In Statius' Poem on the Via Domitiana, are these lines.
making a distance of one hundred and twenty-seven miles commonly travelled by the Romans in one day.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER VIII.
Leaving with speed the painful spectacle of my wounded friend, I fled into the close and matted undergrowth of the forest, and pausing for a moment to deliberate, I resolved to return to Chalgrave, and brave the remote risk of a criminal prosecution for an offence which juries tolerate with mercy, and courts with connivance. I was willing to trust to that deep-seated public opinion which enacts laws through one principle, and controls their execution from another; and from whose opiate breath the grim repose of the duelling law has never awakened. I passed through many of the classic paths of the old college, and suddenly diverging from the view of its rude and grotesque steeple, advanced into the broad road. I had not walked far before I perceived that I was pursued. Reasoning upon the principle that retreat is more or less allied to meanness, I soon found the hand of my pursuer firmly fixed on my shoulder, while he said, with a stern voice, "Mr. Granby, you are my prisoner! I arrest you in the name of the Commonwealth."
The powerful and iron grasp which was rivetted to my shoulder, declared the utter folly of resistance. Through the fading twilight I could discern the form of a roughly-built, and the countenance of a brave man; while the odd mixture of his apparel, coarse boots and a gaudy watch-chain, white ruffles and broad plated buttons, told the brief history of many a struggling argument between his purse and gentility.
"Release me," said I, "and this (showing a purse, through the net-work of which a golden sea leaped up to the eye,) shall be your reward."
"Mr. Granby," he replied, throwing his hand suddenly from me, as if a serpent had stung him, "we are now equal. I will teach you that I am as far above dishonor as you are. Put up your purse, for I solemnly swear that you shall not leave this spot until you have satisfied me for your gross and ungenerous insult. Take this pistol—I have another; either make an apology or fight. I will measure the distance, and you may give the word."
I was struck at once by the innate honor and Virginian feeling of the man; and throwing the pistol aside, I tendered him my hand, expressing at the same time my regret in having acted so indiscreetly.
"Why do you arrest me?" continued I. "It was an open duel, and Mr. Ludwell is not dead."
"Is that then the case?" he replied. "Will you pledge me your honor that such is the truth? I was told that it was an unfair duel, and I have put myself to great inconvenience to arrest you."
I gave the pledge required, and I was immediately released from the grasp of the Commonwealth; her chivalric man of law professing himself satisfied of my innocence, complimenting me on being a gentleman, and wishing me good night with a profound and dignified bow. I was in no humor to moralize on this singular scene; yet I could not forbear to smile at this strangest of all paradoxes—that he who was prepared to enforce the duelling law, should be so far elevated above its vulgar penalty, that he could at pleasure either neutralize its severity, or trample on its express ordinances, lending a credulous heart to the dreamy nonsense of chivalry, and a deaf ear to the trumpet-tongued voice ofBe it enacted. Such is public opinion, and such are laws; when in conflict, a Mezentian union—when acting in harmony, the firmest and most durable base for the fabric of government.
Pursuing my course, I fortunately encountered Scipio, who was going to the college with his accustomed budget of letters, and dismounting him, with orders to go and attend the sick couch of Arthur, I took his horse, and rode rapidly on to Chalgrave. The night wore sullenly and gloomily away, and ere morning, one of those fast, yet light snow-storms, which rush on with a momentary though softened fierceness, had thrown a spotless mantle around the trees, the hills and plains of Virginia. I passed two or three of our negroes on the skirts of the plantation, standing with slouched hats and folded arms, like so many statues of ebony on a marble floor. 'Tis then that melancholy spreads its deepest gloom over a Virginian farm—a solitude fearful, still, and echoless—while all nature bows to its stern influence. The cattle are gathered to thefarm-pen, to ruminate over a raspingshuck, or a marrowless corn-stalk. From a pool in the stable yard, a dense and curling vapor overshadows a motley group of ducks and geese, who are quarrelling and floundering in undisputed possession of their odorous empire; while the lengthened face of the prisoned plough-horse takes a more pallid hue from the sympathy of melancholy, and is protruded on the scene like that eternal spectre of death which is ever flitting athwart the path of life. Within the house there is a confused hurrying to and fro of menials in search of wood, carpets, and rugs, while the mistress fairly frets herself into philosophy amid the snow, mud, and her own contradictory orders. A glance from the window will disclose a crowd of negroes collected around the wood-yard, waiting to carry the logs cut by one, who with a heavy whirl of his ponderous axe, and a loud moan, scatters his wounded chips at every stroke. He is then on the crest of the highest wave of vanity, and will ever and anon rest his axe to tell of the broadclearingswhich have opened beneath his giant arm. I looked on this quiet and familiar scene with an aching eye and a throbbing heart; yet I was soothed into peace by that witching spell which spreads its empire from "Indus to the Pole." It washome—that spot over whose fairy circle my heart, like the gnomon, had dialled all its sunlit hours of joy and happiness; and in the gushing memory of childhood's romance, I almost forgot that the stain of blood was on my hands.
