N49 AP2 THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. VOLUME VIII. FROM JANUARY TO JUNE INCLUSIVE. 1835. BOSTON: E. R. BROADERS, 127, WASHINGTON STREET. EASTBURN'S PRESS. 376610 AP2 N49 V.3 um . Ihti.fi INDEX. ORIGINAL PAPERS. Song, 312 • 41 - PAGE. PAGE. Adventures of Abulfida, . 359 Slavonia, - - - - 88 A New Movement, . 399 - 290 A Talk upon Talking, - 372 Society and Manners, Glimpses of. China, 274 A Rainbow at Sea, - 19 178 A Rill from the Town-Pump, 473 Sonnet, Artists and Angels, - . 352 Atheism in New-England, 53 Ballad of the Erlking, . 371 Spring Stanzas, 358 Burr, Aaron, - - - 294 Stanzas, 104 Cabinet Councils. No. I, . 313 153 - - No. II, . 479 Statuary, Greenough's New Group of, Chapter on Whaling, . 445 Story-Telling, . Cities. No. I. Naples, 134 Taylor, Rev. Mr. 121 - No. II. Catania, - 205 The Ambitious Guest, - 425 - No. III. Geneva, 348 The Art of Packing, - 209 Colloquy between a Bank Note and a The Boatman, - - - 444 Gold Coin, - - - The Demon of the Study, 118 Crabbe, Life of, . The Eve and Ear Infirmary, - 129 Credulous People, . 281 The Fields of War, 351 Doings in the Metro 179 The Gray Champion, Epigram, - - The Morning Star, - 96. Everett, Edward The Polish Exiles, . 33 Fragment from the Spanish, The Press and the Convent Question, - 449 France, our Affairs with,. 67 The Rogue in spite of Himself, 108 Graves and Goblins, The Rose in Winter, 214 Hall, Basil-a Glimpse at 127 The Smuggler, 333 Hope, - . - - - 421 | The Squatter, . 97 Hymn to Joy, - . . To a Humming-Bird, hovering over Arti- Judas Iscariot, Fragments from the Con- ficial Flowers, 478 fessions of, | Το 228 13 To Gov. M’Duffie, . 138 Letter to the Min in the Moon, - 375 485 Lines in the Life of an Artist, 144 Trusting Love, 193 Lutzow's Wild Chase, - 40 United States Senate. Thomas Ewing, 382 Modern Drama, decline of 105 - Peleg Sprague, . 413 Mogg Megone. Part I, 161 Ursuline Community, 392 - Part II, 266 | Wakefield, 341 Naturalization, - - - 50 Webster, Daniel, Niagara, my Visit to, 91 Will the Wizard, 194 Old News No. I. - Young Goodman Brown, - No. II. The Old French War, 170 - No III. The Old Tory, . 365 CRITICAL NOTICES. Once, . - . Pages from my Diary, - 432 Adams, John Quincy, Oration, before Philip Van Artevelde, 302 both Houses of Congress, on the Life Phrenology Vindicated. Part II, - 14 and Character of Gilbert Motier Lafay- and Freewill, - ette, in Reply to the Christian Ex- Allen Prescott, or the Fortunes of a New- aminer, - - 182 England Boy, ... Quite too Susceptible, 26 Allessandro, Pietro.' Monte Auburno - Radicalism, - 141 Pometto, in : 250 | An Old Sailor's Yarns, . Random Leaves. No. I. : : : Rebecca and the Templar of Ivanhoe, 471 | Annual Report of the Trustees of the Scenes in Europe. Parisian Theatres, - 297 New-England Institution for the Edu- - Lafayette, in 1832, - 337 cation of the Blind, to the Corporation, 321 -- Paris, 1832, . 459 A Winter in the West, . Sheridan Knowles's Visit to Cork, - - 63 Boston Journal of Natural History, . 72 Skating, . 340 Cushing's Eulogy on Laſayette, 462 To- . . 220 . 249 458 ation of the West, rj History : គ្លីនដី Schwaob IV. INDEX. 233 231 • . . : 75 pideni, .: 412 Jude, . . 496 PAGE. PAGE. Dunlap, William. History of the Rise and EDITOR'S CORRESPONDENCE. Progress of the Arts and Designs in the United States, . . . . 239 A Brief Epistle, Epps, John. Hore Phrenologicae, . Letter from the Capital, Felton, Cornelius. A Discourse, pro- Phrenology, Letter on, . nounced at the Inauguration of the au- thor, as Eliot Professor of Greek Litera Editorial Proclamation to Correspondents, 491 ture, in Harvard University, . . Felton, Cornelius. The Iliad of Homer, 154 Literary Annotanda, . . 242, 329 Hall, James. Tales of the Border, 235 Harris, Rev. Thaddeus. Sephora,. 234 MONTHLY RECORD. Juvenile Popular Library, . Licber, Francis. Letters to a Gentleman American Bible Society, . 494 in Germany, . . . . ---- Home Missionary Society, 495 Moore's Ancient Mineralogy, Tract Society, . . 491 New England and her Institutions, - Seamen's Friend Society, 495 American Popular Library, . Appointments by the President, 493 Peale's Graphics, . 156 Aitempt to assassinate the President, 243 Political Economy, Tracts on sundry top Boundary Quarrel, Ohio and Michigan, 331 ics of, . . 331 . . 154 China, American Trade with, . . Prose Sketches and Poems, Congress, close of the second session of Recollections of a Housekeeper, 156 the twenty-third, . 330 Rush, James. Hainlet, a Dramatic Pre Connecticut Election, - - State Prison, 495 Silliman's American Journal of Science, Danvers, Commemoration at, . . 411 for January, February and March, 1835, Education, . Soutbard, S. L. Discourse on the Profes. Executive Patronage, 245 sional Character and Virtues of the late Foreign Affairs, 217 William Wirt, Lexington, Celebration 411 Sparks, Jared. Life and 'Treason of Ben: Maine, . . 412 edict Arnold, . 156 Massachusetts, Taylor, J. O. The District School, Methodist Missionary Society, . 494 Terry, A. R. Travels in the Equatorial Navy Department Report, Regions of South America, . . Ohio, . . . . 332 . . Thacher, Peter 0. Observations on some Osages, Treaty with, 331 of the methods, known in the Law of Plan of the Campaign, 160 Massachusetts, to secure the selection Postoffice Department Report, . 246 and appointment of an impartial Jury, Presbyterian Education Society, 495 in cases Civil and Criminal, 155 Rhode Island Election, . . 493 Thacher, Peter 0. Charge of the Grand Sabbath School Union, . 493 Jury of the County of Suffolk, 75 Saratoga and Whitehall Railroad Comp'y 496 The Cavaliers of Virginia ; or the Recluse Societies, Reports, &c. . 493 of Jamestown, . . 324 Society of Natural History, 495 The Insurgents, Specie, . . . 331 The Yemaasºe, 489 The Presidency, . 157 Tour on the Prairie, 409 The French Question, Wainwright, Dr. 'Annual Election Ser Treasury Department Report, mon, . 235 United States Bank, Monthly Statement, 493 Warriner, Francis. Cruise of the Virginia, . . . . 412 . . . Frigate 'Potomac, round the World, in War Department Report,. War Scheme, failure of, . 159 Wickliffe, Robert, jr. Oration, before the Webster, Daniel, Nomination of, . . 243 Transylvania Whig Society, , . 405 246 ..: ... . . 407 244 THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. JANUARY, 1835. ORIGINAL PAPERS. STORY-TELLING. BY JOHN NEAL. What a difference between story-telling and story-tellers ! - That between a horse-chestnut and a chestnut horse, of such ac- count with baby-logicians ; or that between watch your pockets ! and pocket your watches ! the first a rallying cry for the Bow- street officers, to be heard every evening about the doors of the larger London theatres ; and the last, a wonderful echo that follows immediately, reverberating, far and wide, through the low vaulted passages, and losing itself afar off in the solitudes of Covent Garden, with the distinctness of human speech, is not more remarkable. Story-tellers are avoided — story-telling cul- tivated : the one as a nuisance — the other as an accomplish- ment; the former looked upon by the wise and thoughtful as no better than they should be, and all companionship with them as rather disreputable at the best ; even children having it for a by- word and a reproach, and saying of their bitterest foe, under the fiercest exasperation, that he is a story-teller, as the shortest pos- sible way of insinuating that he is not to be associated with ; while the latter — story-telling would appear to be the great business of life with a majority of mankind, the chief purpose of language almost everywhere, and the sole employment of multi- tudes who are perpetually breaking away from the dead level of their age — warring with the spirit of the Past, and storming the cloudy battlements of the Future — toward that grave upon the mountain-top, that audience-chamber of the Giants, a funeral- pyre! which, after blazing awhile into the broad untroubled sky and among the compassionate stars, goes out suddenly and for- ever, with the trumpetings of earth below and the smoke of the sacrifice above, and the upturned eyes of breathless nations fixed VOL VIII. Story- Telling upon it, only to tell of another and yet another departure — like dropped meteors — into everlasting forgetfulness. Whole races are addicted to story-telling. The very language of the East, that other world, out of whose glorious fragments and august ruins, our world has been slowly and gradually and most laboriously put together — what is it but a series of pro- found apothegms and significant allusions, each a story of itself and heavy with the fine gold of ancient wisdom, and bright with the half-smothered sunshine of Past Experience ? And the very characters in which the earliest doings and the best feelings of our race are perpetuated, the hieroglyphics, what are they but so many abridgments —- types — the concentrated essence — the very otta of all that was worth preserving in the history of many a forgotten empire ? — now teaching the immutability of the soul through that familiar image of eternity, a serpent with its tail in its mouth ; and now whispering of more than mortal Faith, of unapproachable Science, of the treasures that lie burning with- in the foundations of the earth, like heaps of shattered stars — of Poetry and Philosophy — of a perpetual fire — and of the triple Hierarchy of Heaven, through their strange, fanciful and myste- rious combinations of inferior and earthly with godlike and supe- rior natures, and publishing their sublime speculations to all future ages, not by the help of parchment or papyrus, but through the instrumentality of uprooted quarries and living rocks, on the walls of tombs, the gates of cities, the foreheads of temples, and along by the deepest and lowliest foundations of empire, so that every vestige we meet with, after thousands of years have gone by, every fragment we tear away, every sarcophagus, every sphynx, and every image we dig up, yea every shattered brick, is all afire with the handwriting of History and Prophecy. Story-telling, indeed! Why, there is hardly a distinguished man alive who does not owe the chief part of his reputation to story-telling — story-telling by himself or another, in person or by proxy. But, “Qui facit per alium facit per se,' saith my Lord Coke, which being interpreted signifieth, If A burn B's fingers in stealing C's chesnuts, A is answerable for the consequences, and B shall have satisfaction at law — if he can get it. As it is now, so hath it ever been. The Happy Valley did more than the folio dictionary for Dr. Samuel Johnson, L. L. D. And what should we know of Cæsar but for his commentaries? or of Napoleon but for his ? — of Miltiades and Themistocles, and Pyrrhus, and Epaminondas, with half a thousand more of these Gods and godlike men, but for that prince of story-tellers after Munchausen, captain Trollop and Pilpay, — Plutarch? What are the fables of Æsop, the traditions of the priesthood among every people, their tropes and metaphors, the parables, the maxims, the inscriptions and the allegories, the very alpha- no kolio dient shou bout for his ondas, for that "Pilpaych Story- Telling bets indeed, of all nations, kindreds, and tongues, but so many different kinds of story-telling? What is there at the very foundation of all which the upward- striving have most yearned after and battled for — they of the purple robe and diadem of gold', Warriors and Legislators, Phi- losophers and Statesmen, Orators and Poets, from the beginning of the world up to this day? What is the very ground-work of all history? What are the materials of biography, the very ore of poetry? What the imperishable, the inextinguishable elements of renown? — Story-telling. And what are the pyramids, the brazen gates, the triple tow- ers, the hanging-gardens, the sumptuous palaces, the everlasting walls of Egypt and of Babylon ? — the stupendous wreck of Assyria — the magnificent skeletons of Palmyra, of Heliopolis and Persepolis ? Nay, what are the very arts and sciences and the most devoted followers thereof? All painters and sculptors, and poets and players, dancers and architects and musicians ? Nothing but story-tellers. And what is the great business of life, the chief employment of all mankind ? Story-telling — neither more nor less — downright story-telling. Go to the merchant, the lawyer, the politician, the day-laborer, even to the preacher of the gospel, who persuades himself, and would, if it were pos- sible, persuade others that he is the ambassador of the Most High, and that he understands the awful nature of his relation- ship- and what find you after all but so many different story- tellers, each employed in a way of his own to effect a purpose of his own — and that a purpose moreover, nine times out of ten, that nobody need be ashamed of. Yet men speak of story- tellers with irreverence — of story-telling, without a generous leap of the heart, as if it were possible for the affairs of the world to go on, for society to hold together a single hour without the help of both! As if — to say all in a word — as if the great light of the age, that hope of the nations, Phrenology itself were a humbug — two thirds of all the organs revealed to us but so much padding for the hat-maker, and Galt and Spurzheim, and all their demonstrating believers about as well employed, as they would be, whistling jigs to mile-stones. Are you still in doubt ? Lift up your eyes toward the exalted of our earth — sovereignties that wax and wane with every change of the people's breath, like watch-fires upon the hill- tops — wasting their brightness and fervor upon the eternal rocks and everlasting snows of their imperial solitude. Go to the chambers of the great deep — tread the untrampled floor' - to the Pantheon — to Westminster Abbey — to all the cities of all the dead throughout all the earth — unroof all the hiding- places of the mighty — empty all the store-houses of the giants, the tombs of the immortals — tear away all the badges and all Story- Telling: the insignia of transcendant power : weigh the ponderous dust of Prophet, Bard, and King; of Warrior and Lawgiver, of the builders and the destroyers of kingdoms — weigh all these against the remains of the battle-axe and the shivered spear, the ashes of the imperial robe, or the rust of the iron crown or the shattered sceptre ; and then, if you would be satisfied at once and forever, ask yourselves what more we should know of the former than of the latter, of their doings and their sufferings, but for the degra- ded business of story-telling, the calumniated office of the story- teller. But then, though all men are story-tellers, and the greatest, by profession, what a difference in the same story told by different persons. With the glorious few, a story is never old — it may be repeated forever. With the many, it is never new — nobody listens to it with patience even for the first time. There are those, and among the most indefatigable and pertinacious story- tellers you ever meet with, who spoil everything they touch. You have the very words of the original, perhaps the very tone, with all the facts and embellishments, and yet you are tired to death ; or you may have a trustworthy, minute and most particu- lar copy of another’s manner — a running accompaniment of oaths and laughter — and still you are tired to death, fretted and sore and exasperated. With such, the finest gold runs to earthiness, the most brilliant wit and the richest humor to downright balder- dash. They dishonor whatever they meddle with. Everything lustrous and beautiful fades at their approach. But then there are others among story-tellers with such a knack at the business, that if you should help them to one of the oldest and commonest Joe Millers that ever underwent a regular series of newspaper transmutations, and they happen to take a fancy to it, why, lord you ! you would n't know it again ! They have but to strip off its rags, give it a good scouring with brick- dust and soap-suds, and there's an end of all previous ownership. I have known a story repeated over and over again to the very face of the original author, and that too in the presence of others quite as familiar with it as he was, and nobody knew it. Nay more, I have known a little stray story, after it had been licked into shape over sea, reproduced here in the very neighborhood of its own father — who had to pay a dollar a night along with some ten or fifteen hundred more to have it repeated. There's our friend Jarvis now, the portrait painter by trade, the story- teller and humorist by profession. I know at least half a dozen persons, who get a good living by the repetition of a little story which he happened to have the scouring of in its babylood. Jarvis to be sure was an extraordinary fellow. Did you ever hear his Kilkenny Cats ? – You know the story - one of the old- est and most undoubted Joes -- the whole pith whereof consists Story- Telling. in their fighting till they had eaten one another up, or till there was nothing left but the tips of their tails, I forget which. Well, Jarvis would tell you that story, old as it is and foolish as it is, so that you would n't forget it to your dying day. I have known him to repeat it to the very same persons, in the very same way, year after year; and yet every man of them would go fifty miles to hear it again. I heard it once after having seen two or three celebrated imitations, fully determined not to make a fool of myself — and why should I ? - what was there to laugh at, in such a story ? — And I did not get over it for a month. Why there is a story which he happened to hear once, and which he happened to repeat in the presence of Matthews, which has cost the British public half a million of money, and the American public about as much nore. Matthews whipped it over — brought it out on the London stage — and repeated it night after night, and month after month to the audience of the Adelphi the- atre. Our Hackett heard him till he set up for himself on the strength of it — and after trying it awhile at New York and Phi- ladelphia, went to Old England and told it in his way at Old- Drury — played awhile there — returned with it to the United States, and has continued telling it ever since to thousands of people who had heard it half a dozen times before. After Hackett, Hill “ took up the wondrous tale,' and is now repeating it from Dan to Bersheba, at the cost of a thousand dollars a night, upon the average perhaps, to the good people of this great Commonwealth of — story-tellers. And now, at this very moment, we have all three of them at work — pegging away togeth- er at the poor little story above mentioned — the story of Uncle Ben'. There's Matthews and Hackett and Hill, and each to crowded houses ; yet to say that after all the public are satisfied, would be saying what I have no reason to believe and should n't like to say on my own responsibility. But people differ. They do indeed, strange as it may appear. With most, nothing but a new story will do. For others, a story cannot be too old — the older the better. If it smack of the pyramids, of the hoar of ages (or of Babylon) they could listen forever. Now, as for me, I care nothing about the age of a story — old or new, if it's a whapper, that's all I care for. With some stories, everything depends upon how they are told — the stories of Shakspeare for example. In such a case, if the manner is good, though not altogether new we are apt to be satisfied with our pennyworth, for the sake of the matter. But of all the stories I meet with, none are so delightful to me as those I over-hear on board a steamboat or a stage-coach. Ten to one there's a decided character in them, whether true or false ; and fiſty to one you are a fool if you cannot see at a glance how much to believe. I remember two or three cases in Story-telling point. I happened to be one of a hundred who were huddled together not long ago on board a large Ohio steamboat. The cholera had appeared and was raging far and wide along shore; the captain was running a race with another boat ; and we were all getting ready for a blow-up. “May I be most te-to-tiously exflunctified,' shouted a by-stander, running past me and clapping his hands, if that air Galley-police (written Gallipolis) don't slip ahead like greased lightnin'' Ah!- I withdrew immedi- ately and prepared for the consequences. On my way to my state room, I had to pass a group of female passengers in earnest conversation. Cholera was the subject, and I stopped and listened, and listened, till I had forgotten my errand below and scarcely thought of the danger about us. The stories were evidently true — they were a part of the actual his- tory and experience of the narrators. Many of them were ex- ceedingly affecting, and some terrible, so much so that I could not sleep afterwards for thinking of them. But what astonished me more than every thing else was the strange apathy — the ab- solute carelessness — the every day sort of manner that distin- guished all the sufferers in relating their experience. Many were yet pale — very pale with watching and bereavement, or it might be from long and solitary illness, but none with fear. They spoke of Death and of his terrors with a frightful child-like famil- iarity. Many stories were told that I shall never forget, and all with the straightforward simplicity of truth. But one which I gathered, little by little from repeated conversations between two of the party, a mother and daughter, made a very strong impres- sion upon me. The mother was a tall high-spirited Virginian, who, having married a Yankee, had lost a goodly part of her reverence for the usages of the Ancient Dominion. Her daugh- ter — a child of sixteen, was just returning from school at Phila- delphia, with all the warmth of a school-girl and all the hopes of a woman. They lived at New Orleans, but passed their sum- mers at the North. Accident threw us together, and I had op- portunity of rendering them a little service which made us ac- quainted forever. On the preceding birth day of the daughter, whose name was Cordelia, the mother, who had grown weary of New Orleans, where the Cholera was raging with unprecedented violence, de- termined to fly for her life. Though very ill at the time, being under a course of salivation for the liver complaint, and given over by the physicians, arrangements were made immediately, and passages engaged for the north on board a first-rate northern ship. They were punctual at the place and hour of departure ; but when they arrived, the ship was under way. Half desperate with fear, though full of determination, they nevertheless pursued her in a small open boat. After a long chase they overhauled her, Story- Telling. but owing either to accident or unskilfulness, the boat loaded down to the waters edge was run in between the ship, then under full way, and one of those tremendous steam-boats which are em- ployed in towing feets up the Mississippi — dragging off two or three great ships at a time against wind and tide and the whole strength of the mighty river, at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour — more or less ; literally ripping them out of the mud if they go ashore, and that without stopping and without the slight- est change in the steady play of their ponderous machinery — tearing them up as it were by the roots, if they happen to touch, and walking off with them as Gulliver might with a handful of Lilliputian forty-fours and a line of battle ship under each arm. Just put yourself in the situation of these two unprotected females at this moment. The waters roaring and flashing and leaping about them as at the foot of Niagara — the flues bellowing and shaking — the bells ringing, the women screaming — the crews and passengers of the steam boat and the two ships in tow all in confusion, crowding to the quarter rails and looking over their sides — the mother more dead than alive — the daughter a mere child — the boatmen bewildered and helpless with terror — night coming on, the wind rising — a frightful death before them and no possibility of escape. They were looked upon as already lost — of the multitude who saw the situation of the boat, there was not one who did not regard the destruction of the whole party as inevitable. Yet owing to the calmness, the self possession, the clear voice and the preternatural courage of that child, they were all saved, and the poor sick mother herself was lifted aboard in a state of insensibility. But here they were beset with new dan- gers. It was already dark — there was a portentous lowering of the southern sky — they had been dragged through a sand bank by the steam boat and lost their rudder. Having another ship in tow, she cast them off as soon as the accident was discovered, and proceeded with the other to sea. Night came on with a tremendous blow. Here was a hurricane among the stars — a shrieking -- and the striped Aag was blown to ribbons. Their ship was no better than so much drift-wood after the rudder was torn off, and to add to their misery, the captain himself thought proper to call them together in the middle of the night and as- sure them there was no hope! They were urged to make their peace with God and prepare for the worst. While they lay pitching about in this helpless condition, the crew discouraged — the captain at prayers — and the ship un- manageable — the cholera broke out among them. The man at the wheel dropped, and was a corpse in four hours. Mrs. W- the mother, I have mentioned, saw him fall and heard his moan- ing. Her daughter was instantly despatched to his relief with the camphor-bottle. A child was taken next — and died in six Story- Telling hours, with its head in the lap of its poor distracted mother. It was a beautiful girl, about eleven years of age, and out of mercy to the mother, instead of being thrown overboard, the body was kept until their signals of distress were answered afar off, as by Tele- graph, and another large steam boat appeared bearing down to their relief. And now put yourself in the situation of our adven- turers once more. Behold them on their way back to the City, from which they had fled for their lives only the day before. Pestilence and death are aboard now. Yet they · are happy. Angry waters and a lowering sky are about them. Yet they heed neither. Even their proud ship is unsafe. They are staggering blind fold over the precipices of the Great Deep — the burial- place of nations. Yet their hearts are overflowing with thankful- ness. They are purified as with fire. Can you explain the mystery? Do you understand it — or feel it? If yea, then do you understand all that is worth knowing of the human heart — all that is worth knowing of philosophy — all that is worth know- ing of earthly Religion. But our story is not yet finished. They arrived in safety at New Orleans. Here no coffins were to be had. And they were obliged to wrap the body of the little girl in her bedclothes, and to bury her with them, bed and all. Such is but one of the ten thousand frightful cases of the Cholera, to be heard out of the mouths of living witnesses, as you journey through the wide west. The mother was a widow and kept a boarding-house in the City. Yesterday, she was the mother of three beautiful children ; afraid of the Pestilence and anxious to put them at school in the north, she too had embarked for that region. — To day she would be comfortless — hopeless -- with the flower of her whole family withered and cast away - the pale and blighted rose' - but for the mystery above mentioned. Yesterday she was flying from the Destroyer, and shaking with fear. To day, she has turned back upon him — and her countenance is unchanged, her heart un- troubled. And why ? — God is with her. She has been trebly fortified by the desolation, the bereavement and the experi- ence of the last twenty-four hours. But to our story. There boarded at the house of this poor widow a young man from Philadelphia, by the name of B***n. He was sitting at the table drinking wine, as the bereaved mother appeared, stealing though the next room on her way to the cham- ber of her lost little one. Most of the boarders were alert in their sympathy. And all but one were profoundly moved when they were told the circumstances of the child's death. It was not that they were struck with consternation at the near approach of the Destroyer. It was not that they had now lost one of them- selves — and so suddenly! It was not that the most beautiful link of the golden chain that held them together had been touched Story- Telling as it were by the summer lightning, and instantaneously melted — that a pale and blighted rose had been scattered to the winds that the living sunshine of their house had departed forever - that the sound of a clear and beautiful voice, the echo whereof had not altogether died away — the singing laugh of childhood — the perpetual music of a young, innocent, and therefore happy heart, was never to be heard again. It was nothing of all this — it was the unutterable distress of the mother at having her child so buried — so suddenly and under such peculiar circumstances. Had the child been smothered in her sleep the mother could not have felt more. But the young man who belonged to Philadel- phia, turned away with a laugh, when he heard the story, saying • Let the dead bury their dead.' That very night he was a corpse. One other brief specimen of stories from real life,' such as you may hear day after day on board the stage coaches and steam boats of our country - live stories, I should call them — and I have done. Where do you find an old traveler, especially from the Western country, who has not had many a narrow escape worth publishing ? — And in his own language too if he would but tell the truth ? You have but to step on board a steamboat or a stage-coach, to enter a bar-room or a barber's shop, especially as I have said before in the Western country, that wilderness of Empires, where human life, like every thing else of a home growth is thought nothing of — dog cheap in the estimation of the people themselves, and no great bargain at that in the estimation of others — and what a world of adventure, of trial, hardship and suf- fering is opened to your view! Books might be made of the stories you would hear in a single evening, and capital books too, I as- sure you ; brimful of energy and vivacity and truth ; and always told with a straightforwardness and simplicity which are irresisti- bly impressive. Not long ago I happened to be where the sub- ject of steam boat adventures came up. Only a month before I had been aboard a large steam boat (the McDonough) when she was literally adrift on the high seas — her main shaft broke- night conting on with a thick fog and every appearance of the September gale — breakers all about us and the open sea glitter- ing to leeward not half cannon shot off. — We had nearly two hundred passengers aboard, with peradventure a pint of water and a biscuit apiece for the next twenty-four hours ; and enough too, in all conscience, for any voyage we were likely to make if the wind shifted. So, aware of the danger, we up with our colors union down, — pulled long faces -- and prepared for the worst. After waiting a long while, and just as we had drifted within a half cable's length of a dangerous reef, on our way toward the open sea, and were beginning to pitch and roll as most of these great unwieldy contrivances are in the habit of doing, you know, just before meal-time -- except where the passengers find themselves, VOL. VIII. 10 Story- Telling a small schooner saw our signal of distress, and bore down to our relief. While she was towing us, first one way and then another, at the rate of a mile an hour, a large brig appeared standing to- ward us, with every sail set. Judge of our feelings ! But you cannot, unless you happen to know that there is nothing on earth half so helpless or unmanageable as a huge steam boat adrift upon the high seas, with her shafts broke, her machinery disabled and her sails, if she carries any, not half large enough to keep her steady. In half an hour the brig would have been along side — but just at this moment, the schooner parted her hawser, and filled away, and the brig, misunderstanding the manæuvre, sheered off, and we were left to our fate. In the course of the next watch we had two or three narrow escapes. Once we car- ried away part of a buoy as we swung through a dangerous part of Portsmouth reach, and twice we were so near the formidable rocks that I could have jumped ashore. Now, every thing considered, this appeared to me a very de- cent sort of an adventure in the steam boat way, and I told it therefore with a moderate share of self complacency. But no- body else appeared to think so — nobody stared — nobody drew a long breath, after I had got through — no questions were asked ; and to tell the truth, I began to have some doubts of the story myself before I left the company — whether it was worth telling or not I mean. Compared with half a score I heard that night, mine was but a milk and water affair, after all. Take an example or two from the experience of Dr. S- of Baltimore, a gentleman of high character, who had been accus- tomed to the savage glories of the western world for many years. He had seen a boat snagged some years before in the Mississip- pi, — the Consort — and something happened to bring it to his recollection, and so he just happened to mention it in a sort of pa- renthesis — nothing more. He was sailing one way and she the other. All at once while they were looking at her, they saw her stop and begin to settle. After a few moments, she changed her course and aimed for the shore, like a wounded Leviathan. Her deck was crowded with passengers ; there were at least a hundred on deck with all their baggage, or plunder as they call it there. They soon reached the shore, and a large hawser was made fast to a tree. But in the midst of the re- joicing that followed -- it swung off - the capstan was ripped up by the roots — and down she went headfirst. All the pas- sengers jumped overboard. Two or three odd incidents occurred in the very presence of the narrator. A newly married man, being unable to persuade his wife to take the leap, caught her in his arms and flung her over, to the amazement of everybody — and then followed her. Another young man was fished up, just as he was settling down for the last time --- when they pulled him Story- Telling: 11 out they found an old Dutch woman hanging to his legs. All the passengers were saved, but the vessel and cargo were lost. But such, it would appear, is but an every day sort of occurrence in the Ohio and Mississippi — even Doctor S. himself speaking of it, as if it were hardly worth mentioning. At another time, I believe in 1832, he saw the Kentucky, Capt. Buckner, in a situation not paralleled in the history of steam-boat adventures. It would be a glorious subject for a pic- ture — and then what a transparency might be made of it! The Kentucky was a new boat on her first trip, and having reached Lou- isville, she ran up river a little way to show off. On her return, as she approached the falls, which are twenty feet high, she rounded too and stood for the canal. But the engineer let off too much steam — the boat fell away — grew unsteady - loitered — and was beginning to yield gradually and slowly to the tremendous weight of the river. The deck was crowded with passengers, and the shores covered with people, afraid to move or speak. It was evident to all that she must strike the pier at the en- trance of the great ship canal, when, if nothing worse happened, her chimnies would be tumbled about the ears of the passengers and her boilers unshipped. But to the astonishment of every body, instead of striking, she only touched the pier, and lifting herself slowly up she slid gently upon it to the distance of seve- ral feet. All safe, now ! all safe ! cried the people aboard. All safe ! shouted their friends ashore. But in the midst of the congratulations and rejoicing that followed, somebody on the pier was observed pointing at the stern with a look of unutter- able horror — the boat began to move -- the roaring of the falls grew louder and louder — the passengers rushed forward in a body to escape over the bows — and the people on the shore ran down the bank to the waters edge and stood there with out- stretched arms, waiting the frightful consummation. She swung off notwithstanding all their efforts, and gradually, though reluc- tantly yielded to the strength of the river, began to move side- ways towards the falls. Not another word was spoken, either aboard or ashore. Louder and louder thundered the waters, and faster and faster moved the huge pile, freighted with human crea- tures on their way to immediate and inevitable destruction. Al- ready were they upon the pitch of the Falls, so that the passen- gers could look over into the gulf below and see the rocks, and the fierce terrible waters leaping and roaring for their prey. At this moment she touched — rubbed — faltered for a few seconds, and then broached broadside to, and grounded! -yea grounded ! on the very edge of the crumbling precipice, with the whole pressure of the Ohio upon her side, hurrying headlong toward the Mississippi ! Out went every hawser and rope with two or three 12 Story- Telling: chain cables. Every heart and every arm was employed strag- gling and gasping for life. All the hawsers and cables were strained tight, but they could not move her an inch. Out with her cargo ! Start her cargo ! shouted a dozen voices from the shore ; out with her cargo ! start her cargo ! cried the people aboard, and immediately a large number of lighters were seen crowding and hurrying to her relief. These lighters were pulled ashore by a rope. The cargo was very valuable, and the work of discharging was continued till after dark. During the night another incident occurred of which the narrator was an eye wit- ness. Owing to some accident, or the most extraordinary care- lessness, one of the lighters was not made fast ; and while the men were stowing the cargo with lanterns, happening to turn our heads, after looking another way, said the Doctor, we saw them drifting slowly astern of the boat, apparently toward the falls. Before any earthly help could reach them, or even prepare the people aboard for their danger, over she went head first, among the rocks ! A tremendous outcry followed, above and below the falls. Boats were run out — lanterns swung in the air — and multitudes were seen rushing down the banks and calling for volunteers. It was generally acknowledged that such a boat could not live ten minutes below ; notwithstanding which six men instantly volun- teered and pulled after her in the long boat! What a subject for a painter ; as I have said before — ay, and what a subject for a poem! The roar of the waters — the midnight darkness — the outcries of the multitude above and below the Falls - the innumer- able lanterns dancing about in the air and along the surface of the river — the desperate courage of these unknown men — altogeth- er it was a story worth telling, reader, I'll leave it to you if it was not! Well — over they went ! over into the foaming and roaring abyss ! their path way visible to thousands, notwithstand- ing the darkness of the night, by the lanterns and torches they car- ried, as their well steered boat shot like a black shadow over the white surface of the tumbling and effulgent waters. — After a breathless pause of a few minutes, a joyful uproar was heard be- low. All safe! All safe ! came pealing up, as with the voice of trumpets from the very centre of the whirling abyss, and after a little more waiting, it was ascertained not only that these brave fellows had escaped without loss or injury, but that even the flat bottomed boat had made the passage without touching a single rock! - not a man was lost ! - Are you astonished at these things? Do you doubt their truth? They are every word true. And what is more, they are things of daily occurrence in the great western country — that store house of kingdoms - and tough stories. 13 LAY. Over plain and hill and mountain Speeds away on pinions strong, Nerved with life from holy fountain, Far away, the soul of song. O'er it swells the arch of heaven, Boundless arch of softest blue- Round it rise the halls of even, Hung with every gorgeous hue. To the spirit land of wonder, Cloud concealed, it speeds afar, Borne on wings of rushing thunder, Sounding like the tempest car - Rolling high like ocean surges, When the midnight Typhon rings, Hollow as a nation's dirges, When the Almighty vengeance stings — Deep and full as torrent pouring From a wasted Alp of snows - Awful as a Volcan roaring, Ere its fiery deluge flows — Yet as stream in shady valley, Gurgling low through grass and flowers; Evening wind in garden alley, Brushing dew from lilac bowers; Mellow horn, as twilight closes, Winding through the slumbering grove ; Maiden heart, by hedge of roses, Murmuring faint its lay of love – Yet so soft this echo lingers, Round the tranced listener's ear, Sweet as struck by fairy fingers, Breathes the wind harp, dim and clear. On by keenest longing driven, Speeds away their eagle flight, Till the magic cloud-wall riven, Dazzling pours a sea of light. Then as beams the land of wonder, Bursting from its cloudy veil, Anthem tones like peals of thunder, Bid the new inspirer hail. J. G. PERCIVAL. 14 PHRENOLOGY VINDICATED. PART II. BY DR. CALDWELL. We now take up that part of the article of our opponent where he discourses, not a little, about the superiority of one human spirit over another in capacity or power. That superiority he considers a better reason than a larger size of the brain why one person surpasses another in the native strength and vigor of his mind. We already know as much, and can learn and communicate as much respecting the products of the soil of, (if there be any in) Jupiter, Saturn, or Herschel, as respecting the difference be- tween one human spirit and another, or respecting any one qual- ity of abstract spirit. Nor can we ever know more of the sub- ject than we now do, unless we be furnished with new faculties adapted to the inquiry. Does B. believe, that, associated as it now is with the body, the human spirit can perform a single in- tellectual or moral act, without the aid of material organs ? If so, what is that act, and what the foundation of B's belief in it ? All evidence on the subject is against him. His belief, therefore, if it exist, must be not only without evidence, but in opposition to it. An injury done to the brain prevents, sus- pends, or destroys intellect. Yet the lesion is confined exclu- sively to matter. And the cure depends alone on the removal of that lesion. No attempt to treat the spirit medicinally is of any avail. Nor is any now made. The reason is plain. We cannot reach spirit by any healing means or processes. Nor is it deemed necessary that we should. The spirit is not injured, but stands ready to resume its office, and perform its duty, as soon as its material organ is repaired. To us, there is the ap- pearance of downright frivolity in so toying with words, as to speak of the difference in size, capacity, or power, between one human spirit and another ; or in alleging, in the face of all evi- dence, that, in compound man, the spirit can act intellectually or morally, without the aid and co-operation of matter. There ex- ists not a tittle of evidence that the spirit of a Newton is superior in strength to that of an idiot. But we feel that we are in danger of bringing down on us the condemnatory cry of materialism’! Let it come. It neither appals nor disquiets us. As usually ut- tered, it is as empty a sound, as belongs to our language. As respects the stale charge against Phrenology, that it favors materialism, it is so frivolous in itself, and has been so often and thoroughly refuted, that it is unworthy of notice ; and we wonder much that B. has repeated it, or in any way referred to it. Still, however, that we may not be altogether out of fashion, we Phrenology Vindicated. 15 shall make a few remarks on it; the more especially as it has connected with it the further and more condemnatory charge, that Phrenology is hostile, in consequence of its material tenden- cy, to morality and religion. Considered in itself, the character of materialism has neither weight, definite meaning, nor any direct practical bearing, and can be therefore neither confirmed, nor refuted. The reason is plain ; it respects a subject of which nothing is known. To such an extent is this true, that those who prefer the charge seem insensible of the difficulties into which it leads them. Do they affirm that the thinking principle of man, by whatever name it may be known, is positively not made of matter? This they are not authorized to do, unless they know positively what it is made of. The negative here, necessarily includes a knowledge of the POSITIVE. But they will not deny their entire ignorance on this point, neither nature nor revelation giving them a shadow of instruction respecting it. Here then they are perfectly at fault, and must yield their objection, or acknowledge it to be a cavil. They will not contend that they have the least knowledge of the substance of mind. Do they say that the Deity cannot make the principle of feel- ing and thought out of matter? In that case they assume to limit his power, forgetting that he is omnipotent, and can fashion and endow matter according to his pleasure. If he will it to think and feel, it must do so, else he is not the God and Su- preme Arbiter of his own creation. Do they say that he ought not to make the mind out of matter, because it is unfit for so high a purpose ? That is to constitute themselves members of his Privy Council, and teach him his duty — a step rather too bold for their confidence to venture on. Their pretensions hardly soar so high, as to grasp at the scep- tre, and be the God of God!' Do they contend that the materiality of the mind would be in- consistent with its immortality ? that, if formed of matter, it must necessarily perish? This is a mistake, matter being as immor- tal as any other substance, unless the Deity will its destruction ; and we have no reason to believe that he has done so, or that he intends to do it. He has no where proclaimed his resolution to that effect. If moreover what we call mind or spirit be im- mortal, it is not so of itself, but because the Deity has chosen to make it so ; and he can confer, and for aught we know, has con- ferred on matter the same privilege. Though compound forms of matter change, and come to an end, there is no reason to believe that simple matter is destined to annihilation, any more than sim- ple spirit. The one seems as necessary in creation as the other. The more probable opinion is, that they are immortal alike, and from the same cause — the Divine Will. : 16 Phrenology Vindicated. Is materialism deemed so unfriendly to morality and religion, as to be incompatible with them? On what just ground is the notion founded? We have found no one able to answer satis- factorily the latter of these questions. Nor is it susceptible of a satisfactory answer, because no such ground can be adduced. For all the purposes of morality and religion, nothing is necessa- ry but immortality and accountability ; and no reason can be rendered, why they are incompatible with matter any more than with spirit. If the Deity choose to attach them to matter, that is sufficient ; he can do so ; and if they belong to spirit, his will and pleasure are the cause. No evidence can be adduced to make it appear, that they are any more the natural and necessary attributes of spirit than of matter. Is it alleged that the doctrine of materialism is gross and im- pure ? and therefore unfit to be associated with intellection ? This is but a prejudice arising from long cherished habits of thought, and association. There are forms of matter, of which neither grossness nor impurity can be predicated. For aught that is known, light, caloric, and electricity are as pure and refined as spirit. There is no good reason to believe, more- over, that we are acquainted with all the forms of matter that exist, and all the qualities and properties belonging to them. New and higher kinds may yet be discovered. Nor do we per- ceive in what way a belief that matter may be so fashioned and endowed by its Creator as to be capable of feeling and thought, would lower our estimation of the thinking principle, or tend, in any measure, to the degradation of our race. It is not substance but qualities that either degrade or exalt. And we do contend, that to pronounce, as all thorough-going immaterialists virtually do, the Deity unable to make the intellectual principle out of matter, savors of an effort to degrade him, by denying his om- nipotence. Whatever visions may be indulged on this subject by the con- templative, one thing is certain ; the Deity has made our minds of the most suitable material, bestow on it what name we may. Nor will our even misnaming it mar its suitability. In our anx- iety and contentions about it, therefore, there is much less of wisdom and resignation, than of cavil and apparent distrust of Him who made us, and who has made us of the proper material, and in perfect harmony with his other works. If he has been pleased to make our minds of matter, that is the substance best adapted to their nature and destiny ; and if he has framed them of spirit, the same is true of that ; because his wisdom and good- ness never err or fail, and his power is competent to execute their dictates. With the substance and construction of our minds, therefore, it is our duty to be content, and instead of disquieting ourselves about those points, apply ourselves steadily Phrenology Vindicated. 17 and in good faith, to the great work of mental cultivation, which we honestly believe can be properly accomplished only on Phre- nological principles. It ought not to be forgotten, that some of the primitive fathers of the church, distinguished alike for their talents, learning, and piety, were inclined to a belief in materialism. Yet they were also firm believers in the immortality of man, for which however they trusted exclusively to the resurrection from the dead. With them, the independence of mind on matter found no favor. They considered man as imperfect and unfit for his station and destiny, whether in this or a future world, without his body, as without his spirit. Hence they looked to the resurrection for a re-union of them, never to be dissolved ; an evidence of their confidence in the perpetuity of matter, and its necessary aid in giving perfection to mental operations, and in fitting man for his highest destiny, the doctrine of the resurrection would turn to a fable, and be rejected from the creed of rational beings. What then are we to say of those spiritualists, who push their notion to the wild extent of pronouncing matter a clog on spirit, and declaring the body to be the dungeon of the soul, darkening its vision, impeding its action, and frustrating all its glorious aspira- tions ? To reconcile their doctrines with those of the resurrec- tion, appears to us impossible, while Phrenology furnishes the only clear and reasonable comment on that event. Instead of being unfriendly to the Christian religion then, that science alone expounds and supports one of its most fundamental tenets, while the spiritual doctrine of the independence of mind on matter is subversive of it. Unable as we are, then, to attach to the terms substance, essence, and entity, any distinct and definite meaning, and equally unable to specify or conceive, as relates to a capacity for intel- lectual actions, any practical difference between matter and spirit, we repeat, that, to us, the contention about materialism appears but an empty dispute about words. No one has ever alleged that the common gross matter, of which our food and drink con- sists, enters into the composition of the intellectual principle. But that that principle may be formed of some subtle and refined species of matter, is a position which cannot be disproved, and which comes into collision with no established tenet of morality or religion. It is a matter of abstract opinion; and, whether right or wrong, can have no prejudicial bearing on human con- duct, or mental purity. In proof of this, many professed ma- terialists, as already noticed, have been remarkable for the ex- emplary morality and piety of their lives. On this subject, however, let us not be misunderstood. We are not ourselves materialists, for the reason already stated — our entire destitution of facts either favorable to the doctrine or VOL. VIII. 18 Phrenology Vindicated. against it. Where there is no evidence, there can be nothing that deserves the name of belief, any more than a physical body can stand firm, without the support of a physical basis. Nor is Phrenology more friendly to the doctrine of materialism, than other schemes of mental philosophy. All schemes admit of necessity, that, to feeling and intellection, in our present state of existence, matter is indispensable as an auxiliary to mind. And Phrenology does no more. We cannot see without eyes, hear without ears, taste without tongues and palates, converse without organs of speech, nor practise locomotion without muscles, nerves, and bones. This statement will not be gainsaid. Yet all these are mental operations. Concurring thus far in the senti- ments of metaphysicians, Phrenologists only add, that, in its present associated condition, the mind can neither perceive, ob- serve, judge, or reason, nor experience social, moral, or religious emotions, without the aid of material organs. Nor is proof wanting to establish the position. A severe concussion of the brain, or an apoplectic or otherwise deeply deranged condition of that organ, suspends or destroys thought and moral feelings, as certainly as sensation or voluntary motion. Not only then is the charge of materialism nugatory in itself, but as preferred against Phrenology, it is utterly groundless. B. makes several other detached charges against Phrenology, so utterly baseless, as to be quite unpardonable. The following are some of them. “A person gives evidence of extraordinary mental vigor, but has a small head. Ah ! cries the Phrenologist, observe how admirably proportioned it is in its several parts. How perfectly fine the adjustment of the various organs to each other, ren- dering this head as much superior to some others, which exceed it in the size of both the intellectual and animal regions, as a machine, which, though small, has a perfect harmony of parts, is more excellent than a large one, which is coarse, ill- jointed, and discordant.' p. 477. This case is a departure from principle, as well as fact. We mean that it rests on an assumption contrary to nature, and is therefore essentially false. No person with a small head,' has ever given evidence of extraordinary mental vigor,' be the adjustment of the various organs to each other' as perfect as it may. Nor do the records of Phrenology contain any report to that effect. As soon shall extraordinary' corporeal vigor' be found in the person of a dwarf. That, other things being alike, a brain of good symmetry is superior to one of bad, cannot be doubted. Respecting muscular vigor the same is true. All other qualities being equal, superior symmetry gives the prepond- erance in strength and action. But no perfection of adjustment' can give extraordinary' strength, where size is wanting. The mind of a person with a small but well organized brain may be active, sprightly, and graceful, but nothing more; “ extraordinary' power being essentially connected with corresponding size. The A Rainbow at Sea. 19 swallow and the humming-bird are swift of wing, and the gazelle is extremely active in its movements on the plain ; but it is the eagle, the condor, and the elephant, that have extraordinary vigor.' B. proceeds ; "Now the Phrenologist finds the cause of general superiority of understanding in the largeness of the intellectual portion compared with the animal region. Anon he accounts for the same thing by the strength of the animal passions, which urge the intellect to greater efforts, and (lying behind in the head) act as a compressed force, pressing the intellect forward to greater erertions, as the inflamed powder imparts unseen, velocity and force to the ball of the cannon,' Ibid. From the illustration attempted in this extract, in the form of a coarse and pointless jest, it might almost be supposed that the perversion of truth it commits is intentional. Is it possible for ignorance to err so grossly? The assertion, that any Phrenolo- gist, worthy of the name, 'accounts for the general superiority of the understanding, by the strength of the animal passions,' is entirely incorrect, and discreditable to the learning of the author of it. As correctly might he have said, that such superiority is accounted for, by the strength of the animals' bones. True ; the operations of the mind are rendered more fervid and impetuous by strong passion; but that the understanding is ever strength- ened and brightened by it, is not true ; nor does Phrenology sanction an assertion to that effect. The experience of mankind satisfactorily shows, that instead of enlightening the understanding, and aiding it in its decisions, strong passions, which are them- selves blind, tend to obscure it, and render the result of its labors less correct. And Phrenology not only concurs in this, but ex- plains it. Hence the value of dispassionate inquiry. A RAINBOW AT SEA. The clouds, in scattered masses, roll away From Heaven's clear azure - the declining ray Streams o’er the billows through the dropping shower ; Far, o'er the Eastern verge, where sun and sky, Blending harmonious colors, softly lie - I see a Rainbow! Wafted by the power Of an unseen and newly wakened gale, Our vessel speeds, in majesty, along The free, bright waters that around her throng ; - And toward that brilliant bow she seems to sail ! Beautifal vision ! to outwing our flight Yon bird might strive in vain — still would'st thou fade, - And, like the splendor of Ambition's light, Long ere we reached thee, vanish into shade! PARK BENJAMIN. 20 THE GRAY CIIAMPION. BY THE AUTHOR OF 'THE GENTLE BOY.' There was once a time, when New-England groaned under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs, than those threatened ones which brought on the Revolution. James II. the bigoted suc- cessor of Charles the Voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies, and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our liberties and endanger our religion. The administra- tion of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a single characteris- tic of tyranny : a Governor and Council, holding office from the King, and wholly independent of the country ; laws made and taxes levied without concurrence of the people, immediate or by their representatives ; the rights of private citizens violated, and the titles of all landed property declared void ; the voice of com- plaint stifled by restrictions on the press ; and, finally, disaſſec- tion overawed by the first band of mercenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. For two years, our ancestors were kept in sullen submission, by that filial love which had invariably secured their allegiance to the mother country, whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Protector, or popish Monarch. Till these evil times, however, such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonies had ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom, than is even yet the privilege of the native sub- jects of Great Britain. At length, a rumor reached our shores, that the Prince of Or- ange had ventured on an enterprise, the success of which would be the triumph of civil and religious rights and the salvation of New-England. It was but a doubtful whisper ; it might be false, or the attempt might fail ; and, in either case, the man, that stir- red against King James, would lose his head. Still the intelli- gence produced a marked effect. The people smiled mysteri- ously in the streets, and threw bold glances at their oppressors ; while, far and wide, there was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to avert it by an imposing display of strength, and perhaps to con- firm their despotism by yet harsher measures. One afternoon in April, 1639, Sir Edward Andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of the Govern- or's Guard, and made their appearance in the streets of Boston. The sun was near setting when the march commenced. The roll of the drum, at that unquiet crisis, seemed to go through the streets, less as the martial music of the soldiers, than as a muster-call to the inhabitants themselves. A multitude, by various avenues, assembled in King-street, which was destined to The Gray Champion. 21 be the scene, nearly a century afterwards, of another encounter between the troops of Britain, and a people struggling against her tyranny. Though more than sixty years had elapsed, since the Pilgrims came, this crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of their characters, perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier occasions. There was the sober garb, the general severity of mien, the gloomny but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech, and the confidence in Heaven's blessing on a righteous cause, which would have marked a band of the original Puritans, when threatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct ; since there were men in the street, that day, who had worshiped there be- neath the trees, before a house was reared to the God, for whom they had become exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliament were here too, smiling grimly at the thought, that their aged arms might strike another blow against the house of Stuart. Here also, were the veterans of King Phillip's war, who had burnt villages and slaughtered young and old, with pious fierceness, while the god- ly souls throughout the land were helping them with prayer. Several ministers were scattered among the crowd, which, un- like all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence, as if there were sanctity in their very garments. These holy men ex- erted their influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them. Meantime, the purpose of the Governor, in disturbing the peace of the town, at a period when the sliglitest commotion might throw the country into a ferment, was almost the universal subject of inquiry, and variously explained. Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,' cried some, " because he knoweth that his time is short. All our godly pas- tors are to be dragged to prison ! We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King-street! Hereupon, the people of each parish gathered closer round their minister, who looked calmly upwards and assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his profession, the crown of martyrdom. It was actu- ally fancied, at that period, that New-England might have a John Rogers of her own, to take the place of that worthy in the Primer. · The Pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartho- lomew !' cried others. "We are to be massacred, man and male child ! Neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although the wiser class believed the Governor's object somewhat less atrocious. His predecessor under the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers, was known to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturing, that Sir Edmund Andros intend- ed, at once, to strike terror, by a parade of military force, and to 22 The Gray Champion. confound the opposite faction, by possessing himself of their chief.: Stand firm for the old charter Governor !' shouted the crowd, seizing upon the idea. • The good old Governor Bradstreet ! While this cry was at the loudest, the people were surprised by the well known figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a patri- arch of nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door, and, with characteristic mildness, besought them to submit to the constituted authorities. My children,' concluded this venerable person, do nothing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of New-Eng- land, and expect patiently what the Lord will do in this matter!' The event was soon to be decided. All this time, the roll of the drum had been approaching through Cornhill, louder and deep- er, till, with reverberations from house to house, and the regular tramp of martial footsteps, it burst into the street. A double rank of soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks, and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in the dusk. Their stea- dy march was like the progress of a machine, that would roll ir- resitibly over every thing in its way. Next, moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir Edmund Andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like. Those around him were his favorite councillors, and the bitterest foes of New-England. At his right hand rode Edward Randolph, our arch enemy, that blasted wretch,' as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved the downfall of our ancient government, and was followed with a sensible curse, through life and to his grave. On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jests and mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind, with a downcast look, dreading, as well he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him, their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors of his native land. The captain of a frigate in the harbor, and two or three civil officers under the crown, were also there. But the figure which most attracted the public eye, and stirred up the deepest feeling, was the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel, riding haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representative of prelacy and persecution, the union of church and state, and all those abominations which had driven the Puritans to the wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear. The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New-Eng- land, and its moral, the deformity of any government that does not grow out of the nature of things and the character of the peo- ple. On one side the religious multitude, with their sad visages The Gray Champion. 23 and dark attire, and on the other, the group of despotic rulers, with the high churchmen in the midst, and here and there a cru- cifix at their bosoms, all magnificently clad, Aushed with wine, proud of unjust authority, and scoffing at the universal groan. And the mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge the street with blood, shewed the only means by which obedience could be secured. Oh! Lord of Hosts,' cried a voice among the crowd, pro- vide a Champion for thy people !' This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald's cry, to introduce a remarkable personage. The crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled together nearly at the ex- tremity of the street, while the soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its length. The intervening space was empty — a paved solitude, between lofty edifices, which threw almost a twi- light shadow over it. Suddenly, there was seen the figure of an ancient man, who seemed to have emerged from among the peo- ple, and was walking by himself along the centre of the street, to confront the armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress, a dark cloak and a steeple-crowned hat, in the fashion of at least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff in his hand, to assist the tremulous gait of age. When at some distance from the multitude, the old man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique majesty, rendered dou- bly venerable by the hoary beard that descended on his breast. He made a gesture at once of encouragement and warning, then turned again, and resumed his way. • Who is this gray patriarch ?' asked the young men of their sires. · Who is this venerable brother ?' asked the old men among themselves. But none could make reply. The fathers of the people, those of four-score years and upwards, were disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget one of such evident authority, whom they must have known in their early days, the associate of Winthrop and all the old Councillors, giving laws, and making prayers, and leading them against the savage. The elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with locks as gray in their youth, as their own were now. And the young! How could he have passed so utterly from their memories — that hoary sire, the relic of long departed times, whose awful benediction had surely been bestowed on their uncovered heads, in childhood ? Whence did he come? What was his purpose ? Who can this old man be ?' whispered the wondering crowd. Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the street. As he drew near the advancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum 24 The Gray Champion. came full upon his ear, the old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoul- ders, leaving him in gray, but unbroken dignity. Now, he marched onward with a warrior's step, keeping time to the mili- tary music. Thus the aged form advanced on one side, and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on the other, till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old man grasped his staff by the middle, and held it before him like a leader's trun- cheon. “Stand !' cried he. The eye, the face, and attitude of command ; the solemn, yet warlike peal of that voice, fit either to rule a host in the battle- field or be raised to God in prayer, were irresistible. At the old man's word and outstretched arm, the roll of the drum was hushed at once, and the advancing line stood still. A tremulous enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. That stately form, com- bining the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong to some old champion of the righteous cause, whom the oppressor's drum had summoned from his grave. They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked for the deliverance of New-England. The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed their snorting and affrighted horses right against the hoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step, but glancing his severe eye round the group, which half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the Governor and Council, with soldiers at their back, representing the whole power and authority of the Crown, had no alternative but obedience. "What does this old fellow here?' cried Edward Randolph, fiercely. “On, Sir Edmund! Bid the soldiers forward, and give the dotard the same choice that you give all his country- men — to stand aside or be trampled on ! Nay, away, let us show respect to the good grandsire,' said Bullivant, laughing. "See you not, he is some old round-headed dignitary, who hath lain asleep these thirty years, and knows nothing of the change of the times? Doubtless, he thinks to put us down with a proclamation in Old Noll's name !! "Are you mad, old man ?' demanded Sir Edmund Andros, in loud and harsh tones. “How dare you stay the march of King James's Governor ? "I have staid the march of a King himself, ere now,' replied the gray figure, with stern composure. I am bere, Sir Gover- nor, because the cry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place; and beseeching this favor earnestly of the The Gray Champion. 25 Lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth, in the good old cause of his Saints. And what speak ye of James? There is no longer a popish tyrant on the throne of England, and by to-morrow noon, his name shall be a by-word in this very street, where ye would make it a word of terror. - Back, thou that wast a Governor, back! With this night, thy power is ended — tomorrow, the prison ! — back, lest I foretell the scaf- fold ! The people had been drawing nearer and nearer, and drinking in the words of their champion, who spoke in accents long dis- used, like one unaccustomed to converse, except with the dead of many years ago. But his voice stirred their souls. They con- fronted the soldiers, not wholly without arms, and ready to con- vert the very stones of the street into deadly weapons. Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man ; then he cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude, and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath, so difficult to kindle or to quench; and again he fixed his gaze on the aged form, which stood obscurely in an open space, where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself. What were his thoughts, he uttered no word which might dis- cover. But whether the oppressor were overawed by the Gray Champion's look, or perceived his peril in the threatening attitude of the people, it is certain that he gave back, and ordered his soldiers to commence a slow and guarded retreat. Before an- other sunset, the Governor, and all that rode so proudly with him, were prisoners, and long ere it was known that James had abdi- cated, King William was proclaimed throughout New-England. But where was the Gray Champion ? Some reported, that when the troops had gone from King street, and the people were thronging tumultuously in their rear, Bradstreet, the aged Gov- ernor, was seen to embrace a form more aged than his own. Others soberly affirmed, that while they marveled at the vener- able grandeur of his aspect, the old man had faded from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twilight, till, where he stood, there was an empty space. But all agreed, that the hoary shape was gone. The men of that generation watched for his re- appearance, in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor knew when his funeral passed, nor where his grave- stone was. And who was the Gray Champion ? Perhaps his name might be found in the records of that stern Court of Justice, which passed a sentence, too mighty for the age, but glorious in all after times, for its humbling lesson to the monarch and its high exam- ple to the subject. I have heard, that, whenever the descend- ants of the Puritans are to show the spirit of their sires, the old man appears again. When eighty years had passed, he walked once more in King street. Five years later, in the twilight of VOL. VIII. 26 Quite loo Susceptible. house, at inlaid, commemor toiling at the breas an April morning, he stood on the green, beside the meeting- house, at Lexington, where now the obelisk of granite, with a slab of slate inlaid, commemorates the first fallen of the Revolution. And when our fathers were toiling at the breast-work on Bunker's Hill, all through that night, the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long may it be, ere he comes again! His hour is one of darkness, and adversity, and peril. But should domestic tyranny oppress us, or the invader's step pollute our soil, still may the Gray Champion come ; for he is the type of New-England's hereditary spirit ; and his shadowy march, on the eve of danger, must ever be the pledge, that New-England's sons will vindicate their ancestry. QUITE TOO SUSCEPTIBLE. BY CHARLES SHERRY. Frank Nelson had but one fault. He was a friend of mine, and I intend taking the privilege of friendship, to expose his frail- ties. They may be better shown by illustration, and if you have nothing else to do, just give a glance at the kit-cat scenes that I am going to shift before you. 1. "A dear creature, is n't she ? I was somewhat startled at the abruptness of the exclamation, and turned my head to the half-soliloquist, half-querist who uttered it. "Ah, Frank, at your old tricks ?' was my involuntary com- ment, as I followed the direction of his eye, and found where it rested. Surely enough, she was a dear creature. Frank's thoughts had evidently taken a fancy for the simple. Fanny Moselle was playing the vestal, for that night only. A robe of pure white Aowed about her little figure so gracefully, and the Madonna style in which she had arranged her locks was so becomingly bewitch- ing, and she flirted her fan with such an unconscious conscious- ness of the admiration she was attracting ; that even my own philosophy was put to the blush, and an unusual flutter at my heart told me that Frank for once was in the right. I turned to speak, but my bird had flown. In a moment after I saw Mr. Nelson presented to Miss Moselle. He was all de- votion. Looking at him, you would have been ready to make oath that the thing was settled. Two quadrilles had passed, and they were partners. A waltz followed, and whose arm but that of the new inamorato should circle the waist of the white-robed beauty ? Quite too Susceptible. Supper-time came. The extempore Airtation was protracted. As he drew her delicate arm in his own, he was the happiest of men. They strayed about some of the less thronged apartments, till the crowd had thinned in the supper room. Shall I have the pleasure to give you some ice ?' quoth an intrusive gentleman, with a view of chilling the incipient flame. Frank looked daggers. Fanny, less desperate, only looked needles. The ice was declined : the mutual look of the parties in question intimated that the ice was broken. "Allow me to give you an oyster ?' said the lover gently. "I thank you,' replied the vestal, affectionately. Frank was in Elysium. He was very fond of oysters, and delighted in the new sympathies, awakened by this singular congeniality. The plate was delicately tendered, and delicately accepted : though Fanny, in her soul, thought her lover unaware of the degree to which a flirtation will excite the appetite. Half a dozen oysters scalloped are a mere trife, to a person properly alive to the tender passion. Frank offered a glass of pink champagne, with a pretty com- pliment, which I heard but indistinctly, and have since forgotten. The couple touched glasses, smiled, blushed, and then got up a very respectable sigh. The effect was electric. It was ob- ivously a case of love at first sight. II. It was a starry eve of December. The snow had fallen long, fast and evenly, and if I had time, you should hear the particulars of the process by which nature had hung all the forest trees with diamonds. Far away in the frosty and gemmed sky, the moon was like a mirror of light, and the earth was brilliant as an en- chanter's palace. This moonlight is indispensable. It is rather too common in a love scene : but the best authorities set it down as a matter not to be laid aside. Loud and clear comes the music of the bells, and the vision of a moving wonder, drawn by half a dozen white steeds that would have figured in the old mythology — if they had lived in the time of it — startles even the most rapid traveler, by the speed with which it leaves him far in the rear. A merry group filled that buffalo-bound vehicle. Our business, however, is with the trio on the back seat. Frank Nelson was playing the dutiful there, to a couple that seemed very interest- ing. On his right was Susan Pinkney : on his left was Mrs. Middleton — matronizing. And a prudent, discreet matron she was : listening very attentively to the jingle of the bells, and the peals of silver laughter that now and then rang out from the ani- mated party ; and hearing no more of what was going on than any polite person should hear. 28 Quite too Susceptible. Susan was another of Frank's dear creatures. A sleigh-ride is hazardous to young people. A hood is not always so frightful as the unreflecting imagine. Susan knew it. Frank had discov- ered it, by experience. His heart melted, in spite of the cold weather. He had never found the lady so charming, though he had known her a twelvemonth. It struck him so oddly, too, that he had never before discovered Miss Pinkney to be an angelie had never twelvemonth. The lady so 'ch It is not possible !' was the general ejaculation, that start- led Frank, as he had almost finished a tender sentiment. A common movement put a period to his half-declared passion ; and I thought that Miss Pinkney abandoned her seat with more than needſul alacrity. It was possible. They had reached the end of their journey, and the next moment found them in one of the parlors of the Spring Hotel. As Susan threw off her cloak, and boa, and that hood with its face-circling cap, and cast half a glance in the mir- ror, to make sure that her locks were becomingly disarranged — she hardly wondered that Frank had been so eloquent. And as Frank gazed on her tall, and graceful form, dashily tricked in a garment that would have made a bird of paradise jealous — he was surprised that he had not been more eloquent. Miss Pinkney threw back the curls from her face, and again turned her eye innocently to the glass. Her dark orb rested com- placently on the reflected image. Frank came suddenly between the lady and the object of her admiration, and intercepted one of the glances. He thought it intended for himself. Mulled wine has a tendency to make us affectionate. A dance was proposed. A fiddler had been very judiciously imported ; and a fire was made in the hall. There were just two sets of quadrilles — omitting the matron, and an odd couple. Frank of course managed to be omitted. Miss Pinkney could not but concede. I saw at once how it was with the poor fellow. He was des- perate for the twentieth time, within hardly a score of weeks. He looked from his expressive eyes — for he was handsome- half a dozen folio volumes of soft sayings and tender speeches. His silence talked like a book : and before he could make up his mind to utter a verbal proposition, any one skilled in the dead languages of love would have given him credit for a confession, an explanation, a declaration, and all the other accompaniments of a lawful tender of heart and hand. I should have been less observant of other people's business, if I had not invested a considerable share of my own affection in favor of Miss Pinkney. The whole of it stood in her name. I was naturally anxious to watch the rise and fall of my stock. At length, I verily believe that Frank proposed. Miss Pink- Quite too Susceptible. ney's black eye flashed anger, and her red lip curled scorn. It had escaped the impetuous lover that she was a particular friend of Fanny Moselle, and was familiar with the whole course of the old affair. She knew his habit. How often, Mr. Nelson, have you said the same pretty things within the last twenty-four hours ?' Frank thought of the intercepted glance; he knew his own way and air, and felt secure, in spite of the fervor of his attach- ment. He remonstrated. He promised. He swore. Miss Pinkney frowned. She pouted; ladies will pout sometimes. At length she beat a retreat, and Frank was dull, dumpy and dumb for the rest of the evening. Coming home, he was re- markably attentive — to the matron! I puffed a cigar with Frank, when our birds had all found the way to their nests. He was despondent and desperate ; contem- plated suicide ; made his will ; arranged all his earthly affairs ; bequeathed all his property to Susan — and in memory of his old attachment left a lock of hair to her friend Fanny. He did not quit his chamber the next day. His despair was gradually soothed. He determined on the whole to survive. He thought a year in Europe might cure him of his ill-placed and unrequited affection. Closing up his affairs, he booked for New-York in season for the next Havre packet. Good bye,' said Frank, sadly, as we separated on the night before his departure. "I will endeavor — in the diversions and dissipations of Paris — for one winter at least — to forget that I have ever — loved ! The idea was too amusing. Melancholy as we both were, or properly should have been, I laughed outright. It was indecor- ous — very — but the impulse was irresistible. Frank was so serious ! He absolutely thought himself one of the most loving and injured of men. I explained as well as I could, and parted, as Frank tenderly expressed himself, perhaps forever !' III. • An awkward affair this !! Extremely.' Frank was one of the coloquists in the above dialogue. He had made up his mind to die at home. The thought of perish- ing of love at such a distance was too much. We had better discuss the matter with due deliberation,' said Frank, ringing for wine and cigars. The precise time of the scene we will not undertake to state : it was since the building of the Tremont. Harry Temple acquiesced. The wine sparkled. The weed exhaled its perfume. Smoke is the mother of darkness, and 30 Quite too Susceptible. darkness is the first cousin of silence. Neither of the tobacco- enjoyers spoke. We must do something, and quickly — at length ejaculated Frank, throwing his half-consumed cigar vehemently into the fire, tossing off his heel-tap with violence, and brimming his own glass and that of his companion to the highest top-sparkle. Bringing down his emptied glass a little too emphatically, to seal his last assertion, he shivered it into a thousand pieces. Frank could not but regard the broken goblet — as a fit emblem of his own shiv- ered and scattered affections. But as he did not choose to mor- alize about it, I know not that it can be expected of me. Frank only lit a fresh cigar, and humed the fag-end of an old air. Ah, Frank, if the girl had only been pretty — it would have put another face on the matter. A man can 't be blamed for falling in love with a pretty woman — that would be quite unrea- sonable. But the creature is as plain — "As your impertinence, my dear fellow, so just be quiet. There is but one way in this matter. Lucilla is well enough — and right enough — but I was a fool — am a fool -- and always will be a fool — as far as a woman is concerned—and it takes me just about one half of my life to get out of scrapes, which I pass the other half in falling into. This is the long and short of the business.' •You have spoken the truth, Frank, for once in your life.' Now Harry — I pray you with the girl in the play “Let not your passion be my counsellor,' but tell me as one friend should tell another whether this duel 'can be shunned with honor ?'' • But Frank, why shun it?" • Why Harry, I am told that skilly soup is very indifferent food for a man who has been used to better living.' · That's a consideration.' Standing up to be shot at is a trifle. But to be dogged by a d-d constable, and clapped within four stone walls, and fed on skilly soup is enough to frighten the devil.' • They have an odd way of managing the matter in this part of the country that 's a fact. South of Mason and Dixon, now, a score or two of friends will go out to see a couple of clever fellows blaze away at each other, and no harm done.' Here, though, you must sneak away like a pair of pick- pockets : looking at every turn of the road for a sheriff's officer, with a posse comitatus. These new arrangements have put a stop to every thing like gentlemanly fighting.' · But why not manage it as our friend - proposed to the Governor of Rhode Island — one stand one side of the state, and one the other, and fire across ?' • But we should in that way mortally offend three distinct sove- Quite too Susceptible. 31 skilly in a carreann can called the pre strange lady to state They to state to h; left thought Suttered no int to fight reignties : these little northern sections intend to be great stick- lers for State Rights.' "Well, Frank, you must fight, notwithstanding your horror for skilly soup. Just hurry across the lines quietly - all snugly packed in a carriage — and make your way to the South as fast as stages and steam can carry you.' Frank and Harry settled the preliminaries and slept soundly. Lucilla's brother, and his second, strange as it may seem, left their lodgings without directing their landlady to state to all in- quiring friends that they had gone out to fight a duel. They met in a retired spot, and suffered no interruption from a single con- stable. Frank thought of skilly soup and stone walls, and sighed ; he stood up and received his shot, with as much propriety, as if he had been an old hand at it. Frank's susceptibility this time did not cost him even a wound in his coat-skirts ; be escaped utterly unscathed. He had only been a little too attentive to Lucilla, without meaning any harm ; and the brother thought it would be the pretty thing to hold him responsible. The ren- contre was sufficient. They had smelt gun-powder. Neither had felt a ball. Both were declared men of honor. Three of the party returned to Boston ; Frank, still having the terror of stone walls and skilly soup before his eyes, with an idea of the pretty figure he should cut in the Municipal Court, took the next boat from Providence, and was soon safe in pleasant lodgings in the Quaker metropolis. IV. Was not Frank quite too susceptible ?" He had not yet, however, got to the end of his tether. It was about a month after the above that I was strolling in one of the broad squares of Philadelphia, when I met my friend Frank with a pretty creature — to be sure — there is no denying it dashily dressed, stepping off with a decided air, and with an eye that beamed menace as well as command, on an emergency, I doubt not. Who is Frank Nelson in love with now? I asked of my companion, who happened to be a mutual friend. His wife.' Frank married! The d—1!' was the involuntary ejacula- tion, though it smacked a little of the irreverent. No, not married the devil exactly — though his friends would as lieve he had gone into that family as any other.' How was the catastrophe brought about ?? • Oddly enough. Frank’s habits have grown upon him so far, poor fellow, that he was trapped before he knew it.' • Trapped! Fairly caught at last, Frank, and if you have 32 Quite too Susceptible. married a brimstone-beauty, why you have richly deserved it — and that's all the consolation I can give you.' At a ball of his aunt's, last week, the old lady had picked up a pretty girl somewhere or other, and had posted her in a cozy little coffee-room to look after the coffee and chocolate. She was a lively witch—it is true — and an interesting. Frank came. Frank saw. Frank was conquered. He was shot through and through, and he stalked sighing about the room like a crazy crea- ture. And then to see his jealousy as she would now and then half smile upon the gentlemen who were gallant enough to say a pleasant word or so to her— I watched the whole operation, and laughed over it for the next four and twenty hours.' . But for the catastrophe.' • Frank could not conceal from her that she had made an im- pression. She managed very discreetly. The next day he pro- posed in due form — the day after he was accepted — and within forty-eight hours the knot was tied.' And Frank, then, absolutely married the coffee-girl ? "Very absolutely I assure you; as absolutely as the service could fix it.' I've a good mind to moralize.' Don't put yourself to the trouble. I never listen to anything of the kind.' Then the rich, handsome, accomplished Frank Nelson, after having been desperately in love with all the beauties and half the fortunes in the United States — has at length joined his luck to the coffee girl's.' "You remember his stiff old aunt — who first developed his susceptibility — as she called it, in the hope of tacking him on to that Miss Million Cousin of his — well the old lady has gone mad — absolutely mad — of disappointment.' • But he is so well served, that I am perfectly charmed with the denouement of his career. It's what I call poetical justice.' Rather harshly administered, if all that I hear is true; the scandalous say that she is a whirlwind of a scold.' Better and better. Frank always pleaded native suscepti- bility in bar to any accusations of fickleness or injustice ; if he get his deserts, he 'll not escape whipping! I am quite too sus- ceptible,' was his standing reply to my reproaches. Here he comes, however, and I will get the truth out of him.' I have just come from a conversation with Frank. The honey- moon is not over, and the poor fellow is most heartily tired of his bargain. I saw how it was in a moment, though I thought it but civil to tender my congratulations. Frank gave a sigh. It was sincere, I could swear. It came from the very depths of his The Polish Exiles. 33 heart, and if I were ever in the mingled-smile-and-tear’ mood of the old poet, it was when Frank shook me affectionately by the hand, and exclaimed in the most pitiable accents — My dear boy, you know I was always QUITE TOO SUSCEPTIBLE !' THE POLISH EXILES. It has been well said, that there is more romance in real life than can be created by the imagination ; and it has been better said, that the wildest fiction must be drawn from facts. What can be more beautiful than the romance of history; and what history is so full of romance as the history of Poland ? But brilliant as is the story of her ancient conquests, and sad as is the recital of her modern woes, it is not by her public his- tory that we learn most to love and admire poor Poland. Bright indeed is the scroll of her glory, and brilliant are the names which emblazon it; and national pride may well be excited by the thought of Zolkiewski thundering at the gates of Moscow, or Sobieski rolling back the tide of Turkish invasion from trem- bling Europe : but more thrilling still, is the tale of the eager of- ferings of fortune and life by her children in her hour of agony ; and more affecting is the story of their subsequent wandering about the earth, and their going mourning to their graves as for a lost mother Oh! there is this which is beautiful in the human heart, that the misery and suffering of that which it loves, makes it but love the more ; and while hope lives, the tears of regret water and nourish the roots of memory. It would seem that the sufferings of Poland ever increased the love of her children; every blow she received riveted their affections still closer; and when in their sad exile they heard of a new indignity offered to her, their hearts yearned more warmly to her, and by a fresh gush of affection they seemed to strive to impart to her comfort and support. If the fancy of the poet could be realized, and a nation be per- sonified and embodied, the genius of Poland would be the being we should envy rather than pity ; for the tribute of sighs from a thousand brave hearts, the fond recollections, the deep de- votion, the undying love of the wandering exile, would be a more grateful offering than the sacrifices of victory, or the shouts of conquest. VOL VIII. 34 The Polish Eviles. rope potiation of from her ens waved ; thrope, Were we to choose a subject for romance, we know of no source so fruitful as the annals of the wandering of the exiles of Poland. What for instance can be more touching than the dying exclamation of Rymkievitz, who, when rolling in his gore on a foreign battle-field, cried—Why, oh! why, could not I have shed this blood on the soil and in the cause of my country ? What could be more grand in conception, or more daring in execution, than the plans of the illustrious Dombrowski ? He was placed at the head of Napoleon's Polish legions in Italy ; and gathered around his standard nearly thirty thousand of the exiles of Poland ; my countrymen,' said he, since we cannot secure the independence of our country at once, let us fight for the cause of liberty in general, and by extending it all over Eu- rope, strive to establish it even in Poland.' After the partition and spoliation of Poland, her sons went forth by thousands and tens of thousands from her enslaved soil, to enlist under the ban- ner of freedom wherever it waved ; they had but one hope, but one thought — the revolution of Europe, and the re-estab- lishment of their country. Wherever the tri-colored flag was seen waving, be sure a Pole was following it ; wherever a desperate band advanced as a forlorn hope — be sure a Pole was among them ; wherever a field had been fought, be sure that among the bloody and mangled bodies, lay the cold and scarred corpse of some son of Poland. Nor did their bones lay bleaching on the battle-fields of the north alone ; the sword of the Mame- luke — the lance of the Turk — the knife of the Spaniard — the fever of St. Domingo, all had their victims ; nor could all these causes — nor could thirty years of suffering so diminish the band, but many war-worn veterans were ready at the first cry of liberty on the soil of Greece, to hasten to have another blow in her cause, before they died. Other nations too have been oppressed, and ground to the dust ; other people have been scattered abroad, to wander up and down the earth in exile, — but there is that is beautiful in the History of Poland, that her children never for a moment lost sight of her re-establishment, never omitted an opportunity to risk life in ever so desperate an attempt to serve her. There is a book abounding in poetry called the Book of the Polish Pil- grimage, and it ends with the following litany prescribed for the exiles : By the blood of all soldiers perished in the battles for faith and liberty, Deliver us, O Lord. By the trials and sufferings of all the Poles in slavery, exile, and pilgrimage, Deliver us, O Lord. Cause the nations to rise to our assistance, We pray Thee, O Lord. *The Polish Exiles. For our arms and national eagles, W’e pray Thee, O Lord. For a happy death in the field of battle, We pray Thee, O Lord. For a grave for our bones in our native country, We pray Thee, O Lord. For the integrity, for the independence and liberty of our coantry, We pray Thee, O Lord. It might be supposed that with the exile and the death of tens of thousands of her choicest sons, the spirit and energy of Poland would have been extinguished ; but no! for while the exiles of Poland were sighing out her name with their last gasp upon a dis- tant shore, the women of Poland were bending over their chil- dren, and whispering (for they dared not tell aloud) the tale of her wrongs, and breathing into their young hearts the love of country, and the thirst for vengeance. So that when the last dread effort was made, when Poland again raised her war-cry, it was answered not alone by the war-worn companions of Kosci- usko, but every young heart in the country leapt awake to her voice ;' from every college and every school came rushing a crowd of beardless boys, who dropped the pencil and the pen, to grasp the scythe and the sabre. And when that late dread struggle, (which was generally con- sidered to be desperate, but which those who witnessed or examined, knew to be an almost successful one) was over, and the doom of Poland was again sealed, who composed the sad train that went out over her frontier, pale and wan, with trailed flags, and torn and bloody vestments ? It was the young and the noble, the bravest and the best the country could boast. They departed to the number of fifty thousand ; they wandered up and down through Germany, Austria, and Prussia ; they were to be seen on the high roads of Europe barefooted, and cold, and hungry, with perhaps a handkerchief tied around their heads, and their tattered uniforms but half covering their shivering bod- ies - begging their way to France, and thinking of a refuge be- yond the Atlantic. And beyond the Atlantic they have come; the storm which swept over Poland, has scattered her ruins o’er the world ; and, borne upon the farthest wave of misfortune, her children have been cast upon our shores. Yes, there have come among us hundreds of youths from fifteen to thirty years of age, who sacrificed ease, and wealth, who left mothers, and sisters, and home, to fight, and die if need were, for Poland, and who are now wandering about our streets. And how have we re- ceived them ? Americans, lovers of freedom — friends of Po- land and humanity -- how have we received the pilgrim-patriots, the wretched and heart-broken exiles ? Alas, we fear pot as we 36 The Polish Exiles. the erns; they toom the chill, "cto guard ought, and not as they expected : we see them looking cheerily perhaps, and with a good coat buttoned over their bosoms ; but they have no cheer at heart, and the coat is buttoned over the bosom, to conceal from us that the wearer has no linen beneath it. They are not sufficiently clad to guard them against the cold ; they sally out from the chill, comfortless garret-rooms of cheap taverns ; they walk up and down our streets, without money in their pockets, and without a knowledge of our language ; and go back again to their miserable lodgings, without having received one cordial shake of the hand, without having been welcomed within one hospitable door : and, so destitute and hopeless have they become, that they ask for labor, for menial occupation even, and often ask in vain. It is, however, hardly to be wondered at, that with individuals this should be the case ; but our country — our government — free, happy, rich America, how did she receive the sons of those who fought and bled for her ? Did she, like Austria, pro- vide for the pressing wants of nature; — did she, like France, give to the starving patriots the same pay and rations of her own soldiers ; or, like England, vote a large sum of money to be paid from the public treasury ? Alas! with shame we say it, repub- lican America did not even so much as despotic Austria, or as monarchical France and England. Humble petitions, moving letters addressed to our chief magistrate, were left without even a cold answer ; they were passed over in cruel silence. And Congress — the representative of twelve millions of freemen, - how did it treat the petition of the poor exiles for a grant of our wild lands ? — Was it given to them with readiness were they provided with the means of reaching it — with the funds necessary for subsistence until they could raise provisions for themselves ? No, not even this ; for after delays, and de- murring, after discussions and doubts, the lands were sold to them for the same price they are sold to squatters! Ay! the Con- gress of the United States granted to the exiles of Poland, a place of refuge in our wild lands at the price of one dollar and a quarter per acre : nor was even this pitiful act passed without opposition ; for there were found in the Senate, twelve men, all of one party, to vote against it. We have been led to these reflections by the sight of some letters from two of the most illustrious Poles to their countrymen in America ; we have procured translations of them, and submit them to the public, that they may see how Europeans supposed the exiles of Poland would be received in this country, and con- trast it with the sad reality. The first is a letter of the illustrious Prince, Adam Czartoryski : and is as follows : The Polish Exiles. To the Poles who embarked from Trieste for America : COUNTRYMEN, I remit to you by the present opportunity the sum of one thousand francs, all that my pressing wants will allow me to spare. Accept this poor offering, not as the measure of my love, but as a proof only of your being ever present to my memory. I have the pleasure to enclose you a letter from the venerable Niemcevitz, the veteran victim of the misfortunes of our country. Let his fatherly advice be engraved on your hearts, and their effects made mani- fest in your conduct. In the distant land to which you are driven by the destinies, the name of a Pole cannot be a strange one ; and surely you have been hailed as the countrymen of Pulaski and Kosciusko. Pulaski, one of Poland's first heroes, died fighting for the independence of America ; his body moulders there, but not his name, – that lives and grows with the growth of several towns. Kosciusko returned from distant combats to repeat them on our own soil ; he fought, and although vanquished by fate, won a name which he sends to futurity to be the signal for a summons to new struggles, which can be ended only by our final success. Soldiers in the same cause -- partakers in the same struggles and the same hopes, bear in mind these bright names. I hope you will live together, or near each other ; communicate with each other ; and give us notice of what is done for you, both by the Governnient and by indi- viduals. Let us know what kind of life you have embraced, and what are your prospects. Send us a list of all the Poles in America ; with an account of their rank, native place, and name of their present place of residence. This knowledge is alike necessary to the history of our country, and for the yearning of our hearts. When any of you wish to write to our country you may send your letters to my care here. I will take care of them. I close with a reiteration of my good will and warm affection. CZARTORYSKI. Rue d'Angouleme St. Honore. PARIS, AUG. 18, 1834. Next follows a letter from the venerable Niemcevitz, who was long an exile here and married an American lady. PARIS, Aug. 18, 1834. To the Polish Exiles in the United States of America : MY DEAR COUNTRYMEN, I have heard with joy of your safe arrival in the United States. My heart, with its best wishes, has followed you even to the new hemisphere. My imagination transports me to you - I can see you upon the land given by Congress - where you have nought above you but the blue dwelling-place of the Almighty — where you see nothing around you but the old trees of the forests - where you hear nothing but the rustle of their leaves, the music of bird in their branches, or the cries of animals beneath their shadows. In these now mute deserts, are you commanded, by the inscrutable will of Hea- ven, to seek for a new country until the old one shall be restored. Permit me, as an old man, as a man experienced in the ways of that country, to give you some counsel as to your conduct in your present situation. And first — surely first we should think of God - there is, I hope, some priest among you ; and I cannot recommend to you enough to preserve in its purity the religion of your fathers. If you cannot at once build a house to God, the priest can perform his office under the shadow of a tree, and you, all of you, lifting up your hands to your Maker, must pray to him— pray for his mercy to our brethren still remaining at home, groaning in slavery - pray for those scattered over the face of the earth - pray for 33 The Polish Exiles. the re-establishment of our Government, and for the return of all to our native country after being tried in the fire of misfortune. Respect the laws, and constitution of the land ; be obedient to them. Remem- ber that you are strangers there : that it is not for you to indulge in political dreams -- to reform governments — to erect new societies and new systems : al- though this may sound strange to you. Strive by good moral conduct, by industry, by honest enterprise, by the use of all the talents you possess, to gain your subsistence, and the respect and affection of the inhabitants ; and let this be the end and aim of all your efforts. No society can exist without a head, and by-laws for its own government. Thanks to the liberality of the Americans, you may have your own municipal arrange- ments, (subject to their Constitution) which should approach as nearly as possible to the patriarchal form. Choose among yourselves men known for their virtues and experience, and let them watch over the welfare of your colony. If ever fra- ternal harmony is necessary to you, it must be especially so at the settlement of your colony. The beginning of it must be most hard : you will be forced to fell the forests, to build houses, to dig wells, and to open for the first time the surface of the earth : all this will be done sooner by combined forces than if every one should work singly by himself. Be not discouraged by the fatigue, it may be that the young and careless will be ready to risk their all in uncertain adventure - it may be that some will not remain on the lands assigned to them— they may hesi- tate to cultivate them and seek for others more productive. It belongs to the older to stop and to appease them, - to shew them that it is more honorable and noble for a free man to live by his own labor, than to run about the country doing noth- ing; remember that we are all at this time among strange nations ; nations that know but little of us, even of our present situation. By us they will judge of the Polish character; they will look upon us as specimens of the Polish nation. It is our sacred duty then to maintain the Polish honor – and preserve untarnished our national fame, even in our misfortunes and persecutions. If God should not permit a speedy return to our native country, and you should be obliged to pass many years in America, I cannot enough regret that there are not among you some Polish ladies ; without them in so far a country, neither our language, nor our manners can be perpetuated ; the language of a man is that which he first lisped in the lap of his mother. If any of you should marry with an American lady, let him endeavor to teach her the Polish, and all that he speaks to his children let him speak in his paternal tongue. The priest can erect by the church, a school, in which he can teach the children the language of their ancestors. To preserve the paternal language, is the same as to preserve our nationality : strive that, while barbarous tyranny is endea- voring to destroy all remembrance of our native country in Europe, it may be in- grafted forever in the land where oppression and tyranny are unknown. Where- fore will not my grey hairs, and my frame shattered by so many sufferings, allow me to transport myself among you - to visit once more America, the land which gave me a ten years' shelter - of which I have the honor to be a citizen, and with which I still mingle my dearest recollections? Even I should be happy to finish this my checkered life among you ; and a rough stone at my grave's head, in that free land, would be for me as proud a monument, as gorgeous a mausoleum, as the earth can boast. Farewell, free hearts, Vivite felices, memores et vivite nostri, Sive erimus, sive nos fata fuisse volent. JUL. URSIU NIEMCEVITZ. P. S. The unwearied and ever zealous friend of his country and his country- men, the Prince Adam Czartoryski, sends you eight hundred francs, all he can spare : and I venture to add of my own small fund, a mite of two hundred francs more. You will receive them by the accompanying bill of exchange. Notify me of the receipt and write me through the American Ambassador in Paris. Farewell — be of good cheer ! The Polish Exiles. 39 It will be perceived from these letters, that the Poles in Europe are congratulating their countrymen, who have arrived in the United States, on their good fortune ; they suppose they have been welcomed with open arms; that they are cultivating lands given them by Congress ; they even regret that their wives are not with them, to share their good fortune! Alas, how will they be surprised when they learn the truth ; when they hear that their countrymen are wandering up and down our country with- out a home, a shelter, or a hope ; that the most fortunate of them have found employment as laborers on our rail-roads, porters in our warehouses, or servants to our farmers. There have arrived in the United States about three hundred and fifty exiles of Poland ; most of them non-commissioned offi- cers, young men — many of them boys. Of these, not even fifty have found employment suitable to their education and former habits; the majority of the rest have applied themselves to hard work such as they could find, to earn their bitter bread, and pass away the dreary days of their exile until their country shall again call them to her rescue ; for they will not abandon the hope of one day seeing her free, and nobly refuse to take upon them- selves any engagement, which will prevent them from obeying her first signal. The question is still before the American public — what shall be done for these men, and for those who are on their way to this country? There seem to be but two methods : one is to provide for their immediate wants, and support them until they learn enough of the language and manners of the country to take up some occupation, gradually to be merged into our popula- tion, and to become American as other foreigners do : the other is, to form them into a colony, and let them build up a town of their own, in the west. The latter plan would strike one as perfectly feasible, and as most consistent with the feelings of enthusiasm and sympathy, which the public has manifested toward the Poles ; but, besides that there are almost insuperable objections to it, in the character and habits of the Poles themselves, it would be attended with an immense expense. Until this however is adopted, the first must be followed, and it beloves every man who regards our national honor, or who has any feelings of humanity, to do all in his power for the individual cases which may fall in his way. The Poles are a proud and high-spirited race, and although we had some very bad specimens among us, there are others who suffer intensely — whose hearts are filled with bitterness at the thought of our inhospitality and coldness, and yet who will not shew their wants. Again we say, let individuals interest themselves in the fate of these poor fellows; do not let us be content with giving a dollar or two to the Polish Committee ; these men do not want 40 Lutzow's Wild Chase. our dollars, they want our kindness and sympathy; they want our aid in getting them employment ; they want us to help them, until they can help themselves. By the debt then which our country owes to Poland ; by the care we should have of our country's reputation for hospitality ; by all the claims of humanity, do not let it be said that the poor exiles of Poland came among us, and asked only for employment, and asked in vain. LUTZOW'S WILD CHASE. From the Gerinan of Korner. What gleams from yon wood in the bright sunshine ? Hear it nearer and nearer sounding ! It moves along in a frowning line, And the wailing horn's shrill notes combine, The hearer with terror astounding. Say, whence those black riders? What means their race ? That is Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. What is it that flits through the forest-shade, From mountain to mountain stealing? Now it lurks in darkling ambuscade ; Now the wild hurrah and the cannonade O'er the fallen Frank are pealing. Say, whence those black huntsmen ? What game do they trace? That is Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. Where yon vineyards bloom, where the Rhine-waves dash, The tyrant had sought him a cover; But sudden and swift, like the lightning's flash, The avenger plunges, - the billows plash, And his strong arms have ferried him over. Say, why those black swimmers the Rhine embrace ? That is Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. What conflict rages in yonder glen ? What meaneth the broadsword's clashing ? 'Tis the conflict of lion-hearted men, And the watchfires of Freedom are kindled again, And the heavens are red with their flashing. Say, who are those warriors ? What foe do they face? That is Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. Mr. Greenough's new Group of Statuary. 41 Who yonder are smiling farewell to the light, Where the foe breathes his last execration ? Death's hand hath swathed their brows in night, But their hearts are firm and their souls are bright, They have seen their country's salvation. Say, who are those struggling in Death's embrace ? That is Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. Ay! the wild chase, and the German chase — Let tyrants and hangmen shun it! But mourn not for us who have run our race ! For the morning is near, it dawns apace ; What though with our lives we have won it ! And be it proclaimed from race to race: That was Lutzow's wild and desperate chase. F. H. HEDGE. MR. GREENOUGH'S NEW GROUP OF STATUARY. We hail, with pride and pleasure, this new proof of the genius of our countryman, Greenough. As a work of art, we consider it, without hesitation, superior to anything he has yet done, — it equals the Medora in beauty and finish of execution, and surpass- es it in originality of conception and in everything that makes up the poetry of sculpture. The group tells its own story, and has need of few words of ex- planation ; though the thoughts and feelings, which it suggests, are boundless as eternity. It consists of a cherub, leading by the hand and ushering into the glories of Heaven, an infant mortal, whom his Heavenly Father has called home in the first hour of the morning. With wonderful imagination and skill, has the artist given to each of these infantine forms a distinctive charac- ter, and made the glory of the celestial different from that of the terrestrial. The wanderer from earth, though he has put off his robes of clay before a single stain has dimmed his original bright- ness, yet betrays his mortal origin by his looks, form and expres- sion. He shrinks back, dazzled and half-appalled, from the (sapphire-blaze' which bursts upon his eyes. Wonder, doubt and delight are mingling and struggling in his baby face. The atti- tude of his body and limbs shews that he has been arrested in his onward progress, and stands uncertain whether to advance or re- treat ; fervently longing to proceed, yet shrinking back in vague apprehension or deep humility. The left foot is advanced and the left arm stretched out ; while the weight of the body rests upon VOL. VIII. 42 Mr. Greenough's new Group of Statuary. the right foot, and the right arm is extended in search of sup- port — the very limbs expressing the conflict of feelings by which their possessor is actuated. On the other hand, the guiding and protecting cherub is a being of a different order from the child, whose steps he is supporting and whose soul he is cheering. His innocence is not of that kind, which springs from inexperience of evil or ignorance of temptation, but is the purity of a divine essence, to which sin is equally unknown and unimagined, and which dreams neither of the joys of guilt nor of its sting. That serene brow is never to be worn with the deep lines of earth-born cares, nor is old age to thin or dim those clustering locks. Im- mortal youth is his heritage, with faith unalloyed by doubt, calm joy, the deep repose of the soul, which has the past unsighed for and the future sure.' He approaches the opening splendors of Heaven with the assurance of one who is drawing nigh to his own home ; and yet his countenance beams with sympathy and love for his earthly brother, whom he has been commissioned to bring into the presence of their common Father. His attitude is expressive of kindness and protection, but of no arrogant as- sumption of superiority. He has grasped with his left hand the outstretched arm of his companion, and thrown his right over his shoulder in such a manner, as to give at once support to his tot- tering steps and confidence to his wavering spirit. His limbs are firmly planted and his attitude, infant as he is, is full of a certain indescribable majesty and grace. The countenances of the two figures differ materially. That of the angel has that calm and pensive beauty, which always mingles with our dreams of Heaven and of beautiful spirits. The rich locks, the ample brow, the firm and delicate lips, the round cheek have that ideal beauty, which we often see in pictures, but which we shall look for in vain in the nurseries of earth. The other is a beautiful child, but still a child ; and the countenance, though lovely, is unsymmetrical and unformed. It is a blank tab- let, yet untraced by Time, and its prevailing expression is not yet determined. It might have worn the blackness of despair or the fierce unrest of guilt, had not Death transplanted the open- ing bud' to Heaven ere sin could blight or sorrow fade.' A distinction similar in kind may be traced in the forms of the two figures. That of the angel is mature and developed, cast in the mould of faultless beauty and grace. The arch of the chest, the fall of the shoulders, and the air and turn of the limbs, are inimitably elegant ; and a certain light and glory seem to invest and beam through the whole form. The figure of the infant, on the other hand, is undeveloped, and is a germ and a promise, rather than a formed body. We see, at a glance, that the angel has reached his maturity, while the child has hardly begun to grow. The general character of the two figures may be best perceived, by Mr. Greenough's ner Group of Statuary. 43 placing ourselves in such a position, as to observe the face of the angel in profile, and that of the child in full. The serene and tranquil assurance of the former is seen in the well-defined out- line of his countenance ; while it is only by a front view of the delicate features of the child, that we can gather the various emo- tions by which they are possessed. It is a great merit in this group, that it tells its own story so plainly. It needs no accompanying text of explanations. It speaks at once to the heart and soul of the natural man, and the throb of admiration is awakened without the aid of any of the technical jargon of the art. It appeals to one of the primitive elements in the composition of man, the principle which makes us acknowledge the presence of Beauty and do unbought homage to it. It is a fine poem in marble — an Idea, embodied in a material form. There is as much of action in the conception as the laws of the art will justify; so that the artist has secured to himself the advantage of a certain dramatic interest, while, at the same time, the tranquility and repose so essential in sculpture are fully preserved. There is no servile copying of previously existing models ; for industry and perseverance alone will never make a great artist, but a vivid transcript of forms in the author's own mind, - a shaping spirit of Imagination, without which, nothing great in art was ever accomplished. Of the execution of this group we can say no more, than that it fully equals the conception. The chisel has been a faithful ser- vant in the hands of the artist and obeyed his minutest injunctions. Every line, every undulation and every muscle in the body is expressed with a fidelity, which every mother can admire, but which none but an anatomist can fully appreciate. They must be long and patiently studied, before we can do justice to the minute and persevering care with which they have been finished, and which, we may remark, is essential to the highest triumphs of genius in every department. The artist has been very fortunate in the cloudless purity of the block of marble which he selected we say fortunate, because seriously-defacing flaws are often found in the interior of blocks, whose exterior is entirely free from spot or blemish. The whiteness and lustre of the material suggest ima- ges of angelic purity and celestial innocence. Heaven itself seems brought nearer to us as we contemplate these beautiful creations. Mr. Greenough, with a liberality worthy of all praise, has de- voted the proceeds of this exhibition to the benefit of the infant school under the care of Rev. E. T. Taylor, and the subject of the group impresses one with a feeling that there is a strong propri- ety in this application. When such an appeal is made, at once to the taste and the charity of the public, we should take shame to ourselves, if it be not promptly and liberally answered. Who- 44 Sonnet. ever is affected at all by this group, must be made better by it ; and whoever is not affected by it must be as insensible as the marble out of which it is hewn. Hundreds are passing by them every day, whose spirits have no rest day or night from the hot pursuit of wealth or vain distinction. Let them turn aside for a moment, and imbibe sweet influences from the contemplation of these exquisite personifications of passionless tranquillity and the 'peace which passeth all understanding.” Let those, whose brains whirl with feverish excitement, come and gaze on these pure and lovely creatures ; and they will be refreshed as a way- farer in a desert at the gleam of a fountain. They will be charmed into self-forgetfulness — a precious boon sometimes — and cease to heed the spur that goads them. You step, in an in- stant, from a crowed and noisy thoroughfare, into their presence- but what a change! This visible diurnal sphere seems to have passed away, and a new heaven and a new earth to have taken their place. All the tumultuous emotions, which agitate men's minds and souls, languish and die in this upper air. It is the temple of Peace - it is holy ground. One involuntarily breathes low and speaks in whispers. Spirits seem above and around us — we see the gleam of their wings and the wave of their gar- ments. Celestial odors are breathed around ; and a light, not of this world, gleams along the walls. The dream of the patriarch is realized in this old, decrepid world, and we behold angels ascending and descending.' G. S. H. SONNET. Whence? Whither? Where? — a taper-point of light, My life and world — the infinite around; A sea, not even highest thought can sound; A formless void ; unchanging, endless night. In vain the struggling spirit aims its flight To the empyrean, seen as is a star, Sole struggling through the hazy midnight far- In vain it beats its wings with daring might. What yonder gleams? What heavenly shapes arise From out the bodiless waste ? — Behold the dawn, Sent from on high !- Uncounted ages gone, Burst full and glorious on my wondering eyes : Sun-clear the world around, and far away A boundless future sweeps in golden day. J. G. PERCIVAL. 45 COLLOQUY BETWEEN A BANK NOTE AND A GOLD COIN. BY THE AUTHOR OF 'TRUTH, A GIFT FOR SCRIBBLERS.' Coin. I feel myself very much insulted at lying here, in an Alderman's waistcoat-pocket, wrapped up in a filthy rag. Note. Good words, friend Don. Since I have been used as a cover to wrap you up in, it is as well for us to be civil to each other. Pray, what reason have you to despise me? Coin. Are you not a mere rag, that fell from the back of some beggar, and picked up by some other beggar's brat? Have you any intrinsic value ; or are you a mere deceitful representa- tive of some aristocrat's deceitful promise ? Note. Marry, come up, my dirty cousin! I scorn your words. Be so kind as to open your mineralogic eyes, and look me in the face. You will perceive that, though you call yourself a'mint-drop,' and a "yellow-jacket,' and many other such slang names, you are worth but five dollars, and any one will take me for twenty. It is true, that I fell from a beggar's back, but it was after warming that beggar for a whole year; a thing that you could never do ! Coin. You are entirely mistaken. The last time I was spent, but one, I was given in exchange for five Irish votes, at the New-York charter election, and shortly after warmed the bodies of more than forty beggars, in the shape of a barrel of whiskey. Note. So, it seems you are vain of having been an instrument of bribery and drunkenness. I have sometimes been put to such uses myself; but I have grace to be ashamed of it. But pray, sirrah, how are you, any more than myself, anything but a mere representative of value ? What are you good for? Can one eat you or drink you, or make any sort of comfort out of you? Coin. But you are liable to be counterfeited, any day. A little ink will make a cheat of you in a moment. Note. Sir, I shrewdly suspect that you are a counterfeit yourself. Come, now, be honest, what part of you is base metal ? Coin. Twenty-three parts in a hundred. Note. And has not the file done for you what pen and ink may do for me? Coin. I must confess that I am light weight; but my reduc- tion was effected by an acid. A file is but a bungling instru- ment. Yet, for all that, you may be destroyed by fire or water, or torn to pieces, which can never happen to me. However, upon second thoughts, I begin to think it best to be civil to you. Note. If you are dropped into the water, you will sink, and be lost; and any anthracite grate will spoil your beauty and val- 46 Colloquy between a Bank Note and a Gold Coin. ue. After all, we have neither of us any intrinsic value. Our claims to respect rest entirely on our respective utility. And, since you are sufficiently humbled to be civil, pray give me a little of your history. Coin. The first I can remember of the light of Heaven was about two hundred years ago. I was carried up a pit, three hundred feet deep, in one of the Cordilleras of Mex- ico, on the back of an Indian, together with two bushels of other dirt. Note. No doubt the poor fellow was delighted at finding you? Coin. Far from it. He fell down at the mouth of the mine, exhausted with the unwonted labor ; and the blood gushed from his mouth and nostrils. The overseer roused him with his whip, and compelled him to descend the ladder again. He had not gotten down three rounds, when he lost his hold, and fell head- long to the bottom, and was killed. They drew him up by a rope and cast him out a prey to the wolf and carrion gallinazo. Note. I hope you felt for the poor fellow ? Coin. I was too much occupied by my own sufferings. I was first washed, then melted in a furnace seven times heated, then clipped to something more than iny present size, and last of all pressed almost to death by a powerful screw, not to mention that the mint-master was a knave. He took away about a fifth of my substance, and substituted copper, in its stead, and this he did by all the coin he was sworn to make of the standard value. Note. You were early acquainted with wickedness. What became of you next? Coin. I passed into the hands of the Viceroy, and he gave me, in charity, to a widow. Note. He was a charitable man, that Viceroy. Coin. Not at all. It was in the dusk of the evening, and he mistook me for a maravedi. Note. Where went you then ? Coin. The widow gave me to a young profligate, who had slain her husband 'in single combat a month before, at her insti- gation, and made beggars of her and her two infant children. She wished to marry him. . Note. Did he marry her ? Coin. No, he despised her, though she was young and beau- tiful, and supplied him with all the money she could get for his excesses. The most depraved cannot love depravity. He kept me in his purse just one hour. Note. I hope you got into better company ? Coin. By no means. He took me to a gaming-table, and lost me, the last one, to a Jew. He then went out into the garden, and the report of a pistol was heard immediately after. Colloquy between a Bank Note and a Gold Coin. 47 Note. He was probably committing a robbery? Coin. Not so ; he did better than that. He blew his own brains out. The Jew first reduced my weight, and then passed me to a priest to say a mass for his soul. Note. Singular conduct, that, in a Jew. Did he really be- lieve that the prayers of the priest could be of any use to him ? Coin. No, nor the priest either. They were a brace of ras- cals. The Jew was a renegado, for the sake of Mammon, and dreaded the Inquisition. He rejoiced doubly, at having secured the priest's good will, and at having cheated him in my weight into the bargain. The priest was an atheist and a drunkard, and spent me for a cask of aguadiente. As for the mass, he never said it ; or meant to say it. Note. By this time you must have had rather a bad opinion' of mankind ? Coin. Not so bad as they deserve ; though there is some good among them, too. I passed through a variety of hands, until I found myself sewed in the girdle of a wild-horse hunter, in New Mexico, with a number of my brethren. The Coman- che Indians attacked him in the prairie, speared him, and took away his belt. I heard afterwards that his widow was deeply afflicted, from another Carolus who joined me in the same manner. Note. She doubtless grieved deeply at his death ? Coin. You are mistaken. He was not slain outright, and she wept at the prospect of his possible recovery. He did, however, and I next found myself hanging at the ear of a Snake Squaw, by the hole you see in me, in the form of an ear-drop. I staid among the Snakes and Comanches nearly a century. Note. And how got you hither at last ? Coin. I was hanging at a warrior's nose one day, when he happened to meet an American trapper alone, with his long rifle in his hand. For my sake the white savage slew the red one, and brought me to Natchez. Note. I hope you did him very little good ? Coin. None at all. I was stolen from him by a soldier, to- gether with another coin, soon after. Note. I can guess that you did not stay long with the soldier. Coin. Not very. He carried me to a money-changer, who cheated him fifty per cent. in changing me. That night the bro- ker attended a charity lecture, and put me into the contribution- box. He then wiped his mouth, and thanked Heaven that he was not as other men, publicans and sinners; and all the neigh- bors said that Mr. Greedy was a pious and charitable man. Note. And what became of you then ? Coin. The President of the Society gave me to a poor woman to buy clothes for her children with, that they might ap- pear decently at church. She chose, however, to lay half of me boas not a hat Alihat became the society than that del 48 Colloquy between a Bank Note and a Gold Coin. out in tracts, and her husband carried the change to the next grog-shop, and spent it in rum. The grocer afterwards lost me to an eminent general at a horse-race, and so I found my way to Washington in his pocket. Note. Pray, of what use was you to him? Coin. It was his object to convince every one he could that the country was flooded with gold coin, though he knew it was false, and had never seen more than six or eight pieces of it in his life. He therefore gave me to an editor of a scurrilous newspaper, who put me into a net-work purse, with two half eagles, and kept us a long while for a show. When any igno- rant persons came into his office he would take us out, and jingle us, and call us his yellow boys,' and mint drops. This sort of talk pleased them amazingly. Note. It is a wonder to me, that you are not utterly debased, after keeping so much bad company. Coin. In fact, I was obliged to blush every hour at the falsehood and abuse I was obliged to hear. Besides, I lost all the good manners I ever had, so that you ought to make allow- ance for the rudeness of my first address to you. In fact, I have so often heard you called trash and rag, that I really believed you deserved such titles. Note. How did you escape from your pitiable and degrading situation ? Coin. Being on a journey northward, my proprietor bought a Tory editor, and gave me to him as an earnest. He immedi- ately bought a candle and a sheet of paper, and repaired to his garret, to write a scurrilous article, in abuse of his greatest bene- factor. Note. It seems to me that you have not much claim to re- spect on the score of utility. Pray, did you never do or see any good ? Coin. Yes, twice in my life I have had that satisfaction. I once fell into the hands of an honest, industrious old man in Bos- ton, who gained a painful livelihood by carrying burthens, digging drains, and such hard labor. Having occasion to go into the cabin of a very poor widow, in mid winter, when the thermome- ter was below zero, he found her sitting, shivering, in the cold, and endeavoring to keep life in her freezing babes with the relics of her scanty clothing. The iron-featured old man immediately went and paid me for a cord of wood, which he sent to her door. It chanced that the carter who brought the wood knew the old man's name, and told her. She immediately ran to her benefac- tor's door : "Oh, Mr. W— ' said she, with uplifted hands, • God must reward you for your charity to a poor, distressed widow ; for I never can ! Go home, and hold your tongue, you noisy jade,' replied the honest laborer. "Say nothing Epigram. 49 about it, if you do, I shall have half the poor widows in town after me."* Note. What was the other specimen of human goodness you alluded to ? This instance quite refreshes me. Coin. A poor Irishman came from his own country to Que- bec, in search of employment, with a wife and three children. He had just twenty-five pounds, in a box, and no more. As he stepped upon the plank, to go upon the wharf, his foot slipped, and he fell into the water, and, to save his own life, he was obliged to let go his box, which sunk to the bottom. The next day, the cholera broke out, and he footed it all the way to Bos- ton; his wife and himself carrying their children by turns, and subsisting upon charity, and the sale of their clothing, by the way. When he arrived in Boston, a poor man took him in, in a very ragged and starving condition, and gave his children bread, until he obtained employment. Shortly after, his host fell into the hands of the law, and had small means of meeting its expenses. At this state of affairs, the grateful Patlander went to him with me in his fist, for I was all he had been able to put by of his hard earnings, and offered me to relieve his benefactor's dis- tresses, though he had not at the time the means of subsisting his family twenty-four hours. * Truly, it is cheering to witness such goodness of heart. I can guess how the traveler of Sahara feels when he finds an oasis in the desert. But tell me, Mr. Note; you who talk so much about utility ; what good did you ever do? Note. I supplied a poor family with food and fuel all last winter. Coin. Alas ! I must own, that one act overbalances the ex- perience of my whole life ; but — Here the conversation was interrupted by the Alderman's put- ting on his waistcoat, and what become of the dramatis personce the reporter is unable to say. EPIGRAM. ON A YOUNG MAN ABOUT TOWN. He wrongs him much, who ever said His heels are lighter than his head ; Heaven knows, bis heels are light enough, Iris head is of still lighter stuff. * A fact. VOL. VIII. 50 NATURALIZATION. In countries where the hereditary vices of royalty, and the at- tendant corruptions of a court are inflicted upon a people, with- out the excuse of any agency on the part of the governed ; where the purses of the aristocracy, and the revenues of a kingdom are applied to subsidize the popular branch of the government to the interests of the court ; where seats in one body of the council of the nation are the hereditary right of the mitred and titled, and in the other are in the market, purchased and sold as part and parcel of landed estates ; if the government be wisely and justly administered, it is God's mercy, and the nation's pride, but not its merit. If, on the contrary, the withering effects of a mal- administration of government destroy the integrity, blight the prosperity, waste the resources, and sink the character of a na- tion, it is the people's curse, but not their fault. Though suf- ferers by, they are not morally answerable for, the misdeeds of those in high places, inasmuch as they had no agency in putting them there. In the United States, the case is different. All the world justly consider the character of the government of a Republic an index of the character of the people. Every man who enjoys the elective franchise, is, in a measure, responsible for the acts of the rulers in whose election his vote has assisted — and the shrinking from the fulfilment of a citizen's duties, neglecting the privilege of voting, does not lessen the responsibility — but sub- stitutes for what might have been an unintentional error of judg- ment, an unpardonable sin of omission. National pride, as well as individual considerations, demand that every citizen should qualify himself, as far as ability and opportunity permit, for the correct discharge of his political duties As these positions are truisms, the soundness of which is universally conceded, it is matter of surprise that political knowledge is almost the only de- sirable or necessary information, which the youth of our country are left to gather from accidental sources. The relations be- tween government and the governed, and the operations of the different parts of the grand social and political machine (if we may so speak) are based upon principles as old as the distinction between right and wrong, and as immutable. Of these, how few know anything! Floating upon the surface, the political prefer- ences of the majority are made upon superficial impressions, and, instead of guiding themselves by principle, and acting on sound premises, they take the hue of whatever party they may be cast among ; pin themselves to a leader, not for his principles, but his name ; and their political knowledge, and their political creed, Naturalization. 51 tion of ans, by theird day, it was excepting only the one unchangeable maxim, stick to party,' is like a tailor's Magazine, only a budget of current fashions. To-day, one course may be democratic ; to-morrow, the ta- bles are turned, and what was orthodox, becomes an abomina- tion; and the third day, the two courses are adapted to different meridians, by the same party, or to different classes in one sec- tion of the country. Motley 's your only wear.' In the fash- ionable application of the terma politician,' the person thus designated is no more a politician, than His Majesty, the King of Dahomy, is a statesman and a Political Economist. It means simply, that the individual referred to, can count the votes of any State in the Union; or of the counties in a State, for or against a candidate ; that he can cite the history of a man's unpopular acts against him, or of his popular acts in his favor, for election- eering purposes ; without going into the actual merit or demerit of those acts, or exposing the soundness, or unsoundness of any political doctrine. If to this is added a tact for appealing to the prejudices of every description of people, and uniting them upon one object, he is an excellent party man,' a great politician,' and his wake must be followed, because those who follow stand a fair chance of always finding themselves in the majority — a state, the ultima thule of modern patriots. Does any one doubt the correctness of this statement ? We point him to the index — the muster-roll of the faithful, at Wash- ington. Let him read, from the name of the Hero himself, through the departments, down to the veriest government-cypher in either House, who counts nothing, except in a numerical array of the government forces. Nothing but this acquaintance with party- tactics, which passes so universally current for political knowledge; this capacity for counting chances and getting up huzza-traps, could have elevated the dominant party to their present position. Di- rectly after the announcement of the result of the New-York election, we appealed to an elated Jackson man against the monstrous practices of the party. Success opens a man to con- fession, wonderfully. I know their manæuvering,' said he. · You may expose it — and what then? Few Jackson men will read your statements — and those who do, will denounce them as Federal lies. You hold up. principles — what do Irish voters, and ignorant people care about principles ? If they believe you, they must think — they don't wish to do that — and they will not. We talk about New-Orleans; they can understand battle, and they shout Huzza for the Hero ! We tell them he loves the people, and hates monopolies — down with the Bank !'- and all they have to do, is to swing their hats, and fall in.' Such is the party, and such the management, which has elevated to the highest offices, the present incumbents. For a Chief Magistrate, we have a man whose greatest public service has been a victory highest other, and sucho, is to Naturalization. in arms, and whose greatest personal virtue is a straight-forward doggedness -- which, without proper judgment to understand the right and wrong of political questions, has, by his unlimited con- fidence in irresponsible advisers, degenerated into 'honesty as he understands it ;' and sunk its possessor into a tool, as his wire- pullers understand him.' How is this state of things to be remedied? In part, it is already. The beginning of the end of the reign of demagogues has come. Americans are awake to the dangers which threaten our liberties, and man after man, of the considerate and reflect- ing, is beginning to think for himself, in political as well as in other matters. But though conscientious citizens desert the cor- ruption of the Jackson camp — the mercenaries — those who fill the same place in the ranks of the Heroites, that the Hessians did in the Tory armies of the Revolution — the foreigners, are immovable. We do not, of course, refer here to American citi- zens of foreign extraction, who are well informed, or have, by a long residence, become acquainted with our institutions. We appeal to good citizens of both parties — to Whigs, who lament the present state of things, and the means by which it has been brought about ; – to Jackson men, who, though they love Cæsar, love Rome more ; against longer permitting the road to our ballot-boxes to be a thoroughfare for the paupers, the vicious, the degraded, the ignorant of the old world. Shall the interests of our Great Republic remain in the hands of mushroom citizens ! ('tis profanation thus to apply the word) whose education has never qualified them to understand anything beyond the fact that he who cannot write may make his mark ; — who, like Dogberry, believe that reading and writing come by nature,' and are only necessary for the priest or the noble ; — adopted citizens, who, after a residence of years under another government, would not know, if left alone to manage the process of being manufactured into American citizens, whether to renounce allegiance to King William, or Saint Patrick ? Can such people, in a brace of years, become fit assistants in the great experiment of self-gov- ernment ? Americans, whose political mistakes have been the errors of impulse, are capable of amendment. A residence in this country, through their minority, at least, has given them some acquaintance with our public men and institutions, whether they have sought it or not; and if they will apply what knowledge they possess, to the merits of political questions, they will decide conscientiously, and may decide aright, and act for their country. But what can be expected from emigrants, who are changed, as if by magic, from serfs and dependents to freemen ; but, that like rattle-headed boors, who come suddenly in possession of an estate, of which they knew not the purchase, and to the perform- ance of duties of which they hardly know the name ; they should Atheism in New-England. 