Chapter IV: Part 4

The carriage road commencing at the mouth of the Wissahiccon, crosses the stream on a covered bridge, about a mile and a half above, winds up a hill of considerable elevation, and passes over to the ridge. From the covered bridge access along the creek is obtained by means of a foot path, on the western side, which is marked through the forest, over crags and cliffs, rugged rocks and rooted trees, until it reaches a beautiful green lawn, a little parlor in the wilderness, celebrated as the resort of occasional pic-nic parties of young ladies and gentlemen from the city, and where, on the grassy floor, youth and beauty have often mingled in the graceful dance, and joined in the merry song of innocence and gay hilarity. It is a sweet spot, and surrounded, as it is, by scenery of the wildest and most romantic character, may very appropriately be designated the "oasis of the Wissahiccon." Near this place, immediately on the water's edge, the ruins of an antiquated stone building are discovered, scattered over the ground, and as no trace of the original appearance of the edifice can be found, the imagination is permitted to enjoy free scope in dwelling upon the character and pursuits of its ancient founders. On the opposite side, the banks rise up, in many places almost perpendicularly, to the height of mountains, and but few have the temerity to attempt a passage along the course of the stream, as a single false step might hurl them among the dangerous rocks and jutting cliffs below. Here, as well as on the western side, several clefts and caverns in the granite rocks may be found, but it does not appear that they extend to any great depth under the massive structure; and here, upon the edge of a hill, may be seen the point at which it was sometime since proposed to throw a bridge over the stream, to carry across the rail road from Philadelphia to Norristown. The projectors of the scheme reached thus far in their onward progress, but in casting a glance over the precipice into the gulph below, were struck with dismay at the formidable obstacles which appeared, and prudently abandoned the hazardous and wildly-conceived undertaking.

Near Garsed's flax mill, the foot-path crosses to the eastern shore of the stream, on a rude log chained to an adjacent stone, and passes up through a forest overhanging the sluggish waters, and through a thick underwood, which, in some places, is almost impenetrable. Occasional openings in the dense foliage, which become more frequent as the pedestrian progresses up the stream, afford highly picturesque and enchanting views of the surrounding hills, such as those who appreciate Nature in her majesty, would journey miles upon miles, and endure pain and fatigue without murmuring, to behold. In every direction the scenes unfolded to the eye are rich and enchanting beyond description, and remind the writer who associates therewith ideas of intellectual pleasure and enjoyment, of the beautiful lines of the poet: {26}

"Dear solitary groves, where peace doth dwell!
Sweet harbors of pure love and innocence!
How willingly could I forever stay
Beneath the shade of your embracing greens,
List'ning unto the harmony of birds,
Tun'd with the gentle murmur of the stream."

One of the most interesting spots on the Wissahiccon, is in the immediate vicinity of the great perpendicular rock of granite, opposite Rittenhouse's mill. Here the dark shadows of the hill fall, with beautiful effect, upon the gurgling stream, and the rich and deep woodland foliage, the tangled and fragrant shrubbery, the towering cliffs on the one side, and imposing hills and dales on the other, give to the place a charm and fascination, which the reflecting mind may enjoy, but of which it is impossible to convey with the pen, any accurate description. It was near this enchanting place, on the sun side of a high hill, as is currently believed, that Kelpius and his friend, scholars of Germany, located themselves about the close of the seventeenth century, and where for years they dwelt in quiet and religious meditation, awaiting, with anxious prayer, the coming of the "Lady of the Wilderness," and where they died, as we now know, "without the sight." It was here, that, at a period long anterior to the arrival of Kelpius, the untamed monarch of these wilds came to enjoy the rich treasures of nature, and to worship, in silence, the goodness and bounty of the Great Spirit. It was here, perhaps, on the summit of this very hill, that the original owners of the soil convened for the war dance and to make preparations for a furious and bloody contest; or mayhap it was here that the chiefs of different tribes assembled to bury the hatchet of war, and to smoke the calumet of amity and peace. Perhaps it was here that the noble young warrior, flushed with the honors of victory, stole silently at the midnight hour, to breathe his tale of love and his vows of devotion, into the ear of his blushing and affianced bride; and surely no spot can be found, in the whole range of our wide-spread territory, so suitable for scenes of this character. Here is the abode of romance, here the spirit of nature holds undisputed sway--and here, among these rugged rocks, and in this dense foliage--by the side of this poetic stream, with its associations of woody heights and shady dells, it is fitting that pure and holy vows of love should be uttered, where Heaven, in every leaf of the forest, in every blade of grass, may be called upon to bear witness to their sincerity and truth.

But the Wissahiccon has fallen into other hands. The untutored savage no longer strolls over these silent mountains and vales, for his abode has been removed far away, beyond the western waters. The bones of his warrior fathers lie bleached and neglected in the depths of the valley, for the high-bounding spirit of the son is tamed, by the contaminating influence of his civilized brethren. The active deer no longer bounds over the hills and dales of the Wissahiccon, for he has been driven to more sequestered abodes. The stream is, however, much the same--its placid waters are still beautiful as mirrors--its shores are still romantic--its groves are still enchanting--and so may they ever remain, undisturbed, untouched by the dilapidating hand of man! The place should ever be reserved as a refreshing retreat, where the soul may be uplifted in devotion, and the heart gladdened in sweet contemplation--where no sound shall be heard but the notes of melody and joy, in delightful unison with the tones of the murmuring rill.