I did not disturb the family until they were seated at breakfast; and in reply to my mother's inquiries concerning Arthur's health, I hesitated not to relate to her the whole detail of the tragic meeting. Lucy entered the room ere I had finished my sad narrative, and catching the truth of my tale, suddenly stared at me with a full and lustreless eye, and looking up for a moment, fell with an hysteric shriek on the floor. My mother's stern pride subdued her swelling feelings, and rising from her seat, with a starting tear in her eye, she led Lucy from the room. Frederick remained cold and unmoved, throwing his fork into his plate, and playingwith his tea-spoon with an air of frigid indifference. My uncle alone advanced to me, and seizing my hand, exclaimed in a generous though quivering voice, "Iwill not forsake you, my dear boy! You have been indiscreet and passionate, but your honor is untainted! I knew that you could not wilfully kill Arthur. Come with me; an express shall be sent to the college instantly. The odds are greatly in favor of his recovery. I have in the library a table of fifty duels, prepared by my pen, and strengthened by my experience. Out of that number but four were killed, and ten wounded. There is only one bad sign in the whole affair, and that is the fact that Arthur fell too soon. I have known many a man carry two balls in his body before he would droop. No wadding entered his body, for my pistols do not bear it; and you may hope for the best."
My uncle's plan of sending an express to the college was approved by the whole family, and in a short time the house re-echoed to repeated calls for the ostler. He soon made his appearance, and in reply to my mother's directions, he gave the usual stable diary of a Virginian farm.
"Why, ma'am, there is not a horse on the land fit to ride. Mass Charles sent the mare out of the county on yesterday to Col. C.'s for a pointer puppy, and as the boy did not come back in time, he has sent another on the black horse to look for him. The chariot horses Mass Charles sent to the court house, with a barrel of cider royal to Capt. R.; and Miss Lucy's pony has not got a shoe to his foot."
"Where is the overseer?" said my mother, who was too much accustomed to scenes of this character to lose any of the calmness of her temper.
"Oh, he went to the warrant-trying yesterday evening to dispute the blacksmith's account; and I heard him say that he would stay at the shop till he could have the beards of two of Mass Charles' Levier fishing hooks altered. Now, if mistress must send, I will get one of the blooded plough-horses, and he will make out as well as any."
This ready auxiliary of a Virginian hurry was necessarily adopted; and in a short time the old servant, encased in a pair of ponderous boots, enveloped in an overcoat which fitted him like a shroud, and mounted on a plough-horse—the gaunt anatomy of poverty—wended his way to fulfil a mission of charity and repentance.
The return of the messenger brought the agreeable tidings of Arthur's convalescence; and when, at the expiration of a week, Scipio delivered me a letter from Arthur, full of undiminished friendship, the spirits of our whole household rose to unusual elevation. They were satisfied that he was now secure from every burst of my dangerous temper; and when I told them that I was guiltless of his blood, I found my recompense in the blush of mingled pride and gratitude which mantled over the cheek of Lucy. My misfortune, in humbling my pride, had the happy effect of silencing that "fearful felicity" of elocution (as Sir Philip Sidney terms it) which made my uncle the zealous annalist of duels, pistols, chivalry, and arrangements.
