rature," by the father, and "Vivian Grey and Contarini "God save the King," as we went up the side. Count Fleming," by the son, were universally known. D'Orsay here, who spoke very little English at that "I am pleased at that, too, for I like them both. D'Is-time, had a great passion for Yankee Doodle, and it raeli the elder came here with his son the other night.- was always played at his request." It would have delighted you to see the old man's pride in him. He is very fond of him, and as he was going away, he patted him on the head, and said to me 'take care of him, lady Blessington, for my sake. He is a clever lad, but he wants ballast. I am glad he has the honor to know you, for you will check him sometimes when I am away!' D'Israeli, the elder, lives in the country about twenty miles from town, and seldom comes up to London. He is a very plain old man in his manners, as plain as his son is the reverse. D'Israeli, the younger, is quite his own character of Vivian Grey, crowded with talent, but very soigne of his curls, and a bit of a coxcomb. There is no reserve about him, how-gether, but though Lord Blessington had the greatest ever, and he is the only joyous dandy I ever saw." The count, who still speaks the language with a very slight accent, but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact and elegance of mind, inquired after several of the officers, whom I have not the pleasure of knowing. He seemed to remember his visits to the frigate with great pleasure. The conversation, after running upon a variety of topics, which I could not with propriety put into a letter for the public eye, turned very naturally upon Byron. I had frequently seen the Countess Guiccioli on the continent, and I asked lady Blessington if she knew her. "No. We were at Pisa when they were living to curiosity to see her, Byron would never permit it. 'She has a red head of her own,' said he, 'and don't like to show it.' Byron treated the poor creature dreadfully She feared more than she loved him." I asked if the account I had seen in some American paper of a literary celebration at Canandaigua, and the engraving of her ladyship's name with some others up-ill. on a rock, was not a quiz. She had told me the same thing herself in Italy. It would be impossible, of course, to make a full and fair record of a conversation of some hours. I have only noted one or two topics which I thought most likely to interest an American reader. During all this long visit, however, my eyes were very busy in finishing for memory a portrait of the celebrated and beautiful woman before me. Oh, by no means. I was equally flattered and amused by the whole affair. I have a great idea of taking a trip to America to see it. Then the letter, commencing 'Most charming countess-for charming you must be since you have written the conversations of Lord Byron'-oh, it was quite delightful. I have shown it to every body. By the way, I receive a great many letters from America, from people I never heard of, written in The portrait of lady Blessington in the Book of Beauthe most extraordinary style of compliment, apparent-ties is not unlike her, but it is still an unfavorable likely in perfectly good faith. I hardly know what to make ness. A picture by Sir Thomas Lawrence hung oppoof them." site me, taken, perhaps, at the age of eighteen, which is more like her, and as captivating a representation of a just matured woman, full of loveliness and love, the kind of creature with whose divine sweetness the gazer's heart aches, as ever was drawn in the painter's most inspired hour. The original is now (she confessed it very frankly) forty. She looks something on the sun I accounted for it by the perfect seclusion in which great numbers of cultivated people live in our country, who, having neither intrigue, nor fashion, nor twenty other things to occupy their minds as in England, depend entirely upon books, and consider an author who has given them pleasure as a friend. America, I said, has probably more literary enthusiasts than any coun-ny side of thirty. Her person is full, but preserves all try in the world; and there are thousands of romantic minds in the interior of New England, who know perfectly every writer this side the water, and hold them all in affectionate veneration, scarcely conceivable by a sophisticated European. If it were not for such readers, literature would be the most thankless of vocations. I, for one, would never write another line. the fineness of an admirable shape; her foot is not crowded in a satin slipper, for which a Cinderella might long be looked for in vain, and her complexion, (an unusually fair skin, with very dark hair and eyebrows,) is of even a girlish delicacy and freshness. Her dress of blue satin, (if I am describing her like a milliner, it is because I have here and there a reader of the mirror in "And do you think these are the people who write to my eye who will be amused by it,) was cut low and If I could think so, I should be exceedingly hap-folded across her bosom, in a way to show to advantage py. People in England are refined down to such heart-the round and sculpture-like curve and whiteness of a lessness-criticism, private and public, is so interested and so cold, that it is really delightful to know there is a more generous tribunal. Indeed I think all our authors now are beginning to write for America. We think already a great deal of your praise or censure." me? pair of exquisite shoulders, while her hair dressed close to her head, and parted simply on her forehead with a rich ferronier of turquoise, enveloped in clear outline a head with which it would be difficult to find a fault.