"To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain, all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude--'tis but to hold
Converse with nature's charms, and see her stores unroll'd."

Two or three miles above the perpendicular rock, on the eastern shore of the stream, and in a spot equally beautiful and romantic, stands an edifice of great antiquity, connected with which there are a number of interesting associations. It is built nearly on the summit of a slope that stretches into a ravine, walled in on three sides by elevated hills, thickly covered with foliage. The building is of stone, three stories high, with numerous windows, four to each chamber, of uniform size, and appearance; sixty years ago there was a balcony around the second story, and the old-fashioned eaves, plastered in semi-circular form, still to be seen, exhibit the architectural taste and style of a past century. The date of its erection is supposed to be the year 1706, and its founders a society of religious Germans, probably known as _Pietists_ or _Seven day Baptists_, who no doubt selected this secluded situation in order to secure peace and quietness in their religious devotions. Many of the aged inhabitants of the neighborhood remember this monastery, as a building of unchanged appearance, even from the days of their boyhood, and some have connected therewith curious traditions of romance and legends of mystic tale. Notwithstanding the edifice has lately undergone a thorough alteration, and is now the permanent residence of a highly respectable and very intelligent family, it still bears the reputation of being visited by spirits.

The fact of this building having been occupied as a monastery, by a brotherhood of Germans, is, however, involved in doubt. One tradition alleges, that it was tenanted for sometime, by a fraternity of Capuchins, or White Friars, who took upon themselves vows of abstinence and poverty, and who slept upon wooden or stone pillows, with places scolloped out for the head. In confirmation of this tradition, an ancient burial place near the premises, now under tillage, is pointed out, where repose the remains of many of the brotherhood. Another and more probable story is, that the building was actually erected for a religious society, professing a faith similar to that of the Seven day Baptists at Ephrata, near Lancaster, but never occupied, as those for whom it was designed deemed it expedient to leave the neighborhood, and join the settlement at Ephrata. The Chronica Ephrata expressly states that, previous to the formation of that community, in May, 1733, they had dwelt in separate places as hermits, and "the hermits of the ridge" are frequently mentioned. That there was a feeling of affection between these hermits and the brotherhood in Ephrata, is beyond all doubt, as the Chronica, in another place, speaks of some brothers of single devotedness at Roxborough, "who subsequently fell in with the spirit of the world and married."

Kelpius, probably the first of the hermits, on the Wissahiccon, died in the year 1708. He was succeeded by {27} Seelig, who survived him many years, and who was contemporary with Conrad Matthias, another recluse, whose cave was near the Schuylkill. Tradition speaks of these Germans as being men of undoubted piety and great learning. Kelpius wrote several languages, and his journal, in Latin, is now in the possession of a distinguished antiquarian of Philadelphia. He waited the coming of the "Lady of the Wilderness,"--the "woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars," spoken of in the scriptures, as having "fled into the wilderness, where she hath a place prepared of God, that they should feed her there a thousand two hundred and threescore days." (Rev. xii.) We may wonder that such a man as Kelpius should labor under a delusion of this character, but those who will visit the spot he selected for his "prayerful waiting," will agree with me in opinion that it was singularly well chosen to harmonize with and foster his eccentric views, and romantic religious expectations.

There is another interesting legend, connected with the monastery on the Wissahiccon, which I feel inclined to allude to, if I may do so without being held responsible for its veracity. It is a tale of unhappy love, and relates to a young, beautiful, and accomplished French lady, who followed her lover to the Indian wars, who fought in disguise by his side, and who closed his eyes when he fell at her feet, mortally wounded. Being subsequently admitted, for temporary shelter, into the monastery, she passed a year or two in unavailing grief, and died, heart-broken at the loss of all she held near and dear on earth. The particulars of the melancholy fate of the beautiful Louisa I may hereafter unfold to the reader, but I beg my young friends who may discover the mound which covers her remains at the foot of a weeping willow, washed by the gurgling stream, to shed a tear to the memory of one whose beauty and virtues deserved a happier fate.

I have thus attempted to give a sketch of the ever-delightful Wissahiccon, and to cast a hasty glance at a few of the prominent incidents with which it was once associated. If I have failed to excite interest in the mind of the reader, let him not hesitate to attribute the circumstance to the feeble powers of the writer, rather than to the poverty of the subject to which his attention has been called. Beautiful and magnificent beyond comparison are the picturesque views of this romantic stream, and for ages to come may its crystal waters continue to course through the valley, affording peaceful enjoyment to the pedestrian on its banks, and unqualified delight to those who may ramble through its attractive forests.

_Philadelphia, October 1835_.

LE BRUN.

Le Brun, a Jesuit, wrote what he called a Christian Virgil, and a Christian Ovid. The Virgil consists, of Eclogues, Georgics, and an Epic of twelve books, all however on devotional subjects. The Ovid is in the same taste. The Epistles are pious ones--the Fasti are the six days of the Creation--the Elegies are the Lamentations of Jeremiah--the Art of Love is a poem on The Love of God, and the history of some Conversions supplies the place of the Metamorphoses.

MEMORY.