How naturally does the heart, when oppressed by disease, or humbled by misfortune, turn, like the wounded deer, to the silent refuge of solitude—invoking, under its peaceful shade, that balm of life—woman's love—that rare medicinal, which pours its rosy health into the wounds of manhood's fretted existence. Ambition—the quick pulse of bloated avarice—the rotten pageantry of the world—and the fret and faction of life, may for a while lure us from its sacred altar; yet in our moments of despair, we turn to its holy shrine with renewed devotion, and ever find its radiance, like the brightness of the tropic-lights, flitting its steady blaze around the darkness of our destiny. I was so deeply cursed by temper, and depraved by its exercise, that the love which commonly cheats us into happiness, or obliterates ennui, brought no relief to my lacerated spirit. Romance no longer culled its flattering trophies from the memory of Isa Gordon. I looked on her as one who was too proud to bow to my despotic love, while I had gained by absence from her at college a spirit of freedom and independence. She was myfirst love;and, despite the dictates of common sense, I was almost compelled to believe that such love was of the purest and firmest character, merely because I had fallen into it in the ignorance and inexperience of boyhood. What a paradox! and how fondly does stupidity cherish it! The boy's heart is a tablet on which is shadowed the outline of an April day—a gorgeous sunshine plays around his imagination, and the fleeting clouds which disturb it, never dim the horizon before him. He loves from nature—he is ever a poligamist—and mistakes the fervor of passion for the truth of love; while his youth, which cures every disease, soon cicatrizes the wound of despised affection. 'Tis manhood's destiny to writhe under the slow and searching poison of unrequited constancy. He lays all the powers of his heart, mind, and education, at the foot of woman; and the blow which prostrates him, shakes to its base a granite fabric. He knows the value of the priceless feeling which he offers, and demands in return a heart which must make him the god of its idolatry. I was egotistical and selfish in my reasoning; yet that very reasoning, in teaching me to forget Isa Gordon, made my heart loiter with a holy enthusiasm around the memory of Ellen Pilton. She had written to me in a style of affectionate and confiding attachment; and though I did not answer her letters, she still continued to write, and wondered why I did not receive them. No dream of my treachery ever entered her guileless heart, and she knew not that her letters were the harvest of my revenge. Suddenly I ceased to hear from her, and I then found that the darkest passion of our nature loses its poisoned fang when struck by the magic wand of love. Could I forget her purity and gentleness of character—the impassioned tenderness with which she had entrusted the destiny of her life—the aspirations of her untainted youth—and all the faith and fervor of her virgin innocence—to whom? to one who had gained this unique gem, as the plaything of a fiend.
Stimulated by jealousy, and prompted by a desire to satisfy myself of Ellen's truth, I resolved to visit a college friend who lived in the immediate vicinity of her father's residence, and there patiently wait until I might have an opportunity of seeing her. My uncle was my confidant; and when I entered his room for the purpose of disclosing my intentions, I found him seated as usual amid a crowd of antique volumes, while his eyes were keenly gloating over the original-brained tittle-tattle of "Howel's Letters." His large centre table displayed a motley mixture of the stable, chase, and library. On a copy of theDivine Legationlay acurb-bit. TheCastle of Indolencewas crowded into an old-fashioned stirrup. A dog collar belonging to one of King Charles' breed, surmountedClarendon. Two broken throat-lashes were placed onState Trials, and a pair of spurs had worked their rowels deep into the binding ofStith's History of Virginia. TheDefence of Poesy,Rhymer's Foedera,Fuller's Holy State,Catullus, andTom Jones, were tied together with a bridle rein; while a full record (testedby the clerk of the council, and dated July 9th, 1630,) of the trial of Doctor John Pott, late Governor of Virginia, for cattle stealing, spread its broad pages over the whole table. I caught a glimpse of a long and copious commentary which my uncle had written at the foot of it, in which he had proved the innocence of the Ex-Governor, and the perjury of Kingsmell, the principal witness, whom as the record narrates, "Doctor Pott endeavored to prove an hypocrite by a story of Gusman of Alfrach the rogue."
I soon declared the purpose of my visit, and that I was determined to see Ellen Pilton.
