4.

5.

A coquettish and lovely stream which had its rise in a beautiful mountain spring, was one morning coursing its way, as usual, through scenes with which it had been sometime familiar; smiling meads, forest-studded vales, and darksome dells. The meadows were still clothed in green, but ne'er a tree in all the forest had even a withered cover of leaves to shield it from the approaching blasts of winter. It was then a morn in early winter. The sun shone with a warmth and splendor unusual to the season, and the air possessed the balminess and freshness of the spring time. A blind person might have mistaken it for that season, so much did it seem like a day borrowed by Winter of May. As the streamlet pursued its graceful, yet somewhat haughty course, sparkling and glowing in the Sun's splendid beams, it would, ever and anon, in musical ripples, murmur against that luminary for showering its rays so broadcast upon her; not permitting one feature to go unrevealed. In some part of its course, it met with a happy obstruction, happy I say, because the whole stream thence poured on and formed one of the most bewitching cascades ever witnessed. Here the plaint of its waters took the tone of capricious and angry remon

strance.

Why, O Sun! am I pursued in this

untiring manner? For how long a time is it that I have been stared out of countenance by thy unfaltering and dazzling gaze? Canst tell me when it will please thy Imperial Boldness to withdraw somewhat the fervor of thy regards?

ence

Art

Foolish and thankless Rivulet! thou not aware that all the beauty, on which thou so much pridest thyself, is brought into notice by my gracious influ? In the silence of the night, when the moon shineth not, where is then the brilliancy which my rays discover in thy waters? The Moon, too, owes its radiance to me, and did I but choose to withdraw my favor from her, thou couldst not be viewed even in her inferior brightness. Were I then blotted out, (as I suppose it is thy present most ungrateful wish that I might be,) who would e'er behold thy charms ?-and not to be observed to thy vain spirit would be worse than never to have been. Thou poor, proud creature! because I did but regard thee with an ardor which it is my custom to observe towards thyself, as well as all things about thee, thou must fancy something particular in my gaze on this especial day. But pshaw!-it is unbecoming to feel angry with one so far beneath me as your own tiny, pretty self. "Go and learn wisdom."

The Rivulet, at this long harangue, was almost beside herself with indignation.

She foamed and splashed, yet each foamy spray seemed divided into diamonds by thousands in the rays of the audacious Sun. Occasionally, too, tiny rainbows were painted in the falling showers, the extreme beauty of which she was too much blinded by her rage to appreciate, or else her wounded self-love might have received some balm. Gradually, however, the effervescence of her anger subsided, and she again resumed the usual characteristics of her flow. Ere long she had cause for regret in her foolish dispute with the Sun, whom, too late, she was willing to acknowledge as her truest friend. A canopy of dark-hued clouds began to overspread the skies. The keen, North blast came on with a rush, causing the trees to shiver throughout all their naked branches, and to sigh for the returns of that genial season, which would again give them their vibrating robe of green. Such of the skyey songsters as had not yet sought the balmy groves of the South, now winged their hurried flight thitherward:-and the Rivulet, so lately careering along in the haughtiness and flush of conscious beauty, assumed in unison with the dark aspect of the

heavens, a leaden appearance. All around looked gloomy, disconsolate ;and, horror of horrors! Winter's icy touch fastened upon the lovely stream, and drop after drop froze in the chilling contact. Too soon, but an extended sheet of ice pointed out the course along which this most coquettish of all streamlets had been wont to sparkle and ripple. 'Tis true, an undercurrent was enabled to pursue a sad, slow, and painful passage beneath the frozen surface; but how it longed for the friendly beams with which it had so lately quarrelled, how it sighed for reconciliation, how it resolved upon amendment!

But this state of things endured for several long months, and then the icy press was lifted from her bosom, and the stream, all forgetful of her recent thraldom, went on in the same pride, joy and capriciousness, which she had so lately abjured. The Sun, with his searching gaze, saw through her shallowness, and inscribed in broken characters upon her surface, "One of the natures which learns by no experience!"

TENNESSEE.

ZEPHYR.

