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Of the two following pieces, the one is a translation, executed with Mr. Perdicaris's assistance, from Christopoulos, who has been styled the Modern Anacreon. It has in the original, an amusing and touching simplicity, which I have not, I fear, succeeded in preserving. The second piece must speak for itself.
FROM THE ROMAIC OF CHRISTOPOULOS.
Orb of day, thus rising splendid, Through the glowing realms of air! Be thy course for once suspended, For a message to my fair. Two of thy bright rays be darted; Let them, as the maid they greet, Say, her lover, faithful-hearted, Worships humbly at her feet. He, of late so full of pleasure, Tell her, now can scarce draw breath; Living parted from his treasure, He is like one sick to death. Hour by hour, his pain enhancing, Brings the final struggle near; Death, with stealthy tread advancing, Claims the spirit lingering here. If he die, let her lament him; Let her not forget the dead; Let a message kind be sent him, To the shores he now must tread. If perchance where he is resting In the cold and dreamless sleep, {411} She should pass, her steps arresting, One soft tear there let her weep. These, dear Sun, for me repeating, Then pursue thy brilliant way; But the words of this sad greeting, O forget them not, I pray!
* * * * *
TO G. A. PERDICARIS.
We hail thee, Greek, from that far shore, Young Freedom's chosen land of yore! There were her first high Pæans poured— There proved in fight her virgin sword— There fell her eldest-martyr'd brave, The heroes of the mount and wave! We hail thee! Not a breast that burns With but a spark of patriot fire, But to thy country's altar turns, And listens to thy country's lyre. Grecian, forgive the idle thought! We deemed old Hellas' spirit fled. Yes! when thy brethren bravely fought On plains where rest the immortal dead, We scarce cast off the unworthy fear, Scarce hoped that Greece might yet be free: It seemed a boon too bright, too dear For our degenerate age to see A newly-won Thermopylæ. And e'en if Grecian valor burst Its chains, we little deemed thy clime That generous _intellect_ had nursed That shone so bright in elder time. But who could catch thy burning words, The changes of thy speaking eye, And deem that time, or tyrant swords Could bid the Grecian spirit die? Thanks for the lesson thou hast given! It shows, where Freedom once hath dwelt, Though every bolt of angry Heaven Age after age should there be dealt, There is a power they cannot kill; The proud, free spirit of the race Lives on through woe and bondage still, The eternal Genius of the place. Yes! Hear the lesson, distant lands, Where Goth and Russ with iron rod Press down and cramp in servile bands The living images of God! Hear, Poland! soon shall dawn the day Of liberty and peace for thee! And thou, where Rhine's blue waters play! And thou, once glorious Italy! And thou, my country, be thou true! The great of former days arise, The same bright path again pursue That marked their ancient victories. Greece is thy rival for renown! Arouse thee to the noble strife! Thou must not lose thy glory's crown, Well won by many a hero's life! No! Onward still, ye noble pair, Each mindful of the illustrious past, The struggle and the triumph share, And ever may that triumph last!
B.
MS.S. OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.[1]
[Footnote 1: These pieces, from the pen of Dr. Franklin, have never appeared in any edition of his works, and are from the manuscript book which contains the Lecture and Essays published in former numbers of the Messenger.]
PROPOSALS
That P. S. and A. N. be immediately invited into the Junto.
That all new members be qualified by the four qualifications, and all the old ones take it.
That these queries copied at the beginning of a book, be read distinctly each meeting, a pause between each while one might fill and drink a glass of wine.
That if they cannot all be gone through in one night, we begin the next where we left off, only, such as particularly regard the funds to be read every night.
That it be not hereafter the duty of any member to bring queries, but left to his discretion.
That an old declamation be, without fail, read every night when there is no new one.
That Mr. Brientnal's Poem on the Junto be read over once a month, and hum'd in consort[2] by as many as can hum it.
[Footnote 2: Concert was thus spelt in the beginning of the last century. See many examples in the Tatler, etc.]
That once a month in spring, summer and fall, the Junto meet in the afternoon in some proper place across the river for bodily exercise.
That in the aforesaid book be kept minutes thus:
_Friday, June 30, 1732._
Present A, B, C, D, E, F, etc.
Figure denotes the queries answered.
1. H. P. read this maxim, viz. or this experiment, viz. or etc.
5. Lately arrived one —— of such a profession or such a science, etc.
7. X. Y. grew rich by this means, etc.
That these minutes be read once a year at the anniversary.
That all fines due be immediately paid in, and the penal laws for queries and declamations abolished, only he who is absent above ten times in the year, to pay 10_s._ towards the anniversary entertainment.