Oh! why should Memory love to dwell
On pleasures which can come no more?
And why should Fancy's magic spell
So brightly gild each scene of yore?

Ev'n Hope's delusive, glittering beam
May cease to shed its cheering light;
And, dull and cold, Time's onward stream
May flow before the aching sight.

But Memory, like a fairy dream,
Still haunts the pensive view,
And, like mild Evening's lingering beam,
Clothes fading scenes in loveliest hue.

The Past, with all its glittering train
Of joys, so sweet, so quickly fled,
At Memory's touch returns again,
To cheer the heart whose hopes are dead.

Fond Retrospection lingers near
Each scene of bliss which could not last,
And links again that chain so dear,
Which Memory flings around the past.

Hopes, Friendships, _Loves_--a seraph band--
Which Time's cold blast had rudely torn,
As Memory waves her magic wand,
With more than former bliss return.

They come, like Music's distant breath,
So soft, so sweet their whisperings are--
And fadeless is that lovely wreath
With which they bind the brow of care.

Oh! Memory's joys will _always_ last--
No cloud can dim their brilliant ray;
Still bright and brighter glows the Past,
As Hope's sweet visions fade away.

THE CITY.

The City--the City--its glare and din--
Oh! my soul is sick of its sights and shows,
My spirit is cramp'd, and my soul pent in--
I can scarcely think, and it seems to me
My very breathing is not so free,
As where the breeze in its freedom blows,
And the vines untrammel'd but seem to be
Disporting to tell of their liberty.
There, _there_ I'd be--Oh! my spirit pines
For the rivers, the trees, and the forest vines.

From the crowded streets, and the jostling throng,
And garish glitter, and vain parade--
My native woods! how I long, I long
To bury me in thy wilds again;
Then Art, and Fashion, and Form, oh! then
I'll eschew ye all in my wild-wood shade.
Like an uncaged bird, I shall scarcely know
Which way to bend me, or whither to go;
Yet I think my spirit would grateful rise
Unto God, who dwells in the clear blue skies.

_Columbia, S. C._

{28}

MACEDOINE:

BY THE AUTHOR OF OTHER THINGS.

I.

"I tell it as 'twas whispered unto me,
By a strange voice not of this world I ween."

The Baron has gone to a distant land
Beyond the far wave the sun sets on;
Last eve but one he kissed his hand
To his lady, the lovely Marion,
As he urged his proud courser along the plain
That leads to the sea, from his wide domain,
In the van of a gallant vassal train.

In sooth, her lord is a noble knight
As e'er couched lance in tourney or fight--
But yet the lady loved him not,
And heaven ne'er blest their lonely lot.
"No little voices, no fairy footfalls
Broke the deep hush of their silent halls;"
For Coldness hung over their bridal couch,
And chilled their hearts with his icy touch.
The lady scarce smiled when her lord was nigh--
And when she did, her pensive eye
Had somewhat in its look the while
Which seemed to chide the moment's guile,
And check the mimic play of mirth
To which the lip alone gave birth.
Like light that sports on frozen streams
That warm not in its wintry beams,
Is the smile of the lip that would fain seem glad--
Albeit the heart is gloomy and sad.

* * * * *

I watched the lady from afar,
As she sat in the western balcony--
Oh! none more beautiful could be;
The sun had sunk upon the sea,
And twilight came with the evening star.

The lady leaned o'er the balustrade,--
I ween 'twas not the voice of the breeze
That came from the grove of orange trees;
For the lady started as half afraid,
And her cheek turned pale, then flushed blood-red,
As the voice of lips invisible said:
"Meet me to-night by the bastioned wall,
When the midnight moon looks over the sea--
When the mermaid sleeps in her ocean hall,
And the world seems made but for you and me."

* * * * *

'Twas a lovely night--the moonlit sea
Was smooth and fair as beauty's brow;
And down in the coral caves below,
Where white pearls lie, and seaflowers grow,
The mermaid was dreaming quietly.
And lo! a knight and a lady fair
Stood in the shade of the bastioned wall:
I watched them as they lingered there--
Oh! they were to each other all
In the wide, wide world their hearts held dear;
He clasped her trembling to his breast,
And kissed from her lids the glittering tear.
She sighed, and pointed to the west,
And again her tears flowed unreprest;

* * * * *

II.

SONG.

Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.

Let him drink--and remember his misery no more.

_Proverbs--Chap. xxxi. 6 and 7_.

This is a dark and dreary world
To which we're vainly clinging--
We spurn at life, yet dread the fate
Each hour is nearer bringing.
It is not love--it is not hope,
That binds us to our sorrow--
But wild vague fears--a shrinking dread
Of an unearthly morrow:
Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine--
A truce to sober thinking--
And pledge the joy that lingers yet--
The deep, deep joy of drinking.

Oh! 'tis a dark and fearful curse
Hangs o'er this brief existence--
The knowledge of a fixed doom
That mocks our poor resistance.
In vain the path is strewed with flowers,
The truth will ne'er forsake us--
A grisly demon dogs our steps,
And must at last o'ertake us:
Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine--
Avaunt all idle thinking--
And pledge the joy that yet remains--
The deep, deep joy of drinking.

III.

RUINS.