Mr. Thackeray's "Virginians," now before the American public, to the extent of eight chapters, in Harper's Magazine, has not proceeded far enough to be very animated or entertaining. In England we hear it is thought the reverse of this, but some allowance must be made for the new theatre (altogether new to Englishmen) upon which the author's puppets are set in motion. For ourselves, we see in these eight chapters the promise of a most interesting story, in which the long-buried manners and customs of our Virginian ancestors, with all their aristocratic pomp and courtly etiquette, will be vividly presented to us. We shall have the Colony reproduced, the faded ribbons will be fresh again as they flutter around cheeks once more lighted

up by the glow of youthful beauty, and the old brocades, years agone consumed by the moths, will rustle in our hearing as their stately and lovely wearers move through the minuet or bustle into the family pew of the parish church. There will be colonial snobs and colonial coquettes introduced to our acquaintance, and all the loves, jealousies, hates, strivings, ambitions, sorrows, and triumphs which every generation of our race has experienced since the world began, will be acted over upon the soil of the Ancient Dominion, and under the sky of romance which bent over that soil in the eighteenth century. Does any one doubt that there were social bickerings in the circles of Williamsburg, that cruel fair ones slew confiding hearts

And

entrusted to their keeping in those old days, that the comedy of life under different forms went on then as now with numberless manifestations of the weakness and folly of poor human nature? does any one doubt that the great, remorseless Mr. Thackeray, rummaging among the relics of that age of powder and pretension, of vices and velvet, will fail to catch at these things and show them up in his dreadful satire? We say, then, there is rich promise of entertainment in "The Virginians," since already in the character of Madam Esmond, and the intrigues of Mrs. Mountain has he developed his peculiar faculty of recognizing the foibles of other people, as exhibited under different aspects of civilization, and making us merry over them. Mr. Thackeray will have to deal, however, as his story advances, with some of the loftiest manifestations of the nobility of nature, and the portraiture of Washington, as delineated by him, inspires us with the hope that he will do this worthily. But, have a care, Mr. Titmarsh, how you evoke that mighty shade from the dominion of the past! It is a dangerous affair you have undertaken, to involve Washington in the machinery of a work of fiction, and you must recollect that your most eminent talent can not be employed upon him. You have dealt somewhat freely with reputations heretofore, though Swift and Marlborough may have merited the odium you poured upon them, but while the great fame of Addison may be impaired by the recollection of an amiable weakness, Washington's character has come to us spotless, and if you impute to him the little follies that have belonged to other great men, the majestic apparition you have called up may visit you, pure and white as you seen him in Houdon's statue, and freeze you into silence with his calm, reproachful gaze.

So far what we must consider in "The Virginians" most curiously is the historic fidelity of the descriptions and the narrative; and here we have reason to apprehend that the work will not come up to the standard of "Henry Esmond." A serious anachronism has been committed, already, in the employment of an imaginary letter, which in itself is most ingeniously contrived. "Colonel Washington" is represented as a guest at the house of Madame

Esmond, just before going with Gen. Braddock upon his fatal expedition against the French and Indians. George, one of the sons of the fair widow, is very jealous of Col. Washington whom he suspects of being in love with his mother. His suspicions have been heightened by Mrs. Mountain, who has found the fragment of a letter in Col. Washington's room which seems to refer directly to designs upon the lady. The Colonel has just left the parlour preceded by Madam Esmond, when George, who has been giving himself some very absurd airs in their presence, holds this conversation with Henry

"Harry Warrington remarked their friend's condition. For Heaven's sake, George, what does this all mean?' he asked his brother. 'Why shouldn't he kiss her hand?' (George had just before fetched out his brother from the library, to watch this harmless salute.) 'I tell you it is nothing but common kindness.'

666

'Nothing but common kindness!' shrieked out George. Look at that, Hal! Is that common kindness?' and he showed his junior the unlucky paper over which he had been brooding for some time. was but a fragment, though the meaning was indeed clear without the preceding

text.

It

"The paper commenced..... is older than myself, but I, again, am older than my years; and you know, dear brother, have ever been considered a sober person. All children are better for a father's superintendence, and her two, I trust, will find in me a tender friend and guardian..'

"Friend and guardian! Curse him!' shrieked out George, clenching his fistsand his brother read on:

666

The flattering offer which General Braddock hath made me will, of course, oblige me to postpone this matter until after the campaign. When we have given the French a sufficient drubbing, I shall return to repose under my own vine and fig-tree.'

