was not then a
broken-down gambler. My principles had not been sapped by continual
contact with the unworthy; the degrading and unhallowed desire of gain
had not fastened on my soul, and corroded my sense of honor. One must
have been crushed and miserable as I was, before he can be sure of his
power to resist the tempter.

“Our scheme was soon executed; we regained our losses from ——, and
something more besides, and I was once more out of the reach of
absolute want. I hired a small house, where, very much against the
inclination of her family, I placed Emily. One of her sisters
accompanied her, for her continually declining health rendered the
sympathies of a female friend absolutely necessary. I once more
resolved to abandon play. The suggestion thrown out by Roberts with
regard to the study of the law, although doubtless not seriously
intended by him, had been frequently present to my mind. I now
determined to pursue that avocation, and felt every confidence in my
capacity to succeed. I compared myself with those around me who bore a
reputation in the profession, and felt proudly conscious that in
talent I was their equal. I told my wife of this. Her only answer was
a deep sigh, that seemed to shake her slender frame, and these words:
‘I hope it may be so, Charles; for your sake, I hope it may be so.’ I
felt nettled at the doubt implied, but I replied not. I had deceived
her too often to dare to remonstrate. My studies were commenced, but I
had little calculated on the difficulties of my task. It had been a
long time since I had taken a book into my hand, and I found it almost
impossible to chain down my attention to the subject before me. My
eyes would be fixed on the page, but my mind would wander far, far
away from it. Sentence after sentence was perused and reperused, but
no distinct meaning was conveyed to my understanding. I would sit for
hours in one fixed attitude, lost in total abstraction, and when
recalled to myself by some accidental circumstance, the visions which
had been floating in my mind were as scattered and unintelligible as
the wildest fancies of a foolish dream. It was impossible to study.

“One morning, after repeated and unavailing attempts to overcome this
state of mind, I threw down my book in despair, and went forth into
the open air, to try if exercise would not bring relief. It was a
lovely day in spring, the trees had just shot out their tender leaves,
the birds were pealing forth their joyous notes, a thousand insects
were dancing in the balmy air. It was a {757} day on which a heart at
ease might feel most happy; but to me the blessed sun no longer shone
with brightness, and my bosom was cold to those charms of nature which
had once made it thrill with gladness. I wandered on, knowing and
caring little where I bent my steps, when, at a sudden turn of the
road, I encountered Roberts.

“‘Well met!’ said he. ‘I was on my way to see you. I have good news
for you.’

“‘Indeed,’ replied I, sadly, ‘let me have them, then, for there is no
one to whom they could be more welcome.’

“‘Another chance, W——, to get back some of your cash, and if I mistake
not, a pretty good lump of it too. I am to give a dinner to-day, a bet
I lost—lost _purposely_, my boy, and you must come; we will try
conclusions with the gentlemen again, and with rather better chances
of success than we formerly had. Turn back and get your horse, and as
we ride along I’ll tell you all about it.’

“‘I must decline your invitation,’ replied I.

“‘That you shall not!’ said Roberts.

“‘It is useless for me to go, Roberts, for I will not play. I am
convinced that I cannot win by fair means, and I will not resort to
any other.’

“‘You can do as you please about that, but I must have you with me; it
will be of service to you; it will cheer you up, and show your friends
that you are not the man to give way to misfortune. Believe me, the
world respects every one who shows it a bold front. Indeed you must
not refuse me; I shall feel hurt if you do.’

“I went. Is it necessary to say that night was spent in play, and with
the aid of my _honest_ partner, I did not lose. The ice was now fairly
broke. I could no longer refuse to join Roberts in his schemes of
plunder. I was in his power, and felt that he could blast me by a
single word. But some suspicions began to be entertained; my success
was too uniform for one who had formerly lost so constantly, and it
was therefore concerted between Roberts and myself, that I should
occasionally seem to lose to him, making a subsequent settlement with
him in private.