Ye grey and mouldering walls!--ye ivied towers!
From whence the midnight-loving bird doth pour
Her dreary note upon the solemn hour!
Ye dim arcades!--ye fancy-haunted bowers!
Ruined--but how majestic in decay!
I love thee well; and gazing thus on thee
In twilight solitude, it seems to me
A spirit voice comes stealing up this way--
The voice of vanished years--and many a tale
It tells my musing mind of gallant lords
And ladies gay--of moonlight-whispered words,
And deeds of high renown--of crimes that pale
The cheek to dream--and the malignant scowl
Of evil eyes beneath the monkish cowl.

IV.

SONNET.

Oh! I could almost weep to think that thou
Whom heaven hath moulded in a form as fair
As fancy pictures those of upper air,
Shouldst thus belie the promise of that brow
Where truth seems to repose, pure as its snow.
Alas! that treachery should lurk beneath
Such smiles!--a hidden serpent in a wreath
Of Eden flowers!--what art thou, wouldst thou know?
In all thy pride of charms?--A living tomb
Of buried hopes--the grave of ruined hearts
Which trusted, loved thee,--dreaming not that arts
Which taught the soul excess of bliss, would doom
The worshipper to--no! not Death, but worse--
And yet thou art too fair a thing to curse.

{29}

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. VI.

"The letters are original, though sometimes in bad taste, and generally verbose." _Edinburgh Review_.

I had not been a long time at College before I received a large packet from home, enclosing a number of letters from my uncle, Frederick, and Lucy. One of them was folded in an odd fashion--directed in a stiff and inky hand, and surmounted with a mass of red sealing wax, on which was rudely impressed the ragged outline of the Granby arms. This was one of my uncle's pedantic, prolix, advisory, and generous epistles, and I was soon placed in possession of the following neatly written sentences.

_Chalgrave_, ----.

_My Dear Boy_:--When Erasmus visited Sir Thomas More, that obstinate sophist, and that martyr to a scolding wife, (how nobly he bore her!) he said that he could always write a pleasing letter when his hand was the secretary of his heart. _En passant_, Erasmus made a gallant speech on this memorable visit. In admiring the kind fashion of saluting females with a kiss, on your arrival or departure from an entertainment, he said, and that philosophically, that this habit preserved health, in calling a constant and blushing glow to the cheek, and that in his moments of sickness he could wish no happier situation than to be placed near an English nunnery, where if he could not be kissed for charity he might yet live in hopes of it. Now my hand is the obedient secretary, and my heart is anxious to dictate its duties. How true, yet how simple is this conceit! and how far superior to the monkish verbosity, and strangled sentiment of those bad novels which you read merely because they are new. The heart is the _écritoire_ of the letter writer, and have you never paused with feelings of admiration and delight over the affectionate and eloquent letters of a woman? She writes from the heart, and pours out the swelling torrent of all her thoughts and feelings. Man thinks _what_ to write, and will fritter away feeling and sacrifice nature in the struggle for easy periods and mellifluous cadences. It is not learning that shadows with tints of tenderness the beautiful letters of Tully--nor is it philosophy which lends that nameless grace, and elastic interest, to the epistles of Pliny. 'Tis nature whose affections, like the rainbow, beautify and hallow the roughness of every spot over which it spans its creative arch. A letter, says Tully, cannot blush, "_epistola enim non erubescit_," if it could, it would never have this characteristic when I addressed it to you. I cannot write aught that will suffuse either your cheek or mine, though I might whisper something about your fair cousin, Isa Gordon. You love her, Lionel? and she may return your affection, but you must owe it to your distinction. Isa is no sickly and prurient-hearted girl who can solely love the person, for she demands the intellectual man, and in the hymeneal chaplet which is to adorn her brow, the laurel must twine its emblematic vanities. Let this hope excite you to study--let this holy object imp your eagle wing, for on every page of your books you must see her name urging and stimulating the slumbering energies of your ambition. I would not have you free from love, nor untouched, as Spenser calls it, by its pensive discontent, for no young man can prosper without its stirring and startling excitements. I myself, "_vixi puellis idoneus_," and I know that it softens the asperities of temper--gentles the turbulence of youth--breaks down the outworks of vice, and detracts no more from the firmness of mind than the polish of the diamond does from its solidity. You may read philosophy and think of woman--dwell on poetry and find your taste expanding into delicacy and elevation by dreaming of her gentleness, and I suppose that even in the crabbed study of the law, you may find her image peeping over black letter, or smiling through yellow parchment. When I was at college poor Ridon whom Johnstone shot, ('twas a fair duel) being in love, translated most of that portion of Coke upon Littleton which relates to females, into poetry of all styles, and measures. Only think of his drawing poetical conceits from this dull book, and scattering them on the margin of the leaden volume, like so many flowers prodigally thrown into a grave-yard! I have this rare copy, and in a page blotted with notes, references, and _quæres_, these crippled lines, have stumbled themselves into the text.

"_Tenant per la curtesie d'Englettere_."
Chap. iv. sect. 35.

A feme that has lands
Enters Hymen's bands,
And has heirs in the nuptial tye;
Then these lands shall descend,
When her life's at an end,
To her Lord in curtesy.

This species of poetry was all that he ever wrote, and he was wont to say, that he thought it was his duty to the sex, to use the language of rhyme, and thus make the law respectful.

