SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
VOL. I.] RICHMOND, MAY 1835. [NO. 9.
T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.
PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.
The Publisher has the pleasure of announcing to his friends and patrons that he has made an arrangement with a gentleman of approved literary taste and attainments, to whose especial management the editorial department of the "Messenger" has been confided.—This arrangement, he confidently believes will increase the attractions of his pages,—for besides the acknowledged capacity of the gentleman referred to, his abstraction from other pursuits will enable him to devote his exclusive attention to the work.
With this ample assurance therefore, that the public patronage will be met by renewed efforts to give general satisfaction, the publisher earnestly hopes that his friends will aid him in extending the circulation of the Messenger. A reasonable enlargement of the subscription list will afford the means of occasionally embellishing its pages with handsome drawings and engravings—and especially sketches of some of those remarkable natural curiosities and picturesque scenes, with which Virginia, and the Southern country generally, abounds. In this way the publisher hopes to make his periodical a repository of not only every thing elegant in literature, but tasteful in the arts; and his generous and intelligent supporters may rest assured, that whilst a moderate reward for his own labors is indispensable—his principal aim is to multiply the sources of intellectual pleasure, and increase the facilities for improvement.
It is due to the gentleman who has acted as editor up to the present period, that the publisher should, in parting with him, express that deep feeling of gratitude which his disinterested friendship could not fail to inspire. At the commencement of the Messenger, when the prospect of its success was doubtful, and when many judicious friends augured unfavorably of the enterprise, the late editor volunteered his aid to pilot the frail bark if possible into safe anchorage—nor did he desert it until all doubt of success had ceased. The efforts of that gentleman are the more prized, because they were made at a considerable sacrifice of ease and leisure, in the midst too of avocations sufficiently arduous to occupy the entire attention of most men,—and because they were rendered without hope or expectation of reward. And the publisher embraces this occasion, to declare that the success of the Messenger has been greatly owing to the judicious management of the editorial department by that gentleman. For services of so much value, rendered with no other object than a desire to promote the establishment of a literary periodical in Virginia, the publisher is deeply indebted to him—and the readers of the work will, we doubt not, long remember his efforts in their behalf. To him belongs the merit of having given his disinterested aid in the season of its early feebleness. His successor has but to follow in the path which has thus been marked out by a hardy and skilful literary pioneer.
T. W. WHITE, Publisher and Proprietor.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY
And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States.
No. VI.
In the last number of these sketches, it was stated that Hamet "went to Derne in 1809, where he passed the remainder of his life in quiet, as Bey of the two Eastern Provinces." This has been since discovered to be incorrect; within two years afterwards, he was again expelled by the Pasha, for some cause or pretence, and obliged to fly with his family to Egypt, where he died. In October, 1832, a man appeared at the American Consulate in Alexandria, who declared himself to be Mahommed Bey, eldest son of Hamet Caramalli; he stated that his father's family were living in great indigence at Cairo, and his object was to ascertain whether any relief could be expected for them from the United States.
The conduct of the Bey of Tunis during the early part of the war between Tripoli and the United States, has been already exposed. He continued to observe the subsequent occurrences with great attention,—manifesting the utmost anxiety with regard to the result. He saw with dismay the increase of the American forces in the Mediterranean, and the distressed condition to which Yusuf was reduced by the determined manner in which they had been employed; and he rightly conceived that by thus unveiling the weakness of one of the Barbary States, the system which they were all interested in preserving, was placed in jeopardy. With a view to avert the apprehended danger, he made frequent offers of mediation, which having been declined, he determined if possible to force a conclusion favorable to his interests, by a display of hostile intentions against the United States.
For this he soon found an excuse in the blockade of Tripoli. We have seen that he at first refused to acknowledge this blockade, on the just grounds that it was not maintained by a competent force; when that force was increased so as effectually to close the port, he insisted, that being at peace with the United States, his vessels had the right of proceeding to any place without interruption by them, and that the passport granted by the American Consul ought always to afford them protection from the armed forces of his nation. The passports granted by the Consuls of Christian powers in the Barbary states, are merely certificates that the vessel is owned in the country where the Consul resides, with a statement of her class, her name and that of her captain, and other particulars requisite to identify her; it protects the vessel from detention or capture by the armed ships of the nation in whose name it is issued, for one year after its date. The Consul in vain represented this to the Bey, and endeavored to explain the principles of blockade; shewing that an attempt to enter Tripoli would be a hostile act on the part of the vessel making it, but on her part only, and should not necessarily create any unfriendly feelings between the two governments; and that the vessels of several Christian nations had been taken by the American squadron, while they were thus endeavoring to force the blockade, and condemned without any complaints having been made by their governments.—To these representations, the Bey refused to listen, contending that Christian laws and usages were not applicable to affairs in which Oriental States were concerned; and declaring that the capture of a Tunisian vessel by the Americans would be followed by a declaration of war against them.
The question was at length brought to a direct issue. On the 24th of May, an armed vessel under Tunisian colors, with two prizes, attempted to enter the port of Tripoli, and were taken by the frigate Constitution. On examination, it appeared that the cruiser corresponded in no point with the description in the passport exhibited by her captain, which must therefore have been improperly obtained; and other circumstances led to the belief, that she was Tripoline property and manned by Tripolines, although commanded by a Tunisian subject. She was of course condemned, and sent with her prizes to the United States.
The rage of the Bey on being informed of this seizure was violent and unrestrained; he insisted that the Consul should cause the vessels to be immediately restored, and ample satisfaction to be made for the injury and insult committed against him and his subjects. Mr. Davis replied, that having no power himself, he could only state the demand to the Commodore, but he had no expectation that it would be complied with. The Bey, according to the usual policy of the Barbary Princes, would not admit of this reference to an authority over which he could have no control or influence; and endeavored by threats of war and of personal violence, to extort from the Consul a promise that the vessels should be restored, in order that he might afterwards allege such promise, as the solemn act of the American government. Davis however remained firm, and transmitted a statement of the whole affair to Mr. Lear, which reached him off Tripoli, immediately after the conclusion of the peace with Yusuf.
In consequence of this communication, the Commodore wrote a letter to Hamouda, declaring his demands inadmissible, and despatched a frigate and a brig to watch his movements. This letter increased the rage of the Bey; he told the Consul that negotiation was impossible; that he would be forced into a war by the conduct of the Americans, who had been the first to capture one of his cruisers in time of peace; and that if hostilities should commence, they would not end while he had a soldier to fire a gun. After such indications of his disposition, Rodgers considered that no time was to be lost, he accordingly sailed for Tunis, and arrived in the gulf on the 1st of August; his force then amounted to five frigates, two brigs, a sloop of war, two schooners, and several gun-boats.
A letter was immediately despatched to the Bey, requiring an explanation of his intentions, and stating that unless he declared them to be friendly within thirty-six hours, hostilities would be commenced against him. To this demand Hamouda evaded giving a direct answer; he informed the Consul that he had no wish to make war, until he had heard from the President of the United States respecting his vessels which had been captured; but that in the meantime, any attempt on the part of the Americans to stop his cruisers, or to interrupt his commerce, would be considered by him as a commencement of hostilities. The Commodore knew too well the worthlesness of such verbal assurances; and determined to have some stronger guaranty for their performance. He therefore despatched Captain Stephen Decatur, who then commanded the frigate Congress, to Tunis, with a letter requiring of the Bey a written declaration of his pacific intentions, to be witnessed by the English and French Consuls. Hamouda refused to see Decatur, and showed so little disposition to come to terms, that the Consul retired with his family on board the squadron.
Shortly after this, a Tunisian vessel attempting to put to sea, was fired on by the Americans, and forced to return into port. This circumstance created great consternation in Tunis; business was suspended, the people became dissatisfied, and the Bey discovered that he must yield. He in consequence wrote a letter to Rodgers, disavowing his threats, declaring his willingness to remain at peace, and inviting Mr. Lear, with whom he had hitherto refused to communicate, to come on shore and treat with him on the subject of the existing difficulties. Mr. Lear complied with this invitation, and several conferences were held, in which the African Prince sustained his character for shrewdness, exhibiting however a degree of suavity and apparent frankness, which excited the admiration of the American Commissioner. Supported by the oaths and attestations of his worthy minister the Sapatapa, Hamouda gravely and solemnly denied having ever uttered threats of hostilities against the United States, or of violence towards their Consul, or of having made any unreasonable demands; insisting that all the difficulties had been occasioned by Mr. Davis, whom he indeed believed to be a good man, incapable of any wilful misrepresentation, but who had most strangely interpreted some of his expressions in a sense totally different from that intended, and forgotten others. He had indeed asked for a frigate from the United States; but that was a request such as one friend might make of another, and the refusal of which should give rise to no difference between them. The subject of blockades he could not understand; his vessels had been taken in time of peace, and he would send an Ambassador to the United States to demand their restitution, although he would prefer having that business settled on the spot; in the meantime, he was ready to give the strongest guaranties of his pacific intentions. Nothing more could be demanded. A new Consul was presented in place of Mr. Davis, who refused to return; and the frigate Congress having been sent to the United States, to convey the Ambassador Sidi Soliman Melle-Melle, the rest of the squadron quitted the Gulf of Tunis about the 1st of September.
The Tunisian Ambassador arrived with his retinue at Washington, where he excited great curiosity and attention.1 He soon made a formal demand, in his master's name, for the restoration of the vessels, or their value, which was complied with from a desire to conciliate the Bey; but this compliance encouraged the Ambassador to require a supply of naval stores, as the price of peace for the succeeding three years, which having been positively refused, he quitted the United States without retracting the demand. His master however was at that time engaged in a war with Algiers, and did not think proper to proceed farther in his exactions; and although attempts were afterwards made by him and his successor to force the Americans to pay tribute, they proved always unsuccessful, and no actual interruption of peace between the United States and Tunis has occurred since the termination of the difference above stated.