"I do not like her name," said my uncle; "it would have a plebeian sound in any part of the world; yet her mother bore a proud title, and as she loves you, do not act dishonorably. I take it for granted that she loves you merely because you affirm it, but you may rest assured that she will yet make a goose of you. Coquetry—arrant coquetry, is the business, the pursuit, the occupation of woman's life. They learn its treacheries when they dress their first doll; its edge is sharpened by every lover; and many a belle who dies in early glory, coquettes with the priest who shrives her. Venus commenced its practice the moment she was born; and though untaught in its mysteries, she laughingly bid the Tritons to look some other way. Horace reads us many a fine truth about it, and Tibullus and Propertius tell in trembling lines of the fascinations of that female garb which was brought from the Coian Isle. Our Virginian girls have a prescriptive right to all its prerogatives. Oh, there was rare coquetry when that gentle ship landed its blushing freight at Jamestown! Old "Dust and Ashes,"1that fast friend of the colony, and he who stole this title from a sexton, that under its shade he might nobly endow afree schoolin Virginia, made their invoice in a gay doublet, and copied the bill of lading with a smile on his care-worn cheek, and a fresh posy in his bosom. Our proud ancestor, Sir Eyre Granby, was present when they landed, and saw them leaping and gambolling about the shore like young minnows in a mountain stream. One fair girl, with a dove-like face and a sparkling eye, gave Sir Eyre a silver tobacco pipe, which she had brought from home for the stranger who should most interest her maiden heart. Alas! he was a married man; and all he could do was to kiss her hand and give her a bunch of flowers. The anxious bachelors who found a wife on that day, imitated his example; and to this hour, Virginia's maidens ask no better declaration of love than this silly compliment. Take care, my dear boy, of their hands; do not look at their rings; and let the flowers grow where God planted them. If they should be sick, do not show too much tenderness. I have known coquetry assume every type of fierce fever and pining atrophy; and remember, that the last dyke in the fortress of coquetry, is the coral cheek of consumption. Go, and learn from experience, and may Cupid prosper you."
1"Mr. Nathaniel Barber, the chief manager and book-keeper of the Company's lotteries."Stith216. Even at that dark period public education though a puling was a lusty child—'tisnowa paper mummy.
Early on the next morning I left Chalgrave; and finding the outer gate of the plantation closely barred with fence rails, I was about to dismount and open it, when my old nurse made her appearance, exclaiming, "Let it alone, Mass Lionel; I barred it—for I did not want you to go from home to-day till I could see you. Bad luck is hanging over our family. Is not this the seventh day of the month?—the day on which your stout old grandfather died, and on which your father sickened unto death. Did I not last night gather the wild hemlock from his grave; and with a lock of his hair, and a piece of the caul which covered your baby face, try seven times the charm which an Obi man taught my mother? Oh! it was a dreadful sight; I saw you mangled and wounded, and your white hand was red with blood. I heard an owl shriek seven times on the wall of our graveyard; it flew in at my window, put out my light, and left me in darkness. Do not go away now."
"Do you still take me for a child? I must go; farewell, dear mammy."
"Oh! call me dear mammy once more," she replied, "and let me kiss you for the last time."
I granted her request, and rode rapidly away, while I vainly endeavored to keep down the fear and superstition with which her narrative had filled my bosom. My journey was long and tedious, and ere night I had lost myself in the mazes and tortuous paths of a forest road. On every side I was met by gates, drawbars, andgaps—the necessary appendages in the economy of Virginian idleness,—and wandered about until I was finally fairly lost in a broad thicket of luxuriant myrtle. Trusting to the sagacity of my horse, he brought me into an open road, at the extremity of which a feeble light caught my eye. Advancing to it, I found a crowd of negroes gathered in a cabin, and dancing with that joyous flush of elastic carelessness which a negro only feels, to the music of a banjo, triangle, and squirrel-skin fiddle. All of them offered to show me the way, and each invariably decreased the distance in proportion to the anxiety which my inquiries expressed. I took the direction which I had thus received, and late at night I passed by an old-fashioned house, from a lower window of which shot a feeble and fluttering light. Here I met a negro who informed me that I was on the Pilton plantation—that the mansion-house was before me—that he was the best axe-man on the land—that his Mass Edmund had just come home on a fine horse—and that Miss Ellen was sick and poorly. A pang of remorse passed through my bosom; and reckless of every principle of honor, I determined to approach nearer to the house, and gaze, like the pilgrim, on that shrine which held the worshipped idol of my heart. Riding rapidly away from the negro, I suddenly turned my course, and dismounting from my horse, leaped over the garden wall. Cautiously threading my path through tangled shrubbery, leafless rosebushes, and crooked hedges, I quickly turned, as the light from the house streamed before me, and lookingup to the window, I beheld the form of Ellen Pilton in an attitude which arrested my attention, and chained my footsteps to the earth. Her head was resting on her right hand, while in her left she held the fatal evergreen which had marked with tenderness our earliest acquaintance. A dark and fleecy cloud of long and luxuriant hair swept over her marbled brow. Her cheek was illuminated with a vermillion glow, like those bright colors which decorate the holiness of some antique missal, while the ardent gaze which she bestowed on this memorial of my treachery, mingled itself with the patient melancholy which disease had written on her face. I saw her weep like a child, as she replaced it in her bosom; and at that moment the giant voice of conscience rang through my heart, pealing the knell of my perfidy and duplicity. Chastened by contrition—humbled by the consciousness of my own falsehood—and elevated by this unerring indication of her singleness of heart, I felt the contagion of resistless sympathy, and on that silent spot I poured out the pure orisons of a love which had sprung from the blackest passion of my nature. I continued in a fixed posture for many moments, inebriated into utter forgetfulness of my flagrant violation of honor. A feeling of debasement came over me, and yielding to its influence, I turned away from the window. My position was no sooner changed, than I was met by Edmund Pilton,—his face almost touching my shoulder.