I do not know how to advise you about the study of law. I once looked into it, and though it may be a garden teeming with the elegancies of Poestum, I could not bear that rough dragon of pedantry, Coke, who guarded its threshold. It is a sort of hustle-cap game, between judges and lawyers, and a perilous mystery wherein common sense cannot trust itself, without that peculiar and dogged impudence, which bears all the vulgarity, without the courage, of effrontery. Now there is philosophy in every thing, and if you will acquire decent effrontery I will call it, for your sake, dignity and learning; and I will even believe that it requires some mind to understand a plain statute, and some genius to pervert it. Yet I cannot look with a sarcastic eye on the hallowed relics of the legal institutions of antiquity. Go back, my dear boy, to the redundant fountains of ancient literature--and you will find that Plato and Tully, have long ago, looked up for the pure seat of law only to the bosom of God, and that the Norman gibberish and dog-latin, which were quoted to burn witches and sustain kings, though they may make you a lawyer skilled in precedents, can never make you the scourge of knavery, the fearless champion of innocence, nor the enlightened advocate of your country's rights. Old Sir Roger L'Estrange wrote a mournful valedictory, when he left the riots and Apician nights of the Inns for the labors and stolid gravity of the bar, and, amid many sarcasms on the profession, he has thus happily sketched the character of an honest lawyer.

"He can prosecute a suit in equity without seeking to create a whirlpool where one order shall beget another, {30} and the poor client be swung around (like a cat before execution,) from decree to rehearing--from report to exception, and _vice versâ_, till his fortunes are shipwrecked, and himself drowned, for want of white and yellow earth to wade through on. He does not play the empiric with his client, and put him on the rack to make him bleed more freely; casting him into a swoon with frights of a judgment, and then reviving him again with a cordial writ of error, or the dear elixir of an injunction, to keep the brangle alive, as long as there are any vital spirits in the pouch. He can suffer his neighbors to live quiet about him without perpetual alarms of actions and indictments, or conjuring up dormant titles to every commodious seat, and making land fall five years purchase, merely for lying within ten miles of him."

Devote most of your leisure hours to the study of Virginian antiquities, for it is a noble field, and one which glows into beauty beneath cultivation. Williamsburg itself is a hoary and whitened monument of ancient pomp and power, and there still dwells around it the trembling twilight of former greatness. There is something distinctive, learned, and patriotic, in the character of a home antiquary, which will lift you far above the little pedants, who have dipped the wing in Kennet, or tasted of the shallow learning of Athenian Stuart. Do you not remember the indignant, yet pathetic lines which Warton wrote in a blank leaf of Dugdale's Monasticon, and the spirited scorn with which he repels the sneers of ignorance and dulness? The antiquary is neither a visionary, nor an enthusiast, for his pursuits teach the holiest love of country, and call into action the softest and gentlest affections of the human heart, while his guileless life occasionally shines forth with the chastened light of virtue and learning. Virginia is a land whose thrilling history beggars all romance--every fragment of which, like a broken vase, will multiply perfume. Who knows aught of that gallant band, who so fearfully revenged the massacre of 1622?--the bold patriots who resisted the illegal restrictions on trade--the intrepid spirits who, led by Bacon, anticipated by a century our national æra, or that chivalric corps, who, under Vernon, rotted on the pestilential shores of Carthagena? Who dwells with the patriot's pride, on that unconquerable strength of infant freedom which made historic Beverley the Hampden of the colony? Or who troubles himself to inquire into the blood-stained life of that Westmoreland Parke, who seized the throne of Antigua, and who died in the last dyke of a bootless though fiercely fought field? Who cares to remember the enlightened and learned botanist Clayton, whose modest book, written in the purest Latin, gained for himself and country, a once proud though now forgotten fame? And who will believe that the wise, pious, and eloquent Bishop Porteus was born, and gambolled away his boyhood on the sunny shores of the majestic York-river? They are all forgotten! and we neglect the vivid and truthful romance of our own beautiful land, to learn the nursery tales of fickle Greece, and factious Rome. In the shifting of the social scene, naught has been left to remind us of the busy drama once acted in Virginia, and even garrulous tradition now doubts its existence, while our feet hourly trample on the sepulchered silence of all that once adorned, dignified, and elevated human nature.

I do not wish to give you a learned essay on books, nor to advise you what authors to read. Your taste is now matured, and that faculty will see that justice is done to its delicacy. The great object of study is to teach us _how_, and not _what_ to think; and the principal art of authorship is the power of pilfering with judgment from the ruins of ancient lore. But trust not to this poor and suspicious honor. Rely for success on the daring emprise of your own genius, and should it fail to lift you from the earth, descend not to the dunghill of pedantry. Be a poet for the women--a historian for the men--and a scholar for your own happiness. Confirm your taste by satiating memory with the beauties of the Spectator, and let Horace hourly talk you into the dignity and elegance of the sensible gentleman. Be accurate, rather than extensive, in your knowledge of history, and a recollection of dates will give you victory in every contest. Learn the technicalities of geometry; for this will satisfy the groping mathematician, while the world will take your pedantry for wisdom, and your crabbed words for learning. There has been, and ever will be, an everlasting conflict between the radiant course of genius, and the mole-hill track of diagrams and problems. Strength of mind is claimed as the attribute of mathematical study, while we forget that any other study, pursued with the same strictness of attention, will equally fashion the mind into system and method, while it will be free from the slavish obedience and indurated dulness, which result from the memory of lines and proportions.

