Newspaper Page Text
omirmrwio)w it w at mw r 1 a wtwwm
d)'JJ JJ ii jQjljjii ! M i Jail illl i II ufi /iIMjIJi,
TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM. IN ADVANCE,
Original
Forth* Southern Literary Gazette.
AFTER THE TEMPEST.
Night yields at last to dawn,
Veinay not always grieve,
Though, when the clouds are gone,
Their shadows still they leave.
The memory of the hour
Which brought the soul’s worst pain,
Uaiii still a mournful power
Upon the troubled brain.
The peace that follows slow.
Is peace within the shade ,
Sweet, but without the glow
That once our rupture made:
A twih ut of the heart,
V . dusk, nor partly bright;
9 \Y .* -••eth.'dav depart,
driii. ( t
‘
S xVl ,v Fpon the trodoled sky,
Soothe, like the music in a dream,
And bless, even as they fly.
The dawn that wakes the day,
Brings the full sun no more,
But, in its milder ray,
We know the storm is o’er.
That night of storm, whose wrath
O’er Love’s glad vessel blown,
Left strewed on memory’s path.
The broken wrecks alone.
We feel secure at last,
In losing all our store,
Since, blow whatever blast,
Our hearts can lose uo more. Celer.
Original (Tales.
Fur the Southern Literary Gazette.
LEILA FORRESTER.
BY MISS SUSAN A. STUART.
[CONCLUDED FROM LAST WEEK.]
CHAPTER IV.
*■ When sorrows come, they come not single
spies,
Hut, in butttrlions.”
• I inti about to toll you something
which 1 think will not be very pleasing
to you;” suit! Miss Stella Lushington,
to her voting cousins. “1 have heard,
front good authority, that your father is
about to be married, and to a young
thing, not much older than yourself,
Ella! How will you both like having
a step-mother?”
“If site lets me alone, . don’t fine,’
said the indolent Ella. “But who can
it be, Stella ! Any one we know?”
“1 shall like it very well,” said Lau
ra; “if she is pretty and good, 1 will
love her, and become —’
“For shame, Laura !” said Miss Stel
la, und she drew her thin person up,
and gave such a look from her e\ es as
nothing but such atony ones could give.
“For shame! Your own dear mother
has scarcely been dead two years, and
could you tolerate any one who would
come into her place —assume Aer name
—and use, as their own, everything
that belongs to her.'’
And the crocadile took out her
handkerchief to hide her dry eyes.
“Yes, Laura, you ought to be asham
ed,” said Ella. “I know 1 shall hate
her, and will tell pa so; perhaps he
will not merry. Eh, cousin ?”
• No, dear Ella, ’tis useless; for the
marriage is to take plaee next week,
lie assured that everything has been
saiii to your pa, by kind friends, that
could be said, but in vain ; he w ill rue,
when too late, that he did n ‘t take
their advice. Your new mother is
none other, than that stuck-up doll,
Leila Forrester, who, when her father
died, was actually too good to mix with
common folks, and now, that she is
poor, must needs come to disturb our
happiness. 1 know she marries your i
father, for nothing on earth, but because
In- is so rich, she can Haunt about, and
bring her beggarly pack of sisters to
lord it over you all. Oh ! yes, 1 can
see an inch beyond my nose, as well as
other people. But, I’ll tell her, for
my part, she shall never crow over
me! 1 promised your mother, on her
death bed, to stay with you, and I’ll
let her >ee, she shall not impose on
you.”
By this time, she had worked herselt ;
up into a considerable degree of tern- j
per; imbuing with her own vulgar ,
and prejudiced views, the facile minds
of the children, until they began to
look upon Leila as their greatest ene
my upon earth, and their cousin Stella •
their only true and sincere friend.
Stella Lushington was in the shady
side of forty ; and with all the draw
biu-ks of stony eyes, tawny skin, and
a nose, whose sharpness, I actually be
b.vc,would have splita raindrop should
>t hive chanced to fall in it —had in her
own mind, claimed Wm. Lushington
lor her especial property ; and the loss
of w hat she had so firmly believed to
b® hr own, sharpened the edge of a
temper, by no means angelic.
At this crisis, Wm. Lushington him
self, entered to announce his approach
ing nuptials. Shall 1 paint him to you,
reader, this husband-elect of our Leila
—our queen like, gentle heroine —the
beloved of an intellectual father—the
idolized of her dear, little sisters ?
