Power above powers! O heavenly eloquence! That with the strong rein of commanding words Dost manage, guide, and master th' eminence Of men's affections more than all their swords! ed the Academy I was an idle, listless boy, fonder stirring up the young performers themselves to emof every thing by far than mental labor-and al-ulation. I have never heard but one satisfactory though to a certain extent ambitious, it was a dreamy answer to the enquiry,—and that is,--that so few and thoughtless ambition, without object and with conductors of schools are themselves masters of out energy. Ogilvie inspired me with new desires. elocution. If this be true, why is it not acquired He touched some sympathetic chord which instant- and practised as a distinct profession? Why is the ly responded, and from that moment I felt that there art itself permitted to hold adverse possession of was a divine spark in the human mind, at least in the stage from which so large a part of the commine, which might be fanned into a flame and which munity is necessarily excluded? Say what we was infinitely of more value and of more true en- may of the grave and solid studies, or of the imjoyment, than the mere pleasures of sense. The portance of mastering the physical and moral sciendistinguishing faculty of the man was the power of ces, it is gladness of heart which can alone lighten rousing the mind from its torpor and lending it intellectual toil, and the heart's emotions are most wings, but whether he could always control its readily reached through the medium of eloquence. flight afterwards, or skilfully direct its good and It is said that knowledge is power, and, if poets are evil impulses, was matter of doubt with those whose to be believed, so is eloquence. opportunities were ample for observing and studying his character. I believe that the chief agency by which he exercised his influence was his somewhat peculiar mode of imparting instruction by lecture. The regular branches of learning, as taught in most seminaries, were confided to assis- But Poets are not the only authority for this opintants (among whom was John Wood, of mathe-ion. All history.--all ages and nations agree, that matical celebrity)—but the lecturer's chair, or chair from Cicero down to the "forest-born Demostheof elocution, in which Ogilvie took such especial nes" of our own land, there is a magic on the lips pride, he reserved for himself. To me, at least, of some, which captivates the soul and imposes his power in that department seemed almost resist willing slavery on its victims. less, and if it be permitted to judge of others by But how is this wonderful art to be studied and results, I should say there were few who escaped acquired? I am aware that many think the pulpit, the sympathetic influence of the orator. I am the forum or legislative hall, is the best and most aware that intelligent, and I presume, unprejudiced efficient school. It is obvious, however, that the men have formed a different estimate of his pow-student who confines himself to the study of such ers. It was principally objected that his manner was pompous, inflated, and by no means natural, and probably in the judgment of mature years, there is reason in the objection. The hey-day blood of youth, however, was more easily taken captive. I remember how thrillingly from the reciter's lips the first sounds of Parnell's Hermit and Collins' Ode to the Passions fell upon my ear and heart. These and many other examples of English verse I enjoyed for the first time. They produced wild and strange emotions, and made impressions which have never been forgotten. Collins' Ode to the Pas- to the contrary. sions was one of Ogilvie's favorite compositions. Ogilvie valued the eloquence of the lecture only After he had made his class familiar with it as a as a means and not as an end. He applied it to whole, he divided the ode into its several appropri- useful elementary knowledge,--to geography,-ate parts, and assigned the personation of each par- history, and the philosophy of grammar, as well as ticular passion to some selected pupil. to that greater art of exploring the fountain of huHaving passed through the customary labors of man sympathies. In the exercise of this art, he rehearsal, the actors were prepared for a finished was certainly in a high degree successful, except representation of the poem, and so well did the ex- with those who from cold temperament or other periment succeed in the school, that the same was cause resisted and repelled such influence. To a repeated in the State Capitol before a brilliant and Virginian ear, his elocution was complained of beadmiring audience. I have often wondered why cause of its Scottish accent, but if that were a dethe managers of education and purveyors to litera- fect, it was sufficiently compensated by great fervor ry taste, consulting their own pecuniary advantage of feeling,--fullness and power of voice,--intellecif nothing else, should neglect this simple and harm-tual expression of countenance and grace, if not maless mode of giving reputation to a school,-of de-jesty, of gesture. There was something I doubt not lighting the public with the performance and of a little theatrical in his tragic