“There was a young man, son of the Sheriff of the County of ——, who
acted as deputy to his father, a very worthy and respectable man, who
had served with great credit in the continental army, and brought up
and maintained, by his industry, a numerous family. He himself paid no
attention to the affairs of his office, but confided them entirely to
the activity and integrity of his son, who had won general respect and
popularity by the zeal and fidelity with which he discharged his
duties, and the gentleness and mercy he exhibited, when called on to
put in force the harsh decrees of the law. I had but little
acquaintance with either the young man or his father, nor, in all
probability, would the latter have been much pleased to have his son
in habits of intercourse with me. I had attended a session of the
court on some business, and was detained too late to admit of my
reaching home that day. Several others were in the same
situation—among them, Roberts. After supper he took me aside, and
asked me if I recollected Wallis.

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘I remember no such person.’

“‘You have a bad memory, then,’ said he; ‘I never forget those who win
my money,’ and he recalled to my mind the individual who had held the
faro bank at the races.

“‘What of him?’ I inquired. ‘Does he think to take me in again?’

“‘O, no,’ replied Roberts, with a laugh, ‘we have learned rather too
much for that. But I have been talking with him; he will open a bank
to-night, and he agrees that you and I shall be equally interested. It
shall be my business to get him betters; and as there are several here
whose pocket-books are well filled, I think we shall make a handsome
adventure of it. For the sake of appearances, you know, we too must
bet against him, and he will permit us to win largely, for the purpose
of enticing others. Is it not capitally contrived?’

“‘But may not this Wallis betray us hereafter?’

“‘Not the slightest danger of it; he is as close as wax. I know him of
old; and besides, he is under obligations to me that he cannot violate
if he would.’

“‘Roberts,’ said I, ‘do you feel no remorse? Does not conscience
upbraid you with the meanness, the guilt of your course? Have you no
misgivings, when you behold the agony of those you defraud?’

“‘Have _you_ such feelings?’ said Roberts.

“‘I have!’ replied I. ‘They torture me by night and by day. The hell
that burned within me when, like a madman, I scattered my wealth to
the winds, was ease, was happiness, to what I now endure, and if
the hour of detection should ever come,—but that——I could not and I
would not survive!’ I clasped my hands together, and shook with fear
at the very thought.

“Roberts gazed at me some little time in silence, and his countenance
assumed a bitter sneer. At length he broke forth.

“‘Conscience! Remorse! ha! ha! Because I have lived too long to be a
dupe? Most men, in the greenness of youth, are fools, and ripen, with
age and experience, into knaves. There are some, however, who are
early wise, and they, if circumstances permit, become great and
distinguished; and some, who are always silly, and these are reckoned
virtuous, and become the footballs of the others. For my part _I_ was
not made to be kicked. I have found out that I must be the wolf or the
lamb; I prefer to be the beast of power. There is not one of those men
that you see there, who would not, if they could, strip us to the last
farthing. I play their own game, and place them where they would place
me. And for this, forsooth, I must feel remorse! I find the whole
system of society based upon a cheat; every one endeavors to overreach
his neighbor, and the most successful is the most respected. Shall I
not strive among the rest? You have been defrauded of a princely
fortune and reduced to absolute want. I have let you into the secret
of your misfortunes, and taught you how to retaliate your wrongs on
others, and you prate to me of conscience and remorse. Well then, if
conscience be to you this dreadful torment, in the name of common
sense obey its dictates. Be wholly one thing or another. Go to those
with whom you have played of late, and hand them back their money.
Tell them they were cheated; that you see through the evil of your
ways, and come to make restitution; once more throw yourself back on
poverty, and see how highly the world will applaud the act! They say
there is exceeding joy over a repentant {758} sinner in heaven. Do you
try how much there is on earth. But I am losing time. Am I to
understand that you decline sharing with Wallis and myself?’

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘it is my fate; I have gone too far to recede, and I
must endure, as I can, the loss of self-respect.’

