For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MR. WHITE,—As a subscriber and very sincere friend to your paper, let me beg of you to find room as soon as you can, for three extracts, all of which together, will not occupy more than three or four pages of the Messenger, and yet embrace as much deeply interesting matter on the all important subject of education, as can any where be found within the same compass. The first two you will find in the September number for the past year, of "The Annals of Education," a periodical published in monthly numbers of forty-eight pages each, for three dollars and fifty cents a year; or for three dollars if paid by the first of April, or for two dollars and forty cents if five copies are taken together and paid for in advance. Of this work I can affirm, without hesitation, that it contains more highly useful information on the subjects of which it treats, and at less cost, than all the other works together that are published in the United States on the same topics. Nay, I will venture farther to assert that there is not a parent or teacher in our whole country, who might not derive essential service from its perusal. This, my good sir, is no exaggeration, but my deliberate opinion; given, I acknowledge, with some hope of promoting the circulation of this highly valuable periodical from Yankee land, but without any other interest in it than every man ought to feel who is so thoroughly persuaded as I am, of the absolute necessity for educating our whole people on principles materially different from any that have yet been put into practice among us.
The third extract is from a new work by James Simpson, lately republished in New York and Boston, on "The Necessity of Popular Education as a National Object." The short introduction is all that I will ask you to insert in your paper, as I have persuaded myself to believe that no friend to popular education can read it without feeling a strong desire to peruse the whole volume. It contains a mass of facts, illustrations, and arguments, exhibited in a style at once so perspicuous, forcible, and persuasive, as must carry conviction to every understanding capable of comprehending and feeling the vital importance of the subject in all its bearings, both upon individual and national happiness. In numbers one and two of the appendix, the topics of criminal and medical jurisprudence are treated of in a manner which, although concise, is well worthy the deepest attention of every legislator and statesman, for they contain hints for improving our criminal code that seem to me of the utmost importance to the general good.
Deem me not importunate if I petition you to publishanotherextract of quite a different character from the foregoing. It is from the pen of the admirableMrs. Norton, and expresses conjugal affection with so much touching pathos, that surely no married man, especially one from the Emerald Isle, can read it without deep emotion. It is called
From the New England Magazine.
At the palace of the Prince Borghese in Rome, several young English and American artists were engaged, last winter, in copying the renowned productions of the old masters. Portray to yourself, kind reader, two large halls—the walls of which are lined with paintings, and intercommunicating by a side door, now thrown open for the benefit of the parties. In the first of these apartments are erected three easels—before which, in the attitude of painters, stand—first, a Virginian, intent upon the exquisite Magdalene of Correggio,—opposite, the native of a country town of Great Britain—transferring, as nearly as possible, the Prodigal Son, of the great Venetian,—while, within a few feet of the former, a Londoner is travailing for the inspiration of Titian, by contemplating his "Sacred and Profane Loves." The artists may thus be said to occupy, relatively, the three points of an isosceles-triangle. Gaze now, through the above-mentioned passage, and behold, at the extremity of the second and lesser hall, the figure of a Baltimorean—fancying, perchance, the surprise of the natives when they seehiscopy of the inimitable Cupid beside him.
These worthy followers of the rainbow art were wont to amuse themselves, and beguile the time, with conversations upon the merits and manners of their respective countries; and occasionally, by a very natural process, such amicable debates would assume not a little of the earnest spirit of controversy. Then would the brush fall less frequently upon the canvass—their eyes linger less devotedly upon the great originals around, and ever and anon the disputants would step a pace or two from the object of their labors, raise aloft their pencils—as though, like the styles of the ancients, they subserved equally the purposes of art and of warfare, or wave their mottled pallets as shields against the errors of argument. A full history of these discussions, hallowed by the scene of the combat, diversified by the characters of the combatants, and disguised by the nature of the points contested—would doubtless be a valuable accession to our literature. The great topics of national policy, domestic manners, republicanism, aristocracy, slavery, corn laws, etc. as unfolded, in the elegant and discerning disputations of the absentees in a Roman palace, would prove something new, vivid and seasonable. But to me falls the humbler task of narrating one scene of the drama, as illustrative of the wisdom and safety of keeping one's own secret.