"Mr. Granby," said he, in a voice of stifled anger, "an eavesdropper!—a cowardly intruder on female privacy!—I wish him profit in his honorable profession, and may darkness ever hide his blush of shame."
I staggered back with fear and agitation; and for the only time in my life I felt as a coward. Nature had given me courage, and education had endowed me with that chivalry which feared only the shame of fear; yet that consciousness of disgrace which wrecks the proudest heart, left me the shuddering craven of its withering power.
"Mr. Pilton must excuse me," I replied; "I was endeavoring to find the way to—" here I half uttered a rising falsehood. "I will satisfy him at another time of my innocence—I must now retire."
"Certainly, sir," said he, "you may retire, and rest in the shade of your victorious laurels; but remember—" and here his hollow voice increased in volume, and quivered with passion, "that if ever you again approach my sister in any shape or form, I will put you to death, even in her hallowed presence. I refused your foolish challenge; but there is a point beyond which prudence loses all its virtues, and the next time I chastise you for an insult to a sister, your blood shall write the record. Neither darkness shall conceal, cowardice protect, nor lunacy excuse you!"
I might have been more humbled by my own sense of degradation, but the last word was a talisman which awoke into frenzy the demoniac hate which had long rioted in my bosom; and approaching nearer to Pilton, I leaped at him, and grasped his throat with the fierceness of the tiger. He was better built, more athletic, and stronger than myself, and in the struggle that ensued, I found myself fast wasting away; yet I could hear his short and strangled breath laboring under the iron grasp of my fingers. He now drew a small knife, and began to cut the hand which held his throat. I felt the warm blood trickling over its relaxed strength; and releasing my hold, I sunk upon the ground. He instantly fell upon me; and after a long and violent scuffle, I succeeded in rescuing myself. We were again on our feet, and I now had time to draw a small dirk from my bosom. He was ignorant that I was armed; and approaching him, as he leaned breathless and exhausted against a tree, I struck him with the weapon just below his shoulder. He gave one groan, and reeled to the earth. I was about to repeat the blow, when a piercing shriek burst upon my ear,—and Ellen Pilton fell upon the body of her prostrate brother.
"Oh, God!" she cried, "kill him not—spare him!—take my life! Is it you, Lionel?" she screamed, as she looked up and recognized my features—"and wouldyoumurder my brother—you would not, dear Lionel."
I was silent.
"Go away—I loathe, I abhor, I hate you!"
Ere the first light of day had kissed the tranquil waters of the Chesapeake, my jaded horse was browzing on the fertile meadows of the Rappahannock, and I found a refuge on board the good ship "Tobacco Plant," Capt. Z., bound to London.