Picture to yourself, then, a short,
thick-set man; whose head, always
A k'AMM MMAL, BMMMi Tii LiUM'SUM. ‘SM Km MB mMW, MB TO Oil MML miMSMCB.
brought to your mind, the idea of his
having swallowed his throat—if ’twere
; possible for any oim to perform that
feat—with a florid complexion, heavy
look, and presenting altogether the ap
pearance of one, who did not care to
! he looked upon as a French pititmni
: tre. He seemed rather at a loss to
j know’ how to begin; but, when at
| last, lie screwed his “courage to the
! sticking place, ’ he was totally unpre
! pared for the tears, entreaties with
] which he w'as assailed, in fact, being
I rather a silent, diffident man, and not
J much gifted w ith eloque ee, he became
j quite-embarrassed, lie disliked, and
shrank from speaking of his love for
the beautiful girl—she being scarce
! eighteen—and he, not being quite ■’
i ‘’ ‘ „ - *
So, as I told you, he knew not very
| well v.hat to say, but sat twirling Ins
fingers and thumbs, looking with a
blank face from one to the other mem
bers of the family conclave, till he be
came angry, and bis vulgar nature got
tile better of his usually stolid demean
our, as he got up to leave, saying em
phatically—
“l don’t care a fig how much you
may say or dislike it. lam my own
master, and I’ll marry whom 1 choose,
and when 1 choose, without asking your
leave or license. If you don’t like it,
you may dislike it, for it is all the same
to me.”
Ah! poor Leila, what a paradise is
in prospect before you; and what a
guardian angel to protect you. Call
you indeed, be lured on by the love of
the “vile yellow dross,” as Ileber calls
it, to marry this creature ? Must there
not he some more powerful incentive
to urge on the pure-hearted, self-deny
j ing girl, whom 1 have tried to portray
in the preceding chapters. Step be
hind the scenes, with me reader, and
we shall see for ourselves, about a
; I fortnight prior to tile conversation, be
, ; tween Miss Lushington, and her young
cousins.
i | It is a small chamber, but neatly fur
; ! nished with some of the loved cottage
furniture—bringing, as the eye rests on
them, sad feelings, for they are asso
ciated with other days. The blinds j
are closed, for Leila, who is lying down, I
has been suffering acutely with head- ;
ache, and she cannot bear, as she was j
wont, to have the sunbeams come !
dancing into her presence, mocking her j
with their brightness, as in happier
days. Ah ! grief has been there as I
well as physical suffering ; that is too j
plainly shown by the deadly pallor of I
the countenance. A blush, betokens
nothing—a thought—a look, may call
it into existence; but when the warm
blood curdles around the heart, leaving
the cheek wan and cold, rest assured
that something of deeper moment is
at work within.
Near the head of the couch sits Mrs.
Alton, with Fanny, leaning against her
sister, looking up into her lace w ith the
teuderest pity. Near the dour, sew
ing, is the faithful servant, watching
like a mother, her young mistress.
“My dearest Leila, 1 do not know
what to advise,” said Mrs. Alton. “1
i am afraid you will think 1 speak from
! selfishness. And yet, 1 know you are
well aware, how gladly 1 would share
j the little 1 possess with you and your
sisters. But, dearest, none of us know
how long God, in his mercy, may spare
my lite; and then—l shrink lion l the
future. 1 have always heard Mr. Lush
] iugton spoken of as the best of hus
bands to his first wife; and 1 have no
doubt, wealthy as he is, but what your
sisters w ill find a home, and a protec
tor, when they need it. But still, I
cannot advise, may God direct you.”
“And pity me, too,” sobbed out the
suffering girl. “Oh ! my father! — 1
What shall 1 do? clasping tightly her
small hands, and lifting her eyes. —
Direct me, Father of the fatherless, for
1 know not what to do.”
What sobs of agony echoed around
that little chamber; and the trembling
| lips, and tearful eyes ot i'amiy, showed
j how much she was frightened ut this
vehement manifestation of grief as she
glanced from her sister to Mrs. Alton,
and again at the weeping nurse.
“Do you think; say, my dear Mrs.
I Altou, do you think,” at length, gasped
| out Leila, “under all the cireuinstnn
ces —you know more than 1 have told
you —do you think that my dear moth
er and father would wish me to make
this overwhelming sacrifice. 1 must
call it so, this once, dear friend. May,
is it my duty to my sisters, that 1 should
marry Mr. Lushington. Tell me, and
I will do it, whatever it may cost me, j
if God will give me strength.”
Mrs. Alton cooid not, at first, answer j
this appeal. Mhe saw the agony, the
pleading look for mercy in her decision, j
on that young, suffering face. Mhe
knew what indeed made the sacrifice, :
which Leila called so overwhelming,
for she had witnessed the young love j
springing up in both ol their hearts,
and could sympathise with the poor ,
girl, in this dread,
“Grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate
Firs*! make- the young heait lone and de.solate,
In the wide world, without that only tie.
For which it loved to live, and feared to die.”