53 antiche Repube porno act wildly and inconsiderately, in the possession of unwonted privileges, or submit themselves to the guidance of whatever demagogue can hold out objects the most palpable to their com- prehension. Party prejudices aside, it must be apparent to every one who has given the subject a thought, that the present Naturalization Law admits emigrants to the privileges of citizens after a prepar- atory residence, altogether too short. There may be, and un- doubtedly are, among the thousands of emigrants who flock to this country, many people who could judge wisely, and vote reflectingly, within six months after their arrival ; but there is also a large proportion, who can never, during the term of their lives, become properly qualified. The best informed have pre- judices imbibed in education, either anti-Republican, or, too decidedly radical — a full developement of veneration,' or a lamentable lack of it. Nowhere, but under a Republican gov- ernment, can the duties of a citizen of a Republic, be properly learned and understood, — he must be an apt scholar who can attain in two years with the best abilities, natural and acquired, a knowledge of what it has cost half a century to bring to its pre- sent condition. We would have the attention of Americans called to this question, ere the increasing influx of foreigners, and the influence of demagogues, shall have raised a stronger party against its discussion. America has long been proud to afford an asylum for the oppressed ; but oppression, of the kind that most emigrants flee from, is no school for political knowl- edge. We may open our doors to the unfortunate — but we are not sound in charity, expediency, or justice, to admit them to an equality in matters of which they know nothing ; to feed them, and then submit to their dictation; to inoculate our body politic with the discharged virus of the decaying political systems of Europe. ATHEISM IN NEW-ENGLAND. Our last number contained a hasty and imperfect article on the subject of Atheism in New-England. It would not have appeared in so crude a state, had it not been, that our own knowledge of the extent and organization of the Infidel Party was too recent to give us time for a fuller developement; and that the facts themselves seemed too important to admit of any delay in their publication. 54 Atheism in New-England. The discovery of this dreadful under-current, which is sap- ping the very foundation of the social edifice, filled us with anx- iety and indignation ; and, although we did not hope to effect much ourselves, we hesitated not to sound the alarm, that the pub- lic might be aware of the presence of the enemy within their very walls, and at their very firesides. We did, however, ask ourselves the question, which we have often heard repeated since — whether it were wise to notice the subject at all ; and we answered, as we now answer, that every religious duty, every moral obligation, every social tie, called imperatively for an immediate and complete developement of the subject. We are for the most unlimited religious toleration; and if the Free Inquirers assemble merely to worship their GREAT Nothing, to revile, and even to trample and spit upon the Bible, as they have done, we would have no other forcible restraint put upon them, than to prevent their disturbing others. But when, by theory and by practice, they deny the sanctity of the marriage contract; when they would give full play to licentious indul- gence, and shew the young how to avoid its natural penalties; when they tell men that there should be no court but the court of conscience — no law, but the law of nature ; and when, by combination and systematic effort, they strive to spread doc- trines, so subversive to morality, and destructive of social order; trumpeting them through newspapers, and distributing them gra- tuitously, far and wide, through the community, — then it is time for the truth to be told, and for good men to unite ; ay, to unite, in defence of the morals, the laws, and the order of society. Prudent men, and wise men, have said to us ; do not meddle with this subject, you will do more harm than good; do not let people know that the virtue and necessity of chastity have been called in question ; do not let them know that the right to enact laws is challenged ; do not let them know that the sanctity of the marriage vow has been doubted, and these things will never enter their heads ; but, once moot the subject, and the evil-disposed will take advantage of the slightest doubts. But we view the subject differently. Education is just be- ginning to be general, and people may be compared to scholars in a great school. No school-master would think of attempting to prove to his scholars by argument, the existence of a Deity, the truth of the Christian religion, the necessity of order and laws ; but, if evil persons should creep in among them and har- rass their half-formed minds with doubts ; if they should try to seduce them away by the allurements of pleasure, and the indulgence of passion — then, as a matter of necessity, he would try to point out the danger ; he would strive to open the eyes of Atheism in New-England. 55 his pupils to the true character of the seducers; and if he could not put his heel upon, and crush the reptiles who had crawled in among them, he would point to the slime which marks their track, and foretell the moral corruption, which their pestiferous breathings inevitably engender. * There is this, which makes against our argument — that people will not consider themselves in the light of learners ; a tyro never knows that he is a tyro. A beginner should always doubt, and deserves not the first diploma of wisdom until he is ready to en- dorse it with an acknowledgement, that he is but a fool ; but you could not insult one of the Infidels of the enlightened Federal Street School more, than to tell him that, like Newton, he was picking up pebbles by the ocean of truth, - for he knows not enough to know he is a fool. But we would not argue with them for an instant, on the ex- istence of a God; we would not admit that a man of an incor- rupt moral nature, can doubt it ; atheism and absurdity are to us synonymous ; and we turn, with the same pity, from the man who asks us to prove to him, by any reasoning, the existence of God, as we should from him who asked us to prove that we our- selves were alive. The divinity stirs within us;' in the unde- filed mirror of man's mind, it is reflected from the millions of objects around and within him ; but, if this mirror be defiled, ob- scured, or broken, we may concentrate all the rays of truth, and pour them in upon it forever, and it will be forever in vain. If these men say to us, “it is all folly and prejudice to treat fe- males any differently from males; the tenderness, the respect, which you show them, is not founded in nature ; they ought, like men, to labor for their support, and not to be made effemi- nate and useless by over-attention' — shall we attempt to reason with them — shall we not pity and shun them? We have heard men, who rank high for intelligence, virtue, and patriotism, say, you ought not to forbid people calling in question the existence of a God; they have a right to convince others, if they can, that the laws of property, and the laws of marriage, are unjust ; they have a right, by reasoning and argu- * As a specimen of the heartlessness and wickedness of the disciples of the Infidel school, we will relate a fact, which came recently to our personal knowl- edge. A blind boy, of eleven years of age, remarkable for his inquisitive and pre- cocious mind, was coming in a stage-coach to the Institution in this City. In the coach was an Infidel, who amused himself by trying to shake the religious belief which had been carefully instilled into the boy's mind; and cruelly endeavored to destroy his hopes of happiness beyond the grave, by assailing, with all the force of sophistry and ridicule, his faith in a future state. This heartless miscreant, this viper in human form, alike insulted and grieved the poor sightless boy, by telling him that his parents ought to be ashamed of teaching him false and superstitious doctrines ; and when the youth stoutly affirmed his belief in the existence of a Deity, the blasphemous wretch said, Your God must be a wicked God, and very cruel and unjust to you, for he made you blind without any fault of your own! 56 Atheism in New-England. ment, to call in question any social regulation. But, against this dangerous doctrine we take a solemn stand. When men asso- ciate for mutual support and enjoyment, they renounce certain of their natural rights, and their individual independence in cer- tain things. Religion, morality, order, and law, are essential ; and we have a right to demand and extort conformity to them, or the departure of those who will not conform. He who is prepared to let the infidels advance one step, must concede to them the whole ground : if a man has a right to try to shake the belief of his neighbor's wife in the sanctity of the marriage vow, he has a right to seduce her from him ; if he has a right to rail against virtue, he has a right openly to encourage vice, and by music and dancing and feasting, to add to the force of his reasonings; if he may call in question the rights of property, he may lay his hands on what he can get; if he has a right to per- suade the poor and ignorant, that laws are made only to oppress them, he has a right to excite them to riot, and to lead them on to break open prisons, and let out the persecuted men who are not thieves, but only dividers of property. Are we prepared to go this length ? Surely not; and if not, then let us put a stop to the advance of the atheistical and agrarian party, as a party, at once. And now comes the momentous question, how shall we act — how oppose the enemy — with what weapons shall we fight ? These questions are of grave import; the difficulties are exceed- ingly great ; but the danger is pressing, and must be met. The questions must be answered, and the very difficulty of choosing our method of action should incite to attention. But before ad- vising any method of action, we will state summarily the prin- cipal doctrines of the infidels ; and the extent, organization, and instruments of their party. They deny the existence of a God; and often in language too blasphemous and offensive to be quoted. To our mind, there is not the shadow of evidence in support of the existence of a god independent of the great whole, all nature, the universe. Indeed such a god is the veriest chimera that ever swayed the fancy of mortals.* It is plain that the notion of a God's existence is founded alone on the impres- sions which nature itself has made on the mind of uninformed men.t Their doctrines degrade man to a level with the brutes ; for they deny to him an immortal soul. 26. If man has more of reason than any other animal, it is because he has greater wants and faculties. 28. The soul is the only principle of sensibility. To think, to suffer, to enjoy - is to feel. When the body, therefore, ceases to live, it cannot exercise sensibility. * Boston Investigator, Nov. 7, 1834. † Bible of Reason, chap. xii. verse 58. Atheism in New-England. 57 Where there are no senses there can be no ideas. The soal only perceives by means of the organs ; how then is it possible for it to feel after their dissolution.* Adieu to all the anxious fears Of never ending future years, In future worlds unknown ; While others fancy, like a dream, A future world to us unseen We'll cultivate our own. The manner, in which they rail at Christianity and legal en- actments for its support, may be judged of from the following specimens — Alluding to a regulation, adopted by some young men emigrating to the West, that all who joined them should be willing to support the Institutions of the Gospel according to their faith,' a Free Inquirer writes in the following disgusting and profane language; — A god who makes choice of a horde of demoralizing minions, such as compose the Plymouth Emigrating Society, even if he existed, should never have our hom- age. We would sooner be — eternally than we would sink ourself to the level of his vile caitiffs and psalm-singing slaves who thus proscribe their fellow citizens. A premium is offered for hypocricy. A man must put on the swaddling clothes of religion, or he is denied the right of citizenship. Is this the religion that humbly presents itself to the understanding of all men ? Is this the religion whose charity measures the expanse of the heavens, and “whose mercy endureth forever'? Or is it the religion that rears its brazen front from its own native filth and pollution, and boasts its pretensions to credit and support over right and truth's liberal principles ? Show us one of its blessings, and we will show you a thousand evils of its own as the counterpart. No evil so great but good may result from it ; but never was there an evil from which so little good has emanated as from religion. I Even at the present day, in the cities of the United States, where men pretend to call themselves free, such is the religiously debased and enslaved state of men, that booksellers, whatever may be their own opinions, are afraid, openly, to offer a book for sale: which, setting forth the truth of Nature, might give umbrage to the scholastic interestedness, aristocratic wealth, and loutish bigotry, which are com- bined in the work of yet preserving the rotten mummied religion of the cursed and vulgar holy bible. A cursed joke that — that priests of imposture and their followers should ar- rogate sacred reverence for their deceptive foolishness, and raise the cry of shame against the man of sense, who is courageous enough to encounter their Christian ruffianism. In the works of the Infidels, Christians are called “rabble fol- lowers of Jesus'; 6coward hypocrites'; 'fanatic slaves'; and the Blessed Jesus, whom Christians regard as Mediator, and love as Saviour, is styled “a seditious fanatic and magician, a miracle monger, an encourager of intemperance, a liar and de- ceiver.' * Bible of Reason. Part II. chap. ii. verses 26 and 28. † National Hymns. [Boston Stereotype Edition) By Abner Kneeland. Dox- ology No. vii. Boston Investigator, Nov. 14, 1834. ſ Boston Investigator. VOL VIII. 53 Atheism in New-England. They degrade the female character ; they aim a deadly blow at the sanctity of the marriage contract; they diminish the induce- ment to a life of chastity and virtue. The Bible of Reason, Part II. chap. xii. verse 72, says, “When a comely girl takes a devout turn, I can scarcely help thinking it is only for want of some handsome young fellow to whisper it out of her in the course of a week, and put anything he pleases in its place.' The tendency of Infidel writers in England, whose doctrines are followed here, has been to lessen, if not entirely to annul the legal force of the marriage contract. The time has hardly come when the Free Inquirer dare avow it here. The officiating preacher in this city, however, has said to individuals of undoubted veracity, that he would have no other marriage bond than the will of the parties. He now tries to skulk from this ; but in his Evidences, 3d edition, p. 194, he says, There should be no laws in relation to marriage. It is a civil contract between the parties, which stands upon the same basis as all other civil contracts, which are binding so long as the parties mutually agree and no longer. The parties who make the contract can dissolve it at pleasure by mutual consent. But if the parties cannot agree to separate by mutual consent, then it is necessary to call in a third party, or one more, as referees or arbitrators, not to bind the parties together, for, in relation to matrimony, that is impossible, where affection does not bind them ; but, to say on what terms they shall separate. They diminish the inducements to a life of sobriety and chas- tity, by degrading the standard of virtue ; and by striving to coun- teract and defeat nature in her laws, for the limitation of the appetites, by affixing penalties to their indulgence. The Bible of Reason, Part I. chap. xii. verse 149, says — No indulgence is an evil in itself ; that only is to be esteemed such, which is followed by a greater mortification and uneasiness than are compensated for by the satisfaction of its enjoyment. Verse 150. The harm of pleasure is not felt in its enjoyment, but vice is de- testable for its consequences. Verse 151. Virtue is appreciated for the pleasure it produces. They have books, giving directions for the gratification of ani- mal desire without fear of the natural consequences, false and insufficient, indeed, as every scientific man knows, which purport to be effectual, and which are sold for filthy lucre by the priest, and others high in authority among them. This statement was made in our first article, and has been de- nied by Kneeland and his followers. We repeat the assertion, and we have furnished ourself with proofs of its truth. It is un- necessary to quote the disgusting details ; we will not stain our pages with them. For a full and satisfactory proof of our posi- tion, we need only refer to a work called Moral Physiology, printed in New York by Wright & Owen, and sold by Abner Kneeland, in Boston. We would refer also to the Investigators Atheism in New-England, 59 for July, 1831, in one of which, the whole doctrine, illustrated by the work just mentioned, is compressed into a single sentence of the most degrading profligacy. The Free Inquirers make open and undisguised efforts to stir up the passions of the poor against the rich ; and they propose means to remove what they call the tyranny of the rich.' Speaking of combinations to extort higher prices, they say — This species of remedy does not apply to the labor of the agriculturist only ; but to every mechanical profession in Boston. They ought to combine together and compel the rich to do them justice, and pay the full value of their labor or products. This course would make every thing right with the poor ; for it would compel the rich to act honorably and justly, and put a stop to all religion, and all its chimeras which we see benefit the rich only.* To the same men who interpret these laws of other days, and make us obey them, we have entrusted the general business of the government — and we are now reaping the reward of our negligence. Whilst we have been hard at work, the rich men, the ambitious men— the lawyers, the non-producers — have set traps, by means of law making, to deprive us of the fruits of our labor. To a Republican people, no truth should be more plain than this — laws that we cannot understand were never made for us, and it is our duty to abolish them.t I now declare to you, and to the world, that Man, up to this hour, has been in all parts of the earth, a slave to a Trinity of the most monstrous evils, that could be combined to inflict mental and physical evil upon his whole race. I refer to Private or Individual property — absurd and irrational systems of Religion - and Marriage, founded on individual property, combined with some one of these irrational systems of religion. Such, then, is the creed of the Atheistical party ; such are the doctrines, which they trumpet through numerous press- es; which they promulgate from their miscaled pulpits ; which they inculcate by precept, and strive to live up to in example. Now what shall men, who believe them to be destructive of the social and moral dignity of the race, do to oppose them ? Shall they call in the aid of the law ? No; for although society has, by every consideration of self-preservation, the same right to punish the propagators of these doctrines, as it has to punish rob- bers and felons ; although there are among them men whom our reason, and their own consciences, pronounce more worthy of the gibbet or the cell, than some poor wretches, whom momen- tary passion leads to crime, — still, there are very few cases where direct legal prosecution has not the tendency to spread the prosecuted creed. We would refrain, then, from prosecution, in most cases ; not because the eternal principles of justice, and the conditions on which men are admitted to the advantages of society, would not warrant it — but because it would be productive of little good. * Boston Investigator, Nov. 14, 1834. + Political Catechism. Printed by the publisher of the Investigator. Robert Owen's Declaration of Mental Independence. 60 Atheism in New-England. We have already said, that we would not argue with those who assert absurdities; but we would not neglect to address the reason and moral principles of man. We believe, nay ! we know, that the existence of a God, the truths of religion, the beauty of morality, the necessity of order, are all clear and self-evident to a pure and enlightened mind ; and it is light and purification which the public mind requires. The roots of the evil lie far beneath the surface. We might shut up every Atheistical chapel, imprison every active Atheist, break every infidel press, and still not effect the object.; for we should have still to enlighten, purify, and elevate the moral and intellectual nature of society. Let us hurry on, then, the car of education – let it not stop a moment, or it will sink in the mid-way morass ere it reaches firm ground ; let not the people rest with the dangerous little' knowledge ; they have ascended just so far as to be in the region where clouds and vapors dim and distort the moral vision let them mount to the summit, where the glorious sun of truth shews the beauty and perfection, by shewing the design and ORDER of all things. But it is not merely to fabricate the instruments for pouring and pouring knowledge into the never-filled vessel of the hu- man mind; it is not merely to build schools, and print books, and teach facts, that we are called upon ; there is a higher, more important, and oh ! far more difficult task to accomplish. Let us overcome the prejudices of society, — let us break down the artificial distinctions of classes, as much as may be — let not a man's passport to our confidence or our intimacy be his wealth, or his parentage, but his intelligence, and his MORAL WORTH. The laboring man, who is intelligent and honest, and who has his own self-respect — be his gains ever so small, be his garb ever so coarse, be his hand ever so hard — feels beating within his bosom a proud heart which tells him, and tells him truly, that he is peer to the proudest and richest in the country ; and that heart may be filled with confidence and affection, or with envy and bitterness, as it is treated with respect or with contumely. Parents, too, have a solemn duty to fulfil by personal attention to the education of their children; not to their schooling alone, not to the acquisition of knowledge merely, but to their moral education, and to their habits. The doors of the temples of vice are wide open — music and dancing invite them to enter. Masters and mistresses have a solemn duty to fulfil towards their apprentices and servants ; they are to become their friends and advisers; they are to watch as well over their morals as their manners ; they are to see not only that they read, but to know what they read ; they should carefully guard against the blasphe- mous, disorganizing, and lewd pamphlets, which are distributed Atheism in New-England. 61 by the Infidels, and often gratuitously. * If the higher motives of humanity, and a love for the human race be not enough to in- duce masters to treat those who serve them, as fellow-men should be treated ; let the consideration that these are the representatives of a party, on which the order of society, and the security of pro- perty depend, which possesses more real power than any other, and which is de facto the dominant power in the land. But, lastly, there is yet another mode of treating the Infidels, which we would earnestly recommend to be put fully, sternly, and immediately into practice. It is to bring the whole moral force of society to bear upon them, and to reform or silence them. There are among them, leaders, men of worldly substance, men who still yield that tribute of hypocricy which vice pays to virtue, men who are dealt with upon 'Change, and received into society : let them be known, let the finger of scorn be pointed at them; let us notice them only by the look of contempt; let the merchant erase their names from his books ; let females close the doors of their drawing-rooms to them, as they would to blacklegs and suindlers. Will they raise the cry of persecution ? They cannot ; for they are the persecutors — they are the agressors ; and it is the Christian, the pious, peaceful Christian, whose God they blas- pheme, whose religion they insult, whose social ties they would sever, whose wife and daughter they would make common pro- perty, whose sons they would corrupt, whose possessions they would divide, – it is he, who has to complain of aggression and insult, and who is bound to maintain his religion and his social relations. We put the case solemnly to our merchants, — Are you Chris- tians ? do you believe it to be your duty to uphold, by every means in your power, religion and morality, in the common ac- ceptation of the words ? If so, how can you deal with men who openly ridicule and assail the one, and directly attack the other? We see men among you (and we may yet name them) who hire the poor tool that officiates at the Federal Street orgies, who speculate upon his ravings, by exacting six cents a head from his hearers, and who receive twenty-five cents from every young man and woman (we beg their pardon — they let in a pair for thirty-seven and a half cents) who come to dance, and carry out the precepts they receive on Sundays, at the weekly balls on Wednesdays. We allude not to the proprietors of the building; we do not know that they are to blame; but we allude to those men who are basely pandering to the evil passions of the poorer class for money — ay, for money -- to men who are * Copies of one of the Infidel pamphlets, containing the most revolting senti- ments, were lately sent gratuitously to many thousand persons in this State. 62 Atheism in New-England. among you, merchants, whose names are in your ledgers — and with whom you are in daily communication. It cannot be that you know them ; if you did, you would feel and say as we do sooner be our right hand withered, than receive, in a Judas grasp, that of men who are more despicable than the bold pirate, or the open robber. We take leave of this painful subject for the present ; we shall, however, resume it, unless some able champion shall step into the field ; but we do most earnestly hope some such will ap- pear, for we do not feel competent to manage a subject of such momentous interest. We were perfectly aware, before com- mencing it, that we were rendering ourself liable to a torrent of scurrilous, personal abuse, and yet we would not skulk under the cover of an anonymous article, or false signature, but gave the little weight our name would carry. The abuse which we fore- saw, has begun ; it will, we doubt not, be continued — but we regard, it as we should the bayings of dogs scared from some ſoul prey ; nay, we shall rejoice in what we have done, if perchance our feeble but sincere efforts, to put society on its guard against an insidious foe, have been successful. S. G. H. SONNET. Oh, that along the rolling waves of Time i My memory might be waſted — and my name, Mingled forever with harmonious rhyme, Swell some faint cadence from the trump of Fame ! Could I such refuge from oblivion claim, And know my lyre could yield some living tone; Then, all unconscious of the praise or blame, Which o'er my deeds the Present may have thrown, I should be happy in my waking dream, My dream of Fame ! one star would be mine own, In beauty from the Future's sky to gleam — One scarce-heard voice be mine, and mine alone. Though dark the storm o'er Being's changeful sea, That light would shine, that music sound for me! PARK BENJAMIN, 63 SHERIDAN KNOWLES'S VISIT TO CORK. BY A FRIEND AND COUNTRYMAN. This natal onge's Strein by his spring of when "Hasons, Bringcoth and M.: Knowie, about Forty years had elapsed since Knowles, when a boy, de- parted from his native city. In the spring of 1834, an engage- ment having been offered him by his friend, Mr. Seymour, then lessee of the George's Street theatre ; about the commencement of May, his natal month, Mr. Knowles embarked at Bristol, and after a very smooth and quick passage arrived in Cork. His two sons, Brinsley and George, accompanied him. He had contemplated the visit with all the freshness of boy- hood's feelings — kept under check, however, by the experience of maturity. Disappointment, as we have heard him say, had been his familiar acquaintance so long, that her face never took him by surprise - he had learned to smile at seeing it. Accord- ingly, he had kept the adage —'a prophet,' &c. - continually in his mind. He stood upon what must be admitted to be a proud and enviable eminence. His merits, as a dramatist - long disputed by a portion of the London press, notwithstanding the success of Virginius, Gracchus, Tell, and Alfred — had been at last set at rest by the production of the Hunchback. The palm was now conceded to him by all. Diurnals and periodicals vied with one another in their encomiums. The first place among the dramatists of his age was awarded him. He had proved himself an actor too, as well as an author. How would his native city receive her long absent son ? It was fortunate for him, that he had endeavored to moderate his expectations on this head. Cork is not an affluent city. His visit was made at a very unfavorable time — at a season when there is hardly any traffic going on between the country and the town — the dead time of the year, when business is almost entirely at a stand, and money, consequently, scarce. Although supported by Miss Jarman, a very accomplished and interesting actress, as well as a young lady of the most amiable private char- acter, he fulfilled an engagement of thirteen nights with small ac- cession to his funds. On the night of his first appearance, the theatre was little more than one fourth full ; and even at his ben- efit, notwithstanding the activity of several warm-hearted young fellows, who formed themselves into a committee for the occa- sion, the receipts fell considerably short of what the house would contain.. But let it be recorded of the aristocratic gentry of Cork — let it be recorded to the credit of that class, that they stood consist- ently aloof. Not an individual among them but one vouchsafed a visit to their townsman. The door of his lodgings and the door of the theatre, were alike unsaluted by the compliment of 64 Sheridan Knowles's Visit to Cork. their footsteps. And why should it have been otherwise ? They or their fathers had persecuted the elder Knowles. How could the son look for a welcome from them ? Forty-two years before was the father of the dramatist the head of the most flourishing seminary in Cork. He dared to think as his cousin, the late R. B. Sheridan — as Fox and Grey did, upon the subject of the French Revolution. He must be crushed ! The tories of Cork — the bigoted — the intolerant — the unsparing — and, un- fortunately, the influential — united, heart and voice, in denouncing him as a man unfit to be entrusted with the education of youth. In a week, every form in his school was stripped. His ruin was irretrievable in his native land : he was compelled to quit that land and go with his wife and three children to England — there to begin the world anew! But the dramatist had that within him, which made his first visit to his native city, after so long an absence from it, a suffi- ciently interesting one. Every street was an old play-fellow to him, whose face he knew the moment he looked upon it. He had forgotten nothing — he required no guide. His grandfather's house -- the house in which his father lived — the houses of several of his father's friends were perfectly familiar to him. He knew at a glance, coming unexpectedly upon it, the chapel to which his nurse had taken him to see mass performed for the soul of the Queen of France. It was the same with a church, to which he was allowed to go one evening, when his sister's music-master took her, and a party of young ladies, to hear the organ. To find out the cottage in which he had been nursed — it stood in a row with several others, exactly of the same appearance — would have been an easy thing, had not a large stone, which stood at the door, been removed. He went into the garden and saw the stump of an old tree, which had been cut down. "Ah!' cried he, . There is the old elder tree! Is it not ?? It was the re- mains of it. His memory, or rather his heart, was full of the pictures of his boyhood. But it was not streets and roads and houses and trees alone, that he remembered. The woman, that watched o'er his child- hood,' was still living. To her care and tenderness, under Pro- vidence, he was indebted for his life, which, until he was six years old, was an object of the greatest doubt and solicitude — SO delicate was his constitution. Upon her was his first call; not because -- as it is stated in a memoir recently circulated in this country — not because he did not remember any one else in Cork, but because she was worth all Cork to him. Her name was Carey. He found her comfortably situated in a kind and worthy family, by whom, out of respect for her fidelity, as a dry- nurse, she was treated as a friend — even sitting at table with them. Another high gratification awaited bim, in renewing his Sheridan Knowles's Visit to Cork. 65 acquaintance with his old writing-master, a gentleman of the name of Mitchell, then in his ninety-fifth year — as straight as a lath, with an eye still bright and glancing. He enjoyed, also, the satisfac- tion of meeting with an old friend of his family — a Dr. Mann — an excellent hearted man, as he says, who had often dandled the dramatist on his knee. A gentleman, too, of the name of Trav- ers, who had been intimate with his father, was extemely atten- tive to him. Mr. Knowles had forgotten to provide himself with letters of introduction. A friend, however, more thoughtful of him than he was of himself, made up for the omission, and immediately sent a packet of them after him. By means of these letters, he made the acquaintance of one of the first mercantile gentlemen in Cork - a Mr. Murphy ; as well as that of several of the Ro- man Catholic pastors of that City. This, we have heard him say, was a source of great gratification to him, both on account of the hospitality with which he was treated, and of the opportu- nity with which it furnished him of denouncing, from personal knowledge, the calumnies, which the enemies of civil and reli- gious freedom so industriously circulated to the prejudice of the clergymen of the native Irish church of which establishment, Mr. Knowles, it must be remarked, is not a member. His clerical friends took him to a monastery, where he enjoyed the delightful spectacle of several hundreds of poor boys, occu- pied in receiving gratuitous instruction from the Friars — men, as he describes, of meek and modest deportment. The schools were conducted on the Lancastrian principle — only the course was more extensive than what is usually adopted in the parent seminary and its branches. Several of the boys were far ad- vanced in the classics and in mathematics. They all looked healthy and happy. There were bare feet enough to be sure, as well as variegated coats; but not a hand or a face that was not as clean as a new sixpence.' But what made the greatest impression upon him, was his visit to the Ursuline Convent; which, he says, he no sooner entered than instead of the gloom and stillness which he anticipated, he saw nothing but cheerfulness — certainly sedate — and the bustle of business. The fair recluses were engaged in superintending the education of a number of young persons of their own sex. Ev- ery accomplishment, that could fit a young woman for gracefully entering the world, was taught there. He saw the most credit- able specimens of drawing ; witnessed performances, both vocal and instrumental, of the very best description ; and was delighted at the proficiency of the pupils in geography, history, &c. &c. And there were little faces, fresh and clear with the satisfaction of healthful occupation, pleasingly conducted — anything but the VOL. VIII. 66 Sheridan Knowles's Visit to Cork. care and fag and weariness, which he had frequently remarked in the inmates of the lay boarding-school. Two of the sisterhood conducted him and his friends over the building - two unaffected, talented, and well-educated women. Nothing of the sombre about them, except the convent dress. Placid, polite, communicative — speaking and moving with the tongue and foot of life !— the serenity of consummate satisfac- tion ! Nothing that indicated the feeling of a profession forced — an obligation regretted — a loss — a sacrifice! Upon taking leave, one of the ladies, with whom Mr. Knowles more particu- larly conversed, remarked to him, that they were not unacquaint- ed with his plays — that they intended to have extracts from one of them — William Tell — recited at the approaching examina- tion of their pupils. She understood, she said, that he was on the point of embarking for America. She wished him all pros- perity, and would pray for his safety ; and for his happiness, both temporal and eternal. She hoped he would not forget his native city — and that, when he thought of it, he would also give a thought to the Ursuline Convent — and to the Recluse of the Rock! Mr. Knowles had every reason to be grateful to his clerical friends. He found them as hospitable as they were liberal and enlightened. He spent a great deal of his time with them, and often threatens to denounce Doctors O'Connor, Fleming, Sulli- van, Daly, and O'Shea, to the Pope, for keeping company with a play-wright — a play-actor, and a heretic! By the last named gentleman, he was flattered in a manner singularly gratifying to his feelings. No sooner was his name pronounced by the friend who took him to Dr. O'Shea's, to deliver his letter of introduc- tion, than the face of the Doctor colored up with satisfaction. He advanced, and grasping him by both hands, told him that there was not a man in the United Kingdom whom he should be more proud and happy to see — and then, taking a case from his waistcoat pocket, presented to him a card, addressed to the dra- matist, and which he had just prepared with a view of making him a call. He had read, he assured him, all his plays except the last — The Beggar of Bethnall Green — and, only a day or two before, he had been the mover of an order for the procuring of that comedy for a literary society, of which he was a member. In his native city, Mr. Knowles had a taste too, of true old Irish hospitality, in the instance of a family of the name of Barry, with whom he became intimate through a slight acquaint- ance with some of its members. This family made party after party for him -- regaled him in the country as well as in the lown, and finally laid an embargo upon his two sons, which was not taken off until, having finished engagements in Limerick and Our Affairs with France. 67 Clonmell, Mr. Knowles wrote to Cork, entreating that the boys might be allowed to join him Dublin, preparatory to his embarking for Liverpool. In short, though disappointed in some respects, Mr. Knowles speaks of his return to his native city as a thing to be treasured among his sweetest recollections. OUR AFFAIRS WITH FRANCE. The evils of the existing dynasty are not yet consummated. Our merchants and manufacturers have not yet suffered suffi- ciently from the blessings of government. Society has not yet been sufficiently shocked by proscription, by usurpation, by vio- lence, by menace, by corruption. The cup is not yet full. The catalogue is not yet complete. To domestic dissention, and the bitterness of party animosity, we are to add, in all human probability, the calamity of foreign war ; a war, idly, rashly, and wantonly induced. The French government owed monies to the United States, as an indemnity for spoliations committed upon our commerce during the convulsions which ushered in the present century, and shook Europe, and the world, to its centre. The French Ex- ecutive acknowledged the debt, and became party to a treaty in which it promised to pay a liquidated sum. The treaty was sub- mitted to the Chamber of Deputies for its approval, with a view of securing the requisite appropriations to carry it into effect. A debate ensued in the Chamber. Many members entertained an impression that the ministers had been deceived, and had stipulated to pay what was not reasonably due. Arguments were brought forward, which might well incline a disinterested person to doubt as to some of the concessions of the government. A full, temperate, and able discussion of the whole subject ensued ; our claims were fairly advocated, with zeal and eloquence, on the part of the minister, who had allowed them ; they were com- bated with equal zeal and eloquence, by members who thought they had reason to dispute their justice. It resulted in the rejec- tion of the Bill to carry articles of the Treaty into effect, by a vote of one hundred and seventy-six to one hundred and sixty-eight. Much excitement prevailed at the time, and the Chamber imme- diately adjourned. Now, in all this, we have no doubt that the Chamber acted in good faith ; that its members honestly intended to pay all that was honestly due, and were resolved not to pay a cent more. 69 Our Affairs with France. President.ething that is k nothing that sed sentim We have little doubt that they acted on the proſessed sentiment of our present administration, to ask nothing that is not clearly right, and to submit to nothing that is wrong.' If that sentiment be laudable in President Jackson, it is equally praiseworthy in the Chamber of Deputies. They had a constitutional and legal right to reject the treaty of the ministers, if they considered it unjust ; they were bound to do so, by every impulse of honor and patriotism. Objections were started in the course of that debate, which might well make it the duty of the Chamber to take more time ; to insist on a delay, until the objections could be removed, and the difficulties explained — and all this too, without subjecting themselves to the charge of ill faith. The King of France promised to pay money — with the pro- viso, of course, which most kings must make, that his subjects would give him the wherewithal to pay. The representatives of the people veto the treaty of their monarch. Must both king and people have acted with a fraudulent intent ? The people of the United States, through their representatives, grant a re- charter to an existing corporation ; subject, of course, to the will of the executive. The President puts his veto on the grant of Congress. Is there any ill faith in this difference of two branches of government ? Can the corporation accuse Congress of deception and injustice, because their charter is not confirmed ? Can our government justly accuse, or fairly suspect Louis Phil- lipe of a designed fraud, because the Chamber of Deputies desire time to investigate his agreement to pay money, before they fur- nish him the money which he has agreed to pay ? Still, however, France owes us money, and we must get it. Under the circumstances as above described, with the assurance on the part of the King and his ministers, of a strong desire to pay the whole amount of the claims — and the intention to urge their immediate settlement strongly on the Chamber of Depu- ties — what course ought our government to pursue ? What course has it pursued ? The very course of all others, that must prevent a settlement of the claims; and which places this country in an awkward po- sition, if it do not by war compel a settlement. A menace is thrown out. The Chamber of Deputies is told by our Presi- dent, if you do not pay, I will make you. I shall advise my Congress to grant me power to issue letters of marque, and my ships of war and privateers shall cut off your commerce in every sea.' For what purpose was this menace thrown out? It could not have been to effect a settlement. Will the French Chamber of Deputies, in the eyes of all Europe, place themselves under the suspicion of being driven into the execution of a treaty, whose justice they had previously denied ? To avoid the shadow of such a suspicion, would they not be justified in assuming a not beputies, in the inte driven intonied To a Our Affairs with France. 69 hostile attitude, and telling our government that they had placed the matter on an entirely new basis ? Was the threat thrown out as a salvo to national honor ? Either the national honor has been stained, or it has not been. If we have been wronged or insulted, there is no time to be lost in punishing the wrong-doer. War should be at once declared. Every hour that we delay, adds to the weight of our disgrace. If we have not been injured, is it not uncourteous and unjust to an old ally, to accuse her openly of a desire and intention to commit injustice? Is it not most unbecoming in the chief ma- gistrate, to recommend prospective legislation on an anticipated injury? And what kind of prospective legislation? Is a course ad- vised, that is likely to answer the purposes designed by all retalia- tory measures — to benefit ourselves, and injure our enemies ? Not at all. The inhabitants of the United States will be the only large sufferers, by the adoption of the system of reprisals. France has a small commercial marine, but a numerous and well- appointed navy ; we have a small, though skilful and gallant navy, but a commerce that whitens every sea with its sails. In a fair contest then, which would suffer the most severely ? The nation which has the largest amount of property exposed. For every dollar which France has exposed, the United States have thous- ands. France will be comparatively a small loser, while the planters, and merchants, and manufacturers of this country, will have a great market closed upon them, and will be open in every part of the globe to the depredations of cruisers and pirates of every name and nation under Heaven. The national prosperity will be sadly and suddenly arrested: but this will be by no means the greatest evil. Is there nothing in the privateering system recommended by the President, which tends to demoralize and degrade our people ? To foster the too prevailing spirit of violence; to feed rapacity, to beget crime ? Is it not calculated to inflame a thirst for rapine, to aggravate a passion for plunder ? On what principles is privateering usually conducted ? From a desire of gain, not honor ; of profit, not renown; to swell the leaf of a ledger, not to inscribe a page of honorable history. Must not such a system, pursued for any length of time, leave the morals of any nation in a worse state than it found them ?: We do not hesitate, then, to pronounce the suggestion of the President, in every respect unworthy and injudicious; unworthy, because it is a gross attack on the integrity and honor of a nation which was our earliest ally, and to which we have been attached by no ordinary relations of amity ; injudicious, because it must frustrate the very purpose for which it was intended, and beause it proposes an ineffectual remedy for an evil which, in all probability, 70 Our Affairs with France. it cannot but induce. If the Chamber of Deputies have not yet confirmed the treaty, we can anticipate only a most awkward and ridiculous dilemma. It will refuse to grant the stipulated indem- nity. The President then must follow up his menace. Then will come the system of reprisals, the consequent shock to our na- tional industry and enterprise, and the ultimate loss of the whole amount of our claims. If he recede from his position, he will be subject to the charge of having thrown out a threat which he lacked the ability to carry into execution. To what then may be reasonably attributed the course of the President ? To the spirit of quarrel and violence which has marked every measure of his administration ; to a passion for renown, an unsatisfied appetite for GLORY. Having exhausted all the sources of domestic excitement, he seeks a new theatre for the indulgence of his passion and the display of his powers. This spirit must be checked, and peremptorily checked. The stern and sober rebuke of a reflecting people must be put upon every measure, designed to invest him with additional military power. The insane and wicked adulations of worthless syco- phants have swollen him with an idle admiration of his own per- sonal greatness. He has been told, day by day, in the columns of his official journal, that the battle of New Orleans is the great- est triumph recorded in history, and that he is himself the great- est conqueror of the age in which he lives. He has imbibed adulation with every draught, and inhaled it in every breath - and the country may yet have reason to learn, from the saddest experience, that as sycophancy, subservience to power, and popular delusion, did not disappear with the empire of Rome, so ambition, and unhallowed lust of glory and dominion have not been buried in the tomb of Cæsar. CRITICAL NOTICES. A Discourse, pronounced at the Inauguration of the Author, as Eliot Professor of Greek Literature in Harvard University. By Cornelius C. Felton, A. M. This is a beautiful production, full of instructive thoughts and views, expressed in choice and polished language. The author shows himself to be among those scholars, whom he has happily described, as uniting a higher tone of criticism, a more searching spirit of analysis, with less pedantry and more taste, than belonged to the early cultivators of classical literature. One turns with joy from the pro- verbial dullness of the old commentators upon the classics — the scholiasts and the later editors and professors - to a neat and elegant view, illustrating some of the leading traits of Greek literature, like the present. It is like glancing from the barren rocks of Ithaca to the verdant sunlit plains of Arcadia. Such writers, as Bloomfield, the accomplished bishop of London, and Mr. Henry Coleridge, in England, and Mr. Felton, in our country, will do much to strip the classics of the repulsive garb, in which the pedantry and vain learning of the old scholars have arrayed them. They will also manifest, in the strongest possible manner — by their own living example — that elegance of taste, purity of diction, and freedom in the use of their native language, are entirely consistent with deep classical learning, and a continued devotion to its attainment. The present discourse shows that Mr. Felton has devoted himself to the classics in the true spirit. He loves Homer and Hesiod and Pindar, and that glorious triumvir- ate of genius, which adorned the Greek stage — by the side of which, either poetical triumvirate of ancient Rome 'pales its ineffectual fires' — but he does not forget the works of the artist, or the literature of his own country. To ancient art, as manifested in works of sculpture, painting, and architecture, he has given particular attention, - and the importance of associating this with the study of the classics, forms an interesting topic of the present discourse. Mr. Felton is already favorably known to the literary public, by his beautiful edition of Homer's Iliad, with Flaxman's Illustrations. The same taste and learn- ing, which characterize the present discourse, appear in the preface and notes to that. We look upon Mr. Felton's labors in the field of classical literature, as deg- tined to reflect honor upon our country, and to advance largely the means of edu- cation and intellectual pleasure. Mr. Cushing's Eulogy on Lafayette. This is a very spirited performance. It begins with some appropriate remarks on the occasion that called the assembly together. The orator then describes, in just and glowing language, the effects of posthumous honors paid to departed worth, 72 Critical Notices. in stimulating the living to imitate the illustrious dead. These observations lead naurally to an analysis of the character of Lafayette, in which Mr. Cushing points out the peculiar marks which give an individuality to that illustrious man's career, immeasurably above the level of most of his contemporaries. This is accompanied or illustrated by a rapid history of the principal events in his life ; a sketch of the condition and characters of the American colonies at the time of his first arrival on these shores ; and the nature of the services he rendered to our nearly desperate cause. The state of France, on Lafayette's return from the United States, is set forth in a brief, but striking view. The effects of this state, added to the enthu- siastic excitement, caused by the final success of the arms, and the station, which the more than chivalrous exploits of Lafayette, and his spotless fame, gave to him, among his high-spirited but oppressed countrymen, are detailed in a narrative of unusual animation. Indeed the whole course of Lafayette, through the trying and tempting scenes of the French Revolution, is illustrated with a fervent love of the subject, and a thorough knowledge of all its bearings, equally honorable to the memory of the sage and hero, and to the abilities of the eulogist. And the same remarks may be applied to the sketch of the closing scenes of Lafayette's long and glorious life. The style of this discourse is full and flowing. The topics are selected with judgment, and the historical sketches are brought in skilfully for the purpose of exhibiting the character of the Illustrious Dead, in a strong and clear light. On the whole, we think this Eulogy presents a picture of Lafayette, drawn with re- markable power, propriety and knowledge. Boston Journal of Natural History, containing papers and com- munications read to the Boston Society of Natural History. The excellence of this interesting Journal will attract the public attention and the regard of scientific men to the Society, under whose direction it has been issued. This first number contains the Aldress of the Rev. F. W. P. Greenwood, on the opening of the Society's new Hall; Remarks in defence of the Author of 'Birds of America' - against certain attacks which had been made in England upon two particular descriptions given in the work of Mr. Audubon — and four valuable dis- sertations from Drs. Lewis, Gould and Jackson, and Amos Binney, jr. Esq. The illustrative plates are exceedingly well executed — particularly those of the shell -- the Fusus Aruanus — upon which Mr. Binney’s very correct and learned observations are made. As the chief objects of the institution of this Society were to inspire a taste for the study of Natural History, to afford the means of gratifying that taste, and of acquiring a knowledge of this important branch of science ; no better method could have been adopted than the publication of a Journal, like this, containing and preserving the papers read by members, or communications made at the meetings of the Society. Nearly four years have passed since a few gentlemen met together to found • The Boston Society of Natural History.' But in this period a great deal has been effected. A course of lectures, before the citizens of Boston, was so successful, and so numerously attended, that the Society were enabled to fit up an extensive and handsome hall in the new building of the Institution for Savings ;' and, by the generous contributions of its members, and the co-operation of zealous friends, to Critical Notices. 73 fill their cabinet with a very valuable collection of specimens in every department of the science ; interesting not only to naturalists, but calculated to excite the ad- miration of the curious. The appearance of this Journal is the latest and the best indication of the prosperity of this Society ; in whose future welfare and ad- vancement, all true friends of learning must feel warmly interested. Hamlet, a Dramatic Prelude ; in Five Acis. By James Rush, M. D. Author of the Philosophy of the Human Voice.' We have written bad prose in our day, very bad, and no inconsiderable quantity of bad verse. We have read bad prose and bad verse written by other people ; rather worse, we think, than we have ever been guilty of ourselves. But of all the verse and prose, that was ever written, read, or imagined, we think the volume before us furnishes the most melancholy specimens. The preface has a distinguished air of learning and pedantry. In regard to the Doctor's former work, it discourses as follows: • By making the sure and unconten- tious Logic of the Senses, so to call it, the antipode to the fictional dialectic of the schools, I found I had set the happy result of that logic entirely out of sight, on the other side of the medical world.' Hazardous as it may be, for an humble writer of simple English, to criticise a man who talks so profoundly of the “fictional dia- lectic' of the schools, we must for once set our ignorance against the Doctor's knowledge, and present the Dramatic Prelude to the Grand Jury of literature as a nuisance in verse. An English poet, of some celebrity in his day, once wrote a tragedy, which he called Hamlet ; Dr. Rush has undertaken to eclipse the memory of the old drama, by his present production. The dramatis persone are Hamlet, Polonius, Osric, Rosencrantz, and a few other names familiar somewhat to play-goers, but destined to a revived celebrity in the pages of a trans-Atlantic Shakspeare. The rythmus' of the play, we are kindly informed, does not altogether conform to the strict rule of iambic measure,' but is something to the Doctor's ear much more agreeable; he has had regard to time, and not to mere ictus.' "Though I have freely used,' says the poet, other prosodial feet that mingle agreeably with the iambic current, I have generally, except at grammatical pauses, where the harshness is less percep- tible, endeavored to avoid the shock produced by the reverse impression of the trochee. I have also avoided that customary, but unmeaning and awkward use of an iambus at the beginning of a line, after a supernumerary unaccented syllable at the end of a preceding line. Thus the reader will perceive that where the sentence is continuous, the order becomes trochaic, and is so carried on until the use of some trisyllabic foot restores the measure to the iambic succession. Though, to the ear, the whole is essentially iambic.' Any one who has failed to be convinced by the Doctor's theory of versification, cannot fail to be charmed and delighted by his practical accomplishment in the sci- ence, of which he so learnedly discourses. We will give one or two instances and leave the Doctor and his drama to the immortality that awaits both : The voice that sometimes Dialogues with self, now asks me what I Am. I may indeed say -- knave, yet add, how This old coin of character, worn smooth by turns VOL VIII. 10 Critical Notices. Of give and take in craftiness slips through the Careless fingers of the world : But then, to Be a murderer ; or which is no less, make Chance the villain, would be such new coinage In my sing, that laid close home on conscience, Might strike -- in a fearful image there, and Press sharp edges on the public palm. The air sits Not as goaler on his lips, to slam his Honest attendance back. Nor does he find the Pure and free-spread water of the heavens, by Wrangling sophisters caught up, to wash both Him and all to one tyrannic color of Opinion. These five things mayest Thou do with music :- Patronize it, - gape At it, - encore it, — be made deaf by it, - And pay for it :- but good society has Taught us for the sixth, - thou shalt not feel it. After reading the above passages, no one can deny that the Doctor excels Shakspeare as much in the beauty of his sentiments, as in the melody of his versi- fication. Could Shakspeare have talked so about 'trochees', and iambuses', and • fictional dialectics'? Never. He must yield to Dr. Rush. Travels in the Equatorial Regions of South America. By A. R. Terry, M. D. This is the work of an intelligent observer and agreeable writer. The author sailed from New-York for Jamaica in 1831. From Jamaica he went to Chagre, and thence to Panama. His journey was continued with but little interruption, until he reached Guayaquil. His account of the manners and customs of this place is drawn up with some considerable detail, and is extremely interesting. After having spent some time here, our author set off for the interior, making his journey partly by river navigation, and partly over land, with mules. He describes the re- markable objects in the country he passes through, and mingles a good deal of sci- entific information relative to its natural productions. Iu this part of his journey, he passes the Chimborazo, the region of which he describes in a very lively manner. The city of Quito seems to have been the grand object of Mr. Terry's expedition. He remained here longer than in any other city, and goes at greater length into its history, curiosities, condition, manners, morals, &c. His observations bear marks of reflection and candor ; when he censures, he clearly does so on good and suffi- cient evidence, and when he praises, it is with hearty good will. There are many passages in this volume which shew a lively feeling for the beauty of fine scenery, and a ready power in describing it. The sketches of the modes of travelling, the ascents of mountains, the bivouacs in the open air by night, and the aspects of night scenes, are given with distinctness, force, and graph- ic beauty. The style in general is pure and simple ; the scientific information interwoven with other matter is various and valuable ; and the historical sketches, and political views, have for most of his readers the charm of novelty besides their intrinsic merits. Critical Notices. 75 A Charge of the Grand Jury of the County of Suffolk, for the County of Suffolk, at the opening of the Municipal Court of the City of Boston, on the first Monday of December, A. D. 1834. By Peter Oxenbridge Thacher, Judge of that Court. Judge Thacher has acquired much reputation from his Charges to different Grand Juries. It is his habit, we believe, every opening of the Municipal Court — that is, every time a Grand Jury commences its labors — to deliver, in charge to the new Grand Jury, some of the leading principles, which should govern them, in the course of their duties ; and also a statement of his views as to the law relating to some of the crimes, which particularly arrest the public attention, at the time in question. The present Charge embraces, among other interesting topics, an important consid- eration of the law of riots ; and of the propriety of remuneration, by the public, to individuals who have been losers by these disgraceful disturbances. The recent outrage at Charlestown has prepared every mind to give this subject an earnest at- tention ; and, we doubt not, Judge Thacher's little pamphlet will be of essential service, in contributing to bring the public sentiment to a correct position. A Discourse on the professional Character and Virtues of the late William Wirt. By S. L. Southard. This Discourse was delivered last winter in the hall of the House of Representa- tives at Washington, at the request of the members of the Bar of the Supreme Court of the United States. A long time elapsed, after its delivery, before its pub- lication ; and a long time after its publication, before it found its way to places as far north as Boston. It would seem as if the spirit of tardiness presided over its progress. It is pleasant to read the testimony of a man, like Mr. Southard, to the character and virtues of a man like Mr. Wirt. It is a stiking example of the laudari a viro laudato. Mr. Southard's deserved reputation for talents will, however, hardly be forwarded by this production. It contains, indeed, a full and vivid sketch of the life of Mr. Wirt, and an animated eulogium upon his character ; but the reflections are generally trite, and the language, though strong and not wanting in variety of coloring, still lacks the graceful turn and smoothness which show exactness of taste and care of composition. All interested in the memory of Mr. Wirt should read this Discourse, unless they have access to the last number of the American Jurist, which contains a biographical notice of him, written much more to our mind than Mr. Southard's. We should add, that this Discourse reads much better than it sounded when delivered. Of all the tedious hours, which we can summon to our mind in multitudinous numbers, none have left a stronger imprint than the two, during which we attempted to listen to Mr. Southard's Discourse in the imposing hall of the Representatives at Washington, while the candles burned to their very sockets, threatening to leave the audience in the darkness of old night.' Letters to a Gentleman in Germany, written after a trip from Philadelphia to Niagara. Edited by Francis Lieber. These letters of Francis Lieber — for we presume there can be no doubt as to the authorship — are written in a disconnected and discursive style. They have Critical Notices. the air of a bad translation from the German, and abound in idiomatic expressions, wrought into seven-leagued sentences — often incomprehensible to the English rea- der. There are errors in grammatical construction, and in collocation and arrange- ment, which might have been easily corrected by a friend in a revision ; but there are, besides these, many meaningless passages which cannot be pardoned on ac- count of any ignorance of the language. Among those which stagger our compre- hension, there occurs, in the delineation of a beauty — and, by the way, the editor is a devoted admirer of the fair sex, a preux chevalier of the first water, - this phrase ; her eyes — tempered with the gravity of perfection. A consumptive girl has 'a pallid cheek, fanned and softened by the wings of inexorable Death.' Such flights are worthy of the author of the Fredoniad', a gigantic epic, which has, it seems, fallen within the range of the far-seeking observation of the letter-writer. As a specimen of our author's powers of discrimination, the serious parallel, which he institutes between Major Jack Downing and Junius, may be cited. •Downing's letters cannot be compared to those of Junius,' says he. Indeed! we also incline to the same opinion. Their styles at least are very dissimilar. Did the editor - or author - ever hear the tragedy of Bombastes Furioso ? Though sublime, it ought not to be mentioned in the same day with Shakspeare's Othello. In our estima- tion, it is a piece of “ rank fustian ! In the latter part of this octavo volume, the literary world are informed, that there is extant in Germany — in very choice Ger- man, no doubt, being the effusion of the letter-writer - a poem on Niagara! If the editor will favor the American public with a translation, we will promise 'to bless the giver and not look the gift-horse in the mouth.' But this is too absurd. The parallel of Jack Downing and Junius, and the poem on Niagara, however, both struck us as so superlatively ridiculous — that we have referred to them, in preference to many similar absurdities. Such are, indeed, mi- nor errors, which we would cheerfully pass over, as the mistakes and excusable egotism of a foreigner, were not the greater faults of the work so glaring. There is a constant attempt at learned display of curious information, and, with- out the shadow of a reason or any conceivable connection with the subject, anec- dotes of foreign travel and adventure are introduced. There is a want of system throughout ; fact is related after fact; story thrown in after story ; note tacked on to note ; in the most lamentable confusion. The familiar freedom of letters to a friend is no excuse for such unphilosophical disorder. The trials at wit are fail- ures ; the anecdotes are pointless — reminding us of Matthews' old Scotch lady's story, which would be capital if there were any joke to it. The redeeming points of the work — we should be very glad to be able consci- entiously to record as many and as prominent beauties as we have faults - the re- deeming points are a few lively descriptions ; such, for instance, as the waking up of a great city in the early morning ; scenes on the field of Waterloo, and some others ; but, except these parts, it is difficult to run the eye over any one of these • letters,' without being convinced of the justice of that criticism, which condemns the foolish self-confidence and overweening self-conceit of the literary fop, who, under the pretence of giving to the world the productions of another, makes the most ridiculous exposure of personal vanity and false pretensions to various learning and versatile talents — totally inconsistent with the modesty of real worth and the dignity of true wisdom. POLITICS AND STATISTICS. DEPARTMENT REPORTS. than are to be found elsewhere. It is The most important political informa- also recommended that authority be given tion of the month, being contained in the to construct two or more Steam Batteries, Reports of the Secretaries of the differ- and it is suggested that if the power of ent departments of the General Govern steam as a means of defence should pro- ment, we have given below a condensed duce all the effects that may be justly view of each of these documents. anticipated, it will diminish, in some in- stances, the necessity of permanent for- The Navy DEPARTMENT. — The tifications on our coasts, by substituting Report of the Secretary of the Navy re- those which may be moved from place presents that Department as being in a to place, as they may be wanted. flourishing condition. It is urged in the Report, that the com- Our naval force, six ships of the line, pensation of commanders of our ships on and seven frigates now building, for the foreign stations is altogether inadequate completion of which, additional appropri- to an honorable discharge of their duties. ations, to the amount of $1,527,640, will They are compelled to incur expenses be required ; of five ships of the line, two beyond the amount of their pay and ra- frigates, and six sloops of war in ordi- tions, or decline to receive and return nary, requiring repairs which will cost civilities uniformly offered to them on $1,362,000 in addition to the inaterials such stations, and upon which our friend- on hand, for that purpose ; and of one ly relations with other nations, may, in ship of the line, four frigates, eight sloops some degree, dcpend. of war, and six schooners in commis- It is recommended that the marine bar- sion,- in all, twelve ships of the line, racks be placed without the boundaries thirteen frigates, fourteen sloops of war, of the different Navy Yards, with which and six schooners. The present arrange- they may be connected. This arrange- ments of the department will afford the ment will cause but little additional ex- means of bringing into the service, as pense to Government, and will conduce soon as it can probably be required, an to the discipline and harmony of the offi- additional force of five ships of the line, cers and men of the Navy, and of the eleven frigates, seven sloops of war, and Marine corps. two schooners. A detailed account is given of the state Our vessels in commission during the of the Navy Pension Fund, and of the past year have been employed, as here- number of pensioners relieved. The in- tofore, in protecting our commerce in the come of this fund, arising from stocks Mediterranean, in the West Indies, on already purchased, and to be purchased the coast of Brazil, and in the Pacific by excess of money on hand, will be ocean. about $70,000 per annum, which is be- Our naval force, consisting of officers lieved to be sufficient for all the claims of all grades, seamen and boys, amounts upon it, under existing laws. The amount to 6,072, and the Marine corps, under its belonging to the Privateer Pension Fund, new organization, will consist of 1,283, in stocks and in treasury, is $16,828, making a total of 7,355. which, after paying the claims preferred The dry docks are said to have an- under the Act of June 19, it is estimated swered the most sanguine expectations; will be sufficient to pay for four or five and it is recommended that another be years, all the invalid pensions chargea- built at some intermediate point between ble to it. Boston and Norfolk. New-York is sug- The amount to the credit of the Na- gested as affording greater advantages, vy Hospital Fund, on the first ult. was 78 Politics and Statistics. $35,559, and the increase of the fund brace all the objects connected with the will be nearly $16,000 per annum. It surveys for military purposes. is not believed that any further appropri- The depth of the water in the harbor ation is required at present for the sup- formed by the Delaware Breakwater, has pression of the slave trade, as there re- for some time past been gradually re- mains in the Treasury, of the appro- duced, in consequence of depositions of priation heretofore made, a balance of sand -- and a Commission has lately been $14,213. instituted to examine it. An estimate for The charge of the coast survey, under $100,000, to be applied to this work, is the superintendence of Mr. Dassler, has among the annual estimates of the De- been transferred from the Treasury to the partment, and if approved by Congress, Navy Department. It is hoped that this the sum will be appropriated to the com- important work will advance with all the pletion of that part of the work begun, aid which science, skill, and industry, and yet unfinished. In the mean time, can give it, and in a manner honorable by a series of observations frequently and to the Government, under whose auspi- carefully taken, the probable operation ces it was begun, and has been contin of the tides and currents may be ascer- ued. The sum of $30,000 was appro- tained, and the best remedy to counteract priated to this purpose last year, and it them pointed out. is believed that an equal sun will be At the last session of Congress, the wanting the present year. laws authorising the conferring of brevets for ten years' service in one grade, was THE WAR DEPARTMENT. -- The repealed, and the nomination of all offi- Secretary of War, in his Report to Con- cers who had completed that term prior gress, represents the present situation of to the repeal, was confirmed. This the Army as highly gratifying, and that change seems to bear with some sever- the country have every reason to be ity upon those who served during the satisfied with its condition and prog- greater portion, but not the whole of such pects. term and it is suggested whether jus- He alludes to the late expedition un- tice does not require such a modification der Col. Dodge to the Western Prairies, of this law as to authorize the granting in Arkansas and Missouri, for the pur- of brevets to every one whose term of pose of putting a stop to the annoying ten years had commenced before its re- conduct of the Camanches and Kiawas, peal, at the end of such term, if the con- who, by predatory attacks on our citi- dition of the law shall be fulfilled. zens, have rendered intercourse with the The subject of the frauds in the Pen- Mexican States difficult and hazardous. sion office, is entered into at some length, Fortunately, the efforts to introduce am- and an examination at the residence or icable relations were successful, and the in the neighborhood of each person now object of the expedition was obtained drawing a pension, into the circumstan- without a single act of hostility. ces of the case, is recommended as the From the Report of the Chief Engi- only effectual means of accomplishing neer, it appears that the Cumberland the desired object. It is also recommend- Road, east of Wheeling, will be sooned to renew and continue the arrange- completed, in the manner required by an ment of establishing a Pension Office, as Act of last session, and for the amount a branch of the War Department, which allowed by law. No further appropria- expires by its own limitation at the end tions will be desired. An addition to the of the present session of Congress. officers of the Corps of Engineers, is re- The treaty arrangements with most of commended, as it is necessary, by Ex- the various tribes of indians on the fron- ecutive regulation, to require from the tiers, and within our territories, are re- officers, services not originally contem- presented as in a favorable state. The plated in the organization of the Depart. country assigned for the permanent resi- ment. dence of the Eastern Indians, has been It is recommended that the Topograph- so apportioned among them, that little ical Corps be re-organized, and that there difficulty is anticipated from conflicting may be permanently attached to it as claims, or from doubtful boundaries. many officers as may be necessary. By The condition of the Cherokees is re- consolidating it with the Civil Engineers, presented as being no more favorable the general operations will be simplified, than at the time of the last annual re- and the duties of the Corps might em- port. Where they are, they are declin- Politics and Statistics. 