1 Melle-Melle is still remembered in Washington, where his dresses, his presents, his prayers, his Arabian horses, his refusing to eat from sunrise to sunset during a particular time of the year, (the Ramadan or Mahometan Lent,) and other of his Oriental customs and peculiarities, form the subjects of many anecdotes. Among his attendants was a passionate fellow named Hadji Mohammed, who having had a quarrel with a barber in the city, threatened to kill him. The barber complained to Mr. Madison, then Secretary of State, who sent Mr. B——, a highly respected gentleman of his Department, to call on Melle-Melle, and request him to curb the impetuosity of his follower. The Ambassador received Mr. B—— with the usual Oriental forms of politeness, and having heard the complaint, said a few words in Arabic to one of his attendants, who went out, and presently re-appeared with poor Hadji Mohammed, guarded by four men with drawn swords. This apparition somewhat astounded Mr. B——, who is the most mild and amiable of men; and he was still more shocked when Melle-Melle, in the most courteous manner expressing his desire to do all in his power to please the American government, offered to have the culprit's head taken off immediately, and sent to the Secretary of State, unless he or the President might prefer seeing it done themselves. Mr. B—— of course declined such a demonstration of the Ambassador's good feeling toward the United States, and hastened to assure him that no such mode of reparation was demanded; it being only necessary to enjoin upon his attendant to refrain from any acts of violence. This fact was related to the writer by Mr. B—— himself.
From Tunis the American squadron proceeded to Algiers, where Mr. Lear landed, and was received with great respect by the government. At this time it would doubtless have been easy to have relieved the United States from the annual tribute of naval stores and munitions to the value of twenty-one thousand dollars, which they were bound to pay to that Regency by the treaty of 1795; but the Algerines had not committed any notable infraction of the terms of that treaty, and there was no cause of quarrel. In 1807 the government of the United States, in anticipation of an immediate war with Great Britain, recalled its naval forces from the Mediterranean, which sea was not again visited by an American armed vessel until 1815. The peace with Tripoli and Tunis has, however, continued without any absolute interruption to this time; with Algiers it was broken in 1812, when the Dey, emboldened by the absence of the American ships of war, and instigated, as we shall show, by the British government, thought proper to commence hostilities against the United States, for which a signal retribution was exacted in 1815.
The occurrences of the war between Tunis and Algiers would be devoid of interest, however faithfully related. Algiers had long maintained a degree of arrogant influence over Tunis, which was very galling to the sovereigns of the latter country. This was effected partly by superiority in military and naval forces, partly by the aid of the Ottoman Porte, which very naturally sided with Algiers against a state scarcely acknowledging its dependance on the Sultan, but principally by bribes to the high officers of the Tunisian government. To free his kingdom from this nightmare had been the incessant endeavor of Hamouda, and was the object of the war; its results were favorable to the Tunisians, both at sea and on land; peace was made in September, 1808, and the influence of Algiers appears never since to have been felt in the councils of Tunis.
From 1807 to 1815, the Mediterranean was navigated by few vessels except those of Great Britain, which were forbidden fruit to the Barbary cruisers; almost their only prey being the miserable inhabitants of Sicily, Sardinia, and even of the Greek Islands, although the latter were subject to the Sultan. One circumstance here shows that the government of Great Britain still cherished the system of encouraging piracy in the Mediterranean, as a means of excluding other nations from its commerce. Sicily remained during the whole of the period above mentioned, absolutely in possession of the British, the authority of the king being nearly nominal. Yet, although its vessels were daily attacked, and its inhabitants carried off from the coasts to slavery in Africa, a truce negotiated with Algiers in 1810, and an occasional remonstrance to the other two powers, which was never attended to, were the only measures adopted to remedy the evil, by those who styled themselves the protectors of the island. To the honor of the Americans, it can be said with truth, that in their Consuls the unhappy captives found friends, and that through the active intercession of these agents, many of them were restored to their homes.
The Pasha of Tripoli, as soon as he was relieved from the presence of the American forces, began with great industry to restore tranquillity in his dominions, and to repair his finances which had been exhausted by the war. As he was almost shut out from the sea, he resolved to establish and extend his authority on land. The fixed population of this regency is small, and almost entirely confined to the few fertile spots on the coast; the interior being principally desert or mountainous, is inhabited by Arabs, who wander with their flocks from pasture to pasture, or are engaged in the transportation of merchandize, or live by plundering their more industrious neighbors. The allegiance of these wanderers is always doubtful; the revenue derived from taxing them is small, and is never obtained without considerable difficulty. Whenever the Pasha is known to be in trouble at home, they become refractory, refuse to pay their tribute, and attack the caravans or towns on the coast; seldom indeed does a year pass in which the sovereign of Tripoli is not engaged in war with some of their tribes. Of these tribes, one called the Waled Suleiman had long been formidable for its numbers and its rebellious disposition; under a daring and sagacious chief the Sheik Safanissa, it had set at defiance the power of the Pasha, and had frequently pushed its inroads to the gates of the capital. Safanissa at length died; although his descendants were brave and trained to war, and his tribe continued to be powerful and influential, yet the magic of his presence was wanting, to maintain that supremacy which it had so long boasted. Yusuf saw this, and determined if possible to exterminate these insolent foes. He began by gaining over to his side another powerful tribe called the Waled Magarra, the hereditary rivals and enemies of the Suleimans; and when he had sufficiently secured their fidelity, he struck a blow which proved perfectly successful, and by which he gained another object long considered important by the sovereigns of Tripoli.
In the Desert south of this regency, is a large tract of habitable country called Fezzan. The greater part of its surface is indeed a sterile waste of sand, but there are many small spots containing clay enough to render them capable of producing dates and some other articles for the support of men and beasts. The labor of cultivation is however very great, as it seldom or never rains, and there being neither springs nor rivers, the water necessary for moistening the earth can only be procured from wells. Almost the only articles of export are dates and salt, which latter is procured in great quantities from the borders of stagnant pools, and carried to the coast of the Mediterranean, and to the negro countries south of the desert. It is inhabited principally by a black race, differing in feature however from the negroes; there are also many Arabs and some Moors, making in all perhaps seventy thousand of the poorest and most miserable of the human species. The sovereignty had long been hereditary in a family originally from Morocco, which acknowledged its dependance on Tripoli; but the Sultan of Fezzan, like the Arabs, seldom paid his tribute when he could avoid it; and the expense of collecting, had indeed of late years, amounted to more than the sum obtained. Such a territory and such inhabitants would scarcely seem to offer any inducements to conquest; but the position of Fezzan renders it important to Tripoli, as through it passes the principal route from the coast to the interior of the continent; and Yusuf was well assured that the Sultan obtained a large revenue by exactions from his subjects, and from the numerous caravans which traversed his dominions. He was therefore anxious to have his share, and was the more enraged at the insolence of this Prince in withholding it, as he was supported and encouraged in so doing by an alliance with the Waled Suleiman. At length in 1811, Yusuf seized a moment when the Suleimans were absent on a foray in the Egyptian territory, and sent an army of Tripolines and Magarra Arabs to Fezzan, under one of his most attached and experienced generals, named Mahomet el Mukni, who was well acquainted with the country, from having visited it several times to receive the tribute. These troops rapidly passed the Gharian mountains, which separate Tripoli from Fezzan, and appeared unexpectedly before Morzouk, the capital of the latter kingdom; this town, built of mud, and defended only by a wall and castle of the same material, was easily taken, the Sultan and his family, with many of the principal inhabitants, were put to death, the rest submitted to the invaders, and the whole country was soon in their possession. The neighboring Arabs overawed by this success, flocked to Mukni's standard, and having received a reinforcement of Tripoline troops, he marched to intercept the Waled Suleimans on their return from Egypt; they were met, defeated, and almost exterminated. Abdi Zaleel, one of the grandsons of Safanissa, was made prisoner, and retained for some time by the Pasha as a hostage for the fidelity of the few whose lives were spared. As a reward for the generalship displayed by Mukni, Yusuf appointed him Governor of Fezzan, with the title of Sultan while in that territory; he was required however, to transmit a large amount of tribute, and also to make an annual inroad into the negro countries lying south of the Desert, for the purpose of bringing away slaves, who were afterwards sent to Tripoli, and thence to the markets of Smyrna and Constantinople.
By these means the power of the Pasha was much strengthened, and his revenues increased; but his sons grew up to manhood, and he began to receive from them the same ungrateful treatment which he had displayed towards his own father. His eldest, Mohammed, who as heir to the crown, bore the title of Bey, and commanded the troops, is universally represented as one of the most complete monsters which even Africa has produced. He first excited the jealousy of his father in 1816, by the purchase of a large number of muskets, which were probably intended for the purpose of arming his followers and dethroning the Pasha; for this he was ordered to go to Bengazi, and there take the command of some troops destined to act against a tribe of refractory Arabs. In this expedition he was entirely successful; that is to say, he exterminated the rebellious tribes, laid waste the country which they had infested, and sent a number of heads, of both friends and enemies, to adorn the gates of his father's castle. On his return to Tripoli, he probably considered these eminent services as entitling him to the immediate possession of the throne, and with that view he made an attempt on Yusuf's life; it failed, and he was again sent to the Eastern Provinces, to act against another tribe who had refused to pay tribute. Mohammed however, immediately on his arrival, joined the rebels, and plundered the country which he was ordered to defend. Yusuf was therefore obliged to send an army against him under his second son Ahmed, who dispersed his brother's forces and drove him into Egypt. The instances of treachery and cruelty practised on each side during this war, are too shocking to be related. The principal inhabitants of whole towns were murdered; hostages were beheaded at the moment stipulated for their return; promises of pardon confirmed by appeals to the common faith of both parties were shamelessly broken, and those who trusted to them sacrificed in cold blood. The result of the whole was the promotion of Ahmed to the situation of Bey, and the establishment of the rebellious Mohammed as Governor of Derne.