“We parted, mixing in with the general crowd. It was not long before
Roberts had collected various persons around him, who seemed to be
listening with great attention to something he was narrating, which,
to judge from their frequent peals of laughter, was highly humorous.
No one knew better than he how to afford entertainment to others. His
manner was admirable; his very laugh was a provocative to mirth.
Without being boisterous, it was the most joyous, careless,
lighthearted burst of gaiety that I ever listened to. Of those who
were most attracted by him, was the young man I have before mentioned,
the son of the old sheriff. He seemed to be in an ecstasy of delight,
and Roberts fooled him ‘to the top of his bent.’ They drank together,
they sang together, and committed various extravagances; Roberts
declaring that he was just in the humor for a frolic, and a frolic he
would have. Presently cards were introduced, I know not at whose
suggestion, and I was told by some one that a faro bank was about to
be opened, and I received the information as if it were new to me. We
soon afterwards adjourned to another room, and the game was commenced.
At first I did not bet, or rather appeared not to do so, but stood
looking on at the others, and marking the vicissitudes of the game. To
my surprise and regret I saw the sheriff’s son at the table, for I had
always heard him spoken of as a moral and prudent youth, and,
moreover, I had not supposed he possessed the means to play. I
observed, however, that although evidently flushed with what he had
been drinking, he staked with caution, and would not, in all
probability, win or lose any thing of consequence, and I thought
nothing more of the matter. About midnight, after going through the
mockery of apparently winning some hundreds, I threw myself upon a
couch and slept. It was daybreak when I awoke, but the lights were
still burning, and the gamesters, undiminished in number, as eager as
ever in their play. Roberts was among them, and I, being desirous of
returning home, took him aside to acquaint him with my intention. He
objected to my doing so, stating that he was excessively fatigued, and
must sleep a few hours himself; that he had forborne to awake me, and
I must now take my turn to watch, for it was better that one of us
should observe how things were going on; that so far, owing to the
most singular run of luck on the part of one individual that he had
ever witnessed, the bank was loser. I inquired how his young companion
had fared. He had lost rather heavily. ‘But surely,’ said I, ‘he
cannot afford to do so.’ He replied very carelessly, ‘that’s his own
affair. I did not urge him to play. The truth is, he received
yesterday a considerable sum of money in payment of an execution, and
very possibly he may be using the funds. I suppose he knows that he
can make it all good. But go you now and sit down, and wake me in a
couple of hours, that will be sufficient repose for me.’

“I was fain to comply with his request. Before the two hours had
elapsed, however, a messenger arrived with the intelligence that my
wife had been taken alarmingly ill. Rousing Roberts, I immediately
departed and pushed forward with all possible speed; but the distance
was considerable and the road execrable, and several hours were
consumed before I reached home. All was quiet. Leaping from my horse I
rushed towards the house; a feeling of faintness came over me, and I
was obliged to pause and lean against the door-post for support.
Rousing my energies I proceeded to my wife’s chamber, and knocked
gently for admittance. A faint voice desired me to enter. I did so,
and was met by Emily’s sister, who was weeping bitterly. Not a word
was spoken—she pointed to the bed and left me. I softly approached and
with a trembling hand I drew aside the curtain.

“Did she sleep? The eyes were closed, the face serene and almost
smiling. I took her hand—it was cold and clammy to the touch. I gently
pressed her bosom. Was it a throb that I felt? No—that heart had
ceased to beat, had ceased to feel. Life with all its bitterness had
fled. The enfranchised spirit had soared to its native home. I gazed
in silence. I did not weep, I did not groan. There was a benumbing,
icy thrall that bound up every faculty; it was pain, it was agony, but
it left no power to express that pain.

“I heard a feeble sob: Whence did it proceed? I had thought I was
alone. I moved in the direction of the sound. Stretched upon the
floor, his face buried in his little hands, lay my boy. I kneeled
beside him; I raised and strained him to my breast. ‘Oh, let me go,’
said he, ‘mother is gone; I want to go to mother. She said she would
ask her God to keep a place for me, and God is good, I know, and he
will do it. Father, lay me down there with mother.’”

Mr. W—— here bent his head and wept like a child. It is fearful to see
an old man weep. Presently he resumed.

“I left the chamber of death, and retired to the room I had used as a
study. What was passing in my mind I am utterly unconscious of. The
past, the present and the future, were mingled in one common chaos. I
was lost in a reverie that seemed protracted beyond the years of man.
Of the mass of confused and unintelligible ideas that were swarming in
my brain, one at length stood out clear and distinct, and gathered
strength as I brooded over it. It was self-destruction. It rose upon
me, a cheering light, shedding gladness over my dark and desperate
fortunes. The intolerable weight which had pressed upon my mind was at
once uplifted, the pent-up agony which had racked my heart passed off,
and visions of peace, of a deep, enduring calm, floated before me,
unmixed with a doubt or dread of the untried future. There was a
loaded pistol lying on the table; in an instant it was in my grasp,
but heaven in its mercy saved me from that crime—a sudden icy pang
transfixed me; utterly enfeebled I sank to the floor, my senses fled,
and I was as one who is numbered with the dead, or who had never
breathed among the living.