79 ing, and must decline ; while that por- and is continuing to decrease in an in- tion of the tribe which is established in creased ratio. the west, is realizing the benefits which The actual balance of accounts with were expected to result from a change banks against the Department, on the of position. The system of removal, 1st of November last, was $248,937 75. however, by enrolınent is going on, and The contracts for the Southern Section, during this season, about 1,000 persons which will expire with the current year, have passed to the west. have been renewed to take effect on the The situation and condition of the In- first of January next, on terms which will dian emigrants, and of the new obliga- effect an annual saving from the amount tions imposed in the United States, are de- now paid for transportation in that sec- scribed in a forcible manner. A vast tracttion, of about $120,000. Additional re- of country, containing much more than trenchments have also been made in the 100,000,000 of acres, has been set apart expense of transportation to the annnal for the permanent residence of these In- amount of $59,000, making an aggregate dians, and already about 30,000 have of $179,000. It is expected that the been removed to it. The Government revenue of the Department will exceed is under treaty stipulations to remove its expenses during the present year to nearly 50,000 others to the same region, the amount of $270,000. including the Illinois and Lake Michigan The expenses of the Department have Indians, with whom a conditional ar- not varied materially from the estimates rangement has been made. This exten- in the Report of November, 1833, but sive district, embracing a great variety the nett revenue arising from postages of soil and climate, has been divided has fallen short of the estimates then among the several tribes, and definite made, more than $100,000; which is boundaries assigned to each. They will believed to be attributable, in a great mea- there be brought into juxtaposition with sure, to the increase of free letters, by one another, and also into contact, and the extension of the franking privilege. possibly into collision, with the native Though the amount of revenue from tribes of that country, and it is recom- postages, for the year ending June 30, mended that some plan be adopted for 1834, did not equal the estimate, yet the regulation of the intercourse between there was considerable increase above these divided communities, and for the the amount of the preceding year, viz: exercise of a general power of supervis- $207,168 70, increase on the gross ision over them, so far as these objects amount. can be effected consistently with power T he finances are represented as being of Congress, and with the various stipu- in an improving condition, and the soli- lations existing with them. citude which has been shown to obtain mail contracts, and the reduced rates at Post OFFICE DEPARTMENT. — which they have been taken for the The balance of the debt against the De- Southern section, show that the credit of partment, beyond the amount of its avail- the Department is unimpaired. It shows able funds, was, on the first of January, also that the rates of former years must 1834, $315,599 93. Since the first of have been improperly extravagant ; an January, 1834, the retrenchments in the inference not drawn, however, in the transportation of the mail, began to take Report. The number of Post-Offices in effect; and from that period, the reve- the United States, on the first of July nues of the Department have exceeded last, was 10,693, being an increase of its expenses. The gross amount of post- 566 over the number reported last year. ages from January 1 to June 30, 1834, The mail is now carried in stages and was $1,448,269 69. Expenses of the steamboats about 16,900,000 miles a Department during the same period, year, and on horseback and in sulkies $1,400,762 45 ; leaving a revenue be- about 8,000,000 miles, making altogeth- yond the amount of expenses for the er about 25,000,000 miles a year. above half year, of $47,507 24, which, The Report adverts to the multi- deducted from the deficit existing Janu- plication of Railroads in different parts ary 1, 1834, reduces the balance of debt of the country, and suggests as a subject which existed against the Department on of inquiry, whether measures should not the first of July, 1834, to $268,092 74. now be taken to secure the transportation The amount of this debt has been con- upon them. tinually diminishing to the present time, 30 Politics and Statistics. TREASURY DEPARTMENT. — We ist in law or equity for the great claim of gather from the Report of the Secreta- damages made by the Bank on account ry of the Treasury Department that the of the protest of the Bill of Exchange whole amount in the Treasury at the drawn on the French Government by the end of the year 1832, was $36,363,475- Treasury Department. 61; actual expenditures during the same The following passage from the Report time, including public debt, $34,356,- ascords with the language in the Presi- 698 06. Added to the balance in the dent's Message, relating to the anticipa- Treasury, the receipts during the year ted rupture with France : 1833, amounting to $33,918,426 25, “It is not now possible to foresee the made an aggregate of $35,960,203 80. contingencies that may check either the The expenditures during the year 1833 present large importations of merchan- were $24,257,298 49. Thus a balance dize or large sales of land, and conse- was left in the Treasury, January 1, quently reduce the revenue derived from 1834, of $11,702,905 31. The receipts them; or that may require an increase during 1834, are computed to be $ 20,- in our Army or Nary expenditures, aris- 624,717 94 — forming, with the balance ing from these unfortunate collisions to on hand on the first of January, an ag- which all nations are liable that feel dis- gregate of $32,327,623 25. The ex- posed to sustain the faith of treaties, vin- penditures during the present year are dicate their public rights, and protect, estimated at $25,591,390 91 ; - thus efficiently, their commerce and citizens. leaving in the Treasury, on the first of No further reduction of the Tariff, until January, 1835, an estimated balance of that already provided for at the close of $6,736,232 34, of which $5,586,232 34 the ensuing year, would, therefore, seem are available funds. The disbursements to be prudent.' on account of the public debt will be considerable is said relating to the new during the year, $6,461,017 46, and be- coinage of gold, and a suggestion is made fore the first of January, 1835, the whole that the one dollar gold coin, originally public debt will be paid, or money pro- embraced in the Act, should be author- vided to pay it — and the United States ized. The new coinage has been con- will present that happy spectacle, of a fined principally to half and quarter ea- people substantially free from the small- gles, and amounted to $3,414,090, of est portion of a national debt. which it appears that only $30,000 have The receipts into the Treasury, during been coined on the part of the Govern- the year 1835, are estimated at $20,- ment. 000,000, to which add the balance of The regulations in the Revenue Cutter available funds, and it makes an aggre- service, have been revised and repub- gate of $25,586,232 34. The whole lished ; and it has been deemed expe- amount of expenditures for that year is dient, not only to stop any contemplated estimated at $19,683,541, leaving an increase in the Cutters, but to reduce the available balance in the Treasury, at the number of them, and of the persons em- close of 1335, of $5,902,690 82. The ploved in this service, as rapidly as the imports during the year ending Septem- diminished temptation to smuggling will ber 30, 1834, are estimated at $123,- permit. 093,351, being an increase, compared The Report also embraces various with the preceding year, of $14,101,541. speculations, and suggestions of improve- During the years past, the imports on an ments, and intimates that a plan will average have been $111,038,142. soon be submitted for the re-organization A great deal is said in relation to the of the Treasury Department. This plan Bank of the United States, it being be- has since been submitted. lieved that no foundation appears to ex- 82 Old News. pair of silver shoe-buckles, curiously carved. Observe the awful reverence of his visage, as he reads His Majesty's most gracious speech, and the deliberate wisdom with which he ponders over some paragraph of provincial politics, and the keener intelligence with which he glances at the ship-news and commercial adver- tisements. Observe, and smile! He may have been a wise man in his day ; but, to us, the wisdom of the politician appears like folly, because we can compare its prognostics with actual results ; and the old merchant seems to have busied himself about vanities, because we know that the expected ships have been lost at sea, or mouldered at the wharves ; that his imported broad- cloths were long ago worn to tatters, and his cargoes of wine consumed ; and that the most precious leaves of his leger have become waste-paper. Yet, his avocations were not so vain as our philosophic moralizing. In this world, we are the things of a moment, and are made to pursue momentary things, with here and there a thought that stretches mistily towards eternity, and perhaps may endure as long. All philosophy, that would abstract mankind from the present, is no more than words. The first pages, of most of these old papers, are as soporific as a bed of poppies. Here we have an erudite clergyman, or perhaps a Cambridge professor, occupying several successive weeks with a criticism on Tate and Brady, as compared with the New-England version of the Psalms. Of course, the prefer- ence is given to the native article. Here are doctors disagreeing about the treatment of a putrid fever, then prevalent, and black- guarding each other with a characteristic virulence, that renders the controversy not altogether unreadable. Here are President Wigglesworth and the Rev. Dr. Colman, endeavoring to raise a fund for the support of missionaries among the Indians of Mas- sachusetts Bay. Easy would be the duties of such a mission, now! Here — for there is nothing new under the sun - are fre- quent complaints of the disordered state of the currency, and the project of a bank with a capital of five hundred thousand pounds, secured on lands. Here are literary essays, from the Gentle- man's Magazine ; and squibs against the Pretender, from the London newspapers. And here, occasionally, are specimens of New-England humor — laboriously light and lamentably mirthful; as if some very sober person, in his zeal to be merry, were dan- cing a jig to the tune of a funeral-psalm. All this is wearisome, and we must turn the leaf. There is a good deal of amusement, and some profit, in the perusal of those little items, which characterize the manners and circumstances of the county. New-England was then in a state incomparably more picturesque than at present, or than it has been within the memory of man ; there being, as yet, only a narrow strip of civilization along the edge of a vast forest, peo- Old News. 83 pled with enough of its original race to contrast the savage life with the old customs of another world. The white population, also, was diversified by the influx of all sorts of expatriated vag- abonds, and by the continual importation of bond-servants from Ireland and elsewhere ; so that there was a wild and unsettled mul- titude, forming a strong minority to the sober descendants of the Puritans. Then, there were the slaves, contributing their dark shade to the picture of society. The consequence of all this was, a great variety and singularity of action and incident — many instances of which, might be selected from these columns, where they are told with a simplicity and quaintness of style, that brings the striking points into very strong relief. It is natural to sup- pose, too, that these circumstances affected the body of the peo- ple, and made their course of life generally less regular than that of their descendants. There is no evidence that the moral standard was higher then than now; or, indeed, that morality was so well defined as it has since become. There seem to have been quite as many frauds and robberies, in proportion to the number of honest deeds; there were murders, in hot blood and in malice ; and bloody quarrels, over liquor : some of our fathers, also, appear to have been yoked to unfaithful wives - if we may trust the frequent notices of elopements from bed and board. The pillory, the whipping-post, the prison, and the gal- lows, each, had their use in those old times; and, in short, as often as our imagination lives in the past, we find it a ruder and rougher age than our own, with hardly any perceptible advan- tages, and much that gave life a gloomier tinge. In vain, we endeavor to throw a sunny and joyous air over our picture of this period ; nothing passes before our fancy but a crowd of sad-visaged people, moving duskily through a dull gray atmosphere. It is certain, that winter rushed upon them with fiercer storms than now — blocking up the narrow forest-paths, and overwhelming the roads, along the sea-coast, with mountain snow-drifts; so that weeks elapsed before the newspaper could announce how many travelers had perished, or what wrecks had strewn the shore. The cold was more piercing then, and ling- ered farther into the spring — making the chimney-corner a com- fortable seat till long past May-day. By the number of such accidents on record, we might suppose that the thunder-stone, as they termed it, fell oftener and deadlier, on steeples, dwellings, and unsheltered wretches. * In fine, our fathers bore the brunt of more raging and pitiless elements than we. There were fore- bodings, also, of a more fearful tempest than those of the ele- ments. At two or three dates, we have stories of drums, trump- ets, and all sorts of martial music, passing athwart the midnight Seir use 11e in the Paly any pe • It might well have been the case, as there were no lightning-rods. 84 Old News. sky, accompanied with the roar of cannon and rattle of musketry, prophetic echoes of the sounds that were soon to shake the land. * Besides these airy prognostics, there were rumors of French feets on the coast, and of the march of French and Indians through the wilderness, along the borders of the settlements. The country was saddened, moreover, with grievous sickness. The small-pox raged in many of the towns, and seems to have been regarded with as much affright, though so familiar a scourge, as that which drove the throng from Wall street and Broadway, at the approach of a new pestilence. There were autumnal fe- vers, too ; and a contagious and destructive throat-distemper — diseases unwritten in medical books. The dark superstition of former days had not yet been so far dispelled, as not to heighten the gloom of the present times. There is an advertisement, in- deed, by a committee of the legislature, calling for information as to the circumstances of sufferers in the late calamity of 1692,' with a view to reparation for their losses and misfortunes. But the tenderness, with which, after above forty years, it was thought expedient to allude to the witchcraft delusion, indicates a good deal of lingering error, as well as the advance of more enlightened opinions. The rigid hand of puritanism might yet be felt upon the reins of government, while some of the ordinances intimate a disorderly spirit on the part of the people. The Suffolk jus- tices, after a preamble that great disturbances have been com- mitted by persons entering town and leaving it in coaches, chaises, calashes, and other wheel-carriages, on the evening before the Sabbath, give notice that a watch will hereafter be set at the “fortification-gate,' to prevent these outrages. It is amusing to see Boston assuming the aspect of a walled city — guarded, prob- ably, by a detachment of church-members, with a deacon at their head. Governor Belcher makes proclamation against certain loose and dissolute people,' who have been wont to stop pas- sengers in the streets, on the Fifth of November, otherwise called Pope's Day,' and levy contributions for the building of bonfires. In this instance, the populace are more puritanic than the magistrate. The elaborate solemnities of funerals were in accordance with the sombre character of the times. In cases of ordinary death, the printer seldom fails to notice that the corpse was very de- cently interred.' But when some mightier mortal has yielded to his fate, the decease of the worshipful' such-a-one is an- nounced, with all his titles of deacon, justice, councillor, and colonel ; then follows an heraldic sketch of his honorable ances- * The printer intimates a doubt, whether any sound auguries could be drawn from these unaccountable noises. We have no patience with such a would-be sadducee, who, so long as general opinion countenances the belief, could struggle to be a sceptic, in regard to this most thrilling and sublime superstition. Old Neus. 85 tors, and lastly an account of the black pomp of his funeral, and the liberal expenditure of scarfs, gloves, and mourning-rings. The burial train glides slowly before us, as we have seen it repre- sented in the wood-cuts of that day, the coffin, and the bearers, and the lamentable friends, trailing their long black garments, while grim Death, a most mis-shapen skeleton, with all kinds of doleful emblems, stalks hideously in front. There was a coach- maker at this period, one John Lucas, who seems to have gained the chief of his living by letting out a sable coach to funerals. It would not be fair, however, to leave quite so dismal an im- pression on the reader's mind ; nor should it be forgotten that happiness may walk soberly in dark attire as well as dance light- somely in a gala-dress. And this reminds us that there is an incidental notice of the dancing-school near the Orange-Tree,' whence we may infer, that the salutatory art was occasionally practised, though perhaps chastened into a characteristic gravity of movement. * This pastime was probably confined to the aris- tocratic circle, of which, the royal Governor was the centre. But we are scandalized, at the attempt of Jonathan Furness to introduce a more reprehensible amusement : he challenges the whole country to match his black gelding in a race for a hundred pounds, to be decided on Metonomy common or Chelsea beach. Nothing, as to the manners of the times, can be inferred from this freak of an individual. There were no daily and continual opportunities of being merry ; but sometimes the people rejoiced, in their own peculiar fashion, oftener with a calm religious smile, than with a broad laugh ; as when they feasted, like one great family, at Thanksgiving time ; or indulged a livelier mirth through- out the pleasant days of Election-week. This latter, was the true holyday-season of New-England. Military musters were too seriously important, in that warlike time, to be classed among amusements ; but they stirred up and enlivened the public mind, and were occasions of solemn festival to the Governor and great men of the province, at the expense of the field-officers. The Revolution blotted a feast-day out of our callender. The anni- versary of the King's birth appears to have been celebrated with most imposing pomp, by salutes from castle William, a military parade, a grand dinner at the town-house, and a brilliant illumi- nation in the evening. There was nothing forced nor feigned in these testimonials of loyalty to George the second. So long as they dreaded the re-establishment of a popish dynasty, the people were fervent for the house of Hanover; and, besides, the imme- diate magistracy of the country was a barrier between the mon- arch and the occasional discontents of the colonies ; the waves * There was a dancing-school in Boston, for a short period, so long ago, we think, as in 1685. 36 Ou Neus. of faction sometimes reached the governor's chair, but never swelled against the throne. Thus, until oppression was felt to , proceed from the King's own hand, New-England rejoiced with her whole heart on His Majesty's birth-day. * But the slaves, we suspect, were the merriest part of the pop- ulation — since it is their gift to be merry in the worst of circum- stances ; and they endured, comparatively, few hardships under the domestic sway of our fathers. There seems to have been a great trade in these black and woolly commodities. No adver- tisements are more frequent than those of “a negro fellow, fit for almost any household work ;' "a negro woman, honest, healthy, and capable ; ' 'a young negro wench, of many desirable quali- ties ; ' "a negro man, very fit for a taylor.' We know not in what this natural fitness for a taylor consisted, unless it were some peculiarity of conformation that enabled him to sit cross- legged. When the slaves of a family are inconveniently prolific, it being not quite orthodox to drown the superfluous offspring, like a litter of kittens, notice was promulgated of “ a negro child to be given away.' Sometimes the slaves assumed the property of their own persons, and made their escape : among many such instances, the Governor raises a hue-and-cry after his negro Juba. But, without venturing a word in extenuation of the general sys- tem, we confess our opinion, that Cæsar, Pompey, Scipio, and all such great Roman namesakes, would have been better advised had they staid at home, foddering the cattle, cleaning dishes - in fine, performing their moderate share of the labors of life without being harrassed by its cares. The sable inmates of the mansion were not excluded from the domestic affections: in families of middling rank, they had their places at the board ; and when the circle closed round the evening hearth, its blazed glowed on their dark shining faces, intermixed familiarly with their master's chil- dren. It must have contributed to reconcile them to their lot, that they saw white men and women imported from Europe, as they had been from Africa, and sold, though only for a term of years, yet as actual slaves to the highest bidder. Setting fine sentiment aside, slavery, as it existed in New-England, was precisely the state most favorable to the humble enjoyments of an alien race, generally incapable of self-direction, and whose claims to kindness will never be acknowledged by the whites, while they are asserted on the ground of equality. Slave labor being but a small part of the industry of the country, it did not * In some old pamphlet, we recollect a proposal to erect an equestrian statue of the glorious King William,' in front of the town-house, looking down King-street. It would have been pleasant to have had an historic monument, of any kind, in that street of historic recollections. Even the whig monarch, however, would hardly have kept his saddle through the Revolution, though himself a revolution- ary king. Old News. 87 change the character of the people: the latter, on the contrary, modified and softened the institution, making it a patriarchal, and almost a beautiful, peculiarity of the times.* Ah! We had forgotten the good old merchant, over whose shoulder we were peeping, while he read the newspaper. Let us now suppose him putting on his three-cornered, gold-laced hat, grasping his cane, with a head inlaid of ebony and mother- of-pearl, and setting forth, through the crooked streets of Boston, on various errands, suggested by the advertisements of the day. Thus he communes with himself: I must be mindful, says he, to call at Captain Scut's, in Creek lane, and examine his rich vel- vet, whether it be fit for my apparel on Election-day — that I may wear a stately aspect in presence of the Governor and my brethren of the council. I will look in, also, at the shop of Michael Cario, the jeweller: he has silver buckles of a new fashion; and mine have lasted me some half score years. My fair daughter, Miriam, shall have an apron of gold brocade, and a velvet mask — though it would be a pity the wench should hide her comely visage ; and also a French quilted cap, from Robert Jenkins's, on the north side of the town-house. He hath beads, too, and ear-rings, and necklaces, of all sorts: these are but va- nities — nevertheless, thev would please the silly maiden well. My dame desireth another female in the kitchen ; wherefore, I must inspect the lot of Irish lasses, for sale by Samuel Waldo, aboard the schooner Endeavor ; as also the likely negro wench, at Captain Bulfinch's. It were not amiss, that I took my daugh- ter, Miriam, to see the royal wax-work, near the town-dock, that she may learn to honour our most gracious King and Queen, and their royal progeny, even in their waxen images ; not that I would approve of image-worship. The camel, too, that strange beast from Africa, with two great humps, to be seen near the common : methinks I would fain go thither, and see how the old patriarchs were wont to ride. I will tarry awhile in Queen street, at the book-store of my good friends, Kneeland & Green, and purchase Doctor Colman's new sermon, and the volume of discoveries, by Mr. Henry Flynt; and look over the controversy on baptism, between the Reverend Peter Clarke and an unknown adversary; and see whether this George Whitefield be as great in print as he is found to be in the pulpit. By that time, the auction will have commenced at the Royal Exchange, in King street. More- over, I must look to the disposal of my last cargo of West-India rum and muscovado sugar; and also the lot of choice Cheshire cheese, lest it grow mouldy. It were well that I ordered a cask * Nevertheless, some time after this period, there is an advertisement of a run- away slave from Connecticut, who carried with him an iron collar rivetted round his neck, with a chain attached. This must have been rather galling. Undoubt- edly, there had been a previous attempt at escape. 88 Slavonia. of good English beer, at the lower end of Milk street. Then am I to speak with certain dealers about the lot of stout old Vido- nia, rich Canary, and Oporto wines, which I have now lying in the cellar of the Old South meeting-house. But, a pipe or two of the rich Canary shall be reserved, that it may grow aged in mine own wine-cellar, and gladden my heart when it begins to droop with old-age. Provident old gentleman! But, was he mindful of his sepul- chre ? Did he bethink him to call at the workshop of Timothy Sheaffe, in Cold lane, and select such a grave-stone as would best please him? There, wrought the man, whose handiwork, or that of his fellow-craftsmen, was ultimately in demand by all the busy multitude, who have left a record of their earthly toil in these old time-stained papers. And now, as we turn over the volume, we seem to be wandering among the mossy stones of a burial-ground. SLAVONIA. [The following series of Sonnets is applicable to the four leading branches of the Slavonic race, namely: the first two, to the Russian ; the third, to the Servian ; the fourth, to the Polish ; and the fifth, to the Bohemian.] KARAMSIN. Malenkoi krolik' v' travkje zelenoi S’ miloi podruzhkoi tam otdikaet'; Golub' na vjetotchkje spit'. There, in the green grass, softly reposes, Close by his dear little loveling, the coney. There, the dove sleeps on the bough. Near Moskva's stream, through heath and forest gliding, Deep in a river vale, by meadow green, Embowered in beech, a lowly church is seen, Like timid fawn in dewy thicket hiding. Above its roof, a Grecian crosslet shining, Points to the pious serf his heavenward way ; Around it spreads, bestrown with blossoms gay, The field, where wearied hearts are safe reclining. O'er swelling graves, the bounding rabbit plays; All breathes of peace and gentleness around ; Light steals the maiden by ; subdued each sound; Even fainter glances there the evening blaze. There, nestling side by side, at twilight's close, Soft coo the billing doves, and then repose. Slavonia. 89 II. Tam' vidjel' gori nad' soboiu, I sprashival', kotoroi vjek Zastal’ikh' v' molodosti sushchikh'. DMITRIEV. There I saw above me mountains, And I ask'd of them, what century Met them in their youth. Inspiring Spirit ! thou art everywhere - The forest and the desert ; ocean's breast; The ice peak, where the condor builds his nest; The plain ; the hill; the vale — thou still art there. "T is not alone on Zion's holy height, Nor on Parnassus, thou hast reared thy shrine : Thy kindling voice and energy divine, Are felt in realms of old Cimmerian night. By Volga’s princely stream, thy fiery car Uplifts the gifted soul, that owns thy sway, Aloft, above, the gilded dome of Tzar — O'er boundless steppes and dusky wilds away, O’er castled hill, where reigns the proud Boyar, Free, amid slaves, he mounts to meet thy day. III. Trepetu li novi ventsi na nashoj snashi ? Vije li se tsrven barjak nad milim kumom? Jeli zdravo konj zalenko pod mladozhen jom? NAR. Srp. PJESM. Tremble not new-woven garlands there on our sister? Waves not the crimson banner over the sponsor ? Is not strong the dapple gray under the bridegroom? What is that descending yonder mountain ? Waves the Aga's crimson flag afar? Comes the Turkish wolf to wage us war? Or does the shepherd lead his flock to fountain ? Yonder see the wedding-banner flying - Garlands waving in the maiden's hair - O! how tall and slender, fresh and fair- So the long expectant train is crying. Give, this happy day, aloose to joy — Glad the heart with instrument and song - Flit, with maiden dear, in dance along --- Let nor care nor thought your bliss annoy! Under slavery's chain the bosom swells -- There, the fount of gentle feeling wells. VOL. VIII. 12 90 Slavonia. IV. Piekny to widok Czertomeliku, Sto wysp przerznely Dniepru strumienie, Brzoza sie kapie w kazdym strumyku, Slychac szum trzciny, slowika pienie. SLOWACKI. How beautiful this view of Czertomelik! The Dnieper's streams divide a hundred islands ; In every stream, the birch-tree dips its branches ; We hear the murmuring reed, and night-bird warbling. Still Spring returns, and scatters wide its roses ; The nightingale in leafy thicket sings, And heavenward mounts the lark on quivering wings ; In flowery pomp the silent plain reposes. Nature is still the same, unchanging ever ; She brings her gifts with each returning year, And lavish pours her horn of plenty here, By castled hill and silver-sheeted river. Still, lordly Dnieper rolls as wild and free, As when the Polish banner graced its shore- That banner waves along its banks no more ; Through isles as green it seeks the Pontic sea. Nature is ever free! Why should the brave And noble heart of Poland sink - a slave ? Trawa zelena Nashe peshina, Na tey budem spati A se milowati, Holka rozmila. Chesk. Pusn. Green grass Our couch, There we'll repose And caress, Dear maiden. By Muldava trips a rose-lipped maiden She has crowned her hat with summer flowers ; Fresh and dewy as the fabled Hours, There she trips along with blossoms laden. How the valley with her voice is ringing, Like the evening songster's, soft and clear ; In her happy eye a sparkling tear — She a simple Cheskian lay is singing. 0! how strong the love of country glows In the peasant's heart, when all is gone, King and state, his language left alone, Blooming still, as over graves the rose. From his bosoin pours the stream of song Full, in artless melody, along. J. G. PERCIVAL. 91 MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. BY THE AUTHOR OF 'THE GRAY CHAMPION.' Never did a pilgrim approach Niagara with deeper enthusiasm, than mine. I had lingered away from it, and wandered to other scenes, because my treasury of anticipated enjoyments, compris- ing all the wonders of the world, had nothing else so magnificent, and I was loth to exchange the pleasures of hope for those of memory so soon. At length, the day came. The stage-coach, with a Frenchman and myself on the back seat, had already left Lewiston, and in less than an hour would set us down in Man- chester. I began to listen for the roar of the cataract, and trem- bled with a sensation like dread, as the moment drew nigh, when its voice of ages must roll, for the first time, on my ear. The French gentleman stretched himself from the window, and ex- pressed loud admiration, while, by a sudden impulse, I threw myself back and closed my eyes. When the scene shut in, I was glad to think, that for me the whole burst of Niagara was yet in futurity. We rolled on, and entered the village of Manches- ter, bordering on the falls. I am quite ashamed of myself here. Not that I ran, like a madman, to the falls, and plunged into the thickest of the spray - never stopping to breathe, till breathing was impossible: not that I committed this, or any other suitable extravagance. On the contrary, I alighted with perfect decency and composure, gave my cloak to the black waiter, pointed out my baggage, and in- quired, not the nearest way to the cataract, but about the dinner- hour. The interval was spent in arranging my dress. Within the last fifteen minutes, my mind had grown strangely benumbed, and my spirits apathetic, with a slight depression, not decided enough to be termed sadness. My enthusiasm was in a deathlike slumber. Without aspiring to immortality, as he did, I could have imitated that English traveler, who turned back from the point where he first heard the thunder of Niagara, after crossing the ocean to behold it. Many a western trader, by-the-by, has performed a similar act of heroism with more heroic simplicity, deeming it no such wonderful feat to dine at the hotel and resume his route to Buffalo or Lewiston, while the cataract was roaring unseen. Such has often been my apathy, when objects, long sought, and earnestly desired, were placed within my reach. After din- ner — at which, an unwonted and perverse epicurism detained me longer than usual — I lighted a ciger and paced the piazza, minutely attentive to the aspect and business of a very ordi- nary village. Finally, with reluctant step, and the feeling of an 92 My Visit to Niagara. intruder, I walked towards Goat island. At the toll-house, there were further excuses for delaying the inevitable moment. My signature was required in a huge leger, containing similar records innumerable, many of which I read. The skin of a great stur- geon, and other fishes, beasts, and reptiles ; a collection of min- erals, such as lie in heaps near the falls ; some Indian moccasins, and other trifles, made of deer-skin and embroidered with beads ; several newspapers from Montreal, New-York, and Boston ; all attracted me in turn. Out of a number of twisted sticks, the manufacture of a Tuscarora Indian, I selected one of curled ma- ple, curiously convoluted, and adorned with the carved images of a snake and a fish. Using this as my pilgrim's staff, I crossed the bridge. Above and below me were the rapids, a river of impetuous snow, with here and there a dark rock amid its white- ness, resisting all the physical fury, as any cold spirit did the moral influences of the scene. On reaching Goat island, which separates the two great segments of the falls, I chose the right- hand path, and followed it to the edge of the American cascade. There, while the falling sheet was yet invisible, I saw the vapor that never vanishes, and the Eternal Rainbow of Niagara. It was an afternoon of glorious sunshine, without a cloud, save those of the cataracts. I gained an insulated rock, and beheld a broad sheet of brilliant and unbroken foam, not shooting in a curved line from the top of the precipice, but falling headlong down from height to depth. A narrow stream diverged from the main branch, and hurried over the crag by a channel of its own, leaving a little pine-clad island and a streak of precipice, between itself and the larger sheet. Below arose the mist, on which was painted a dazzling sun-bow, with two concentric shadows — one, almost as perfect as the original brightness ; and the other, drawn faintly round the broken edge of the cloud. Still, I had not half seen Niagara. Following the verge of the island, the path led me to the Horse-shoe, where the real, broad St. Lawrence, rushing along on a level with its banks, pours its whole breadth over a concave line of precipice, and thence pur- sues its course between lofty crags towards Ontario. A sort of bridge, two or three feet wide, stretches out along the edge of the descending sheet, and hangs upon the rising mist, as if that were the foundation of the frail structure. Here I stationed my- self, in the blast of wind, which the rushing river bore along with it. The bridge was tremulous beneath me, and marked the tremor of the solid earth. I looked along the whitening rapids, and endeavored to distinguish a mass of water far above the falls, to follow it to their verge, and go down with it, in fancy, to the abyss of clouds and storm. Casting my eyes across the river, and every side, I took in the whole scene at a glance, and tried to comprehend it in one vast idea. After an hour thus spent, I My Visit to Niagara. 93 left the bridge, and, by a staircase, winding almost interminably round a post, descended to the base of the precipice. From that point, my path lay over slippery stones, and among great fragments of the cliff, to the edge of the cataract, where the wind at once enveloped me in spray, and perhaps dashed the rainbow round me. Were my long desires fulfilled ? And had I seen Niagara ? Oh, that I had never heard of Niagara till I beheld it! Blessed were the wanderers of old, who heard its deep roar, sounding through the woods, as the summons to an unknown wonder, and approached its awful brink, in all the freshness of native feeling. Had its own mysterious voice been the first to warn me of its existence, then, indeed, I might have knelt down and worshipped. But I had come thither, haunted with a vision of foam and fury, and dizzy cliffs, and an ocean tumbling down out of the sky — a scene, in short, which nature had too much good taste and calm simplicity to realize. My mind had struggled to adapt these false conceptions to the reality, and finding the effort vain, a wretched sense of disappointment weighed me down. I climbed the precipice, and threw myself on the earth — feeling that I was unworthy to look at the Great Falls, and careless about beholding them again. * * * * * All that night, as there has been and will be, for ages past and to come, a rushing sound was heard, as if a great tempest were sweeping through the air. It mingled with my dreams, and made them full of storm and whirlwind. Whenever I awoke, and · heard this dread sound in the air, and the windows rattling as with a mighty blast, I could not rest again, till, looking forth, I saw how bright the stars were, and that every leaf in the garden was motionless. Never was a summer-night more calm to the eye, nor a gale of autumn louder to the ear. The rushing sound proceeds from the rapids, and the rattling of the casements is but an effect of the vibration of the whole house, shaken by the jar of the cataract. The noise of the rapids draws the attention from the true voice of Niagara, which is a dull, muffled thunder, resounding between the cliffs. I spent a wakeful hour at mid- night, in distinguishing its reverberations, and rejoiced to find that my former awe and enthusiasm were reviving. Gradually, and after much contemplation, I came to know, by my own feelings, that Niagara is indeed a wonder of the world, and not the less wonderful, because time and thought must be employed in comprehending it. Casting aside all pre-conceived notions, and preparation to be dire-struck or delighted, the be- holder must stand beside it in the simplicity of his heart, suffer- ing the mighty scene to work its own impression. Night after night, I dreamed of it, and was gladdened every morning by the consciousness of a growing capacity to enjoy it. Yet I will not 94 My Visit to Niagara. pretend to the all-absorbing enthusiasm of some more fortunate spectators, nor deny, that very trifling causes would draw my spectatod thoughts from was to spende Table Roof The last day that I was to spend at Niagara, before my depart- ure for the far west, I sat upon the Table Rock. This celebrat- ed station did not now, as of old, project fifty feet beyond the line of the precipice, but was shattered by the fall of an immense fragment, which lay distant on the shore below. Still, on the utmost verge of the rock, with my feet hanging over it, I felt as if suspended in the open air. Never before had my mind been in such perfect unison with the scene. There were intervals, when I was conscious of nothing but the great river, rolling calmly into the abyss, rather descending than precipitating itself, and acquiring tenfold majesty from its unhurried motion. It came like the march of Destiny. It was not taken by surprise, but seemed to have anticipated, in all its course through the broad lakes, that it must pour their collected waters down this height. The perfect foam of the river, after its descent, and the ever- varying shapes of mist, rising up, to become clouds in the sky, would be the very picture of confusion, were it merely transient, like the rage of a tempest. But when the beholder has stood awhile, and perceives no lull in the storm, and considers that the vapor and the foam are as everlasting as the rocks which produce them, all this turmoil assumes a sort of calmness. It soothes, while it awes the mind. Leaning over the cliff, I saw the guide conducting two adven- turers behind the falls. It was pleasant, from that high seat in the sunshine, to observe them struggling against the eternal storm of the lower regions, with heads bent down, now faltering, now pressing forward, and finally swallowed up in their victory. After their disappearance, a blast rushed out with an old hat, which it had swept from one of their heads. The rock, to which they were directing their unseen course, is marked, at a fearful distance on the exterior of the sheet, by a jet of foam. The attempt to reach it, appears both poetical and perilous, to a looker-on, but may be accomplished without much more difficulty or hazard, than in stemming a violent northeaster. In a few mo- ments, forth came the children of the mist. Dripping and breathless, they crept along the base of the cliff, ascended to the guide's cottage, and received, I presume, a certificate of their achievement, with three verses of sublime poetry on the back. My contemplations were often interrupted by strangers, who came down from Forsyth's to take their first view of the falls. A short, ruddy, middle-aged gentleman, fresh from old England, peeped over the rock, and evinced his approbation by a broad grin. His spouse, a very robust lady, afforded a sweet example of maternal solicitude, being so intent on the safety of her little boy My Visit to Niagara. 95 that she did not even glance at Niagara. As for the child, he gave himself wholly to the enjoyment of a stick of candy. Another traveler, a native American, and no rare character among us, produced a volume of captain Hall's tour, and labored earnestly to adjust Niagara to the captain's description, departing, at last, without one new idea or sensation of his own. The next comer was provided, not with a printed book, but with a blank sheet of foolscap, from top to bottom of which, by means of an ever- pointed pencil, the cataract was made to thunder. In a little talk, which we had together, he awarded his approbation to the general view, but censured the position of Goat island, observing that it should have been thrown farther to the right, so as to widen the American falls, and contract those of the Horse-shoe. Next appeared two traders of Michigan, who declared, that, upon the whole, the sight was worth looking at; there certainly was an immense water-power here ; but that, after all, they would go twice as far to see the noble stone-works of Lockport, where the Grand Canal is locked down a descent of sixty feet. They were succeeded by a young fellow, in a home-spun cotton dress, with a staff in his hand, and a pack over his shoulders. He advanced close to the edge of the rock, where his attention, at first wavering among the different components of the scene, finally became fixed in the angle of the Horse-shoe falls, which is, indeed, the central point of interest. His whole soul seemed to go forth and be transported thither, till the staff slipped from his relaxed grasp, and falling down — down— down — struck upon the fragment of the Table Rock. In this manner, I spent some hours, watching the varied im- pression, made by the cataract, on those who disturbed me, and returning to unwearied contemplation, when left alone. At length, my time came to depart. There is a grassy foot-path, through the woods, along the summit of the bank, to a point whence a causeway, hewn in the side of the precipice, goes winding down to the ferry, about half a mile below the Table Rock. The sun was near setting, when I emerged from the shadow of the trees, and began the descent. The indirectness of my downward road continually changed the point of view, and shewed me, in rich and repeated succession — now, the white- ning rapids and the majestic leap of the main river, which ap- peared more deeply massive as the light departed ; now, the lovelier picture, yet still sublime, of Goat island, with its rocks and grove, and the lesser falls, tumbling over the right bank of the St. Lawrence, like a tributary stream ; now, the long vista of the river, as it eddied and whirled between the cliffs, to pass through Ontario towards the sea, and everywhere to be wondered at, for this one unrivalled scene. The golden sunshine tinged the sheet of the American cascade, and painted on its heaving 96 The Morning Star. spray the broken semicircle of a rainbow, Heaven's own beauty crowning earth's sublimity. My steps were slow, and I paused long at every turn of the descent, as one lingers and pauses, who discerns a brighter and brightening excellence in what he must soon behold no more. The solitude of the old wilderness now reigned over the whole vicinity of the falls. My enjoyment be- came the more rapturous, because no poet shared it—nor wretch, devoid of poetry, profaned it: but the spot, so famous through the world, was all my own! THE MORNING STAR. A single star just risen ! How tranquilly In Heaven's pure shrine its innage burns ! Star of the morn, my spirit yearns To be with thee. Lord of the desert sky! Night's last lone heir Calmly thou smilest from on high, Gazing, as if an angel's eye Were stationed there. Is it an idle dream? Or can it be · That in yon orb a spirit reigns, Who knows this earth, and kindly deigns To smile on me? Heaven's glittering train are flown - Quenched each pure spark — Save where some distant Sun's pale ghost, Frail remnant of a scattered host - Peeps through the dark. But thou, fair pilgrim-star, Night's youngest-born, Wilt not withdraw thy steady light, Till bursts, on yonder snow-crowned height, The yellow morn. Oft have I watched, dear orb, Thy early ray; A type art thou, of hopes that spring When Joy dies — brightly heralding A brighter day. So, when from life's course Its stars are riven, Rise o'er the death-moists gathering dun, - Herald of an eternal Sun --- Rise, hope of Heaven ! F.H. HEDGE. : 97 THE SQUATTER. BY JOHN NEAL. Early in the fall of 1824, a fire broke out in the woods, near Wiscasset and Olney, two pretty villages of Maine, which, after spreading itself slowly and quietly through the underbrush of that neighborhood for a few days, without exciting any unusual atten- tion, appeared to go out of itself. And then, as if it had been refreshing itself by repose, gathering its whole strength, while the inhabitants were looking another way, it burst forth anew, and re- appeared, with astonishing suddenness, in twenty places at once ; encompassing the whole neighborhood, as with a wall of fire, and extending itself, not gradually, nor slowly, but with the swiftness of a conquering army, mounted upon the steeds of the Desert, and with a noise like that of the great deep, even to the British Dominions ; filling the air with a preternatural paleness, over- sweeping the wilderness of timber-trees, lying between the States and the Provinces, and literally destroying millions of acres. Instances of individual suffering occurred along the whole ex- tent of devastation, which have no parallel perhaps in the history of mankind. By this, I do not mean that others have not suf- fered as much or more, by other and different manifestations of the Destroyer ; but simply that, in the whole range of History, and I might add, of Poetry and Romance, though well aware of what has been done by Cooper, and Flint — our friend Timothy — whose very hearts were afire, when they described a similar scene — there is no parallel to be found for the truth of what hap- pened here ; and chiefly among the houseless, homeless men, who were caught logging for the fall freshets, or prowling for bea- ver, by the instantaneous and overwhelming approach of the fire, bursting upon them, at dead of night with the noise of thunder, or surrounding them at noonday, while they are lying half asleep, in the shadow of a mighty tree, calculating its worth in feet and inches — or appearing suddenly before them, and right in their path, as the wind shifted, or they happened to look up in the pursuit of an elk or a bear. There is no poetry in this. I am not exaggerating. Every word I write is the simple truth. I know of many cases like the following. Three men were at work in the wood, towards the lines — Walker and two others : Walker lived at Thomson-pond. I have the story from one of the parties. The first thing they saw, as they were at work, with nothing to apprise them of their danger - no sign in heaven or earth — nothing but a little hazi- ness in the atmosphere, which they took no notice of at the time, and only remembered afterwards, while they were running for VOL. VIII. 13 93 The Squatter. their lives — a large tree took fire close by them. They looked up, and without speaking a word, started off at full speed for the nearest water they were acquainted with, so hotly pursued by the fire, that they never stopped until they reached the Schoodic river, forty miles off, into which they all plunged, one after the other, as they arrived at the bank, holding their heads under the wa- ter, as long as they could, and only looking out long enough to get their breath. Of these three, one died on the shore, another, Walker himself, about six months afterwards. The other is still living. Another case. A man — I forget his name — was at work, digging potatoes. Happening to look up, he saw an old stump afire, a little way off. Not dreaming of danger, but wondering where the fire could come from, as he saw nothing to cause it, he happened to turn toward another quarter of the sky. It was all in commotion — over the top of a hill not far off, the flames were pouring with a steady uninterrupted rush, as if they had over- swept a barrier, and were tumbling through some vast cavern of the earth, like the waters of Niagara. Heavy black clouds were gathered about the base, and almost upon a level with it - and through these, the fire streamed, in thick Aashes, with the roar of approaching battle, a sensible vibration of the earth. In less than three minutes, and before the poor fellow had time to recol- lect himself, or hardly to get his breath, he found himself com- pletely surrounded. He started for his house, only a few rods off; but before he could reach it, a stack of grain which he had to pass on the way, took fire —- and the next moment, his barn- and finally the house itself, before he could reach it. And then, the blackness and desolation, above and below, and all about him — the skies thundering afar off — the earth quaking under- neath his feet — the flames pouring over the tops of the nearest hills, and through the tempestuous gathering of clouds — Like sheets of light, in their descent Through midniglit’s parting firmament.' All this had he to encounter. But he reached the house — ap- peared in the door-way for a moment, called to his wife to save their youngest child — and then, catching up the other two, as they lay stretched out upon the floor, he sprang for the high road, without looking behind him. It was only a few rods off'; but when he arrived there, he missed his wife and the youngest child. Providentially, there was a large open place not far off. Leaving his two boys there, he returned for his wife. On reach- ing the door, and seeing the frightful appearance of the sky, she had fainted. They were all saved, but their house and barn were destroyed — all their property everything they had on earth, but the clothes upon their backs. And to this hour, that unhappy 100 The Squatter. How much truth there may be in this story, it is not for me to say ; but I must acknowledge, that his exceedingly familiar ac- quaintance with all that concerned our North-eastern Boundary, and the evident jealousy, with which he was regarded, whenever he appeared at Fredericton, were circumstances, that strengthened me not a little in my belief, that he would be a dangerous fellow for our good neighbors, the British, if the worst should come to the worst. Sir! said he — it was long after the separation of Massachusetts and Maine — my countrymen are fools — ideots. They are tampering with their own Sovereignty. There is not such another line of defence along the whole frontier of the States. Ours, we should have nothing to fear. Theirs — the whole Confederacy would be open to their inroads. Will they never wake up! Are they blockheads enough to believe, that in case of another war, the British will be desperate or foolish enough to try the North-River ? No! they had enough of that in the first war. The next will bring out all their strength — and for the same purpose, a separation of the States, or a dismemberment of territory, along our North-eastern Boundary. The question is, not whether the District of Maine shall lose a part of her wil- derness, a few millions of acres more or less — what are they to her ? — nor is it, whether Massachusetts, or even wheth- er New-England shall have a portion of this vast territory — the raw material for a state, gambled away by ignorant and blun- dering politicians — but whether the surest and strongest bul- wark of the Confederacy shall be utterly demolished — nay, more — abandoned to a crafty and powerful adversary. I know of but three men that understand this subject, besides myself — one is the late Governor King of Maine — the other Lincoln, of Mas- sachusetts, and the other, Lincoln of Maine — thank God, they are brothers and Governors ! Sir ! Do you know why Sir How- ard Douglas is pushing his settlements forward by main force, within the disputed territory? Because he is a military man. Because he knows the value — the inestimable value — not so much to the Provinces as to the States, however — of the dis- puted ground, as a military position. And why is he the Governor of New-Brunswick? Because he is a military man. Mark my words! What is now done warily and secretly, will soon be urged with arrogant pretension. Out of our apathy, a claim of right will be raised, and war — open war — may be the consequence of our stupidity, before we have done with this. Why Sir — continued he, his black eyes flashing fire into the hearts of all who heard him — it was just after the seizure of his friend Baker — long subsequent to the period of my story, how- ever — Do you know that God-Almighty has laid out a military road for us, along that whole line of frontier — a road without an The Squatter. 101 te paraPlimes as equal upon the face of the earth — one too, which our adver- sary took advantage of, at the very outbreaking of the last war, by marching a regiment (the 1041h) from Fredericton to Quebec, in the dead of winter — to the unspeakable relief, as well as amazement, of Sir George Prevost, who complimented the offi- cers for their heroic achievement, upon parade, and afterwards mentioned it in the general orders. If we abandon that road, we deserve what we shall most assuredly meet with hereafter — the contempt of every military man upon the face of the earth, who understands the subject; and the reproach of our children's chil- dren to the latest generation. Upon my word, my dear sir — said I. This is all Hebrew to me. What on earth do you mean by a military-road, along our whole North-eastern frontier ? I mean what I say. A military-road — arranged, laid out, and fortified, by the God of Battles ; the God our Fathers wor- shipped — the Men of the Revolution. You cannot mean the highlands ? The highlands !- nonsense! No Sir; I mean a river-road- a water-level — a road, as level as this floor (stamping with his heavy foot, as he spoke) for two hundred miles, with no roots nor underbrush in the way, and as hard as the everlasting rocks - a far better road than that, by which George Washington escaped, when he was beleaguered by the whole strength of the British armies, and struck that astonishing blow at Princeton ; a road, in short Sir, over which our enemies moved their armies during the last war, and I then hoped for the last time. What was I to believe? The man before me, was a rough- looking Down-Easter, with a bear-skin cap, powder-horn, a shot- pouch, a wampum-belt, and a glittering axe swung over his shoul- der. Yet he had the bearing of a soldier — and he talked the language of a statesman. Circumstances of a singular nature, had thrown us together, and inclination, at least on my part, had kept us together. On some points, he was very free with me — on others, exceedingly reserved. I could not learn that he was married — or that he had ever been married ; yet he spoke with such a devout and passionate eloquence, of what married men are, or ought to be, most familiar with ; the pleasantness and sa- credness of home, the beauty and simplicity of fireside com- forts, the pride of a father -- and here his lip quivered — and the in-gathering of all generous and powerful and pure impulses, about the nestling place of your own sanctitudes — the offspring of your love and faith and holy confidence — nay, the very look of his eyes, the very tones of his voice, were enough to satisfy me that he had been, if he was not now, a husband and a father – a proud father and a happy husband ; and I told him so — but he made no reply. 102 The Squatter. I did not like to put the question in so many words — much less to obtain what I wanted by stratagem ; but the very day be- fore we parted, I am afraid for the last time, he for the deep of the wilderness, there to wait for the trumpet-call of them that know how to defend the ramparts of a mighty empire - I to the bustle and uproar of a crowded city, or to the solitude of a coun- try-village — an accident happened, which took him so completely by surprise, that he betrayed himself. We were standing by a double sleigh, with two young horses hitched to it, ready for a start, and waiting only for the last paper. All at once, they be- gan to plunge — a little boy in a fur-cap, came skating by, just under their noses — they suddenly reared up, and then set off, at full speed, on their way toward Fredericton barracks. I turned — and the first thing I saw, was my friend Hayes — I must call him so — blubbering like a great school-boy, over a little fellow with a prodigious quantity of bright hair — his cap off — I recollect the cap now — and his clothes all powdered with snow. The case was clear — the little fellow was as white as a miller ; he had evidently had a fall. But the most diverting part of the whole was, to see him looking up into the face of poor Hayes, with such an air of innocent surprise, while the latter was crying over him — literally boo-hoo-ing. It was too much for me. I could n't stand it. Observing me just ready to laugh, Hayes Aung the boy a dollar — kissed him — and then started off at full speed, after his horses. He had evidently not missed them until now, for I saw him pull in his right hand with a disorderly twitch — then look at it — and then start away, as if wondering how he had lost his reins. That night he told me a story, of which the following is an abridgment. Sir, said he, I am a sad fellow — very childish, very wicked, and of course, very wretched. I am a fool, I know — but I can't help it. I never see a fur-cap of that color, pointing to his own, which lay steaming on a settle, before a huge roaring fire — on the head of a boy, without feeling as if I could cry my eyes out. I have been, what you told me once you were – a husband and a father, a proud father, and a happy husband. You remember the fires we had in 1824 ? Well, I had camped out that fall, and was making a fortune ; how, and with what view, is nobody's business. You need n't stare — I saw the question rising to your throat. Well, I had left my wife ; no matter why; incompatibility of temper, if you like. All I have to say is, that she was altogether too good for me. Had she been more of a woman, and less of an angel, I should not have been what I am now — an outcast — a wanderer — a hunted out- law. Oh, you need n't stare. I've told you about all I mean to tell you on that head. Well — we separated in plain Eng- lish, I ran away, and left my wife ; taking with me only one The Squatter. 103 They were me. Ah, ir eyes, and co., and so I lead put it in child — my poor dear Jerry — the only child I was sure of; for between ourselves, my good sir, the devil had put it into my head to be jealous of my poor wife — and so I left her all the chil- dren with blue and gray eyes, and took with me the only one that resembled me. Ah, if you could but have seen that boy's eyes ! They were like sunshine, though black as death. Well, Jerry and I got along pretty well together for nearly three years, when one day, I received a letter from my wife, saying that Luther, my eldest boy, and the two blue-eyed babies, were in their graves. Two were drowned in each others' arms — the other died of a broken heart — a mere baby — but it pined itself to death after I disappeared — she told me so, and I believed her — asking for farler, poor farler, a hundred times in a day, and whenever it awoke in the night ; and dying — literally dying, with that word upon its lips. My wife added, that she was com- ing home. What could I say? I knew that I had wronged her ; that I was a fool and a madman ; but what could I say? Well, our arrrangements were made, and I set off to meet her — leaving my poor little boy at home, with a hired girl to take care of him, until I got back. To be sure that he would not go astray, I had tied a young Newfoundland puppy, of which he was very fond, to the post of his trundle-bed — telling him to stay there until I returned with his mother, which would be in the course of that afternoon, or toward night-fall. Here he stopped, and his breathing changed ; but after a few minutes, began anew, in a lower and steadier, though much al- tered tone. Well Sir - we met once more — and she forgave me ; and we were happy. And so, I took her into my arms, lifted her into the saddle, and we started together — two as happy human creatures, as there were upon the face of the whole earth — not- withstanding the self-reproach and heaviness I felt, on hearing the particulars of what I cannot bear to speak of yet, or even to think of — the death of Luther and his two elder sisters. Poor Luther- poor baby! Well, we were already more than half way back to the place where she was prepared to see her little nestling asleep, and dreaming of its mother — his dear, new mother, as he called her, and persisted in calling her, from the moment I told him that she was coming to live with us. Poor little fellow! He had almost forgotten her. Suddenly, as we were descending the top of a hill, our horses began to snort — my wife caught my arm, and as I turned toward her, I saw the whole western sky in a preternatural glow. Before I could speak, a strange darkness swept by, and I felt as if the hand of death were upon me, I tried to speak, but I could not. I could only urge my wife to follow — and clapping spurs to my horse, I rode straightway to- ward the fire. Once only, did I turn — and then only to look 104 The Squatter. back and forbid her to follow me further. Well, I arrived at the place; and there I found — bear with me patiently — first the hired girl, frightened half out of our senses, and hiding under a fence. I asked her for my boy. She stood aghast at the in- quiry. Her only reply was, a wandering of the eyes, as if in search of something. At last, and with great difficulty, she re- collected herself enough to say, that she had seen the fire in time to escape with my boy — that being dreadfully fatigued, though she had not ran far, she sat down to rest herself, looking toward the path by which we were expected — that some how or other, she fell asleep — and that the last she remembered was, something little Jerry had said about going back to untie poor Carlo! My heart died away within me. I knew that I was childless — I knew it — do n't talk to me — I knew it. And it was so. When I arrived at my house, I found it nearly destroyed by the fire — and a little way off, lay my poor boy, with Carlo watching over him. The child was dead — that is Carlo you see there. My wife is in the mad-house, at Philadelphia — and here am I. God forgive me ! STANZAS. It is not, that memory ceases to shed Its hallowing beams o’er the days that are fled : Full well I remember the joys and the tears That hallowed this spot in my youth's sunny years. 'Tis not, that life's pulses beat faintly or low, Not youth's ruddy stream could more rapidly flow - "T' is not, that hope's voices no longer I hear, For never more sweetly they breathed in my ear. 0, sweeter the syren strains breathing around me, And stronger the chain in which fancy hath bound me And sweeter than childhood's dreams ever can be, Are the hopes and the joys that now beam upon me. G. W.GREENE. 105 DECLINE OF THE MODERN DRAMA. BY THE AUTHOR OF TRUTH, A GIFT FOR SCRIBBLERS.' ONE of the principal, if not the principal cause of the degra- dation of the dramatic literature of the present day, appears to us to be the prevailing practice of writing exclusively for popular actors, or Stars. The popularity of the Star will carry a bad piece through, or he pays for it ; and, in either case, the author does not lose his labor. It is rather humiliating to the pride of literature, to be obliged to advert to the hope of gain, as one of the main-springs of literary exertion ; but so it is. Authors, in gen- eral, have ever been, and still are, proverbially poor — and no man goeth a warfare on his own charges. In order to eat, an author must be paid. In this country especially, there are few who can afford to undertake any great work, such as a five-act play, for the love of literature or the hope of fame. There are few beggars among us, indeed; but there are as few, who can labor without any hope of remuneration. The stern necessities of real life crush the blossoms of genius in the very bud. Stars are all the rage among the theatre-going public — nothing else will go down. The time was, when a really good piece, such as the stock-plays of Shakspeare, Massinger, and the other dramat- ists, well, but not brilliantly, sustained by the performers, would draw an audience. The public taste, or rather want of taste, requires a powerful stimulus, something extraordinary and piquant. For a Star, therefore, an author must write, if he would gain any- thing by his labor, and if he would not see his piece damned, on its first appearance. He is not a Byron, and cannot rest his fame on the judgment of posterity. It is to the pit and gallery, that he must appeal. The consequence is, that the piece is conceived and written, not with a view to the faithful delineation of human nature and passion, but for the sole, and almost the avowed, purpose of ex- hibiting the peculiar powers of an individual. The minor char- acters of the play are all contemptible ; the unities are violated ; and common sense and probability are set at defiance. The piece must abound in clap-traps. If the Star have a stentorian voice, he must be provided with an opportunity to rant, rave, and bellow. If he have a stalwart arm and leg, he must have an opportunity to fight in single combat, and kill his antagonist upon the stage — an exhibition as gratifying to the mob as it is repug- nant to good taste. Corneille made Horatius slay his sister be- hind the scenes - a modern English play-wright would have per- petrated the murder at the footlights, and have left the corpse upon the stage. VOL. VIII. 14 106 Decline of the Modern Drama. Let us refer to facts, in illustration of what has been said. James Hillhouse wrote · Percy's Masque,' and Hadad,' for fame. He obtained it ; they were beautiful poems, though not adapted to the stage. Neither since nor before his time, has any American, as far as we know, written a play from the same mo- tive. It is needless to speak of the failures of McHenry, Bar- ker, and some others. They failed without writing for Stars — they would have failed had they written for Stars. There is a much more pregnant example of the pernicious influence of starr- ing, upon this department of literature. Edmund Forrest offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the best play, that should be written, within a given time, for his especial use. Though five thousand dollars would be too small a sum for a really good tragedy, yet a considerable number of writers put into the lottery for this paltry pittance. The prize was awarded to a piece entitled Metamora, called, by courtesy, a tragedy ; and so, in some sense, it was. Common sense, histori- cal truth, human nature, and the king's English, were alike butch- ered without remorse. But it had abundance of stage effect. It was successful beyond all example, and continued so to be, until the Star went to Europe ; though it is a mere thing of shreds and patches, altered by half a dozen hands, to suit half a dozen tastes, and all of them bad ones. In a word, the thing, as a literary composition, was beneath criticism, and even con- iempt. Yet it ran, night after night ; and the author and the actor reaped a golden harvest from its popularity. Encouraged by this first success, the author tried his hand again, on his own hook,' as the vulgar saying is. All his subsequent pieces were utter failures; and their very names have passed from the remembrance of those who had the misfortune to witness their representation. They had no merit ; but that was not the reason of their want of success. The fact was, there was no Star to sustain them, and they were not adapted to a Star if there had been. We are not sufficiently acquainted with the doings on the English stage, to select a similar instance from its history ; but we presume, as the system of starring prevails among our trans- Atlantic brethren, the same cause must produce the same effects there as here. The dearth of British dramatic talent confirms us in our opinion. Who, of the present day, are worthy to be called dramatists? Fame answers — Croly, Miss Mitford, Jo- anna Baillie, and Sheridan Knowles. The last of these, only, has succeeded in getting, at the same time, reputation and popular ap- plause. But, while such pieces as Metamora’ run night after night, what manager thinks of representing the splendid Catiline, the perfect Rienzi, and the beautiful creations of Joanna Baillie, upon the stage? They have been played, indeed; but they have Decline of the Modern Drama. 