M.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE POWER OF FAITH.

"Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the "days of Herod the King, behold there came wise men from the "east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born king of the "Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and have come to "worship him."

Pleasure! thou cheat of a world's dim night, What shadows pass over thy disk of light! To follow thy flitting and quivering flame, Is to die in the depths of despair and shame; 'Tis to perish afar on a lone wild moor, Or the wreck of a ship on a hopeless shore. Come listen, ye gay! I will tell of a star Whose beaming is brighter and steadier far; It rose in the East, and the wise men came To see if its light were indeed the same Which their old books said would be seen to rest On Bethlehem's plains, in its silver vest, To point to the spot where a Saviour lay, Who would gather his flock, all gone astray; Would frighten the wolf from his helpless fold, And loosen the grasp of his demon hold; And lead them away to his pastures green, Where all is so verdant and fadeless seen, Where the river of life is a ceaseless stream, And the light of his love is the sweetest beam That ever shone out on benighted eyes, And brighter the face of those lovely skies, Than ever was seen in the softest sleep When the senses are hushed in calmness deep; And spirits are thought, with their gentle breath, To breathe on the lids of a seeming death, And whisper such things in the ear of wo, As the waking sinner must never know. Oh, what doth he ask in return for this, The light of his love, and such draughts of bliss? What doth he ask for the boon thus given?-- Faith in the blood of the Son of Heaven.

A cry was heard in Rama!--and so wild-- 'Twas Rachel weeping for her murder'd child:-- She would not be consoled--her youngest pride Was torn in terror from her sheltering side; At one dread blow her infant joy was gone To glut the rage of Herod's heart of stone; What drave the tyrant in his wrathful mood, To bathe her lovely innocents in blood? Why stoop'd the savage from his kingly throne, {41} To fill Judea with a mother's moan?-- Weak wretch! he idly sought in his alarm, To stay the purpose of Jehovah's arm; The creature, crawling on his kindred dust, Would stay the bolt, descending on his lust; The crafty counsel of his finite mind Would thwart the God, who rides upon the wind; Yea, "rides upon a Cherub," and doth fly, Scatt'ring his lightnings through the lurid sky. Vain hope! the purpose of his heart, foreknown, Ere yet the falcon swoops, the prey is flown; On Egypt's all unconscious breast is laid Another babe, like him whom erst the maid Daughter of Pharaoh on the wave espied In bark of bulrush, floating o'er the tide Where 'twas her wont her virgin limbs to lave, And snatched in pity from a watery grave; True to the chord that wakes in woman's heart, True to the pulse which bids her promptly start To shield defenceless childhood in her arms, And hush the plaining of its young alarms.

Infant adored! I dare not here essay To paint the lustre of thy glorious way:-- Let earth attend, while holy tongue recount Thy hallow'd lessons from the Olive Mount, While Heaven proclaims its messenger of love On Jordan's banks descending as a dove, While grateful multitudes in plaudits vie, And Zion shouts hosannah to the High! O'er famed Gethsemane, I must not tread. Sad o'er its memory let tears be shed; From bloody Calvary, the soul recoils From impious murderers, sharing in thy spoils; From thy dread agony, and bosom wrung, A world in awful darkness, sably hung, When earth was shook, the vail was rent in twain And yawning graves gave forth their dead again.

From theme too great, too sad, I turn away, From strain too lofty for a feeble lay-- They sought to quench in blood thy hallow'd light, To stay, the foolish ones! thy stayless flight; They did indeed thy breast of meekness wring, Which would have gathered them beneath its wing; Infuriate Jacob trampled on thy cross, Thy loved ones mourned in bitterness, thy loss, When suddenly is heard the earthquake shock, The sepulchre repels its closing rock, The grave is tenantless!--the body gone, The trembling guards in speechless terror thrown; Th' attending angel comes with lightning brow And raiment whiter than the dazzling snow, Comes to attest with his eternal breath, Our God triumphant over sin and death.

Here let me pause and fix my ardent gaze-- Faith is my star, whose ever-during rays Can guide my steps through life's surrounding gloom And cheer the paths which lie beyond the tomb; How was I lost in earth's bewildering vale When first I turned and saw that silver sail Above my dim horizon, breaking slow, When all of peace for me seem'd gone below; My world was sad and comfortless and drear Or cross'd by lights that glance and disappear; Look back, my soul, on scenes which long have passed, Think on the thousand phantoms I have chased; Count o'er the bubbles whose delusive dyes Have danced in emptiness before mine eyes; How were they followed,--won--and heedless clasp'd How fled their hues! evanished as I grasp'd!-- That last and loveliest one, whose rainbow light Will break at times on memory so bright, How did it fleet with all its fairy fires, Fanned by the breath of young and soft desires! Caught by its tinsel shine, deceptive shed, I flew, with throbbing heart and dizzied head, A giddy round, where all beneath were flowers, Where sped, with "flying feet," the laughing hours: Dissolved the charm--dispelled the brilliant dream-- Why changed to baleful shadow did it seem? What roused the madman from his trance, and left His heart a waste--of love--of joy bereft? What woke the foolish one?--unmanned his heart? Death, mid the treach'rous scene, did sudden start, And o'er my light of love his breath expires, It pales--it fades--extinguish'd are its fires!

But now, how blest the change! there is a power Can foil e'en death--can rob his only hour Of half its sting--can even deck with charms The cold embrace of his sepulchral arms: 'Tis but the transient sinful passport this, To "joys unspeakable and full of bliss;" 'Tis but a short,--convulsive,--fitful thrill,-- A momentary pang,--a sudden chill;-- When free, the disembodied spirit flies Where, incorruptible, it never dies; To scenes the Patmos prophet, glowing paints, Where near the jasper seat adore the saints, Where bow of emerald circles round a throne In glory brighter than the sardine stone! Yet hold!--nor thus as if in scorn my soul Still break from earth and spurn its dull control; Why wilt thou bound away through paths of ether, Swift as "young roes upon thy mountains, Bether?" Turn--turn to earth, the blinded vision fails,-- We must not look beyond those sapphire veils, Which mercy spreads in beauty o'er the skies, To spare the weakness of unhallow'd eyes; Oh, check the thought which soars, presumptuous man! Nor dare the heights that thou must never scan.