That the secretary, for keeping the minutes, be allowed one shilling per night, to be paid out of the money already in his hands.
That after the queries are begun reading, all discourse foreign to them shall be deemed impertinent.
When any thing from reading an author is mentioned, if it exceed a line, and the Junto require it, the person shall bring the passage or an abstract of it in writing the next night, if he has it not with him.
When the books of the library come, every member shall undertake some author, that he may not be without observations to communicate.
* * * * *
How shall we judge of the goodness of a writing? or what qualities should a writing on any subject have, to be good and perfect in its kind?
Answer 1. To be good it ought to have a tendency to benefit the reader by improving his virtue or his knowledge.
The method should be just, that is, it should proceed regularly from things known to things unknown, distinctly and clearly, without confusion.
{412} The words used should be the most expressive that the language affords, provided they are the most generally understood.
Nothing should be expressed in two words that can as well be expressed in one; i.e. no synonymes should be used or very rarely, but the whole be as short as possible, consistent with clearness.
The words should be so placed as to be agreeable to the ear in reading.
Summarily,—It should be smooth, clear, and short,
For the contrary qualities are displeasing.
But taking the query otherwise:
An ill man may write an ill thing well; that is, having an ill design he may use the properest style and arguments (considering who are to be readers) to attain his ends.
In this sense, that is best wrote which is best adapted for attaining the end of the writer.
* * * * *
Can a man arrive at perfection in this life, as some believe; or is it impossible, as others believe?
Perhaps they differ in the meaning of the word perfection.
I suppose the perfection of any thing to be only the greatest the nature of that thing is capable of.
Thus a horse is more perfect than an oyster, yet the oyster may be a perfect oyster, as well as the horse a perfect horse.
And an egg is not so perfect as a chicken, nor a chicken as a hen; for the hen has more strength than the chicken, and the chicken more life than the egg—yet it may be a perfect egg, chicken, and hen.
If they mean a man cannot in this life be so perfect as an angel, it is true, for an angel by being incorporeal, is allowed some perfections we are at present incapable of, and less liable to some imperfections that we are liable to. If they mean a man is not capable of being so perfect here as he is capable of being in heaven, that may be true likewise.
But that a man is not capable of being so perfect here as he is capable of being here, is not sense; it is as if I should say, a chicken in the state of a chicken is not capable of being so perfect as a chicken is capable of being in that state.
In the above sense there may be a perfect oyster, a perfect horse, a perfect ship, why not a perfect man? that is, as perfect as his present nature and circumstances admit?
* * * * *
_Question_. Wherein consists the happiness of a rational creature?
_Answer_. In having a sound mind and a healthy body, a sufficiency of the necessaries and conveniences of life, together with the favor of God and the love of mankind.
_Q_. What do you mean by a sound mind?
_A_. A faculty of reasoning justly and truly, in searching after such truths as relate to my happiness. Which faculty is the gift of God, capable of being improved by experience and instruction into wisdom.
_Q_. What is wisdom?
_A_. The knowledge of what will be best for us on all occasions and the best ways of attaining it.
_Q_. Is any man wise at all times and in all things?
_A_. No: but some are much more frequently wise than others.
_Q_. What do you mean by the necessaries of life?
_A_. Having wholesome food and drink wherewith to satisfy hunger and thirst, clothing, and a place of habitation fit to secure against the inclemencies of the weather.
_Q_. What do you mean by the conveniences of life?
_A_. Such a plenty * * * * *
* * * * *
_Query_.—Whether it is worth a rational man's while to forego the pleasure arising from the present luxury of the age in eating and drinking and artful cookery, studying to gratify the appetite, for the sake of enjoying a healthy old age, a sound mind and a sound body, which are the advantages reasonably to be expected from a more simple and temperate diet?
Whether those meats and drinks are not the best that contain everything in their natural tastes, nor have any thing added by art so pleasing as to induce us to eat or drink when we are not athirst or hungry, or after thirst and hunger are satisfied; water, for instance, for drink, and bread, or the like, for meat?
Is there any difference between knowledge and prudence?
If there is any, which of the two is most eligible?
Is it justifiable to put private men to death for the sake of the public safety or tranquillity, who have committed no crime? As in case of the plague to stop infection, or as in the case of the Welshmen here executed.
If the sovereign power attempts to deprive a subject of his right, (or, what is the same thing, of what he thinks his right,) is it justifiable in him to resist if he is able?
What general conduct of life is most suitable for men in such circumstances as most of the members of the Junto are? or of the many schemes of living which are in our power to pursue, which will be most probably conducive to our happiness?
Which is the best to make a friend of, a wise and good man that is poor, or a rich man that is neither wise nor good?
Which of the two is the greatest loss to a country, if they both die?
Which of the two is happiest in life?
Does it not, in a general way, require great study and intense application for a poor man to become rich and powerful, if he would do it without the forfeiture of his honesty?
Does it not require as much pains, study and application, to become truly wise and strictly good and virtuous, as to become rich?
Can a man of common capacity pursue both views with success at the same time?
If not, which of the two is it best for him to make his whole application to?
* * * * *
The great secret of succeeding in conversation, is to admire little, to hear much, always to distrust our own reason, and sometimes that of our friends; never to pretend to wit, but to make that of others appear as much as possibly we can; to hearken to what is said and to answer to the purpose.
Ut jam nunc dicat jam nunc debentia dici.
{413}
LOSING AND WINNING.
_By the author of the “Cottage in the Glen,” “Sensibility,”_ &c.
Think not, the husband gained, that all is done; The prize of happiness must still be won; And, oft, the careless find it to their cost, The lover in the husband may be lost; The graces might, alone, his heart allure— They and the virtues, meeting, must secure. _Lord Lyttleton_.
Can I not win his love? Is not his heart of “penetrable stuff?” Will not submission, meekness, patience, truth, Win his esteem?—a sole desire to please, Conquer indifference?—they must—they will! Aid me, kind heaven—I'll try! _Anon._
It was a bright and beautiful autumnal evening. The earth was clad in a garb of the richest and brightest hues; and the clear cerulean of the heavens, gave place, near the setting sun, to a glowing ‘saffron color,’ over which was hung a most magnificent drapery of crimson clouds. Farther towards both the north and south, was suspended here and there a sable curtain, fringed with gold, folded as but one hand could fold them. They seemed fitting drapery to shroud the feet of Him, who “maketh the clouds his chariot, who rideth upon the wings of the wind.”
Such was the evening on which Edward Cunningham conducted his fair bride into the mansion prepared for her reception. But had both earth and heaven been decked with ten-fold splendor, their beauty and magnificence would have been lost on him; for his thoughts, his affections, his whole being were centered in the graceful creature that leaned on his arm, and whom he again and again welcomed to her new abode—her future home. He forgot that he still moved in a world that was groaning under the pressure of unnumbered evils; forgot that earthly joy is oft-times but a dream, a fantasy, that vanishes like the shadow of a summer cloud, that flits across the landscape, or, as the morning vapor before the rising sun; forgot that all on this side heaven, is fleeting, and changeable, and false. In his bride, the object of his fondest love, he felt that he possessed a treasure whose smile would be unclouded sunshine to his soul; whose society would make another Eden bloom for him. It was but six short months since he first saw her who was now his wife; and for nearly that entire period he had been in ‘the delirium of love,’ intent only on securing her as his own. He had attained his object, and life seemed spread before him, a paradise of delight, blooming with roses, unaccompanied by thorns.
Joy and sorrow, in this world, dwell side by side. In a stately mansion, two doors only from the one that had just received the joyful bridegroom and happy bride, dwelt one who had been four weeks a wife. On that same bright evening she was sitting in the solitude of her richly furnished chamber, her elbows resting on a table, her hands supporting her head, while a letter lay spread before her, on which her eyes, blinded by tears, were rivetted. The letter was from her husband. He had been from home nearly three weeks, in which time she had heard from him but once, and then only by a brief verbal message. The letter that lay before her had just arrived; it was the first she had ever received from her husband, and ran thus:—
_Mrs. Westbury_—Thinking you might possibly expect to see me at home this week, I write to inform you that business will detain me in New York some time longer.
Yours, &c. FREDERIC WESTBURY.