107 not been popular — they are above the taste of the vulgar. And, as there are few authors, who are, in any sense, above the popu- lar voice, men of genius will conform to it; and we shall have many such plays as Metamora, but none like Catiline and Rienzi. We are grieved, that we cannot add to these the name of some creation of American genius ; but, alas ! such a thing is yet to be. The Gladiator, of Bird, indeed, has much merit, though it is a Star play ; but we must read it in the closet, before we can assign it a rank among the things that are to go down to future years. We see no reason to doubt, that there is as much dramatic talent extant in this as there has been in any former age, except- ing that of Shakspeare; or, that managers are as ready to bring it forth as ever they were ; and the proof is that, in all other branches of English literature and science, the nineteenth century is not behind former ones. The fact is, the public taste is vicious and depraved. When Shakspeare, Ben Jonson, and Otway, are driven behind the scenes, to make room for Gouffee, the man- monkey ; Herr Cline, the tumbler ; and the lewd and disgusting prancings of foreign figurantes — what encouragement have men of genius to write for the stage? Not that we would banish these amusing vagabonds altogether. They should be permitted to shew their bodily dexterity, and to earn a comfortable livelihood ; but the theatre is no place for them. The circus would be a much more proper field for the display of their ability. But it matters little how we dispose of them ; it is for the people to raise the drooping, we had almost said dying, hopes of the dra- matic muse. As long as the people forsake Shakspeare, to run after Herr Cline, the Dog Francis, and the Dog of Montargis, so long we shall have few good plays. A people of gross taste must necessarily have a gross theatre. It is not, that there are not, both in this country and in England, men of pure and correct taste. There are abundance of them, who see and deplore the degradation of the stage, who know what the legitimate drama is, and would fain see it restored. But they are not the mass of the play-going community. They may read a play in the closet, and puff it in the newspapers and re- views; but, still it is not to them, that either author, manager, or actors, must look for support. Nine out of ten, of those who fre- quent the theatres, are not scholars, and have never even heard of unities or rules of the drama. To them, the perfect Athalie of the perfect Racine would be insufferably tedious. Authors, who wish to write plays for stage-effect, must choose other mod- els than the masters of the Drama. Shakspeare, Racine, and Moliere, fall into insignificance, in modern times, before those misplaced luminaries - for whom festival-benefits' are got up at the principal theatres, 108 THE ROGUE IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. It is said of Schiller, that he was, for a long time, undecided whether he was born for a poet or for a philosopher. Circum- stances have been such as to leave me in doubt, whether fortune intended me for a knave or an honest man. I may aver, with sincerity, that my inclinations and intentions have been always correct; but a strange concatenation of occurrences has con- vinced others, and almost persuaded myself, that I am no better than I should be ; or as a quondam friend expressed it, an irre- claimable scoundrel. I was born in a thriving village, in Connecticut ; and my birth was, in the words of Rousseau, the beginning of my misfortunes — not to speak of my birth-place. My father was a carpenter, by trade ; but turned the greater part of his attention to the manu- facture of clocks, nutmegs, and oak-leaf cigars. Pumpkin-seeds did at one time form a portion of his handiwork, but he soon gave up the business, as not sufficiently lucrative. In my boyhood, I was distinguished by no remarkable propensities. My pa- rents pronounced me stupid ; and perhaps they were in the right. My thoughts seemed to be always a wool-gathering, and I would ponder for hours over a blade of grass, or a glittering pebble, with an astonishing gravity of countenance. I do not distinctly re- member the nature of my lucubrations ; but they were generally sufficiently profound and abstruse. It was at an early stage of my career, that I was favored with a specimen of its future calamities. The old lady, who kept the school at which I attended, was a rigid and truculent disciplina- rian. She one day missed a piece of twine from her table. Af- ter an examination of all her pupils, her suspicions rested upon me. I stoutly denied having any knowledge of the important article. But, in the midst of my expostulations, the real culprit started up, and exclaimed — Here it is maʼm. I seed him throw it under his seat.' My guilt was now palpable in the eyes of the good woman, and it only remained to receive my confes- sion and to thrash me for the theft. It was not until after many severe applications of the birch, that she succeeded in making me tell a lie. I gained very little by this — for my punishment was doubled, in consequence of the double crime, of which she now supposed me guilty. So far was I from cherishing feelings of resentment, that this adventure determined me to stick the more doggedly to the truth. A motto, which I accidentally picked up, for it was not much in vogue in our village, also pleased me amazingly : it ran thus : • Honesty is the best policy.' I determined to adopt it, and to 110 The Rogue in spite of Himself. Here's a victim for you, 'Squire,' said my companion, spin- ning me by the collar into the middle of the floor. He tried to pass off his oak-leaves upon me for real Havanas. Look to him, 'Squire.' I will not give a prolonged description of my interview with this limb of the law. In vain did I assert that my intentions were honest ; that I had no disposition to cheat my customers. My pack offered indubitable proof to the contrary. The attorney took me aside, and offered to let me off for a couple of dollars. But I indignantly refused to give them to him ; and, forgetting my own situation, commenced an exhortation upon the enormity of receiving bribes. The 'Squire grew angry ; said that it was his duty to commit me, and requested me to sit down until the constable should arrive. But I told him that it was time for me to go, and rose to leave the office. The attorney sprang upon me, like a wild-cat upon a squirrel, and seized me roughly by the collar. 'I shall shake thee off, unless thou quittest thy hold of me, Ezra,' said I, dashing my fist into his face, and prostrating him supine before me. I grasped my pack and hurried forth into the open air. I had not run far, when I heard a hue-and-cry behind me, and turning, I beheld a dozen sturdy fellows, with clubs and horse-whips, headed by my companion in boots, and vociferating, in horrible discord, Stop thief!' The words were new to me then, and sounded harshly in my ears. I have long since grown used to them. My pursuers soon came up with me, and began calling me rascal, pickpocket, and all sorts of pleas- ant names. By some summary process, which I never understood, I was thrust into jail. My friend Fleece drew up an indictment against me, containing no less than ten different counts, in which the assault upon himself was not forgotten. There seemed to be a probability of my being incarcerated for several months. What was to be done? I could not brook the law's delay. I longed for the fresh air and the green fields. On the first night of my captivity, I was so fortunate as to effect my escape. The night was dark and rainy. I ran in the direction of my home, where I arrived early in the morning. My reception was any- thing but gratifying. 0, you young gallows-bird !' exclaimed my father. "To knock down and rob a lawyer !' squeaked my aunt Esther. • To part with your pack !' roared my parent. "To let 'em catch you !' said my brother Ben, contemptuously. Permit me to explain, my dear father, aunt, and brother.' “0, we have heard the whole story, and know all about it.' But there are two sides to it, my dear Sir. I may put a dif- ferent face upon the transaction.' The Rogue in spite of Himself. 111 * We will save your conscience that trouble,' replied my con- siderate parent. My protestations of innocence were received with shrugs of disbelief, by my accusers, who were fully persuaded that I had been guilty of an assault, with felonious intent, upon the per- son of 'Squire Fleece, I was consequently compelled to enjoy the full credit of such a deed ; and to listen to an edifying moral lecture from every one of my three exemplary relatives. The first thing that caught my eye the next day, on taking up the Shuttleville Banner of Liberty, was an advertisement, in fam- ing letters, headed “Twenty Dollars Reward ! I read, inter- ruptedly, aloud, nearly as follows: Escaped — that notorious, and veteran villain, Pierce Parker — five feet ten, in height — dark eyes, that seek the ground - suspicious and uneasy man- ner -- had on, when he left, gray homespun pantaloons - blue coat, with brass buttons — yellow waistcoat — any one giving information of the said Parker, which may lead to his being re- taken, shall receive the above reward.' A cold shudder ran through my frame, as I read this atrocious paragraph. I hastened to the window, but as I was about open- ing the blinds, I heard voices, as of persons approaching. I staid my hand, and looked forth. Sight of horror! There was my brother Ben, in company with two officers of justice, advancing cautiously, and with the evident intent of seizing me by surprise. Not a moment was to be lost. I snatched my hat, slipped out of the back-door, and ran until my legs sunk beneath me with tremor and fatigue. Night came on. I durst not seek a shelter in any hut or barn. So, looking round for a soft stone for a pil- low, I spread some light fern upon the ground, and threw myself down to rest. My dreams were prolific and horrible: I will not inflict them upon the reader. With the first sunbeam, I awoke. I resolved to shape my course for New-York. On the eve- ning of the next day, I found myself in Broadway. I proceeded along that busy thoroughfare, until I reached the outskirts of the city. The hour was late, and I was upon the point of retracing my steps, when I heard a noise, which arrested my attention. I hastened to the spot, whence it proceeded, and saw five men engaged in a desperate scuffle. "Three upon two, is n't fair play,' exclaimed I, as I rushed into the midst of the melee, and levelled some hard blows at the stronger party. The two individu- als, whose side I had taken, were dressed in the extreme of fash- ion, and seemed to be gentlemen. As I approached, they vo- ciferated, Secure the thieves! Down with them! I accord- ingly did my best to obey them, and dealt my blows about me so effectually, that the three desperadoes soon took to flight. I wished to pursue them ; but my new companions dissuaded me. " To whom, may I ask, are we indebted for this timely assist- 112 The Rogue in spite of Himself. ance ?' said the taller of the two gentlemen. “My name is Leroy, and this is my friend McDermot.' And my name, Sir, is Parker — Pierce Parker' – I mod- estly replied. The tall gentleman eyed me for a moment, with a piercing gaze, and then observed: 'I have a description of your person in my pocket, I believe.' " Very likely, but I hope you will make no use of it.' None that may injure you, my dear fellow. Come along, and take a glass with us.' "I am pledged to the Temperance Society to take no strong drink,' answered I, with a serious indifference of manner. “Ha! my young quiz; but you deserve to be one of us. Burn my whiskers, if you do n't! Harkee, lad. Have you a taste for a professional life? It depends very much upon what the profession may be.' The iligant and jonteel profession that you have already cho- sen, my honey,' said Mr. McDermot, whom I recognized, by his brogue, for a son of the Emerald Isle. I began to suspect the character of my new acquaintances, and plainly told them as much. I expressed my abhorrence of the profession, to which they alluded ; and, repenting of my late in- terference, I had the temerity to lay hold of them, and to call for the watchmen. But those most quiet and ancient guardians of the night, heeded me not. Mr. Leroy gave me a blow, which made the sparks fly from my eyes, and almost stunned me. Mr. McDermot busied himself with relieving me of my watch — the hard-earned trophy of my boyhood — and of a solitary five- dollar bill — the last of my scanty savings! Each of these pro- fessional gentlemen then gave me a kick; and bestowing upon me some very improper epithets, bade me farewell. I passed a very disagreeable night in the gutter, bruised and disheartened. Early in the morning I arose, and in a miserable plight limped down Broadway. I had been standing for a couple of hours, gazing into the win- dow of a print-shop, when I felt some one tap me on the shoul- der. It was that terror of evil-doers, Constable Hays: rest his soul! In his insinuating way, he requested me to accompany him, which I did, with ominous conjectures. I was carried be- fore a magistrate, where I was confronted by the three individuals upon whom I had fallen the night before. The result of the in- vestigation was, that I was removed to a charming residence at Sing-Sing — where I was lodged and found, on condition of re- maining two years ! I have given a somewhat detailed account of the incidents, which led to my two first imprisonments. I must hurry over the remaining events, which mark my unhappy career. The period The Rogue in spite of Himself. 113 of my tedious captivity at last drew to a close. Again I rejoiced in my liberty. But the stamp of infamy was fixed indelibly upon me. I was doomed to a perpetual recurrence of mortifications. The Judges recognized me as a “hardened offender.' The edi- tors (they will be the death of me!) fathered upon me all the anonymous thefts, burglaries, and crimes, of every description, which were committed. In the course of six months, I had set fire to no fewer than ten dwelling-houses, broken open some dozens of stores, and perpetrated an indefinite variety of petty larcenies. I was known as “dare-devil Parker ! I, the meek- est, the most reserved, and, though I say it, the most conscien- tious of God's creatures ! I became the terror of young gentle- men with pocket-books, and of young ladies with reticules. The house-keeper double-bolted his door, as he thought of my ex- ploits. The merchant deposited his loose bills safely in the bank, as he called to mind my numerous audacities. The news- papers teemed with anecdotes of my adroitness, my unparalleled boldness! I was the prince of pickpockets, the king of knaves ! When a man has once acquired, justly or wrongfully, a bad char- acter, how, like pitch that defileth, it will stick to him! My adventures and escapes would afford materials for a vol- ume, but I have not the heart to relate them. My sinister des- tiny dogged me wherever I went. At times, I was half tempted to sacrifice all scruples of conscience, to take to some lucrative occupation, to cheat, lie, and over-reach, and become an honest man. I embarked, on an India voyage. The ship in which I sailed was wrecked. The sea greedily swallowed all my mess- mates, but was squeamish enough to cast me upon dry land. I thought of the old adage, and shuddered. After years of vicissitude, I resolved to emigrate to the West. I crossed the Alleghanies, and fixed my abode in a thriving vil- lage in Ohio. The next day, I was taken up for horse-stealing. I was carried into court. The weather was warm, and the Judge sat smoking a cigar, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, and a red silk handkerchief tied loosely about his neck. I started back on seeing him, then recovered myself, and examining him more closely, exclaimed — Ben ! the devil! is that you ?' It was, indeed, my rascal of a brother. Having, by the failure of a pub- lisher, come into the possession of a few law books, he had re- moved west of the mountains, and boldly set up for himself, in a place where the statutes were known only by tradition. He was now the 'Squire of the village, and was to be run for Con- gress, at the next election. Ben pretended to be quite shocked at my familiar ejaculation on seeing him, and professed not to know me. After the ad- journment of the Court, however, he favored me with a private VOL VIII. 15 114 The Rogue in spite of Himself. interview. He promised to let me off, on condition of my play- ing no more of my gallows-tricks, as he termed them, in those parts. This was too much for my philosophy: to receive a par- don from my brother Ben, who, if he had his deserts, and in no unfraternal spirit I say it, would at this hour be cursing Mr. McAdam in a certain mineralogical seminary, which shall be nameless — to receive a pardon from him, for a crime of which I was totally unconscious, made me laugh outright. He convinced me, however, that I should get into trouble if I remained ; and, as my reputation had now got up with me, even in this remote hamlet, I determined to quit the place without delay. As I journeyed southward, I fell in with an individual, who introduced himself to me as the celebrated Polish æronaut, Mr. Ponyitupski. He expressed surprise at my not having heard of him, as he had made numerous ascensions. He spoke English like a native, although he had not been six months in the country. I was always of a speculative turn of mind, and was delighted to find myself in the company of a man who had been above the clouds. How would I like to ascend in a balloon myself! Mr. Ponyitupski declared that nothing was easier. In the end, he agreed to let me make an ascension, in his balloon, from the next considerable town, and share the profits. Consequently, on ar- riving there, we announced our intention in the newspapers, and fitted up an enclosure for the exhibition. It was a brilliant afternoon. All the fashion of the town was present. A band of music played Hail Columbia, while the pro- cess of filling the balloon was going on. The discharge of artil- lery announced my entrance into the car. I waved the star- spangled banner, and stooping forward, cut the cord which held me to the earth. Alas ! though I had no tie to detain me, I did not rise. There swung the balloon to and fro, while the spec- tators vented their disappointment in hisses and groans. I threw over all my ballast — still the balloon would not go up. I de- tached the car, and sustained myself by a simple hoop ; but the propensity of the balloon seemed all to tend earthward. I kicked off my boots — dropped my coat, my waistcoat — threw away my double-bladed knife. No, no! These sacrifices would not avail. Just as the spectators were rushing forward to tear me limb from limb, a sudden gust of wind carried the balloon and myself over the enclosure, and then quietly dropped us into a neighbor- ing horse-pond. On reaching the banks, the multitude received me with threats of summary vengeance. Mr. Ponyitupski had run off with their money. The balloon was speedily torn into shreds ; and the few clothes I had on me, were soon in a similar condition. With great exertion, I at last escaped from my tor- Phrenology and Free Will. 115 menters; but the cup of my disasters was not yet brimmed. As I was proceeding hastily to my lodging, I was arrested and thrown into prison for an imposter and vagabond - and here I have hastily indited thus much of my life. R. R. PHRENOLOGY AND FREE WILL.* BY DR. CALDWELL. The subject of Free Will and Responsibility having been long one of the most vexed questions in the school of metaphys- ics, an attempt to analyze it farther, and render it, if possible, simpler and clearer, may not perhaps be considered amiss. As an accurate knowledge, however, of the meaning of terms is es- sential to regular and satisfactory discussion, while discordant views of their meaning form one of the most fruitful sources of controversy, definition claims our first attention. Responsibility implies a liability to the penalty of a violated law; and Freedom of Will is tantamount to the power of choice, or of doing an act, which, all things considered, is the most agree- able that presents itself to the actor. What is it, we would ask, that renders an act the most agreeable ?' Its being in accord- ance with, and in full gratification of, the feeling or propensity that predominates at the time. Such gratification is pleasurable at the moment, however painful it may afterwards become, on retrospect and reflection. The act, therefore, is freely chosen and performed, and if it be in compliance with the highest law binding on him who performed it, it is praiseworthy ; but if in compliance with a lower law, to the neglect or violation of a higher, it is culpable. In considering this subject, let us never forget, that an act done in compliance with the ruling propensity or feeling, at the time, is chosen, and therefore free; and it is chosen, because, all things considered, it is the most agreeable. Choice, therefore, is the exercise of free Will; yet it is made in strict obedience to a motive; and the stronger the motive, the freer and readier the obedience, because the influence of rival but feebler motives is not felt. The mind, acting from a single unopposed inclination, is unfettered and prompt. It hesitates and struggles only in the midst of conflicting inclinations. It is no paradox, then, but a simple truth, to say that the mind acts most freely, when it acts most necessarily, or under the strongest motive. * This article was intended as a note to Phrenology Vindicated, in our last; but was omitted for want of room. 116 Phrenology and Free Will. No being can incur the penalty of a law, that does not grow out of its own nature, or that is not in strict accordance with it. Nor does the violation of such a law ever fail to inflict its own penalty. Virtue, therefore, is followed by its own re- ward, as certainly as the shadow follows the substance, or any other effect its cause. This is true, however heterodox some persons may deem it. No being can violate a law of its nature with impunity, or fulfil one without feeling a reward in the grati- fication produced. To prove the truth of this, nothing but a specification of instances is requisite. Man is a compound of several different natures, each under the governance of its own laws. He is at once a physical, organic, intellectual, and moral being, and suffers necessarily from the infraction of a law im- posed on him in either of those capacities. As a physical being, he is subject to the laws of gravitation and projection. If, there- fore, he so far neglects or infringes these, or either of them, as to fall himself from an elevated place, allow a heavy body to fall on him, or a solid one to be propelled forcibly against him, he sustains a wound, contusion, or some other form of physical in- jury. If he so neglect or violate a law of his organic nature, as to swallow poison, eat unwholesome food, commit excess in that which is salutary, or expose himself to an atmosphere replete with malaria or some other form of mephitic gas, he will pay the penalty of a deranged stomach, or some other sort of organic disease. Does he infract a law of his intellectual nature ? He exposes his weakness, and incurs the mortifying charge of igno- rance, besides perhaps sustaining pecuniary losses. But, in this discussion, our business is chiefly with man's moral nature, which, as already mentioned, he alone possesses. Is that also governed by laws peculiar to it, the infraction of which brings down on him their penalty ? Yes, certainly, as may be easily made to appear. In illustration and proof of our position, we shall select three moral peculiarities — Benevolence, Veneration, and Conscientiousness — simply observing that what is true of them is equally so of our whole moral nature. The object of Benevolence is general kindness, including clemency, commiseration, charity, and mercy. But no man, in violation of these claims, can be morose and cruel in his general deportment, witholding sympathy and assistance from his fellow mortals in distress, and escape the penalty. To say nothing of the recoil, and condemnatory effect of his own suppressed and outraged feelings on him, he will be visited by the censure and detestation of his own race. The law of Veneration is reverence for elders and superiors, and homage to the Deity. But it would be superfluous to say that this can never be infringed with impunity. Impiety and 118 The Demon of the Study. Goodness and Justice unite in forbidding it. He fore-ordains no single human action, nor any settled trains of action. He has bestowed on man a given constitution, and established a system of laws adapted to its government, leaving the mind free to obey them, but still under the influence of motives, which it has the power so to change, as to substitute one of them for another, and thus choose between them. But, as our object is to vindicate Phrenology from the charge of the doctrine of Necessity, rather than to expound the entire subject, we shall decline, for the present, any further remarks on it. THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room, And eats of his meat, and drinks of his ale - And beats the maid with her unused broom, And the lazy lout with his idle flail: But, he sweeps the floor, and threshes the corn, And hies him away at the break of morn. The Old Man of the Sea,' on the neck of him Who seven times braved the deep, Twined closely each lean and withered limb, Like the nightmare in one's sleep : But, he drank of the wine, and Sinbad cast The evil weight from his back at last. The shade of Denmark' fled from the sun, And the Cocklane ghost from the barn-loft cheer - The Devil of Faust was a useful one- And Agrippa's demon wrought with fear, And even Luther's Devil obeyed his host And cracked him nuts on the chamber-post ! But, the Demon, that cometh day by day To my quiet room and my fireside nook, Where the casement light falls dim and gray On faded painting and dusty book, Is a fouler one than any whose names Are chronicled well by "gude King James !' He wears not a horn — nor a barbed tail - Nor hide nor hair of a cloven foot — Nor saucer eyes — nor fin nor scale Like Bunyan's devil with wings of soot ! - Oh no — the Demon that cometh to me Is as unlike this as he well may be. The Demon of the Study. 119 No bearer of wood, like Caliban — No runner of errands, like Ariel — But he comes in the shape of a fat old man Without rap of knuckle, or pull of bell : And whence he comes, or whither he goes I know as I do of the wind that blows. A stout old man with an ancient hat, Slouched heavily down to his dark red nose, And two gray eyes, enveloped in fat, Looking through glasses with iron bows. Oh hear and heed ye !—and all who can Guard well your doors from that fat old man ! He comes with a careless' how d’ye do ?' And seats himself in my elbow-chair — And my morning paper and pamphlet new Fall forthwith under his special care: And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat, And, button by button, unfolds his coat. And then he reads, from paper and book, In a low and husky, asthmatic tone — With the stolid sameness in posture and look Of one who reads by himself alone: And, hour after hour, on my senses come The husky wheeze -- and the dolorous hum. The price of stocks — the auction sales — The poet's rhyme and the lover's glee- The horrible murders — the sea-board gales - The marriage-list and the jeu d'esprit,- All reach my ears in the self-same tone - I shudder at each — but the fiend reads on ! Oh sweet as the lapse of water at noon O’er the mossy roots of some shady tree, The sigh of the South in the woods of June, Or the sound of flutes o’er a moonlit sea – Or the low, soft music, which sometimes seems Breathed faintly and far in the ear of dreams. So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone Of her, on whose features I sometimes look, As I sit at eve by her side alone, And we read by turns from some pleasant book: Some tale perchance, of the olden time, Some lover's romance, or quaint old rhyme. 120 The Demon of the Study. Then, when the story is one of woe, Some prisoner’s plaint through his prison-bar — The blue eye glistens with tears, — and low Her voice sinks down like a moan afar: And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, And his wan face looks through his dungeon-pale ! And, when she reads some merrier song, Her tone is glad as an April bird's — And, when the tale is of war and wrong, A trumpet's summons is in her words: And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, And see the tossing of plume and spear ! Oh, pity me then, when day by day The fat fiend darkens my parlor floor, And reads me perchance the self-same lay Which melted in music the night before, From lips as the lips of Hylas swcet, And moved like the rose-leaves which zephyrs meet! Your borrowing fiend may well be one Whose restless fingers and prying look Are welcome, as is the lawyer's dun, To the luckless owner of print and book: He seizes his prize and hastens away — But, the reading Demon, alas, will stay ! Oh— the skill of King James would be puzzled here My Demon obeys nor charm nor spell - For bible or psalm-book he has no fear; And, I doubt if even the fish-like smell,' With which Tobit filled his haunted room, Would hurry my Demon back to his home! • In nomine Dei, conjuro te Abire ad tuum locum!' – still The fat old fiend is sitting by me — The exorcism has lost its skill! - And I hear again in my haunted room That husky wheeze, and that dolorous hum ! Commend me to Mary Magdalen With her seven-fold plagues — to the wandering Jew - To the terrors that haunted Orestes, when The Furies his midnight curtains drew ! But charm him off — ye, who charm him can, That reading Demon - that fat old man ! * * W ******* 121 REV. MR. TAYLOR. Orator Nascitur. It is hard to describe such a character ; I had given it up in despair, not because the waters are not clear, but because they are too deep. Yet I have been a frequent hearer of Mr. Taylor, and if without advantage it is the fault of the soil, not of the seed. Mr. Taylor is a prodigy — but he is a work of nature only ; art can claim no credit in him. The senses supply him with the most rapid and definite perceptions, and his affections embrace all mankind ; his imagination is easily moved by the beautiful or sublime, and his heart is even more accessible to what is good and true ; his sense of natural law is above all treatises of sages, and his spirit is devout to martyrdom. Fortune, however, has favored him less than nature. But he has had one vast advantage, which none receive at school. His mind grew up, not among words, but things : no vague, half ideas entered it, through the medium of arbitrary signs: his idea of the ocean came not from the shaded portion of a map, — nor did he acquire his conception of a mountain or a river from char- acters or carved lines upon paper, — but the mountain as God created it, rivers and seas, in all their sublimity and beauty, are pictured fresh in the gallery of his imagination. This is to him a source of moral as well as intellectual activity, and excites contin- ual love and gratitude to the Creator. This peculiar education explains one class of his eloquent pas- sages. If, in the way of illustration, he introduces some aspect of nature, a finished picture begins to rise to his imagination, and he sweeps down the river, lost in the beauty of the banks, for this Homeric spirit sometimes leads him, as it did Homer, from the subject illustrated. Then, an object in the landscape that is before his imagination, may remind him of some other mental fact or moral truth — and this rushes into his discourse, and if we are not closely attentive, we may fail to perceive the chain, though it has been unbroken in his own mind. When, therefore, he seems incoherent, it is only because we have been inattentive. His thoughts are not broken into fragments, though they are not strung artificially like pearls. His mind is strong enough to obey the highest laws of thought ; but it is unconscious of the minor rules invented to reg- ulate limited discourses. His is a better form of intellect for acquiring truth than for communicating it — though he has quali- fications for instructing higher than his power of imagination and illustration. In many cases, bis discourses will bear the test of all the rules of art, — but on these occasions he must have a VOL. VIII. 16 122 Rev. Mr. Taylor. great subject, with a few minutes to feel and arrange it. He surveys such a subject, from zenith to nadir, with a proportionate attention to the various parts, which are disposed in a striking light and shade, and with an aerial perspective that leaves on the mind a wonderful feeling of satisfaction. Any attendant at Mr. Taylor's church has heard many sermons, which, if written out, would amount to all the writings of some celebrated names. This indicates a genius of a very high order, for it is all his own — he derives nothing from books, nothing from the thoughts of others. All comes forth finished and well-proportioned, as it rises for the first time in his own mind. How many men could write a first draught more perfect than Mr. Taylor's improvisations ? His productions have not the revision and polish of after-thought, nor are they dug out of the quarry of a perfect language, like the Greek, or even of a simple one, which is so favorable to the un- educated improvisatori of other nations. The English language, with heterogeneous elements, is complicated by the terms of many arts and sciences, and by still greater adulterations made by affecta- tion, pedantry, ranks, and coteries. No mortal man, whose li- brary of education did not include grammar and dictionary, can of himself classify and arrange in his mind this discordant mass. It would then be a miracle for Mr. Taylor to use language with the perfection of Milton or Shakspeare. But the language, as presented to Mr. Taylor's mind, is words only in their naked values as expressive of things sensible and spiritual, without the stamp of any standard author to direct him in his choice, — and great is his power over it. His rare and powerful combinations of new words, his very mistakes, which are generally founded on a principle of philosophy, his evidence of a musical ear, reveal the very operations of a mind creating language out of a chaos of words. In an earlier era in the history of our language, instead of smiling at his mistakes in grammar and logic, we should ad- mire his creation of a standard dialect, — his clear perception of things, his intuition of the analogies of sound and sense, his coin- bination of the forms and colors of creation with spiritual sub- jects, (or, as Brown would say, his natural associations of relative suggestion) and his ear for music guiding him to distinctness, ex- pressiveness, picturesqueness, and force. But he has a deeper fountain of eloquence than clearness of perception or splendor of imagination, in his natural sentiments. He has loved, rejoiced, and sorrowed in the various relations of social life, in his own person and hardly less in the persons of others. He has not contemplated men through other men's per- ceptions and imaginations, spread out in a book, but he has stud- ied them as they actually love, hate, sin, sorrow, and repent. The pageant of human life passes directly before his eyes, and the actors are near to his heart. He studies metaphysics, in Rev. Mr. Taylor. 123 sympathy, which is as good a school-master as experience, for he feels for others quite as much as for himself. An excellent part of his discourses is that in which he paints the workings of a mind under the influence of the pas- sions, and the variety and accuracy of these pictures show his universal sympathy. If these delineations are of the simple and humble kind, it shows that he feels most for that which is in contact with him. But he has occasional pictures of high spirit- ual exercises, which show the noble capacity and fine expression of his own soul, and I have seen him following with the most in- telligent sympathy the thoughts of one of the most advanced minds of our age. If he pictures human beings in the coarseness of their actual state, he never leaves them there ; he discloses the nobleness of his own soul by seeming to feel it so easy, for the mind he de- scribes, to attain good, and by showing the whole process by which it rises to it from moral degradation. On the unwearied and strong wing of his own generous spirit, he seems to lift up a discouraged and despairing soul into the empyrean of its final des- tiny, until it catches the inspiration of his own native atmos- phere. He then shows the revived mind and heart the road by which it mounted, and shows too, that it is not magic, but a mor- al process, which all can pursue themselves. This is the secret of his usefulness, if not of his power as a preacher. Birth, and marriage, and death, touch every chord of his soul. No one that has seen him baptize and kiss a child, or heard him pray with the afflicted, may fear that he will ever be destitute of human sympathy, while in human circumstances, during the life of Mr. Taylor. I never saw or felt such an effect produced by one man, as when he rose to perform the funeral service over the body of a sailor, whose wife and children were sitting under the pulpit. He seemed to command at once an identification of his whole audience, with the words — Let us all pray — Father! we are a widow — wilt thou comfort us.' Not only the confined social sentiments are strong within him, but he has, in great strength, justice, general benevolence, and all the feelings that bind men to men in every conceivable rela- tion. These general sentiments balance each other in a remark- able degree, though every one may have at times the force and expression of a passion. Mr. Taylor is a reasoner - if to feel the proportion of things to each other, to have a quick perception of the contradictory working, of incompatible principles of action in practice,- is the result of reasoning powers. He especially excels in that sensing of a subject, which seems to be the combined and proportional action of every faculty. 124 Rev. Mr. Taylor. But to reason abstractedly, perhaps he is not able. It is not his habit to think out patiently what specific propositions are involved in general ones, and he looks at words too much as pic- tures, to be an accurate logician. Then we must not forget that his religious creed came into his mind with all the authority of revelation ; that it was never balanced on his reasoning powers. The Methodist association, with its sympathetic habits of inter- course, its professed moral inquisition into the conduct of its members, its informal style of preaching, its indulgence of emo- tion, has a thousand charms for his warm hearted, sincere princi- pled, strong willed and impulsive character. His faithfulness of heart and constancy of mind, moreover, bind him more strongly to a community, of which he is the pride, and which he loves all the better, because he thinks it has no worldly fame or glory. No man has more charity and liberality. He believes that the same ideas can take different forms in the mind ; he does not de- fine error as impiety, or indifference to religion. But this is a matter of the heart, not of the head. The truth is, that the char- acter of his soul makes up for an intellect not developed on some particular subjects; and though we may, in analyzing him, find some imperfections, yet the result of his character of heart and intellect, in their reciprocal influence, has seldom been surpassed. His manners are courteous and cordial, with a due self-respect. He is playful and full of wit, and has a remarkable adaptation of himself to circumstances and society. It was related to me by a lady, who saw him in her parlor, for the first time after knowing of his power over the sons of the sea, that she was forcibly and repeatedly struck with his grace. The first time that I myself saw him, I was struck with the softness and sweetness of his voice — which was tuned just to the pitch of the nervous ear of the present invalid. His conversation was, to a remarkable de- gree, characterised by beauty. It was upon perfection of char- acter, which he defined to be that state in which the inspiration of goodness did the work of self-government. Perhaps, indeed, he does not sufficiently estimate that moral discipline, which is so necessary for perfection. His piety is great, but with some earthly admixture. It is, however, noble in its character, for he loves God chiefly because he is good. But he regards Him rather too much as his own personal friend, and the personal friend of a certain class of individuals — for here his sectarian association casts a vapor on the mirror of his mind. Yet he is above the common standard, even in this — but not so much above it as he is in other traits of character. At his love-feasts, in his psalm-singing, and prayer-meetings, he comes down through sympathy far below that sphere to which his spirit tends. Rev. Mr. Taylor. 125 It is this which sometimes shocks us in his prayers. He does not estimate the spirit of the Lord's Prayer, in the depth and comprehensiveness of instruction — the formula of the Saviour Himself. If there is ever a time when self-government deserts Mr. Taylor, it is when he lifts up his voice to pray. He utters indeed such strains of poetry, music, love, sympathy, heavenly- mindedness, as must needs come up, when a spirit, that is over- flowing with these things, spreads itself out without a veil in the unbounded confidence of filial affection ; but they are crossed by every floating dream, every image, however grotesque, every idea that may be brought by the laws of association. They are al- ways interesting as psychological studies, but they would not sat- isfy a strict definition of prayer. Many persons, who have attended his church, have heard him ask a blessing in his prayer for the Commonwealth, the Gover- nor, the Lieutenant Governor, the City of Boston, the Mayor, Aldermen, and Common Council. The note of a ship-master, departing on a voyage, sometimes ocasions similar invocations on the officers, crew, passengers, owners, and consignees. In doing this, he is impelled by the current of his thoughts - the whole voyage rises before him and he follows the impulse. Though I have attempted to analyze this giſted mind, it is to be remembered that his regular audience is composed of persons who make no such attempts. They are seamen, orderly in their demeanor, and properly dressed. Their browned and weather- beaten faces are ever turned to their pastor, and many a change comes over their features at his appeals. He omits no oppor- tunity to inculcate a practical lesson, - if an idle boy, or an in- toxicated man, occasions a momentary disturbance, he diverges instantly to an exhortation to bring up children well, or bears his resistless testimony against intemperance. Though there may sometimes be a mistake as to what word he intended to use, there is never any as to his meaning : he trans- fuses completely, both his thoughts and his sentiments, into the minds and hearts of his hearers. His language is ever strong and picturesque. In speaking of conscience, he said — " if we do not sin, why then are these hounds of self-condemnation eternally yelping after us?' Many of his most felicitous illustrations are drawn from nautical affairs. He represents his hearers as being under a press of sail for eternity. There is a bond against you that will soon run out — but your creditor is easy if you will let him be so — here is the leger, (holding up his bible) come to the counting-room and settle.' The bible, which he has ever before him, and which he often holds up, he never touches but with an apparent feeling of reverence. 126 Rev. Mr. Taylor. I have been the most delighted when his thoughts were en- gaged upon children. He is then animated and felicitous — he seems to breathe an atinosphere of love and innocence. He apostrophised them as “the little innocents, before a lie had stained their lips, or their hearts cogitated abominations. They wait for instruction, good or bad, like the flowers just opening to receive whatever breeze shall blow over them. If properly cul- tured, every day expands a leaf of heaven. In them heaven and earth meet — the communication is ever open, if you close it not. Few adults are worthy, but from these lambs is God's har- vest — here he gathers his songsters. The little cherubs ! when I see them I seem to hear the bells of heaven.' 'Suffer little children to come unto me, and binder them not.' But you hinder them by your example, and by not encouraging them. There is their course, (pointing to heaven) do not HINDER them. If you do not, they are angels the moment the fluttering soul is released from its little cage. But remember that the little man, the little thinker, the little inquirer, thinks it cannot be an im- portant matter, which mother and father both neglect.' There have never been more impressive warnings uttered against intemperance than by Mr. Taylor ; and he frequently re- curs to these all-important admonitions. On one occasion he called upon all to oppose the destroyer, to crush it by united force, to bury it nearer hell, and roll against the door a rock as big as a planet.' It is common to read in epitaphs, that the deceased has left in society a void which nothing can fill. Long may it be before this may be said of Mr. Taylor. It can be truly only of him, and the few who resemble him. There are no means of esti- mating the good performed by such a man — there is no moral census to show the number that he has reclaimed, or prevented from falling. He dreads nothing but moral evil — this is to him the complex of everything that is formidable. Sickness and death are but casualties - but to live is, with him, to perform the duties of life. These allow him little rest; he is wearing himself out for others. And when his seat is vacant, where shall we find an- other so eloquent, pure, just, vigilant, and faithful. It will add to our sorrow to reflect, that such a mind, when it has quitted the body, should have left no monument, by which after-ages can estimate its capacity and goodness. 127 A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL. At the palace of the prince Borghese in Rome, several young English and American artists were engaged, last winter, in copy- ing the renowned productions of the old masters. Portray to yourself, kind reader, two large halls — the walls of which are lined with paintings, and intercommunicating by a side-door, now thrown open for the benefit of the parties. In the first of these apartments are erected three easels — before which, in the atti- tude of painters, stand — first, a Virginian, intent upon the ex- quisite Magdalene of Correggio, — opposite, the native of a country-town of Great-Britain — transferring, as nearly as possi- ble, the Prodigal Son, of the great Venetian, — while, within a few feet of the former, a Londoner is travailing for the inspira-. tion of Titian, by contemplating his Sacred and Profane Loves.' The artists may thus be said to occupy, relatively, the three points of an isosceles-triangle. Gaze now, through the above-mentioned passage, and behold, at the extremity of the second and lesser hall, the figure of a Baltimorean — fancying, perchance, the surprise of the natives when they see his copy of the inimitable Cupid beside him. These worthy followers of the rainbow art were wont to amuse themselves, and beguile the time, with conversations upon the merits and manners of their respective countries ; and occasion- ally, by a very natural process, such amicable debates would as- sume not a little of the earnest spirit of controversy. Then would the brush fall less frequently upon the canvass — their eyes linger less devotedly upon the great originals around, and ever and anon the disputants would step a pace or two from the object of their labors, raise aloft their pencils — as though, ' like the styles of the ancients, they subserved equally the purposes of art and of warfare, or wave their mottled pallets as shields against the errors of argument. A full history of these discussions — hallowed by the scene of the combat, diversified by the charac- ters of the combatants and disguised by the nature of the points contested — would doubtless be a valuable accession to our liter- ature. The great topics of national policy, domestic manners, republicanism, aristocracy, slavery, corn laws, etc. as unfolded in the elegant and discerning disputations of the absentees in a Roman palace, would prove something new, vivid, and seasona- ble. But tó me falls the humbler task of narrating one scene of the drama, as illustrative of the wisdom and safety of keeping one's own secret. On a day, when the war of words had ran unusually high, there was a momentary and, as it were, a spontaneous quietude. After 128 Fragment from the Spanish. the manner of their predecessors in the same city — years by- gone, the gladiators rested upon their arms. There was an in- terlude of silence. They gradually reassumed the appropriate occupations of the hour. "A few unusually fine touches were be- stowed upon the slowly-progressing copies — when the aspiring portrayer of the beautiful parable thus opened a new cannonade : Well, smooth over, as you may, the blot of slavery — and deny or palliate, as you best can, the charge of non-refinement, the world will never admit the existence of true civilization in a country where so barbaric a practice as gouging prevails.' At the commencement of this speech, the pencil of the Vir- ginian had stopped transfixed within an inch of the pensive coun- tenance on his canvass ; and with nerves braced in expectancy, he awaited the issue. And when the orator, like a second Bru- tus, paused for a reply, his adversary was mute — perhaps from indignation, probably in the absorption consequent upon prepar- ing to refute and chastise. The Londoner wheeled around, and, with a nod of congratulation to his brother-islander, and a pro- voking and triumphant smile upon the Virginian, begged to be informed of the origin and nature of the American custom of gouging? When, lo! there were heard quick steps along the polished floors, and as the eyes of the artists followed their direc- tion, the form of the Baltimorean emerged from the adjoining hall. His painter's stick, pallet, and brush, were grasped con- vulsively in his left hand, as with energetic strides he reached the centre of the arena, and gazed meaningly upon the disputants. You would know, sir,' he exclaimed, eyeing fiercely the hero of the British capitol, what is gouging ? Go, sir, to Basil Hall — your literary countryman : when ascending the Missis- sippi, he was put on shore by the Captain of a steamboat for un- gentlemanly deportment — and on the banks of that river, sir, he was gouged! As the last emphatic words exploded, a gen- tleman, who had been viewing the paintings, abruptly left the room. The Londoner looked wonders, his compatriot tittered, the Cupid-limner wiped his brow. "Who was that ?' inquired the Virginian. That, sir, was Captain Hall!' H. T. T. FRAGMENT FROM THE SPANISH. Night palls the sky above us ; winged things, Ill-omened, struggle with the sluggish air, And the earth yawns with native sepulchres. 129 THE EYE AND EAR INFIRMARY. DISCRETION is the better part, not only of valor, but of char- ity. The time has been, when any man who devoted a part of the products of his own rapacity and roguery to founding a hos- pital or a convent, was voted charitable by the people, and a saint by the priests. The time has come, when men not only question the merit of the founders of charitable institutions, but also whether the establishments are a blessing or a curse to the public. Among the thousand millions of human beings, which nature furnishes in each generation to inhabit this globe, there are, of course, many whose natural capacities are not sufficient to supply their natural wants. To counterbalance this seeming imperfec- tion in her works, nature has endowed her creatures with affec- tion for their own offspring ; and a dislike to the contemplation of suffering in any of the race. Whether this feeling arises from what is called compassion, or from selfishness, we will not dis- cuss; enough that it is one of the provisions of nature against suffering. Now men yield to this law in different ways: the savage goes straight to the point, and removes the cause of his own unpleasant feeling by removing the suffering subject; and this, sometimes, at the expense of his natural affection, as in abandoning his deformed child or his helpless parent. In a social state, men are influenced, undoubtedly, by the same feeling, and in contemplation of the possible contingency of their own wants and sufferings, ordain regulations for the sup- ply of all want, and the relief of all suffering. Then comes religion, which, addressing itself to his nobler feelings, bids man consider the interests of others as his own - teaches him to regard as his children and brethren, all those born in the likeness of himself — to consider as neighbors and friends, all who inhabit the same globe. The methods which have been adopted, however, for discharg- ing the social and religious debts of charity, have sometimes been unwise ; and the results of them have been to foster and encour- age idleness, and to augment the very evils they were intended to eradicate. In some countries, public charities have become a political curse — a social evil of such momentous importance, that illus- trious and humane statesmen have declared their conviction, that all provisions by law, for the relief of the poor and suffering, ought to be annulled. Pauperism has been nursed and pampered by some of the nations of Europe, until it has got to be like a sturdy beggar, demanding alms with a club in his hand, and ready VOL. VIII. 17 130 The Eye and Ear Infirmary. to prostrate the richer class, if it hesitate to grant what is con- sidered, not as charity, but as right. Public charity has become the curse of England ; and one of the greatest impediments, in the way of her reform, is the hid- eous mass of pauperism, which has been fostered and increased by the very means intended to check it. The poor man will not provide for his old age, because the parish will give him an allowance ; he will not provide for win- ter, for the parish will supply his wants ; he will not lay up his wages, for by that means he would extinguish his claim to paro- chial relief. And what is worse, this system takes away all moral delicacy, and all independence of feeling ; the poor man considers these public aids as his due — as part of his regular in- come ; and spends on superfluities or in dissipation, what he might have reserved for the contingencies which are provided for by public charity. In this country, we have not yet tasted the bitter fruits of this system ; but its seeds are sown, and we must leave more to pri- vate charity, and less to public provision ; we must depend more upon personal and discretional effort, and less upon regular es- tablishments, if we would avoid the evils brought upon older countries. Pauperism is increasing rapidly in the United States, and it is a question of serious political import, how it shall be treated. Unfortunately, there is but little probability of its being decided aright, for it will not be rightly discussed. The vast majority of persons will treat it as they do every other difficult question — dodge it — get round it, some how or other; and, instead of re- moving the cause of pauperism, strive to get the immediate ob- jects out of sight, by thrusting them into alms-houses, infirmaries, hospitals, and houses of refuge. Another class, numerically small, but from their activity and zeal very influential, will be contriving receptacles for the worn- out and worthless members of the community. Many of this class — well-meaning persons, but mistaken philanthropists — will make a hobby of charity — will build up places to put their pet poor in, and then run round to find objects to fill them. They will erect foundling-hospitals, and say indirectly to anxious parents — "take no heed for your child ; leave it at our door — we will take it in.' They will erect lying-in establishments; and if the honest, but independent poor, hesitate about entering them, they will per- suade them out of their independence of spirit — for their hospi- tal, once erected, must be filled. This is not ‘fancy's sketch -- we need not not go far from our city to find an example. We need not go out of our own city to find families, who formerly, driven by stern necessity, provided fuel for winter, now spending their money upon something else ; relying, as upon a right, on The Eye and Ear Infirmary. 131 their regular allowance of wood from the charitable, and grum- bling, when it is dropped at their door, because it is not of the very best quality ; or because the "Society' did not send some one to saw, split, and pile it away. Pauperism is coming upon the country fast enough without fostering, and it behooves men to be exceedingly cautious in af- fording any pretext for indolence or improvidence. At present, the difficulty is not great ; but by and by, when the indolent shall be more numerous, the relief will be in demand ; the poor man, who now strives to lay up something for his wife's illness, will spend it in some other way, and send her to the lying-in hospital. · It is very doubtful, whether wise philanthropy would dic- tate any provision for those wants which can be foreseen, and ought to be provided for. Even places of refuge for the old and infirm, are of questionable good; the effect of them in other countries has been to cause men to neglect any provision for old age, by shewing them that they are already provided ; and even to make children abandon to the public, the charge of infirm parents, when they might and would have supported them them- selves, had there been no public provision for it. It is said that the improvidence of men is such, that they will not look beyond their immediate wants. Granted, and for this very reason - the tendency of social regulations should be to add new incentives to foresight and prudence, and not to take them all away by removing all fear of suffering. Suffering and want, consequent to imprudence and sin, are intended by nature to act as preventives, and not as punishments; and men strive to nullify one of her wisest laws, when they avert the consequen- ces of their violation from the offender. Far be it from us to underate, and still farther, to misrepresent the motives and the efforts of those men who go about doing good.' They deserve respect and admiration ; and, as far as their zeal is guided by discretion, merit the approval and the grat- itude of mankind. Charity softens, purifies, and elevates the mind of man; and even the miser, when his cold heart is for an instant melted by a touching appeal, and he obeys the natural impulse to do good, feels a glow of momentary pleasure worth all the joys of gratified selfishness. But the man whose heart is ever warm — whose hand is ever open — whose nightly thoughts are upon schemes of good — whose daily walks are among the poor and miserable — he it is, who presents the noblest and best specimen of the race; in him, the spark of divinity, which burns in all breasts, has been kindled into a flame which purges away the dross, and imparts to the embodied spirit, the nearest possible semblance to disem- bodied perfection. 132 The Eye and Ear Infirmary. We have been led insensibly into these reflections by our sub- ject, which was to state the claims of a charitable institution, lately brought into renewed notice by the generous donations of a few individuals ; we mean the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary. We have said that no public charitable institutions should be erected, but those which have a tendency to prevent pauperism, or which go to relieve such suffering and want as could not, in the ordinary course of things, be foreseen or provided for ; and such is the institution now under notice. Without having the slightest connexion, directly or indirectly, with this charity, we will venture to say, there is not one in the city, which effects a greater amount of positive, immediate, and palpable good; and not one which wards off and prevents more of what would be suffering and misery We have other institutions, the names and objects of which are continually brought before the public ; which are richly en- dowed ; which, by their lofty domes, or their futed columns, their show and their parade, seem to do their alms in the market- places, and are seen of men : but there is a modest one, in a nar- row room, and out of public view, which is rivalling them in the work of charity, and surpassing many of them in good effected. Let any person visit the room of the Massachusetts Charitable Eye and Ear Infirmary, and he will be alike astonished, pained, and delighted, at the sight which meets his view. He will be astonished at the number of poor persons who are afflicted with diseases of the eyes; he will be pained at the sight of the suffer- ing and the danger of the loss of sight; and he will be delighted at the number of cases which are relieved — and often so sud- denly and evidently relieved, as to draw forth the liveliest espres- sions of gratitude and joy from the patients. There he may see the trembling mother, gazing with anxiety upon the operation which is to give light to her sightless babe ; the old man, looking about with doubt and delight, and proud of his half-recovered vision ; the young man, who, but yesterday, was groaning in agony with a disease which closed up his eyes, as he fancied forever, now essaying to open them, and finding to his joy that he can bear the light. There he will find a crowd of applicants for advice; and will be able to distinguish those who have just arrived, from those who have been there long enough to get partial relief. This charity has been opened about ten years, and in that pe- riod it has had more than twenty-five hundred applications for relief; all of which were from the poorer classes. In fact, dis- eases of the eyes are peculiarly the diseases of the poor and labo- rious ; and although the whole of the applicants at the Infirmary are not paupers, they are those who are dependent upon their daily efforts for their daily bread. The Eye and Ear Infirmary. 133 The funds of this institution have been barely sufficient hereto- fore to supply medicines, and to defray the expenses at the room ; the physicians, by whose generous and spirited efforts it was called into existence, have not been paid for their services, nor, indeed, have they been reimbursed for all their actual outlay. Patients who apply here are furnished with medicine and advice, and the necessary operations are performed ; but there are no means by which those who are severely afflicted can be lodged, and properly dieted and nursed. This is what is wanted; it is called for absolutely and imperatively, and ought to be furnished. Very often, for want of accommodations at the institution, the patients have their disease aggravated by exposure to the air, in going and coming ; or by improper diet ; or by the seductive in- vitations of those with whom they board, to take a drop of spirit;' and the efforts of the surgeons are defeated. It may be said, in answer to any calls for aid to build up this institution, that there are hospitals — let the poor go to them for the treatment of the diseases of the eyes.' To this, it would be answer enough to say, that experience, in every large city, has proved that the poor will not go to the hospitals for treatment of diseases of the eye, until they have become very severe, and often past cure. It is a formidable business for a poor person to enter a hospital — while he can go to an infirmary for half an hour, and get relief, or procure some preventive to the progress of his disease. But, besides this, an Infirmary is the best place for those af- flicted with diseases of the eye ; and this is proved by the num- bers who unhesitatingly resort to them, but who will not go to hospitals. An Infirmary affords an excellent opportunity to students and scientific physicians, for minute study of the diseases of the eye. One of the great advantages, indeed, of the institution in this city has been, that it has fitted many young physicians for good ocu- lists ; and it has disseminated valuable scientific knowledge in the neighborhood. An Infirmary is an economical public establishment; it re- lieves many cases of partial blindness, and enables those to work who could not have done so otherwise ; it prevents many from becoming burdens upon the public ; and it enables them to avoid that last place of refuge for the miserable — the alms-house. Many motives might be urged in favor of raising a fund suffi- cient to provide for all the wants of this institution, viz. — a con- venient building, and the means of lodging a limited number of patients; but our community is one that needs not a multiplicity of arguments in favor of a public charity ; to shew that it is a wise and humane establishment, is to insure its success. 134 Cities. That the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary is a most hu- mane establishment — that the good it may be made to effect is very great in proportion to the means employed — and that it is not open to the objections which may be urged against most pub- lic charities, may be satisfactorily shewn from an examination of its principles and regulations. That it will meet such examination, and receive its due proportion of public patronage, we do most ar- dently hope — and confidently believe. CITIES. NO. I. NAPLES. The Greeks ever colonized the best regions. In Italy, Mag- na Græcia was peopled by this singular race, whose perceptions of beauty were so wonderſul, and who carried to their colonies all the arts and refinements of the parent state. Their ruins line the shores of Sicily, and the most imposing edifices that antiquity has left, are the Greek temples of Pæstum. Greeks, Romans, Normans, Spaniards, and French, have had possession of Naples. The kingdom has been the spoil of a Lazaroni Jack Cade — the demented Fisherman of Naples — it has been tost, as a bridal- gift, into the lap of the theatrical King Murat, — who was some- times called King Franconi. It is now under the rule of Fer- dinand — a youth of twenty-three- of questionable wisdom, and of Lazaroni manners. In appearance, he is, as Master Slender says, “a great lubberly boy,' as fat as a capuchin, and having fea- tures that express nothing but heaviness. He is, however, addicted to practical jests, some of which smack of the guard-room — for the army is his passion, and to conquer his ambition. But he will never experience one of the regrets of Alexander. His consort — or, as republicans say, his wife — is a princess of the house of Sardinia -- and it is currently said at Naples, that the first meeting of the royal pair who pre- side over the destinies of Naples, was signalized by a jest, which it is believed few corporals in the kingdom would have executed. The royal lover, who is a gentleman by instinct, became boister- ously gay, and when his princess was about to sit down, drew from under her the chair. This may not be true — but to those who know the monarch, it seems not improbable. He has the most delightful region in Europe, and the most vil- lainous subjects like master, like man.' His capital is that Cities. 135 Parthenope which allured Virgil, and which he designates as dulcis. It has always been the abode of pleasure — it has always subverted the different sexes, courage, and modesty. All the shores in sight of its promontory, were studded with villas, that looked like one long range of colonnades. At present, there are few villas — but there is an immense city — with many adjacent towns. When a trans-Atlantic arrives at Naples, and walks forth in a sunny morning, breathing an air like an exhilirating gas, and re- marking the cheerful and not laborious populace, that throng the streets and squares — his impression is, that he has found a city in which he would willingly pass his days. Care seems to be banished by a royal edict, or some other process — labor seems to be enjoying a long noontide rest — every street has a pageant, and every day is a festa. But if the transmarine (good printer, do not make it horsemarine) should enıploy a fortnight in exploring the city and its vicinity, in the third week he will begin to tire — for he will have become famil- iar with Pompeii and Baia, and have acquired a passing familiarity with the Bourbon museum — a collection illustrious in all things but its name. All his first impressions of Naples will have de- ceived him, except his admiration for its natural features. He will hunger and thirst for a community of honest men — or even of tolerable hypocrites, who make some show of virtue if they have not the substance. A Neapolitan has all the vices but hy- pocrisy. He is a rogue, and cares not who knows it -- he cares not even to deceive himself. The very beauties of his country and climate have debased him. The virtues in all the round world are held only on the condition of labor — or at least, useful employment. Utility is as great a moral, as it is a political principle. There is no winter at Naples — there is no frost, no snow no severity of climate, that would force men to provide for to- morrow — or at most, for the day after. There is here but one division of time — the present. The past has gone without leav- ing instruction or regret — and the future is a contingency, that engages no one's reflection. Let no man boast of the good hab- its of his countrymen — not even though like me he belong to a land where the habits are famed as being steady. They are the effect of climate and soil — they are industrious, because labor only will support life ; and domestic, only because the climate is too severe to live under, in the open squares and streets, as men do at Naples. Labor seems to be the greatest of evils to a Neapolitan — "his only labor is, to kill time. If he must work, he likes not the confinement of a shop — the cobbler brings his stall into the street, and works in the crowd - carrying a vigilant eye to a rip 136 Cities. in any passing boot. The cook fries his fish and his pancakes, or boils his macaroni in the streets and squares, and the man- milliner, six feet high, may be seen in front of a shop, sewing a cap or a bonnet, with as little shame as though it were a mainsail. A Neapolitan crowd requires wary walking.' If every man is not a pickpocket, it is because the opportunity of practice does not occur — he is, at least, an accessory — he will see the thief purloin and connive at his escape. Three things are in especial peril of changing masters : watches — purses — and pocket-hand- kerchiefs. I have known a new-comer lose three handkerchiefs in a day. The city is splendid in appearance, generally — and many indi- vidual edifices are grand. The western part is the most modern and fashionable: in the eastern, the streets are narrow and the houses high. This part is called Napoli senza sole — without sun. But it is not dark — particles of the brilliant sunshine of Naples seem to float in the depth of shade. It is not dark even by night, if the moon of Naples' shine upon it. All classes ride — none love the labor of walking, and few there are who cannot command the means of riding. There is a multitude of caleches, or one-horse chairs — in which an outside seat may be had to Portici, four miles, for two or three cents. These vehicles are drawn by one small spirited horse, which is always driven at speed. The seat will hold two persons, and the driver stands on a board behind, holding the reins over their heads. On the same board sit two other passengers, with their feet dangling backwards ; and in the bottom of the caleche, sit two more, with their feet hanging sideways. Under the axle- tree is suspended a box, in which several children may be safely stowed. These caleches are continually glancing about the streets of Naples, and raising a dust in all the roads that lead to it. At a small village beyond Portici, I saw No. 81, on the pannel of one of its caleches. The amusements of Naples are those of children. Puppets are frequent — at which you will see soldiers, monks, sailors, and all the elements of a Neapolitan crowd. By the post-office, sit scribes, to read and answer the letters of those who cannot read — and they have many customers. On the mole you will find a ragged group listening to a shoeless reader of Tasso — or Rinaldo, as he is called. The hearers may often be seen to be worked up to a great pitch of interest in the fortunes of the crusaders, and at the most critical time the hat is carried round for contributions. It reminded me of the incident related by Sir William Herschell, at a secluded English village - where the blacksmith's wife read Pamela to the inhabitants, who were so well pleased with the catastrophe, that they rang the bells. Cities. 