I have said nothing of the exquisite entertainment to be drawn from the study before us. My object has been to work on the feelings of real and palpable interest, so effectual in ruling men of the present day.
Let us now turn to a picture, to me of great beauty. The strifes and toils of the world are left behind us. We have sought the shades of retirement, to consume in domestic happiness the few remaining years of our earthly term. The merchant has come from the hills and valleys of the east to the banks of the Nile. He brings with him
"Munera terræ
Et maris extremos Arabas distantes et Indos."
His wanderings have been among the groves of spice, and over the sands of the great deserts. His cheek has been shaded by the palm and the cool cedar, but it has too been blistered by a scorching sun. All this is at length passed, and chaunting the "Allah Acbar," wearied—yet joyful in his weariness—he plants his pavilion on the quiet shore, there in patience to abide the coming of Dyerm or Xebeck, appointed for his passage to the destined mart. Thus after experiencing the various fortunes of active life, we sink into ease.
To him who has no 'munera scientiæ'—no attachment to polite research, from which to draw pleasure in the hours of solitude, this seclusion is worse than a foretaste of that grave so soon to succeed it. His mind is a mere void, aching to be filled. Accustomed to satiety, before the affairs of life were relinquished, the contrast is now all the more painful. It is this that accounts for the discontent of those "refugees from the closed shop," whom we see around us. But on this picture I do not love to linger. There is another, possessing in the home of his retirement, a home of placid delight. Surrounded by the fruits of mental exertion—the parent tree long dead—he revels among the richly flavored and the luscious, until existence becomes one continued feast. His influence in the world is undiminished—his works are remembered with feelings of reverence and affection. Afar from the restless crowd he is, as has been beautifully said, like the moon in her relation with ocean; and rendered no less influential by the tranquil steadiness with which he keeps aloof from the scenes of his influence. To such a man the treasures of ancient lore are invaluable; they are charms possessing power to call up the host of worthies, by nature and assiduous cultivation, great and excellent. In the sacred recesses of his studio he communes with these. He is cheered by his intercourse with companions so pleasing, and his path to the grave is smoothed by flowers of the softest leaf. At length the drama draws to a close! Like the chaste Talbot, he breathes his gratitude to those who have been to him the fountains of 'sweet joy.' It is his last breath. Loved for his virtues, and venerated for his good works, he sinks to the grave, on whose brink he has long been lingering, and whose ideal horrors, the lessons of true knowledge have rendered to him objects to be welcomed, not dreaded—loved, not feared.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MEMORY.—AN ALLEGORY.
An evil genius visited the happy islands which repose upon the bosom of the deep blue sea. In these smiling gardens the blest recline, remote from the turmoil and confusion of life: there are trees loaded with golden fruits—flowers of a thousand hues, and sweet fountains of limpid water spread their silvery lines along the emerald lea. The melody of singing birds, the soft murmur of running streams, and sounds of distant music, fall upon the ravished ear. The wanton breeze steals fragrance from the flowers as it passes on, and sweet perfumes scent the air. Here childish innocence reposes on beds of flowers; there groups of maturer years recline on verdant knolls, enjoying the passing hour. Pairs wander arm in arm in pursuit of pleasures that never pall, and gay crowds lightly dance their hours away in mirth and song. The genius pronounces the fatal word, and each breathing figure is transformed to mute and changeless stone. The voice of mirth is hushed, the tones of music have fled, years roll away, and the living statues still look in marble coldness on the changing scene. Its flowers wither—its trees of golden fruits die one by one away—the birds flee from their green retreats, and the creeping serpent hisses in the tangled brake—tall rank grass covers the favorite walks, or choke the streams, whose turbid waters force their sluggish way. At length a passing vessel stops—a stranger wanders over the wondrous scene. On a pillar an inscription is engraved; he pauses to read the word, and instantly the spell is broken—the marble statues melt into silent shadows of the human form, and flitting forth in pairs and groups, they wander over their once loved home. They seek their familiar haunts; they search for the objects of their love; and each shadow as it passes, whispers, gone: and returning to their places, their forms resume their marble lineaments, and stand once more cold monuments of their former selves. Such indeed is the human mind. First comes youth's genial season; hopes linked with loves in happy pairs, wander around the smiling scene, which fancy decks with flowers. Here joy dancing to the song of mirth, lightly whiles his hours away; there young affections and gentle thoughts, like virgin sisters of a primeval race, pursue their quiet way to the bright abode which fancy hath created so beautiful and fair. But at length sorrow comes to breathe its spell. How many hopes, and loves, and pure affections, and pleasant thoughts, are changed and gone! Inurned in icy coldness, they are sepulchered in memory's cave; and yet, perhaps, some simple word of other times is breathed, its spell evokes departed joys and buried loves. Dim shadows of the past arise—they fleeting come. But fancy too is changed; it no longer forms the gay creations of its youth, but fills its gloomy fields with pictures at which the heart doth shrink. The very thoughts for which we sighed, are now without a home, and seek to pass away.
ALPHA.