You know, my dear boy, my notions concerning your dress. Express nothing in fancy; and without being the Alpha or Omega of fashion, be neither fop nor sloven, and dress for the effect of general and not particular dignity, and never wear a striped cravat. Do not ape eccentricity of manner and opinion, and take the world in a laughing and good humored mood. I detest a beardless Cato, for I never knew one of them, who could stand fire. Talk to women about every thing but prudence and propriety, and they will think you as wise as you are well bred; for they cannot bear the restraint of advice, or the judgment of criticism. Tasso makes his heroine taunt Rinaldo with gravity and sedateness, and when she calls him a "Zenocrates in love" the volume of her eloquence exhibits the bitterest venom of female invective.

Chalgrave is now still, solitary, and deserted; and were it not for Lucy's cheerful voice, I should look on myself as a living tomb. Your pup Gildippe tore off the cover of my Elzevir Horace, an offence deserving a halter, yet she is pardoned for your sake. Tell me not of Sir Isaac Newton's diamond, for he never destroyed a jewel so rare, and so highly prized--ask Col. H. if a colt is best broken in a snaffle-bit--and tell him 'tis downright superstition to worm a genuine pointer. I send the pistols made by Wodgen and Barton, and carrying a ball of the most approved weight. Do write to me, and never forget that you are a Granby.

I am, my dear boy,
Yours truly,
CHARLES GRANBY.

P. S. Translate the Ode to Fortune for me! Old Schrevelli said that he had rather be the author of that poem, than the Emperor of all the Austrias, and there was more sense than enthusiasm in his noble preference.

{31} P. S. Never scrape your bullets with a knife--but use a flat file. Do not play the flute; and never write verses on a "flower presented to a lady," on "a lady singing," or on "receiving a lock of hair;" for of all puppyism, this is the smallest accomplishment.

P. S. Never buy a gaudy handkerchief! Do not say _raised_, _disremember_, _expect_ for _suspect_; and never end the common courtesies of conversation with the frigid Sir! "Thank ye _Sir!_" Drink tea instead of coffee, for 'tis more patrician; and do not render yourself suspected by pronouncing criticisms on wines.

The postscripts were multiplied through a full page, which presented a striking picture of all the odd conceits--incongruous notions, and broad feeling which tortured my kind uncle's tranquil brain, and I arose from the perusal of his letter with mingled emotions of love, respect, and laughter. Lucy's epistle was like that of all girls, full of small news, long words, and burning sentences of love and sentiment, and inquiring in a postscript of the health of Arthur Ludwell, as her mother was greatly interested in his welfare. Frederick gave me a learned dissertation on the origin of civil society, and the philosophy of Bolingbroke, scourging me into frantic ambition, and ending with a prayer that I would ever keep my honor untainted. My _honor_ was then the subject of their hopes and fears; and, as I eyed the pistols, I found the fierceness of my nature lurking with a tranquil rapture around the open, and undisguised hints of my family. To my temperament, the neat and elegant workmanship, and the beautiful polish of the pistols, argued sternness and chivalry: and under the protection of the code of honor, I was determined, by braving every conflict, to gratify my long, deep, and vindictive hate of Pilton. How curiously constituted, how wayward, and yet how uncontrollable is the swelling pulse of the human heart, when agitated by some momentary and master passion; at any other period, the remembrance of Isa Gordon, would have soothed me into a lover's thoughtful gloom, but now every gentle and luxuriant tendril which was woven around my heart was a crushed and bleeding ruin, and I examined my uncle's gift of blood--only to murmur the name of Pilton.

My visits to Miss Pilton's had been attentive, and constant, and I had concealed my fraud with such art, that I found her listening with unhesitating confidence, to the deceitful passion which I daily uttered. Cautious of proposing matrimony, yet ever alert to hint it--affecting distress and melancholy--and alternately jealous and confiding, I awoke her sympathy, only to gain her passionate and abiding affection, while I secured my victory by every art which duplicity could invent, or falsehood suggest. I saw her reject the accomplished and educated youth whose pure and guileless feelings had retained the early romance of childhood's love, and when I found her in tears, with her head reclining on my bosom, she told me, with a blushing cheek, that she had sacrificed him, whose singleness and purity of heart she could not doubt, for me alone.

'Twas a calm and soft evening when Miss Pilton left Williamsburg, and, ere we parted, I extorted from her unsuspicious feelings a promise that she would write to me. Day had languished itself into night, when I found myself a solitary loiterer in the noiseless grove which skirted the city. The wind sobbed through the dreary and desolate silence of the forest, and when I looked up to the twinkling and radiant light which blazes in a starry sky of Virginia, the innate piety of Nature almost chastened me into repentance. How vain is that feeble wisdom which impotently labors to read those mute and living oracles of God? yet who, in searching into them, docs not feel that his heart is kindled into enthusiasm, by their wild and spiritual eloquence. May not each bright and dazzling star whose lambent fire dances over the cloudless sky be the abode of spirits enjoying a realm of mind--of philosophers who rived the adamant of vulgar error--of patriots who offered their blood at the shrine of their country--of those who opened a vista for freedom through the gloom of tyranny--and of the poet who, fettered to the earth, boldly anticipated a foretaste of his eternal home, in some earthly, yet beautiful and rapturous dream?