At length, she said slowly, and very
sadly—
“ Yes, dearest, it is our duty to con
sider the child, the innocent, helpless
beings confided to our care, even be
fore our own temporal happiness. Be
assured that (bid will not allow this
union tn be, without some share of
comlbrt to you, gieat, it must assflred
ly he, when you reflect that you have
procured fir even this helpless babe, a
home and a protecloi
Mho placed the fairy-like, beautiful
child in her s.ster’s anus, who, pressing
her almost convulsively to he:-, vnirt . >
” 1 os. tor tljei.-. • 1 ■> ■■ ■ . 1
Tito, my own happiness. Write it
cnee—now, lest I play the coward and
take back my word. Yes, put it out
of my power, 1 beg you. Write Mr.
Lushington that I consent to be his
wife—he already knows that 1 do not
love him. Now, good, kind friend,
take Fanny, and leave me entirely to
myself this evening, for 1 need strength
from Him, who can alone give it to
me.”
t 11 AFTER V.
“fi is sad,
do seethe ii-flu ut beauty wane away,
Know eyes are dimming, bosoms shrivelling,
feet
Losing their spring, and limbs their lily round
ness ;
but, it is worse to led our heart-spring gone,
To lose hope—cam not for tire coming thing,
And tool all things go to decay with us.”
| What a mournful marriage it was,
that was celebrated in that little par
lour about a week later. None present
but Mrs. Alton, and Leila’s immediate
relatives : and she in her dark robes of
mourning for her fat her, stood by the
man, whom she vowed “to love, hon
our and obey, more like a marble
statue, than a thing of life, so pale,
so cold she appeared, that it seemed
as if tii icy hand of death, had passed j
over that young heart, and stilled its
pulsations forever. No notice did she
take of any thing, but appeared to
concentrate her whole energy, to ena-
I ble her, like a school-girl, to repeat her
| lesson well.
Mr. Lushington, after their short
j tour, conducted bis m-w bride to her
I new home. All outward appearance
| of splendor and comfort was there to
greet her ; but now she shrunk from
| them, and disagreeable as her husband
j had seemed to her, she almost felt like
j clinging to him for protection, when
1 she met the stony glances of Stella
Lushington, or the open impertinence j
of her step-daughters—and this to the
creature who, for the eighteen y ears of
her past life, had been nurtured in a
very, atmosphere of love.
She found herself, in the absence of
Mr. Lushington, a nonentity in the j
house, of which Stella was the teal I
mistress, for to her, did children and
servants come for orders. In her un
happy and agonised frame of mind,
she shrunk from anything that must
call upon the energy of her nature,
and with the very littleness of despair,
shuddered at the idea of any act call
ing for active exertion. Her husband
still played the lover in his attentions
to her, for his own vanity had not been
wounded as yet.
One day they were seated in their
magnificent drawing-room, when he i
placed in her hand a letter, in the well j
known writing of her brother, directed
to her, as “Leila Forrester.” She hes
itated to open it, knowing that one
loved name would often occur there,
i and for the first time, for many weeks,
| the hot blood coloured the once w arm
j cheek with a fitful and radiant blush.
“Will you not let me see your broth
er’s letter, Leila, when you have open
ed it V’ said Mr. Lushington.
She started. What, he see the let
ter, in which, probably, there would
be a message, such as she had received
before. “Never,” she thought; and
without being aware that she was utter
ing that thought aloud, there sounded j
through the room, that low but cm-;
phatie “ never /”
Mr. Lushington turned very red, I
and then, much displeased, left the j
room. Without thinking how wrong j
she had acted —without indeed, think
ing of him at all, she hurried to her
own chamber, and shutting the door, j
she broke the seal, pale and trembling. !
Poor Gus deplored his father’s death j
with much feeling, but begged her to ■
cheer up, and w hen he came home, he
would try to be a comfort and protec- j
tor to his sisters. A sealed slip was
in the envelope; like one in a dream,
she opened and read :
“Gus has informed me, my dear
Leila, of your sad bereavement, in
which, it is needless for me I hope, to
assure you of my deep sympathy. —
But through it all, 1 cannot refrain
from telling you of something beyond
mere sy inpathy, and 1 only wisb that I ;
could fly at once to your presence to ‘
protect, to shield, to love you. Oh !;
i Leila, dear one, you do not know how j
CHARLESTON. SATI'IT AY. JULY 5, 1851.
ardently I cherish every memory of
thee—of your lightest word or tone.
1 did not intend you should know this,
till I could come and beg you to be
mine; but when l learn that you were
in trouble, I could not resist the desire
to tell you, that amid all, whether joy
or sorrow, one heart beats only for you.
I know that I am unworthy of you;
that I have not mu -h to otter, but a
love as undying as mv ov n soul —us
tender as that of Lie > . >ther for her
4
babe. Our time is iip.-.uey tell me,
and that I must finish. But write me
one word of hope that I may win you
at last, and there is nothing of which
I will not feel mysei ’ capable. Ever
ysui,, Algernon.”
title -a i iu i‘ *' ” ■” ‘■ <-* st-.TTe, and
then, folding the paper, hid it away.