But though shut out from that all radiant goal While "this corruptible" enchains the soul, He whom a gracious God hath given to see Yon light which burst on darkened Galilee, Will find a charm in that clear steady ray Which sweetens life and sanctifies decay; All changed the face of this dark prison, earth, It seems to spring as from a second birth; Chaos is gone,--as first it fled the sight Of Him who spake, and sudden there was light! Sweet flowers now spring upon the pris'ners path, Where once but thorns beset the child of wrath; A balm for wounds that once could rack the frame, Such monitory thoughts the fondest wish to tame. Such hope to cheer and stay the sinking breast, A prize so noble,--and so calm a rest! {42} Such alter'd views!--new heavens!--and other skies! Some veil before was bound upon his eyes, Thus sudden loosed, as if angelic hands, Invisible, unbound his fettering bands. Where now the cold and soul revolting gloom That hung its shadows o'er the yawning tomb? Where gone the grief that with o'erwhelming load Press'd down the heart and crush'd it on its road? Lost in the hope of those prospective joys Where sorrow enters not, nor death annoys.

S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SWEET SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA, AND THE VALLEY WHICH CONTAINS THEM.

BY W. BYRD POWELL, M.D.

Mr. Jefferson has said, and we admit it, that a sight of the Natural Bridge is worth a trip across the Atlantic. But as this does not preclude the possibility of greater curiosities existing, we are allowed the privilege of expressing the belief, that the Sweet Springs, inclusive of the entire valley which contains them, present to a philosophical mind, a scene of incalculably greater interest. The bridge, by one mental effort, is comprehended, and speculation put at rest. Not so with this valley; but like the bridge, the first impressions produced by it create amazement, but as soon as this state of feeling is displaced by further observation, a train of thought succeeds, of unceasing interest, upon the character and variety of the causes which could have produced such a pleasing variety of effects.

In the first place, the several springs, bubbling forth immense volumes of water, highly charged with lime, carbonic acid gas, free caloric, and in some instances iron, are objects of peculiar interest to the philosopher, and so they will remain, more especially, until more facts in relation to them are discovered, and the laws of chemical affinity are better understood.

In the second place, the great fertility of the valley, even to a common observer, will be remarked as a matter of very uncommon occurrence.

In the third place, those elevations which cross the Valley, five in number, popularly known as the Beaver Dams, are marvellous matters, transcending even the Natural Bridge; and that they were constructed by beavers, cannot admit of a doubt. But then the mind is lost in amazement at the probable number of the animals that inhabited the valley, and the immensity of their labor.

The valley is bounded by high hills, perhaps mountains, and the one that terminates its lower extremity consists of slate, and is separated from the lateral ones by a stream of small magnitude above its junction with the valley branch, which is made up measurably of the mineral waters. The lateral mountains, at their lower extremity are slate; at the other, sandstone; and in the middle, limestone.

From the upper spring, or the one now in use, to the junction of its branch with the mountain stream above treated of, is three miles, and the fall in that distance was originally about one hundred and fifty feet. Then there was between these lateral hills no valley or flat land--this has been produced by the Beaver Dams which divided the original declination into five perpendicular _falls_, measuring each from twenty to thirty-eight feet--thus producing out of one mountain gutter, five beautiful tables of the richest soil in the world. And this too, simply by retaining the _debris_ from the surrounding hills, as it was annually washed in, and also the lime from the mineral waters, which, since the production of the fountains has been constantly depositing. It is furthermore evident that no one of these dams was the work of one season, but of many, just as the necessity for elevation was produced by the filling up of the artificial basin.

As a description of one of those dams will serve for all, we will take the largest, and the one which bounds the lower extremity of the valley.

This dam constitutes one bank of the stream which receives the valley waters, and is about thirty-eight feet high, and half a mile in length; the elevation, however, gradually diminishes from the centre to the extremities. The mineral waters of the valley contain, as we have intimated, an immense quantity of lime, which is deposited with astonishing rapidity in the state of a simple carbonate, (especially in those places where the water has much motion,) producing those mineral forms called _stalactites_ and _stalagmites_. With this knowledge it is easy to comprehend how these imperishable monuments of beaver labor and economy were produced.--For instance, these animals, according to their manner of building, felled trees across the mouth of the branch, and filled smaller interstices with brush, which would cause motion in the water and serve as nuclei for its mineral depositions. Consequently, in this dam may be seen immense incrustations of logs, brush, roots and moss. In many instances, the ligneous matter, not being able to resist the decomposing effects of time and moisture, is entirely removed, leaving petrous tubes, resembling, in the larger specimens, cannon barrels. These calcareous deposites not only cemented the timber together, but secured the entire work against the smallest percolation, prevented the escape of mountain _debris_, and rendered permanent a labor, which under other circumstances, would little more than have survived the duration of the timber, or the life of the industrious artificer.

The outside of the dam is stalactical in its whole length, which resulted from the beaver's keeping its summit level, and thus causing the water to flow over every point of it. This circumstance, in connexion with the stream that washes its outer base, has caused large and over hanging projections of the stalactical deposites, and cavernous excavations; attached to the roofs of which is to be seen a great variety of small and beautiful spars. At the point over which the water at present is precipitated, the dam, is a bold and interesting spectacle. Add to this a large descending column of white spray, into which the water is converted by obstacles opposing its march over the dam, and the scene is rendered truly sublime.

The soil of the several basins seems to rest on stalagmite, and the channel of the branch is worn out of it.

In many places, far above the present level of the basins or dams, may be seen large rocks of this stalagmite: thus proving incontestibly, that this water occupied a position, two hundred feet at least above what it did at the time the beavers commenced their labor, and before the deep excavation was effected between the mountains.

{43} Finally, we deem it proper to make a few more remarks upon the first topic we introduced,--namely, the waters themselves. As to the agents concerned, and the play of affinities between them, it is useless for us to hazard an opinion, more especially as we have not made ourselves analytically acquainted with them. Let it suffice to point out the several springs, and those sensible properties and qualities which will necessarily be observed by every visiter; and first of the spring now in use.