THETA.

THE DREAM.

I.

I dreamed a dream--and still upon my mind
The image of that dream, on Memory's page
Inscribed in letters large and legible,
Rests vivid as the lightning's scathing flash.
Beneath a spreading oak, that towered high
And lone upon a hillock's grassy plot,
A Maiden stood--and by her side a Youth,
Whose summers did, tho' few, outnumber hers;
And _she_ was beautiful as rainbow tints--
Her voice, like sweetest music borne upon
The bosom of some gentle breeze far o'er
The hushed and silent waters of the deep--
Her breath, like fragrant odors from the lap
Of Flora sent, when Morning's blush appears--
Her heart, the home where wild affections dwelt--
Her mind, of intellectual power the seat--
Her eye, the mirror to her speaking soul!
Upon her marble brow was set the seal
Of _Dignity_--and in her slender form
Were blended grace and perfect symmetry.
The Youth was tall, erect--but unlike her
In all things save affection's swelling tide:
Unknowing of the bright and quenchless fire,
At Beauty's altar lit, that constant burned
Within his bosom's deep recess, the world
Had deemed him changeful as the fitful wind.
Silent they were, and round them silence reigned:
Above, the clear blue ether spread her veil,
And by them swept the gentle, fresh'ning breeze
That cooled the burning temples of the one,
The flowing tresses of the other waved.
Beneath them was a wide spread plain, o'er which
The full Moon poured her streams of silver light,
And in a flood of glory bathed both plain
And rugged cliffs that wildly rose beyond.
Upon that lovely scene the maiden looked
That joy and stillness breathed into her heart;
But he that meeting, had not sought to gaze
On landscapes, living though they were. He saw
But her whose form before him rose, so bright,
So beautiful, that all else faded from {32}
The view: He heard no sound save that alone
Which from his beating heart was sent: and oft
He did essay to breathe the hallowed thoughts
That in his bosom long had slept--the pent-
Up fountains of his love to ope; but oft
In vain, 'till faltering accents came at last,
And told the feelings of his inmost soul.
But _she_ was calm; no falling of the eye--
No heightened color's tinge--no trembling of
That silver voice, spoke aught of passion there.
Yet kindness breathed in every word that fell
From off her Angel lips--and told that though
Her heart with his beat not in unison,
It still could feel for sorrows not its own.
Though soft, like breath of pois'nous Simoom came
Her voice. Young Hope her dewy pinions shook,
And as she winged her airy flight away,
Came casking Care her place to fill. And yet
A moment's space he lingered there; and as
Upon her saddened face he once again
Did look with mingled feelings, inly swore
To perish ere his love should fade and die.
And she did pensive turn her steps along
Their homeward way, again to be the life,
The light, the chiefest joy of all around.

II.

A change swept o'er the aspect of my dream,
And in its mystic flight my spirit bore
Me to the festive hall. I saw them 'midst
The thoughtless throng--their eyes lit up with joy--
Their lips all wreathed in smiles--and on their cheeks
The glowing hues of pleasure mantled high.
He spoke not oft to her, but frequent did
Address him to some other fair--and all
Did deem, and she did hope that love of her
Was buried deep in Lethe's magic pool;
And lighter then of heart to think that care
His mind had left, unwonted gladness beamed
Forth from her speaking eye, and lit with ten-
Fold lustre up those features ever fair.

III.

The scene was changed. Apart within the walls
Of his lone study sat the youth. Before
Him lay a letter, breathing much of deep,
Impassioned love. Yes, he again had dared
At that same Angel-shrine his heart to lay,
And, well as _words_ could speak, a love to paint,
Not torpid, cold and calculating, like
The selfish feeling of a worldly man--
But with the every fibre of his heart
Inwove. For he had seen her oft, and well
Had studied both her features, mind and heart,
Since first the pangs of unrequited love
Across his bosom shot: in all things had
He found her of such perfect, faultless mould--
So far beyond compare with all that e'er
His eye had looked upon--yea, e'en than aught
Of fairy form, which frolic fancy in
Her wildest mood had shadowed glowing forth
To young imagination's quickened sight,--
That madly had he drunk at passion's fount,
Ere yet the voice of reason whispered late,
(Too late, alas! for in the vortex was
He twirling then, unskilled the yawning gulf
To shun,) that she was not for one like him.
Perchance the spell that bound him unto her
And deep affection's gushing waters stirred,
Was wrought into its present strength--for that
She minded him of one--a sister dear--
Like her in nature as in name, on whom
His heart did centre once, when joyous, bright
And sunny hours e'er gilded o'er the stream
Of early life about their childhood's home;
When each was to the other all that earth
Of joy could give--a little world--beyond
Whose narrow bounds their youthful vision then
Extended not. And now in her he saw
The image of that sister's mind and heart
Reflected back in colors yet more bright,
And felt that life to him was nothing worth,
Except with her its joys and ills were shared.

IV.

The scene was changed. Within her father's home
The maiden sat, and bent her o'er the page
On which were traced the wild outpourings of
Her lover's heart. A cloud was on her brow--
Not gathered there by anger, but by grief.
And long she sorrowed o'er the fate of one
Whom she had learned to value far above
The worthless crowd that throngs round Beauty's form;
Then sudden snatched a pen, and tho' it pained
Her much, did haste once more in kindest terms
To bid him banish Hope--for tho' a _friend_
She'd ever be--to him she could no more.