JONATHANP. CUSHINGwas born March 12, 1793, at Rochester, New-Hampshire, and, like most of the eminent men of our country, in humble circumstances. He was early left an orphan to the care of a guardian, who seems to have been both negligent and unfaithful. By this man he was carried to his own residence, in a remote part of the State, where the population was scanty, and there were few schools. In his immediate vicinity there were none. There he was employed in doing the drudgery of his guardian's farm and mill until his thirteenth or fourteenth year. It was an improvement in his situation, when at that time he was bound apprentice to a saddler, especially as in New Hampshire by law, or custom equally imperative with law, it is the duty of a master to send his apprentices to school for six months of the term for which they are bound. This advantage Mr. Cushing enjoyed, and it seems to have been the only regular instruction he received before his eighteenth year. But even that germ, falling on a good soil, fructified. He began to feel the thirst for learning, which was to be the reigning impulse of his later years, and to loathe the prospect of a life spent in mere bodily labor. His mind, conscious of its own powers, and having once tasted of the sweets flowing from their exercise, could not submit to sink back again to the state of lethargy from which it had just been roused. The fruit of such thoughts and feelings was a resolution which he formed and very suddenly announced while at work one day, with another apprentice. Starting up from his seat he said "I am determined to have a liberal education, if it cost me forty years of my life to get it." He bought out the remainder of his term, and entered himself at an academy at Exeter, in his native State. There he prosecuted his studies with great diligence, supporting himself meanwhile by laboring at his trade, until he was prepared to enter Dartmouth College. He became a member of the Junior Class in that institution in 1815, and obtained his first degree in 1817. His standing in his class was highly respectable, though not soelevated as would naturally be supposed by his acquaintances in after life, who knew nothing of the deficiencies of his early education, and only adverted to his acknowledged talents, his literary zeal, and the strength and constancy of his character. On leaving the walls of College, the world was all before him. Go where he would, he must look to his labors, not merely for fame and fortune, but for subsistence; and in every direction around him (thanks to the good Being who has so abundantly blessed our country) he saw fields of usefulness and distinction inviting, and promising liberally to reward, his exertions. The intensity of his studies, however, for the last few years, had impaired his constitution, and he had reason to believe that a southern residence would be more propitious to the restoration of his health, and at least equally favorable to his success in other respects. With these views he left his native State, determined to establish himself as a lawyer at Charleston, S. C. On reaching Richmond, he met with an acquaintance from New England, who had been engaged as a tutor at Hampden Sidney College, (an institution of which until that time Mr. Cushing had never heard) but who from ill health was not able to enter on the discharge of his duties. At his solicitation, strengthened by that of the late Dr. Rice, ("clarum et venerabile nomen") with whom Mr. C. then became acquainted, the latter was induced to undertake for a few weeks the fulfilment of his friend's engagement. Before even that brief time had expired, the young man died, and Mr. Cushing became, by a train of circumstances apparently fortuitous, and almost without his own agency, a member of the Faculty of H. S. College. There was but little in the condition of the institution at that time to induce such a man, young, of energetic character, and conscious ability, to desire to cast in his lot there. No class had graduated regularly for several years, and the degrees occasionally conferred on individuals, who had gone through the whole course, were not respected at other Colleges. There was hardly the name of a Library or Philosophical Apparatus; and the buildings were to the last degree unsightly and inadequate. It had, however, one recommendation, which with Mr. Cushing, would outweigh many defects. It was a seminary of learning, where he could gratify the strong passion of his soul for acquiring and communicating instruction, more delightful to him, as he often declared, than food to a hungry man. With all this, however, he could not readily forego the advantages attending the line of life he had chalked out for himself. Twice he determined to dissolve the connexion he had formed with the College, and once he had gone to the tavern for the purpose of taking his seat in the stage which was to carry him away. On this occasion he was induced to return by Dr. Hoge, the then President, to whom he looked up with affectionate veneration, and his acquaintance with whom he was accustomed to regard as one of the most fortunate events of his life. So soon as he considered himself established at Hampden Sidney, he set to work with characteristic vigor and singleness of purpose, to raise the standing of the institution. He prevailed on the Trustees to introduce a new system of discipline and study, and being soon appointed Professor of Natural Philosophy and Chemistry, and experiencing the disadvantages of the very deficient apparatus, he made large additions to it at his own expense, trusting to the future ability of the College to repay him. Dr. Hoge dying in 1820, Mr. Cushing was elected President, and from that time till his own death within the last twelve months, the events of his life were little more than a series of efforts, the most judicious, untiring, and self-sacrificing, to foster the interests of the College over which he presided. One of his first objects, necessarily, was to improve and enlarge the College buildings, which at that time were probably by far the most indifferent belonging to any institution of the kind in the Union. But while it was obvious that the prosperity, perhaps the existence of the College depended on making this improvement, the means of making it were far from being equally apparent.