As soon as this beautiful fountain is brought within the compass of vision, attention will be arrested by the constant and copious escape of fixed air, and the boldness of the stream. As soon as it is introduced to the mouth, its sweetish taste and warmth are discovered--and then its stimulating effect upon the system will be perceived; and finally, if the visiter will walk below the spring, five or six rods, he will discover the stalagmitic rocks of limestone which have been formed by successive depositions from this water.

The next spring below, is popularly called the Red Spring. It is characterized by a red deposite, which we regard as the carbonate of iron, by a strong sweetish calybiate taste, by its warmth, by the boldness of the stream, and by the absence of any fixed air escaping.

The two springs below this, resemble the first in every respect, so far as the unaided senses can discover. We feel called upon to add, that no one should venture a free use, as a drink, of the Red Spring water, unadvised by an intelligent physician. It is a powerful water, and can never prove an indifferent agent in any constitution.

And finally, we beg leave to advise every visiter, whose soul is warmed by a scientific love of natural phenomena, not to leave the ground till he shall have seen the major part, at least, of what we have feebly attempted to describe.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

RECOLLECTIONS OF "CHOTANK."

_Olim meminisse juvabit._--VIRGIL.

Blessed, yea thrice blessed, be the hills and flats, the "forests" and swamps of Old Chotank! Prosperous, yea doubly prosperous be their generous cultivators--worthy descendants of worthy sires--VIRGINIANS all over, in heart and feeling, soul and body. From the Paspatansy swells to the Neck levels, may they have peace and happiness in "all their borders."

How often do I turn over memory's volume and linger upon the page which tells of my first visits to "Chotank"--so full of almost unalloyed pleasure. The recollection steals upon the mind like soft strains of music over the senses, giving the same chastened satisfaction.

Can I ever forget the happy days and nights there spent: The ardent fox hunt with whoop and hallo and winding horn: And would even TEMPERANCE blush to look, after the fatigues of the chase, at the old family bowl of mint julep, with its tuft of green peering above the inspiring liquid--an emerald isle in a sea of amber--the dewy drops, cool and sparkling, standing out upon its sides--all, all balmy and inviting? And then, the morning over and the noon passed, the business of the day accomplished, the social board is spread, loaded with flesh and fowl and the products of the garden and the orchard! Come let us regale the now lively senses and satisfy the excited appetite! What care we for ragouts and fricassee's, and olla podrida's, and all the foreign flummery that fashion and folly have brought into use? The juicy ham, the rich surloin, the fat saddle, make the _substantials_ of a VIRGINIA dinner, and "lily-livered" he, who would want a better. But when friends and strangers come--and welcome are they always! nature's watery store house is at hand, and windy must be the day indeed, when the Potomac cannot furnish a dish of chowder or crabs, to be added to the feast. How I have luxuriated at a Chotank dinner! Nor let pleasures of the table in this intellectual age be despised? Goddess of Hospitality forbid it! And well may I address thee in the _feminine_ gender, thou dispenser of heartfelt mirth! 'Tis WOMAN'S smile enlivens the feast--'tis WOMAN'S handy care that has so well provided it--'tis WOMAN'S kind encouragement that adds a charm to all you see around you.

And now let us loll in the cool portico, shaded with the Lombardy poplar--the proper tree, let them say what they will, to surround a gentleman's mansion--so tall and stately, and therefore so appropriate. How delightful is the breeze on this height! See the white sails of the vessels, through the trees on the bank of the river, spread out to catch it, and how gracefully and even majestically they glide along. You can trace them up and down as far as the eye can reach, following their quiet courses. The beautiful slopes of the fields in Maryland, cultivated to the water's edge, fill up a picture surpassingly beautiful--not grand, but beautiful; for what can please more than the calm sunshine shed upon upland and lowland, with the glad waters glistening in its rays, and just enough of man's works on both "flood and field" to give life and motion to the scene! Surrounded with such a prospect as this, let the old folks discuss their crops, talk of their wheat and corn, and prognosticate the changes of the weather--or, as times now go, settle first the affairs of the county, then of the state, and lastly of the nation, while we steal away to the parlor.

DAUGHTERS OF VIRGINIA! always fair, always lovely, how much fairer and lovelier than ever, do you appear in your own homes, surrounded by your fathers, your brothers and your kinsmen. How it has delighted me to watch the overflowings of your innocent hearts, to enjoy your winning smiles--to listen to the music of your voices! I see in you no hypocrisy and deceit, the moral contagious diseases caught by intercourse with corrupt society--I find no "town-bred" arts, mocking the modesty of nature--I discover no cunning devices to attract that attention which merit alone ought to command. May this be written of you always! May the land which produces noble, generous sons, ever have for its boast and pride, THE MOST VIRTUOUS DAUGHTERS.

And now having seen the young men _fairly_ "paired," if not matched, let us leave them with a blessing, and look after our more aged friends.

Politics have run high since we left them, but the "cool of the evening" is cooling the blood, and "a drink" settles the controversy. Friends and neighbors cannot afford to quarrel even about what concerns themselves, much less about things so far off as at Washington. With Virginia gentlemen there is always a courtesy and kindness even in heated argument which precludes the possibility of offence.

{44} Ah! did I not see a sly wink? And is there not a touch of the elbow, and then a low whisper, and by and by a buzz--and then an open proposal for a sociable game at CARDS. Presently, presently, good friends, we will have our tea and biscuit, and then for loo or whist!

Let not starched propriety look prim, nor prudery shake her head, nor jealous caution hold up her finger. Our fathers did the same before us, and "be we wiser or better than they?" Call in the "womankind," as Oldbuck of Monkbarns ungallantly styled the better part of creation, and let us have fair friends and foes to join us round the table. Trim the lights, roll from your purses just enough of silver to give an interest to our play. Avaunt! spirits of gaming and avarice from this circle--and here's at you till weariness or inclination calls us to seek

"Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep."