V.

Again my spirit bore me to the youth's
Lone study, where I saw him pacing to
And fro, with heavy step and downcast look.
His eye was fixed and dull--all smiles had fled,
And o'er his pallid, bloodless cheek had woe
His sable mantle flung. But whilst he thus
Was moved, anon there entered one endeared
By Friendship's strongest ties, who knew the fate
His fondest hopes had met, and told a tale
Of which he deemed not aught before--a tale
That scarce at first could credence gain, so dread
Its import was; yet soon he found 'twas but
Too true--"His sacred letter, ere it reached
Its destined port, had by some strange mischance
Been torn, its secrets filched and heralded
Abroad: yet, by the wakeful kindness of
That much-loved one, his hallowed thoughts had reached
The ears of few." Then sudden o'er him came
A fearful mood that shook his every limb.
Like liquid fire his blood along his veins
Did course, and to his throbbing temples mount--
Then rush tumultuous back upon his heart
That sent it once again with quickened speed
Along his swollen, well-nigh bursting veins;
And from his lips at times did fall unmeet
And vengeful words, that told what passion stirred
Within. But that soon passed, and to the eye
His troubled soul, as that of infant hushed
To sleep upon its mother's breast, was calm.

VI.

The scene was changed. Before the altar stood {33}
The maiden, in her bridal vestments clad,
And gave her hand and virgin heart away--
Whilst mantling blushes o'er her features spread
Like Iris' colors on the deepened blue
Of Heaven's high vault--to one whose kindling eye
Was turned with rapture on her matchless face,
And who in part was like unto the youth
That first beside her stood--_yet not the same_.
And she did love him with a boundless love--
Deep, pure and changeless as Jehovah's word--
The very essence of her being, that life's
Quiescent stream with fairest garlands strewed--
For he her youthful heart's responsive chord
Had known to touch with sweet and winning words,
By graceful mien, and giant strength of mind.
Unblest he was with Mammon's glittering hoard--
In nothing rich, save worth's neglected store;
And yet for that, her heart with wildest joy
Did but the closer cling unchanged to him.
And he, with pride and pleasure took her to
His bosom beating high; for none could know,
And knowing not admire. But his was not
The fervent adoration of the heart,
In prostrate homage bowed before her shrine,
That moved the soul of him who first essayed
Her peerless love to win. And yet before
Them to all seeming lay a flowery path,
Along whose scented walks they might their way
With noiseless step and even tenor wend.

VII.

Once more, and only once, a change passed o'er
My fitful dream. In sultry, southern clime,
Again upon my vision fell the tall,
Attenuated image of that youth,
Whom first beneath the spreading oak I saw;
And he was changed not less in feature than
In heart. The glow of health had fled his cheek,
Now haggard, swart and bronzed by burning sun.
His eye, once bright with joyous life, had lost
Its lustre now, and deep upon his brow
Had care her furrows traced. His spirit too,
So light and buoyant once, was now all bound
And broken like the willow's drooping branch.
But o'er his heart a yet more fearful change
Had come. _Once_ warm and sensibly alive
To pity's cry--e'er breathing love for all--
_Now_ cold and seared--the living fountains of
Its sympathy were dried--and dead it was
To all things save the worldly schemes that fierce
Ambition wrought. And none did know the weight
Of anguish on its aching chords that pressed,
Since living man no commune held with him:
For he did spurn them as unhallowed things,
And 'round him wrapt the cloak of selfishness:
For what was now the world to him, since she
Whose presence had made all things beautiful,
Was lost, forever lost? And he did look
Unmoved on fairest form, and brightest eye;
Unmoved he heard full many a voice attuned
In sweet accordance with the soft piano;
For mute were all the echoes of his soul,
Since never could he hope again such pure,
Such bright, such dazzling purity to find,
As dwelt within the heart of her he loved.
And naught the slumbering powers of his mind
Did rouse and prompt to grapple with the herd
That crossed his path, save only the desire
To banish thought and leave a name behind.
For he did feel that none would glory in
His present fame, and that he was a lone
And desert being--all forgetting, and
By all forgot. And though his soul did thirst
At honor's fount to drink and laurels win,
He inly scorned the world--the world's acclaim--
And whilst it flattered, loathed its fulsome praise.
And yet unto all outward seeming was
His spirit calm as ocean's waves, when lie
The winds of Heaven upon her bosom hushed.

Here ceased my dream--for on my slumbers broke
The glare of day, and called my spirit home.

SYLVESTER.

MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE.

[_From 'The Gift,' edited by Miss Leslie_.]

BY EDGAR A. POE.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea.
_Cunningham_.

Of my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores which early study very diligently garnered up. Beyond all things the works of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius--a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime--and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed a strong relish for Physical Philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age--I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the severe precincts of truth by the _ignes fatui_ of superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much lest the incredible tale I have to tell should be considered rather the ravings of a crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a nullity.

After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18--, from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I went as passenger--having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunted me like a fiend.

Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank.

{34} We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the eastern coast of Java without any other incident to beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were bound.