No tears came, and only the low, sob
bing sigh, told of her distress. A sum
mons to dinner—she opened the door
to excuse herseit, as she was suffering
from a head-ache.
N o tender voice soothed—no second
summons called lie- 1 ; she thought not
of their coldness, nor want of feeling,
tor sadder and mole bitter were her
meditations. One faithful heart was
there, however. Rose, who had ac
companied her young mistress, after
her marriage, returned with her to her
new home. It was she who now sought
her mistress in her grief; couching
near the door in silence as she thus sat
motionless.
“\N ould you not like to see Mrs.
Alton, Miss Lee?” said she, at last.
“You look so strange and white.”
“None—no one yet, Rose; God will
help me.”
“\\ hat have they been doing to you,
my dear mistress ?” said the faithful
creature. “Has that, awful tempered
woman been saying anything to you?”
By this time she v.as kneeling, with
streaming eyes, before Leila, but she
still continued silent.
“They will kill you, I see, cried the
poor nurse, now beside herself with
fear, “and Mr. Lushington is no better
than they. Oh ! how 1 do wish Mas
j ter Gus was here, and how Ido hate
them all.”
“You do, do you, Mistress Impu
dence, said Miss Stella, who had en
tered unperceivtd. “I will tell mv
cousin wjhat a snake he has in thy.
house. Your mistress, I think, ought
not to allow you, a negro, to speak of
her husband and his relations, as she
has allowed you, without rebuke, sit
ting so silent, and encouraging your
impertinence. I wonder Ella Lushing
toii can rest in her grave, w ith all that
is passing here, in her house; and her
husband and her children abused by
the negro wench brought here by the
person, who has tried to take her
place.”
And she flung herself in a great
rage from the room.
Leila, by this time, much overcome
was persuaded by Rose, to lie down.
| That evening she received a dictatorial
! note from her husband, telling her that
| he had come to the conclusion, that it
; would be better for all parties, that
J she should hold as little correspondence
| with her brother and sisters as possi
; ble, as she seemed to separate their
| love and interest entirely from him
and his; and, as she bore his name
now, it was time stie should begin to
feel some interest in her new relations.
: Further, that he iVisisWthat she should
| send Rose, at once, back to Mrs. Al
ton, as lie had understood, she was con
stantly giving impertinence to his cou
sin, und his children ; and he. wished
his wife now to be waited on by his
servants. And this was the end of her
pure heart sacrifice. This from the
man who had promised “to love, cher
ish, and protect her.” But Mr. Lush
ington was a weak-minded, jealous,
thoroughly selfish man, who loved her
after his own notion, but on finding
it was not returned, as he thought it
should be, for his attentions, for a few
weeks, allowed him to listen, with
greedy ears, to the slanders of Stella
Lushington.
CHAPTER VI.
“Death lies on her, like an untimely frost,
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field ’’
Months have dragged on since the
last chapter. Again, we see Leila.—
But a striking change is here. Could
you think, that this frail creature had j
ever been the gleesome, gladsome girl,
who was so fondly loved by her parents
and family.
The whole of them are now gathered
in her chamber —and why 1 To watch
the last breath as it issues from those j
pale lips.
Yes ; Leila, our loved, unhappy one,
is dying. For months, has the de
stroyer been slow ly sapping the life in
her veins—touching so slowly with his
icy fingers, that no one knew it but her
self. And she dies a martyr —yes, a
martyr to a system of daily’ persecu
tion from the flinty-hearted Stella Lush
ington, aided by the weak-minded hus
band, who, steeled by his selfish jeal
ousy, listened to her; and, if not a
very active party, became a passive
wj’Kjss to many a humiliation which
J tfiJk young creature sustained so un
coinjtlainingly, so angelically, like the j
meek and Holy One, never buffeting
:>;• but when smitten on one cheek,
-t* tjarning the other.
At last, nature could hold out no
longer; and here she is on her death
bed-” The Doctors talk of feeble con
. .
stilution —ot consumption; but every
one knew that her young heart had
been trodden down, and that she was
litqjttlly killed by their unkindness.—
Tl.-Mi.came back, too late, her husband’s
anviyi.'is tenderness —then was sum-
Alton and her sisters —j
b’ A(■>"• i~<- ‘ As well think t> I
i s |el to life and bloom, the floyv- j
c ‘r‘ iTiaf is trodden under foot, as the
crushed blossom that now is dying be
fore him. One only thought and wish
seems to possess her, “my brother, lias
he come?” does she ever whisper, as
her kind friend bends over her.