Notwithstanding these proofs of Yusuf's perfidy and ferocity, he became popular with Europeans; and those who were introduced to him, generally came away favorably impressed with regard to his character, and were inclined to attribute his excesses more to his situation than to his disposition. He spoke Italian fluently, and seemed to be well acquainted with what was going on in the world: his court was splendid; his apartments furnished with elegance and taste; he drank the best champaigne which France produced, and his manners are said to have been such as to entitle him to be considered a gentleman any where. The celebrated Portuguese, Badia Castilho, whose travels and adventures under the name of Ali Bey, are so well known, seems to have been charmed by the frankness and amenity of the Pasha of Tripoli. Captain Beechy, who was sent by the British Admiralty in 1822, to survey the shores of the great Syrtis, speaks with gratitude of the readiness with which facilities were afforded him for the prosecution of the work. Lyon, Denham and Clapperton, although they all experienced many vexations in their journey through the Tripoline dominions, yet seemed to ascribe them rather to the malignity and knavery of the officers of the government, than to any ill intentions on the part of the chief. To those who were not his subjects, the "good old-gentlemanly vice" of avarice seems to have been his principal failing. His own habits were expensive, and his sons, by their prodigality, kept his coffers always empty.
To the American officers and Consuls, he has been most scrupulously attentive, and has several times shewn his anxiety to prevent any difficulties from arising with the government of the United States. On all public occasions, there has been a struggle for precedence between the British and French Consuls; those of other European nations not venturing to advance any claims for themselves. The United States have been fortunately represented in Tripoli by determined men, who, while they ridiculed the etiquette in the abstract, determined to admit no inferiority in a country where it was considered as essentially important; they have therefore uniformly maintained their rights, the Pasha shewing a disposition to aid them as far as he could.
A serious affair, however, occurred in September, 1818, which was very near producing a rupture between Tripoli and the United States. Mr. R. B. Jones, the American Consul, while on a shooting excursion in the vicinity of the city, was attacked by two negroes, and beaten. The negroes were discovered to be the slaves of Morat Rais the Admiral, and there was reason to believe that they had been set on by the Scotch renegade, who always remained the bitter enemy of the United States. Investigations were made, by the results of which this suspicion was confirmed, and Morat finding himself in danger, sought an asylum in the British Consulate. Mr. Jones demanded the public punishment of the slaves, and the banishment of the Admiral from the Regency, during the pleasure of the President of the United States. Yusuf made every endeavor to evade the latter, offering instead to bastinado the slaves as long as Mr. Jones might please, or to strike off their heads if that were required. He urged that the British Consul was entitled to protect all fugitives, by the immemorial custom of the place, and that to drag him from his asylum would be to involve Tripoli in a war with Great Britain. The British Consul, on his part, insisted that Morat was a subject of Great Britain, and as such, liable only to be tried by him. Mr. Jones refused to listen to any of these representations, and was preparing to leave the place with his family, when Yusuf yielded. The slaves were publicly bastinadoed, and their master banished from Tripoli for life. Three years after, however, Mr. Jones was induced by the representations of the Pasha, to request that the President would permit him to return, which was in consequence granted.
Many changes had in the mean time taken place in Tunis. In the month of September, 1813, Hamouda Bey, while taking a cup of coffee, after a long day's fast in the Ramadan, fell down and expired. It has been already stated, that he was not the rightful heir to the throne, according to the European laws of succession, for Mahmoud and Ismael, the sons of Mahmed an elder brother of his father, were still alive, retained as state prisoners in the palace. On the death of Hamouda, his brother Othman assumed the crown, and held it for nearly two years; but he had a powerful enemy in the Sapatapa Sidi Yusuf, who was anxious to govern himself, and considered that the aged Mahmoud would be a more convenient representative of royalty. The troops were accordingly corrupted, and on the 19th of January, 1815, Othman was murdered by the hand of Mahmoud himself, who, having also despatched Othman's two sons, assumed the title and power of Bey, without opposition. The Sapatapa, the contriver of this last revolution, soon received the just reward of his villainy: he was anxious to enjoy the title, as well as the power of a sovereign of Tunis, and prepared to dispose of Mahmoud and his family. His plans were, however, revealed, and on the night on which they were to have been executed, he was himself murdered as he was retiring to his apartment in the palace of Bardo, after having spent the evening in business with the Bey, and in playing chess with his eldest son Hassan. His immense property was confiscated, and his body was dragged by the infuriated populace through the streets, with every mark of indignity. Mahmoud held the throne without any serious difficulty until his death, in 1824. His brother Ismael had no children, and was not a person likely to give him any apprehension. He is represented as having been a merry inoffensive old gentleman, fond of punning, a great lover and judge of wine which he called vinegar, out of respect for the Koran, and an inveterate newspaper politician. It is difficult to imagine an African Prince of this character. On the death of Mahmoud, his eldest son, Hassan, succeeded, who is the present Bey.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO MARGUERITE.
| Where is my friend? I languish here— Where is my own sweet friend? With all those looks of love so dear, Where grace and beauty blend! I miss those social winter hours With her I used to spend, Now cheerless are my summer bowers— Where is my own lov'd friend? Our sweetest joys, like flowers may rise, And all their fragrance lend, Yet my sick heart within me dies— Where is my own sweet friend? The winding brooks, like distant lute, Their murmuring whispers send; The echoes of my soul are mute— Where is my own dear friend? |
M.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO ANN.
| I will not cross thy path again While Earth shall stand or Ocean roll, For thou hast rent the bond in twain That fetter'd long my struggling soul. For me the world no more can bring A smile to love, a frown to fear; The bird that soars on wildest wing, Hath stronger ties to chain him here. To-morrow's sun shall sink to me Beneath lone ocean's caverns deep— To-morrow's sun shall glide from thee, Behind yon forest's waving sweep. And thou shalt mark his farewell beams O'er lov'd familiar objects play; But will they rouse the fairy dreams That once endear'd the close of day? I shall not heed, in climes afar, Thy name—'twill be a sound unheard, And time and distance doubly mar The fitful dream that thou hast stirr'd. I shall not long remember thee, Mid' prouder schemes and objects strange; Thy scorn hath set the captive free, And boundless now shall be his range. And while a sunder'd path shall own My bosom now, as cold as thine, To me thy doom shall rest unknown, As thou shalt nothing know of mine. If o'er thee pale disease should creep And mark thee for an early grave,— No mourning voice shall cross the deep, No tear shall swell the eastern wave. If long and blest thy life should be, And fall like leaves when frost is come,— Unconscious all, the sullen sea Will bear no echo from thy tomb. Unknown must be thy smiles or tears: Yet sometimes, at the farewell hour, The book of fate unclasp'd appears, And half imparts a prophet's power. Try to forget! The time may be When Fancy shall withhold her sway, And blissful dreams no more for thee Shall sport in sunset's golden ray. Try to forget! Thy calm of pride May sink to waveless, waste despair, Like her whose homeward glance descried Heaven's shower of flame descending there. Try to forget! Thy peace of mind May change to passion's blasting storm; When spirits of the past unbind The shroud from Pleasure's faded form. Pray to forget! When chill disdain Shall haply tell that love is fled, And thou shalt gaze, but gaze in vain, On eyes where Passion's light is dead; Then turn thee not to former days— Remember not this hour of pride That banish'd one, who but to raise, To shield, to bless thee, would have died. The shaft that flies from Sorrow's bow When Fate would sternest wrath employ, Is far less steel'd with present woe Than poison'd with remember'd joy. |
Norfolk, September 13, 1834.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MY NATIVE LAND.
BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.
| I return'd to my own native land, And I sought for the spot I had loved, Where the rose and the lily had bloom'd 'neath my hand, And my footsteps in childhood had roved. I saw—but I wept at the change Long years had thrown over the scene;— It was there—but the desert's wild, desolate range Was mark'd "where the garden had been." I look'd for the cottage of white, As it stood half conceal'd, half disclosed, By the rose tree and vine which encircled it quite, Near the sod where my fathers reposed. It was gone—but the chimney was there, The sad relic of long vanish'd years; And the thorn and the brier now embraced, or were near, Where my kindred had buried their cares. I look'd for the valley and stream, Where the bower and grove intertwined; Where the wild hunter boy oft indulged in his dream Of delights he was never to find. The valley and stream—they were there, But the shade of the green wood had pass'd; The stream was a wild where the serpent might lair, In that vale's ever shadowless waste. I look'd for the mountain and hill, Where the hunter delighted to stray, And where at the twilight, the lone whippoorwill Had pour'd forth his anchorite lay. They were there—but the hunter was gone, And the sound of his bugle was hush'd; And the torrent was there—but the light-footed fawn Drank not at its fount as it rush'd. I look'd for the friends I lov'd best; The friends of my earliest choice; They had gone to that bourne where the dead are at rest, Or cold was each care-stricken voice. The living were there—but were chill'd By the imprint of age and its cares; They met me—just met me—and heartlessly smiled, For their friendship had fled with their years. Adieu to thee—"land of the leal," Fair land of the blue-vaulted sky; Tho' I go—yet the heart thus inspired to feel, Shall remember thee oft with a sigh. |
Elfin Moor, Va. January 14, 1835.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO MY CHILD.