For a long time the gentle, the feeling Julia, indulged her tears and her grief without restraint. Again, and again, she read the laconic epistle before her, to ascertain what more might be made of it than at first met the eye. But nothing could be clothed in plainer language, or be more easily understood. It was as brief, and as much to the point as those interesting letters which debtors sometimes receive from their creditors, through the agency of an attorney. “Did ever youthful bride,” thought she, “receive from her husband such a letter as this? He _strives_ to show me the complete indifference and coldness of his heart toward me. O, why did I accept his hand, which was rather his father's offering than his own? Why did I not listen to my reason, rather than to my fond and foolish heart, and resist the kind old man's reasonings and pleadings? Why did I believe him when he told me I should win his son's affections? Did I not know that his heart was given to another? Dear old man, he fondly believed his Frederic's affections could not long be withheld from one whom he himself loved so tenderly—and how eagerly I drank in his assurances! Amid all the sorrow that I felt, while kneeling by his dying bed, how did my heart swell with undefinable pleasure, as he laid his hand, already chilled by death, upon my head, gave me his parting blessing, and said that his son would love me! Mistaken assurance! ah, why did I fondly trust it? Were I now free!—free!—would I then have the knot untied that makes me his for life? Not for a world like this! No, he is mine and I am his; by the laws of God and man, _we are one_. He _must_ sometimes be at home; and an occasional hour in his society, will be a dearer bliss than aught this world can bestow beside. His father's blessing is still warm at my heart! I still feel his hand on my head! Let me act as he trusted I should act, and all may yet be well! Duties are mine—and thine, heavenly Father, are results. Overlook my infirmities, forgive all that needs forgiveness, sustain my weakness, and guide me by thine unerring wisdom.” She fell on her knees to continue her supplications, and pour out her full soul before her Father in heaven; and when she arose, her heart, if not happy, was calm; her brow, if not cheerful, was serene.
Frederic Westbury was an only child. He never enjoyed the advantages of maternal instruction, impressed on the heart by maternal tenderness—for his mother died before he was three years old, and all recollection of her had faded from his memory. Judge Westbury was one of the most amiable, one of the best of men; but with regard to the management of his son, he was too much like the venerable Israelitish priest. His son, like other sons, often did that which was wrong, ‘and he restrained him not.’ He was neither negligent in teaching, nor in warning; but instruction and discipline did not, as they ever should do, go hand-in-hand; and for want of this discipline, Frederic grew up with passions uncontrolled—with a will unsubdued. He received a finished education, and his mind, which was of a high order, was richly stored with knowledge. His pride of character was great, and he looked down with contempt on all that was dishonorable or vicious. He had a chivalrous generosity, and a frankness of {414} disposition that led him to detest concealment or deceit. He loved or hated with his whole soul. In person he was elegant; his countenance was marked with high intellect and strong feeling; and he had the bearing of a prince. Such was Frederic Westbury at the age of four-and-twenty.
About a year before his marriage, Frederic became acquainted with Maria Eldon, a young lady of great beauty of person, and fascination of manner, who at once enslaved his affections. But against Miss Eldon, Judge Westbury had conceived a prejudice, and for once in his life was _obstinate_ in refusing to indulge his son in the wish of his heart. He foresaw, or thought he did so, the utter ruin of that son's happiness, should he so ally himself. He had selected a wife for his son, a daughter-in-law for himself, more to his own taste. Julia Horton was possessed of all that he thought valuable or fascinating in woman. Possibly Frederic might have thought so too, had he known her, ere his heart was in possession of another; but being pointed out to him as the one to whom he must transfer his affections, he looked on her with aversion as the chief obstacle to the realization of his wishes. Julia was born, and had been educated, in a place remote from Judge Westbury's residence; but from her infancy he had seen her from time to time, as business led him into that part of the country in which her parents resided. In her childhood she entwined herself around the heart of the Judge; and from that period he had looked on her as the future wife of his son. His views and wishes, however, were strictly confined to his own breast, until, to his dismay, he found that his son's affections were entangled. This discovery was no sooner made than he wrote a pressing letter to Julia, who was now an orphan, to come and make him a visit of a few weeks. The reason he gave for inviting her was, that his health was rapidly declining, (which was indeed too true,) and he felt that her society would be a solace to his heart. Julia came; she saw Frederic; heard his enlightened conversation; observed his polished manners; remarked the lofty tone of his feelings; and giving the reins to her fancy, without consulting reason or prudence, she loved him. Too late for her security, but too soon for her peace, she learned that he loved another. Dreading lest she should betray her folly to the object of her unsought affection, she wished immediately to return to her native place. But to this Judge Westbury would not listen. He soon discovered the state of her feelings, and it gave him unmingled satisfaction. It augured well for the success of his dearest earthly hope; and as his strength was rapidly declining, consumption having fastened her deadly fangs upon him, to hasten him to the grave, he gave his whole mind to the accomplishment of his design. At first his son listened to the subject with undisguised impatience; but his feelings softened as he saw his father sinking to the tomb; and, in an unguarded hour, he promised him that he would make Julia his wife. Judge Westbury next exerted himself to obtain a promise from Julia that she would accept the hand of his son; and he rested not until they had mutually plighted their faith at his bed-side. To Frederic this was a moment of unmingled misery. He saw that his father was dying, and felt himself constrained to promise his hand to one woman, while his heart was in possession of another.