stride, which would models must learn chiefly by imitation and be almost entirely without the benefit of previous instruction. If there are occasionally master spirits and prodigies of genius who rise to eminence with few extrinsic aids, they are only exceptions to the general rule, that methodized labor is necessary to intellectual distinction. If Henry, at the bar, and in the legislative hall, and Devereux Jarratt, (the Whitefield of Virginia.) in the pulpit, were rare examples of extraordinary endowment, without preliminary training, there are innumerable examples not have been approved by mature criticism, but of skepticism. On that very occasion to which I the young heart did not stop to reason about pro-refer, at night,-in the Capitol of Virginia,prieties and refinements; it yielded to the "soft impeachment" of what it felt to be dramatic and effective, without ever consulting the schools on the subject. Ogilvie renounced and repudiated his previous falee opinions and without hesitation confessed his faith in the great truths and doctrines of christianity. This solemn declaration he repeated in several succeeding lectures. Whether or not he retained and practised these freshly embraced sentiments and doctrines up to the time of his departure from Virginia for Scotland, I cannot decide. I fear from subsequent events, that Christianity with him was, as it is with thous ands, a mere theory,—a beautiful abstraction,having its dwelling-place in the visions of fancy, rather than in the citadel of the heart. Of Ogilvie's conversational powers, I have no sufficient means of judging,-having only met with him twice or thrice after the completion of my scholastic period. I remember his finding me out at an obscure town where I first resided as a young practitioner of law, and we spent two or three hours together of joyous hilarity,--in which he manifested his characteristic partiality for his pupils. He spoke familiarly about the past, and the projected future, and I think he was then upon one of his His career after this time, is only known to me itinerant expeditions, in which having sunk the by report and partly through the medium of transmore humble profession of preceptor, he had aspi- atlantic publications. Ogilvie was the heir and dered to the doubtful arena of display as a public scendant of a long line of distinguished Scottish rhetorician. It was nearly a year afterwards, that ancestors. (See Douglas' Peerage.) By the death circumstances carried me to the State of Kentucky, of the last nobleman of the House of Finlater and where I spent the winter in the hospitable man- Airly,-the title and estates devolved upon him, and sion of D—, one of Ogilvie's former pupils,--a notwithstanding his early republican sentiments he gentleman, whose capacious heart and head after- did not hesitate to accept the new honors and adwards exalted him to high stations under the fede-vantages offered in his native land. He embarked ral government. I remember on a dark rainy night for London on his way to Scotland and sojourned as the family encircled the fireside in social con- for a time in that great emporium. During his verse, the outer door was opened to the admission stay, whether from some eclat acquired as an Amerof a colored servant, with dripping overcoat and ican Orator, or from some aristocratic attraction to benumbed fingers, who proved to be a messenger the new Scottish Lord, he was invited to deliver a from Ogilvie, then residing in the mountain wilder- lecture to the Surrey Institution, said at that time to ness of that State. He brought a letter highly be a place of elegant resort and sustained by the descriptive of the writer's condition, plans, and wealth and talent of the British metropolis. His prospects. The orator had rented a retired room acceptance of that honor was undoubtedly the ocin a spacious cabin for the purpose of composing casion of a severe trial to a frame constitutionally lectures for future delivery in public, and had care- nervous and rendered more so by the habitual use fully stipulated with his landlady against the slight- of opiates and narcotics. The gaze of a London est intrusion upon his solitary labors. His schemes audience, combining the gravity of wisdom with however had been more comprehensive than his the dazzling splendor of youth and beauty overpow means. He needed that indispensable requisite to ered the lecturer. His effort was feeble and abor human comfort a circulating medium, and the main tive. He retired in silence from the lighted hall, object of his message, despatched through tempes- overwhelmed with confusion! It was a sad inei tuous skies, was to borrow from his old pupil. The dent in a career, which in some respects at least had money was sent.