BY PERTINAX PLACID.
| Why gazest thou, my eldest born, my best beloved boy, Upon thy father's clouded brow, as if it marr'd thy joy— As If it chill'd thy little heart, such sadden'd looks to see, And gave a mournful presage of thy own dark destiny?— Why dost thou stop thy frolic play, and with inquiring eye, Looking up into my thoughtful face, breathe something like a sigh? Thy little hand upon my knee, thy neck thrown gently back, And thine offer'd kiss, to tempt my tho'ts from their dark and dreary track. Yes, that childish kiss can win me back to momentary peace, And thy soft embrace can bid awhile my bosom's sadness cease— For in my spirit's wanderings, when the past with pain I tread, Or pry into the future with mingled hope and dread, Still thou, my child, in all my tho'ts, sad tho' they be, hast part, And of thy after-life I muse, with a father's anxious heart. Even now thou smilest winningly, to bid me smile again, And thy looks of joy and innocence revive the heart, as rain Revives the drooping, wither'd flower, in Autumn's chilly day, When winds and storms its summer leaves, one by one have rent away. Oh many a sad and heavy hour my heart has felt for thee, And many a prayer my lips have breath'd that heaven thy guide may be, Throughout the giddy maze of life, and from sorrow keep thee free. Not from those griefs that all must feel, who tread this path of care, And that weigh on every bosom doom'd the fate of man to bear— But from the deep regret I feel for many a wasted hour, And from the gnawing of remorse, unbridled passion's dower: That thou may'st early learn to check thy fancy's treacherous glow, Nor paint too fair the face of things, the dark reverse to know— Nor, fed by Hope, too long believed, when she has taken wing, Look round thee on the human face as on a hated thing. Oh never may'st thou deem the world what it has seem'd to me, The field of strife where Virtue falls 'neath fraud and treachery: And may'st thou by no sad reverse, man's darker passions know, Nor prove, when fortunes change, that friends can deal the heaviest blow, That he who shared thy inmost soul, may prove thy deadliest foe. Even now, upon thy gentle face, too plainly I behold The impress of thy future life—thy destiny foretold. That noble brow, so fearless, that eye so bold and free, Bespeak a soul undim'd by aught of wrong or perfidy— The dreaming pauses 'midst thy play, as if of sudden thought, The speaking glances of thine eye, when with hope and gladness fraught— These tell a tale of after times, when I no more shall guide The wand'rings of thy youthful feet, or lead thee by my side— When the fondness of a father's love thou never more canst know, And I shall in an early grave sleep tranquilly and low. That eager glance, that buoyant step, that shout so full of glee, Tell me that thou in manhood's throngs wilt bear thee manfully— That thou wilt trust to those who swear, in love or friendship, truth, And mourn, like me, the illusion o'er, the errors of thy youth. Then be it so—speed on thy race, thro' sunshine and thro' shade: Fair be thy young imaginings—for ah, they all must fade— And may'st thou, when the visions pass, that o'er thy slumbers bend, When life grows dark, and hearts grow cold, find thou hast still a friend, Whose faith the terrors cannot shake of life's most stormy hour, True to the last, be fortune thine, or when misfortune lower. But still, should keen adversity, rend every human tie, Bear thy proud soul above the wreck, the tempest's rage defy. Look on my face again, fair boy, the clouds have passed away— I trust thee to that better guide, who checks us when we stray. And if the thorn must wound us still, whene'er we pluck the rose, His wisdom, which inflicts, can teach to bear life's many woes. Come then, and kiss thy father, boy,—his brow no more is dark; Smile once again, pursue thy play, and carol like the lark. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO ——.
| Thou arch magician! [emphasise the arch! I would not—for an office—have it said That I apostrophized another]—march Where'er I will, thy strategy has spread For me, alas! such ambuscades and toils, I fear thou seek'st to add me to thy "spoils." 'Tis, by my holidame! no more a jest To cope with thee, than him, whose subtle schemes Cheat an enlightened people's greatest, best— While thou art tickling in their downy dreams, Some half score maidens, putting them in mind To play the devil—just as they're inclined. * * * * * With woman's eyes thou hast my heart assailed, Yet I withstood them. Lips and teeth in vain Coral and pearls outshone—form, features failed To bind me captive in thy treacherous chain; I know not why, but fancy some bright shield Hath saved me scathless from the well fought field! * * * * * Perhaps it was her eyes—their flashing light Must have reminded me of quenchless fire: It may have been her teeth—their dazzling white Might hint Tartaric snows than Andes higher, Where shriek the damned from every frozen clime, Warning poor tempted souls to flee from crime.1 Perhaps her lips foretokened coals as red— Perhaps her faultlessness of form might tell Of ruined Arch-angelic beauties, led By Love or Pride's seduction, down to hell— But how 'twas possible I can't divine, To look upon her foot and think of thine! |
1 A hot region has no terrors for the Laplanders. None but a very cold place of punishment is adapted to their imagination.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
LINES
Written in an Album, on pages between which several leaves had been cut out.
| What leaves were these so rudely torn away? Whose immortality thus roughly foiled? What aphoristic dogs have had their day, And of their hopes been suddenly despoiled? Whose leaf was this? and what the bay-wreath'd name Which here its glowing fancies did rehearse? What was the subject which it doomed to Fame? Whose knife or scissors did that doom reverse? Here gallant knights, imagining the wings Of the famed Pegasus sustained them, soaring, Fiddled, thou false one! on their own heartstrings, Whilst thou thy soul in laughter wert outpouring! A score of petty minstrels might have lain, And, like the Abbey Sleepers, found good lying In this brief space—but none, alas! remain, Thou'st sent their ashes to the four winds flying! Behold my Muse, Colossus like, bestride The fallen honors of each beau and lover— Ghosts of departed songs, that here have died, How many of ye now do o'er me hover? Methought I heard ye then, as first ye threw Your soft imaginings in dreamy numbers, And o'er my soul the sweet enchantment flew Like music faintly heard in midnight slumbers. * * * * * When whim, or chance, or spite, my leaf shall tear, Grant me in turn, ye fates! some gentle poet— One who shall lie with such a grace, you'd swear That if indeed he lied, he did'nt know it! |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
A PRODIGIOUS NOSE.
MR. WHITE: Your facetious correspondent PERTINAX PLACID, seems so deeply versed in what may be called nasal music, that I am very sure he would have recorded, in his late communication, and in far better style than mine, the history of a NOSE. Permit me, therefore, to furnish him with a few "memorabilia," of this extraordinary protuberance, (nose it could not properly be called,) against his next narrative of a nasal concert.
It was the property of a Virginia gentleman, long since dead, who had attained, at a very early age, the enormous weight of some seven or eight and twenty stone. It had no resemblance to that of Slawkenbergius—as delineated by Sterne—nor to Dan Jackson's, so frequently and fondly described by Swift—nor to that of the sensual Bardolph, so famous in dramatic annals, for the phosphorescent quality of shining in the dark, ascribed to it by his friend Falstaff. In short, such was its unique conformation, that it would have defied the skill of Dr. Taliacotius himself, even with the choice of any part of the human body, to manufacture any thing at all like it. Although it approached more the bulbous kind of nose, than any other, and in shape, strongly resembled the nose of the Hippopotamus, or river horse, it was so disproportionately small, when contrasted with the two tumuli of flesh between which it was deeply imbedded, that it was quite invisible to any person taking a profile view of the face, which seemed to be literally noseless. Add to this, the projection of an upper lip of double the usual thickness, which so nearly closed the two apertures through which the proprietor breathed, as to render it perfectly manifest to all beholders, that to sleep in any other way but with his mouth at least half open, was utterly impracticable. This accordingly, was his invariable habit; and the consequences can be much more easily imagined, (difficult as it was,) than described. To relate every tale that I have heard of his snoring achievements, would certainly bring into some suspicion the veracity of those from whom I heard them. In tender regard, therefore, for their character, I will repeat only two; but by these alone, both you and your readers may judge pretty well of the rest.
The first was, that on a memorable occasion, when his crater was in full blast, his nasal explosions actually burst open a bran new door, although the bolt of the lock was turned. At another time, it is related of him, that arriving late at night at his favorite tavern in Alexandria, he was conducted into a room, furnished with two beds, in one of which was a little Frenchman, fast asleep, who had gone to rest without any expectation of receiving a fellow lodger. Into the empty bed the fat gentleman soon entered; and being a precious sleeper, he remained but a few minutes awake. Much, however, and most startling work was always to be done, before sound sleep ensued; for a prelude was to be performed, which might aptly be compared to the fearful sounds of a man in the agonies of death by strangulation, from the rupture of a blood vessel. This being almost enough to awaken the dead, we may readily suppose that the little Frenchman was instantly aroused,—aroused too, in the utmost extremity of such terror as would probably be caused in any one, at the idea of a murder being committed in his room. This conviction flashed upon his mind, with all its accompanying horror, at the moment he awoke. In the twinkling of an eye, he sprang out of bed—not exactly "in puris naturalibus," but certainly in a dress very unsuitable for company, and rushed headlong down three flights of stairs, crying out at the top of his voice, "murder! mon dieu! murder! murder!" As may well be imagined, this produced a general rush of the lodgers from their apartments, and in costume similar to his own.—The females were screaming in their highest key—the men, in their far harsher tones, were roaring out, "what's the matter? what's the matter?" while the little Frenchman reiterated still more loudly his piteous cries of "murder! mon dieu! murder! murder!" A scene of such indescribable confusion ensued, that some time elapsed before the equally terrified tavern keeper, who had joined the throng, had the least chance of unravelling the mystery. At last, however, sufficient quiet was restored to enable him to understand from the little Frenchman, why he had fled from his room with such precipitation. An irrepressible burst of laughter had nearly suffocated the poor landlord, before he could gain sufficient breath to explain to his guests, that the whole cause of their dreadful alarm, was nothing more than the fat gentleman's tuning and preluding upon his nasal instrument, as was his invariable custom, preliminary to the much deeper sleep that always followed; and which was indicated by a combination of such unearthly sounds, that they might reasonably thank their stars that the preparation they had received was no worse.