“When reason was again restored to me, I found myself stretched upon a
bed. I recognized the apartment in which I lay; it had been my wife’s.
I tried to move, but had not the strength to do so. I heard a step in
the room and essayed to speak; my voice was scarce a whisper; the
light in the chamber was dim, but my {759} eyes could not endure it. I
again closed them and sank into sleep.

“When I awoke, a physician and a nurse were standing at the bed side.
I would have spoken, but they bade me be quiet; and I was even as a
child, and submitted. For many weeks had disease preyed upon me, and
existence been suspended by a single thread which would not break.
Slowly I recovered, my strength was restored to me, but never, from
that day to the present moment, has this withered heart known peace.

“I have but little more to say. From my medical attendant I learned
that the young man who had been fleeced at the tavern, stung by
remorse, and unable to make good the money he had lost, had swallowed
a deadly draught. His aged father, stripped of his little all to pay
the debt, broken-hearted by the villainy in which I had participated,
was thrown with his helpless family upon the reluctant bounty of
society. Wallis and Roberts had fled, it was supposed, to the South.
My son had been taken home by his grandfather. I have never seen him
since I pressed him to my bosom in his mother’s death chamber. He was
and is dear to me as the hope of heaven to the martyr’s heart, but his
eye shall never look upon the degraded being who gave him life.

“While listening to the recital of the physician, amid pangs that
gnawed my soul, I formed the resolution of quitting my country, never
again to return, and in some foreign land, in an humble occupation,
with rigid economy and ceaseless industry, to build up another
fortune; not for the luxuries it might purchase, or the comforts it
might afford me in age, but that I might, as far as _money_ could
avail, repair the mischief which I had assisted in perpetrating, and
the injustice I had been guilty of towards my child.

“I watched the sun as he threw his slant rays on the fields and the
forests, familiar to me as the face of a friend, and when he sank
beneath the horizon, commenced the preparations for my departure. I
had some money; retaining as much as was absolutely necessary for my
expenses, and no more, I enclosed the remainder to my physician, with
a request that he would, after remunerating himself, pay the rest to
the poor old sheriff. I also despatched a note to my father-in-law,
stating my intention to leave the country, and imploring him, for the
mother’s sake, to bestow every care and attention on her child, and to
call him by her maiden name. This done, in the dead of the night I set
out on my journey, and took the direction of the sea port of ——.
Thence, under an assumed name, I embarked for this island, and here I
have since remained, steadily pursuing the course I had laid down for
myself. My labors have been crowned with success beyond my hopes, and
I am now the possessor of much greater wealth than I inherited. When I
was in England, a mere youth, an opportunity occurred of rendering an
important service to an acquaintance, at that time very needy, but who
has since become a partner in one of the most extensive banking houses
in London. Instead of burying my money in the ground, as the wiseacres
here have surmised, I have regularly remitted my gains to him, and by
his judicious management of them in the British funds, they have
reached their present amount. Through him too, I have received
intelligence of my son, on whose education no expense has been spared.
He has applied himself to the profession of the law, and is considered
as fast rising to eminence. I could long ago have rendered him
independent of labor, but I deemed it best that he should earn his
bread by the sweat of his brow. That portion of man’s doom is _not_ a
curse.

“And now, Mr. S., it simply remains for me to acquaint you with the
service which I wish you to render me. You will ascertain as soon as
may be after your arrival in Virginia, what descendants there are of
—— the former sheriff of ——, their situation in life and
character; not that I mean to withhold from them what is justly their
due, be they ever so vile; for may they not, if vicious, trace their
very crimes to my unprincipled conduct? but that by being correctly
informed of their pursuits and habits, I may be enabled to judge in
what manner and to what extent, I can best act to their advantage. You
will also seek the acquaintance of my son, and if you can become his
friend. Write to me, and tell me candidly what he is; but until I
sleep in death do not speak to him of me. You will not be condemned to
a long silence, for I feel that my days are numbered. All necessary
documents will be placed in your hands before your departure hence.
You are my executor. Farewell.”