-the lectures were composed,- been brilliant, and acting upon a mind peculiarly and the next time that I met with James Ogilvie, sensitive, it was probably the fatal cause of a more was in the metropolis of Virginia, where I heard melancholy catastrophe. He reached his Scottish with real pleasure one of those brilliant creations estate,-worn out in body and spirit,—disappointof a Kentucky log cabin, which were so much ad-ed in hope and crushed in ambition. He perished mired by thousands on the Atlantic seaboard. I by his own hand! tor. well remember an interesting fact connected with I have often felt strangely sad in contemplating this lecture, the discovery of which was gratifying this mournful end of my early preceptor. With all to many of the former pupils and friends of the ora- his shining qualities, he was not exempt from the When first an emigrant from Scotland, he weaknesses and frailties of humanity. His genewas young, ardent and strongly imbued with the rous impulses were doubtless often counteracted infidel philosophy of that day. Godwin's Political by a spirit of misanthropy, and perhaps of bitterJustice, and works of a kindred character were the ness, and with all that there was in the path of life themes of his unreserved eulogy.but it was im- to cheer him, it was his fitful nature to experience possible for a mind like his to resist the steady and at timesconstant light which beamed from so many intel lectual sources and dissipated the flimsy sophistries that dreary void The leafless desert of the mind. But peace In the language of a favorite bard, whose words I have often heard repeated from the eloquent lips of Ogilvie himself, No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw bis frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his father and his God. H. OF RICHMOND. THE GREGORIES OF HACKWOOD. BY P. P. COOKE. CHAPTER I. An old stone house, of great dimensions, stands on a slight elevation in the midst of a champaign country. A stream with a musical Indian name, which our Virginia country folk have not benefitted in the pronunciation, bends aside from its course, to sweep the circular base of the unusual hill. Miles Gregory, at the date of my story, lived in this house, which he called Hackwood, and was the owner of many thousand acres of the lands around it a great estate, but deplorably neglected, and reduced to the appearance of a barren. It was near twilight of a summer evening. The walls of Hackwood were growing dusky and sombre. The grim high-peaked gables, darkening into deep cornices, had lost the glare of day, and were not yet yellow in the light of the harvest moon, which trembled on the line of the eastern land NOTE.-It is stated in the text, that many distinguished Virginians, both in Council and the field, and of professional eminence, were indebted to Ogilvie for much of their early education. Without enumerating the honored dead, I will refer to living instances,-with the remark that if I had been at liberty to consult my own pleasure, and circumstances had allowed it, I should have applied to these gentlemen, (most of them personally known to me,) for their own recollections of the subject of this hasty sketch, before I had undertaken it. By so doing I should doubtless have been enabled to correct some errors into which I may have fallen; but as my object was not an accurate biogra- scape, tipping the dewy tops of the ash, dogwood, phical notice, but a mere transcript from individual memo- and redbud coverts which extended far away in an ry, the omission referred to will be readily excused. Of unbroken wilderness. These peaked gables were those who were among the first pupils of Ogilvie in Virgi- none the less gloomy for the desolate din of the nia, and are now living-may be mentioned the great Amer cian, were all students at the Richmond Academy. I must not forget my excellent friend, Governor Duval of Florida, formerly of Kentucky, and referred to in the foregoing sketch, who was also a student in Richmond, somewhat before my time; and perhaps it is also proper to state that the venerable editor of the Washington Union was Ogilvie's assistant in the early part of the latter's career as Instructor. Whether Mr. Ritchie was previously a pupil, I am not informed. There are doubtless several now living whose names I have not mentioned and cannot now recall. ican Captain, the conqueror of Mexico, and Brigadier Gen-martins and barn-swallows which swarmed about eral George Brooke. The two Jones's, General Roger them. At several hundred yards from the house, Jones and Commodore Catesby Jones,-the Hon. Wm. S. was a burial ground. It seemed to be very old. Archer, late U. S. Senator; Judge John Robertson, late The wall about it was sinking into ruin. The M. C.,-John S. Barbour, of Culpeper, late M. C..-and stones had, in many places, fallen out, leaving their Doctor Henry Curtis, of Hanover, a distinguished physi- coping of plank to span wide gaps. A few locust trees, overrun with wild vines, grew amongst broAs twilight ken tombstones and sunken graves. drew on, one might have seen a horseman approach this burial ground, dismount, fasten his horse outside, leap the broken wall, and seat himself upon a tombstone. He was a tall, well proportioned man of about five and twenty, with long dark hair, a ready and graceful carriage, and wore the dress of a gentleman. He sat until the moon began to give a more distinct light, and then left his seat and looked toward Hackwood. As he did so, two female figures advanced from the shadows of the house, and approached him. One, a slender girl with a light step, came swiftly before the other. The last comer, a taller and statelier person, advanced at a more