DEMOCRITUS, JR.
SWIMMING.
Some of our readers will doubtless remember an allusion in the tale of "The Doom" to an individual who performed the feat of swimming across the James, at the falls above this city. A valuable correspondent, who was the bold swimmer alluded to, writes us as follows:
"I noticed the allusion in the Doom. The writer seems to compare my swim with that of Lord Byron, whereas there can be no comparison between them. Any swimmer 'in the falls' in my days, would have swum the Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's wharf to Warwick, (six miles,) in a hot June sun, against one of the strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not think much of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
"THE GRAVE OF FORGOTTEN GENIUS."
BY AN UNDERGRADUATE.
| Anxious thought that wished To go, yet whither knew not well to go, Possessed his soul and held it still awhile: He listened and heard from far the voice of fame, Heard and was charmed, and deep and sudden vow Of resolution made to be renowned, And deeper vowed to keep his vow.—Pollock. |
The summer of 18—, was the fourth which I had spent at C—— College, and with it, ended my collegiate life. The scenes, which my long residence there had made sacred to the memory, were now becoming still more sacred as the time of my departure drew near. Every object, which was at all associated with meeting-scenes and parting-adieus, had become a magician's wand,—recalling the absent and the dead—towering hopes, now buried in the tomb, and anguish, which, thus recalled, is but the bliss which the dreamer enjoys, when he wakes and feels himself secure from the precipice, from whose edge a moment before he was plunging into a gulph below. No scene was to me so sacred as the student's grave-yard; for in it, I often mourned over the woes and ills of life, and almost unconsciously wished for a fate like the young men's who slept in its repose. There were then only four graves—three were side by side, having tomb-stones, epitaphed to the memory of those whose ashes reposed beneath them. The fourth stood alone—over it was a rude stone, on which was visible no tribute to him, whose remains were there. His was a destiny which often made me look upon the unlettered stone with the deepest sympathy. One only thing seemed to be known of this grave—one tribute only did time pay to his memory—for to the pilgrim who passed by and hastily inquired "who sleeps there?" naught was ever replied but the simple, yet eloquent elegy, "that is the 'Grave of the Forgotten Genius.'" In this unconscious elegy, there was that which made me look upon it, almost as the grave of a brother.
It was here that I often retired during the last days of my stay at C—— College. Here I could enjoy an uninterrupted revery, and call before me the spirits of the dead and weep o'er the destiny of forgotten genius; yet, even then, I sometimes thought their fate the happiest which could fall to the lot of man. Perhaps they have prayed for the gift of oblivion. Perhaps they have wished not to be remembered. Their last desire may have been,
| "Silent let me sink to earth With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth Nor startle friendship with a tear." |
A few days before my departure from the college, I was walking thoughtfully through the grove, which surrounded this little grave-yard, when suddenly I beheld a stately figure, standing near the unepitaphed grave. He stood for a moment—then approached the gravestone—seemed to take something from it, and pressing his hand to his forehead for a moment, look fixedly at the stone. He arose—hastily left the grave and directed his course towards a little village below. Here was a mystery! Is this a relative—a brother of the "forgotten genius," who has at last come to pay a tribute to his long neglected memory? I ran to the grave. Behold! the name of him who had so long been forgotten! The mysterious stranger had discovered the name of the being who was buried there, which had been almost covered by the moss that had collected upon the stone, and which till then I had never observed.
At twilight I was again in the grove, and again saw the same figure approach the grave. He stood over it, and I distinctly heard these words, "hapless being! Would that I had been here to ease thy dying agony. Yet 'tis well! I grieve not! Thy spirit is at rest."
I did not hesitate, but immediately approached the stranger, who seemed a little surprised, but by no means disconcerted.
"Stranger," I said, "thou grievest not alone! Pardon me for intruding upon thy grief. I wish only to add my sympathy to your anguish."
"Thou'rt welcome!" said the stranger, "I thank thee for thy sympathy: but tell me? Is the tale of him, who sleeps in that grave still known?"
"It is only known that he was once a student of C—— College, and that his tomb has long been called the 'Grave of the Forgotten Genius'" I replied. But the stranger seemed not to hear me—made no answer and approached again to the grave, and by the light of the moon which now shone brightly, read the name "Walter ——," exclaiming, "yes 'tis my younger brother, who died fifteen years ago." "And were none of his friends" I inquired, "at his side during his last illness?"
"Alas" said he, "his spirit was gone, ere the news reached them, that he was sick!" and then after a short silence the stranger continued. "But come with me to yonder village? I will there give you all the information you want." I immediately gave my assent, and after the stranger had again stood silently over the grave seemingly engaged in supplicating the favor of heaven, we approached the village. We entered the village inn,—the stranger left me for a moment, but soon reentered the room in which he had left me, bearing in one hand a small manuscript, and in the other a purse. "This manuscript" said he, "will give you the tale of him, who is now known only as the Forgotten Genius. This purse contains one hundred and fifty crowns, half of which you must cause to be applied to the erection of a monument over my brother's grave, and the other half to be deposited in the county treasury, the interest to be applied to the cultivation of the grove around the student's grave-yard."
"It is now late" said the stranger, "my duty calls me one hundred miles hence before to-morrow evening. I must rest a little, and continue my journey."
I then pressed the stranger's hand. Neither spoke. The tears flowed down the stranger's cheeks, and I felt that I was parting from a brother; without the least hope that I should ever see him again, I retired to my room, but it was only to give vent to the excess of my feelings. I continued walking through my apartment until dawn, and on going out, was informed that the stranger had just set out on his journey. I rushed to my room again, full of doubt and grief—opened the manuscript which had been given to me by the stranger, and read as follows:—
Walter Dunlap was born in Chestatee Village, which is situated on one of the tributary streams of the Tennessee river, and surrounded by those beautiful vallies, so numerous on both sides of the Cumberland mountains. His father had been the first, and was at his birth the principal merchant in Chestatee Village. He was not wealthy, yet his economy had enabled him to afford means for the education of his sons at one of the first colleges in the east. The procurement of this had been his whole ambition, and it may well be imagined, that any evidences of talent and genius in his sons, would please him much. In his infancy, Walter displayed in his slightest actions, a nobleness, a generosity, and a dauntlessness which at once won the heart of his father, and Walter had not been placed under the instruction of a tutor more than six months, ere he was far in advance of those who had spent years in the school-room. Already did the fathers and mothers of Chestatee Village hold up Walter to their children as a model for their imitation. He had not passed his twelfth year before he was sent with an elder brother to a college three hundred miles distant from his paternal home.
We arrived at C—— College full of hope and expectation, for the writer of this narrative was the next elder brother of Walter. We looked only for that continual flow of spirits and sprightliness, which the changing and novel scenes of our journey had excited, and were therefore illy prepared to meet the rigid confinement and discipline of a college-life. At first we sat out with ardor, and Walter especially, seemed delighted with the prospect of pleasure which lay before him. Yet the most ardent and ambitious, are not always the most successful students. A sudden prospect of an adventure, full of romance and chivalry, seldom fails to bewitch their imagination, and those who before were first and most ardent in the pursuit of knowledge, are often, by a single incident of mirth and pleasure converted into ring-leaders of insubordination, unwilling to reap the advantages of a liberal education, and constantly contriving means of interrupting the peace of those around them. There were such at C—— College, and it was not long ere Walter was ranked among the most ungovernable members of the institution. Six months had not elapsed, ere he was represented to his father, as one who was no longer fit for the station he occupied, and was thus privately dismissed. These were the circumstances: Walter and myself were placed under the guardianship of a distant relative who was connected with the institution, and he was to supply us with whatever money we needed. The frequent applications which Walter had made to his guardian at last caused a prompt refusal, which greatly displeased Walter. He went to the apartment occupied by his guardian, and took the sum for which he had applied. This act he did not attempt to conceal, for he was not yet able to distinguish between right and wrong,—so that it could not have entered into his mind that he was then committing a crime, which was subject to the severest punishment. His guardian, offended at the indignity which he thought had been offered him, reported the child who was placed under his peculiar protection, to the president of the college, for theft. Thus was the thoughtless, the generous and noble Walter, beloved by all his companions, implicated and deemed guilty of an act, among the basest in the catalogue of crimes. This news might well astonish the too confiding father of Walter. He was scarcely able to think, or to speak, when be received the request which the faculty had made. It was a journey of several days, yet this did not stop the weeping father, who hastened to the college to examine in person the nature of the offence. On his arrival, he too was convinced of the guilt of his son. In vain did his youthful eloquence attempt to make a distinction between taking that which was his own, and that which was another's. His father's rigid justice could not comprehend the distinction, which though incorrect, was perfectly natural. Well do I remember the sad and woe-worn countenance of our parent. Never have I seen, during a lapse of almost twenty year's observation, a father lament so bitterly over the fate of his son.
"My son," said he to me, as he was about to set out with Walter, to leave me to solitude and tears, "act honorably for my sake," and as we shook hands, tears came to relieve the agony which oppressed us. Walter, too, who till now had been firm and unmoved, boldly informing his companions of his situation and defending his actions, embraced me tenderly, and then more than at any other time during my life, when my feelings were only suggested by nature, did my heart respond to the thrilling lines
| "The word that bids us sever, It sounds not yet, no, no, no!" |
We parted! Months passed on and not a word from Walter. At last a letter came from my father. It breathed still the same feelings and anguish which he felt at our separation. "Walter," said he, "still remains inexorable! He is ruined, and I am not able to control him. You, my son, you alone can cheer my heart and recal me from the woe which Waller has caused me." At the end of one year from the time I had separated from my father, he informed me that he had just sent Walter to live with an uncle, who resided on the Elk—a river whose banks were then but thinly settled, where he hoped the retirement of his situation and the good counsel of his uncle, would work a reformation in the feelings and principles of Walter.