’Twas a lovely summer evening; the
sky was mellowing and deepening in
its tints, from gold to a richer and
softer hue; throwing out from the
Claude Lorraine, colouring of sky’ and
earth, every leaflet and spray. Soft
breezes came in through the open win
dows, and kissed her snowy brow, as
she thus lay, feeble and dying on her
couch. All were gathered there tor
she was sinking visibly. A smile ot
peace had settled on that vvhilome
weary face, but she still said, “My
brother, my darling Gus, to see him
but once.”
Mrs. Alton is called from the cham
ber. Leila’s ear, sharpened by the ap
proach of death, has caught the whis
pered summons, and,w ith more strength
than was looked for, she half rises, and
says clearly —distinctly,
“Oh! he has come at last! My
brother! tell him I want to see him
now —this moment —while I have lite
—come! oh, come quickly, my broth
er!”
And her then transparent hands were
held out eagerly and expectantly. How
true is the prescience of those on the
confines of eternity.
It was, indeed, Augustus Forrester,
who had arrived in haste from New
York, lie entered, and caught Leila
to his heart. Tall and manly for his
years, he the eldest now. as he
held the frail, dying girl in his arms,
but his strong frame was shaking with
his deep emotion. At the request of
Leila, they were alone.
“My brother, I have no time to spare.
I leave to you tny dying mother’s leg
acy to me, her children, our sisters. Be
father—be all to them, dear Gus. I
have done, as thou knowest, oh, Fath
er ! my best for them, but in vain.—
Yes, dearest brother. 1 sold every hope
of earthly happiness, to obtain tor
them a borne, and a protector, but of
no avail. Nor have I complained to
mortal ear, w hat / have suffered, and
tis useless now. May it be an atone
ment with my God, for breaking his
sacred commands when 1 stood befoie
the minister. Here, brother, give this
to Algernon Percy, tell him why 1
married, and —. Tell him his letter
came, when 1 had been married some
weeks, and that now, on my death-bed,
1 return it to him. Tell him we may
know and love us holy spirits, where
God reigns eternal, and with my dying
breath, 1 beg him to meet me there—
the happier, higher world. Dearest
Gus, say nothing to those who made
mo sutler, but, but make my last hour
easy, by showing ’tis our sister’s alone
you care for. Bid farewell to Percy
for me. Call in the others now, and
then fold you arms around me. 1 dread
not death, Gus, I welcome him.”
lie did so; and Leila folded in his
tender arms, w ith her young, sad rela
tive around her, slept her last sleep.
Having died in the hope of a blissful
immortality, her friends sorrowed not
in despair, but after the mortal strug
gle was ended, seemed glad she had
escaped her state of bondage and ot
misery.
But the faithful nurse, left not her
mistress’ corpse, and with reproaches
w hich were unchecked, upbraided Mr.
Lushington for allowing Stella thus to
kill his wife. There, over that cold
body, telling him of deliberate cruelty,
both of word and deed to the patient
| sufferer, now lying so cold, so still be
! fore him, and which made him shed
tears of agony and self reproach—till
goading him on to such a frenzy of
hate, that he rushed from the still cham
ber of death, and turned the mischief
j maker from his door with imprecations
and bitter revilings.
A tall, sad-looking young officer, was
seen at the tomb of Mrs. Lushington
several times. It was Algernon Percy,
i After some years, Gus, who had mar
ried, received the news of his friend’s
death, which took place off the coast
of Africa.
Mrs. Altou still continues living, the
Forresters living with her. They are
both, Anna and Mary, engaged to be
married; so that Fanny will have a
home alternately with them, when God
i shall see lit to call her almost maternal
friend, Mrs. Alton, from her sphere of
usefulness.
Warrenton, Geo.
(F'jjr tlroirinrr.
From the Southern Literary Messenger.
! “SOUTHERN PASSAGES AND
PICTURES.”*
A scholar of no mean attainments
in literature, and of cultivated critical
skill, pronounced the “Atalantis” of
| Mr. Simms, not unworthy of compari
son, asa poem and a work of art, with
the immortal “Comus” of Milton.—
i The vigor and originality of expression,
the fervour and richness of imagina
tion, the fullness of thought, the eom
mind of language, the power and wide
• nkigi- r,*ooiieepTi'.ii; umted with The
! softer graces of deep and truthful sen
timent, and of musical rhythm, which
, distinguish “Atalantis,” will also he
found in greater or less degree, to char
acterise all of the poetry of its author.
We do not mean to say that Mr.
Simms has not published poetical tri
fles, which, penned merely as trifles,
; make no pretensions to any high or
j peculiar merit, and do not claim to be,
by any means, exponents of his pow
ers and characteristics as a poet. But
taking the general and prevailing tone
and style of the little collections of
poems named in our rubric, they’ will
be found to be not unworthy of the
author of “Atalantis although they
are, in fact, but prelusions—proleptic
flashings—of a genius which has never
yet plumed its latent energies to their
loftiest flight. There are abundant ev
idences throughout the writings of Mr.