And thus ends a day in Chotank: A day!--yes many, many days. In these "our latter times," and this "our age of improvement," all this may be thought wrong! Perhaps it is so. I will not dispute with stern morality and strict philosophy. Their counsels are doubtless more worthy to be followed than the maxim which

"Holds it one of the wisest things To drive dull care away."

But for "my single self" I can say that after a day spent in Chotank I never had reason to exclaim, following the fashion of the Roman Emperor, "_Diem Perdidi!_"

But Chotank, like many other parts of the Old Dominion, is not now in its "high and palmy state." Some fifteen or twenty years ago it obtained that celebrity which makes it famous now. The ancient seats of generous hospitality are still there, but their _former_ possessors, so free of heart, so liberal, and blessed withal with the means of being free and liberal, where are _they_? "And echo alone answers, where are they." Their sons can only hope to keep alive the old spirit by the exercise of more prudence and economy than their fathers possessed. Otherwise here too, as alas! in some cases is too true, the families that once and now own the soil, are destined to be rudely pushed from their places by grasping money lenders! Altered as the times are however, and changed as is the condition of many of the inhabitants, the life that I have attempted faintly to sketch, is the life yet led by the merry Chotankers. With the remembrance of the "olden time" strongly impressed on their minds, and tradition to strengthen the ideas formed by their own recollections, they _will_ have their fun and their frolics--their barbecues and their fish frys. There are fewer "roystering blades" than there used to be, and much less drinking than formerly--but the court house now and then brings up a round dozen of "good men and true," who will not disgrace their ancestors: men who will make the "welkin ring" again with uprorarious mirth, and part as they met in all that high flow of spirits which results from good eating and drinking, and freedom, at least for the present, from care.

Let us, however, close. There is that in the place and the people of whom I am writing to induce me to continue: but enough for this "Recollection." If the eye of a Chotanker should meet this page and read what is written, he will know without looking at the signature that he has met with a FRIEND to him and 'all his neighborhood.'

_Alexandria, D. C., Sept. 13, 1834._ E. S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

IMPORTANT LAW CASE IN A SISTER STATE, INVOLVING QUESTIONS OF SCIENCE.

[Communicated by P. A. Browne, Esq. of Philadelphia.]

On the Easterly side of the beautiful river Schuylkill, about seven miles north of the city of Philadelphia, stands the flourishing town of MANYUNK. Only a few years ago there was not a house to be seen there, and nothing disturbed the stillness of nature but the singing of the birds, the lowing of the herds, and the gentle ripling of the river as its waters glided towards the ocean; but now it has become the habitation of thousands of human beings, the seat of numerous manufactories, and a striking example of the rapid improvements in American industry and the arts. The whole of this change has been wrought by improving the navigation of the Schuylkill: by raising the Fairmount and other dams, sufficient water has been provided, not only for all the purposes of canaling and watering the city of Philadelphia, but the company, incorporated by law for that purpose, have found at their disposal an immense water power, which they sell and rent to the best advantage.

Among the number of enterprising citizens who availed themselves of these advantages was Mr. Mark Richards, a gentleman advantageously known and esteemed in the mercantile as well as the manufacturing world.

On the 1st of February, 1830, the Schuylkill navigation company made a deed to John Moore, in which it was recited that on the 3d day of November, 1827, Mark Richards had agreed with the company for the purchase of a lot of ground at Manyunk therein described; that on the 25th of January, 1828, he, the said Mark, had agreed to purchase of the company 100 _inches of water power_ at flat-rock canal, at the annual rent of $6 per inch; and on the 13th of March, 1828, 200 inches of water power at the same rate, which water power was to be granted on the _usual conditions_, and subject to the former grants by the company of water power. That on the 4th of June, 1830, Richards and wife had granted the said lot and "_the aforesaid water power of 300 inches of water_" to Moore. It further recited that Richards had requested the grant of the company to be made to Moore, he Richards having paid the whole rent, amounting to $1840 per annum up to that time. Then follows the grant of the lot, together with the privilege of drawing from the canal through the forebay, at all times thereafter forever, "SO MUCH WATER AS CAN PASS through two metalic apertures, one of 50, and the other of 250 square inches, under a head of three feet." To have and to hold "the quantity of 300 SQUARE INCHES OF WATER," in manner aforesaid. Moore covenanted at his expense to erect and support the two metalic apertures, one of 50, and the other of 250 _square inches_, through which the said 300 _inches_ of _water_, under a three feet head, "_is to pass_." The company reserving to themselves the right to enter upon the premises for the purpose of examining "the _size_ of the apertures."

Mr. Moore having ascertained that by applying two plain simple metalic apertures of the given sizes, he was not able to draw the same quantity in square inches of water, but only 65 and 2/3d per cent. of the amount, he therefore applied the adjutages described by {45} Professor Venturi; and for these applications, which were alleged to be a breach of the contract, an action was instituted in the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania.

It will be perceived that this case involved not only important principles of law, but interesting inquiries in hydrodynamics, to aid in the discussion of which, large draughts were made upon the scientific attainments of the accomplished bar of Philadelphia. For the plaintiff were engaged John Sergeant and Horace Binney, Esquires; but the absence of the latter gentleman at Congress, occasioned the retaining of C. Chauncey, Esquire; for the defendants were Joseph R. Ingersol and Peter A. Browne, Esquires.

The cause occupied several days, during which time the court house was continually crowded with an intelligent audience.

The questions were, first, whether the granter was confined to the use of _simple_ apertures of the dimensions mentioned in the deed, when it was apparent from the opinions of men of science, and from the experiments made before the jury, that through such openings it was not possible for him to draw more than 65 and 2/3d per cent. of the water contracted for, (it being a law of nature that when a fluid is drawn from a simple aperture or opening, the stream or vein is contracted so as to form the figure of a cone;) or whether the grantee was entitled, at all events, to his 300 inches of water, and had a right to affix adjutages to overcome this law of nature, and restore things to the state they were supposed to be in by the parties, if, when they contracted, they were ignorant of this principle. Second. The defendant having contracted for as much water as "_can pass_" through metalic apertures of given sizes, whether he was entitled, provided he did not increase the size of the openings, nor increase the head, so to adjust the adjutages as to draw _more_ water than 300 square inches; for it was proved by another set of experiments that, by reason of the adjutages at the defendant's mill, he had contrived, not only to overcome the _vena contracta_ or contracted vein, but to draw off more water than would have passed through a plain opening if the vena contracta did not exist.