sedate pace. As they came near, the gentleman leaped the wall, and, with a few earnest words of welcome, caught the hands of the slender girl and kissed her lips. He then saluted, more moderately, her companion, who loitered behind. These persons were Henry Grant, of Statton, a gentleman of honour and intelligence, who had inherited from a spendthrift father a great estate burthened with a perfect confusion of debts, and Joan and Anne, the two daughters of Miles Gregory, of Hackwood. Joan, the tall and sedate lady, walked away at a slow step, making a circuit LINES Addressed impromptu to Mrs. S., upon hearing her sing the song of "Marble Halls," from the opera of the Bohemian Girl. Oh, breathe once again, That soul-touching strain! It lifts me from Earth to the Skies! "Tis the Cherubim's note, From thy mocking-bird throat, And it melts like the ray from thine eyes. W. W. VOL. XIV-68 of the burial-ground. Henry Grant and Anne en out servant after servant, until but two or three Gregory, sitting side by side, conversed in low feeble old creatures, who refuse to be driven away, tones. They were lovers. After the conversation remain. He wanders about his empty rooms half had continued for some time, the gentleman said—clothed. Ride at noon-day to Hackwood, and you "It is very annoying, dear Anne, to be driven will find a poor sad girl, clad like a nun in black to this questionable mode of meeting you. We serge, hiding from the cruel eyes of the world, are equals, we love each other, there is no good even from her lighter-hearted sister, a miserable reason why we should not be man and wife"-here old man, wasted for want of food, and who, instead he pressed the girl's hand, and his tone became of greeting you as an honorable suitor for his daugh most serious and gentle--" and yet you compel me ter's hand, will insult you with wretched suspicions to lurk about your father's house and steal this that you come to force yourself on his hospitality. sweet intercourse. Why should I not ride to From such a house, and such miseries, shame has Hackwood at noon-day, and meet you as equals made me exclude you." meet?" "Master Henry," replied the girl, with a sweet smile, "it is Joan that prevents your coming to Hackwood, and she must tell you why she does 80." As Anne spoke, the dark figure of her sister, with a black mantle drooping from the inclined head, became visible; her circuit of the graveyard had brought her near the speakers. She joined them, and said, as Anne ended Yes, I have prevented your coming to Hackwood." "There surely must be a good cause for it," said Henry Grant. "Your firm and just nature does not give wanton pain." "Perhaps," said Joan, "my reasons will appear to you to be bad or insufficient; they are conclusive to me." The girl turned her thoughtful face to the moon, and was silent for a few moments. At last she spoke with a sad energy "It is our father's condition that has made me shut the doors of our house against you. Ah! he is a most miserable man. The evening of life which should bring with it calm affections, an equal mind, cheerfulness and contentment, has brought him nothing but wretchedness. It has increased a passion, which he once ruled, into a madness which now rules him. But surely you know what I would say." "That your poor father, Miles Gregory-once an accomplished gentleman--is cursed in his old age with the insanity of avarice. I know it." 46 At these words, uttered by Joan resolutely and with little apparent emotion-for the tides of the proud gir's nature were deep--Anne wept as if her heart would break. Henry Grant succeeded, after a time, in quieting her grief, and then said to Joan "You draw a dreary picture. Why not permit me to remove Anne as my wife, and yourself as her good and kind sister, to a condition of comfort and happiness?" "Happiness!" said Joan Gregory. "How could I be happy under your roof, with the dreams of Haekwood haunting me? No: I must remain steadfast. I cannot leave my poor father. And it would be a fatal blow if Anne left him. She is the only one on earth whom he seems to love.” "We can unite to watch over him," said Henry Grant. "He can live in greater comfort with us at Statton." "It cannot be so," Joan answered. "If I have shrunk from admitting even you to our dismal home, because it would fill me with shame to have you look upon my father's weakness, how could I lead him to your great house-to be stared at—to be laughed at by your very servants? But this is not Anne's answer. If drawn by love, she answers otherwise, I cannot blame her." "Ah! let us talk of these things at another time," said Anne Gregory, with a sort of sorrowful naivetè. "Must we never have a good, dear talk? Joan is always unhappy; and you, master Henry, are always arguing about coming to decisions, and say. But, master Henry," said Anne Gregory, great-ing the time has come for this thing or that thing.” ly distressed, "Joan always sees things on their dark sides. Our father is kind and gentle." Henry Grant looked tenderly upon the beautiful girl and answered: "I will not press you to a decision to-night; we will find a time when we are all more buoyant and hopeful. Your sister takes, as you say, dark views, and has depressed us a little." "Gentle to you Anne-sometimes; not kind to any one," Joan answered. A sob moved her white throat, but controlling it, she continued resolutely, "None but his daughters know to what extreme wretchedness he has sunk; and only I of his daugh- As he spoke, he turned to Joan. Her face was ters fully-for I have stood between Anne and the pale; her lips were quivering; her large bazel bitter knowledge of all--of details which could but eyes wore an expression of intense grief. have made her light heart as heavy as my own. I "You have some peculiar grief," he said kindly ; must speak even now in merely general terms. In "something beyond the common sorrows of your the midst of wealth, he lives in a state of want. life, of which you have spoken, to disturb you toI have indeed, more than once, saved him from--night." from starvation. He has dismantled his house, driv "Yes, a peculiar grief," Joan answered. "Conceal nothing from me. Anne's love gives | "You are a true-hearted and brave man," said Joan with flashing eyes. "It is Anne's rare good me a title to your confidence." 66 "I will confide everything to you," said Joan good fortune that she has attached so excellent a slowly, and confirming herself into the fixed calm- nature to her own. I know you well. But this ness with which she had hitherto spoken. The burthen must not be added to the load you already friendship that listens to grief lessens it. The con- bear. There is a resource to be once more tried. dition of Lewis Gregory, our brother, is just now I have determined to make a final appeal to my a source of infinite distress to me. How much or poor father. Lewis shall be brought to Hackwood, how little of his struggle with life do you know?" to join me in it. I think we shall find words which "Speak as if I knew nothing," said Henry must bring relief; and if we succeed, it will be Grant. a double relief. For it will be the removal from Anne pressed close to her lover's side, and Joan my father's heart of a portion of the terrible infirtold her brother's story. mity which now destroys it. It will be a triumph of right feeling over his insane love of riches. We will see. I have some hope." And I hope," said Anne Gregory calmly, "that "Lewis grew to manhood," she began, "full of rare promise. He came to his father and mine, and said it is not suitable that the son of a gentleman should sink from his position, and I have succeeding in these just purposes, we may soon chosen an honorable calling; give me the means of have a happier meeting than this has been." beginning life, and I will take care of the rest.' Our poor father refused this just demand. Lewis became a schoolmaster; devoted such time as he could to the study of the law; finally came to the bar. He succeeded at once, and bade fair to become a distinguished man. He married a sweet and excellent woman. The world was full of good promise to him; but a change came. Two years ago, with many little children looking up to him Joan turned her eyes upon her companions, as she ended, and smiled so wretchedly, that weeping would have been more cheerful. Henry Grant, deeply moved, said : The moon had climbed high before the sisters left the scene of this interview and returned to the house. Henry Grant, reining his horse, saw them, as he sat in his saddle, disappear in the shade of its walls, and turning, rode away at a slow pace. CHAPTER II. In a large room of Hackwood, with a most desolate look, for it possessed scarcely any furniture, rambled an old man. His appearance was singular. His body was thin and much stooped. His face had no flesh about it, and was peaked and sharp in the features. His eyes were keen and restless, with a blending of suspicion and alarm about them. His hair straggled in a thin line of white around his head, leaving the top bald and shining. His costume was antiquated, mean, patched. I introduce him to the reader the day after the night scene between Henry Grant and the sisters. and Jenkin," said the old man, in a peevish, sharp tone--" Jenkie." A feeble old negro, scarcely in better physical condition than his master, came to the call. He stood leaning on a stick, but said nothing. Miles Gregory, the miser, who had called him, seemed to be seized with the same dearth of speech. At last, however, he said: "When they come, Jenkin, don't leave me alone with them-do you hear ?--don't leave me alone with them." "Who are coming, master ?" said Jenkin. "Your brother shall not go down alone. I will save him, or be ruined with him. You know well my own condition. When I became master of "Don't you know," said the miser, fixing his Statton, I found the fortunes of our house in great sharp eyes on the negro; "don't you know? Then danger. Since then I have been fighting, yard arm they have not bought you over. Lewis is coming to yard arm, with creditors, and am beginning to with the old story about want of money; and Joan hope for success. Energy will accomplish every- will be pestering me. They want to ruin me, Jenthing. But your blind brother is now to be a care kin, but the old man can take care of his own. of mine. I will place half of such a shield as I They will find him sharp, Jenkin, sharp and care have before him." ful." |