Simms, and perhaps in none more than
in his poems, of power to accomplish
vastly more than he has performed.—
Not that the existing performances are
crude, or the offspring a certain imma
turity of genius; but they are such as
could only have emanated from the
truest genius, while they are not the
highest expression of th ■ powers so
evidently shining through them, and
which alone could have been adequate
to their production. “Atalantis” must
he placed in the very highest rank of
the class of poems to which it belong ;
hut it is not the loftiest and grandest
order of all poetry-, while the genius
which was capable of producing it,
must, of necessity, he able to touch
the very summit of poetical excellency.
Perhaps we shall not he far wrong
w hen we say, that the exuberance and
wonderful fertility of the author, the
extraordinary versatility of his powers,
and the rapid and ever-varying occu
pation of the pen which lias been de
manded by his literary connections and
avocations, have not permitted him to
concentrate his energies upon any sin
gle department, or pursue with the ex
clusive, artistic, laborious, and profes
sional devotion which it exacts, the vo
cation of the Poet to which he is espe
cially called by his peculiar endow
ments. But the tree gush of song, the
originality of expression and simile,
the deep sympathy with Nature, and
the true utterances of the heart which
appeals to universal Humanity, all
stamped upon the poems now before
us, show uumistakeably that they are
not the laboured form, hut the sponta
neous—the necessary garb in which
the thought clothed its expression, and
therefore, that they are not merely
verses, but the natural language of the
veritabe Poet. Anybody of ordinary
cleverness may twist his thoughts into
versification : only the Poet is able to
compel the natural utterance to the
thought, Or, more truly, his thought
suggests and moulds the utterance to
its own necessities.
The poet w ho becomes most rapidly
popular, is generally the one who
makes no large demand upon the atten
tive thought of his readers, but who
presents, in graceful and musical strains,
obvious conceptions, similes at once ap
preciated, interesting incidents, ordina
ry feelings, and pretty conceits. Pro
found and original poets win their way
more slowly. It is only after Time
has sent forth their voice widely to the
great heart of Humanity—a voice too
great in its multitudinous tones to be
at once comprehended by the single
age of their contemporaries—that they
pass into the general mind, and win
that popularity, which springs from the
taste and understanding they have
themselves moulded and developed.
Hence the mere popularity of a poet
of the day is no criterion of his real
rank. A general popularity with the
great mass of ordinary mind, may
even indicate that he has had his re
ward—that he has been fully under
stood and appreciated,—and that he is
destined to sink to a humble place with
posterity. But the poet of higher gifts
can not be appreciated in every phase
of his genius by the popular mind of
his day. This may admire much which
tails within the range of general feel
ing, sentiment, and conception; hut
there must be elements too thoughtful,
too universal , too recondite to be traced
or understood except by higher minds;
the mass have to he taught them, —to
learn to comprehend and value, what
at first they disdained or disliked, be
cause its greatness and originality re
moved it from the general and circum
scribed circle of their thoughts and ex
perience, to the universal sphere of
Nature, of highest Reason, and of
boundless, myriad-sided Humanity.
The highest order of poetry is, doubt
less, that which like Nature itself, ap
peals to and enters widest into the sym
pathies of all mon, while it challenges
and rewards the scrutiny of the most
intellectual. Humanity and Physical
Nature constitute, so to speak, the
Truth-Universe of Poetry. But the
general mind of any one period, al
though partaking of Humanity and in
fluenced by and connected with Nature,
can only imperfectly comprehend the
•“Southern Passages and Pictures;”
“ Grouped Thoughts “ Areytos, or Songs
of the South “The Cassique of Accabee,
with other pieces.” Poems by W. Gilmore
Simms, Author of “Atlanta., ” 4*.
FOURTH VOLUME—NO. 10 WHOLE NO. 16!
Universal, because it is only under par
tial phases that the Universal is able
to come in contact with the mind of a
particular age ; and it is the wonderful
prerogative of genius, and especially of
the poetical genius, to seize by instinct
that Universal, and so to present it—
in prose or verse—that the productions
reach, enter into and enlarge the sym
pathies and thoughts of the age, con
nect them with universal Humanity
and Nature, and so reflect the Truth
l ni verse, that they become an ever
lasting mirror, and instruction, and
study, tor all time and all ages. The
more completely poetry accomplishes
this, the more universal and enduring
w ill he its sway. Iloiuer and Shaks
peare, eompletest mirrors of the Truth
ini verse, are an everlasting possession
and instruction to the whole race, —
.1 --J-. .* 1 . -a : ,r - pfireTV 11) ret 1 0? 1 ; I oil. Too
little reflecting the affections ot Hu
manity, can never become a popular
poet, hut will always he most appro
bated by the recondite thinker and the
imaginative hut abstract admirer of
Nature. That very reflection of the
L niversai, and hence of highest and
widest Truth, which characterizes the
great poet, renders him also prophetic,
and therefore in advance of Ins age.—
He elevates it by its participation of
that Humanity and relation to that
Nature which lie conceives in their
universal aspect; but the very fact
that he is not only one-phased, renders
it necessary that he should only be
gradually and fully appreciated in the
unfolding progression of time.
