The Southern Literary Messenger, Volume I., 1834-35

"The Grave of Forgotten Genius."

BY AN UNDERGRADUATE.

Anxious thought that wished
To go, yet whither knew not well to go,
Possessed his soul and held it still awhile:
He listened and heard from far the voice of fame,
Heard and was charmed, and deep and sudden vow
Of resolution made to be renowned,
And deeper vowed to keep his vow.—Pollock.

The summer of 18—, was the fourth which I had spent at C—— College, and with it, ended my collegiate life. The scenes, which my long residence there had made sacred to the memory, were now becoming still more sacred as the time of my departure drew near. Every object, which was at all associated with meeting-scenes and parting-adieus, had become a magician's wand,—recalling the absent and the dead—towering hopes, now buried in the tomb, and anguish, which, thus recalled, is but the bliss which the dreamer enjoys, when he wakes and feels himself secure from the precipice, from whose edge a moment before he was plunging into a gulph below. No scene was to me so sacred as the student's grave-yard; for in it, I often mourned over the woes and ills of life, and almost unconsciously wished for a fate like the young men's who slept in its repose. There were then only four graves—three were side by side, having tomb-stones, epitaphed to the memory of those whose ashes reposed beneath them. The fourth stood alone—over it was a rude stone, on which was visible no tribute to him, whose remains were there. His was a destiny which often made me look upon the unlettered stone with the deepest sympathy. One only thing seemed to be known of this grave—one tribute only did time pay to his memory—for to the pilgrim who passed by and hastily inquired "who sleeps there?" naught was ever replied but the simple, yet eloquent elegy, "that is the 'Grave of the Forgotten Genius.'" In this unconscious elegy, there was that which made me look upon it, almost as the grave of a brother.

It was here that I often retired during the last days of my stay at C—— College. Here I could enjoy an uninterrupted revery, and call before me the spirits of the dead and weep o'er the destiny of forgotten genius; yet, even then, I sometimes thought their fate the happiest which could fall to the lot of man. Perhaps they have prayed for the gift of oblivion. Perhaps they have wished not to be remembered. Their last desire may have been,

"Silent let me sink to earth
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth
Nor startle friendship with a tear."

A few days before my departure from the college, I was walking thoughtfully through the grove, which surrounded this little grave-yard, when suddenly I beheld a stately figure, standing near the unepitaphed grave. He stood for a moment—then approached the gravestone—seemed to take something from it, and pressing his hand to his forehead for a moment, look fixedly at the stone. He arose—hastily left the grave and directed his course towards a little village below. Here was a mystery! Is this a relative—a brother of the "forgotten genius," who has at last come to pay a tribute to his long neglected memory? I ran to the grave. Behold! the name of him who had so long been forgotten! The mysterious stranger had discovered the name of the being who was buried there, which had been almost covered by the moss that had collected upon the stone, and which till then I had never observed.

At twilight I was again in the grove, and again saw the same figure approach the grave. He stood over it, and I distinctly heard these words, "hapless being! Would that I had been here to ease thy dying agony. Yet 'tis well! I grieve not! Thy spirit is at rest."

I did not hesitate, but immediately approached the stranger, who seemed a little surprised, but by no means disconcerted.

"Stranger," I said, "thou grievest not alone! Pardon me for intruding upon thy grief. I wish only to add my sympathy to your anguish."

"Thou'rt welcome!" said the stranger, "I thank thee for thy sympathy: but tell me? Is the tale of him, who sleeps in that grave still known?"

"It is only known that he was once a student of C—— College, and that his tomb has long been called the 'Grave of the Forgotten Genius'" I replied. But the stranger seemed not to hear me—made no answer and approached again to the grave, and by the light of the moon which now shone brightly, read the name "Walter ——," exclaiming, "yes 'tis my younger brother, who died fifteen years ago." "And were none of his friends" I inquired, "at his side during his last illness?"

"Alas" said he, "his spirit was gone, ere the news reached them, that he was sick!" and then after a short silence the stranger continued. "But come with me to yonder village? I will there give you all the information you want." I immediately gave my assent, and after the stranger had again stood silently over the grave seemingly engaged in supplicating the favor of heaven, we approached the village. We entered the village inn,—the stranger left me for a moment, but soon reentered the room in which he had left me, bearing in one hand a small manuscript, and in the other a purse. "This manuscript" said he, "will give you the tale of him, who is now known only as the Forgotten Genius. This purse contains one hundred and fifty crowns, half of which you must cause to be applied to the erection of a monument over my brother's grave, and the other half to be deposited in the county treasury, the interest to be applied to the cultivation of the grove around the student's grave-yard."