— Her features are regular, and her mouth, the most ex I asked if her ladyship had known many Ame-pressive of them, has a ripe fulness and freedom of play, ricans. "Not in London, but a great many abroad. I was with Lord Blessington in his yacht at Naples, when the American fleet was lying there, eight or ten years ago, and we were constantly on board your ships. I knew Commodore Creighton and Captain Deacon extremely well, and liked them particularly. They were with us, either on board the yacht or the frigate every evening, and I remember very well the bands playing always peculiar to the Irish physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good humour. Add to all this a voice merry and sad by turns, but always musical, and manners of the most unpretending elegance, yet even more remarkable for their winning kindness, and you have the prominent traits of one of the most lovely and fascinating women I have ever seen. Remembering her talents and her rank, and the unenvying admiration she receives from the world of fashion and genius, it would be difficult to reconcile her lot to the "doctrine of compensation." There is one remark I may as well make here, with regard to the personal descriptions and anecdotes with which my letters from England will of course be filled. It is quite a different thing from publishing such letters in London. America is much farther off from England than England from America. You in New York read the periodicals of this country, and know every thing that is done or written here, as if you lived within the sound of Bow-bell. The English, however, just know of our existence, and if they get a general idea twice a year of our progress in politics, they are comparatively well informed. Our periodical literature is never even heard of. Of course, there can be no offence to the individuals themselves in any thing which a visiter could write, calculated to convey an idea of the person or manners of distinguished people to the American public. I mention it lest, at first thought, I might seem to have abused the hospitality or frankness of those on whom letters of introduction have given me claims for civility. To Miss C N. P. W. For the Southern Literary Messenger, "Go to," and quit thy idle ways Why waste those powers, by heav'n design'd To wreck the peace of half mankind, In thy pursuit 'tis all the same, Nay, say not "no!"—within that hall, Virginia's proudest sages. I've seen thee, 'midst the festive scene, Go, quit it all-'tis weak-'tis vain— Thy native truth alone can gain For thee, the brightest jewel. Richmond, Feb. 1835. B. For the Southern Literary Messenger. Written for Miss M————— T's Album. MARY, thou wert a lovely child! A sweeter cherub never smiled! Tho' since we have not often met, Those days I well remember yet; When, in thy sportiveness and glee, Thou wert a favorite with me; And told me, in thy frolic mood, The story of Red-riding-hood In words I ne'er could understand- Time's changes numberless had passed By the bright impress of the mind- Mary, I thought thee lovely then— To regions of eternal peace, Where joys live on and sorrows cease. E. A. S. For the Southern Literary Messenger. Written on the Pillar erecting by Mrs. Barlow, to the memory Shall this recording pillar long descry, And give the sod a tear where Barlow lies, H. M. WILLIAMS. For the Southern Literary Messenger. A burning thought-whose magic spell It gushes o'er my troubled soul In lava streams of joy, Its talismanic power can roll It thrills my heart with ecstacy, And who is she that has the art Thine is the brightness of the eye, Like flow'rets of the northern year, But more than all, thy beauty brings And more than all, thy magic flings Yes! more than these-than rosy cheek- Thy nature calm, and soft and meek, These are the charms that deck thee most, These are the flow'rs that thou may'st boast, Thy world may fade-its glory past,— Thy mind will shine undimmed at last, Go to the East-it is thy home In nature like to thee; And while o'er beds of flowers you roam, And while you breathe the Attar-Gul Of fragrant memory, Your heart with thrilling joy so full, It throbs like summer sea; Oh! then should thought of times gone by, May, mid the breeze that dances nigh, For the Southern Literary Messenger. EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. THERE is a form before me now, A spirit with a peerless brow, And locks of gold that lightly lie, Like clouds on the air of a sunset sky, As bright a ray as Heaven sends To light those orbs, where the pure and blest Sweet Spirit! thou hast stolen afar That I might look on thee, and bless How oft against these prison bars I have leaned my head, and gazed for hours Upon the wonder-telling stars; Thinking, if in their sinless bowers The memory of this planet dim E'er mingles with thy blissful dream. And when low winds were stealing by, I have sometimes closed my weary eye; And fancied the sigh that was silently stealing Through my damp hair, was thine own breathing: Then would I lay me