When a vessel is filled with a homogeneous fluid, and it is in equilibrium, all the particles of the fluid are pressed equally in all directions. This law was known to Archimedes, and its knowledge enabled him to detect the fraud committed by the gold smith upon Hiero, King of Syracuse. The first regular work upon Hisdrodynamics was written by Sextus Julius Frentinus, inspector of the public fountains at Rome under the Emperors Nerva and Trajan. He laid down the law, that water which flows in a given time, from a given orifice, does not depend _merely_ upon the magnitude of the orifice, but upon the _head_ or height of the fluid in the vessel. From that period until the 17th century none of the principles upon which this cause depends, were much studied, nor the doctrine of fluids much known. At length Gallileo the astronomer, by his discovery of the uniform acceleration of gravity, paved the way for a rapid improvement in hydrodynamics. Gallileo was acquainted with the fact that water could not be made to rise more than a certain height in a common pump; but he was entirely unacquainted with the reason. His pupil, Torricelli, and his friend, Viviani, discovered that it was owing to the pressure of the external air, and thus the problem was solved. Mariotte, who introduced experimental philosophy into France, was the first who announced that fluids suffer a retardation from the friction of their particles against the sides of tubes; and he shewed that this was the case even though the tubes were made of the _smoothest glass_. From his works, which were published after his death, in 1684, it appears that though he was thus acquainted with the principle upon which it is explained, he was unacquainted with the _vena contracta_. About that time this subject began to be much more studied in Italy. Dominic Guglielmini, a celebrated engineer, in 1697, published a very learned work upon the friction and resistance of fluids; and from that period to this the learned of all nations have admitted, that this resistance and retardation of fluids, owing to their friction, did take place in a moving fluid. This work, as connected with the motion of rivers and water in open canals, is one of deep interest in natural philosophy; and it is one, which in this age of improvements, should not be neglected in this country. Sir Isaac Newton, whose capacious mind grasped at every kind of knowledge, struggled hard to detect the reason of this resistance. In his 2nd book of his "Principia," propositions 51, 52 and 53, he lays down certain hypotheses, from which it results, that the filaments (as he calls them,) of a fluid, in a pipe, will be kept back by their adhesion to the sides of the tube, and that the next filaments will be kept back, though in a less degree, by their adhesion to the first filaments, and so on, until the velocity of the fluid will be greatest at the centre. Now if we apply this principle to the discharge of a fluid through a plain aperture, we will perceive that the parts of the water next to the sides of the opening, being liable to the greatest friction, will be the most retarded; and that those in the centre, being liable to the least friction, will be most in advance; and that the friction decreasing gradually from the extremities to the centre, the water will be always flowing in the form of a cone, with the smallest end in advance. This is the exact form of the vena contracta or contracted vein!

When the pipes are very small, this attraction of the sides of the pipes to the fluid operates so as to suspend the whole mass, when it is called capillary attraction. This appears to be the extent to which Newton was acquainted with the laws that govern the vena contracta, at the time he published the first edition of his Principia; but in his second edition, published in 1714, he discloses the doctrine of the contracted vein with his usual intelligence.

Every body is acquainted with the splendid experiments of the Abbe Bossut, which were published successively in 1771, 1786 and 1796, and any one desirous of examining this interesting subject will consult them at large.

Poleni first discovered, that by applying an additional cylindrical pipe to the orifice, of the same diameter, the _expenditure_ of the fluid was increased. This discovery was followed up, first, by Mr. Vince; secondly, by Doctor Matthew Young; and lastly, by Venturi. This last named gentleman published his work on hydraulics in 1798; it was immediately translated and published in Nicholson's Journal of Natural Philosophy, where all the different adjutages, including the one used by the defendant in this action, are accurately {46} drawn and described. They are also noticed, though not in as ample a manner, in Gregory's Mechanics, pages 438, 445 and 447.

From all which it was contended, that every one making a contract, must be _presumed_ to be acquainted with the principles of the vena contracta, and of the methods used to overcome it, and that this party had a right to use these adjutages without incurring the risk of a suit.

[We understand that the suit, the foregoing interesting sketch of which has been obligingly furnished by one of the counsel, is still, in the language of the lawyers, _sub judice_; the jury having found a verdict subject to the opinion of the court. We are promised a full report of the trial and decision, for a subsequent number.]--ED.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--The following sketch was given me by one of those mail stage story-tellers, who abound on our roads, and enliven the drowsy passengers by their narratives. It is founded on fact, and may not be unacceptable to such of your readers as are fond of the delineation of human character in all its variety of phases.

NUGATOR.

SALLY SINGLETON.

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed?--_Byron_.

A horseman passed us at full speed, whose wild and haggard look arrested the attention of my friend. In the name of all that is singular, said he, who can that be, and whither is he posting with such rapidity? His garb seems of the last century, and his grizzled locks stream on the wind like those of some ancient bard.

That man, replied I, is a lover, and is hurrying away to pay his devoirs to his mistress, who married another, and has been dead for many years.

Indeed! you surprize me, he rejoined. He has, it is true, the "_lean look_" of Shakspeare's lover; the "_blue eye and sunken_;" the "_unquestionable spirit_," and "every thing about him demonstrates a careless desolation"--yet I should have imagined, that the snows of so many winters had extinguished all the fires of that frosty carcase; but tell me who he is, and what is his story.