LIFE’S STREAM.

BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.


  Life’s stream sweeps through many a vale
    Of varied hues and smiles and tears—
  And bowers that joy the breezy gale,
    And desert wastes where grief appears.
    It sweeps—aye swiftly to the sea,
      Even as the gush of waters flowing;
    A wave—a rush how merrily!
      And then a chasm darkly showing.

  Its source is in the little nook
    Beside that far-off mountain,
  Where young buds o’er its bosom look,
    And violets kiss the fountain.
    How pure it gurgling starts—and beaming
      Bright in the first spring-morning’s sun,
    Heaven’s own loved miniature seeming—
      O thus is life begun!

  And then it seeks another scene—
    One gemmed with many flowers,
  Where May-dews linger yet between
    And in the leafy bowers:
    And still it thrills most joyously,
      Rippling o’er rock and glen—then sleeping
    Beside the mead or on the lea;
      But O, its dregs are creeping.

  And still it meets another land;
    But all its early flowers have faded,
  Save here and there upon its strand,
    One lingers by the storm abraded.
    And now its lengthened depths are clouded
      With misty volumes floating;
    And in a wild of brambles shrouded,
      O doth it cease its sporting.  {760}

  Yet one more vale it finds—the last
    On life’s meandering shore—
  Its yellow leaf twirls on the blast,
    Its blossoms breathe no more:
    And o’er its sullen, beamless tide,
      Its bubbles all are breaking—
    ’Tis done—it meets the ocean wide,
      Each balmy scene forsaking.

  ’Tis done—the ocean’s boundless waste
    Rolls up its misty gleaming;
  And on that desert shore is cast
    The sea-wave darkly streaming.
    But shall it be thus lost? No never—
      A brighter impulse shall be given,
    E’en from its ocean sleep—to sever
      Its scintillings to Heaven.

_Elfin Moor, Va. 1836_.




AN ADDRESS

Delivered before the Students of William and Mary, at the Opening of
the College, on Monday, October 10th, 1836.

BY THOMAS R. DEW,

President and Professor of Moral and Political Philosophy.[1]

[Footnote 1: Repeated calls from the friends of William and Mary, as
well as our own high estimation of this Address, have induced us to
publish it. It will be understood, of course, that the M.S.
originally, was solicited of Professor Dew for publication, by a
Committee on the part of the Students. We omit the correspondence as
of no general interest.]


_Gentlemen_:—In obedience to the customs of our institution, I proceed
to address you on the present occasion; and I do it, I assure you,
with feelings of no ordinary character. When I reflect upon the
antiquity and reputation of this venerable institution,—upon the
numerous alumni who have been sent forth from its halls, so many of
whom have graced the walks of private life, or risen into the high
places of our government, and shed around them the benign influence of
their talents and statesmanship,—when I reflect upon the long line of
efficient and distinguished men who have preceded me in this office,
and upon the character and virtues of him who was my predecessor, I
cannot but feel a weight of responsibility which excites in me a deep
and painful solicitude. For eight years it was my pleasure to be
associated with him whose place I have been called to fill. His
learning, his piety, his conscientiousness in the discharge of his
duties, however onerous, will long be remembered by all who knew him
well; and the regret manifested in the countenances of the citizens of
our town when he bade them an affectionate farewell, marks
conclusively the deep impression which his virtues and usefulness had
made upon their hearts, and the loss which our society has sustained
by the departure from among us of one, who, with his amiable family,
constituted so interesting a portion of our social circle. Again,
then, let me say, I enter upon the duties of my station with deep and
painful solicitude, sustained alone by the consciousness, that I shall
yield to none who have gone before me in this office, in zeal,
fidelity, and love for our venerated Alma Mater.

I shall not, on the present occasion, endeavor to present to your view
an exposition of the general advantages resulting from education; the
limits which I have prescribed to myself in this address, together
with the necessity of introducing other topics, will, of course,
prevent me from such an effort. Nor is it necessary;—your presence in
this hall—your determination to subscribe to our laws, and to obey the
requisitions of our statutes, prove that you have already comprehended
the inestimable benefits of education, and have come up here to pursue
your collegiate career.