"If this fail," he concluded, "I am at an end—my last hope is destroyed and my heart is broken." More than two years had elapsed since my departure for the college, and for the first time was I summoned to my paternal home. I returned, and oh, how changed was the scene! I had left my father's a house of constant happiness, but now scarcely a smile was familiar to the face of a person in the family. My father was absent in mind, and talked of forsaking business. I remained two months, and used all my endeavors to recal his thoughts to the objects around him, and in some measure succeeded. I again returned to C—— College—where I remained two years longer, not forgetting to write often to my father in such a style as to make him forget that subject which weighed so heavily upon his spirits; nor did I forget Walter, to whom I often wrote, although my letters were never answered, and had reason to hope that they were not only agreeable to him, but gladly received. The last year of my collegiate life ended! I flew to my home, in obedience to the urgent request of my father, who still spoke of the disgrace and ruin of Walter, who had just returned. I was greeted with the sincerest joy—and Walter, as my father informed me, wept for the first time since our separation four years before, and I felt, that I had been restored to a long lost brother. He, indeed, seemed to be suddenly wrested from the gloom which had so long surrounded him, and we rambled over the hills, sacred to the memory of school-boy sports, again mingled together in the society of youthful friends, and were again as happy and as joyous, as we were, ere we experienced the pestilential influence of a college.
Immediately after my return home, my father entreated me to use every means for the reformation of Walter, at the same time, evincing all the bitterness of grief and despair. My whole object was now to gain an ascendancy over the mind of Walter. We read together—talked and laughed together—and indulged together those anticipations of the future, so bright and enchanting to the minds of the young. Often did his eye brighten at the suggestion of his future glory and greatness. Thus, by slow but certain progress, did he allow himself to be dragged from the despair and gloom by which he was surrounded. He read the tales of the great and renowned, and again was fired with ambition which prompted him to look for a name equal to theirs. Long had he been accustomed to look upon himself as an offcast from society—as one scorned and shunned by the good and the generous: for none had encouraged him to hope even that the disgrace which had come so soon to snatch him from the light of joy, and sink him to the depths of despair could ever be forgotten. How many noble, ardent and ambitious youths, have thus been driven to the night of woe and mental desolation? How many have been urged to the extremity of human depravity by the too rigid decree of a father's or a guardian's justice? How many like Walter, have been driven before the gale of prosperity, then suddenly abandoned, left scorched and desolate, as the proud vessel which is cast upon the barren shore, and left to moulder in the "winds and rains of heaven!" Yet there was one thing which seemed to afford some ground for the hope that all was not lost. For when we participated in the amusements of youth together, and he again received such evidences of respect from those around him, that he could not believe them insincere, and when he had forgotten his hopeless destiny, there came over his spirit lucid intervals, in which he explored the sublime philosophy of Locke and Paley, and became master of all the descriptions and sentiments of Addison. As we rambled one day in a solitary grove, Walter suddenly stopped, and after a moment's silence, said in a firm but melancholy tone, "my brother, the last four years of my life have been desolate, dreary like—a solitary waste. Yet this was not my fault! I have been an outcast—no human being sympathized with me—none trusted me—none esteemed me—none would receive my company but the profligate and abandoned, with whom I was taught to class myself ere I distinguished between error and truth? Thou alone hast remained faithful, and I now thank you for all your kindness and advice. I was exiled from my paternal home, I returned heart-stricken and miserable, yet I received no sympathy, until you came like an angel of mercy, to recal me to light. May heaven——." Here his voice faltered, and a flood of tears came to his relief. After a few moments he continued: "I have resolved to return to C—— College and there retrieve the happiness, the honor and character, which a youthful folly has taken from me. I thank you for your tears of sympathy. You can participate in my feelings and do justice to my motives." It was thus, in one of the most intensely interesting conversations which I ever held, that Walter disclosed to me the very purpose which I had prayed in all the fervor of supplication he might resolve upon. I soon after made known his feelings to his father, and soon, almost instantaneously, he again left his paternal home to return to C—— College. He left us agitated with doubt and the deepest anxiety for his success. He left us, warmed with the admiration which his noble purpose could not fail to inspire, but racked with that awful feeling of dread, which the uncertainty of hope always occasions. Walter did not weep—he did not seem moved, and yet there was that in his countenance which spoke eloquently of feeling. And yet there were tears to hallow the memory of our separation. A little brother, scarce able to realize the scene around him, shed tears of childish sorrow—a sister, enthusiastic in her affection for her brother shed tears—and a father too, whose locks were whitened with grief, showed youthful sympathy at his son's adieu—and I too, was not unmoved.
Walter Dunlap is again at C—— College! The farewell scene, which had convinced him how deeply the happiness of his relatives could be affected by his success—the powerful sympathy which such an occasion had displayed, at once establish him in his purpose. Fame, honor, and usefulness, were the beacon-lights which illumined his path, and the eternal gratitude of a sister—a brother—a heart-broken father, the ministering spirits which cheered him amid the storms of passion and misery, incident to the human heart. Kirke White was the model which he set before his mind—because there was a sympathy to his mind between their destinies, although White had never received a moral blight, yet it was enough that they had both been pursued by the rigor of fate.
From the moment he entered the walls of the college, he began a rigid discipline of the mind. What elevated Milton, he would ask, to an equality with the gods? What gave to Newton a comprehension of the mysteries of the universe, and to Franklin a power over the elements? and then triumphantly answer, study—unceasing study. "If Socrates had contented himself with only wishing and sighing to enter the field of philosophical truth—if he had prayed, however fervently, could that have sufficed to make him the Prince of Philosophers? Naught but the deepest, unbroken thought could have made him sport familiarly with the subtleties of philosophy, clothed as they then were, in all the gloom of ancient mythology." So thought Walter Dunlap. Night after night did he wear himself away by the intensity of his study and the depth of his thought. A year had not passed, ere he had run through much of the whole collegiate course—made himself master of the ancient languages, and gained a prize in astronomical calculations. Mind cannot conceive the joy which he felt at this success. The image of a father, smiling with tenderness and approbation, blessing him with the unbounded gratitude which a father only can feel, was ever present to his mind. Who can measure the depth of his joy? Who can count the sighs of anguish which these moments of joy now repayed? Well might he say, in reference to his own life,
| "One moment may, with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain." |
Yet he did not esteem his work yet ended—his purpose yet realized. Innumerable difficulties, calling for energy to brave the prospect of years of application, presented themselves. He resolved to banish from his heart every image of despair, and if the attainment of glory and usefulness required it,
| "To drink even to the very dregs The bitterest cup that time could measure out, And having done, look up and ask for more." |
He received no joy but in the action of mind—in converse with the proudest philosophers of the world. If he was but allowed to walk with Plato and Aristotle, in the grove of Academus, and listen to their discourses he was content. And yet, philosopher as he was, he did not wish to die unlamented, with no epitaph to his memory. How could he remain in the world, and leave it, without having made one discovery in science—established one truth which might benefit mankind—done aught that could endear his name to posterity—caused one heart's gratitude to follow him to the tomb? Such a thought was sad—unutterable! It was thus he was hurried on in his mental application, till at last it became far too incessant for the safety of his life. He saw the consequence, yet could not stay the impetuous workings of his own mind—now beyond his control. His last letter to me, thus concluded, "since I cannot expect a long residence on this earth, my only wish is, that I may have at least one kind friend who will candidly inscribe upon my tomb, this simple epitaph,
"Here lies a heart, that beat for fame."
Soon after the reception of this letter, we were informed by the president of C—— College, that Walter Dunlap had died suddenly, from an inflammation of the lungs occasioned by an exposure to the air for several hours, while observing the corruscations of the Aurora borealis.
Thus died Walter Dunlap—a child of sorrow—a being of the strongest aspirations—possessing a genius which would have elevated him to a rank with the profoundest philosophers—and wept by his companions whose tears form his only funeral eulogy.
His life may show the danger of exposing a child too early to the contagion of a college—the folly of dealing too harshly with youthful errors—the force of sympathy on the heart, and the elevation at which a mind may instantly arrive. Farewell.
I will only add that the "student's grave yard" now contains a monument over the tomb of the Forgotten Genius, and that in compliance with my promise, I caused to be inscribed to the memory of Walter Dunlap, the eloquent epitaph contained in his last letter to his brother, so justly due to the actions of his short life.
West Point, 18th April, 1835.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE HOUSE MOUNTAIN IN VIRGINIA.
This double mountain forms a conspicuous object in the romantic county of Rockbridge. It stands seven miles west of Lexington, from whose inhabitants it hides the setting sun, and not unfrequently turns the summer showers. Being separated from the neighboring ridge of the North mountain, and more lofty, it presents its huge body and sharp angles full to the western winds. Clouds are often driven against it, cloven asunder, and carried streaming on to the right and left with a space of clear sky between, similar in form to the evening shadow of the mountain.
Sometimes however, a division of the cloud after passing the town, will come bounding back in a current of air, reflected from another mountain. It is not uncommon to see a cloud move across the great valley in Rockbridge, shedding its contents by the way—strike the Blue Ridge on the south eastern side, wheel about and pursue a different course until it is exhausted. The traveller, after the shower is over, and the clear sunshine has induced him to put off his cloak and umbrella, is surprised by the sudden return of the rain from the same quarter towards which he had just seen it pass away.
What is called the House Mountain, consists in fact, of two oblong parallel mountains, connected at the base, and rising about 1500 feet above the common level of the valley. The summits which are about a mile and a half long, resemble the roof of a house; the ends terminate in abrupt precipices; and round the base, huge buttresses taper up against the sides, as if designed to prop the mighty structure. The students of Washington College make a party every summer to visit this mountain for the sake of the prospect. They set out in clear weather and spend the night on the mountain in order to enjoy the morning beauties of the scene, which are by far the most interesting. Having twice been of such a party, the writer gives the following description, from a memory so deeply impressed by what he saw, that years have scarcely abated the vividness of its ideas.