His name is Wilson; and that of the lady whom he loved, was Sally Singleton. I would that I had the graphic power of Scott to sketch a tale of so much interest. If Sir Walter has immortalized an old man, mounted on his white pony, and going in quest of the tombstomes, how much is it to be regretted that the same master hand cannot be employed to perpetuate the memory of yonder eccentric being, whose love lives on, after the lapse of twenty years, in spite of the marriage and death of his mistress--in spite of the evidence of his own senses, and notwithstanding every human effort to dispel his delusion. Regularly every morning, for the last twenty years, no matter what the state of the weather, (alike to him the hail, the rain, and the sunshine,) has he mounted his horse, and travelled a distance of ten miles, to see his beloved Sally Singleton. His custom is, to ride directly up to the window of her former apartment, and in a courteous manner, to bow to his mistress in token of his continued attachment. Having performed this act of gallantry, he waves with his hand a fond adieu, and immediately gallops back with a triumphant air, as if perfectly satisfied with having set his enemies at defiance. "The course of true love never did run smooth," and in this case, whether "_misgrafted in respect of years_," or "_different in blood_," or "_standing on the choice of friends_," is not exactly known; but the lady was wedded to another, and died soon after. Her lover would never believe in her marriage or her death. His mind unhinged by the severity of his disappointment, seems to have retained nothing but the single image of her he loved, shut up in that apartment; and he resolved to brave every difficulty, to testify his unchanging devotion. Obstacles were purposely built across his path--the bridges were broken down--the idle boys would gather around him, and assail him in their cruel folly--guns even, were fired at him,--all in vain! The elements could not quench the fervor of his love--obstacles were overleaped--he swam the rivers--the boys were disregarded--balls could not harm him. He held a charmed life; like young Lochinvar,

"He staid not for brake, And he stop'd not for stone;"

but dashed onward to his beloved window, and then, contented with this public attestation of his unalterable love, returned with a look of triumphant satisfaction, to his joyless home. As a last effort to remove the veil from his eyes, a suit was instituted, in which he was made a party, and proof of the lady's marriage and death was purposely introduced to undeceive him. He listened with cold incredulity to the witnesses; smiled derisively at that part of their testimony which regarded her marriage and death; and the next morning was seen mounted as usual, and bowing beneath the window of his adored Sally Singleton.

From the Petersburg Intelligencer.

EXTRACT FROM A NOVEL

THAT NEVER WILL BE PUBLISHED.

We had all assembled round the cheerful fire, that cracked and blazed in the wide old-fashioned hearth. The labor of the day was over. My father, snugly placed in his great easy chair, with his spectacles on his nose, had been for some time studying the last long winded and very patriotic speech of our representative in Congress, until his senses, gradually yielding to its soothing eloquence, had sunk into a calm slumber.--My mother sat in the corner knitting with all her might, and every now and then expressing her wonder (for she always wondered) how Patsy Woods could marry such a lazy, poor, good-for-nothing fellow as Henry Pate. Sister was leaning with both elbows on the table, devouring, as she termed it, the last most exquisite romance. Puss was squatted on Mother's cricket, licking her paws with indefatigable industry; and old Carlo, the pointer, lay grunting on the hearth rug, sadly incommoded by the heat of the fire, but much too lazy to remove from before it. And where was I? Oh! there was another corner to the fire place. In its extremest nook sat cousin Caroline, and next to her,--always next to her when I could get there, was I. Now this was what I call a right comfortable family party; and not the least comfortable of that party was myself. {47} Cousin Caroline; dear, dear cousin! Many a year has rolled over me since the scene I describe; many a cold blast of the world's breath has blown on my heart and chilled, one by one, the spring flowers of hope that grew there; but the blossoms of love thy image nurtured, were gathered into a garland to hang on thy tomb, and the tears of memory have preserved its freshness. Cousin Caroline!--she was the loveliest creature on whom beauty ever set its seal. Reader, my feeling towards her was not what is called love; at least, not what I have since felt for another. My judgment of her excellence was not biassed by passion. She was most beautiful. I cannot describe her.

"Who has not proved how feebly words essay, To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray."

It were vain to talk of her "hyacinthine curls," her "ruby lips," her "pearly teeth," her "gazelle eye." These, and all the etceteras of description, define not beauty. It belongs to the pencil and not to the pen, to give us a faint idea of its living richness. But had your eyes glanced round a crowded room, crowded with beauty too, they would have rested in amazement there; amazement, that one so lovely should be on earth, and breathe among the creatures of common clay. Alas! it could not be so long. No, I did not love her in manhood's sense of love; for, at the time I speak of, I was but fourteen, and Caroline was in her eighteenth year; but I loved her as all created things that could love, loved her; from the highest to the lowest, she was the darling of the household. The servants, indoor and outdoor, young and old, and the crossest of the old, loved her. None so crabbed her smile would not soften; none so stern her mildness would not subdue. Oh, what a creature she was. I never saw Caroline angry, though I have seen her repel, with dignity, intrusion or impertinence. I never saw her cross. But this theme will lead me too far; and, perhaps the reader thinks I might sum up my estimate of her qualities in one word--perfection. Not so; but as near to it as the Creator ever suffered his creature to attain. Well, we were sitting round the fire in the manner I have described. Caroline was amusing me with a description of the pleasures of the town, for she had just returned from a visit to a relation residing in the city of ----, when the sound was heard of a carriage coming up the avenue. What a bustle! Father bounced up, dropping the paper and his spectacles; Mother stopped wondering about Patsy Woods, to wonder still more who this could be. Pussy remained quiet, but Carlo prevailed upon himself to stretch and yawn, and totter to the door, to satisfy his curiosity. Sister looked up. Caroline looked down; and then sister looked at her very archly, though I could not tell why, and said, "go brother Harry, ask the gentleman in."

"Why do you know who it is, my dear, that is coming to see us at this late hour?" said my father. It was but eight o'clock; but remember we were in the country. I went out of the room, and did not hear the answer. I was met at the hall door by a gentleman, whom I ushered in. My father accosted him, and was very proud and very happy to see Col. H----d. He was then introduced to the members of the family; "and this lady I think you are already acquainted with," continued my father, as he presented cousin Caroline, who had hung back. The Colonel smiled,--Caroline blushed, but she smiled too. What is all this about, thought I. "Come, sir, be seated," quoth my father. The Colonel bowed, thanked him, and placed himself forthwith in my chair, right beside Caroline. Now it is true Caroline had two sides, and her left side was as dear to me as her right; but then that side was next to the wall, and she sat so near to it that there was no edging a chair in without incommoding her. So I was fain to look out for other quarters, and found them next to my mother, whence I looked the colonel right in the face. He was not a handsome man, but a very noble looking one. He was rather above the common height, somewhat thin, but his carriage very erect. His complexion was dark, but ruddy dark, the hue of health and manliness; his forehead broad; so much so as to make the lower part of his visage appear contracted, and rather long. The expression of his features when at rest, was stern, and even haughty; perhaps from the habit of command, for his _had_ been a soldier's life, and his title was won on the battle field; but when in conversation, there was an air of great good nature over his whole countenance, and his smile was very winning. Cousin Caroline thought it so.