The institution possessing very little corporate property, and having never been a favorite with the Legislature, the possible munificence of individuals seemed to offer the only hope of success. That this would avail, was so little expected, that in the expressive language of one of its friends, his plans were looked on by the trustees as the dreams of youth. He was the man, however, to change such dreams into realities. His appeals to the liberality of the friends of the College were so well responded to, that in a short time he had caused to be erected the centre and one wing of a stately and commodious building, altogether suited to the purposes intended; and in the years 1829, '30, and '31, he procured additional subscriptions to the amount of $30,000, with which that building was completed, others erected, and a permanent fund established to aid in the support of the Professors. From time to time he continued to make additions to the philosophical apparatus, and carried the students of the College through a regular course of literary and scientific study, having early obtained for his graduates an admission "ad eundem gradum" at other Colleges without examination. While thus efficiently discharging his duties as President, he did not neglect those of Professor. On the contrary, all who knew him will bear witness to the study and labor with which he extended his researches into those branches of learning which it was his province to teach. His lectures were thus the overflowings of a mind filled with the results of previous investigation and meditation; not, as we sometimes see in the case of indolent Professors, themes prepared for the occasion, and exhausting the scanty stock of science which had been accumulated on the subject. But while justice is thus done to Mr. Cushing's real ability, and to the admirable use which he made of it, (his strength of purpose, like a hard master, exacting its full quota of exertion from every faculty,) it yet cannot be maintained that his mind was of the highest order. His case well illustrated the distinction which has been taken between genius and talent. The former original and creative; the latter acquiring, modifying, and adapting to general use the productions of the first. While it is the prerogative of genius to discover fields of science hitherto unknown, it is the more humble, but perhaps not less useful province of talent, to cultivate what is thus brought to light, and prepare it to be possessed by the public mind. The love of communicating knowledge, which has been already mentioned as one of Mr. Cushing's most striking characteristics, indicated, or at least happily coincided with, the line ofusefulness for which, according to this view of his mental constitution, nature had fitted him. And it may well be questioned whether any of those who have sounded the profoundest depths of science, and first brought into light great truths previously unknown, would, if placed in the same circumstances with himself, have effected so much, and discharged the manifold and peculiar duties devolving on him, with equal skill and success. As a disciplinarian, he was mild and lenient, even to an extent considered by some as approaching to laxity. But such persons do not seem sufficiently to have adverted to the difficulties of his situation. He was not the Rector of Christ Church, or of Trinity—not even the President of Harvard or of Yale, but the head of a feeble institution, struggling almost for existence, and dependent on public patronage for support. With him, forbearance was among the first and most essential duties. Moreover, it was well understood by his students that his mildness was the result of principle, not of feebleness of character, and that there was a point beyond which they could not with impunity transgress. Such zeal, tempered by such prudence, could not be fruitless. The result of his labors and his cares, of what he did, and what he forebore to do, was, that in a few years after his induction into the Presidency, Hampden Sidney might fairly be pronounced the most flourishing literary institution in the Commonwealth. Its tide of success, however, was soon checked, and its onward progress stayed, by the opening of the halls of the University to students, an event which, however auspicious to the literary interests of the community at large, could not fail to be unfavorable to another seminary of learning in the same region of country, and dependent in a great degree on the same population for its supply of pupils. Visible as this was in the thinned ranks of his students, it does not seem to have caused Mr. Cushing to "bate one jot of heart or hope," but rather to have stimulated him to renewed exertions. For it was soon after this that he undertook and effected the improvement of the College buildings and the acquisition of a permanent fund. Nor did he cease to urge on the Legislature the just claims of the College to some share of the public favor. But the bills introduced for that purpose, though generally zealously supported and sustained, on grounds which ought to have insured their success, were always gotten rid of—most usually by the parliamentary manœuvre of tacking to them other subjects more or less incongruous, until they broke down under their own weight.
It is our purpose to consider the character of President Cushing, mainly as one of the scholars and public men of Virginia. We shall therefore dwell but little on his private affairs. But in a sketch of his life, even so brief as this, we cannot omit a fact which exerted the strongest influence on the happiness of his latter years. In the year 1827 hemarried, in an adjoining county, a pious, intelligent, and interesting young lady, of whom, as she survives to mourn his loss, delicacy forbids that we should speak in terms of stronger panegyric. A good Providence crowned their union with lovely children; and in the bosom of a family so interesting, President Cushing found a felicity which he well knew how to enjoy, and a relaxation from his incessant toils and harassing cares equally necessary to his body and to his mind. Though to the world chiefly known as a scholar and the President of a College, it was perhaps in the mild and mellow light of domestic retirement that his character shone with the most attractive lustre. As a friend he made few professions, but when self-denying service was needed, his zeal prompted him to exertions the most strenuous, persevering, and efficient. He knew how to feel for the bereavement of the widow's heart, and with tender sympathy to wipe the tear from the widow's eye. May He who seeth in secret reward him for these deeds of love, by pouring consolation into that cup of affliction which His providence has presented to the lip of her who was once too happy in being her husband's helpmate in ministering consolation to others.
Although a native of another State, Mr. Cushing was, in his connexions and his feelings, thoroughly a Virginian; and, as might be supposed from the nature of his pursuits, peculiarly regardful of the literary interests of the Commonwealth. He therefore hailed with joy, and actively engaged in establishing and fostering the Society for the promotion of those interests, formed in Richmond four or five years ago, of which he continued a zealous and efficient member the short residue of his days. For Hampden Sidney, however, he continued to feel a peculiar regard, which he evinced not only by the faithful performance of his duties as its President, but by repeatedly refusing very advantageous offers made him of Professorships in other Colleges, and by expressions of warm attachment to that institution, at that last solemn period of his life, when affectation of such regard, if ever possible with him, would have been effectually checked by the near prospect of the awful realities of the eternal world. His death, though an untimely, was not a sudden event. His constitution had perhaps never entirely recovered from the injury inflicted by intense application whilst a college student; and as his habits of study continued the same, the effects became gradually more apparent, until at length the unprecedented rigor of the last winter prostrated the structure which had been so long undermined. Early in the spring, being advised by his physicians to seek a milder climate, he set out for the south, accompanied by a part of his family. But on reaching Raleigh, his journey and his earthly pilgrimage were both cut short. There, surrounded by those whom he loved best on earth, and who he knew well returned his love, looking back on a life of useful and honorable exertion, rewarded by distinguished success; and looking forward in the full assurance of hope to an eternity of happiness, secured to him by a Savior in whom he cordially believed, and whom he had long found precious to his soul, he met death not with calmness and fortitude merely, but with triumph! He had just entered on his forty-third year, and it may be supposed had hardly obtained the maturity of his powers and the full limits of his influence. To our eyes, it would seem his sun went down at noonday. His death was a source of the truest and deepest grief, not only to a family more than ordinarily devoted to him, but to a large circle of friends his virtues had gained to him throughout Virginia, and to those especially who had at heart the prosperity of the College over which he had so ably presided. He died in the communion of the Episcopal Church, which with many inducements to bias him inanother direction, he had chosen for his spiritual mother at the commencement of his religious life, and which with decided, and it is believed increasing affection, he continued to love even unto death. Yet no man possessed a spirit more truly Catholic, and no man delighted more to enjoy Christian communion with the followers of his master, though they might in some less essential particulars, understand the will of that master differently from himself. Like the Apostle Paul, he rejoiced in the spread of the gospel, by whomsoever preached; and he was far more desirous to see his Savior honored, and to learn that sinners had repented and believed, through whatever instrumentality it pleased God to use, than to see the tokens of divine favor confined even to that church which he best loved. In his last days, like the illustrious Grotius, he suspected that even science, with all her loveliness and her benificence, had engrossed more of his affections and more of his thoughts than should have been given to aught below the skies; and as he drew nearer to the eternal world, his soul was more and more rapt in the beatific contemplation of that incomprehensible glory which God hath prepared for them that love his Son.
His remains are interred in the burying-ground of the Episcopal Church in the city of Raleigh. The spot which contains them is marked by a monument erected by the Trustees of Hampden Sidney College, and designed, while it commemorates his merits, to testify their sorrow for his loss, and their gratitude for his services. But a more enduring monument, and that which he would have prized far above any other, will be found, as we trust, in the abiding and brightening glories of the Institution to which his best years were devoted, and which shared, with the partner of his bosom and the children of his affection, the last anxieties of his ebbing life.
On reaching the banks of the Mississippi at the junction of the Ohio, 1st July, 1818.
On reaching the banks of the Mississippi at the junction of the Ohio, 1st July, 1818.