137 Eating and drinking, which are the means of life elsewhere, are the ends of it at Naples : no word so often falls upon the ear as some tense of the verb mangiare. The markets are scattered in every part of the city — all kinds of eatables are cried in public, and groups of diners-out may be seen swallowing their long maca- roni in the streets. No shop is so common as a cook-shop, and a wine-vault. Bacchus himself had not a better cellar than the long excavations in the mountain, that are here used for housing wine. Bread, at Naples, loses its dignity — it is not the staff of life: but macaroni, which is the chief necessary, is also the great- est luxury. It is a palatable invention : with butter, it is very proper food to set before a famishing man. Naples is called a picturesque city, and so it is, in its envi- rons and prospects. It has a grand pharos, ever smoking or flaming, in Vesuvius. The whole country is supported on a crust of earth over raging flames — and I have stood in places where the heat at the surface has crisped my boot. Some cur- rents of water are at boiling heat, and some mephitic vapors, creeping up from Acheron, are fatal to animal life. At the grot- ta del Cane, or Dog-hole, a poor cur is commonly kept, that the curious and humane may be gratified by an experiment, which few inquirers like to try upon themselves. The poor dog is ever the martyr of fidelity, or the victim of experimental philosophy. Vesuvius is an imposing object from Naples; and from the mountain, the city makes a splendid show. The distance be- tween them is about five miles. The ascent is easy, and may be made on a donkey to the foot of the crater. Near this is a her- mitage, in a spot where heaven and earth seem to meet. The pious monastic, however, does not devote himself exclusively to contemplation, but is ever ready to broil a steak, or draw a flagon of Lagrima wine, for travelers. Lachryma Christi is the name by which these pagan fire-worshippers denote Vesuvian wine. The monk has a magnificent prospect, and not a bad trade. He may read history in the country visible from his hive, unless he prefer poetry. There is Portici below him, a city built on lava, some" eighty feet above Herculaneum, which is buried be- low. Farther south, but not in sight of the hermitage, is Pom- peii, that was buried in ashes and cinders, as a Vermont log- house is sometimes covered with snow. It was discovered but late in the last century, and is not yet half dug out. That purple island with peaks, that seems to float in the air, so completely do the waters reflect the violet sky, is Capri, the den of Tiberius. He systematized suspicion and dissimulation, to a degree never known before. He was a philosophical tyrant — a sportsman, that delighted in the chase, as well as the death of his victim. Simple death was a boon he seldom granted. Few of those who VOL VIII. 18 138 To Governor M’Duffie. had offended him by being virtuous, escaped so easily as to be permitted to die. Over that high hill, back of Naples, and which is crowned by the convent of the Camaldoli, is Baia. Here Nero, a hero of the same kind and lineage with Tiberius, murdered the mother that had stained her soul to lift him to empire. He will reign and slay his mother,' said the Chaldeans: - let him reign,' re- plied Agrippina. No ingratitude is so stinging as that of one, whom another has served at the expense of innocence. When the parricide sent the assassin to slay his mother, she replied - feri ventrem, strike in the womb' - a retributive infliction for having produced a monster. These are some of the historic recollections that may be revived in the hermit of Vesuvius, by casting around his eyes. As to poetry, it is the land of it — the centre. It is but an hour's ride to Avernus, and the Elysian Fields. That pyramidal island beyond Miseno (which was named from the trumpeter of Æneas) is Ischia, and under it lies buried one of the Titans, who made feeble war upon Jupiter, and who was hurled down upon these Phlegræan Fields. Farther still, mingling with the horizon, is the promontory of Circe. If these sketches find favor with the editor, they will exceed what they have done with the author, and may be followed by others, from one who · Multorum mores hominum vidit et Urbes.' TO GOVERNOR M’DUFFIE. • That miserable mockery of blurred and obliterated and tattered parchment- the Constitution of the United States.' --'I bring with me, if nothing else, an ab- solute and unqualified devotion to the State of South Carolina.' 'Tam now pre- pared, Sir, under the solemn sanction of an oath, to pledge my undirided ALLE- GIANCE to the State of South Carolina.' INAUGURAL ADDRESS. Hawks to their nests, and to his den The tiger, brutely egotistic ! Such lair, such love, for brutes ; for men, A place and passion more majestic. Hast thou no heart, O man of foam ! But for the field thy foot is treading ? The Yankee has a nobler home, - The brave, broad land around him spreading ! His home is — what? His COUNTRY : ay ! No home for him his grandsires' dwelling ; But the fat fields of fame hard by, Where, late, his grandsires' blood was welling, To Governor M’Dufie. 139 His hall is in the Capitol, His curtilege the District's closes, His father's tomb, – if tomb at all, - The grave where Washington reposes ! Shame to thee, churl! hast thou no pride In Bunker's hill-top, green and gory? In grim Niagara's roaring tide? In Orleans' grassy field of glory? Shall Marion's swamps be thine alone ? And Eutaw's holy waters? Never ! Birthright of all, they are our own, And shall be, henceforth and forever. Art thou the man we loved so well, Champion of freedom, as we deemed thee? American no more, farewell, Ill have thy former deeds beseemed thee. Thy thoughts of fire! thy words of gall ! Contending o’er our Charter's breaches, - Thy patriotism !- Yet, after all, To think these things were nought but --- speeches ! But yet that Charter was — a rag! *A mockery'!-- like men's virtues, chatter'd, - A shop-mark on a cotton-bag, Obliterated', .blurred', and “tattered'! But when ? and where? by what hands torn? By Andrew's only? No, by 'r lady! The very hands that fling the scorn, Were quite as vehemently ready. The lips of those who went their death On sugar,' were the first that slurr'd it; And Nullification's ghastly breath The darkest stain that ever blurr'd it. Yet what carest thou? Thine oath is past, Another parchment-knot has bound thee, And Carolina spreads her vast Imperial bogs, in freedom, round thee, Ho, Delaware ! arise ! proclaim Your grandeur to admiring nations ! Rhode Island ! up, and do the same ! Ye little Sovereigns, take your stations ! Shall not your types your chivalry' wear, - Cheese-cake cockades and corn-stalk tassels ! Up, and a proud ' allegiance' swear From all your mighty hosts of vassals ! 140 To Governor M’Dufie. Allegiance !* Pho, it is a word For slaves to mutter to a master; The dog-whine of a subject-herd, For coxcomb-beau, or counter-caster. Duty, the freeman owes always, – Duty and love— no other fetter : Thou pratest a servile faith, in phrase Might suit a court-room bondman better. Allegiance, then, for thee and thine ; Perhaps 't will raise the price of cottons - Allegiance to my God be mine - Allegiance to palmetto-buttons !! Go on, go on — speak fire, think steel, Blow passions, till they burn like tinder — Flames to the general Common-weal ! Union will make a glorious cinder. Alas for freedom, when the men, Admired and loved the most, forsake it ! Alas for Freedom's charter, when A patriot claims the right to break it ! Her house is sound and strong no more, At every threat, some buttress crumbles ; And at the cry, that speaks of gore, Down, straight, the mighty fabric tumbles, Are we not brothers ? No: thou show'st That even as foes we should demean us ; And, with foul words of scorn and boast, Thou build’st a wall of fire between us. * Allegiance, — the duty of subjects to the government.'-(Walker.) There is no such word in the Constitution of the United States, and there was none in that of South Carolina, until it was foisted in along with the late Amendment. By this, all holders of offices of profit or trust, (besides swearing, as of old, to discharge the duties thereof, and preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the State) are compelled to swear, that they will ‘bear allegiance to the State of South Carolina :' that is, to avow themselves subjects of the visionary Magog (for, really, one would think that South Carolina has personified and incarnated her idea of State-sovereignty) that sits on the seat of power. Mr. M’Duffie, to be sure, defines his allegiance to be the tie which binds a citi- zen to be faithful to the sovereign power,' – which is thus far remarkable, as show- ing that Nullification has pervaded his spirit to that extent, that he carries his prin- ciples of construction' even to the dictionary! But what obligation is there upon him to understand a word as Walker understands it? The Governor's opinions in relation to the powers of the Legislature, (this is the grand Magog) are absurd, and, some might think, slavish. It is doctrine there- anent may be summed up in two words : It can exercise every conceivable power, which has not been expressly forbidden. If this be not Consolidation, Oligarchy what is ? Radicalism. 141 One word — but no, thou wilt not hear ; Thy words - Oh words of shame!- are spoken; And Union, in thy hope, (not fear) Already lies contemned and broken. Ah, Union! Strike it, if thou wilt ; Its knot of glory lies before thee ; Strike,– if thou canst conceive the guilt, And fear'st no heaven that's frowning o'er thee. Strike, then, at Union - once of love ; (Our mad, old fathers — how they blundered !) Yet know, the planets shall dim above, Before the holy tie is sundered ! One land is ours, one race are we; One good we know, and that we'll cherish, Union, the spell that makes us free, - And free we'll live, and free we'll perish. One race are we - one and the same, - One people, though perchance misguided, - One and the same, - one heart, one name, One people — ONE, and undivided ! RADICALISM. « VOX POPULI VOX DEI,' begging the pardon of the sovereign people, of whom we account ourself one, is as arrant blasphemy as ever was uttered. To say nothing of blasphemy, it is non- sense. Without derogating one iota from the intelligence and moral worth of the nation, as it is its just pride, that its political institutions approach perfection nearer than those of any other nation upon earth, - it must be acknowledged that he who can, with a grave face, by applying the proverb above quoted to the American people, attribute to them infallibility, must be either exceedingly foolish, or an arch hypocrite. The election and re- election of Andrew Jackson, the blind approval of all his acts, and the devotion of a majority of the nation to his cause, and even to his person, would, if the voice of the people were indeed of such sacred weight, canonize one with whom few of the saints would be anxious to claim fellowship. In this, or in what may follow, nothing anti-republican is intended. Although the people may have been bad stewards of their privileges, their stewardship should not therefore be taken from them, and the object of this 142 Radicalism. essay is not to complain that there exists so much power in their hands, but to deprecate a disposition not only to abuse present privileges, but to cry out for such an extension as would convert them to curses ; – a disposition, which has not, it is true, ob- tained to any extent in New-England, but which has taken root in other sections of the country ; and does not, though it languish here, so languish from any want of activity on the part of inter- ested demagogues and office-seekers. In one word, we mean Radicalism, in whatever form it presents itself. Order is Heaven's first law, and, this confest, Some are, and must be, greater that the rest.' Nothing is good, great, or high, but by comparison. The gen- ius of a republican government does not forbid the existence of different grades in society — as that would be the simplicity of a state of nature simplified. When there were but two living souls, Adam was master, and Eve dependent. Among the most un- sophisticated savages, distinctions in rank have always existed. In a Republic, the doctrine of equality is recognized so far that no respectable employment is, in itself, a disqualification for any office of honor or profit, and certain privileges common to all, are inseparable from the name of citizen. Starting thus on an equality, every man is the architect of his own fortune, and generally finds himself, at forty or earlier, in that place in society for which he is fitted — if he be not, the disappointment is gener- ally the fault of nobody but himself. Where hereditary distinctions exist, and the blood in this cir- cle is pure, in that a shade viler, and in a third altogether plebeian, as the persons, in whose veins it courses, are nearer or farther removed from royalty, or can claim kindred and affinity with the descendants of some iron-cased, barbarian Baron of the early ages, or can trace their ancestors no farther back than to a father's father; and where the fruit of the genealogical tree is of tangible benefit to those who claim to sit under its musty branches ; where even a descent, sinister from the titled, confers advantages over those who, though base-born in the language of the herald's col- lege, have no gallantry of their ancestors to pride themselves upon; it is no wonder, that among plebeians there are malcontents. Where entails and titles keep the rent-rolls in certain families, and certain political privileges and immunities are the especial proper- ty of the aristocracy, and the mass of the intelligence and worth of the nation are proscribed by an ideal distinction ; and where labor, in an honest occupation, is a disgrace, it is no wonder, that among the proscribed, there are radicals. Radicalism is the progeny of aristocracy — and though in proving its descent it be necessary, inasmuch as it would seem no legitimate offspring, to admit the origin sinister, still that is no matter, according to Radicalism. 143 heraldic usage. It is one of the necessary and peculiar blessings of a government which recognizes distinctions based on inade- quate grounds. As no such causes for its growth and presence are found among Americans, why have we, among our people, anything of Radi- calism? Why is the system of leveling-down preached and at- tempted to be practised ? Is it because there are classes of men in higher standing than belongs to them by right of purchase or their own exertions? Or because there are those who live in the enjoyment of privileges conferred by birth, which abridge those of persons less fortunate in their parentage? Or because the high standing, however obtained, of any class, is a disadvan- tage to others ? None of these abuses exist here. Whence, then, have we Radicalism? It is an imported exotic and one, which we trust will never thrive, for any length of time, in our country. Though the ultra- radicals, by establishing newspaper-organs, feeing lecturers, pro- posing strikes for wages, undertaking to make the producer ac- complish what is the consumer's province, the regulation of the market, and other movements, have endeavored to keep them- selves in a party distinct from all others; their treacherous Jackson friends, by commending their measures and slighting their candidates, have so far stinted their growth. At election- time, there is always a desertion from the radical to the Jackson ranks, so that all, except a Spartan band, (numerically so only) go over to the hero of three wars — the doctor, whose sovereign specific for all diseases in the body-politic, is a dose of the Ben- ton mint-drops. Jacksonism and Radicalism amount, however, to about the same thing; it is only in the names, that there is any difference. The policy of the leaders of both parties is the same — or appeals to ignorance - or, where ignorance is less, to prejudice — and where the subject is tolerably well-informed, to his vanity. When one is caught of good information, but of easy political virtue and unbounded ambition, he is at once let behind the veil, and employed as an apprentice in electioneering. It is his vanity which betrays him ; and when the fact is more than in- timated to him, that all the cant about aristocracy, oppression, reform, is a hum ; instead of flying from political depravity, he is ready to hug to his heart the new friends who make him their confidant. These are they who get up the cry of workeyism, as if, for- sooth, every man in New-England did not work ; —such are the demagogues, who strive to array poor against rich; and handi- craft against the professions, as if every portion of the community were not mutually dependent upon the other. In lieu of actual causes for complaint, they get up shadows; and a pumpkin-bogle will as effectually frighten a weak head out of its senses, as a Lines in the Life of an Artist. 145 the great mass whom John Foster describes as made up of layers of foreign influences, successively spread over them like the scales of a thick-skinned animal. Their character is, of course, super- ficial, as it is artificial. It is changeable. It is shed, like the epidermis of the animal, and a fresh aspect springs forth vividly beneath, only to partake in due time of the same transformation. Or it gives place perhaps to the developement of an older layer, which now becomes the external surface of the mind. These people may be taken to pieces, like a watch, and put together again in the same way. Nay, you may peel them like a leek. They are more vegetable almost than animal — much more than intellectual. Their progress is indicated only, as the age of a tree is, by the rings in the trunk, and the moss upon the branches. Not so the inquisitive and active class. They remain in one position only, so long as it may be better made available to the gratification of curiosity, and energy, and ambition — and the conscientious aspiration for usefulness, and happiness, and im- provement, — then another, unless, indeed, they are compelled to remain in it, and then they make the most and the best of it. They will get sustenance from a barren rock, in the midst of the solitary seas. The air feeds them; and they send out energies upon the ambient elements -- like the ravens that nourished the hermit in the wilderness — to bring them back, from all the ends of the earth, the bread, and the green fruit, of lonely thought. You cannot starve such men. You cannot stint their growth. You may have them born, ostrich-like, in Saharan sands. You shall give them no schools, no models or masters, no maps or charts or instruments — no books, no society even. You shall leave them alone with nature, and the ministers of nature. You may fasten them down, besides, to an employment they are not fit for ; transfix them to a trade ; fetter their faculties with myr- iads of Lilliputian ties, as Gulliver was bound by every hair of his head ; – they will awake from the supine slumber of a moment, and wriggle themselves out of all. What you have denied them, they will find or make – opportunities, facilities, almost faculties themselves. How has the truth of these observations been illustrated by the lives of the artists, and especially of painters! Look at Gietto, one of the revivers of the art — the son of a peasant, near Flor- ence, who tended sheep — drawing the figure of one of his flock on a large stone, as he lay listless on the ground; Greuze, cov- ering, in childhood, the walls and furniture of the family-mansion with charcoal sketches : Opie, chastised by his father, a carpen- ter, for the ludicrous drawings in red chalk, which the little rascal' was continually making on his clean deals : Wilson, with his burnt stick: Reynolds, at eight years old, poring over the “Jesuit's Perspective': Gainsborough, traversing the woods of Suffolk for VOL. VIII. 19 146 Lines in the Life of an Artist. flowers to paint : and Hogarth, studying his models in the streets of London, and preserving each outre face with a pencil, on the nail of his thumb. Our own country has been, and is, par eminence, the land of self-educated and self-made men. This is as true of painting, as of any other pursuit. When Copley was a boy — a Boston boy — in 1737 he was born — there was not only no academy for instruction in this art, but no private teacher. He had no master, and no model, during the whole of his boyhood. Neither had West, who was born the year ensuing; and every body re- members the rude materials with which he taught himself — the pen and ink — the red and yellow ochre, given him by the In- dians — and finally, the fur pillaged from the back of the cat. It has been much the same in later days. No such thing as a living model had been thought of in America, when Gilbert Stuart, with his friend Waterhouse, hired the Newport blacksmith to sit for them, at half a dollar the night. Let me farther illus- trate the subject, by a brief reference to a modern instance, - one, — and some one must be selected, — whose history is not the least extraordinary among those of his cotemporaries, who have gained their distinction by something like the same process with himself. I trust I shall neither offend against delicacy on the one hand, nor against the dues of genius on the other, by availing myself of such resources for the exemplification of the principles I have endeavored to present. He was a Boston boy, but derived little benefit in his early years, such as boys of even the same humble condition derive now, from the instruction of city schools. He was sent, while yet very young, to a small town in what was then the District of Maine, and placed under the care of a robust artillery-major, his uncle, - a man of the same unpoetical caste with Opie's father, and with the sensible old lady who boxed the ears of Mi- chael Angelo, when a boy, for ingeniously moulding a lump of butter, which he was sent to purchase, into the figure of a lion rampant. The modes of the major and the minor were quite as contrary. The latter played truant from school, to drar figures on the smooth sand of the river-side — such was the earliest break- ing out of the ruling-passion — and the artillery-man, little given to the fine arts, rewarded his precocious diligence with a premium of stripes. One or two attempts to abscond from the care of this kindly patron, which proved more adventurous than success- ful, and a narrow escape from being drowned through the ice of the river — with the ordinary sports and scenes of childhood in the Downingville country — filled up the interval of three years, which preceded his departure for Connecticut, where, by this time, his father's family had removed. A pair of the best aunts in the world — who had always fed him with sweetmeats when Lines in the Lif- of an Artist. 147 the bellicose major had flogged (by way of a balance of power) fastened him up in a suit of gray casinet, big enough for his grand- father; planted a fur hat on his head -- with a wide brim and low crown — the first he had ever worn — and set him forth in a two-horse wagon, under the care of somebody who, for a miracle, was going all the way to Boston. He was a second Gil Blas, seeking his fortune. The journey to the city, the visit there, and the ride to Hartford, need not be described. The boy found himself once more at home. He was sent to school again, and again played truant to draw on the sand in the sunshine. Here also was new scenery, and a fresh set of characters to study. One of the adventures of this period occurred in company with a lad, who was tempted, in the course of their rambles through a richly-laden orchard in the early fall, by the glowing cheeks of what the painter remembers as a cluster of round, red apples, lusciously relieved against the dark foliage of a tall tree. The boy climbed the trunk, and perched himself, in lazy leisure, among the boughs, — his mouth already watering with the sight of these golden dainties. The owner of the orchard, unluckily, had caught sight of him, and crept up under the tree, with a horse- whip in his hand. Our hero stood apart, and saw the whole, but it was too graphic to be lost; it was a scene. The thief satisfied his appetite and descended, with his pockets and hat filled. The proprietor sprang forth, and commenced a chase, lashing the legs of his game without mercy. He stumbled and fell; the hat went in one direction, and the apples in another, while the old gentle- man plied the whip lustily until the urchin succeeded in scram- bling to his knees, and found voice to implore him in these mov- ing tones to spare him : ( do n't! do n't! there's all I 've got ; O don't - I won't do so again — will I Sam ?' — patiently sub- joining this last and most pathetic appeal, when he discovered his more fortunate companion gaping at him over the fence, with his face in a broad grin! It was worth as much to our unconscious student, for a lesson of expression, as the rencontre of the two boys whom Hogarth found fighting at the corner of a London lane. They suspended hostilities at his approach. "Pho!' he exclaimed to one of them — That's a little too bad, my boy — at him again, d-n him — at him again!'- and he took out his pencil, and copied the result on his thumb-nail. Our practitioner was less malicious, but quite as pbilosophically disposed to make the best of his neighbor's misfortune. This was not the end of the matter. His cyphering'in school the next day consisted, in a greater proportion than usual, of car. ricaturing ; and prominent, of course, in his sketches, was the scene most freshly remembered. The man of letters, who pre- sided over this little kingdom, looked down from the eyrie of his desk, and scanned, like Jupiter in Homer, the things below. He 143 Lines in the Life of an Artist. approached cautiously. The arithmetician noticed a snug giggle going the round of the benches, but imputed it solely to his own skill. The dominie meanwhile, having inspected his perform- ance over his shoulder, returned to his elevation, called out the luckless fellow who had stolen the apples, and flogged him. The painter — that was to be — stood aghast. His own turn came next; bis comrade certainly deserved another. He was called out, and received for his morning's labor a kind of recompense, which, if it were liberally awarded somewhat oftener than it has been, the world would be far less worried with bad pictures than it is. Years passed on, and misfortune entered the happy family, — sickness, poverty, persecution, distress: and they were com- pelled to take their Penates in their arms, and return to Boston once more. The voyage need not be dwelt on. The father was disabled. The mother, - a lovely woman, — fell into a melancholy consumption, and pined away: day by day, the bloom ebbed from her cheek, like the sand from the glass. She would take, sometimes, the little hand of her eldest boy in her own, and casting a sad glance at the sick-bed of the pale companion of her life, and then at the poor children so soon to be alone in the wide world — the tears came fast in her eyes, and they fell like rain on the head of the homeless orphan. He found employment, young and tender though he was, with a type-founder, with whom he remained some months; and great was his joy at this time, every Saturday night, to place the pittance of his hard earn- ings in his mother's hands. She blessed him, and wept with delight; and he sprang to his task again, as if God had given him the strength of a giant. He found more could be earned, by harder labor, in a book-store; he engaged himself there, and remained six months ; thence he went to a cabinet-maker's, where he could have the means of carving in wood ; then to a house- painter's where brushes and paints were first allowed him. These he revelled in, till his generous master, seeing his bent, got him a place with an ornamental painter in Cornbill, where he rose almost immediately to the head of the establishment. But clouds came over his skies again. His mother was no more. She had faded from life, like a star from the morning. The father sur- vived her but three months. The younger children were divided among friends. The painter failed. The boy went to another, and staid three weeks with him— as wretched as woe could make him, but not yet broken down. As he rambled about town, one bright Sunday morning, with his best clothes on, he noticed a beau- tiful little girl pointing at him, and heard her say, “Oh! what a pretty little sailor!' It gave a new direction to his destiny. He pondered upon all the dreamy charms of foreign countries ; and scenery-isles amid the seas, and a life of change, and danger, and Lines in the Life of an Artist. 149 freedom. I will be a sailor, thought he, and he engaged on board a New-York packet the next morning. In that city, he searched for an old house, near which he had once been run over by a stage-coach and four horses, but only injured by a cut upon his tongue, which made him lisp some years after. I should have mentioned before, that he lived in New-York previous to his going to Maine Here he heard a curious conversation between a lad like himself, and an old tar who had left his friends at ten years of age, and never heard of them since, -- which determined him on a voyage to India. He enlisted before the mast; and returned to Boston to bid his friends farewell ; visited the graves of his parents, alone, at night ; slept with his two brothers, kissed his little sisters ; and started back for New-York on the seven- teenth of June, 1924, — the day of the Lafayette celebration, — on board a schooner, which began with running aground upon Chatham-bar, (where she nearly went to pieces ;) then was run into and shattered fore and aft, near Hurl-gate, by a large sloop going with the wind and tide ; and finally set on fire by the burst- ing of some demijohns of aquafortis, among straw, in the course of the confusion of these events. However, they arrived. The voy- age to India was exchanged for one to Charleston. He found him- self on board a ship, with a crew of all colors and nations: the first mate, a ruffian, and afterwards hanged for murder ; the captain, a complete brute in human form ; his own limbs so tender still, that, in pulling a rope, the blood would gush out from between his fingers, and run down his arms; and the food on board, stale beef, and bread, that absolutely crawled, eaten by the men, with jacknives, from a filthy tub, called the kid' on deck. The cook, an old man, had his arm broken with a club, by one of these scoundrels in office, and another was put in jail by the steward, on reaching Charleston — after encountering a storm in the night, off' Cape Hatteras — for abusing his wife. There, he and another boy ran away. . They hid on shore, ventured out, and were caught - our artist not being able to refrain, in the midst of his flight from the constable, from laughing so heartily, as to disable him, at the uncouth figure cut by this long-legged functionary in hot pursuit, as he cried after him, with his cane over his head — Stop ! Curse ye, stop!' This civil gentleman treated them to some re- freshments at a shop, and then escorted them to jail. Here they were received with equal politeness. "Walk in, gentlemen!' cried the turnkey, seeing them hesitate. Don't stand for cere- mony, at all ;' and he shewed them into a large room, just white- washed, where were a dozen other sailors, in the same predica- ment with themselves. It was a dismal company, but our hero was resolved to make the best of it. He found a piece of char- coal, mounted the small end of a barrel, and sketched upon the clean wall a huge spread-eagle, writing beneath, Liberty and In- 150 Lines in the Life of an Artist. dependence forever! This excited great laughter. It roused an Irish gentleman, confined in the next room. He inquired for the artist, learned his history, and invited him to the free use of his books and pencils, and gave him a bed besides. Here the profession was resumed. He drew a pattern of a summer-dress, for the jailor's daughter -- a charming, rosy little girl, not much younger than himself. It pleased; and he made the acquaintance of the family, and told his story to the mother and daughter with the ingenuous eloquence of an honest heart, stung with suffering, until it brought tears in the eyes of both. After this, came good dinners; and the damsel, tender-hearted, brought comfits daily to his grate, and listened again and again. It was a new life to him. Finally, she offered him, one day when the jailor was abroad, the key of his freedom. He refused to accept it at the cost of her danger. She urged him with tears, in vain. He awaited the captain's constables, and sullenly returned -- after secreting him- self to no purpose -- to the vessel. Here, he and his comrade met once more, and he spurred him on to another escape. They concluded to swim ashore, in the night, — over two miles, where he had seen a shark bite a dog in two pieces, at the ship's side -- with his clothes fastened to his neck; both mates lying all the while on deck, with loaded arms. They start off, steering by the moonlight ; the boat, after a wbile, pursues them ; they increase their efforts ; voices, and the plashing of oars, approach ; our hero, with difficulty, climbs the wharf ; his comrade slowly follows, stretches his hand up, and cries, “Save me !'he drags him up, and he falls senseless to the ground, while the boat passes by, at a few rods' distance. A series of flights and narrow es- capes ensue, but the ship finally sails, and the boy is no longer obliged to dodge under a board-fence, and to cure the headache by bleeding himself with the dull edge of a rusty old lance. Not yet discouraged, he shipped for Marseilles, and sailed — saw a mutiny -- was put on an allowance ; lived a fortnight on water, which age had thickened to a jelly ; and survived a four- days’ hurricane, — all which, seems to have been counterbalanced by a luscious bunch of glowing grapes, tossed to him by a beau- tiful lady from a barge, in Marseilles harbor. The adventures ashore must be passed over, as well as the ornamenting of the captain's boat, at his first leisure, with brushes furnished from the hair on his own head; only remarking, that nothing in France was so admirable to the young sailor as the wonderful workmanship of some of the shop-signs : he was never weary of gazing at them; they were the first pictures he had ever seen! The sequel is, that the ship, by an accident, sailed without him. He was left with two five-franc pieces, three sous, the clothes on his back, and four shirts at a washerwoman's. He knows no French — has no employment. What does he but offer his services as a Lines in the Life of an Artist. 151 painter of wood-work to the widow of the boarding-house, where the captain had tarried. Thus, from hand to mouth, he lives four months ; eating what he could get, sleeping, when the house was full, on board scows, perhaps -- once on a keilson, in a rain, with the water half a foot deep, on either side the narrow timber, which served him for a bed; and when he had nothing to do, sit- ting days together on a hill, near the harbor's mouth, feasting his eyes on the scenery of the splendid sea, and the last highland the sun ever smiled on, — but watching always for an American craft. The starry flag is descried at last. He leaps with joy, and can scarcely refrain from plunging into the water. He junips on board at the quay — seizes the captain's hand — dances like a dervis — bursts into tears. His whole age was worth living for that moment. The captain accepts his services, and he plunges into the hold, to throw out the cargo, with the crew. One month more, and he is on his route home, by way of South America ; and the captain so much his friend as to promise him, privately, all the interest he could make to get him an apprenticeship with his brother, a cooper, in New-York !, The painter of signs thanked him most kindly, and gnashed his teeth with a horror, that made him foam at the mouth. The rest of my ground must be stalked over. I must forbear dwelling on the feelings excited by the first view of the Canary Islands, in the fervor of a superb twilight. It was the realization of all the romance of the mariner's childhood. I must pass over the hard abuse of his patron, the captain — driving him about on the yards in a gale of wind, with both thighs stabbed, so that the deck is spotted with the blood, which trickles from his toes. Behold him on the other continent, at Porto Cabello, bidding the crew farewell, and starting off across the mountains, a hundred miles, on foot, alone, for La Guyra — knowing no Spanish, with- out arms, attendant, road ; furnished only with fifty cents, a tes- tament, a pair of shoes, a lead-pencil, and a small portrait of Bol- ivar — slung over his shoulder by a stick. He escapes being shot by sentinels, robbed by banditti, starved to death in the fast- nesses of mountains never before traversed. His feet bleed at every step, but he walks on. He finds an old Spanish hamlet among the hills, where a white man was never seen before ; is en- tertained as a curiosity — caressed by the softer sex, who pity his pale face and his torn feet ; worshipped almost by the astonished crowd around him, when he pronounces the Saviour's name from his testament, in good Spanish, ten-fold emphasized. "Oh bueno Christiano !' was there ever such a prodigy! But when he draws Christ on the Cross for them, and shews Bolivar, they dance about him like a war-party of Mohawks, and “the lofty aisles of the dim wood ring,' to the rude reverence of these barba- rous amateurs. These adventures alone would make a volume, 152 Lines in the Life of an Artist. but must be passed over, as my hero passed over the earthquake- ruins of Caracas ; stopping in the city only to buy two coppers' worth of cakes, (his last money) and pressing on to sleep on a heap of stones, at the door of a woman in the wilderness, afraid to admit him— probably, as a lady in Prussia was afraid to admit the Rev. Mr. Dwight, for fear of being scalped by an American savage ! A curious encounter with English travellers in the mountains ; a tremendous thunder-storm, seen far below him ; the first sight of La Guyra, on the shore of the sea, and of the American shipping, -- there must be an end somewhere. See him, then, once more at sea, bound for Baltimore, working his passage, and earning, by painting the ship's boats, a new fortune, the enormous sum of eight dollars — half which he gives for his first week's board on shore, which he disdains to accept as a boon from a comrade. He goes to work again ; gets his fame up by signs ; is employed six months; finds his way, by a se- ries of strange chances, to Connecticut, traveling the last thirty miles on foot in one day, with two buns for his fare, and half a cent left at the end of the journey. But we have him at last in a corner : the Flibbertigibbet! He sets up' painting mason's aprons, and advances to standards ; finally induces his neighbor to sit for his portrait — succeeds ; opens a portrait-shop in the upper loft of a tumble-down old wooden castle, with a three-legged chair, and a board nailed to the wall. But the locality organ re- volts again. He packs up, and paints bis passage to Boston. He sees, with feelings not to be described, the Stuart collection at the Athenæum ; paintson; travels all over Maine, New- Hampshire, and Massachusetts; visits New-York, and then Charleston ; and is advanced, meanwhile, from five dollars a head gradually to fifty. With a thousand dollars or more, he leaves for England, in the Boston ; is burnt out at sea, with Admiral Coffin, and rows two days on the sea in the boats — the Admiral flat on his back, with the gout, trying to sing Coal Black Rose,' at one end, and the body of a poor girl, frightened to death in her brother's arms, at the other ! They are taken up. He gets into Boston, money and clothes all gone; visits his friends, gets. new clothes, sails again ! and arrives in England, with twenty- five dollars in his pocket, part of the price of the Admiral's por- trait, taken at the Tremont, and now at the Athenæum. He lives in London six months, nobody knows how, but contrives to keep in the galleries half his time, until he is reduced to sixpence. It feeds him a whole week, on two potatoes a day, and he drops down stairs, senseless. Patronage comes in the shape of a lady again, a kind soul. He recruits ; paints in bed ; visits the coun- try ; fills his pockets, returns to the city, searches for a passage home ; meets, first of all, at the American coffee-house, the iden- tical captain he had swam away from, at Charleston ; takes pas- Stanzas. 153 sage with him to Boston, and hears from his own lips, on the voyage, the whole story about the little rascal who cut that mon- strous caper! Our history is growing tedious. Five years yet remain to be told, and the hero of the tale is at this time in his twenty-fifth! He is painting, while I write, in the room of the Judiciary Committee of the Senate, the head of Mr. Van Buren; and Clay, Calhoun, and Preston, and a bevy of rosy beautics; Councillors and Commodores, Plenipotentiaries and Secretaries, hang cozily together on the walls beside him. Such has been the career of Osgood! Was I wrong in saying, there are some men who learn, as well as some who are taught ? Are there not spirits that cannot be fastened, frightened, stinted, or starved ? They will make bridges of expedients over chasms of calamities, as cane-ladders enable the traveler to pass the cliffs of the Andes ; and an obstacle no sooner runs between them and their purpose, than they baulk it, by boring a circuit, like the tunnel of the Thames, beneath. You may render them no aid : deprive them of appliances and means to boot': cast them adrift, alone, on the waves of life ; Nature will take the world's orphan kindly by the hand, and lead him, though with bleeding feet, and with tears, to the high places that are in the midst of the resplendent glory of her own majestic school-room, boundless, endless, and sublime.' The thunder- storm shall teach him its colors ; and the sunlight of the hills, river, and fresh midnight and morn, and dewy eve, and the sweet isles of the sea, and The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, The lily that gleamed by the fountain's brim. O! Nature is rich indeed, and the least of these shall not be lost to him. The walls of the world will be his Vatican ; and genius, the divine vision, the camera, to reflect and treasure them all ! STANZAS. The Fates seldom spin out a rose-colored tether To excite the compunction of Atropos' shears, But the Furies are ever conspiring together Like the Muses, to set men and gods by the ears. Justice and Love cannot see their own noges, Being hooded — and Fortune, you know, was born blind ; And the Hours, that are fabled to dance upon roses, Limp sadly, when Fortune or Love is unkind. VOL. VIII. 20 Critical Notices. 155 will be probably for a long time, formidable difficulties in applying these principles with sufficient rigor. Yet they may be demonstrably true in theory ; and the time must come when the practice of all civiżized nations will acknowledge them to be so. Meantime every candid examination of the subject will throw new light upon the discussion, whatever be the opinions entertained by any individual writer. With this remark we dismiss the volume, merely adding that, though we strong'y dissent from many of the author's opinions, on the score of scientific correctness, yet we have no inclination to dispute the temporary applicability to the state of things in our own country. Monte Auburno. Poemetto di Pietro Alessandro.- A short Poem, by Pietro Alessandro. We have read with great pleasure this graceful poem on Mount Auburn. Its author is a young Italian gentleman of taste and uncommon accomplishments, who has lately taken up his residence in our city. He shows in this short poem, a live- ly feeling for the beauty of fine scenery, and an admirable power of describing it. A delicate sensibility to the moral associations, and the tender reflections belong- ing to the sacred spot, and a fine tact, in associating them with the varied scenery in and around it, show themselves throughout this production. The verse flows along with a beautiful melody : the descriptions, as far as we can judge of a foreign lan- guage, are wrought up with strict truth to nature, and an exquisite selection of pic- turesque points ; the allusions to the tenants of the monuments already raised, are feeling and appropriate, and the concluding passage, in which the author mentally reverts to the condition of his own unhappy country, is touched with the pathos of a spirit mourning over the woes of a beloved birth-place, without the power of assuaging them. The lovers of the beautiful language of Italy will take pleasure in reading this touching tribute to the unrivaled charms of a spot, already consecrated to the holi- est associations of the human heart. Obserrations on some of the methods known in the Law of Massa- chusetts, to secure the selection and appointment of an impartial Jurų, in Cases Civil and Criminal. By Peter Oxenbridge Thacher, Judge of the Municipal Court of the City of Bos- ton. We are glad to see an attempt, like the present, to bring before the public in a shape, at once cheap and readable, the leading principles of a subject so highly in- teresting and important. By the theory of our laws, all citizens, with some few exceptions, on account of office or duties supposed to be incompatible, are liable to be drawn as jurors, and thus called upon to exercise one of the highest functions in the administration of justice. It has been said, with great point, that all the forms of government — king, lords and commons — the remark was made in England — are established to bring twelve men into a box. This strong language expresses truly the whole object of the establishment of government ; since the administration of justice, or in other words, the determination of rights and property and the vindicar 156 Critical Notices. tion of wrongs, so far as to deter from their commission in future, and to compen- sate for the present damages arising therefrom, is the main end attained by it. The great agent in this extensive work is trial by jury. It behooves, then, all who may become jurors, to inform themselves of the character of this institution. Judge Thacher's tract will be a pleasant assistant in gaining this knowledge. The author is well known as a Judge of a respectable Court in the City of Boston. Several of his charges, which have been heretofore published, have excited much attention, and been favorably regarded both at home and abroad. Recollections of a Housekeeper. This is a familiar little volume of Yankee Life, full of truth, and liveliness ; the production of Mrs. Gilman, of South Carolina. It cannot fail of being highly popu- lar in New-England. Life and Treason of Benedict Arnold. By Jared Sparks. This is an admirable volume, intensely interesting from the first page to the last. The early years of Arnold were a fit prelude to his treacheries : and his latter days exhibit a most appropriate finale to the baseness of his manhood. We have never read a more dramatic history than is presented in the life of the traitor ; and we have never seen a tale of more deep interest, wrought up with greater simplicity, clearness, and effect. To say that this is a valuable addition to our literature, would be ordinary praise. It is a complete and permanent record, which will be read until the annals of our revolutionary struggles shall cease to be an object of curiosity, feeling, or interest. Peale's Graphics. As far as we are able to judge, from a limited acquaintance with the science, of which this manual proposes to explain the theory by the application of certain prin- ciples, we would recommend this little volume most warmly to the public attention. It comes recommended by a clear, and well-written preface, as well as by an ab- sence of pretensions, which is, after, all, one of the highest encomiums which can be pronounced. The name of the author, Rembrandt Peale, is familiar to all love ers of art in the country ; and we unhesitatingly recommend this little manual, be- cause we feel assured that no lessons are taught, which would not improve the young pupil. We like, moreover, its maxim — Try'; and we like the spirit which it breathes, and the important maxim, which it inculcates, that -- Nothing is denied to a well-directed industry.' Genius can alone attain to the height of pere fection ; but application will lead one many steps up the mountain. POLITICS AND STATISTICS. THE PRESIDENCY. have been struggling, how can we sur- CANDIDATES for the Presidency render all the principles for which we have been presented during the last have been contending ; and fight under month, under circumstances to alter the the banners of a man who has sustained whole aspect of the political horizon. to the utmost, with his name, his influ- The nomination of Judge White has ence, and his talents, the AUTHOR and made a sad havoc in the ranks of Mar- ACTOR of all our evils ? tin Van Buren. Tennessee and Alaba Away with the delusion and cheat ! ma have taken the lead in bringing him Let us sustain one of our own men, a forward, and it is impossible to say believer in our own creed, a champion where the defection from Van Burenism of our own principles, a minister of our will be stayed. Not a vote, however, own faith. There is no common ground south of the Potomac can be safely cal- on which we can meet the friends of culated upon for the candidate of the Judge White. Jacksonism runs in every Office Holders. Pennsylvania, too, may drop of his blood ; it was born in his be considered as wavering ; Sutherland flesh, and has been bred in his bone. It openly denounces Van Buren, and there is ridiculous to imagine that the Whigs are many grounds on which Judge White can sustain him without abandoning eve- will be preferred by the Jackson men of ry bulwark of the good cause, and garri- that State. soning them with soldiers from the Strong efforts have been making in ranks of the enemy. Is this sustaining certain quarters to secure to Judge White a cause? Is this fighting for principles? the support of a portion of the Whigs. It is merely reducing the whole PRESI- For our own part we can conceive of no DENTIAL QUESTION to a matter of principle of politics or policy, on which PERSONAL PREFERENCE, indepen- he should receive a Whig vote. dent of all political considerations. He has been from the beginning an ar- If it comes to that, with what zeal can dent friend of Gen. Jackson, and a warm the Whigs enter battle? Are they to supporter of all the measures of his ad- entertain any great feeling of choice be- ministration. Have we been honestly tween two leaders of the enemy? Care opposed to that administration, and have they ' under which Duke' the Country we battled in honorable purpose against is placed ? which of the royal family of the principles which it has sustained ? Jackson favorites sits upon the throne ? Have we been contending against MEN Not at all. Why shonld we unite on or MEASURES? Has it been a person- the Tennessee judge any more than on al, factious war that we have been fight- the New York regent ? In what chap- ing, or a war for opinions and rights, and ter of his political history are we to look privileges ? Has there been no abuse ? for the assurance that he is more capa- No corruption ? No breach of the Cons- ble, ay, or more honest than the trading titution ? No wanton disregard of pub- politician of Albany? Not certainly in lic distress, and popular petition ? No that portion of it which relates of his ad- violence? No tyranny? No assumption herence to Jacksonism. of undelegated authority? No anti-re- The Whigs of the Ohio Legislature publican usurpation and concentration of have brought forward Judge M'Lean, power in the hands of the President? If but the nomination seems to be general- not, then is our whole creed a lie, and ly considered an abortion. It has been the history of Whigs a tissue of infamy received with no enthusiasm. The po- If there have been the abuse, the corrup- sition of this gentleman, on the Bench tion, the usurpation, against which we of the Supreme Court, renders his can- 159 Politics and Statistics. didacy indelicate and inexpedient. He feated. His friends in the West are will not be considered fairly in the field doubtful as to his strength. He is him- till he shall resign his seat. It has also self indifferent in regard to the issue. It been stated, on good authority, that is stated on the best authority, that he Judge M’Lean will not stand, unless he will decline being a candidate ; and will sees a fair chance of receiving the sup- lend his undivided and ardent support to port of the South. Of this there is now the regular candidate of the Whigs. no probability. Every day proves more O n whom then shall the choice fall ? clearly to our mind that the South will Who, under all circumstances, should be go in a body for the most available the candidate of the great Whig Party? Southern candidate, without reference We answer without thought of hesita- to the opinions he has held on the gross tion — that man is Daniel Webster. He and subversive usurpations of the pres- stands before the country with the high- ent administration. We see more every est claims to its favor and rewards. He day, to convince us — and it is with the stands before the friends of the Constitu- deepest mortification and regret — that tion, as the ablest expounder and cham- the question of the Presidency will be pion of that sacred charter. He stands made a mere contest of sectional preju- before the friends of free principles, as dices, and geographical considerations; the advocate of liberal opinions — as the without regard to the great questions of ardent, zealous, consistent advocate of Constitutional Liberty, which have been freedom. At home and abroad — in the involved in the measures and manifes- strugg'ing nations of Europe - in the tos of the Executive during the last devoted republics of South America - eventful twelve months. whenever Liberty has obtained a foot- With regird to Mr. Calhoun, he hold, and raised her voice and banner to stands before the country in a position the people — she has heard a responsive so peculiar, and so embarrassing, that it signal from a distant land -- a voice not is out of the question that he should re- altogether lost in the roar of a dividing ceive any support for the Presidency. ocean and that voice has been the elo- Out of South Carolina, it would be im- quence of WEBSTER! In times of do- possible for hin to procure a nomina- mestic dissensions, when the great Tem- tion; and we hope, therefore, that he ple of our rights and liberties, whose key- will not perinit his name to stand in the stone was UNION, seemed tottering to way of the opposition candidate. its foundation — whose giant arm sus- The question then is narrowed down tained the edifice with its individual to the respective claims of Henry Clay strength? When the usurpations of an and Daniel Webster; great men both — aspiring Executive had prostrated the out- able, eloquent, patriotic, generous and ward bulwarks of the Constitution, who high-minded — worthy, either of them, stood forth, the leader of the Forlorn to wear the highest honors that any peo- Ilope, first among the gallant band which ple can bestow — and to wield the des. maintained the citadel of the Senate, and tinies of any nation that flourishes upon spoke defiance to a haughty and impe- the globe. We entertain a most sincere, rious tyrant? And in times like the deep, and ardent attachment to Mr Clay; present --- with such powers as the Ex- growing out of his eminent services, his ecutive has now concentrated in its distinguished powers, his personal gener- hands — with the treasury and the mili- osity of character, his self-sacrifice in the tary force - the purse and the sword - cause of the country, and the unjust and to whoin do the friends of the country, unrelenting persecutions of which he has the cause, and the Constitution, turn, been the object. As long as a stone of with the firmest faith and most confident one of our manufactories shall stand, it reliance ? will be a monument of what the enter- The recent nomination of Mr. Webster prise, industry and prosperity of our com- by the Legislature of Massachusetts, has mon country owe to Henry Clay ; and placed him prominently before the coun- while the golden band which unites these try as a candidate for the Chief-magis. States together shall remain unbroken, it tracy. It remains to be seen what far- will be a memorial of his sagacity, abili- ther developement of his strength may be ty, and patriotism. But Mr Clay has expected. If integrity, talent, public been twice, and in a certain sense, three services, and unswerving fidelity to pop- times before the public, in connexion ular rights and a free government, pre- with the Presidency, and has been de- sent any claims to the Presidency, we Politics and Statistics. 159 may hope with confidence that the peo- esce, and which, on a suitable occasion, ple will render due honor to one who is he would undertake to controvert. He emphatically the Man of the People believed that it was the best diplomacy to assume a hostile attitude towards THE FRENCH QUESTION. France; there was a point, beyond The fourteenth of January was a day which negociation could not be carried, of momentous interest in the Senate, and where forbearance ceased to be a one which will long be remembered for virtue. But he did not wish to go into the eloquent discussions which distin- the merits of the subject at present. If guished it, and for the gratifying result the general sense of the Senate was in in which they ended. Mr. Clay, pursu- favor of the Resolution before them, he ant to the notice which he had given the himself should ofter no opposition to its day before, called for the consideration passage. of the Report of the Committee on For Mr. Tallmadge receded as respecta- eign Relations. He accompanied his mo- bly as possible from the ground, which tion with some appropriate remarks, and on a former occasion he had assumed. after a prolonged but temperate debate, He said that he could not agree with in which many members of all parties the report in all its conclusions, and he joined, the following Resolution was a- manifested an inclination to say a word greed to: or two in defence of Mr. Rives, whose RESOLVED, That it is inexpedient, at in judicious management is justly repro- present, to adopt any legislative meas- bated in the Report. But as a feeling of ures in regard to the state of affairs with unanimity appeared to prevail in the Sen- France. ate, he should oppose no obstacle to a This Resolution differs from the one happy adjustment of the question. What- originally presented by Mr. Clay ; but, ever our party differences might be, he though softened and compressed in the felt that we all were still Americans, with phraseology, it embodies all its important a variety of conciliatory and peace-mak- features. ing observations, intended to appease the Mr. Clay commenced his remarks by natural resentment of the President, at stating the entire coincidence of the Com- the rejection of his favorite measure. mittee with the President in the opinion, The unanimous passage of Mr. Clay's that the fulfilment of the treaty should be Resolution, as amended, is a result as unhesitatingly insisted upon, at all haz- auspicious as it was unexpected. It set- ards. The French Chambers were pro- tles the question of reprisals, and is an bably at this moment legislating upon the assurance that our differences with France subject of their relations with this coun- will be settled in a spirit of amity and con- try. Whatsoever might be the result of ciliation. their deliberations, the Resolution which FAILURE OF THE WAR SCHEME. he had offered would be judicious and There is nothing that more clearly suitable. The case presented four con- indicates the troubles in the Jackson tingencies. The first was, that the ap- camp, than the miserable failure of the propriations would be made before the administration plans in regard to France. reception of the President's message. Nothing prevented the consummation of The second, that they would be made this favorite scheme, except the rupture after the message had been received in the party occasioned by the nomina- The third, that on being apprised of the tion of Judge White. It was obvious at President's recommendation, the Cham- an early period of the Session, that the bers should refuse to legislate any farther friends of Judge White would endeavor upon the subject until the menace should to avoid an excitement; and they have be withdrawn. The fourth contingency succeeded. The plot of the Administra- was, that the Chambers, on receiving the tion failed ; and the President's thirst for message, should refuse peremptorily to glory must remain unsatisfied. comply with the terms of the treaty, and When we reflect on the stand taken to grant the necessary appropriations. In by the President on the menaces of any of these contingencies, the Resolu- the Globe -- on the general tone of the tion would be appropriate. Pensioned Press, soon after the appear- Mr. Buchanan, after bestowing much ance of the Message, we cannot but be commendation upon the report, said that surprised at the complete prostration of it nevertheless contained some positions, all their schemes. The President fumed in which he could not altogether acqui- and fretted — the Globe threatened and 160 Politics and Statistics. denounced all the opponents of the pro- PLAN OF THE CAMPAIGN. posed scheme as traitors — it warned the The important advices of our recent young men to remember the Hartford mail have put a decided and intelligible Convention and the last war - it stigma- aspect on the plans of the presidential tized the opposition press as British trai- campaign. There is no longer any doubt tors — and lavished all the vicarious vi- that the entire South will go for Judge tuperation of subaltern agents,' as Benton White. The Richmond Whig - hith- has it, on the men who dared to suggest erto supposed to be friendly to Mr. any other than hostile measures towards Clay - and the Washington Telegraph, France. The most violent means were notoriously in the interest of Mr. Cal- resorted to, with a view of carrying their houn — have both come out, most une- war measures by the force of party dis- quivocally, in favor of the candidate from cipline, and of frightening the faithful Tennessee. With what consistency these into the support of the Executive. And prints can sustain the cause of a Tory - what has been the result? The whole because he was born on one side, rather scheme has proved an abortion. The than the other, of an imaginary line- Senate, by an unanimous vote, have dis- remains to be seen. That this is the plan countenanced the miserable project of a however, there can be no longer any reckless and passionate soldier — and a- doubt. The Southern presses have been dopted the calı, sagacious, and consid- for some time pointing in this direction. erate views of a high-minded and gener- Our private advices, for some days past, ous statesman. have assured us that such would cer- And how was this result brought about? tainly be the case. Virginia will un- By reason? By argument? By consid- questionably nominate Judge White. — erations of patriotism? Are Hill and What course will be pursued by Mr. Benton, and their coadjutors in the Sen- Ritchie and the Van Buren presses, gen- ate, to be moved by inducements of this erally, may be easily divined. They nature to thwart the desires of Andrew will not dare to thwart the pretensions of Jackson? By no means. We must ac- the Southern candidate. count for this strange movement by other This position of affairs proves, if any and more natural agencies. The age of thing were necessary to prove, the wis- miracles is passed. The blind are not dom of our Legislature, in making the made to see, nor the lame to walk, in nomination of Mr. Webster, at this pe- these days by supernatural power. The riod. There is nothing to be hoped from whole movement is one of party policy. the South. Our dependence must rest The unanimity is the result of a party on the Northern and Western States, and position. The partizans of Van Buren on the true Whigs and Union-men in did not wish to show their weakness, by other parts of the country. The ques- separating from the White party. Judge tion will be made a geographical, and White's friends were opposed to the war. not a political question : it will turn with The South was entirely opposed to hos- reference to longitude and latitude, not tile measures. When the question came law and constitution. up, the followers of the Magician found This political question impresses us themselves in a contemptible minority. with a deep conviction of the wisdom of They discovered that their measure could immediate, concerted, and incessant ac- not be carried through. They were con- tion on the part of the Whigs. The de- sequently compelled to make a virtue of sired consummation has taken place.- necessity, and to abandon it altogether. The Jackson ranks are broken — beyond A more complete and ridiculous failure the hope of a new alliance, broken. The of a favorite administration measure is defeat of the administration in their pro- not recorded. It is a most ludicrous and posed measures towards France proves pitiful political disaster, and proves that this. The whole aspect of the political the spell is broken. The collars are stage proves this. The universal tone of snapped. The Regent may rule New- the Van Buren, and White, and Nullifi- York, but the Lower Cabinet has lost its cation presses, proves this. One thing dominion over the nation. This, at any is certain : The entire South is lost to rate, is the present appearance of things Van Buren. What new face may be put upon the matter remains to be seen. THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. MARCH, 1835. ORIGINAL PAPERS. MOGG MEGONE.* A POEM IN TWO PARTS. BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. PART 1. Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high, All lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone? How close to the verge of the rock is he- While beneath him the Saco its work is doing, Hurrying down to its grave, the sea, And slow through the rock its pathway hewing ! Far down, through the mist of the falling river, Which rises up like an incense ever- The splintered points of the crags are seen, With the water howling and vexed between, While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth ! But Mogg Megone never trembled yet Wherever his eye or his foot was set - He is watchful — each form, in the moonlight dim, Of rock or of tree, is seen of him - He listens — each sound from afar is caught, The faintest shiver of leaf and limb: But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret, Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, - And the roar of their rushing, he hears it not. The moonlight, through the open bough Of the grey beech, whose naked root Coils like a serpent at his foot, Falls, chequered, on the Indian's brow. Mogg Megone, or Hegone, was a leader among the Saco Indians, in the bloody war of 1677. He attacked and captured the garrison at Black Point, October 12, of that year; and cut off, at the same time, a party of Englishmen near Saco river. From a deed, signed by this Indian in 1664. and from other circumstances, it seems that, previous to the war, he had mingled much with the colonists. On this account, he was probably selected by the principal Sachems, a their agent in the treaty signed in November, 1676. VOL. VIII. 21 162 Mogg Megone. His head is bare, save only where Waves in the wind one lock of hair, Reserved for him, whoe'er he be, More mighty than Megone in strife, When, breast to breast and knee to knee, Above the fallen warrior's life Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping-knife. Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun, And his gaudy and tasselled blanket on: His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid, And magic words on its polished blade- 'Twas the gift of Castine (a) to Mogg Megone, For a scalp or twain from the Yengeese torn: His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine, And Modocawando's wives had strung The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine On the polished breech, and broad bright line Of beaded-wampum around it hung. What seeks Megone? His foes are near Grey Jocelyn's (6) eye is never sleeping, And the garrison-lights are burning clear, Where Phillips's (c) men their watch are keeping. Let him hie him away through the dank river-fog, Never rustling the boughs, nor displacing the rocks, For the eyes and the ears, which are watching for Mogg, Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox. He starts — there's a rustle among the leaves — Another — the click of his gun is heard !- A footstep — is it the step of Cleaves, With Indian blood on his English sword ? Steals Harmon (d) down from the sands of York, With hand of iron and foot of cork ? Has Scamman, versed in Indian wile, For vengeance left his vine-hung isle? (e) Hark! at that whistle, soft and low, How lights the eye of Mogg Megone! A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow- • Boon welcome, Johnny Bonython!' (a) Baron de St. Castine came to Canada in 1664. Leaving his civilized companions, he plunged into the great wilderness, and settled among the Penobscot Indians, near the mouth of their no- ble river. He here took for his wives the daughters of the great Modocawando - the most powerful Sachem of the east. His castle was plundered by Governor Andros, during his reckless administration; and the enraged Baron is supposed to have excited the Indians into open hos- tility to the English. (1) The owner and commander of the garrison at Black Point, which Mogg attacked and plundered. He was an old man at the period to which the tale relates. (c) Major Phillips, one of the principal men of the Colony. His garrison sustained a long and terrible siege by the savages. As a magistrate and gentleman, he exacted of his plebeian neighbors a remarkable degree of deference. The court records of the settlement inform us, that an individual was fined for the heinous offence of saying that Major Phillips's mare was as lean as an Indian dog." (d) Captain Harmon, of Georgeana, now York, was, for many years, the terror of the Eastern Indians. In one of his expeditions up the Kennebec river, at the head of a party of rangers, he discovered twenty of the savages asleep by a large fire. Cautiously creeping towards them, un til he was certain of his aim, he ordered his men to single out their objects. The first discharge killed or mortally wounded the whole number of the unconscious sleepers. (e) Wood Island, near the mouth of the Saco. It was visited by the Sieur De Monts and De Champlain, in 1503. The following extract, from the journal of the latter, relates to it. "Having left the Kennebec, we ran along the coast to the westward, and cast anchor under a small isl- and, near the main land, where we saw twenty or more natives. I here visited an island, beau- Mogg Megone. 