The first time, we were disappointed by the cloudiness of the atmosphere, and should have made an unprofitable trip, had not an unexpected scene afforded us a partial reward for the toils of the ascent. We lodged like Indian hunters not far from the summit, where a little spring trickles from the foot of the precipice. After we had slept awhile, one of the company startled us with the cry of fire! He saw with astonishment in the direction of the Blue Ridge, a conflagration that cast a lurid glare through the hazy atmosphere. The flame rose and spread, every moment tapering upwards to a point, and bending before the night breeze. We first imagined that a large barn was on fire, and then as the flame grew, that the beautiful village of Lexington was a prey to the devouring element. While we gazed with fearful anxiety, the fiery object in rising yet higher, seemed to grow less at the lower extremity, until it stood forth to our joyful surprise, the MOON half full, reddened and magnified by the misty air beyond what we had ever seen. Its light afforded an obscure perception of the most prominent objects of the landscape. Shadowy masses of mountains darkened the sight in various directions, and spots less dark in the country below, gave indications of fields and houses. We perceived just enough to make us eager for a more distinct and general view of the scene. In the morning, every thing was hidden by the cloudy confusion of the atmosphere.
The next time, our party lodged on the aerial summit of the mountain, by a fire of logs, which might have served the country for a beacon. The weather proved favorable, and we rose before the dawn to enjoy the opening scene. The sky was perfectly serene, but all the world below was enveloped in darkness and fog. Our fire had sunk to embers. The gloom, the desolation, the deathlike stillness of our situation, filled every mind with silent awe, and prepared us for solemn contemplation. We spoke little, and felt disposed to solitary musing. I retired alone to a naked rock which raised its head over a precipice, turned my face to the east, and waited for the rising sun, if not with the idolatrous devotion, yet with the deep solemnity of the Persian Magii. Presently the dawn began to show the dim outline of the Blue Ridge along the eastern horizon, at the distance of twelve or fifteen miles. When the morning light opened the prospect more distinctly, the level surface of the mist which covered the valley became apparent; and the mountain tops in almost every direction, looked like islands in a white, placid, and silent ocean. I gazed with delighted imagination over this novel and fairy scene; so full of sublimity in itself, and from the sober twilight in which it appeared, so much like the work of fancy in visions of a dream. The trees and rocks of the nearest islands soon became visible; more distant islands were disclosed to view, but all were wild and desolate. I felt as if placed in a vast solitude, with lands and seas around me hitherto undiscovered by man.
Whilst I gazed with increasing admiration over the twilight scene, and endeavored to stretch my vision into the dusky regions far away, my attention was suddenly arrested by sparks of dazzling brilliancy which shot through the pines on the Blue Ridge. In the olden time, when Jupiter's thunderbolts were manufactured in the caverns of Ætna, never did such glittering scintillations fly from under the forge hammers of Cyclops. It was the sun darting his topmost rays over the mountain, and dispersing their sparkling threads in the bright and cloudless atmosphere. Very soon the fancied islands around me caught the splendid hue of the luminary, and shone like burnished gold on their eastern sides. In the west, where they were most thickly strown over the white sea of mist, and where their sides alone appeared, I could imagine them to be the islands of the blessed (so famous in ancient poetry,) where light and peace reigned perpetually. But the pleasing illusion was soon dissipated. The surface of the mist hitherto lying still, became agitated like a boiling caldron. Every where light clouds arose from it and melted away. Presently the lower hills of the country began to show their tops as if they were emerging from this troubled sea. When the sun displayed his full orb of living fire, the vapory commotion increased, the features of the low country began to be unveiled, and the first audible sound of the morning, the barking of a farmer's dog, rose from a deep vale beneath, and completely broke the enchantment of the twilight scene. When the sun was an hour high, the fog only marked the deep and curvilinear beds of the waters. Nor was I less delighted with the realities of the prospect before me.
The country lay beneath and around me to the utmost extent of vision. Along the uneven surface of the great valley, a thousand farms in every variety of situation were distinctly visible, some in low vales, some on the upland slopes, and here and there a few on the elevated sides of the mountains.
On the northeast, the less hilly county of Augusta was seen in dim perspective, like a large level of blueish green. Stretching along the eastern horizon for many a league, the Blue Ridge shewed a hundred of its lofty pinnacles among which the Peaks of Otter toward the south, rose pre-eminently conspicuous. The valley in a southwestern direction was partly concealed by the isolated line of the Short Hill: but beyond that appeared at intervals the vales of James river, from the gap where the stream has burst through the Blue Ridge, up to the place where it has cloven the North mountain, and thence round by the west, to the remarkable rent which it has made in the solid rock of the Jackson mountain, a distance altogether of some forty miles.
On the western side, the view is of a different character. Here it seemed as if all the mountains of Virginia had assembled to display their magnificence and to exhibit with proud emulation, their loftiness and their length. Line upon line, ridge behind ridge, perched over one another, crossed the landscape in various directions, here swelling into round knobs, and there stretching off in long masses far and wide; until they faded away in the blue of the atmosphere, and distinction of form and color was lost in the distance.
When I was able to withdraw my eyes from the collective whole of this sublime prospect, and to examine the particular objects that appeared around me, I was struck with the long narrow vales on the western side. The cultivated low grounds and streams of water, all converging towards the wider stream and valley of the James river, presented a beautiful contrast with the rude grandeur of the mountains among which they lay. When I looked down upon the country in the immediate vicinity of the House Mountain, I admired the beauties of the scene. The woody hillocks and shady dells had lost every rough and disagreeable feature: the surface of the woods was uniformly smooth and green, like a meadow, and wound before the elevated eye with the most graceful curves imaginable. The little homesteads about the foot of the mountain, the large farms and country seats further away in the valley, and the bright group of buildings in the village of Lexington, formed a gentle scene of beauty, which relieved the mind from the almost painful sublimity of the distant prospect, and prepared us, after hours of delightful contemplation, to descend from our aerial height, and to return with gratified feelings to our college and studies again.
Lexington, Virginia.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,
During the Summer of 1834.
NO. I.
On the morning of a bright and beautiful day early in July, I resumed my seat in the mail coach at Lexington, with the prospect of soon reaching the Virginia Springs. The line having been recently established was as yet little known, and on this occasion I was the only passenger. Ample opportunity was afforded for viewing the charming scenery which surrounds this village; and, certainly, the world can scarcely present a more lovely landscape than that which lay before us as we entered upon the turnpike which leads to the Springs.
At the foot of the hill which we were descending, "Woods's Creek" was stealing along through the shaded retreats and the velvet green which lines its banks; the adjoining hills were crowned with waving fields, now ripening for the harvest; the chimnies of the "Mulberry Hill" residence could just be seen, peering above the groves and the foliage which throw their charms around its retirement; the ruins of the "Old Academy"—where Alexander, Baxter, Matthews, Rice, and others of the first men in the Presbyterian Church were educated,—with its mouldering, ivy-covered walls, stood in melancholy solitude on the borders of the neighboring forest. Beyond, was the rolling country in its variety of scenery; and in the back ground, the House, Jump and North Mountains marking their clear outline, against the deep azure of a cloudless sky.
After winding among the hills for a few hours, we came in view of the long, unbroken range of mountains, over which we were to pass; and though still some miles from the base, the road could be distinctly traced, running in straight, and then in zigzag directions along the precipitous ascent. Soon after, we commenced our slow progress up the mountain, which might have been tedious had it not been that every successive moment which increased our elevation, revealed new beauties. The road itself is one of the curiosities of this region; it would scarcely seem possible for the ingenuity and energy of man to construct so safe and so delightful a passage over these rough and almost perpendicular ridges. At one point you may look from your carriage window upon the traveller some fifty feet below, parallel with yourself, and, paradoxical as it may appear, proceeding in the same direction, although he is bound for the opposite end of the road. So great are the angles necessary to be made in order to overcome the obstacles which nature had interposed. The declivity of the turnpike, however, is now so slight as to admit of travelling at almost any speed.
On reaching the summit, the view was inexpressibly grand. One of the loveliest sections of the Valley of Virginia spread its beauties below us. On one hand the "House Mountain" rose in solitary grandeur above the surrounding hills, and on the other the dark spurs of the Alleghany projected out into the more cultivated country. On the southwest, as far as the eye could reach, mountain after mountain could be seen. Immediately below and before us, were laid out as a map, the fertile fields, comfortable farm-houses and county roads of Rockbridge; the numerous streams reflected in silvery sheets, as they wound through the broken country and hurried along to pour their waters into the bosom of the James. Across the "Valley" at the distance of perhaps twenty miles, the great "Blue Ridge" stretched away towards the north and south, until it was lost in the deeper azure of the evening sky, or hid by the dark and heavy clouds which bear the summer's storm.
We were now upon the boundary which separates the "Valley" from Western Virginia. After gazing in admiration on the beauties of the country through which we had just travelled, I turned to enjoy similar scenes on the opposite side. But nothing except successive piles of mountains met the view. The deep vales and sun-tinged peaks, seemed to be still slumbering in their original wildness, and had it not been for the traces of art exhibited by our turnpike, and the sight of an iron foundry in the valley below, I should have been almost forced to the conclusion, that we were disturbing the silence of those forests which had never before echoed but to the cry of the panther, or the war-whoop of the wandering Indian.