W ith such a conception of the gen
eral nature of poetry in its highest
character, we come to the analysis of
the poems before us. \\'e are well
aware that it would be the highest in
justice to apply the test of the loftiest
conception of poetry to productions
which, not only were never intended,
hut which, hi fact, cannot he regarded
by the critical eye, as adequate expo
nents of the powers of the author.—
When Air. Simms has enjoyed the un
distraeted leisure to concentrate his
w hole energies upon the finished pro
duction of a Drama or Epic,not thrown
otfj like the present poems, under the
pressure of multitudinous and imper
ative demands upon his pen, hut elab- j
orated with the full force of his genius
and the highest polish of his art, it w ill ;
then he time enough to criticise his ti- I
tic to a throne among the great Alas- j
ters ot Song, Milton, and Dante, and j
Sophocles; nor need his admirers (and j
we are sure that they are many) fear, j
should he ever present such a produe- j
tion, that the judgment of posterity
would accord him any humble throne, ;
or any but a most triumphant crown, j
But we propose no task of comparison ]
between the poems under considers- i
tion and those of other authors; our
design is to examine the intrinsic |
merits of the productions before us,
and to leave it to the intelligence of
our readers to institute what compari
sons their own taste and judgment may
suggest.
In one striking particular do we re
cognise in Mr. Uimms the necessary
elements of the great Poet. He unites
high imaginative powers with meta
physical thought, by which we mean
that large discourse of Reason which
generalizes, which seizes the Universal,
and perceives its relations to individual
phenomena of Nature and Psychology.
It is the characteristic of the great Poet
to seize those subtle relations which
connect the Individual with the Uni
versal, and thus linking what is partic
ular, limited, and special, with the
whole Truth-Universe, he both enters
the circle of individual sympathies, and
elevates them to the sphere of univer
sal Reason. He represents individual
ties, hut he shows them related to the
Universal which he reflects; thus he
touches the chords of personal feelings
in Men , w hile he appeals to the high
est thought—the general Reason—of
Man. lienee it is that th ttc-ances
of the great Poet sometimes seem ob
scure, even when in fact they are nut
so. It is the thought, the subtle rela
tion, the generalization, or the reflec
tion of higher Reason, which is not,
and cun not be, superficially obvious,
that gives the appearance of obscurity,
when the language itself may be pre
cise and lucid. In such cases, when
the Poet seems obscure, it is to use a
phrase of Celoride, because we are ig
“ignorant of his understanding;” when
we are sure that we “understand his
ignorance,” we are then competent to
pronounce upon his real obscurity of
thought and diction.
It is impossible to read Mr. Simms’
poems without being struck by the pro
fusion of appropriate, felicitous, and
often original simile. 11 is keen and
fresh perception of Nature, givesrise al
so to beautiful pictures, whose truthful- j
ness and clearness arc admirably pre- j
sented in the lucid language wherewith
they are painted. And in the expres
sion of deep personal feelings, we find \
a noble union of sad emotion and man- ;
linessof tone. He never sinks to the j
whining strains of mawkish sentimen
tality, or to the morbid misanthropy of j
passionate or cold and sneering discon
tent. There is not only the vigor of
manliness throughout his poetry, hut
also the reflection of profound and phi
losophical thought. There is often ex
hibited that power of condensation, ;
‘which, by a single pregnant line, sug
gests an expansive train of reflection ;
and his productions are marked by that !
originality of copious and independent
thought, which lias no need to dress up
trite commonplaces in a metrical garb,
lie and raws from a full treasury of va- .
ried experience, active thought, keen
observation, just and original reflection, j
and a spirit which has drunk deeply I
and lovingly from the full-gushing
founts of Nature’s Beauty. His in
spiration is often kindled by the sunny
and luxuriant scenery of the South,
and besides the freshness and glow
which this naturally imparts to his de
scriptive poetry, it makes him emphat
ic liy The National Poet of the South
ern Land. Not only has he sung her
peculiar natural aspects, with the ap
preciatiou of a poet and the feelings of
a son, hut he has a claim to her grati
tude. for having enshrined in melo
dious verse her ancient and fast-fading
traditions.