"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the satisfactory assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the opposite direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I set out betimes, it was thus late before I reached here."

"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother.

"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my father. "My dear"--

"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble on my account. I assure you"--

"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the former rose to urge his remonstrance.--"Sit still, sir; trouble indeed; we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a little myself."

So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned to the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it, and so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and of such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very forehead.

A week passed away, and colonel H----d remained a constant guest at my father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning {48} than he posted himself next to her; and then they took such long walks together, and would spend so many hours in riding about the country, and they never asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as well have been in town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing with her. The result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader; and it was soon formally announced that on the third day of the succeeding month Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and gallant Colonel H----d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant home, for his residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter tears, and sobbed as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in my bed that night on which this latter piece of intelligence had been communicated by my father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched, extended to me the bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who invented sleep," says friend Sancho--blessings, aye blessings indeed, on all bountiful nature who, while she gives rest to the wearied body bestows consolation on the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the storm of the passions, plucks from power its ability and even its wish to oppress, and hushes in poverty the sense of its weakness and its degradation. My fate has not been more adverse than that of the generality of men, but "take it all in all," the happiest portion of my existence has been spent in sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I loved best on earth was about to be wedded to the worthy object of her choice,--a choice that affection sanctioned and reason might well approve; and even to my young observation it was apparent that while she gave, she was enjoying happiness. There was pleasure in the beaming of her sparkling eyes, there was joy in the dimples of her rosy smile. The very earth on which she trod seemed springing to her step, and the air she breathed to be pure and balmy. Could she be happy and I feel miserable? and that misery growing too, out of the very source of her happiness. Yes; even so unmixed, so absorbing was my selfishness. _My_ selfishness! the selfishness of humanity; for even as the rest of my fellow men so was, and so am I. I thought of the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in her presence, of the thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her hand. She alone was wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize with my boyish griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the fear of her censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was to pass away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my heart to drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her soft voice breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer in her thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her memory. Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind.

I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously, and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end; but patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate, that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary excitement, on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed "the grief of years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my pilgrimage through this weary world, and some grievous enough to sustain; time and occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed remedy, and scars only are left to mark where the wounds have been. But this, though inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering now; aye now, when the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the winter of age is congealing the sources of feeling and of life.

The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H----d, as hour after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that lay betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we are, whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment, ever deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the desert of life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn, we sink into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified. One little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a moment is fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with tightened cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the glittering spray as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the breeze; cheerful faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from a distant land; and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has pierced her side, the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The warrior has charged and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in his ears, and fancy twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery lurks in his armed array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note of defeat. The mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble palaces, and its crowded marts, over which ages have urged their onward flight, and still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the earthquake's shock. Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous lake are left to mark the spot where once its "splendors shone." And the heart, the human heart, with its high aspirations, and its treacherous whisperings of unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in coming events, its strange forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its sunny morning of boundless hope, its stormy night of dark despair.

My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was composed of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed forth gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their moss-covered branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and stifling embrace by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of a preadamate world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of underwood, that hid from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very margin he might be unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran parallel to the course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the rear of the dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very bad order, very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit of using for the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path that ran along and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice, but which had been travelled so long and so often without accident, that we {49} had ceased to think of even the possibility of any occurring. It was a bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with those massy rolling clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief to the fleecy white, and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand resemblances; ancient castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships resting beneath their crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a poet's soul would delight to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose undreamt of depths the pent up spirits of the damned might be "imagined howling." Pardon, pardon! but sea and sky have always set me raving. It was at the breakfast table that I informed my father I would ride over to aunt Diana's and see if they were all well.--"The weather is so fine, and I have not seen our good aunt for some time. I will ride with you; that is, if you'll let me, cousin Harry," said Caroline, as if it were not a delight to me to have her company. The colonel, too, proposed to join us, and we went to get ourselves in readiness. We were soon on the road, and away we cantered, full of health and youth and spirits. The breeze came fresh and soft from the surface of the waters, and played among Caroline's curls and revelled on her cheek, as if to gather the odors of the rose, where its beauteous hue was so richly spread. We paid our visit, partook of aunt Diana's good things, and set off on our return, amid her protestations against our hurry. Caroline was riding on a nice little mare that had been bred on the farm, and had always been the pet of the family; as gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at the same time full of spirit. We had arrived at a part of the road where the precipice (now on our right hand) was highest. I was in front, Caroline next to and behind me; a hare crossed my path: "take care my boy," cried Colonel H----d, "that, you know, is said to be a bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken when my horse started, and wheeled short round; the mare partook of his fright, swerved half to the left, and reared bolt upright. "Slack your rein and seize the mane, Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was too late; the mare struggled, and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a rushing sound

* * * * *

I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the scattered herbs--and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a form--the form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My father came in; he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed the sheet from the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a conqueror!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA.

Gigantic sov'reign of this mountain-chain, Proud Otter Peak! as gazing on thee now I mark the sun its parting splendor throw Athwart thy summit hoar--I sigh with pain To think thus soon I needs must turn again And seek man's bustling haunts! What if my brow No longer wear the signs of sorrow's plough, Doth not my heart its traces still retain, And I still hate the crowd?--Yes! it is so, And scenes alone such as surround me here-- These deep'ning shades--thy torrents loud and clear-- Yon half-hid cot--the cattle's plaintive low-- The raven's cry, and the soft whispering breeze, Have now the pow'r this aching breast to please.

* * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA.

With spirits like the slacken'd strings Of some neglected instrument-- Or rather like the wearied wings Of a lone bird by travel spent; Ah! how should I expect to find Midst scenes of constant revelry, A solace for a troubled mind, A cure for my despondency?--

There was a time when mirth's glad tone And pleasure's smile had charms for me-- But disappointment had not strown My pathway then with misery: Health then was mine--and friends sincere-- Requited love--and prospects bright-- Nor dreamt I that a day so clear Could ever set in such a night!

* * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ---- OF THE U. S. NAVY.

Tell me--for thou hast stood on classic ground, If there the waters flow more bright and clear, And if the trees with thicker foliage crowned, Are lovelier far than those which blossom here?

Say is it true, in green unfading bowers, That there the wild bird sings her sweetest lay? And that a light, more beautiful than ours, Lends richer glories to expiring day?

Wooed by Italian airs, does woman's cheek With purer color glow, than in our land? Or does her eye more eloquently speak, Or with a softer grace her form expand?

Does music there, with power to us unknown, Breathe o'er the heart a far diviner spell? And with a sweeter, more entrancing tone, The thrilling strains of love and glory swell?

Tell me if thou in thought didst dearer prize Thy home, than all that Italy could give? Didst thou regret that her resplendent skies Should smile on men as slaves content to live?

Didst thou, when straying in her cities fair, Or in her groves of bloom, regret that here No perfumes mingle with the passing air? And was thine own, thy native land, less dear?

Or didst thou turn where proudly in the breeze America's star-spangled flag was flying? The flag that o'er thee waved on the high seas; With conscious heart exultingly replying,

"No slothful land of dreaming ease is ours, Her soil is only trodden by the free-- Less rich in music, poetry, and flowers, Still, still she is the land of all for me!"

E. A. S.

_Lombardy, Va._

{50}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MUSINGS II--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.

The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets Ebbing and flowing.--------_Rogers_.

I loved her from my boyhood--she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart, Rising like water columns from the sea. _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. Stanza xviii.

There is, far in a foreign clime, Alas! no longer free-- A city famed in olden time As queen of all the sea; Still fair but fallen from her prime-- For such is destiny.

There motley masque and princely ball Make gay the merry carnival, And all the night some serenade Steals sweetly from the calm Lagune, While many a dark eyed loving maid Is wooed in secret neath the moon.

And swiftly o'er the noiseless tide Gondolas dark, like spectres, glide Neath archways deep and bridges fair, Temples and marble palaces, Adorned with jutting balconies, And dim arcades of beauty rare.

There's naught that meets the wondering eye, From the wave that kisses the landing stair To the sculptured range in the azure sky,[1] But wears a wild unearthly air, And every voice that echoes among Those phantomlike halls, breathes the spell of song.

The rudest Barcarolli's cry, Heard faint and far o'er Adria's waves, Might cheat the listener of a sigh-- So sad the farewell which it leaves, When sinking on the ear it dies Along the borders of the skies.

Oh! Venice! Venice! couldst thou be Still wond'rous fair and even as free! How peerless were thy regal halls!-- How glorious were thy seagirt walls!-- But foreign banners flaunt thy tide, And chains have tamed thy lion's pride.

Thy flag is furled upon the sea, Thy sceptre shivered on the land, And many a spirit mourns for thee Beyond the Lido's barren strand: Better thy towers were sunk below The level of Old Ocean's flow.

Fair city of the fairest clime, Sad change hath come o'er thee-- The spirit voice of olden time Is wailing o'er thy sea; And matin bell and vesper chime Seem knelling for the free Who reared thy standard o'er the wave And spurned the chains that now enslave.

[Footnote 1: The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a range of statues.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE.

A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid, Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade; And patient, lent attentive ear Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear: And thou hast breathed some artless lays, That well deserve the meed of praise; For, nursed by spirits bold and free, Thy notes should breathe of Liberty. Yet some who scan thy numbers wild, Inquire if thou art Fancy's child, Or some impostor, duly taught To weave with skill the borrow'd thought. Then list, my child! Experience sage May well direct thy guileless age.

Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame, Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name, The praise that crowns the sons of fame. Be not by imitation taught, To blend with thine, the vagrant thought, From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught. Full oft my mountain echoes tell, How Byron's genius fram'd a spell, Which reason vainly seeks to quell: Did not his spirit cast a gloom On all who shared his adverse doom, E'en from the cradle to the tomb? With intellectual treasures bless'd, With misanthropic thoughts possess'd, Their sway alternate fired his breast. He pour'd the lava stream alone, In torrents from that burning zone, Which girt his bosom's fiery throne. Enough! on his untimely bier Affection shed no hallow'd tear-- He claim'd no love--he own'd no fear.

And she,[1] whose light poetic tread Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed Upon the rose-bud's infant head; Most meet to be the tender nurse Of virtue, wounded by the curse Of passion's fierce and lawless verse, Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r, Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour, And scatter many a thornless flow'r: The thoughts that breathe in each soft line, Seem spirits from a purer shrine Than earth can in her realms confine. Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay, Such lofty arts of verse essay? 'Twere but a vain and weak display. Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child, And roam thy native forests wild, Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd; Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest, Where fair Hygeia roams confest, Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest: Mark the proud streams that onward sweep, And to old Ocean's bosom leap-- Majestic offspring of the deep. Their inspiration shall be thine, And nature, from that mighty shrine, {51} Shall prompt thee with a voice divine! When thy free spirit is reveal'd, The spells within its depths conceal'd Will soon a golden tribute yield. In numbers free, by nature taught, Breathe forth the wild poetic thought, And let thy strains be Fancy fraught.

Enough! my child! a parent's voice Would fain direct thy youthful choice To themes, majestic and sublime, The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime. Enough! For thee has nature thrown O'er the wild stream a curb of stone, Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd, Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.[2] For thee the volum'd waters sweep Through riven mountains to the deep.[3] For thee the mighty cataract pours In thunder, through opposing shores; And rushing with delirious leap, Bursts the full fountains of the deep; A billowy phlegethon--whose waves Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves.