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reveries lo paper, my heart finds a delightful satisfaction in the belief, that thus it will commune with the absent, and give to them the same pleasure that I myself have experienced.
Take then, ye honored spirits! to whom I am attracted more warmly than to others, (for which latter no other emotion than pity is possible to be felt,) take these remembrances and exhortations from your friend, who hopes to see you in a better world. You alone can understand these pages ; you alone will comprehend and feel the force of my language, and only in your hearts will the sympathetic emotions of my own be adequately responded to.
BEAUTIFUL Celia !—you do not yet know your tenderest lover! Your enchanting beauty has collected around you a swarm of cringing slaves; but they do not love you. How little must you comprehend your own value, if you should become proud in consequence of their attentions ! They do not love you, Celia. It is a grosser feeling that animates their rivalry. Each one of your charms in their eyes promises its own peculiar zest, its own peculiar rapture. These suitors regard you in the same light as Eve considered the apple, which appeared to her delightful to the eye, and yet more so to the taste. But I, who never saw you with my physical eyes,
I can only consider
my mental vision ; and this reveals, beneath your earthly form, something more beautiful than beauty itself. Flowers, pictures, and statues I may admire, but this heavenly gift, which elevates your
visible presence as much above all other beauties, as an angel excels a butterfly, this divine possession entirely captivates my heart. Without flattering you, (for wherefore should an ethereal lover, a genius, flatter ?) I will direct your attention to more noble objects than the untiring worshippers of your youthful charms can place before you. I would wish to inspire your heart with an elevated pride, that will place you far beyond each rosy-cheeked maiden, in whom either nature or education has forgotten to elaborate the chiefest perfection; whose whole history may be summed up in a few words; who bloom, are plucked, and wither. Reflect, that you are advancing to an age, when the world will consider you either with approving or censorious eyes. Your beauty will attract toward you an attention which mere beauty is not worthy of. It is time, therefore, that you should learn the true object of your existence. If the force of sympathy is rightly comprehended by me, reflection is at this moment whispering to your soul that which I now think.
Lovely Celia, the whole world is a shadow; a reflection of immortality, which alone is eternal and divine. Your soul is the image of the Divinity, your person the image of your soul. These colors, these graces, are the lustre with which it invests the body, and by means of which it should effect its proper objects. Beauty is a promise by which the soul is bound to entertain no thought that is not great, noble, and elevating. It is the talisman by which others should be made attentive to the lessons of virtue.
For one possessed of beauty should be a tutoress; teaching by the example that she sets. Virtue, which, invested with beauty, moves among man
kind, enters into their interests and passions, and is plainly to be observed by them ; pleases more, touches more tenderly, and drives its arrows deeper into the heart, than when arrayed in all the imposing wisdom of the schools, or in the enchanting diction of a Richard
Modesty appears more engaging, when it blushes upon lovely cheeks; the expression of feelings that betray a gentle disposition and goodness of heart, sounds more sweetly when proceeding from ruby lips; and how does a beautiful eye enrapture us, when, beaming with earnest, undissembled emotion, it is raised in prayer toward the throne of the Almighty, and the pious reflections that well forth from the devout mind, are revealed with a bright and dazzling splendor in its glances! If wisdom, if innocence, if humility, if the noble sentiments which belief in the religion of Christ induces, operates with all their power upon hearts already softened and overcome by mere personal beauty, how can they do otherwise than admire this higher excellence? And in each elevated soul, from admiration will arise love, from love, emulation. O, Celia ! what a benefactress to mankind could you not become! How many fools you might shame, who are not able to believe that unconquerable virtue may reside in a tender heart, at the same time with youth ! How many could you not oblige to honor virtue against their will ! How many who once feared her, would then, attracted by your charms, view her more closely, and consent to worship at her shrine ! How would the mere rarity of the sight attract attention! The world would believe that it was an angel appearing among men, to teach them by example. Then, perhaps, beauty and wisdom, when united, might touch those thoughtless persons who are too foolish to love virtue for its own sake. 0, Celia ! disappoint not the design of the Creator who formed thee! Do not so employ the graces of your person, that they will be but syrens, inviting us to death !