As it is probable there may be students in every department of our
college, and each one may be anxious to know something of our entire
system previous to the selection which he may make of the courses of
study for his attendance, I will, in the first place, give you some
information as to our general plan. Our plan embraces a course of
general study, which may be pursued to great advantage by all having
the time and means, no matter what may be their professions in after
life. Besides this course of general study, it embraces the subject of
law, and aims at accomplishing the student in one of the learned
professions.

Let me then commence with the subject of the classics. In this school
we have a preparatory department, in which the student may acquire
that elementary instruction requisite for the successful study of the
higher classics. As but few of you, however, will, in all probability,
wish to enter this school, I shall confine the remarks which I have to
make on this subject to the higher classical studies. In one
department of this higher school, the attention of the student will be
confined to the following authors: Horace, Cicero de Oratore, Terence,
Juvenal, Livy and Tacitus, in Latin—and to Xenophon’s Anabasis,
Æschylus, Herodotus, Euripides, Sophocles, Thucydides, and Homer in
Greek.

He will be required to read them with facility—to construe them—to
explain their meaning—to master portions of history which may be
referred to, and to acquire a thorough and intimate acquaintance with
the whole philosophy of the Latin and Greek Grammars. In this school
it is expected that the classic student shall complete his knowledge
of the ancient languages. I would therefore recommend it to all who
may have the time and inclination to pursue such studies, or whose
profession in after life may demand deep classical learning.

The knowledge of the ancient languages is far more important to us
than that of any other, save our own. At the time that the barbarians
from the north and east broke up the Roman Empire, and engrafted the
feudal system on its fragments, whence the nations of modern Europe
have arisen, the Latin and Greek languages were the two great
languages of the civilized portion of the ancient world. It is
necessary to study them in order that we may be enabled to understand
their transition into the modern languages; the latter are derivations
from the former. It has been well observed that there is not a single
nation from the north to the south of Europe, from the shores of the
Baltic to the plains of Italy, whose literature is not imbedded in the
very elements of classical learning, and this remark applies
particularly to the literature of England. But again, in order that
you may understand well the classical authors put into your hands, it
is necessary that you should become acquainted with the manners,
customs, {761} institutions and religion of the ancient world. Great
and mighty changes have taken place in the condition of man since the
fall of the vast fabric of the Roman Empire. The whole interior
economy of nations has been changed. The complex system of polytheism,
with its thousand of forms, and ceremonies, and sacred mysteries, has
all been overthrown, and the beautiful and simple religion of the meek
and humble Saviour of the world traced, as with the pencil of light,
upon the sacred page, and revealed even unto _babes_, has been
established in its stead. This great and salutary change alone, has
stamped a new character upon the age in which we live. How vast the
difference between a Priest of Jupiter and a Minister of the Gospel!
How great the difference between the Eleusinian mysteries of the
Polytheist, and the communion service of the Christian! In order then
that you may be enabled to read the classic authors to advantage, and
apply with skill the lessons which you may draw from the page of
ancient history, it is necessary that you should study the laws,
customs, institutions, religion, and polity of Greece and Rome. For
this reason, there has been recently attached to our classical
department, a school of Roman and Grecian Antiquities, and Heathen
Mythology, in which you will be enabled to derive full and complete
information on all these topics.

The degree in the classical department has been placed upon a high
footing. It is necessary that the candidate for this honor should not
only be a proficient in the studies just mentioned, but that he should
obtain a certificate of qualification on the junior, mathematical,
rhetorical, and historical courses. With this additional information,
our classic graduate goes into the world not a _mere Latin and Greek
scholar_, but an elegant classic. This course of study has been
devised principally for the benefit of that large and respectable
class of students who propose to follow the profession of teaching. To
all students of this description, I would recommend the attainment of
this degree—a degree which will at once give its owner a high standing
in our community, and be a most ample certificate of his merits and
qualifications.