163 Out steps, with cautious foot and slow, And quick, keen glances to and fro, The hunted outlaw, Bonython! (f) A low, lean, swarthy man is he, With blanket-garb and buskin'd knee, And nought of English fashion on : For he hates the race from whence he sprung, And he couches his words in the Indian tongue. • Hush – let the Sacher's voice be weak The water-rat shall hear him speak - The owl shall whoop in the white man's ear, That Mogg Megone, with his scalps, is here!' He pauses — dark, over cheek and brow, A flush, as of shame, is stealing now- “Sachem !' he says, “let me have the land, Which stretches away upon either hand, As far about as my feet can stray In the half of a gentle summer's day, From the leaping brook (g) to the Saco river - And the fair-haired girl, thou hast sought of me, Shall sit in the Sachem's wigwam, and be The wife of Mogg Megone forever.' There's a sudden light in the Indian's glance, A moment's trace of powerful feeling - Of love or triumph, or both perchance, Over his proud, calm features stealing. •The words of my father are very good — He shall have the land, and water, and wood, And he who harms the Sagamore John Shall feel the knife of Mogg Megone - But the fawn of the Yengeese shall sleep on my breast, And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest.' *But, father!' and the Indian's hand Falls gently on the white man's arm, And, with a smile as shrewdly bland As the deep voice is slow and calm : tifully clothed with a fine growth of forest trees, particularly of the oak and walnut; and over- spread with vines, that, in their season, produce excellent grapes. We named it the island of Bacchus.' Les Voyages de Sieur Champlain. Lir. 2, c. 3. John Bonython was the son of Richard Bonython, Gent., one of the most efficient and able magistrates of the Colony. John proved to be a degenerate plant.' In 1635, we find, by the Court Records, that, for some offence, he was fined 408. In 1640, he was fined for abuse to- wards R. Gibson, the minister, aad Mary, his wife. Soon after, he was fined for disorderly con. duct in the house of his father. In 1615, the Great and General Court' adjudged John Bony- thon outlawed, and incapable of any of His Majesty's laws, and proclaimed him a rebel.' (Court Records of the Province, 1615.) In 1651, he bid defiance to the laws of Massachusetts, and was again outlawed. He acted independently of all law and authority, and hence, doubtless, his burlesque title of "THE SAGAMORE OF Saco,' which has come down to the present generation in the following epitaph: • Here lies Bonython, the Sagamore of Saco; He lived a rogue, and died a knave, and went to Hobomocko.' By some means or other, he obtained a large estate. In this poem, I have taken some liberties with him, not strictly warranted by historical facts-although the conduct imputed to him is in keeping with his general character. Over the last years of his life lingers a deep obscurity. Even the manner of his death is uncertain. He was supposed to have been killed by the In- dians, but this is doubted by the able and indefatigable author of the history of Saco and Bid- deford. Part I. p. 115. (g) Foxwell's Brook flows from a marsh, or bog, called the Heath,' in Saco, containing thirteen hundred acres. On this brook, and surrounded with wild and romantic scenery, is a beautiful waterfall, of more than sixty feet. 164 Mogg Megone. • Where is my father's singing-bird — The sunny eye, and sunset hair ? I know I have my father's word, And that his word is good and fair ; But, will my father tell me where Megone shall go and look for his bride? - For he sees her not by her father's side.' The dark, stern eye of Bonython Flashes over the features of Mogg Megone, In one of those glances which search within - But the stolid calm of the Indian alone Remains where the trace of emotion had been. • Does the Sachem doubt? Let him go with me, And the eyes of the Sachem his bride shall see.' Cautious and slow, with pauses oft, And watchful eyes and whispers soft, The twain are stealing through the wood, Leaving the downward-rushing flood, Whose deep and hollow roar behind, Grows fainter on the evening wind. A cottage hidden in the wood - Red through its seams a light is glowing, On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude, A narrow lustre throwing. • Who's there?' a clear, firm voice demands -- * Hold, Ruth — 't is I — the Sagamore !! Quick, at the summons, hasty hands Unclose the bolted door ; And on the outlaw's daughter shine The flashes of the kindled pine. Tall and erect the maiden stands, Like some young priestess of the wood, Some creature born of Solitude, And bearing still the wild and rude, Yet noble trace of Nature's hands — Her dark-brown cheek has caught its stain More from the sunshine than the rain ; Yet, where her long fair hair is parting, A pure white brow into light is starting ; And, where the folds of her mantle sever, Are a neck and bosom as white as ever The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river. But, in the convulsive quiver and grip Of the muscles around her bloodless lip, There is something painful and sad to see ; And her eye has a glance more sternly wild Than even that of a forest-child, In its fearless and untamed freedom should be. Oh! seldom, in hall or court, are seen So queenly a form and so noble a mien, As freely and smiling she welcomes them there - Her outlawed sire and Mogg Megone ; • Pray, father, how does thy hunting fare? And, Sachem, say — does Scamman wear, In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own?'. Mogg Megone. 165 Careless and light is the maiden's tone; But a fearful meaning lurks within Her glance, as it questions the eye of Megone - An awful meaning of guilt and sin ! - The Indian hath opened his blanket, and there Hangs a human scalp by its long damp hair! Now, God have mercy !- that maiden's fingers Are touching the scalp where the blood still lingers — Turning up to the light its soft brown hair ! What an evil triumph her eye reveals ! What a baleful smile on her pale face steals — Is the soul of a fiend in a form so fair? Nay - traces of feeling are visible now, In that quivering lip and that writhing brow! But who shall measure the thoughts within, Of hatred and love, of passion and sin ? Does not the eye of her mind go back On the gloom and guilt of her stormy track? — The traitor's lip by her kisses met The traitor's hand by her fond tears wet — The trustless hopes on his promise built- The gust of passion — the hell of guilt ! The warm embrace, when her tresses fair Mingled themselves with that scalp's brown hair - And idly and fondly her small hand played In dalliance sweet with its light and shade! And, what are those tears which her wild eyes dim, But tears of sorrow and love for him? For him, who drugged her cup with shame - With a curse for her heart, and a blight for her name? For him, whom her vengeance hath tracked so long, Feeding its torch with the thought of wrong? Oh! woman wronged, can cherish hate More deep and dark than manhood may; But, when the mockery of Fate Hath left Revenge its chosen way, And the fell curse, which years have nursed, Full on the spoiler's head hath burst - When all her wrong, and shame, and pain, Burns fiercely on his heart and brain - Still lingers something of the spell Which bound her to the traitor's bosom - Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell, Some flowers of old affection blossom ; And, while her hand is nerved to strike, She weeps above her victim, like The Roman, when his dagger gave His Cæsar to a bloody grave ! John Bonython's eye-brows together are drawn With a fierce expression of wrath and scorn - He hoarsely whispers, Ruth, beware! Is this a time to be playing the fool - Crying, over a paltry lock of hair, Like a lovesick girl at school ? - Curse on it !- an Indian can see and hear - Away - and prepare our evening cheer!' 166 Mogg Megone. How keenly the Indian is watching now Her tearful eye and her varying brow - With a serpent eye, which kindles and barns, Like a fiery star in the upper air, On sire and daughter his fierce glance turns : •Has my old white father a scalp to spare? For his young one loves the pale brown hair Of the scalp of a Yengeese dog, far more Than Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor : Go — Mogg is wise : he will keep his land - And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand, Shall miss his scalp where it grew before.' The moment's gust of grief is gone - The lip is clenched — the tears are still — God pity thee, Ruth Bonython ! With what a strength of will Are nature's feelings in thy breast, As with an iron hand repressed ! And how, upon that nameless wo, Quick as the pulse can come and go, While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yet The bosom heaves — the eye is wet — Has thy dark spirit power to stay The heart's own current on its way? And whence that baleful strength of guile, Which, over that still working brow And tearful eye and cheek, can throw The ghastly mockery of a smile ? cry, • Is the Sachem angry — angry with Ruth, Because she cries with an ache in her tooth, (h) Which would make a Sagamore jump and cry, And look about with a woman's eye? No— Ruth will sit in the Sachem's door, And braid the mats for his wigwam floor - And broil his fish and tender fawn, And weave his wampum and grind his corn, - For she loves the brave and the wise, and none Are wiser and braver than Mogg Megone!' The Indian's brow is clear once more- With grave, calm face and half-shut eye, He sits upon the wigwam floor, And watches Ruth go by, Intent upon her household care ; And, ever and anon, the while, Or, on the maiden, or her fare, Which smokes in grateful promise there, Bestows his quiet smile. Ah, Mogg Megone!- what dreams are thine, But those, which love's own fancies dress — The sum of Indian happiness - A wigwam, where the warm sunshine Looks in among the groves of pine- (h) "The tooth-ache,' says Roger Williams, in his observations upon the language and cus- toms of the New England tribes, is the only paine which will force their stoute hearts to cry.' He afterwards remarks, that even the Indian women never cry as he has heard some of their men in this paine, Milfore in the tourte beraires de Mogg Megone. 167 A stream, where, round thy light canoe, The trout and salmon dart in view, And the fair girl, before thee now, Spreading thy mat with hand of snow, Or plying, in the dews of morn, Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn, Or offering up, at eve, to thee, Thy birchen dish of hominy ! From the rude board of Bonython, Venison and suckatash have gone - For long, these dwellers of the wood Have felt the gnawing want of food. But, untasted of Ruth is the frugal cheer - With head averted, yet ready ear, She stands by the side of her austere sire, Feeding, at times, the unequal fire, With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree, Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls On the cottage-roof, and its black log-walls, And over its inmates three. From Sagamore Bonython's hunting-flask The fire-water burns at the lip of Megone : • Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask ? Will he make his mark, that it may be known, On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land, From the Sachem's own, to his father's hand ?' The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes As he rises, the white man's bidding to do : • Wattamuttata — weekan! (i) Mogg is wise For the water he drinks is strong and new,- Mogg's heart is great !- will he shut his hand, When his father asks for a little land?' - With unsteady fingers, the Indian has drawn On the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow : • Boon water — boon water — Sagamore John ! Wuttamuttata weekan! our hearts will grow !' He drinks yet deeper - he mutters low- He reels on his bear-skin to and fro- His head falls down on his naked breast He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest. Humph — drunk as a beast !' — and Bonython's brow Is darker than ever with evil thought • The fool has signed his warrant; but how And when shall the deed be wrought ? Speak, Ruth ! why, what the devil is there, To fix thy gaze in that empty air ? — Speak, Ruth !- by my soul, if I thought that tear, Which shames thyself and our purpose here, Were shed for that cursed and pale-faced dog, Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg, And whose beastly soul is in Satan's keeping — This — this' – he dashes his hand upon The rattling stock of his loaded gun ‘Should send thee with him to do thy weeping!' (1) Wuttamuttata_Let us drink.' Weekan - It is sweet.' Vide Roger Williams's Key to the Indian Language, in that parte of America called New England.' London, 16-43. p. 35. 168 Mogg Megone. • Father !' - the eye of Bonython Sinks, at that low, sepulchral tone, Hollow and deep, as it were spoken By the unmoving tongue of death - Or, from some statue's lips had broken - A sound without a breath! • Father !- my life I value less Than yonder fool his gaudy dress ; And how it ends it matters not, By heart-break or by rifle-shot : But spare awhile the scoff and threat- Our business is not finished yet.' • True, true, my girl - I only meant To draw up again the w up again the bow unbent — Harm thee, my Ruth ! I only sought To frighten off thy gloomy thought — Come — let's be friends!' he seeks to clasp His daughter's cold, damp hand in his — Ruth startles from her father's grasp, As if each nerve and muscle felt, Instinctively, the touch of guilt, Through all their subtle sympathies. He points her to the sleeping Mogg : • What shall be done with yonder dog ? Scamman is dead, and revenge is thine — The deed is signed, and the land is mine ; And this drunken fool is of use no more, Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth, 'T were christian mercy to finish him, Ruth, Now, while he lies like a beast, on our floor, If not for thine, at least for his sake, Rather than let the poor dog awake To drain my flask, and claim as his bride Such a forest-devil to run by his side- Such a Wetuomanit (j) as thou would'st make!' He laughs at his jest. Hush - what is there? The sleeping Indian is striving to rise, With his knife in his hand, and glaring eyes ! - • Wagh !- Mogg will have the pale-face's hair, For his knife is sharp, and his fingers can help The hair to pull and the skin to peel - Let him cry like a woman, and twist like an eel, The great Captain Scamman must lose his scalp ! And Ruth, when she sees it, shall dance with Mogg. His eyes are fixed — but his lips draw in, With a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiendish grin And he sinks again like a senseless log. Ruth does not speak — she does not stir ; But she gazes down on the murderer, Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell, Too much for her ear, of that deed of hell, (1) Wetuomanit- a house-god, or demon. They (the Indians) have given me the names of thirty-seven Gods, which I have, all which in their solemne Worships they invocate ! R. Wil- liams's Briefe Observations, of the Customs, Manners, and Worsbips, &c. of the Natives, in Peace and Warre, in Life and Death: on all which is added Spiritual Observations General and Particular, of Chiefe and Special use (upon all occasions) to all the English inhabiting these Partes; yet Pleasant and Profitable to the view of all Mene.' p. 110, c. xxi. Mogg Megone. 169 She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, And the dark fingers clenching the bear-skin bed !- What thoughts of horror and madness whirl Through the burning brain of that fallen girl! John Bonython lifts his gun to his eye, Its muzzle is close to the Indian's ear- But he drops it again. "Some one may be nigh, And I would not, that even the wolves should hear.' He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt - Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt – Kneeling down on one knee, by the Indian's side, From his throat he opens the blanket wide; And twice or thrice he feebly essays A trembling hand with the knife to raise. • I cannot'- he mutters — did he not save My life from a cold and wintry grave, When the storm came down from Agioochook, And the north-wind howled, and the tree-tops shook — And I strove, in the drifts of the rushing snow, Till my knees grew weak and I could not go, And I felt the cold to my vitals creep, And my heart's blood stiffen, and pulses sleep! I cannot strike him — Ruth Bonython! In the devil's name, tell me, what's to be done!' Oh! when the soul, once pure and high, Is stricken down from Virtue's sky, As, with the downcast star of morn, Some gems of light are with it drawn — And, through its night of darkness, play Some tokens of its primal day- Some lofty feelings linger still, -- The strength to dare, the nerve to meet Whatever threatens with defeat Its all-indomitable will !- But lack the meaner mind and heart, Though eager for the gains of crime, Oft, at their chosen place and time, The strength to bear their evil part ; And, shielded by their very Vice, Escape from Crime, by Cowardice. Ruth starts erect — with blood-shot eye, And lips drawn tight across her teeth, Showing their locked embrace beneath, In the red fire-light — Mogg must die ! Give me the knife!' – The outlaw turns, Shuddering in heart and limb, away — But, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns, And he sees on the wall strange shadows play. A lifted arm, a tremulous blade, Are dimly pictured, in light and shade, Plunging down in the darkness. Hark--that cry! Again and again — he sees it fall — That shadowy arm down the lighted wall ! He hears quick footsteps - a shape flits by! VOL. VIII. 22 170 Old News. The door on its rusted hinges creaks — • Ruth - daughter Ruth !' the outlaw shrieks ; But no sound comes back — he is standing alone By the mangled corse of Mogg Megone ! OLD NEWS. NO. II. THE OLD FRENCH WAR. At a period about twenty years subsequent to that of our for- mer sketch, we again attempt a delineation of some of the char- acteristics of life and manners in New-England. Our text-book, as before, is a file of antique newspapers. The volume, which serves us for a writing-desk, is a folio of larger dimensions than the one before described ; and the papers are generally printed on a whole sheet, sometimes with a supplemental leaf of news and advertisements. They have a venerable appearance, being overspread with the duskiness of more than seventy years; and discolored, here and there, with the deeper stains of some liquid, as if the contents of a wine-glass had long since been splashed upon the page. Still, the old book conveys an impression, that, when the separate numbers were flying about town, in the first day or two of their respective existences, they might have been fit reading for very stylish people. Such newspapers could have been issued nowhere but in a metropolis, the centre, not only of public and private affairs, but of fashion and gaiety. Without any discredit to the colonial press, these might have been, and probably were, spread out on the tables of the British coffee- house, in King street, for the perusal of the throng of officers who then drank their wine at that celebrated establishment. To interest these military gentlemen, there were bulletins of the war between Prussia and Austria ; between England and France, on the old battle-plains of Flanders ; and between the same antago- nists, in the newer fields of the East-Indies — and in our own trackless woods, where white men never trod until they came to fight there. Or, the traveled American, the petit-maitre of the colonies — the ape of London foppery, as the newspaper was the semblance of the London journals — he, with his gray-pow- dered periwig, his embroidered coat, lace ruffles, and glossy silk stockings, golden-clocked — his buckles, of glittering paste, per- haps diamonds, at knee-band and shoe-strap — his scented hand- kerchief, and chapeau beneath his arm — even such a dainty Old News. 171 figure need not have disdained to glance at these old yellow pages, while they were the mirror of passing times. For his amusement, there were essays of wit and humor, the light litera- ture of the day, which, for breadth and license, might have pro- ceeded from the pen of Fielding or Smollet ; while, in other columns, he would delight his imagination with the enumerated items of all sorts of finery, and with the rival advertisements of half a dozen peruke-makers. * In short, newer manners and cus- toms had almost entirely superseded those of the puritans, even in their own city of refuge. It was natural that, with the lapse of time and increase of wealth and population, the peculiarities of the early settlers should have waxed fainter and fainter through the generations of their descendants, who also had been alloyed by a continual accession of emigrants from many countries and of all characters. It tend- ed to assimilate the colonial manners to those of the mother- country, that the commercial intercourse was great, and that the merchants often went thither in their own ships. Indeed, almost every man of adequate fortune felt a yearning desire, and even judged it a filial duty, at least once in his life, to visit the home of his ancestors. They still called it their own home, as if New England were to them, what many of the old puritans had con- sidered it, not a permanent abiding-place, but merely a lodge in the wilderness, until the trouble of the times should be passed. The example of the royal governors must have had much influ- ence on the manners of the colonists; for these rulers assumed a degree of state and splendor, which had never been practised by their predecessors, who differed in nothing from republican chief-magistrates, under the old charter. The officers of the crown, the public characters in the interest of the administration, and the gentlemen of wealth and good descent, generally noted for their loyalty, would constitute a dignified circle, with the governor in the centre, bearing a very passable resemblance to a court. Their ideas, their habits, their code of courtesy, and their dress, would have all the fresh glitter of fashions immediately derived from the fountain-head, in England. To prevent their modes of life from becoming the standard, with all who had the ability to imitate them, there was no longer an undue severity of religion, nor as yet any disaffection to British supremacy, nor democratic prejudices against pomp. Thus, while the colonies * There was a great competition among these artists. Two or three were French ; of the Englishmen, one professed to have worked in the best shops about London, and another had studied the science in the chief cities of Europe. The price of white wigs and grizzels, made of picked human hair, was £20, old tenor ; of light grizzels, £15; and of dark grizzels, £12 10s. These prices are not so formidable as they appear - money, in old tenor, being worth only about a fourth of its orig- inal value. 172 Old News. ndepende classes we while the, perhaps the were attaining that strength which was soon to render them an independent republic, it might have been supposed that the wealthier classes were growing into an aristocracy, and ripening for hereditary rank, while the poor were to be stationary in their abasement, and the country, perhaps, to be a sister-monarchy with England. Such, doubtless, were the plausible conjectures, deduced from the superficial phenomena of our connexion with a monarchical government, until the prospective nobility were leveled with the mob, by the mere gathering of winds that pre- ceded the storm of the revolution. The portents of that storm were not yet visible in the air. A true picture of society, there- fore, would have the rich effect, produced by distinctions of rank that seemed permanent, and by appropriate habits of splendor on the part of the gentry. The people at large had been somewhat changed in character, since the period of our last sketch, by their great exploit, the conquest of Louisburg. After that event, the New-Englanders never settled into precisely the same quiet race, which all the world had imagined them to be. They had done a deed of his- tory, and were anxious to add new ones to the record. They had proved themselves powerful enough to influence the result of a war, and were thenceforth called upon, and willingly consented, to join their strength against the enemies of England ; on those fields, at least, where victory would redound to their peculiar advantage. And now, in the heat of the Old French War, they might well be termed a martial people. Every man was a soldier, or the father or brother of a soldier ; and the whole land literally echoed with the roll of the drum, either beating up for recruits among the towns and villages, or striking the march towards the frontiers. Besides the provincial troops, there were twenty- three British regiments in the northern colonies. The country has never known a period of such excitement and warlike life, except during the revolution — perhaps scarcely then ; for that was a lingering war, and this a stirring and eventful one. One would think, that no very wonderful talent was requisite for an historical novel, when the rough and hurried paragraphs of these newspapers can recall the past so magically. We seem to be waiting in the street for the arrival of the post-rider — who is seldom more than twelve hours beyond his time — with letters, by way of Albany, from the various departments of the army. Or, we may fancy ourselves in the circle of listeners, all with necks stretched out towards an old gentleman in the centre, who deliberately puts on his spectacles, unfolds the wet newspaper, and gives us the details of the broken and contradictory reports, which have been flying from mouth to mouth, ever since the courier alighted at secretary Oliver's office. Sometimes we have an account of the Indian skirmishes near Lake George, and Old News. 173 how a ranging party of provincials were so closely pursued, that they threw away their arms, and eke their shoes, stockings, and breeches, barely reaching the camp in their shirts, which also were terribly tattered by the bushes. Then, there is a journal of the siege of fort Niagara, so minute, that it almost numbers the cannon-shot and bombs, and describes the effect of the latter missiles on the French commandant's stone-mansion, within the fortress. In the letters of the provincial officers, it is amusing to observe how some of them endeavor to catch the careless and social turn of old campaigners. One gentleman tells us, that he holds a brimming glass in his hand, intending to drink the health of his correspondent, unless a cannon ball should dash the liquor from his lips; in the midst of his letter, he hears the bells of the French churches ringing, in Quebec, and recollects that it is Sunday; whereupon, like a good protestant, he resolves to dis- turb the catholic-worship by a few thirty-two pound shot. While this wicked man of war was thus making a jest of religion, his pious mother had probably put up a note, that very Sabbath-day, desiring the prayers of the congregation for a son gone a soldier- ing.' We trust, however, that there were some stout old wor- thies, who were not ashamed to do as their fathers did, but went to prayer, with their soldiers, before leading them to battle ; and doubtless fought none the worse for that. If we had enlisted in the Old French War, it should have been under such a captain ; for we love to see a man keep the characteristics of his country. * These letters, and other intelligence from the army, are pleas- ant and lively reading, and stir up the mind like the music of a drum and fife. It is less agreeable, to meet with accounts of women slain and scalped, and infants dashed against trees, by the Indians on the frontiers. It is a striking circumstance, that in- numerable bears, driven from the woods, by the uproar of con- tending armies in their accustomed haunts, broke into the settle- ments and committed great ravages, among children as well as sheep and swine. Some of them prowled where bears had never been for a century — penetrating within a mile or two of Boston ; a fact, that gives a strong and gloomy impression of something very terrific going on in the forest, since these savage beasts fed townward to avoid it. But it is impossible to moralize about such trifles, when every newspaper contains tales of military en- terprize, and often a huzza for victory ; as, for instance, the * The contemptuous jealousy of the British army, from the general downwards, was very galling to the provincial troops. In one of the newspapers, there is an admirable letter of a New-Englandman, copied from the London Chronicle, defend- ing the provincials with an ability worthy of Franklin, and somewhat in his style. The letter is remarkable, also, because it takes up the cause of the whole range of colonies, as if the writer looked upon them all as constituting one country, and that his own. Colonial patriotism had not hitherto been so broad a sentiment. 174 Old News. taking of Ticonderoga, long a place of awe to the provincials, and one of the bloodiest spots in the present war. Nor is it un- pleasant, among whole pages of exultation, to find a note of sor- row for the fall of some brave officer : it comes wailing in, like a funeral strain amidst a peal of triumph, itself triumphant too. Such was the lamentation over Wolfe.* In the advertising columns, also, we are continually reminded that the country was in a state of war. Governor Pownall makes proclamation for the enlisting of soldiers, and directs the militia colonels to attend to the discipline of their regiments, and the selectmen of every town to replenish their stocks of ammunition. The magazine, by the way, was generally kept in the upper loft of the village meeting-house. The provincial captains are drum- ming up for soldiers, in every newspaper. Sir Jeffrey Amherst advertises for batteaux-men, to be employed on the lakes, and gives notice to the officers of seven British regiments, dispersed on the recruiting service, to rendezvous in Boston. Captain Hallowell, of the province ship-of-war King George, invites able- bodied seamen to serve his Majesty, for fifteen pounds, old tenor, per month.t By the rewards offered, there would appear to have been frequent desertions from the New-England forces : we applaud their wisdom, if not their valor or integrity. Cannon, of all calibres, gunpowder and balls, firelocks, pistols, swords, and hangers, were common articles of merchandise. Daniel Jones, at the sign of the hat and helmet, offers to supply officers with scarlet broadcloth, gold-lace for hats and waistcoats, cock- ades, and other military foppery, allowing credit until the pay- rolls shall be made up. This advertisement gives us quite a gor- geous idea of a provincial captain in full dress. At the commencement of the campaign of 1759, the British general informs the farmers of New-England, that a regular mar- ket will be established at lake George, whither they are invited to bring provisions and refreshments of all sorts, for the use of the army. Hence, we may form a singular picture of petty traffic, far away from any permanent settlements, among the hills which border that romantic lake, with the solemn woods over- shadowing the scene. Carcasses of bullocks and fat porkers are placed upright against the huge trunks of the trees ; fowls hang from the lower branches, bobbing against the heads of those be- * Somewhere in this volume, though we cannot now lay our finger upon the pas- sage, we recollect a report, that General Wolfe was slain, not by the enemy, but by a shot from his own soldiers. 7 At one time, there was an impress for this ship, sanctioned by the provincial authorities. Throughout the war, the British frigates seized upon the crews of all vessels, without ceremony, to the great detriment of trade. But, some years be- fore, a British admiral threw Boston into a memorable ferment, by recruiting, in the same arbitrary manner, from the wharves. Old News. 175 neath ; butter-firkins, great cheeses, and brown loaves of house- hold bread, baked in distant ovens, are collected under temporary shelters of pine-boughs, with gingerbread, and pumpkin-pies, per- haps, and other toothsome dainties. Barrels of cider and spruce- beer are running freely into the wooden canteens of the soldiers. I imagine such a scene, beneath the dark forest canopy, with here and there a few struggling sunbeams, to dissipate the gloom. See the shrewd yeomen, baggling with their scarlet-coated cus- tomers, abating somewhat in their prices, but still dealing at mon- strous profit ; and then complete the picture with circumstances that bespeak war and danger. A cannon shall be seen to belch its smoke from among the trees, against some distant canoes on the lake ; the traffickers shall pause, and seem to hearken, at in- tervals, as if they heard the rattle of musketry or the shout of Indians; a scouting-party shall be driven in, with two or three faint and bloody men among them. And, in spite of these dis- turbances, business goes on briskly in the market of the wil- derness. It must not be supposed, that the martial character of the times interrupted all pursuits except those connected with war. On the contrary, there appears to have been a general vigor and vi- vacity diffused into the whole round of colonial life.* Many females seized the opportunity to engage in business; as, among others, Alice Quick, who dealt in crockery and hosiery, next door to deacon Beautineau's ; Mary Jackson, who sold butter, at the Brazen-Head, in Cornhill ; Abigail Hiller, who taught ornamental-work, near the Orange-Tree, where also were to be seen the King and Queen, in wax-work; Sarah Morehead, an instructer in glass-painting, drawing, and japanning ; Mary Sal- mon, who shod horses, at the south-end; Harriet Pain, at the Buck and Glove, and Mrs. Henrietta Maria Caine, at the Golden Fan, both fashionable milliners ; Anna Adams, who advertises Quebec and Garrick bonnets, Prussian cloaks, and scarlet cardi- nals, opposite the old brick meeting-house ; besides a lady at the head of a wine and spirit establishment. Little did these good dames expect to re-appear before the public, so long after they had made their last courtesies behind the counter. Our great- grandmothers were a stirring sisterhood, and seem not to have been utterly despised by the gentlemen at the British coffee- house ; at least, some gracious bachelor, there resident, gives public notice of his willingness to take a wife, provided she be not above twenty-three, and possess brown hair, regular features, * During the winter of 1759, it was computed that about a thousand sled-loads of country produce were daily brought into Boston market. Commerce had de- clined. It was a symptom of an irregular and unquiet course of affairs, that innu- merable lotteries were projected, ostensibly for the purpose of public improvenients, such as roads and bridges. 176 Old News. a brisk eye, and a fortune. Now, this was great condescension towards the ladies of Massachusetts-Bay, in a threadbare lieuten- ant of foot. Polite literature was beginning to make its appearance. Few native works were advertised, it is true, except sermons and treatises of controversial divinity ; nor were the English authors of the day much known, on this side of the Atlantic. But, cata- logues were frequently offered at auction or private sale, com- prising the standard English books, history, essays, and poetry, of Queen Anne's age, and the preceding century. We see nothing in the nature of a novel, unless it be · The two Mothers, price four coppers.' There was an American poet, however, of whom Mr. Kettell has preserved no specimen — the author of · War, an Heroic Poem :' he publishes by subscription, and threatens to prosecute his patrons for not taking their books. We have discovered a periodical, also, and one that has a peculiar claim to be recorded here, since it bore the title of “The New- ENGLAND MAGAZINE,' a forgotten predecessor, for which we should have a filial respect, and take its excellence on trust. The fine arts, too, were budding into existence. At the old glass and picture shop,' in Cornhill, various maps, plates, and views, are advertised, and among them a • Prospect of Boston,' a copper- plate engraving of Quebec, and the effigies of all the New-Eng- land ministers ever done in mezzotinto. All these must have been very saleable articles. Other ornamental wares were to be found at the same shop ; such as violins, flutes, hautboys, music- al books, English and Dutch toys, and London babies. About this period, Mr. Dipper gives notice of a concert of vocal and instrumental music. * There are tokens, in every newspaper, of a style of luxury and magnificence, which we do not usually associate with our ideas of the times. When the property of a deceased person was to be sold, we find, among the household furniture, silk beds and hangings, damask table-cloths, Turkey carpets, pictures, pier- glasses, massive plate, and all things proper for a noble mansion ; more so, indeed, than the slighter elegancies of our own days. Wine was more generally drunk than now, though by no means to the neglect of ardent spirits. For the apparel of both sexes, the mercers and milliners imported good store of fine broad- cloths, - especially scarlet, crimson, and sky-blue silks, satins, lawns, and velvets, gold brocade, and gold and silver lace, and silver tassels, and silver spangles, until Cornhill shone and spark- led with their merchandise. The gaudiest dress, permissible by modern taste, fades into a quaker-like sobriety, compared with the deep, rich, glowing splendor of our ancestors. Such figures * There had already been an attempt at theatrical exhibitions. 178 Old News. foneti Marely foluit bis in de the owy troop! and vanish, ghostly crowd ! and change again, old street ! for those stirring times are gone. Opportunely for the conclusion of our sketch, a fire broke out, on the twentieth of March, 1760, at the Brazen Head in Corn- hill, and consumed nearly four hundred buildings. Similar dis- asters have always been epochs in the chronology of Boston. That of 1711, had hitherto been termed the Great Fire, but now resigned its baleful disparity to one which has ever since retained it. Did we desire to move the reader's sympathies, on this sub- ject, we would not be grandiloquent about the sea of billowy flame, the glowing and crumbling streets, the broad, black firma- ment of smoke, and the blast of wind, that sprang up with the conflagration and roared behind it. It would be more effective, to mark out a single family, at the moment when the flames caught upon an angle of their dwelling ; then would ensue the removal of the bed-ridden grandmother, the cradle with the sleep- ing infant, and, most dismal of all, the dying man, just at the ex- tremity of a lingering disease. Do but imagine the confused agony of one thus awfully disturbed in his last hour; his fearful glance behind at the consuming fire, raging after him, from house to house, as its devoted victim ; and finally, the almost eagerness with which he would seize some calmer interval to die! The Great Fire must have realized many such a scene. Doubtless, posterity has acquired a better city by the calamity of that generation. None will be inclined to lament it, at this late day, except the lover of antiquity, who would have been glad to walk among those streets of venerable houses, fancying the old inhabitants still there, that he might commune with their shadows, and paint a more vivid picture of their times. SONG. BROAD on the bay the sunbeams quiver — The good ship floats, — the wind is free, - The tide is rolling down the river, And merry leaps the laughing sea, - And cheerly sounds along the shore, • Unmoor, my lads, – unmoor, unmoor!' The airs are mild, as if some bed Of wooing flowers delayed their rushing ; The lyric birds are overhead, And, hark! the forest leaves are gushing With flute-like melodies, that say, *Stay, gentle lady! stay, oh, stay!' 180 Doings in the Metropolis. of is the At prese and refused to turn back. They kept on, and threaded their way through the motley multitude. • It is astonishing what a contrast of faces one meets with on certain occasions,' said Miss Lascelles. "Who is that individ- ual in whiskers?'. "I do not know, but should n't be surprised if it were Mr. Beardsley.' • And who is that stout gentleman, whose keen mobility of vision seems to take in the whole scene around us, in the circuit of a glance?' That is the author of the Hunchback — posterity will honor his memory. At present, you perceive, Mr. Van Buren is con- versing with him.' And what frightful-looking Indian is that, standing by the pier-table ? ' That is the famous Wyandot Chief, Wah-hi-ti-noh-mah-hi-ki, or the Creeping-panther. He is a terrible fellow — the same who killed his six wives, because'- "Because what ?' Have you read the last days of Pompeii ? That Ione was a sweet creature, was she not? Bulwer is decidedly a man of genius — do you not think so ?? Yes, yes; but what was his motive for killing his six wives?' This is the first time I ever heard of his doing so improper a thing.' A truce to word-catching. The Wyandot - why did he kill his six wives ?' "Because they did n't dry his scalps in a manner to suit him.' How atrocious! He is looking, with the eye of an amateur, upon my head-dress. Let us go to the other end of the room.' But I insist upon presenting you to my friend Wah-bi-ti-noh- mah-hi-ki. He is courteous and polite, notwithstanding his little foible, of being particular with regard to the preparation of his scalps.' You are quite as bad as he is. I will not be introduced to the barbarian.' · How very wilful!' 11. Harry St. Clair! Who the d–1 is Harry St. Clair ?' - muttered a fierce-looking gentleman, of an elderly appearance, who, in evident perturbation, was pacing the floor of a private parlor. He is a very tolerable sort of a man, Mr. Brown, whom I have consented to marry.' You con—sent-0! 't is impossible, my dear, that you should have been such a fool. St. Clair! It sounds like the Doings in the Metropolis. 181 assumed name of some swindler. Remember, young lady, that you are yet under my guardianship. He has heard of your hundred thousand, and, like an adroit fortune-hunter, he has taken care to avoid giving an account of himself to me. I forbid your seeing him again.' • That must be as it shall happen, Mr. Brown. What think you of an elopement, one of these moonshiny nights ? Mr. Brown, such things have been.' Mr. Brown clenched his fists, and doubled the rapidity of his strides. - You will drive me mad! Has the fellow any property ? "I cannot say, but believe that, he no revenue has save his good’ spirits, to feed and clothe him.' Good spirits ! Hollands and Tokay, you mean : he is then a retail-grocer. That my ward should ever be engaged to a man licensed to keep and retail spirits! What would your poor old father have said, Miss Emeline, had he lived to see his fair scion of a proud and ancient stock, ally herself to an adventurer, to- the Lord knows whom !! You pay but a sorry compliment to my penetration, Mr. Brown. But here comes the gentleman, himself. Mr. St. Clair, Mr. Brown ; Mr. Brown, Mr. St. Clair. You are silent, both. Well, I will leave you to yourselves, and then you may find your tongues. Addio! St. Clair, be civil to the old gentleman. Now, sir, I am the guardian of that young lady. Permit me to inquire how much capital you are in need of, to extend your business in the grocery line? I will advance you any reasonable sum — but do not think of aspiring to the hand of my ward.' Old fellow, I brought no cow-skin with me, and if I had, my respect for your gray hairs would probably prevent my using it, as you deserve. Touching Miss Lascelles — I could not find it in my heart to destroy her peace, by resigning my pretensions to her favor.' “Conceited pup- «Sir! · Know, young man, that if Miss Lascelles marries without my consent, her whole fortune goes to a younger sister.' “How much is her fortune, sir ?'. "A good hundred thousand, in the six per cents.' Give it to her sister, and I will throw in as much more, as a new-year's present. Who are you looking at ?' ''Tis n't possible — that — you — are serious — in what you say ! * Mr. Brown, I am about negotiating with Mr. Polk — you know Polk —- for the purchase of the government stock in the United States bank. Good speculation - eh ? I shall want 182 Answer to the Article on your advice, Brown — handsome commission — agency, and all that sort of thing! But you are dumb.' Mr. St. Clair, if I had a dozen wards — dam’me! but you should be welcome to * * m following inscription ; Yesterday, I received a card, with the following inscription : “Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair, at home, Tuesday and Wednesday.' Washington, January 25. PHRENOLOGY. IN REPLY TO THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. No other propagators of a new science, in the nineteenth cen- tury, have had to encounter more severe buffetings from unbe- lievers than the phrenologists. They have borne these buffet- ings with a calm fortitude. A serene confidence, in the truth of their principles, keeps them straight onward in their way. If this confidence be groundless, time will disclose, in their credu- lity, another signal instance of human folly. But, if truth per- vades their system, overwhelming mortification awaits their antag- onists. The scorn that we feel for the pitiful revilers of Gallileo, Harvey, and Newton, will be doubly visited upon those pretend- ers in science, who, amid the lights of the present day, ridicule what they do not understand, and aspire to an unfortunate pre- eminence in assailing truths, which the unanimous voice of poster- ity will confirm. The phrenologists had a right to expect, that the conductors of American periodicals would have profited by the experience of their transatlantic brethren. A subject, upon which Jeffreys had exerted his satire without effect, the wits of the North Amer- ican might reasonably excuse themselves from attacking. A doc- trine, which, in England, has triumphed over the unsurpassed impudence, the misrepresentation and sarcasm of the Quar- terly Review, must outlive the feebler manifestations of simi- lar agents, in this land of independent thought and fearless in- quiry. But, if phrenology be doomed here, once more, to run the gauntlet of criticism ; to be condemned by those who do not understand its doctrines, and misrepresented by those who do ; to be met with dogmatism and sarcasm, instead of argument and proof; to be loaded, for the hundredth time, with the charges of 184 Answer to the Article on currence to original sources. We can waste but a remark or two on this singular specimen of dogmatism. In the Spirit and Water of Thales, there is no trace of Dualism, any more than in the Nous and Homoiomeriai of Anaxagoras. The former, indeed, believed Water to be the original element of all things, and all things to be pervaded by the spirit of divinity which he styled Nous ; the operations of which spirit, were further developed by the latter philosopher, who ascribed to this principle — life, sen- sation, and creative power. Equally vague is the allusion to the Monas and Dyas of Pythagoras, which were never used by him to indicate the contrast between spiritual and material existences, but simply to express perfect and imperfect numbers !* We have read of the Earth' of Parmenides, and of his ethe- rial fire, but never before of his " Heaven ;' and the “ Density' of Heraclitus is now, for the first time, introduced to our ob- servation. As to Empedocles, “ Enmity' and · Friendship’ were but inferior agents in his scheme of cosmogony. He reduced all things, after the well-established manner of ancient world- makers, — to form elements, earth, water, air, and fire ; and of these, he thought even the mind to be compounded. The agents, which organized and disorganized these elements, were necessity, concord, and discord. But, enough of this frivolous discussion . we have more serious matters at hand. We beg leave to advise the Examiner, before making another so bold an attempt at group- ing contradictions and deducing a simple principle from incon- gruous speculations, to extend his researches beyond the pages of Stewart and Enfield, and especially to read the brief but mas- terly exposition of Ancient Philosophy, in the second volume of Dr. Spurzheim's Phrenology.t But, how does the Examiner proceed with the main discus- sion? Does he present a fair view of phrenological doctrines, and show their fallacy by arguments and facts ? Nothing like it. His examination is confined to two positions, namely : that the brain is the agent of mental phenomena ; and, that the several faculties are connected with particular organs or portions of the brain. To the discussion of these points, he does not come without a previous elaborate attempt to create a prejudice against their truth, by roundly asserting that Phrenology is nothing but materialism. Phrenology, he says, “is evidently a branch of the sensual school, and must be considered as belonging to the lowest * While studying the philosophy of Pythagoras, why did the Examiner omit to note, that he places the seat of the intellectual faculties in the brain ? + To put the Examiner on the right track, however, in search of · Dualism,' we quote the following remark from Coleridge's Biog. Lit. p. 80. "To the best of my knowledge,' he says, “Descartes was the first philosopher who introduced the ab- solute and essential heterogeneity of the soul as an intelligence, and the body as matter.' Phrenology, in the Christian Examiner. 185 form of that school. It is, in fact, a system of pure materialism.' • The phrenologist may profess, if he pleases, that he is not a materialist : such a profession is nothing to the purpose, except to prove, that his instinctive good sense is stronger than his phi- losophy ; but when he asserts, that phrenology is not materialism, he shows himself utterly deficient in logic, and renders his whole system ridiculous. Phrenology is materialism ! Here we might answer, that this is a departure from the true question. The writer of the article is examining the pretensions of phrenology ;' to expose,' as he says, the presumption with which this doc- trine arrogates to itself the supreme right to dictate, on subjects beyond the reach of physical inquiry. He further adds, it was not his motive to shew - the irreligious tendency of the doctrine.' • Is phrenology false or true ?' is the question at issue : the con- sequences of its doctrines are not his professed objects of attack. We read, in our earlier days, a treatise on logic, by Dr. Hedge, which is still of high authority, we believe, in the schools. Among the rules of controversy, there laid down, if our recollection be accurate, may be found the following : • The consequences of any doctrine are not to be charged on him who maintains it, unless he expressly avows them.' Moreover, it would be fairer, first, to state the doctrines of phrenologists, and then, to shew that they lead to materialism. Does the Examiner adduce any proofs from phrenological writers? He admits, that they do not profess to be materialists; and he has been able to collect, from their voluminous writings, but two passages, to prove the contrary. Mr. Combe says, "The mind, as it exists by itself, can never be an object of philosophical inves- tigation.' Dr. Spurzheim says, The doctrine of immaterial substances is not sufficiently amenable to the test of observation ; it is founded on belief, and only supported by hypothesis.' The former of these passages expressly implies the existence of the mind, but denies that it can be examined by itself.' If the Examiner has ever seen it in that state, and made it the object of philosophical investigation,' we pray that the results of his researches may be brought before the public. Mr. Combe, we pledge ourselves, will then retract or modify his assertion. The quotation from Dr. Spurzheim is unfairly taken. By the doctrine of immaterial substances,' he does not mean the ques- tion of the existence of an immaterial soul, but a particular class of speculations he had just before been describing; which specu- lations, he intends to say, are only supported by hypothesis. There is a class of disputants who yield their assent to simple assertion, unsupported by argument; and hence, by bare asser- tion, they expect to convince others. These men have large credulity, and but little power of comparison. The Examiner makes great use of assertion. Phrenology "is, in fact, a system VOL. VIII. 24 on, we pres, and made itself. If the 186 Answer to the Article on of pure materialism.' Phrenology is materialism.' And he con- cludes We have, then, assertions and arguments on both sides ; and either testimony is equally valid.' Herein, we hum- bly conceive, is a small mistake. The assertions' are on one side, and the arguments' on the other; and, in our view, either testimony' is not equally valid.' Were it our object to convince the Examiner, we should, in our turn, assert and dogmatize. But we shall attempt no such thing ; especially as he strongly declares and protests, that the only possible means of convincing him, is to show the brain in the act of performing these functions?! But our readers are not dogmatists. Their heads are so constructed, that argument will influence their belief. We beg leave, therefore, to let the phrenologists make a brief answer to the reiterated charge of downright materialism.' First, let Dr. Spurzheim himself be heard. I incessantly re- peat,' he says, that the aim of phrenology is never to attempt pointing out what the mind is, in itself, or its manner of acting, or its final destination.' * Again, in the section in which he attempts to show that the brain is essential to mental phenomena, he says — It is impor- tant duly to appreciate my sentiments on this subject ; I do not say that the organization produces the affective and intellectual faculties of man's mind, as a tree brings forth fruit, or an animal procreates its kind; I only say that organic conditions are neces- sary to the manifestations of mind. I never venture beyond ex- perience ; and therefore consider the faculties of the mind, only in as far as they become apparent by the organization. Neither denying nor affirming anything which cannot be verified by ex- periment, I make no researches on the lifeless body, nor on the soul alone, but on man, as a living agent. I never question what the affective and intellectual faculties may be in themselves, — do not attempt to explain how the body and soul are united and ex- ercise a mutual influence, nor examine what the soul can affect without the body.'t Such is the language of Spurzheim, of whom the Reviewer says — when he asserts that phrenology is not materialism, he shows himself utterly deficient in logic, and renders his whole system ridiculous '! . This is the philosophy which is accused of arrogating to itself “the supreme right to dic- tate on subjects beyond the reach of physical inquiry'! To those who are at all conversant with the writers on phren- ology, or with the discussions their writings have awakened abroad, we owe an apology for answering, thus briefly, an impu- tation which has been refuted, irrefragably, a hundred times, * Preface to volune second of his Phrenology. † Phrenology, vol. 2, p. 75. Phrenology, in the Christian Examiner. 187 within the last quarter of a century. The man who can read Spurzheim's views of this subject, or Combe's chapter on the charge of materialism, and still seriously believe it imputable to phrenology, must, certainly, · be utterly deficient in logic.' The mind manifests itself through material agents. It sees, by means of the eye; hears, by the ear; and smells and tastes, by the means of other organs. Every body admits these facts ; it is not the organ that sees or hears, but the perception exists in the mind alone. The phrenologist pursues this principle far- ther; and, as the mind perceives size and time, he attempts to show an organ, by the agency of which, each perception takes place. The organ is not the mind ; it is the mere agent. Phren- ologists do not inquire into the nature of the soul, its seat, mode of action on the body, and final destination. Their attention is directed to the affective and intellectual manifestations, and the organic conditions under which they take place. The cerebral organs are not the mind — nor is any state of these organs the mind. The mind, we believe to be a simple and indivisible sub- stance.'* We shall pursue this subject no farther. We feel constrained to say, that we think the writer of the article in question is not sincere in the charge of materialism ; but raises it merely to ex- cite prejudice. This is a heavy charge ; and we are reluctant to advance it ; but the whole train of his reasoning with phrenol- ogists, seems to admit that, in his view, they believe in the im- materiality of the soul; and while he himself allows, that the brain is, in some sense, the medium of the soul'- that he does not object to supposing a more intimate relation between that organ and some of the lower faculties' – that thinking is some- times accompanied with sensations in that quarter ' — and, that those faculties, which connect us immediately with the outward world, such as observation and calculation, the sensual appetites and the earthly affections, are determined by cerebral develope- ments’ — while he admits all this, and yet asserts that phrenolo- gy is materialism, we find it more difficult to believe that he is so obtuse as not to know the truth, than that he is so unfair as not to state it. In truth, phrenology relieves immaterialists from some of the greatest objections to their faith. If the mind be not dependent on organization for its manifestations, where is it in childhood, in sleep, and in old age ? Where is it in the idiot, or the insane man ? Is the soul, in these cases, imperfect or inactive ? Phren- ologists answer — where no others can — the mind is perfect, immaterial, indivisible ; its means of manifestation are imper- * Rev. Dr. David Welsh, Professor of Church History, in the University of Edin- burgh an eminent phrenologist. 198 Answer to the Article on fect, material, frail. As it cannot see when the eye is dis- eased, neither can it reason when the organs of reason are feeble in childhood, or hardened by old age. Restore to the insane man his perfect physical health and organization, and his mind will perform its operations with unerring accuracy We might here lay down our pen : we would willingly leave the controversy at this point, and let our readers determine, whether the writer in question exhibits the learning, fairness, and discrimination, which are necessary to the proper discussion of a new and important science. But, our readers may wish to know the proofs he has arrayed against the two fundamental prin- ciples of phrenology. His statement of those principles is grossly inaccurate. Phrenologists, nowhere speak of the several com- pactments of the brain producing a corresponding manifestation of the moral or intellectual faculties. But we will not dispute about a loose expression, where the intent is honest. The first position of the phrenologists, that the mental phenomena are the result of the conjoined action of the brain and mind, is thus refuted : 'If it be maintained, that the mind manifests itself by means of the brain, we reply, that a great portion of the mind's action is not manifested at all — which makes the brain so far useless.'!! Here is logic. Phrenologists may answer—we only observe those actions of the mind, which are manifested ; leav- ing, most cheerfully, to the consideration of the Reviewer, those "actions, which are not manifested at all’! — being fully persuad- ed, that, until such manifestation takes place, they cannot form any tangible ground of reasoning against phrenology. But, to pursue our author's singular train of reasoning. “Mr. Combe,' he says, “indeed affirms, that consciousness refers the mind to the brain, as its seat. But this we do not hesitate to pronounce impossible. For, to be conscious of the location of the soul, — i. e. of our absolute self, — in space, would require us to perceive our self with the same sense by which we perceive surrounding matter, — just as we perceive our bodily position in the material world, by means of the eye, which determines the relation of the body to surrounding objects.' Gentle reader, are you convinced ? No? Pray, peruse this sentence a dozen times more. Is it, still, senseless jargon? Then we despair of you. You are in the same predicament with ourself. Such nonsense requires no exposition. Perhaps the next clause will explain the Examiner's meaning. But we know, that the soul can distin- guish itself only through the medium of consciousness,' &c. i. e. consciousness is a medium,' somewhat like the lens in a microscope, or Iceland spar, in experiments on polarization ; and the only way the soul can get a glimpse at its desolate self,' is by peeping in, on one side, at its image, on the other! If consciousness' be a medium,' we beg leave to request an ex- Phrenology, in the Christian Examiner. 189 planation of its density and other properties ; that some inferences may be drawn, with regard to its refracting power in this new system of mental optics. Meantime, we only remark, that the experimenter hath need of optics keen,' in so delicate an ope- ration ; and we hope the first use made of this instrument, will be to present to our phrenological vision a naked soul, independent of matter, which the Reviewer blames our sect for not having treated of. Equally! adroit and satisfactory is his answer to the admitted fact, that thinking is accompanied with sensations in the frontal region of the brain. "This, so far as our experience goes,' says the Examiner, “is not the case.' Ahem ! this will probably settle the question. But he proceeds : "When thinking on abstract subjects, the pain, — if we felt any, — was not in the region of comparison and causality,' as it ought to have been ; on the contrary, it was somewhere about "reverence,' firmness,' and 'conscientiousness,' or else in the midst of that populous little colony, situated just over the eyes, — weight," coloring,' order,' &c.' We have not the least doubt, that this is a true account of the matter ; and we beg leave to offer our phreno- logical solution of so startling an anomaly, thus thrown plumply in our faces. If the Examiner's general habits of thinking be such as are displayed in this article, we beg leave to express our undoubting belief, that no pain would ever be felt by him in the organs of causality' and comparison ;' because, we do not think those organs would be at all exercised. On the contrary, we can readily conceive that his conscientiousness' might be pained by rash assertions ; his reverence' awakened by recurring to the metaphysical jargon of the heathen schools of philosophy ; and it must certainly require some little firmness' to stand up against the flood of argument, with which phrenological truth has been illustrated. The “ pains' in question, he accounts for, singularly enough, by that antagonism of mind and body, which phrenologists labor to overthrow ;' and he supposes the health to suffer from severe mental effort, because the whole vitality of the system being, as it were, absorbed in mind, the action of the vital functions, cir- culation, secretion, &c. is impeded ;'! which solution we do not profess exactly to understand, especially the absorption of the whole vitality in mind.'!* * The Examiner presents the following, as a specimen of the metaphysical argu- ments,' by which he concludes that there are mental faculties independent of the brain.' • Take consciousness,' says he, 'for example, or the faculty of self-intui- tion. We maintain, that this faculty cannot, from its very nature, be exercised by a material organ. In consciousness we perceive self, with all its spiritual powers, to be an absolute, indivisible one; and of this, we are more certain than we can be of anything else. But matter is made up of separate parts - ergo, matter cannot 190 Answer to the Article on Such are the arguments, and the only arguments, proposed by the Examiner, to disprove the connection of the brain with the mind; a fact, which is almost universally admitted by physiolo- gists. We may mention, for authority, the names of Cullen, Magendie, Blumenbach, Gregory, and Fodere ; and in Great Britain, at this time, Dr. Elliotson, Professor of the Practice of Medicine in the London University ; Dr. Butler, of Plymouth, Fellow of the Royal Society ; Dr. Holland, of Manchester, and Dr. Combe, of Edinburgh ; (and these gentlemen are thorough phrenologists ;) on the continent, might be mentioned a long list of names : we select Professors Tiedemann and Arnold, of the University of Heidelbergh ; of whom, the former, in his lectures as Professor of Anatomy and Physiology, though not a convert, as yet, to the details of phrenology, lays down the doctrine, " that persons with large foreheads are endowed with superior intellects ; and that, individuals with small heads have inferior intellects ; ' while the latter teaches that, personal observation has satisfied him, that the animal, moral, and intellectual faculties are con- nected with different regions of the brain ;' and he entirely con- curs with Gall, as to the individual regions occupied by each class of faculties; but, like Tiedemann, he thinks that Gall has gone too far, in asserting that these regions consist of a number of smaller organs.* The Examiner himself admits, in some places, the very doctrine he is laboring to refute. Speaking of the idiot, he says — It is not in the essential properties of mind, that he is wanting ; but, owing to a very imperfect organization of a very important part, he is unfitted to the world in which he lives.' The important part,' in which he is deficient, is the brain ; and as the Examiner admits he is not deficient in mind, it must be obvious, that only a well-organized brain is necessary to its man- ifestation. be conscious. Granting even (what is absurd) that a particle of matter could be self-conscious, it cannot be conscious of other particles.?! Such is the metaphysic- al depth of the writer! The reader will be amused, when he recollects that Brown does not allow any such separate faculty as consciousness! The writer's metaphysics reminds us of Mr. Von Klubstick's burlesque of the Egoismus of Fishte. * Here, on this market-cross, aloud I cry, I, I, I! I itself, I ! The form and the substance, the what and the why — The when and the where, and the low and the high- The inside and the outside, the earth and the sky I, you and he, -- and he, you and I - All souls, and all bodies, and I-I itsell, I ! Add, I itself, I!'. * See what may be regarded as a demonstration of the connection of the mind with the brain, in Dr. Brigham's • Influence of Mental Cultivation upon the Health;' a work, in which are sown more seeds of true philosophy than in the whole field of barren metaphysics, from Thales to Dugald Stewart. Phrenology, in the Christian Examiner. 191 We cannot follow the Examiner through the remainder of his article with equal minuteness. For phrenologists, this is unneces- sary ; and we think enough has been shown to shake the confi- dence of anti-phrenologists, in the conclusions of the writer. Almost every paragraph in the article is fraught with erroneous statements, loose language, and false logic. What shall we say of a writer who asserts, that, in most cases of insanity, there is no injury of the brain ; ' that the connection between a sound organization and a sound mind' is 'analagous to the connection which exists between the perfection of the divine mind and the perfection of the Universe.' Does he not betray extreme igno- rance of pathology, and most visionary notions of the constitution of man? There is one assertion, however, in the article before us, the hardihood of which fills us with astonishment. The writer who could make it, must have presumed upon the ignorance, of his readers, to a degree little short of insanity. To those,' he asserts, who are acquainted with the boastful pretensions of phrenology to be a science of facts, and to eschew every thing but facts, it may seem rather surprising, that no facts have yet been advanced in support of the above-mentioned position ;' namely, that the different mental phenomena are connected with different organs. Such an assertion must be intended only for those who never opened a work on phrenology, and have never learned the rudiments of its history and doctrines. Thirty years did Dr. Gall labor in the field of observation, before he published the first statement of his doctrines to the world ; pre- senting an example of patient investigation, without a parallel in history. This period was spent in the uninterrupted collection of facts ; ' in observing men of every description ; and, in many countries, men remarkable for some talent or some defect — for some vice or some virtue ; in studying inferior animals — domes- tic and wild ; the inhabitants of air and of earth. During a great part of these researches, Dr. Gall was accompanied and aided by Dr. Spurzheim. They took thousands of casts, of peculiar for- mations, and made collections of the skulls of a great many ani- mals. They demonstrated the structure of the brain, in all the principal universities in Germany ; and in Copenhagen, Paris, London, and Edinburgh : they visited hospitals for the insane, penitentiaries and prisons; and, in the presence of men of intelli- gence, pointed out the coincidences between the form of the brain and the mental faculties of each prisoner; and constantly appealed to facts, and nothing but facts, to establish their doc- trines. At Berlin, Dr. Gall was conducted through the prison, in the presence of the chiefs of the establishment ; of the inquisi- tors of the criminal department; and of various counsellors, ex- pressly deputed, by the Prussian government, to witness his 192 Answer to the Article on examination ; and, with unerring accuracy, he pointed out the crimes and dispositions of upwards of two hundred culprits. At the fortress of Spandau, in 1805, in the presence of several official gentlemen, and among them Hufeland, well known as one of the most eminent physicians of the age, Dr. Gall, togeth- er with Dr. Spurzheim, examined four hundred and seventy heads of criminals. The results conformed surprisingly with the truth. We might fill pages, with the details of similar examinations - some of which, by Dr. Spurzheim, occurred in this country. What was the language of Dr. Spurzheim, in his lectures in this country? "I do not want you,' he said, “to believe what I propose to you; I only want you to hear what I have to say, and then go into the world, and see and judge for yourselves, whether it be true. If you do not find it true to nature, have done with phrenology ; but, if it be true, you cannot learn it one minute too soon.' Everything in phrenology is based upon obser- vation and fact. Not an organ is described and asserted to exist, the function of which has not been established by hundreds of observations. The facts are there, written by the finger of na- ture; the phrenologists merely ask mankind to notice them. They are facts, too, without exception ; they are universal and unvarying. Hear the bold language of Dr. Spurzheim. "We never admit of exceptions ;' he says — when an exception oc- curs, it proves that the truth has not yet been discovered.' Again, he says — I never advance anything that cannot be ob- served by every other person : I never listen to any objection founded upon reasoning alone ; and one fact, well observed, is, with me, more decisive than a thousand metaphysical opinions.* Such are the principles, upon which research is conducted in a philosophy of what the Examiner has the audacity to say, that no facts have yet been advanced in its support.'