"It is now late" said the stranger, "my duty calls me one hundred miles hence before to-morrow evening. I must rest a little, and continue my journey."

I then pressed the stranger's hand. Neither spoke. The tears flowed down the stranger's cheeks, and I felt that I was parting from a brother; without the least hope that I should ever see him again, I retired to my room, but it was only to give vent to the excess of my feelings. I continued walking through my apartment until dawn, and on going out, was informed that the stranger had just set out on his journey. I rushed to my room again, full of doubt and grief—opened the manuscript which had been given to me by the stranger, and read as follows:—

Walter Dunlap was born in Chestatee Village, which is situated on one of the tributary streams of the Tennessee river, and surrounded by those beautiful vallies, so numerous on both sides of the Cumberland mountains. His father had been the first, and was at his birth the principal merchant in Chestatee Village. He was not wealthy, yet his economy had enabled him to afford means for the education of his sons at one of the first colleges in the east. The procurement of this had been his whole ambition, and it may well be imagined, that any evidences of talent and genius in his sons, would please him much. In his infancy, Walter displayed in his slightest actions, a nobleness, a generosity, and a dauntlessness which at once won the heart of his father, and Walter had not been placed under the instruction of a tutor more than six months, ere he was far in advance of those who had spent years in the school-room. Already did the fathers and mothers of Chestatee Village hold up Walter to their children as a model for their imitation. He had not passed his twelfth year before he was sent with an elder brother to a college three hundred miles distant from his paternal home.

We arrived at C—— College full of hope and expectation, for the writer of this narrative was the next elder brother of Walter. We looked only for that continual flow of spirits and sprightliness, which the changing and novel scenes of our journey had excited, and were therefore illy prepared to meet the rigid confinement and discipline of a college-life. At first we sat out with ardor, and Walter especially, seemed delighted with the prospect of pleasure which lay before him. Yet the most ardent and ambitious, are not always the most successful students. A sudden prospect of an adventure, full of romance and chivalry, seldom fails to bewitch their imagination, and those who before were first and most ardent in the pursuit of knowledge, are often, by a single incident of mirth and pleasure converted into ring-leaders of insubordination, unwilling to reap the advantages of a liberal education, and constantly contriving means of interrupting the peace of those around them. There were such at C—— College, and it was not long ere Walter was ranked among the most ungovernable members of the institution. Six months had not elapsed, ere he was represented to his father, as one who was no longer fit for the station he occupied, and was thus privately dismissed. These were the circumstances: Walter and myself were placed under the guardianship of a distant relative who was connected with the institution, and he was to supply us with whatever money we needed. The frequent applications which Walter had made to his guardian at last caused a prompt refusal, which greatly displeased Walter. He went to the apartment occupied by his guardian, and took the sum for which he had applied. This act he did not attempt to conceal, for he was not yet able to distinguish between right and wrong,—so that it could not have entered into his mind that he was then committing a crime, which was subject to the severest punishment. His guardian, offended at the indignity which he thought had been offered him, reported the child who was placed under his peculiar protection, to the president of the college, for theft. Thus was the thoughtless, the generous and noble Walter, beloved by all his companions, implicated and deemed guilty of an act, among the basest in the catalogue of crimes. This news might well astonish the too confiding father of Walter. He was scarcely able to think, or to speak, when be received the request which the faculty had made. It was a journey of several days, yet this did not stop the weeping father, who hastened to the college to examine in person the nature of the offence. On his arrival, he too was convinced of the guilt of his son. In vain did his youthful eloquence attempt to make a distinction between taking that which was his own, and that which was another's. His father's rigid justice could not comprehend the distinction, which though incorrect, was perfectly natural. Well do I remember the sad and woe-worn countenance of our parent. Never have I seen, during a lapse of almost twenty year's observation, a father lament so bitterly over the fate of his son.

"My son," said he to me, as he was about to set out with Walter, to leave me to solitude and tears, "act honorably for my sake," and as we shook hands, tears came to relieve the agony which oppressed us. Walter, too, who till now had been firm and unmoved, boldly informing his companions of his situation and defending his actions, embraced me tenderly, and then more than at any other time during my life, when my feelings were only suggested by nature, did my heart respond to the thrilling lines

"The word that bids us sever,
It sounds not yet, no, no, no!"