On a day, when the war of words had ran unusually high, there was a momentary, and, as it were, a spontaneous quietude. After the manner of their predecessors in the same city—years bygone, the gladiators rested upon their arms. There was an interlude ofsilence. They gradually reassumed the appropriate occupations of the hour. A few unusually fine touches were bestowed upon the slowly-progressing copies—when the aspiring portrayer of the beautiful parable thus opened a new cannonade:
"Well, smooth over, as you may, the blot of slavery—and deny or palliate, as you best can, the charge of non-refinement, the world will never admit the existence of true civilization in a country where so barbaric a practice asgougingprevails."
At the commencement of this speech, the pencil of the Virginian had stopped transfixed within an inch of the pensive countenance on his canvass; and with nerves braced in expectancy, he awaited the issue. And when the orator, like a second Brutus, paused for a reply, his adversary was mute—perhaps from indignation, probably in the absorption consequent upon preparing to refute and chastise. The Londoner wheeled around, and, with a nod of congratulation to his brother islander, and a provoking and triumphant smile upon the Virginian, begged to be informed "of the origin and nature of theAmericancustom of gouging?" When lo! there were heard quick steps along the polished floors, and as the eyes of the artists followed their direction, the form of the Baltimorean emerged from the adjoining hall. His painter's stick, pallet and brush, were grasped convulsively in his left hand, as with energetic strides he reached the centre of the arena, and gazed meaningly upon the disputants.
"You would know, sir," he exclaimed, eyeing fiercely the hero of the British capital, "what is gouging? Go, sir, to Basil Hall—your literary countryman: when ascending the Mississippi,hewas put on shore by the captain of a steamboat for ungentlemanly deportment—and on the banks of that river, sir,he was gouged!" As the last emphatic words exploded, a gentleman, who had been viewing the paintings, abruptly left the room. The Londoner looked wonders, his compatriot tittered, the Cupid-limner wiped his brow. "Who was that?" inquired the Virginian. "That, sir, was Captain Hall!"
H. T. T.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
"The moan of mortal agony which arose from the despairing multitude became at this crisis for a moment so universal, that it rose shrilly audible over the voice of the elements and the thunders of war, above the wild whistling of the tempest and the sustained and redoubled hourras of the Cossacks. The witness from whom we have this information, declares that the sound was in his ears for many weeks. This dreadful scene continued till dark, many being forced into the icy river, some throwing themselves in, betwixt absolute despair and the faint hope of gaining the opposite bank by swimming, some getting across only to die of cold and exhaustion."—Scott's Napoleon, Vol. II. Page 385.
ALPHA.
The lines which follow ought to be preserved in a more permanent form than the columns of a newspaper. They were written and published before Mr. Johnston's lamentable death. It will be recollected that he perished by the explosion of a steamboat, ascending the Red River.
After the above was penned, the melancholy intelligence reached us of Mr. Davis's death. Patriotism will mourn his loss, and the Columbian Muse hang a garland over his tomb.
From the Augusta (Geo.) Chronicle.
The following beautiful parody, which we met with in the hands of a respected friend, and were permitted by him to take a copy for publication, is attributed to the Hon. Warren R. Davis of South Carolina—a gentleman no less distinguished, admired and beloved for his many and striking literary acquirements, private virtues, social qualities, fine manners, polished, varied and brilliant wit and vivid fancy,—than for his ardent patriotism, open and fearless honesty, independence, eloquence, and disinterested devotion to his gallant and glorious state. It is said to have been written, on the sportive suggestion of the moment, as a contribution to the Album of the talented, accomplished and witty lady of the Hon. Mr. Johnston of the United States Senate from Louisiana. The old air of "Roy's Wife of Aldavalloch" is, we think, one of the most rare and beautiful specimens of that class of Scottish music, which was probably introduced from Italy, in the time of the brilliant but unfortunate Queen Mary.