Having halted a few minutes, the driver "shod" our coach, and rolling away with the sound of thunder down the mountain, we reached the inn where the stage stopped for the night, just as the sun was sinking behind the western hills. Our landlord and his better half were themselves Dutch, and had raised up a stout rosy-looking family, who attended to the domestic concerns of the establishment without the aid of servants. The house was situated on a level lawn between two lofty ridges of the Alleghany, part of which was neatly enclosed, and clothed with the richest green. The domicil itself was one story in height, with a piazza in front; and the peculiar national taste of the proprietor could be seen in the free use of red and black paint with which the establishment was ornamented. But the interior presented an aspect rather more inviting, after the fatigue of the day's ride. The snow-white table cloth, and the clean and plain, yet delightful fare, with which the table was bountifully supplied, gave evidence of the existence of taste in the culinary department, which amply compensated for the want of it in matters of less substantial importance. A handsome coach and four had driven up just as we arrived. After tea the guests assembled in the piazza, and we passed away in cheerful conversation the hours of a lovely summer's evening, in this wild valley among the mountains.
We reached Covington, a village on Jackson's river, to breakfast the next morning, and by ten o'clock had arrived at Callaghens, a comfortable country tavern, where we intersected the line from Staunton. On the arrival of that stage, I changed conveyances, and with it the light and rapid travelling of the former coach, for the slow and heavy motion of one loaded down with passengers and baggage. I found as my new companions, a very agreeable gentleman from Philadelphia, with his wife and son, an intelligent young South American, a huge and awkward Mississippian, an incog. gentleman with a good countenance and a white hat of the first magnitude, a youth of about seventeen, whose emaciated countenance, hectic flush and distressing cough, told that consumption had marked him as its victim, together with one or two others not peculiarly interesting. We were now but fifteen miles from the White Sulphur; and the impatience of our passengers seemed to increase almost in the duplicate ratio as the distance diminished. Every few moments the interrogatory, "How far are we now?" was heard from some one of the company. At length the number of handsome vehicles, persons on horseback and on foot, which were passing and repassing us, shewed that we were in the vicinity of the Springs. In a few moments the enclosure came in view, and immediately after we drove up in front of the hotel at the White Sulphur. Groups of gentlemen were collected about the lawn and in the long piazza of the hotel. All eyes were eagerly turned towards our coach, and many came crowding round, in hopes of espying the face of an acquaintance among the new arrivals. The first physiognomy which greeted our vision was that of the manager of the establishment, who has no very enviable notoriety among the visitors. According to his usual system, he had our baggage deposited for the remainder of the day at the foot of the tree where we landed, whilst we were left to wander about the premises, without even a domicil in which to change our dusty travelling garb for one more in unison with our personal comfort, and the general appearance of those who were to constitute our temporary associates.
There is something in the first view of the White Sulphur, very prepossessing and almost enchanting. After rolling along among the mountains and dense forests, the wild and uncultivated scenery is at once exchanged for the neatness and elegance of refined society, and the bustle and parade of the fashionable world. Almost every state in the Union, and some of the nations of Europe may find their representatives at the White Sulphur, during the months of July and August. The last season was honored with an uncommon assemblage of interesting personages. We had Messrs. Clay and Poindexter of the United States Senate; McDuffie and others from the House of Representatives; Commodores Chauncey, Biddle and Rogers of the Navy; Judges Carr, Brooke and Cabell of the Court of Appeals; Col. Aspinwall, American Consul at London; the Hon. Mr. Sergeant of Philadelphia, and a host of dignitaries of somewhat lower degree,—also from the religious community, Rev. Doctors Johns and Keith of the Episcopal Church, and Rev. Messrs. Chester, Styles, (of Georgia) and others of the Presbyterian. Mr. Clay was just recovering from an injury he had received from the upsetting of the stage, but he moved about with the lightness and activity of a boy of 15. Indeed we almost thought that he descended from his dignity by his frivolous and careless air. He was affable and accessible to all. Mr. McDuffie, on the contrary, with his hard and forbidding countenance, was morose and distant, and the very reverse of the orator of Kentucky. Perhaps, however, due allowance should be made in favor of the former, on account of the infirm state of his health.
But the White Sulphur itself must not pass unnoticed. Its charms are worthy of being celebrated. The buildings, which are situated on a gradual acclivity, are arranged in the form of a hollow square. Adjoining the Kanawha turnpike, which passes the springs and parallel with it, are two large white hotels. One of these contains the dining and drawing rooms, and in the other there is a spacious saloon for music, dancing, &c. This is also used on the Sabbath as a chapel. In a line with these, and running in each direction, is a row of cottages one story in height, for the use of visitors. With this at the eastern extremity unites a continued range of beautiful white cottages, with venitians and long piazzas, forming another side of the quadrangle. At the distance of several hundred paces from the hotels, and parallel with them on the hill side, is the third range, which is built entirely of brick and extends for several hundred yards, until its lower termination is concealed amongst the trees which form a thick grove on the brow of the hill. On the western extremity of the area are the bathing houses, and above all, that which constitutes the great attraction—the spring. The reservoir in which the spring rises, is an octagon of about five feet in diameter, from which a constant and copious stream flows off, supplying the bathing houses. A few steps lead up from this reservoir, to a platform some twenty-five feet in diameter, furnished with seats and surrounded by a neat railing. The whole is protected by a beautiful temple, composed of lofty white pillars surmounted by a dome. From the interior of this dome is suspended a chandelier, by which the temple is lighted up in the evenings. A lawn of the richest green, tastefully laid out with gravelled walks, and shaded by an abundance of oaks and locusts, extends over the area of the quadrangle. At the distance of a few feet from the cottages is a light railing, along which, as also along the walks, are lamp-posts, from which the area is brilliantly illuminated in the evening.
We know of no scene more romantic and picturesque than that presented to a spectator from one of the cottages on the hill, after the lamps have been lighted for the night. The floods of light, streaming among the trees, and from every window; the throngs of the gay and fashionable, crowding the walks for the evening's promenade, and the thrilling melody of the rich music from a fine German band, throws quite a fairy-like influence around this pleasant retreat among the mountains.
On the Sabbath, the saloon usually occupied as a dancing room, was consecrated to more hallowed purposes. At the call of the bell, a large and very respectable congregation assembled, and listened to a solemn and eloquent discourse from the Rev. Doct. Johns of Baltimore. It seemed peculiarly appropriate, that while resorting to these waters for healing the diseases of the body, we should also have recourse to the wells of salvation which have been opened in the house of David for the diseases of the soul. The grace and elegance with which the speaker on this occasion presented the truths connected with his office, was calculated to render them interesting, as well as to convey a sense of their importance even to the most indifferent.
It would be perhaps superfluous to speak of the healing efficacy of this celebrated spring; its renovating effects are annually exhibited, and have been for years. It has been, however, a matter of regret, that so little has been certainly known, as to the peculiar properties of this as well as the other mineral springs of Virginia, and of their application to different diseases. It is a lamentable fact that invalids, by resorting to one of the springs which was not at all suited to their case, have only aggravated their diseases, and hurried themselves more rapidly to the grave. No impression is perhaps more common and none more erroneous, than that if the use of a particular spring is efficacious in one complaint, it will be equally beneficial in others, no matter how different their nature, and that at all events if no good is gained, no positive injury is received. The very opposite of this is the fact. Unless there is a clear understanding of the pathology of the disease, and of the properties of the water, as well as the adaptation of its constituents to remove the malady in view, we are for the most part groping in the dark, and playing at best but a hazardous game. The want of a mineral water suited to the case of invalids, need however deter no one from visiting the Virginia Springs. Providence has supplied in this region a variety sufficient to answer the necessities of almost any case. The only difficulty is, to ascertain which of these watering places is adapted to the particular disease.
Doctors Bell and Horner have given to the public the results of some investigations in reference to these waters, but the former had never visited the springs, and the latter only for a few weeks of one season, without either proper apparatus to perfect a complete analysis, or sufficient opportunity for witnessing their practical effects. The consequence is, that both of these gentlemen, though eminent in their professions, have given their authority to statements which are in many respects erroneous. Difficulties from this source however will soon be remedied. Professor Rogers of William and Mary College, a gentleman eminently qualified for the purpose, visited the springs last summer with complete analyzing apparatus, and it is to be hoped that the cause of humanity will speedily realize the benefit of his valuable investigations. Dr. Tindall, who has made the White Sulphur his place of residence for several seasons, has devoted his attention to ascertaining the practical effects of the waters, and intended issuing a volume on the subject before the commencement of the next summer.
The efficacy of the White Sulphur is principally confined to affections of the liver, and derangements of the sanguiferous and biliary systems. Where there is any tendency to pulmonary disease, the use of this water should by all means be avoided. Its exciting effects are exceedingly prejudicial to such constitutions. A continued use of the water will occasion a rapid progress of the disease. Individuals of a consumptive habit have been known to hasten their end by a residence at the White Sulphur. One case at least has come within my own observation.
We cannot leave the White Sulphur without a deep feeling of regret, that the proprietors of this otherwise attractive and delightful place, should make so little provision for the comfort of visitors. The buildings, though extensive, are not at all sufficient to accommodate the numbers which now resort thither. During the last summer almost every house for miles on the roads leading to the springs, was thronged with persons who had been turned off at the hotel. Many of those who could obtain the privilege of remaining upon the ground, received exceedingly unpleasant accommodations. The table too, which assumes a prodigious importance after a week's residence and use of the water, is by no means such as should be afforded at such an establishment. Every visitor will recollect his dining-room experience at the White Sulphur. But one of the most unpleasant features of the whole, is found in the person of the manager, who, although naturally possessed of an amiable and accommodating disposition, we must say, in our opinion, is not qualified for the situation. It is much to be lamented, that this place which possesses decided advantages over any watering place in the United States and perhaps in the world—whose climate, scenery and healing properties are no where surpassed, and to which, notwithstanding the accommodations, crowds resort, should not be fitted up in a style suited to its merits.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.