We parted! Months passed on and not a word from Walter. At last a letter came from my father. It breathed still the same feelings and anguish which he felt at our separation. "Walter," said he, "still remains inexorable! He is ruined, and I am not able to control him. You, my son, you alone can cheer my heart and recal me from the woe which Waller has caused me." At the end of one year from the time I had separated from my father, he informed me that he had just sent Walter to live with an uncle, who resided on the Elk—a river whose banks were then but thinly settled, where he hoped the retirement of his situation and the good counsel of his uncle, would work a reformation in the feelings and principles of Walter.

"If this fail," he concluded, "I am at an end—my last hope is destroyed and my heart is broken." More than two years had elapsed since my departure for the college, and for the first time was I summoned to my paternal home. I returned, and oh, how changed was the scene! I had left my father's a house of constant happiness, but now scarcely a smile was familiar to the face of a person in the family. My father was absent in mind, and talked of forsaking business. I remained two months, and used all my endeavors to recal his thoughts to the objects around him, and in some measure succeeded. I again returned to C—— College—where I remained two years longer, not forgetting to write often to my father in such a style as to make him forget that subject which weighed so heavily upon his spirits; nor did I forget Walter, to whom I often wrote, although my letters were never answered, and had reason to hope that they were not only agreeable to him, but gladly received. The last year of my collegiate life ended! I flew to my home, in obedience to the urgent request of my father, who still spoke of the disgrace and ruin of Walter, who had just returned. I was greeted with the sincerest joy—and Walter, as my father informed me, wept for the first time since our separation four years before, and I felt, that I had been restored to a long lost brother. He, indeed, seemed to be suddenly wrested from the gloom which had so long surrounded him, and we rambled over the hills, sacred to the memory of school-boy sports, again mingled together in the society of youthful friends, and were again as happy and as joyous, as we were, ere we experienced the pestilential influence of a college.

Immediately after my return home, my father entreated me to use every means for the reformation of Walter, at the same time, evincing all the bitterness of grief and despair. My whole object was now to gain an ascendancy over the mind of Walter. We read together—talked and laughed together—and indulged together those anticipations of the future, so bright and enchanting to the minds of the young. Often did his eye brighten at the suggestion of his future glory and greatness. Thus, by slow but certain progress, did he allow himself to be dragged from the despair and gloom by which he was surrounded. He read the tales of the great and renowned, and again was fired with ambition which prompted him to look for a name equal to theirs. Long had he been accustomed to look upon himself as an offcast from society—as one scorned and shunned by the good and the generous: for none had encouraged him to hope even that the disgrace which had come so soon to snatch him from the light of joy, and sink him to the depths of despair could ever be forgotten. How many noble, ardent and ambitious youths, have thus been driven to the night of woe and mental desolation? How many have been urged to the extremity of human depravity by the too rigid decree of a father's or a guardian's justice? How many like Walter, have been driven before the gale of prosperity, then suddenly abandoned, left scorched and desolate, as the proud vessel which is cast upon the barren shore, and left to moulder in the "winds and rains of heaven!" Yet there was one thing which seemed to afford some ground for the hope that all was not lost. For when we participated in the amusements of youth together, and he again received such evidences of respect from those around him, that he could not believe them insincere, and when he had forgotten his hopeless destiny, there came over his spirit lucid intervals, in which he explored the sublime philosophy of Locke and Paley, and became master of all the descriptions and sentiments of Addison. As we rambled one day in a solitary grove, Walter suddenly stopped, and after a moment's silence, said in a firm but melancholy tone, "my brother, the last four years of my life have been desolate, dreary like—a solitary waste. Yet this was not my fault! I have been an outcast—no human being sympathized with me—none trusted me—none esteemed me—none would receive my company but the profligate and abandoned, with whom I was taught to class myself ere I distinguished between error and truth? Thou alone hast remained faithful, and I now thank you for all your kindness and advice. I was exiled from my paternal home, I returned heart-stricken and miserable, yet I received no sympathy, until you came like an angel of mercy, to recal me to light. May heaven——." Here his voice faltered, and a flood of tears came to his relief. After a few moments he continued: "I have resolved to return to C—— College and there retrieve the happiness, the honor and character, which a youthful folly has taken from me. I thank you for your tears of sympathy. You can participate in my feelings and do justice to my motives." It was thus, in one of the most intensely interesting conversations which I ever held, that Walter disclosed to me the very purpose which I had prayed in all the fervor of supplication he might resolve upon. I soon after made known his feelings to his father, and soon, almost instantaneously, he again left his paternal home to return to C—— College. He left us agitated with doubt and the deepest anxiety for his success. He left us, warmed with the admiration which his noble purpose could not fail to inspire, but racked with that awful feeling of dread, which the uncertainty of hope always occasions. Walter did not weep—he did not seem moved, and yet there was that in his countenance which spoke eloquently of feeling. And yet there were tears to hallow the memory of our separation. A little brother, scarce able to realize the scene around him, shed tears of childish sorrow—a sister, enthusiastic in her affection for her brother shed tears—and a father too, whose locks were whitened with grief, showed youthful sympathy at his son's adieu—and I too, was not unmoved.