"He means Castlewood. These are his vines,' George cries again, shaking his fist at the creepers sunning themselves on the wall.

Under my own vine and fig-tree; where I hope soon to present my dear brother to his new sister in-law. She has a pretty Scripture name, which is, . ..—and here the document ended.

"Which is Rachel,' George went on, bitterly. Rachel is by no means weeping for her children, and has every desire to be comforted. Now, Harry! Let us up stairs at once, kneel down as becomes us, and say, 'Dear papa, welcome to your house at Castlewood.'"

The intelligent reader will remark that this letter is artistically constructed so as to adapt itself exactly to the lady whom Washington afterwards married---Mrs. Martha Custis. The two children-the lady's age-the pretty Scripture name-all have a happy adaptation to the true historical marriage, but it is impossible that we can cheat ourselves into fancying such a letter was ever written, since we know that at the time of the foregoing imaginary dialogue, Washington had not been brought within the charmed sphere of Mrs. Custis's attractions. It was not until after the "whistling of the bullets" had been music in his ears at Braddock's Defeat, that he came, and saw, and was conquered by, the accomplished woman who presided with so much dignity in subsequent times over the delightful household of Mount Vernon.

It may be said that the same accuracy of dates and occurrences is not demanded of the novelist as of the historian and the biographer. But the interest and success of Mr. Thackeray's "Virginians" depend greatly on the confidence inspired in the reader that his picture is an accurate one-we must have faith in a novel or it will never satisfy us, and we trust, therefore, that Mr. Thackeray will be more careful in the historical management of the rest of his romance.

We have a lively desire, in which we think it quite probable many of our readers may share, to preserve the following letter of Governor Wise, addressed to the Committee of the New England Society, upon the occasion of their recent festival at New York City, and we know of no better way of doing this than by giving it a place in our Editor's Table." It seems to draw in a few strong lines the character of the Pilgrim Fathers more faithfully than the portraiture has ever been done in any of the annual New England orations

RICHMOND, VA., Nov. 6, 1857. E. D. Morgan, Esq., Chairman of Committee, &c.:

DEAR SIR: Your invitation of the 4th, in behalf of the New England Society of the City of New York, is so kind and hospitable in its tone that I am almost constrained to promise that I will meet you at dinner

at the Astor House, in December, as you propose. But, Sir, it will hardly be in iny power to fulfil the engagement. Our Legislature will meet next month, and be in session on the 22d December, and I must be here at my post; Christmas, too, will be near, and the head of a true Virginian household is never absent about that holy time. I must, then, decline. But it is not for want of any respect or gratitude to the "Forefathers" of New England. They were solid, practical men, who looked to the real substance, and not to the shadows of things. They were men of God, whose walk and conversation were founded on the morality of the Gospel. They were persecuted and long suffering for the cause of religious freedom. They were brave and hardy, and earnest and honest, and manly and persevering in maintaining human rights by the observance of law and order and decency in all things. If they were at all deluded and practised any delusions, it was always in their hearts and consciences on the Lord's side. They were against the devil and all his witches. They kept the faith and laboured, and suffered, and fought for it. And they gloriously triumphed over their physical and spiritual foes, and handed down a legacy of liberty and law worth preserving for all ages, at all hazards, by their descendants. And they were BROTHERS of our Forefathers of Virginia, and in the last struggles were bound to our Fathers by more sacred ties than brother's blood. They bound themselves and their heirs forever. Time, events, other struggles, renewed covenants, more bloodshed, greater interests, higher responsibilities, weightier trusts, brighter hopes, grander prospective scenes, greater dread of worse disasters than could once be contemplated-all, everything which has grown up or come after, or is gone, or now is, or is hereafter to be, binds us, the heirs, co-heirs and descendants of the forefathers of this Republic, to each other more than they were bound together. Do we feel it so? Are we brothers, and more than brothers, in devotion to country, our whole country-its honour, its rights, its equality, its peace, its separate State independence, its Union? Let us but imitate the example of the forefathers, and all will be safe in the bonds only of fraternal affection, and harmony, and peace. These pious celebrations revive these reflections and feelings, and I therefore would honour them with the mite of my influence. For your Society and yourself, Sir, you have my best wishes, and I am,

Truly and gratefully yours,
HENRY A. WISE.