down upon This carpetless cold flinty stone, And pray-how long! how fervently! To look on thee once more and die. For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE half-orbed Moon hangs out her silvery lamp, serene. Radiant she rests upon the brow of night, So softly beautiful, so mildly bright, She sways the ravished heart, and feeds the insatiate eye. In jocund boyhood erst her magic face Impressed no feeling but a gentle joy; For moonlit memory knew not then to trace When dawning manhood, fired by fancy's ray, Then fond affection loved at eve to stray And, gazing on the Moon, with thrilling heart to muse. But when advancing years have broke the ties For the Southern Literary Messenger. O! ever skilled to wear the form we love! For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO THE BIBLE. Go, Holy Book! Tell those whom many woes assail They'll find how weak it is to wail The Orphan's tear Go wipe away, and bid his heart Heal thou his bosom's sorest smart, Say thou to those, Shut out from every good on earth, Lost to repose, Baptized in sorrow at their birth, That worldly joy's of little worth. The poor soul tell, The poor, lone, wretched, friendless man, Though his heart swell, The ways of God, he must not scan- Tell poor disease, Bravely to bear the piercing pain; Eternal ease, Waits those who do not poorly plain, And worldly loss is heavenly gain. Tell those who sigh Over some friend's untimely doom, He whom they saw laid in the tomb, Go, say to those Doom'd still to groan and till the soil, That soon repose Shall wipe away their drops of toil, Tell those who pine In the damp dungeon's dreary gloom, There yet will shine Through their poor melancholy dome, A light to guide their footsteps home. Tell the Pilgrim, When storms are blackening round his head, 'Tis good for him; What though his thorn torn feet have bled, The heart's blood of his God was shed. The Mariner, Who bides the tempest's fiercest blaze, Bid not to fear; Though thunders hurtle in the air, The Launcher of the thunder's there. Tell those who fear Their sins can never be forgiven, To be of cheer- If they have call'd on God and striven, There's mercy for them still in Heaven. For the Southern Literary Messenger. On seeing the Junction of the Susquehanna and RUSH on, broad stream, in thy power and pride, She doth haste from the realm of the darken'd mine, Ye have met, ye have met,—and the shores prolong Methinks ye wed as the white man's son I saw thy bride as she strove in vain Her birth was rude in the mountain cell, The path of her beauty was wild and free, Pass on, in the joy of your blended tide, On,-on,-thro' the vale where the brave ones sleep, Where the waving foliage is rich and deep; I have look'd from the mountain and roam'd thro' the glen, To the beautiful homes of the western men, Yet naught in that realm of enchantment could see, For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE WANDERER. BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M. D. ALONG the devious paths of life, A wild and wayward wand'rer, I, Have steered my bark mid passion's strife, And where destruction's pitfalls lie. When on a dark and rock-bound shore, My bark was wildly tempest tost, And o'er the breakers' sullen roar, Arose the fearful cry—all's lost! I shrunk not from the raging blast, But with a bold and reckless hand I steered her on, till she had past The stormy sea and rocky strand. A fierce enthusiast, I have dared To risk my all, upon one cast,Have seen the danger,-nor have feared, What others looked upon aghast. Disease has laid her iron hand, With no weak grasp, my frame upon, But all her power could not withstand The spirit which has borne me on. A demon some have called me—yet, All thought of self, in aid of friends. A madman some have deemed me-and, I often wish to die-and flee Far, far away from earth, that I May search the dim unknown, and see What wonders in its bosom lie. 'Tis not because life has no charm,— I love to gaze on maiden's eye, Though it has often been my bane; I love on courser swift to fly, Like arrow o'er the flowery plain. Yet still, my wayward soul will oft, Cherish the wish to pass that bound, Which spans this life, and seek aloft For bliss which here is never found. But now my lyre begins to fail I'll cease my lone and wand'ring song. Fearful lest with my idle wail, I linger o'er the chords too long. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TRUE RICHES AND GLORY. FOR fortune's prize let others pant, And leaves the heart to weep. Let others climb the dizzy height But, oh! let mine the treasure be Still soothing and smoothing For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE DEATH OF THE MOTHERLESS. "As the little one turned for the last time, his tenderly beaming eyes on all around, they seemed to say 'Father!-she calls,-I go,-farewell,-farewell.'" "WHO calleth thee, my darling boy? What voice is in thine ear?" He answer'd not, but murmur'd on In words that none might hear; To some dear object of delight And then, with that confiding smile O'er which the dew-drops weep, But if in yon immortal clime Where flows no parting tear, That root of earthly love may grow Which struck so deeply here, With what a tide of boundless bliss, A thrill of rapture wild, An angel mother in the skies, Must greet her cherub child. Hartford, Conn. L. H. S. |