Forgive, forgive, O, beautiful friend ! my honest earnestness. I know that you would rather lose all the lustre of your charms, than that a moral deformity should be concealed behind so beautiful a mask; the venom of the serpent lie hidden beneath the flowers. I
A noble thirst for knowledge flashes from your eyes. An awaking consciousness of the dignity of your own nature, a crowd of lofty presentiments, excite the pulses of your heart. You despise the male insects which flutter around you, in whatsoever garb they may choose to glitter. You long after the applause of the king and ruler of the world, who alone dives into the labyrinth of our inclinations, and alone is fitted to judge of our actions. With how novel a beauty will you enhance our now deformed world! How much will all the friends of virtue love you! What a heaven will that fortunate person, to whom destiny shall award you as a reward for his virtue, find in your possession! How blessed will be the lot of those, whom with maternal care you shall rear in the paths of innocence and virtue! You will be a Byron in your youthful days, and a venerated Shirley, when the hand of time shall whiten your locks; and although age may deprive your cheeks of their roses, it will never be able to efface the harmonious expression of your features,
X. Y. Z.
see even more.
They have no right to make thy name
A by-word for their deeds :
Their fashions, and their creeds ;
Thus causelessly to range,
Good reason for the change.
Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course
The thoughtless oft condemn,
Which never breathe on them;
Which they do never know,
Through one more dark and cheerless night
Thou well hast keep thy trust,
The morning light has burst :
When his dark hours have passed,
To cheer his path, at last.
Bright symbol of fidelity,
Still may I think of thee;
Be never lost on me :
Whatever task is mine,
As thou hast been to thine.
* By Aaron's great golden calf! Creighton, you are certainly the most unreasonable fellow I ever saw ! Look at the sums I have already furnished! There they are, all set down in a column, and figured up; a very pretty interest, truly! And now you are so unconscionable, as to ask for fifty dollars more, all at once!
Why, you crazy head !- the purse of a millionaire would not stand such drafts!
• Poh, Buckley! You moan as if you were going to the gallows, or the rogue's palace, at least.'
• And what else than a prison can a poor fellow expect, when he is run ashore for funds ? Positively, Sir, I cannot spare another cent.'
• But think of the investment, dear Buckley; and of the solemn fact, that if you cut me now, you will stand a rare chance of losing what has already been expended. In poring over those awkward figures, you seem to have wholly forgotten the object of our enterprise.'
'Oh, surely not that dainty little object; it fairly makes my mouth water. And I suppose it is almost obtained,' yet ? I believe you have told me so for more than a month. Pray, is the day fixed, and are the dresses selected ?'
• You are uncommonly severe to-night, Buckley.'
• Severe ? God forbid! I was only wondering at the want of energy which you have manifested, in not grasping that which you have so often told me was just within your reach.'
• Just beyond it, you should recollect, Buckley. I acknowledge that some of our flirtations have proved cursed unfortunate. Who would have thought, now, that that jade of a Milton would flinch, after she had gone so far as to sigh a dozen times, and let me squeeze her dry digitals nearly as many more ??
* Deuced unlucky, I own, Creighton. But there were the two Middletons.'
* Another trap, too. There I thought myself sure. The oldest one only put off my suit over one day, when in stepped that rascal of a fellow, and carried her by storm before my eyes. I had a good mind to send him a challenge.'
Only you was afraid he would accept.' * Enough, Buckley; I know you for an inveterate joker, and friends, you know, must pocket jokes. Were you a stranger now, Buckley,
* And so unfortunate as to know nothing of the real character of the valiant Captain Creighton, you might presume so far on my scruples, as to send me a challenge. But no matter, you know. Tell us what your prospects are now. Methinks a change of climate might be for the best.'
Very likely. Well, let's see. There's the Purley - I am dished there; the Randalls - pretty much gone, too. The old maid out there, and the little imp of ugliness close beside her — by the saints ! they are the only two left; and I cannot look at them without thinking it would be a bitter dose to marry either for twice their fortune.'
What are their cash values ? • The little girl estimated at fifteen thousand, at her father's death; the old maid ten thousand, certain.'
• That all? Why, captain, you are reduced to devilish poor picking, sure enough - hardly Hobson's choice. But to be frank with you, I have made a discovery to-day, that is worth all the rest.'
• A good fleece, and ready for the shearer ?'
well spiced with romantic notions, and open to flattery. Beside, she has not fifty dangling after her, as she lives very much retired. I have a plan all matured, that cannot fail to make us both. First promise me a third of the profits.'
"A third ! How devilish exorbitant ! Why, Buckley, I would see you hanged first.' • Well then, Mr. Captain, get any, if you can.'
' 'Stop, my friend; do n't be so crusty. You shall have a fun quarter.'
Nay, old head ! — I know you now, methinks. A third free and clear will I have, or you may hunt out the scheme yourself.'
Well, Buckley, it's devilish hard ; but you will have your own way. Make the bargain to suit yourself.'
You promise ? Sign that, then. There, that will do, and now to my story. The prize is situated thirty miles inland. She has a