Besides the degree in the classical school, there are three others of
a high order given in our institution; these are the degrees of A.B.,
B.L., and A.M. With regard to the first, you will find in our laws a
detail of the courses of study necessary to its attainment. These
courses you will find full and well selected, bearing an advantageous
comparison with similar courses in any other college of our Union.
They embrace the four great departments of mathematics, physics,
morals and politics. These studies I would recommend to all who may
have the time and the means to pursue them, no matter what profession
they may follow in after life. Independently of the pleasure which
each of them imparts to the mind of the zealous student, there is a
utility arising from them far beyond the conception of ordinary
minds—a utility which springs both from the enlargement of the
understanding by the salutary exercise which they afford to it, and
from the light which they respectively cast on each other. One of the
most beautiful and interesting facts in relation to literature, is,
that all its departments are connected and associated with each other;
the study of one perfects the mind in the comprehension of another.
The acquisition of a new idea sometimes revolutionizes the little
republic of the mind, and gives a new cast to all our thoughts. Hence
the division of labor in science is not productive of the same
advantage as in physics, but we should always extend the range of our
studies in proportion to the enlargement of mind and the facilities
for acquiring information, no matter what may be our profession or
occupation hereafter.

If the time or means of the student, however, should constrain him to
limit his course of studies whilst here, then it would be certainly
proper that he should make a selection of those subjects which may
have the closest and most intimate connection with the profession
which he may follow, or the station in life which he may expect to
fill. His own judgment will readily inform him of the selection which
should be made, taking care always, according to the requisition of
our statutes, to enter a sufficient number of classes to afford him
full occupation. Every young man should task himself fully, lest want
of employment, while here, should induce idle habits. For the peculiar
advantages of each course of studies, I must refer you to the
introductory lectures of the Professors, all of which will be open to
your attendance, and will give you much more complete information on
each department than I could possibly impart, even if not confined
within the limits of an opening address.

The degree in law is of a professional character, and consequently we
can generally expect that those alone will aim at its attainment who
propose to follow the profession of the law. This profession, in all
countries, but particularly in our own, is one of elevated standing,
of superior learning, and, I may add, of great moral and political
power. The habits of his profession ensure the lawyer, in every
country, an honorable station among statesmen, and the foremost rank
in deliberative councils. Law, said Dr. Johnson, is the science in
which the greatest powers of the understanding are applied to the
greatest number of facts. The common law of England, with the great
modifications which it has undergone in our own country from the
operations of our government and republican institutions, will form
the principal text to which your attention will be directed in this
department. “This law,” it has well been said, “is not the product of
the wisdom of some one man, or society of men, in any one age; but of
the wisdom, counsel, experience and observation of many ages of wise
and observing men.” It is, emphatically, “the gathered wisdom of a
thousand years.” And you, gentlemen, who propose to accomplish its
study, must devote yourselves to it with unremitting ardor. You must
not study the mere statutes and prescriptions of the law alone, but
you must examine, with the eye of philosophy, the whole foundation on
which the great superstructure is raised. It is necessary that you
should examine the principles of the science of government; that you
should look into the wants of our nature; examine the beautiful
structure of the human mind, with all our feelings, principles,
propensities and instincts. In fine, you must, in the language of one
who has risen to the highest eminence in his profession, “Drink in the
lessons and spirit of philosophy. Not that philosophy described by
Milton, as

  A perpetual feast of nectared sweets
  Where no crude surfeit reigns;

but that philosophy which is conversant with men’s {762} business and
interests, with the policy and welfare of nations; that philosophy
which dwells not in vain imaginations and platonic dreams, but which
stoops to life, and enlarges the boundaries of human happiness; that
philosophy which sits by us in the closet, cheers us by the fireside,
walks with us in the fields and highways, kneels with us at the
altars, and lights up the enduring flame of patriotism.”

Deep and extensive knowledge is, above all things, requisite for the
success of him who aspires to an elevated stand in this honorable
profession. Well, then, have the officers of our institution ordained
that the degree in this department shall not be conferred for a mere
knowledge of laws. The candidate for this honor must have studied,
beside the municipal law, the subject of government and national law,
together with some exposition of our own system of government, all of
which subjects are taught by the Law Professor. He must, moreover,
have obtained the Baccalaureate honor in this, or some other
institution, or if not, must have attended a full course of lectures
in some one of the scientific departments of this institution. With
the collateral information thus obtained, the graduate in law will go
forth, not a mere lawyer, equipped only with the forms and
technicalities of his profession, but with a mind deeply imbued by the
principles of science and the spirit of philosophy. With a mind thus
furnished, every hour of study in his profession becomes efficient,
and moves him