1"The gayest scene in nature is a southern savannah, enamelled with its rich variety of flowers."—Humboldt.
2"The Incas claim their descent from the sun."—Las Casas.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON SEPARATION.
TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON SEPARATION.
The foregoing was written by a gentleman of fine genius, and is published without the author's knowledge.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
On hearing Mr. Wickham's Speech at the Bar of the House of Delegates, on the 6th instant.
On hearing Mr. Wickham's Speech at the Bar of the House of Delegates, on the 6th instant.
January, 1835.
1Solve senescentem maturè sanus equum, nePeccet ad extremum ridendus, et ilia ducat.Hor. Epist. Lib. i. 1.
The pious and excellent Mrs. JEANWOOD, who died in this city some years since, was the relict of General James Wood, a distinguished officer of the revolution, and afterwards Governor of Virginia. The qualities for which she was remarkable, were familiarly known to a very large circle of friends, by whom, at least such as survive her, her memory is still held dear. She was indeed in the justest sense, a mother in Israel,—a lady of shining christian benevolence, whose kindly feelings towards her race did not consist in mere sentiment only,—but were evinced in a life of active, useful, and unostentatious charities and labors of love. Her piety moreover, though profound and ardent, was free from austerity; and there was a grace and cheerfulness in her manner and conversation, which won upon all of every age and condition who approached her. Well known as she was however, and universally respected for her virtues, there were but few comparatively who were apprised of her varied endowments or who knew that her practical good sense and experienced judgment were united to the lighter attractions and more ornamental graces of the intellectual character. Literature was to her the solace which refreshed the intervals in her works of goodness; it furnished that balmy repose to the spirit,—which it often needs amidst the conflicts and agitations of human life, even in its most favored condition. The proud, the selfish and avaricious, or the gay and luxurious, may each indulge in his own enjoyment or follow his own delusive phantom,—but next to the consciousness of doing good, there is no earthly happiness so pure and unalloyed as that which springs from the silent communion with our own spirits, or with the marvellous and multiform external objects which surround us. "There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know." There is an exalted sense of enjoyment in contemplating all that is beautiful and good in the moral and physical world, and this indeed constitutes the empire of poetry in its more general and unrestricted sense. We do not claim for Mrs. Wood very extraordinary powers in this enchanting department of literary effort,—for how few of the thousands who have ever essayed to climb the hill of Parnassus have reached its highest pinnacle; and on the contrary how many have been content to tune their unambitious lays in humble seclusion—without courting or even desiring renown. Mrs. Wood wrote neither for fame nor the public eye, and it is this circumstance alone which will impart an additional interest to the natural and unstudied effusions of her muse. Her numerous friends and relatives will at least experience a melancholy pleasure, in tracing in thesememorolabiliaof their deceased friend, some of those qualities of mind and heart, which rendered her in life an object of respect and love,—and in death,—of veneration and regret.
The first poem we have selected, entitled "Retrospection," appears to have been written in 1809—when a severe illness threatened the life of her husband. In the frame of mind natural under such circumstances, she recalls the principal sorrows of her life, and among them there was none more poignant than the loss of an only child, a daughter of eighteen years old. The closing lines will indicate the source to which she was accustomed to look in the season of human affliction.
The piece which follows, our readers will agree with us, is not only very agreeable verse, but what is still better, is replete with pure moral sentiment.
In the lines which we next select, it will be perceived that to minds of delicate fibre and poetic temperament,—the most familiar objects in nature will often suggest mournful images and recollections. A flower will awaken affecting reminiscences of some long lost and beloved object.
Our readers must not be induced to cast aside the following poem, from its length. It is full of genuine feeling and pious sentiment.
[Written in a dejected and visionary state of mind.]
[Written in a dejected and visionary state of mind.]