1 he intense intellectual activity com
bined with a habitually reflective and
meditative mode of thought, which ap
pears to characterise Mr. Simms’mind,
induces hiiu frequently to pursue a
vein clearly and beautifully, but too
copiously for the taste of the general
reader, who becomes wearied by the
long continued demand upon his atten
tion and powers of discriminating judg
ment. The generality of readers wish
in poetry something comprehended at
a glance,—pleasing readily the taney
—obvious in every respect, —and then
done with. Os course w e are not now
alluding to mere *
t \\ hose interest lies in
its sentiments, its thoughts, and its 9
psychological characteristics. Such po
etry is only in a limited degree for the
ordinary erewd ot readers ; but w hite
the natural, logical, and clear flow of
thought harmoniously continues, it w ill
continue also to attract and sustain the
interest of the reflecting mind; and
this, such pieces of Mr. Simms as we
have alluded to, do, although, as we
have said, they will not so enchain the
mere general reader. And this leads
us to remark, that it is most probably
owing to that very fact, that full and
general justice has never been done to
Air. Simms as a poet; the general
reader has not taken the pains of mak
ing himself acquainted with the best
poetry of the author, which is to he
found precisely in that class of pieces
to which we have alluded, —pieces
which will win the admiration of the
true critic, the. scholar, the poet, —but
which have not yet been sufficiently
examined and appreciated by the mass
ot readers, whose habit is to skim rap
idly over poetry of a highly thought
ful cast. Air. Simms’ poetry is for the
closet, the bower, the forest aisles, the
grand cathedral of Nature; for the
solitary muser, the companionship ot
thinking minds and deep hearts, the
quiet circle of intelligence and love;
hut not for the steamboat and railroad,
and laughing drawing-room, and half
; thoughtless party, wanting something
light, and amusing. \Ve are t be un
j derstood as speaking of the presiding
j character of this gentleman’s poetry ;
j for in view of the powers which he so
I evidently possesses, we could almost
j feel provoked, not with Mr. Simms,
; hut w ith the circumstances w hich have
so greatly diverted that concentrated,
untrammelled devotion to the Aiuse,
which would and must have given us a
i great poem from his pen.
It is not always that a man’s wri-
I tings prove a true reflection of his
| character. But Afr. Simms’ poetry too
j evidently emanates directly from the
; heart, not to enable us to appreciate
the man. It is free from affectation ;
it deals in no prettinesses of conceit;
it exhibits no mannerism and trammels
of particular schools. And poetry
must be (what from its essential na
ture it would seem impossible that
true poetry can he,) a monstrous lie,
it the author of the productions be
fore us, unites not to his intellectual
gilts, a high-toned and generous nature,
a kindly, noble, and strong heart, a
genial, impulsive, yet faithful and de
termined disposition, warm affection
and friendship, a spirit to do and to en
dure, and a soul as much elevated
above the petty envies and jealousies
w hich too often deform the genus irri
tabile, as it is in large sympathy with
the Beautiful, the True, the Just, with
Humanity and with Nature.
(To be continued.)
A FEW DEFINITIONS.
Marriage. —A “State lottery,” not
put down.
War.— Congregational worship of
the devil. Alnrder to music.
Character. —The only personal pro
perty which every person looks after
for you.
Sleep. —A cloak thrown around us at
the side-scenes as we leave the stage a
while.
Napoleon. —A naughty boy w ho was
put in a corner because he wanted the
world to play with.
Woman. —The melody of the human
duet. A golden coin, which educators
plate over with silver.
Pen. —A lever, small enough to be
used by one man, but strong enough
to raise the whole world.
Revenge. —Bitter sweets, plucked
from the devil’s garden. Quenching
your thirst with brandy.
Metaphysics. —Words to stay the ap
petite till tacts are ready. Feeling for
a science in the. dar k.
Tobacco. —A triple memento rnori;
| dust for the nose, ashes for the mouth,
j and poison for the stomach.
Life. —One to whom we are always
introduced without our consent, but
whom we seldom quit without regret.
Sword —The first hope of the op
pressor, and the last hope of the op
| pressed. Passion’s special pleader in
| lolly’s court of appeal.
Scholar —A diver for pearls, who
generally loses his breath before he
gathers much treasure.
Duel. —A strange old custom, ac
; cording to which men suffering from
inflammation, attempt to cure them
i selves by bleeding somebody else.
Ballroom. —A chess-board played
upon tiy love and hate. A eon lined
place, in which poor creatures are com
mitted by fashion to hard labour.
Newspaper. —The great general of
the people, who has driven the enemy
| from the fortified heights of power,
i and compelled him to give battle in
the open field of thought- A w inding
sheet, in which the Parliamentary
speeches are interred.
[From “ The Council of Four.
Candles.— ln Russia, the candles
used in the mines are made of tallow
I mixed with charcoal dust (or powdered
I charcoal,) which is found to increase
| the intensity of the light. Let some
I of our chandeliers try this mixture.