Walter Dunlap is again at C—— College! The farewell scene, which had convinced him how deeply the happiness of his relatives could be affected by his success—the powerful sympathy which such an occasion had displayed, at once establish him in his purpose. Fame, honor, and usefulness, were the beacon-lights which illumined his path, and the eternal gratitude of a sister—a brother—a heart-broken father, the ministering spirits which cheered him amid the storms of passion and misery, incident to the human heart. Kirke White was the model which he set before his mind—because there was a sympathy to his mind between their destinies, although White had never received a moral blight, yet it was enough that they had both been pursued by the rigor of fate.

From the moment he entered the walls of the college, he began a rigid discipline of the mind. What elevated Milton, he would ask, to an equality with the gods? What gave to Newton a comprehension of the mysteries of the universe, and to Franklin a power over the elements? and then triumphantly answer, study—unceasing study. "If Socrates had contented himself with only wishing and sighing to enter the field of philosophical truth—if he had prayed, however fervently, could that have sufficed to make him the Prince of Philosophers? Naught but the deepest, unbroken thought could have made him sport familiarly with the subtleties of philosophy, clothed as they then were, in all the gloom of ancient mythology." So thought Walter Dunlap. Night after night did he wear himself away by the intensity of his study and the depth of his thought. A year had not passed, ere he had run through much of the whole collegiate course—made himself master of the ancient languages, and gained a prize in astronomical calculations. Mind cannot conceive the joy which he felt at this success. The image of a father, smiling with tenderness and approbation, blessing him with the unbounded gratitude which a father only can feel, was ever present to his mind. Who can measure the depth of his joy? Who can count the sighs of anguish which these moments of joy now repayed? Well might he say, in reference to his own life,

"One moment may, with bliss repay
Unnumbered hours of pain."

Yet he did not esteem his work yet ended—his purpose yet realized. Innumerable difficulties, calling for energy to brave the prospect of years of application, presented themselves. He resolved to banish from his heart every image of despair, and if the attainment of glory and usefulness required it,

"To drink even to the very dregs
The bitterest cup that time could measure out,
And having done, look up and ask for more."

He received no joy but in the action of mind—in converse with the proudest philosophers of the world. If he was but allowed to walk with Plato and Aristotle, in the grove of Academus, and listen to their discourses he was content. And yet, philosopher as he was, he did not wish to die unlamented, with no epitaph to his memory. How could he remain in the world, and leave it, without having made one discovery in science—established one truth which might benefit mankind—done aught that could endear his name to posterity—caused one heart's gratitude to follow him to the tomb? Such a thought was sad—unutterable! It was thus he was hurried on in his mental application, till at last it became far too incessant for the safety of his life. He saw the consequence, yet could not stay the impetuous workings of his own mind—now beyond his control. His last letter to me, thus concluded, "since I cannot expect a long residence on this earth, my only wish is, that I may have at least one kind friend who will candidly inscribe upon my tomb, this simple epitaph,

"Here lies a heart, that beat for fame."

Soon after the reception of this letter, we were informed by the president of C—— College, that Walter Dunlap had died suddenly, from an inflammation of the lungs occasioned by an exposure to the air for several hours, while observing the corruscations of the Aurora borealis.

Thus died Walter Dunlap—a child of sorrow—a being of the strongest aspirations—possessing a genius which would have elevated him to a rank with the profoundest philosophers—and wept by his companions whose tears form his only funeral eulogy.

His life may show the danger of exposing a child too early to the contagion of a college—the folly of dealing too harshly with youthful errors—the force of sympathy on the heart, and the elevation at which a mind may instantly arrive. Farewell.

I will only add that the "student's grave yard" now contains a monument over the tomb of the Forgotten Genius, and that in compliance with my promise, I caused to be inscribed to the memory of Walter Dunlap, the eloquent epitaph contained in his last letter to his brother, so justly due to the actions of his short life.

West Point, 18th April, 1835.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.