! But we have done with the arguments and assertions of the Examiner. As a matter of taste, however, we doubt whether language like the following is an ornament to our standard literary and religious periodicals, or consistent with the decorous exam- ination of an important science. •Phrenology,' says the Examiner, is 'a carnal philosophy’; an ignoble doctrine,' born of the dissecting-knife and a lump of medulla,'' betraying, at every step, its mean extraction’; it is made up of " limited conceptions,' 'grey truisms,' purblind theories,' 'withering conclusions,' weary dogmatisms'; and its results are the products of little bumps of Aesh,' bringing to the dissecting-table the powers and properties of the inner man ’; and seeking to “lay bloody hands on the sacred image of God.'!! * Physiognomy, pp. 258, 270. Phrenology, in the Christian Examiner. 193 Such denunciations never convince; they are ever painfully offensive to refined feelings and a cultivated taste, to whomsoever they may be applied. The Examiner does not seem to be aware of one part of the phrenological art ; namely — the power of determining the con- figuration of the head of an individual, from the tone of his wri- tings. This may be done, by a person well skilled in the science, with surprising accuracy. An article in the Edinburgh Review, on the poetry of Lord Byron, was reported to be written con- jointly by Jeffreys and Hazlitt ; and that eminent phrenologist, Mr. George Combe, found no difficulty in assigning to each wri- ter his parts of the article, though they were closely interwoven, by the examination of casts of their respective heads. The same learned phrenologist gives an amusing example of the develope- ment of self-esteem,' in some extracts from the writings of an estimable writer. When I first ventured to appear before the public as an author, I resolved that nothing should ever induce me to enter into any controversy in defence of my conclusions,' &c. There seems to be some analogy between these expressions and the style of the Examiner. "We affirm,' we say,' we will under- take to prove,' we do not hesitate to pronounce,' are expres- sions, of a class frequently interspun in the pages of the writer ; and there is a constant appeal to our experience,' which is al- most ridiculous, especially when it is modestly arrayed against the experience of Dr. Spurzheim! But we will not open ourselves to the charge of discourtesy, by describing, as we could easily do, the form and developements of the writer's head, from the characteristics of his article : we hope it is not a favorable specimen of his candor or ability. We cannot, however, restrain ourselves from presenting him with one conjecture, as a personal proof of our skill. If he will gently place his hand upon the upper part of his head, a little back, about in the region usually denominated the crown, we will hazard our faith in phrenology, that he will be surprised to discover such a prominence as he has never, heretofore, dreamed of! TRUSTING LOVE. If hitherto we have not said we loved, Yet hath the heart of each declared its love, By all the tokens, wherein love delights, We heretofore have trusted in each other, Too wholly have we trusted, to have need Of words or vows, pledges or protestations, Let not such trust be hastily dissolved. VOL. VIII. 25 194 WILL THE WIZARD. BY JOHN NEAL. Somewhere about two hundred and fifty years ago, a boy, with plentiful brown hair, a saucy though girlish mouth, very red lips, and large, clear hazle eyes, appeared, lounging over a sort of handbarrow, at the door of a small shop in a little one-story village of England. He wore no hat — he was barefooted — and his bosom was all open. It was market-day, and the principal street was a crowded thoroughfare. The shop stood end to the street, with a high pointed roof, one door, a large window below and a small one above. Though built of brick and mortar, there was a frame-work outside — a sort of skeleton — as though some- body had put it together in a hurry, as people do shoes, and forgot to trim it — or left the staging up. Fashions have altered since. People put the best leg foremost now — their best furniture out- side. Our very women understand this ; and as for our men — what are they, but women turned inside out ? At the shop-window, half leaning, half lying, appeared a mid- dle-aged man, with a red worsted night-cap, set awry over one ear, his shirt-sleeves rolled up above the elbows, and a leather apron, pulled jauntily and coquettishly aside, so as to reveal a new suit of underclothes — and a belt of protuberant linen, pushing out over the waistband, like a wreath of snow. He was evidently a man of consideration thereabouts — a good-natured, portly per- sonage - a man of substance, and acquainted with every body. About the door, lay piles of sheepskins, and great rolls of cloth, in the gray'— and in the window, were heaps of wool, the whitest and cleanest you ever saw. The busy multitude swept by, hour after hour — and the boy followed them with his eyes, but he saw them not : jibe after jibe, was interchanged with his father — salutation after saluta- tion — but he heard them not. He was like one asleep, under the orange trees, that grow by the wayside — through which, the rest of the crowd are pouring, as with the tread of mustering na- tions. It was a great solitude about him — a solitude, like that of the mountain-top or the sea-shore. He was afar off, worshipping underneath a strange sky, in the heart of a rocky wilderness — Where, since there walked the Everlasting God, No living foot had been. His fellow-creatures were like shadows to him ; their voices, a doubtful echo - a distant and perpetual murmur, like the uninter- rupted song of the sea-shell. To him, they were creatures of Will the W'izard. 195 another world — creatures of earth. Nevertheless, he loved them — and pitied them; for his young heart was already over- flowing with human sympathies — aching with generous and fiery hope. There was a settled expression of sweet seriousness about his mouth — but, occasionally a smile would appear, playing for a moment there, like sunshine — it would pass away, too, like sun- shine — and there would be left nothing but the imperturbable serenity — the more than mortal gravity of a superior nature. Alike fitted for companionship with the loveliest and the loftiest, he had no language for either. The future was in travail — and there were types and shadows marshalling themselves before him, and sceptres and crowns, tumbling and rolling and glittering, about his path. His youthful spirit was undergoing a transfigura- tion. A something, strange — awful - unintelligible to himself, was beginning to stir within the great deep of his heart. The foundations thereof were agitated - flashes of fire passed before him — and thunders uttered their voices. The sun rolled higher and higher, and the sunshine streamed hotter and, hotter upon the boy's uncovered head, and played with his glittering hair, until it radiated and sparkled about his transparent temples and haughty forehead, as with the splendors of poetry. And his wide-open eyes were illuminated to their very depths, as with inward fire — and appeared listening, as to unearthly music ; and his voluptuous mouth was touched with un- speakable fervor. And the multitude swept by him forever and ever; and all the wonders of earth went over his young heart, like the shadows of the empyrean over the fathomless tranquillity of a vast untroubled sea. And there were strange whisperings about him, and yet stranger music — audible influences — the sweet chirping of birds among apple-blossoms — the steady roar of the multitudinous ocean — the perpetual chiming of the stars — the rattling of spring-brooks over pebbles and among the roots of old trees, and a ringing, like the voices of children at play by the sea-shore. What, Will ! — Will, I say ! why, what's the boy dreamin' about, now? Wake up, Will ! wake up! Thou 't never be a man, boy, an' thou spendest thy days half asleep i’ the sun. shine, so! Father ! - dear father -- an' it please ye, I've no desire to be a man-boy. Ah, Willy, Willy ! — an' thee do n't alter before thy beard blossoms, thou ’lt not live out half thy days. An' I live out all my nights, father, I do n't care for the days. Hoity toity — this comes o’ droppin' asleep, like the flowers in the sunshine — playing with the tassel of his night-cap, as he spoke - it was like a full-blown thistle-top. 196 Will the Wizard. An' it please ye, father, flowers do n't drop asleep in the sun- shine — at the worst, they but dream a little, as I do : but I was n't asleep, father. No, no — I warrant me! no more than thou wast t'other day, when the bible dropped out o'thy hands upon the church floor. An' waked the parson, father. Oh, my poor boy, sleep or no sleep, asleep or awake, thou 'rt the strangest he in all Warwickshire — added the father, re- adjusting his night-cap with a petulant twitch — and if thou do n't cure thyself o' these idle pranks, I 'll —I 'll — zounds ! if I do n't- What, father? Bind thee 'prentice to an attorney. Why, dad ! you would n't, though. Yes, but I would, though — or to a chimney-sweep. Oh, as to that, father, I've not a word to say. Thou graceless vagabond !— that would suit thee, would n't it? I verily believe it would. The boy laughed, and began to whistle. Here, the attention of the father was called off ; but he re- turned to the window, after a few minutes, and renewed the con- versation — evidently pleased with the boy's pertness. Not asleep, hey? No, father, not asleep. Dreaming, though ? Ay! that I was ! And angels were about me, like birds, father ; waters, like singing creatures. Fiddle-de-dee ! Yes, father! And the summer-winds blew, and the sunshine flashed through the wet green leaves, until they shivered and sparkled like live butterflies : and I thought, father - Oh, my dear father, you must let me look at the great sea before I die! Is the boy mad ? No, father! But there was a huge wide feeling, somehow, all about me — it came up, with one vast, long, steady heave, like the ocean we read of — not like the undulations of a newly-found spring in the wilderness, or a fountain bubbling up among straw- berry blossoms. The old gentleman stared with astonishment — the people stared — and before he knew it, he was walking fore and aft the shop, and whistling, too, with all his might and main. Yes, father! And I saw the wonders of the great deep, hold- ing council together : leviathans at play — Robin Goodfellow, astride of a swiſt dolphin, with gold and blue burnished scales - mighty ships, holding on their way, with the instinct of birds, to Will the Wizard. 197 the ends of the earth — stars, dropping fire — and the great sea flashing to the wind. The father stopped — gazed at the strange boy, with brimming eyes, for a moment, and then walking forth, he laid his two hands reverentially upon his upturned forehead, saying — The Lord be with thee ! and prosper thee, thou wonderful creature ! Others may believe thee underwitted, or beside thyself, my poor boy ; but, in the eyes of one who knows thee better, much better, thou art the type of something unheard of in the history of man- kind. Awake, therefore !— stand up ! and thy foolish old father will stand up with thee! Here the people began to whisper together — and the boy, understanding by their eyes what another might have understood only by their language, drew his father into the shop; while the multitude slowly went their way — the foremost, tapping his fore- head with his finger — the next, thrusting his tongue into his cheek, as he turned the corner — and all the rest wagging their heads. And now, Willy, my boy — said his father, doffing his red night-cap, and wiping his bald pate, with a portentous flourish- I don't care that for the knaves ! (snapping his fingers) and from this day forth, instead of being tied to the shop, as they would have thee, thou shalt have books to read, and clothes to wear : and it shall go hard but thy old father 'll make a gentleman of thee, in spite of their talk, (ſetching the boy a slap on the back ;) what d’ye think o' that, you dog, you? Thank ye, father, but I've no desire to be a gentleman. No desire to be a gentleman ! No, father, an’ it please ye. And why not, Willy? Because, father — Because, father - because what, my boy ? — what's the matter with thee ? — why dost turn away thy face ? Out with it, my boy — because what ? Because I've observed that no woman ever falls in love with a gentleman, father. Odds, my life !- how shouldst thou know anything about love? I say, father — Well, what now? — leave playing with thy fingers, and answer me. God's life! as her majesty saith — but I shall be out of all patience with thee! if thou speak not soon. Father! Well Did you ever happen to see old Hatheway's daughter ? Which daughter ? — Mary ? Mary, indeed !-- why, Mary is a child. 198 Will the Wizard. A child, hey ? — older than thou, by almost a year, my boy. Yes, father ; but not old enough — an’ it please ye - for me. What — hey!- let me look into your eyes, you young rogue, you! Thou 'rt not thinking of Anne Hatheway, I hope — hey? And why not, father! Is n't she the bravest girl in Warwick- shire ? — did n't you tell mother so yourself, not a month ago ? To be sure I did ; and as beautiful as brave. But how, in the name of all the saints, came thou to know anything about Anne Hatheway ? — why, she's old enough to be thy mother, thou scapegrace. No, father, not quite — only seven years and four months older, come next Michaelmas. But how canest thou acquainted with her, I say? Answer me that, Willy. I'm not acquainted with her, sir. Not acquainted with her ! No sir; I never saw her but once. And when was that, pray ? — thou mouthful of gilt gingerbread. When you took me to Kennilworth, to see the show. What ! five years ago, when thou wast but three years of age ? Yes, father. And there thou saw'st Anne Hatheway ? Yes, father. And what then ? - Nothing, father. Boy — boy – I will be answered! There's a mystery here, and it must be cleared up. It must, and it shall. The boy's lip trembled — a tear stood in his eye — and he breathed hard for a moment; and then placing his foot, and up- heaving his forehead to the sky, and speaking with a voice he had never employed before, he continued. The mystery shall be cleared up, father. You shall be satis- fied. I saw Anne Hatheway when the Queen spoke to her, and all eyes were upon her : I saw her when she brought the flowers to lay at her majesty's feet : and I saw her when the great lord of Leicester would have snatched a kiss from her — and she flung him off, and bounded away like a startled fawn :- I saw her steal back to her father's cottage ; and though she was told that the Queen herself had inquired for her, she would n't return to Kennilworth again until the pageant was all over. And that's true, my boy – I've had it all from her father himself, who told her the Queen had inquired for her, as the rose- bud of Warwickshire. But, what has all this to do with thy not being a gentleman ? I don't know, father ; but I do n't like these gentlemen, that wear white gloves, and go fingering their way through the wilder- I sastery shatore, he sky, and and Will the Wizard. 199 ness, afraid to wet their feet, afraid to laugh, and afraid to pray. I know she's a woman, father — a grown woman ; but what of that? I can't help thinking my chance would be better than that of any o' these gaudy popinjays — these gentlemen, forsooth — if I had but the courage to speak to her. My poor silly boy! Call me anything but a boy, father ; I can't bear that. I have been a man ever since I first saw Anne Hatheway; she has never been out of my head since — I dream of her — I go out and lie down underneath the old trees of the park, yonder, and look at the deer and the bright birds, until I drop asleep, and then she always appears to me — just as I saw her at Kennilworth, blushing and courtesying and stammering, with all eyes wondering at her beauty — and then running off, with lord Leicester looking after her. Oh, but she 's a rare girl! and with your leave, my dear father — now do ’nt be angry, will ye ? Can't promise thee, my boy; thou 'lt make a fool o' thy father, yet — mad as a March hare. Why do n't ye speak ? Well, with my leave -- With your leave, (Ainging both arms about his father's neck, and whispering in his ear) — What! (starting up, and laughing as if he would split himself) What! Thou wilt marry Anne Hatheway — God's life! as her majesty saith— thou 'rt a precious fellow of thy wishes ! By my faith! I should like to hear thee pop the question. And here he burst forth into another obstreperous peal of laughter. The boy looked astonished — mortified — grieved to the very heart : his color came and went — and there was a bright, small dew upon his upper lip, which instantly disappeared, as if breathed upon by a blast from the desert. Should you, father ? — said he at last, in reply — should you, indeed ? Of a truth, should I. Then go with me to her father's ; for, so help me God! I 'll put the question to her before I sleep! Boy or no boy, father — Í 'll know from her own lips, whether it is a lying spirit, or the awful instinct of truth, which has kept me awake for long years, dreaming of that girl as my future companion — yea, father, as my future wife. Night and day have I dreamed of her — year after year have I prayed for her — all that appears wonderful in my character or my language, or wild in my behavior — all that I know or wish to know — all my hopes and all my fears are connected with her. Why, Sir! It was but yesterday that I fell asleep, thinking of her, under the great oak by the river, there — and I dreamed a dream, father — a dream that, awake or asleep, has haunted me for years. 200 Will the Wizard. The father stood awe-struck and breathless before him, wait- ing the issue. There was a sound of trumpets in the air, and he felt afraid of his own child. Ay, father — a dream ; a dream of power — a prodigious dream! I tremble now to give it language. But I must. I saw palaces and thrones — and mighty men of war — and beautiful women : whole nations of both — mustering at my voice, and crowding to hear me, as I stood alone and apart from all the rest of mankind, playing with a strange unearthly instrument - in shape, like a human heart — which a spirit of grace left with me, one still, starry night, when I saw the skies rolling away forever, with no hand to stay them : the universe asleep, and nobody but God watching over it. I stood upon the mountain-top. The foundations of the earth were opened to me; and I saw gold there, and gems, like subterranean sunshine. Yea, father! and I saw the sepulchres of the giants — the bones of many a for- gotten empire -- the skeleton of lost worlds — the store-houses of the great deep — and the abiding-place of perpetual fire : and I lifted up my voice, and told the creatures of earth what I saw, and they believed me not. And the winds blew, and the darkness drove by, like a midnight fog — and that generation was no more. Anon, another appeared — another, and yet another — and at last, there were those that understood me. And when I talked of mines, that had broken up — whether by earthquake or fire — by storm or deluge — teem with the sack of empire — strange fuel, and stranger flames, — they believed me, though they understood me not. Boy — boy!- what's the matter with thee! — what's thee stretching forth thy arms for, so wildly ? - what 's thee reaching after ? Was I, father!-0, I had forgotten myself! I was wandering · by the sea-shore, and plucking at the bright-haired, unapproach- able creatures that drove by me. I was wondering to see shad- ows upon the deepest and blackest midnight sky – a penant of polished ebony: I was listening to seas that thunder in their sleep from century to century. Of a truth, my boy, it makes my heart ache to hear thee - no good will come of this, I am sure ; and if anything should happen, there are those who will consider it a judgment upon thy poor old father, for trying to make a gentleman of thee. And rightly ought to. Let God have his own way with the work of his own hands, father. If I am not to be a gentleman, I shall be something better, I hope ; and if I am, why, God's will be done ! — that's all I have to say. But, poetry is a beggarly trade, my boy ; an' thee should n't betake thyself to that : and so is the making of speeches. Will the Wizard. 201 I know it, father -- and therefore I 'll none of it! I am not without other and better resources. Boy though I am, I have learned something of human nature : I have learned to think for myself — and I have learned to disentangle the roots of error from the foundations of our strength -- to look upon the mighty of earth, even the mightiest, as the playthings of the multitude. Have a care, boy! These are perilous thoughts : they should be smothered, like monsters stified in the birth. Sinothered !- stifled! I would as soon smother a child of my own begetting, as a thought worth preserving. Why should we stifle the princely offspring of our intellectual spirits ? No, father ; I know what mankind are — and I know that we must be made of sterner stuff than others to communicate rather than to receive impressions. I have thought much of what we call the great of our day; and I have quite another idea of greatness, let me tell you, father. The men I call great, are men of rock. Dominion have they ; not over the fish of the sea, the fowls of the air, or the beasts of the field ; but over the men of all the earth — of all ages and of all countries. There he goes, again! there he goes ! with all the heedless- ness of a grasshopper — hit or miss ! Trees, father, cast off their encumbering foliage, when they go to war with the winds ; naked, they are invulnerable—so with me. After a few years, I shall betake myself to the war; and when I do, away with all this pageantry and pomp! away with all strange hopes — and all strange dreaming! It was but to-day, that I saw, with my eyes open, the whole embodied future sailing be- fore me, century after century, with all their wings outspread. I saw the invisible at work — the mountains growing populous with giant sculpture — the warp and woof of the sky, and all the looms thereof, in full play ; and the chips few, and the threads ran like fire, hither and thither, among the agitated clouds, and I saw great blocks of marble changing their shape, when there was nobody near; and harps, playing in the sky to invisible fingers - what ! father -- asleep? then here goes ! And saying this, he darted through the door, and was off, at full speed, for the cottage of Anne Hatheway. How he sped in his prayer, let the chronicles of that day -- the day of the haughty Elizabeth — declare. At the age of seventeen, the boy married Anne Hatheway, who was then about twenty-five. And after that -- wild and riotous, and urged onward by the unappeasable spirit of his childhood, he betook himself to that great world in miniature - London. There he lived ; and there he laid the foundations of that glory, which hath since outblazed the wildest hope of his youth. After many years, men built temples to him, and established a priesthood, who gradually extended the worship of that boy- VOL. VIII. 26 202 Will the Wizard. for it was worship - over the whole of the enlightened earth. His name was a star — bis language in everybody's mouth. Millions were able to repeat his commonest sayings ; and mil- lions went in pilgrimage to that small shop, in that little one-story village of England, there to look at what his eyes had looked, two hundred and fifty years ago ; there to breathe the air he breathed, in the outbreaking of his fiery, intrepid, ungovernable nature. And of the multitude that went in pilgrimage there, some left their names on the whitewashed wall of the bed-chamber, over the shop; and some, a word or two of wretched poetry. And of the multitude that came away, all had pretty much the same story to tell -- and did tell it ; and yet the public were never weary -- or, if weary, would never own it --- such was the magic of the boy's name. Of these, nobody inquired more faithfully or diligently than the author, whose memorandum, faithfully tran- scribed from the original page, must now conclude this article. Stratford-upon-Avon. Eighteen miles from Coventry. Four s. fare ; one s. coach ; two s. to Mary Hornly; one s. church; six d. boy ; one s. house ; six d. hall. House he was born in plastered outside, between the black beams, running so as to stripe it equally. Mary Hornly is a relation of his, by marriage and descent -- keeps ready-made tragedies, from eighteen d. to two s. six d.; -- one is entitled Waterloo - warranted genuine made by herself !' -- shews sundry chairs, and a long, old table, cut to pieces by the nobility; '-called my attention to the carved postesses of the bed,'— mentioned in the will, - if I'd take the trouble to look at it.' One is reminded of the knife, to be seen for a penny, with which a terrible murder had been perpe- trated -- whereupon, a neighbor advertised the fork, belonging to the knife, to be seen next door for only a halfpenny. Here was a wooden picture, also, representing David with the cramp in his right arm, blazing away at poor Goliath, with an old motto newly furnished up — somewhat after this fashion : Goliath waxing wroth — David with a sling, (Something I can't make out) Doth down Goliath bring ! though not half so good. She exhibited, moreover, a sword, a looking-glass, a pin cushion - a jubilee ditto — and a clumsy wooden candlestick, once gilt, and in some way connected with Garrick and the Festival. A very ignorant, vulgar, pleasant wo- man, -- about fifty-five- say sixty, now. She was turned out of the true house — on which the rent was unexpectedly riz' from twenty to forty pounds. Brought away with her everything that people cared for, and left the remainder to be whitewashed. A book, full of names, lay upon the table : I found in it George Rex, Byron, Scott, the Archduke of Austria. And sooth to say, festival. silt, and jubilee more Will the Wizard 203 King George's R was quite tolerable for a King, though by no means equal to that I had been led to hope from Blackwood. Left my name : '- - United States, January 29, 1824,' and would have added in prose -- but couldn't-Put off thy shoes! the ground where thou siandest is holy ! &c. &c. &c.; and, as for poetry, I'd forsworn poetry ; and what is more, I had never under- taken a real impromptu in my life -- and never but one which I valued to pass for one. I left the house, therefore, altogether flabbergasted -- wondering to find myself unable to say boh to a goose, where so many others had been able to say nothing but boh! - Washington Irving among the rest. Well, I proceeded to the church — stood over the bones of the dead giant, with my foot upon his neck : yea, trampled upon the ashes of his mighty heart, and paid sixpence for the privilege : was beset again by the cockney-muse — and longed to cry out What, ho! to my own shadow, as I saw it projected along the walls, hatted and cloaked, by the particular desire of the attendant ; and heard, on the paved floor, the rattling of my boots, which were provided with iron heels, and the rude, noisy echoes that followed every step I took! One ought to be shod with iron, or brass, thought I, to tread amid the ashes of such a furnace. On my way back to my lodgings, I felt another throe- and another and before I well knew where I was, I had brought forth the following, which I offer as a suitable inscription. Rash man ! - Forbear! Thou wilt not surely tread On the anointed head Of him that slunbereth there ! Would'st meet the God of such as thou, With that unstartled brow!. With covered head and covered feet ! Where William Shakspeare used to meet His God, Uncovered and unshod, In prayer ! Thon wilt not surely venture whero But sleeps the awful dead, With that irreverent air, And that alarn.ing tread ! What, ho! Beware! The very duet, below The haughty dead, will wake - 'The walls about thee shake, If that up'iſted heel, Shod as it is with steel, Should fall on Shakspeare's bead ! 204 Will the Wizard. Thence, having achieved my impromptu, I went to the house where he lived and breathed and had his being ;' and began forthwith to scatter the golden cobweb, (the stuff that dreams are made of) which I had spun, like a silk-worm, out of my own vi- tals. There was the very room — that! where the bard was born. I was perfectly sure of it. And why? - because, the moment I set my foot there, a miracle happened. Being re- quested to write my name, as I had been requested before, both at the church and at the house of the woman what made plays, both of them desired to be remembered to all my friends coming that way! (I could have told her that my friends were likely to go quite another way.) I seated myself and began to write, here as there, when all at once, when I had got as far as North America,' that sounds fifty times grander, in such a place, than United States, besides being altogether more intelligible to the great body of British statesmen, to say nothing of the multitude - the best of them being not much better informed, to this day, respecting our geography, than they were when the Island of Virginia' was first mentioned in the house of Lords — or the • State of New England' thought proper to set herself in array against the great President.' I had finished, as I thought, and was about to adjourn — by my faith, it is true — when a queer sensation - a sort of trickling from my heart — a something, that ' went rippling to the finger ends,' prevented me. I tried to get up — I could n't - to fling down the pen— it would n't budge — so write I must, and write I did ; and the following real, honest, downright impromptu was the result. The ground is holy here — the very air ! Ye breathe what Shakspeare breathed. Rash men, beware ! Oh, yes ! - Will Shakspeare was born there. The question was settled forever - forever. I could n't help sliding into 'ex- trumpery.' O, ye walls ! covered with pencilled names, on whitewashed plaster! Kings! Princes! and immortals — if they ever were there — or, if only such as understood him had writ- ten there, no lights would be needed to show the manger of Shakspeare. The walls would be luminous with their hand- writing — the sign-manuals of them that write with imperishable fire, light beaming, not only under water, but under earth, and throughout all the earth. But enough — our story is about' Wiz- ard Will,' — not · Will Wizard :' and therefore we know when to stop. 205 CITIES. NO. II. Sicelides Musæ, paullo majora canamus. CATANIA — the gem of Sicily — the most delightful spot in the most beautiful of islands — the capital of the country of Flora, where Proserpine was stolen gathering flowers, and where ev- ery footstep crushes a plant that fills the air with odors. Araby the Blessed enjoys a reputation, that of right belongs to Sicily. There is not, on this side of Elysium, (which is somewhere be- yond Naples) a country, a garden of flowers, like that from Ca- tania to Syracuse. The bees, of course, concoct a more delecta- ble honey than their laborious brethren in New-England, where the season of flowers lasts three weeks, and where the best are thistles, and pumpkin blossoms. I have known Yankee honey, where the bees were hard pushed for materials, with a spice of wormwood, dandelions, and skunk's celery. But, if you would know the value of a bee, and taste of veritable honey, go to Hy- bla, or to Catania. It has the odor of a nosegay and a blended taste of flowers. At Chamounix, the honey is too much spiced with violets and trefoil blossoms; at Hybla, it is like Parisian soup — so nicely mixed, that no one taste predominates. On a wide sweep of bay, at the foot of Mongibello, amid classic and most lovely shores, sits Catania. The headlands and land- marks are those of Homer and Virgil — there is no hill without the glory of history or poetry upon it -- nullum sine nomine sarum. This region was the country of the Cyclops — a pastoral people, now nearly or quite extinct. They were a race of men, one of whom, alluding to Virgil, could carry in his hand, as a cane, the trunk of a pine. "His hook he baited with a dragon's tail, And sat upon a rock and bobbed for whale.' They had powerful voices, which, when exerted, ' frightened the earth and caused the sea to tremble.' Supposing the stranger to enter Catania from the south, he will pass over a tract of broken lava before he enters the gates. He will come upon a little port, that has no very safe anchorage for a chebacco-boat, and he will find many feluccas, drawn high and dry on the beach. There was, indeed, a better harbor ; but the lava, after a course of thirty miles, filled it up. When an editor, or any traveling scholar, arrives at Catania, I would counsel him to lodge with Abbati, at the Corona d'Oro — an excellent hotel, the best in Sicily - though in the fourth story. Abbati is as good a gentleman as the king; and, as a host, equal to all com- 206 Cities. petitors. His beds are equal to any in Sicily — where I have slept on boards, wool, and feathers ; but wool is the general ma- terial. His way of warming them is ingenious. I arrived late - and the lady to whom I acted as chief servant, was ill. My Italian left me in the lurch, as it was apt to do when most wanted. But I called for a cup of coffee and a dictionary ; and, by good fortune, fell upon scaldaletto — or, 'warm the bed,'— for warm- ing-pan. The maid brought in a square frame, four feet in leng h, and two in height and widih - with a board at the bottom, on which, having placed a pan of coals, the whole machine was put in the bed, and covered with the sheets and coverlet - or, as they say in Hartford, “kiverlid.' The bed was not only wai med, but burnt : the operation was charged at two turees in the bill. In the morning — which, in this climate, always breathes of paradise — I advise the stranger to go upon Abbati's roof, and overlook the city ; but let him beware of two especially ferocious curs, which live there, and whose duty it is to defend the poultry, which there do congregate, and where it is the pleasure of these dogs to bite thieves and honest men. The city of Catania is no less, in magnitude, than that city wherein you live and flourish ; it is as large as Boston, and — forgive me and the truth - infinitely more beautiful. What is patriotism ? - a preference, above all others, of one's own city ? If so, I am an arrant traitor, and must invent some other defini- tion of patriotism. . I respect Boston ; but I love Catania. I love not Boston less, but Catania more. Why? Catania is under a sky that generates no hail or snow; it has no ice ; no frost ; no rheumatism ; no newspapers ; no magazines ; no backbiters ; no back-bitten ; few lawyers ; one sect of Christians ; little com- merce, and small cheating — a cheerful people, and good wines. Catania is a city neater than Philadelphia. Every rain that falls, between it and the southern side of Ætna, washes its streets, and showers are not unfrequent. The city is the focus where all the streams meet ; and the Strado Etnea is the channel in which all converge. The population includes the nobility of this part of Sicily, who make it their capital — princes, dukes, marquises, and counts. I held up my head among the best of them. I am a major, in my passport ; and this was, of course, a title of honor, in Europe as well as in America. Catania rests, as men rest — on dangerous ground ; fires are beneath it, and a mountain, ready to overwhelm it, above. Yet, men live here, and laugh, too — and at very moderate jokes, as I tested at the theatre. The Prima Donna lived at Abbati's, and sent a ticket, with compliments, to the lady I wrote of; and to the theatre we went. The Prima Donna was a fair woman to behold, and a good actress ; and a singer, almost incomparable ; but she sustained the whole company herself. I may not call it Cities. 207 miserable, for they seemed merry rogues ; but there was neither tragedy nor comedy among them. I advised the Donna to go to the United States — assuring her that fame would be her ser- vant, and fortune, her tributary. I gave hints — inuendos — that the President, or at least his Vice, might be among her ad- mirers, and that she might not only be Queen but Regent. The Museum of the Prince of Biscari is one of the most val- uable in Europe - especially in sculpture and Etruscan vases. Many of the articles were found at Catania, which is a most an- cient city, and has a Roman theatre and amphiteatre. On the fourth day of my residence, I was invited to visit the Cellerajo of the Benedictine Convent, il Padre Anselmo Adorno. The monastery is more splendid than the palace at Naples — the most splendid edifice I had ever seen ; a wilderness of marble avenues. The church is one of the best in Europe, and the organ acknowledges no superior. The organist played for us, and it was like fifty bands of music. The possessions of these lowly monks are immense ; but, thank fortune, their debts are consid- erable. They dispense charity, such as it is ; on certain days, they bestow a loaf of bread to all who will come and take it. I beheld the distribution in the yard. Every one who entered received his loaf at the gate, and was passed over to the square. Every child had half a loaf. The Janitor was a monk, whose beard had outgrown his humanity. I remarked, that he gave to a young woman a loaf for herself, but refused the usual half loaf to an infant, that she carried in her arms. In fact, the churl bestowed upon her a couple of thwacks with his baton ; and opening her shawl, he disclosed a couple of dolls, carried for the sake of their rations. If a gentleman or lady would buy a pair of silk stockings, let him or her come to Catania — where they will find the best, and where they will find the prettiest specimens of amber, in all forms. If a professor of Pastorals would buy an old Theocritus, he may do it here: and if an adventurous voyager would ascend Ætna, as high as his hardihood and the snow permits, let him apply to Abbati — who knows the mountain as well as any man, and who is the very best guide to the summit. If he himself cannot go, he will send Ruggiero, his trusty, if not well-beloved, boot- black — who is pretty well acquainted with topography. To this substitute, I committed myself for a day, to ascend a dozen miles to Nicolosi — the highest village up the mountain. We were carried by mules, and, for the first time, I mounted that stately beast. In an hour, we looked back on city, shores, and sea — a glorious prospect! fertility and desolation were side by side - rich fields and vineyards, by the adjoining blackened tracts of lava. 208 Cities. At Nicolosi, men breathe a pure and invigorating air ; yet, it is the abode of a physician, - Doctor Gemmelaro, - a fat phi- losopher; and from his size, probably a descendant of the ancient race - or the last of the Cyclops. He has, however, two eyes, with which he is wont to watch the crater, in a manner that has acquired for him the title, accuratissimo scrutinatore di Etna. He has published a chart, and several accounts of the eruptions. Ætna is his post - his freehold ; he knows the state of the fur- naces below, as well as a baker knows the heat of his oven. He is the Old Man of the Mountain ;' he is of the bulk that befits one who studies such vast masses ; he is wedded to Ætna - a spouse somewhat turbulent — something of a brimstone. He would be nothing without Ætna, and the mountain would be less without him. He delights in fire, like a salamander; and is in the best of spirits when the mountain is in an ill humor, and threat- ens an explosion. Fire is his element ; and for this only, will he quit his post on the mountain. When the volcanic islands ap- peared, a few years ago, he made an immediate voyage to see what the fire was doing among the waters. Since then, he has breathed the air of the mountain. He spoke rapturously of the virtues of Peruvian bark — of which he had expended his last powder. The shops at Catania, he said, furnished only an imitation, and no American ships had of late arrived, from which he could beg. Luckily, I had a quan- tity, which I left for him with Abbati, and quitted him, loaded with thanks and specimens of lava. Ætna is a vast cone ; but it is covered on all sides with smaller cones - it is a mountain, covered with mountains. One of these, above Nicolosi, we ascended — and were rewarded by the vast, illimitable prospect. It was a mountain, formed, as the others were, by eruptions; and the crater was a deep dell, of three or four acres. We had now come fourteen miles, and the summit appeared as far from us as at Catania. It is a vast projection from the earth's surface; and its shadow, against the rising sun, extends a pyra- mid of shade over Sicily. Yet, compared with the great globe itself,' it is but as one of the minute granulations over the skin of an orange, 209 THE ART OF PACKING. Of all God's workes, which doe this worlde adorne, There is no one more fair and excellent Than is man's body, both for power and forme, Whiles it is kept in sober government ; But none, that is more fowle and indecent Distempered by misrule and passions base, It grows a monster; and incontinent Doth lose its dignity and native grace : Behold, who list, both one and other in this place ! SPENSER. Faery Queen. Book 11. Canto 9, Stanza first. So this is Boston. What a beautiful prospect! Spires point- ing to the sky; glittering roofs, reflecting the rays of the sun ; the red brick-wall, with its ornamented window; the green lawn, amidst the streets and surrounding blocks — like one smile on the cheek of a misanthrope ; while the dome of the state-house, like the monarchy to which our republic is tending, rises and crowns the whole. This is Boston; where the wise, the beau- tiful, and the brave, meet together; where they smile and betray ; get rich and become poor; starve, in the midst of plenty, and sing, on the borders of despair. Here are feasts and sermons, fiddlers and statesmen, orators and rope dancers, theatres and churches. The surface is pleasant enough; it looks like the paradise of New England. But, О that I could walk, like an invisible spirit, through all these apartments, and learn the destiny of all their tenants ! O that I could sail over this city, like an angel on some light summer-cloud, and look through the roofs of the several buildings and see what they are doing! It would be a new chapter in the volume of human nature. I have often thought what a fine thing it would be to unite the characters of a nurse and a philosopher. A philosopher speculates on human nature, and fails for want of materials ; instead of real character, he is often reduced to give us the strange fictions of his own brain ; which, like oranges and pears formed of stone, look too beautiful to be true, and are found to be false when we come to eat them. I think I have seen, while walking down Washington street, in one of the windows, a fair being cut off at the waist, with the skin of a woman and the whiskers of a man - with a face unnaturally beautiful ; and with the sweetest white and red, so horribly mixed as to give the passenger, as he sur- veys it, the chill of death. I have often started at it, as if it were a ghost ; for it always makes me think of a ghost, notwithstanding its florid complexion. But it will serve for a comparison ; and I say, then, that sweet, ugly, red, pale, blooming, dying and dead wax-figure, (I wish the Mayor would remove it, as a nuisance) VOL. VIII. 27 210 The Art of Packing. reminds me of many characters I have seen drawn with the most unnatural skill, by those ingenious philosophers who have studied human nature only in their closets. But, how is it with the nurse? If you hear her story, you will find she was born to better days. She was the daughter of a clergyman; she married a sea-captain ; her husband went to sea — was unfortunate, and died — and left her with four or five children on her hands ; she was convinced she must do some- thing; and, after a long struggle between pride and despair — with poverty to hold the scales, and necessity to watch the beam — she at last took up the business of being nurse in the best families. Thus, her own experience has initiated her into life. She has seen it on its dark side, which Seneca says is its true side. Then, she goes into all sorts of families. She sees the fond hus- band, the jealous husband, the true husband, and the crab-stick, who hardly deserves the name of a husband. She sees the kind wife and the cross wife; the slut and the vixen ; the London doll and the human doll ; the young seraph, rich in nature's charms; and the poor creature, whose only charms were the forty thousand charms paid by her father, and lodged in the bank. She sees how children are managed, from the first swaddling- bands, that confine their limbs and roast them to death, to the last distortions of nature, by which the son comes out a laced fop, and the daughter, as Shakspeare has it, a laced and lost mutton. Besides, a nurse is a sort of lady at large, whom the generosity of the Bostonian pays for doing nothing. She has time to spec- ulate ; and when she drops the pill, she may as well take the pen ; and pouring a little ink into a gallipot, she has only to be, what Dr. Bacon says man should be, the minister and interpreter of nature. O, if I could strike the serpents, with my prophetic staff, which Tiresias found in the woods — Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silva Corpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictu Deque viro factus (mirabile) femina - I would turn nurse as soon as I turned woman, and write such pa- pers as Addison might envy, and even the stockholders of the insurance offices might read. My grandfather owned a pasture, and round that pasture he wished to build a wall; and being a fat man himself, though not a very rich one, old and past labor, he employed the Stones to do it. I see I have unconsciously made a riddle, while I was intending only a comparison ; what I mean is, that he employed several professed wall-makers, whose names were Stone, to build his wall. In my grandfather's pasture, there were some stones, (as in your city, there are some skulls which defy all the laws of crani- ology to class them) which seemed to defy all human masonry to The Art of Packing. 211 find a place for them, in a wall where order is earth's first law as well as Heaven's. There are crooked stones, as well as crooked sticks, both in the natural and moral world. And yet, such was the consummate skill, with which these stones were placed by the Stones, (you will now understand my riddle and pardon my pun) that the wall, when finished, appeared to the little, black- haired, felt-hatted, bare-footed boy, (for, in my father's family, there were more gentlemen than shoes — as Dr. Johnson found in Scotland) I say, the wall appeared to the boy, who looked on as a spectator, to rise into order and beauty, by the mere art of packing. Well, sir— why can we not pack mankind with the same skill ? Is it not as desirable to see a happy society as it is to erect a beautiful wall ? Are not flesh and blood and bones and sin- ews and tears and smiles and hearts and souls, of as much importance as crooked or mishapen stones ? Shame on our be- nevolence, and shame on our skill! I fear these ignorant wall- makers will rise up in judgment against us. Their works will not condemn them, and ours will. Sir, I always enter your city with my mouth open, and I always leave it with my eyes shut ; or, to speak without a meta- phor, I always enter it with admiration, and come away with tears. So much outward happiness, and so much real misery ! There are pale cheeks, sunken eyes, and broken hearts! There is the widow, whom despair has driven to intemperance; and there the harlot, whom seduction has rifled of her charms ; there is the poor man, who always must be poor ; and there is the dis- appointed father and the blasted son. There are thousands, whose garments become thinner as the cold increases, and whose fuel is exhausted ere the winter has begun. They suffer ; they beg ; they steal ; they famish; they drink; they sicken, and they die. Yes, they die by poverty, with opulence all around by your neglect of them, but by your cruel charities. Two thirds of the charities, which are performed in Boston, are doing positive harm. They are breaking down that spirit of self- respect and self-exertion, without which, man sinks into a slug- gish animal, and becomes far the most filthy reptile that crawls on the earth's execrated dust. As to our charitable societies, I almost wish, (and the adverb will give me an avenue to recant, if I am wrong) I almost wish, that they were sunk into the sea, never more to rise. Charity, which is managed by trusteeship, is, very generally, a curse. The truth is, when a man gives - it is the law of God — he must give his attention, his judgment, his skill, his time as well as his money. He must lay a tax upon his indolence as well as his purse. He must go into the abodes of misery, and bring his delicate nerves to actual inspection of 212 The Art of Packing. their wants and claims. He must give, in such a way as to pro- mote happiness, and not to perpetuate crime. There is a way of packing society — I am sure of it — better than it is now arranged. The prizes of life ought to be equalized, and held up to the encouragement of all. Moderate fortunes, com- fort, happiness ; a little parlor, with a little fire ; bread, without luxuries, and water without wine ; a wife, neatly but not gaudily dressed ; and children, well-disciplined and sent to school — taught to be assueti parvo, content with little. These rewards ought to be within the compass of every young man, who is wil- ling to become a good citizen. Not that I am calling for agrarian or sumptuary laws; but, I wish that, in our manners and in our morals, we could feel the importance of equalizing the prizes of life ; and not drawing away the little rivulets of the country, which distribute the waters and diffuse the verdure, to form one great river, which never benefit us when it is regular, and only spreads destruction when it overflows. There are some evils in the world, which we only see in their efflorescence, but never trace them to their root. We try to reform them, but we begin at the wrong end. The best men have deeply lamented the vast extent to which prostitution and licentiousness are spread in all our great cities. Thousands of females, formed to be mothers and virtuous wives, and in whose hearts the kind affections and constant attachments might have been cultivated, are sacrificed to this most insidious and destruc- tive vice. What is a woman when her main principle is broken down? How faded ! how lost! how transformed ! how loath- some and vile! Take the innocent virgin of eighteen, and com- pare her with the old harlot of twenty-five. The downcast eye of the one speaks modesty, tenderness, respect; her cheeks red- den at the thought of crime ; and she weeps freely and sincerely at the tale of wo. The other ! — But I cannot paint the disgust- ing character. She hardly seems to be of the same species. In a word, as fallen angels become devils, so a fallen woman becomes something worse. Seduced herself, she lives by seducing others; and while she sins herself, she is the minister of divine vengeance, multiplying the crime and retaliating the punishment. But what is the source of this evil ? Is it, that the false Florio misled the fair and frail Cynthia, and another name was added to the long list of the victims of sensibility ? Will you charge the prevalence of this crime on the passions of men ? These passions were implanted by God as the sacred bonds of society, and may be directed in their right channel. No; the awful extent of this crime, in great cities, arises from the wretched mode in which men are packed together. A few great nabobs run away with all the profits of business. A few houses among the merchants en- gross the trade; a few lawyers plead the causes; a few physicians The Art of Packing. 213 take the fees; a few mechanics do the work ; and there is a long, hopeless vista of exclusion for a young man. These rich men set the tone of fashionable living so high, that there are thousands who will not marry until they can live in the established style. The consequence is, celibacy becomes frequent and vice in- creases. Depend upon it, marriage must be both early and com- mon, or there is no cure for vice. I am no believer in Malthus. His book is a tissue of nonsense, from the preface to the ap- pendix. Nature pours forth her provisions with the amplitude of her author, and the feast becomes parsimonious solely by the folly of man.* The dreadful doctrines delivered at the Federal Street Thea- tre, are, in my opinion, but the developements of an opposite extreme. God forbid, that I should say one word to encourage vice; and still less, vice so comprehensive ; and last of all, vice which acts on system. But, where you have a frozen north pole, you must have, in other latitudes, a south pole equally frozen. Abner Kneeland is but the antithesis of the Hon. Mr: – , whom- soever you please. Where there is a monied aristocracy, agra- rian principles will appear as the natural opposites. This is the eternal law of political society, and it would be well for us to learn its existence. If the trees of the forest would preserve their lofty honors, they must voluntarily bow their aerial heads, and let the little shrubs below rise up and feel the sun. In concluding this communication, I would humbly suggest to any good citizen, who wishes to be charitable, whether it would not be best to withdraw all those charities which tend to foster a cast — to give a little more, in such a way as to encourage en- terprise and confirm virtue — to open the race to the feeble, and encourage them to run and win the reward. The best charity is that which has the least of the name. When you give employment, you give frugality, exertion, temperance, self-respect, self-exer- tion; every virtue of every name. But it is a poor compensa- tion for him, who has made his fortune by crowding out almost every competition, and grinding the poor in the dust, to satisfy his conscience by throwing around a few dollars, which reward beggary, multiply the beggars, and are tending to plunge his country into confusion and despair. These remarks are designed to foster no foolish extremes. The rich and the poor will always exist in the land. The writer * Take one instance of the fallacy of this writer. "There is a limit to the in- crease of the human species, let them marry and multiply as fast as they can.' But no agriculturist has ventured to say, with all the improvements of skill, actual and possible, what is the utmost limit to the abundance of increase in a single acre. So that, Malthus has undertaken to say that a measured line is longer than a line which must always be unmeasurable - which is next to comparing the finite and infinite together, and saying, the smallest is the greatest. So much for political mathematics. 214 The Rose in Winter. is well aware, that liberty and equality, in the true sense of these terms, is utterly inconsistent with the conclusions which have been drawn from them. Liberty is the liberty of doing right, and equality is an equality of rights, and not of possessions. An agrarian law is at once the greatest tyranny and a direct violation of the only true and practical equality. All I mean to say, is that, in our social system, our laws and our manners, our morals and our reason, should go to discourage, by their united influence, great inequalities in fortune, before whose sure and silent influence, happiness must retire, virtue be corrupted and freedom fall. THE ROSE IN WINTER. BY MISS H. F. GOULD. 0, why do I hold thee, my fair, only rose, My bright little treasure - so dear; And love thee a thousand times better than those, In thousands, that lately were here? Because, like a friend, when the many depart, As fortune's cold storms gather round, Till all from without cbills the desolate heart, My sweet winter flower, thou art found ! Because, that for me thou hast budded and blown, I look with such fondness on thee That, while I've no other, I call thee my own, And feel, thou art living for me. I know thee. I've studied thy delicate form, Till reared from the root to the flower That opens to-day, in a season of storm, To brighten so dreary an hour. How could I so lavishly scatter my sight On those, that the gay summer-sun Had nursed with his beams, when I find such delight, From having and loving but one ? And while thou dost modestly blush at the praise, That thus I in secret bestow, It heightens thy beauty, and only can raise The strain, high and higher to flow. Although thou must droop, as our dearest ones will, I'll tenderly watch thy decline - And, in thy sad moments, I'll cherish thee still, · Because thou hast cheered me in mine. Then, hallowed like dust of a friend in the tomb, I'll lay thy pale leaves safe away, Where memory often shall give them the bloom That brightened my dark winter day. 215 LIFE OF CRABBE.* We love to read the lives of poets, for they are poems them- selves ; — sometimes stately epics, — sometimes tearful trage- dies, — sometimes passionate lyrics, - sometimes fierce satires ; sometimes cold, didactic essays. We can generally trace a family likeness, between a man's personal adventures and his writings, so that they mutually illustrate each other, and one cannot be un- derstood without the other. In reading the biographies of poets, we have often occasion to remark, that the web of their lives seems to have been woven in such a way as to give the utmost possible developement to their poetical nature. We will not illustrate this observation by examples, nor attempt to account for it, but content ourselves with a simple statement of the fact. Crabbe is one of those poets to whom little of personal inter- est has attached. He has been known only by his personal works, and not by his familiar letters — by personal anecdotes and the details of his every-day life. Thousands, that have ad- mired the poet, have known and cared little about the man. His writings have not been egotistical — (we use the word in its strict sense) that is to say, he has not talked about himself in them, and consequently he has not excited much curiosity to know whether (we quote Addison's delicate humor) he was a black or a fair man, — of a mild or choleric disposition, — married, or a bachelor — with other particulars, of the like nature, that con- duce very much to the right understanding of an author.' His poetry, too, is of that character which makes it generally popular with intellectual persons, without awakening an absorbing and ex- clusive admiration. His strong sense, the Teniers-like truth of his pictures, his skilful dissection of the passions, his unpretend- ing pathos, and his profound knowledge of human nature in cer- tain aspects, have made his poems interesting to all well-balanced minds, — though there might be a difference of opinion as to the rank to which he was entitled among his tuneful brethren, living and dead. But, he is not the founder of a new school of poetry, and has no spick-and-span theory of his own to maintain. He has no enthusiastic knot of admirers, contending against a host of doubters and scoffers, — whose admiration is fanned by the breath of opposition, and who are as extravagant in defence as the majority in attack. An unpopular man has, generally, de- voted friends — an unpopular poet, (supposing, of course, that Life of Rev. George Crabbe, L. L. B. By his son, Rev. George Crabbe, A. M. Republished, from the London edition, by James Munroe & Co. Cambridge and Boston. 1 vol. 216 Life of Crabbe. there is true power) has devoted partizans, whose attachment is stimulated by contradiction, and fed by the pride of opinion. The biography of Crabbe contains few events, for there were few to record. For more than forty years, he led the peaceful and monotonous life of a country clergyman, whose even current was broken by nothing more eventful than a visit to London. Dur- ing all this time, his mind was invariably active and progressive; but never feverishly restless, nor passing from fits of sudden and convulsive energy to long intervals of sluggish repose. His du- ties, as a pastor, brought him in contact with great varieties of character, and furnished him with valuable poetical hints, which his quiet life and contemplative habits permitted to rest in his mind until they had grown into perfect pictures. He wrote, to give relief to a full mind, and not to supply an expectant printer's devil with copy – a task, about as hard to an overworked author, as it was to the magicians of the middle ages to find constant employment for the real demons, whom their potent art had evoked, and who would, as soon as their hands were idle, have torn their mortal master to pieces. Besides his literary avoca- tions, he gave much time and attention to botany and geology — studies, which not only employ the mind, but soothe and elevate it to a remarkable degree. So that his circumstances, his pro- fession, his occupations of mind and body, seem to have been ordained and contrived, so to speak, in such a way as to enable him to work his peculiar vein of poetry to the best possible ad- vantage. No one can read his poems, now that his life is before the public, without feeling that the man was congenial to the sphere in which he was placed, and that his mind thrived upon its natural food. There is no struggle, no unrest, no unsat- isfied yearnings, no' chafing against the iron bars, which a ruth- less destiny has interposed between the imprisoned soul and its desired world. Sunshine is without and peace within. Such was the character of his life, from his early manhood un- til his death ; but his earlier years wore a different aspect. They were years of poverty, of struggle, of sorrow, of hope de- ferred, which makes the heart sick. His parents were re- moved by but few degrees from indigence; his friends were few, and able to do little for him ; his intellectual advantages very slender ; and, like most poets, he was not endowed with the indefinable faculty of getting on. The sensitiveness and delicacy of the poetical temperament are fatal obstacles to worldly suc- cess. In the year 1780, we find him — disgusted with his pro- fession, (that of a surgeon) for which he had few natural qualifi- cations, and in which he had been imperfectly trained - proceed- ing to London, as a literary adventurer, with a light heart and a lighter purse. In that vast, living world, he had hardly an ac- quaintance ; certainly not one who could have given him the Life of Crabbe. 217 least assistance in the object of his visit. His experiences were like those of all nameless and friendless literary adventurers — the same record of heart-breaking disappointments, – of wounded pride and outraged sensibility. He saw his brilliant hopes go out, one by one, like extinguished torches; he saw the stern re- ality of his condition coming more closely to him every day, — encroaching more and more, like some remorseless sea, upon the fairy land, which his imagination had shaped and colored with the hues of the morning ; — he felt the clutch of ruin growing tighter every moment. He has left to the world a plain and un- adorned statement of his feelings during that year of bitterness — every hour of which was darker than the preceding one ; and the annals of literature might be searched in vain for anything at once more touching and elevating. There is an unpretending heroism in his journal, which makes it most valuable as a moral lesson, and which administers a grave rebuke to those men of genius who indulge in querulous complaints and peevish denunciations, when- ever the world does not value them so highly as they do them- selves. He never complains, — never frets, — never raves, - never despairs. A serene confidence and a religious faith bear him up, in a manner and to an extent almost inconceivable. The attitude which his soul assumes, while the storm is howling around him, is full of moral sublimity. This seems a strong expression to apply to an unsuccessful young surgeon, who had gone up to London to gain his living by his wits, — and who, as yet, had done nothing to distinguish himself from the herd of scribblers, who futter for a moment, and pass away and are seen no more, but, when we withdraw the veil of outward circumstances, and look at the heart and mind of this lonely and forlorn young man, and see the unpretending fortitude, the unshaken religious trust, the untainţed benevolence and sympathy with his race, it becomes but faint praise. As is generally known, Crabbe was rescued from his gloom and wretchedness by the active kindness of Edmund Burke, whose delicate and effectual benevolence confers new lustre upon his illustrious name. How delightful is such an incident in the life of a great man, — and how much it lessens the interval which, intellectually, separates him from common men! The genius and eloquence of Burke can be appreciated by only a small mi- nority of the human race; but every heart can throb in generous sympathy with the feeling, which made him extend a helping hand to a friendless and desolate young scholar. In such glory, there is none of the alloy which mingles more or less with intel- lectual triumphs — none of the sneers of open enemies, and the scanty praise of envious friends ; it is sunshine without shade – the palm without the dust. Of Edmund Burke, as the assailant of Warren Hastings, and the champion in the attack upon the VOL. VIII. 28 215 Life of Crabbe. principles of the French Revolution, there may be a difference of opinion ; but Edmund Burke, as the friend and patron of Crabbe, no one can contemplate without admiration. In the be- nevolence of his conduct, there was no mixture of those impure motives, which sometimes makes us suspend the sentence of ap- probation which we are about to pass upon a good deed or a brilliant action. The great statesman could hardly have supposed it possible, that the obscure adventurer, who appealed to his kind- ness, was destined to take so high a rank in the literature of his country, and was to be the instrument in conferring so much honor upon himself. Happy are they who have such opportuni- ties extended to them — happier are they who have the will and the power to avail themselves of them. It is easy to see that Crabbe was ordained, for wise purposes, to pass through a youth of fiery trial. A certain amount of suf- fering is essential io a manly character and intellectual strength; and those afflictions, which come in the earlier portions of life, while the unexhausted energies of nature are able to prevent the spirit from being crushed by their weight, never fail to produce the most salutary effects upon the mind and heart. The genius of Crabbe was severe, even to sternness; and had his life been one of uniform success, and had he never felt the shafts of pain rankling in his own breast, his poetry would probably have been too rigid and austere, and we should have missed the deep and tender sympathy with human suffering, which pervades it and meets us at every turn. True sensibility, which is as far re- moved from the mawkish weakness, which is its counterfeit, as it is from brutish indifference, can only be learned in the school of affliction, and by the harsh discipline of disappointment; and the poet who has it not, may despair of attaining the higher tri- umphs of his art. The present biography of Crabbe is a very satisfactory one — giving us enough of personal details to bring before us a lively image of the man, and not spreading out every minute peculiarity or petty individual trait. There should be a veil somewhere, even in the case of the most eminent men, that the world may not gaze upon the utter nakedness of a human soul. The biog- rapher does not speak of the literary productions of his father with the enthusiasm, which would have been natural in a son ; and his views of his personal character appear to be dictated by a spirit of severe truth and exact justice. He seems sometimes to be struggling against his natural partiality and affection, and to use language more cautious and less warm than an acquaintance or friend would have done. This gives great authority to his statements, and lead us to repose implicit confidence in the book — an advantage, which much more than makes up for what might have gained, if he had been occasionally more fer- Life of Crabbe. 219 vent, eloquent and enthusiastic, and poured out his soul in a more liberal tide. He represents his father as a person of strong affections, pure tastes, and great simplicity of character, all of which might have been conjectured from his writings. His habits were retired and contemplative, partly from the natural bent of his mind, and partly from not having been accustomed, in his youth, to mingle much in society. His conversational pow- ers were not remarkable, and would never have betrayed the great poet. There was, in his mind, that principle of repose, which is essential to real strength. He was not in a state of per- petual oscillation between the height of rapture and the depths of despair. He had that strong good sense and just estimate of things, which, both Horace and reason tell us, are the source of good writing. He was at peace with himself and contented with his lot. He never murmurs or repines because his fate had cast him in an obscure parish, and with a merely decent income, - but performed his humble duties as if the world contained nothing higher or more desirable. He enjoyed life to the last, afford- ing a practical refutation to that monstrous absurdity, that the pos- session of genius ensures unhappiness, and that the gifted must necessarily be miserable. He had no uneasy love of notoriety to keep him constantly restless, and to make it a sort of necessity for him to be perpetually before the public. Poetry was to him its own reward, and he seemed satisfied with the possession of genius and viewed its prizes and triumphs with comparative indif- ference. But a small portion of what he wrote was ever pub- lished, and he made more than one bonfire of his manuscripts ; and when he did publish, it was generally from some peculiar cir- cumstances rendering it a duty to do so, and not from any innate and irrepressible craving for literary fame. He was consequently never elated or made giddy by his popularity, nor did he seem to value himself any more because the public esteemed him so highly. He died at the ripe age of seventy-seven, after a short but painful illness, and with the tranquillity of one who had done his duty, and did not fear to render up his account. In his literary character, he had never sinned against truth, virtue and religion; and all the personal relations of life he had sustained honorably and well. He had been a kind husband and father, a faithful friend, and a conscientious and devoted clergyman. Viewing him in his life and death, in his works and deeds, we may safely pronounce him, among the happiest of poets, as having enjoyed the rewards of genius and escaped its infirmities, and as having had the elements of his intellectual character so mingled and tem- pered, that nothing grew to excess, and, by its morbid prepon- derance, made the whole mind sick. He won the laurel and was not blasted by it; he drank freely of the waters of inspiration and found neither intoxication nor madness in the draught. 220 MR. WEBSTER. This is true liberty, where free-born men, Having to advise the people, may speak free ; Which he who can and will should have just praise, - He, who nor can nor will, may hold his peace, - What can be juster in a State than this ! EURIPIDES. a state hold his just praise, The nomination of Mr. Webster will one day prove an epoch in history. The selection of any candidate for the highest office in the republic must generally involve important results. But the nomination of this distinguished individual, at this particular crisis, cannot but be full of great and extraordinary consequences. We have dared to anticipate the fiat of posterity, but we have done so in no vain-glorious or presumptuous spirit. If Mr. Webster could be elected to the highest trust in this government, it needs no un- common insight into futurity, — indeed, needs only the most or- dinary acquaintance with the life and character of the man, — to foresee, that his administration would be one of the ablest and most illustrious that ever dignified the story of a free people. On the other hand, it is not success alone, that can impart to this nomination its most momentous interest. The principles, upon which he must be elected, if elected at all, are so necessarily the very fabric and foundation of the State, — they have already sus- tained a shock so severe, and almost fatal, bearing down, every- where in its progress, the constitutional landmarks which our fathers planted in toil and blood, — the speedy re-instatement of these principles in the national councils is so clearly essential to the public safety and the public freedom, — the election of some great champion and defender of them, against the desperate and abandoned men, who are gambling away everything which ought to be dear to the people, to gratify their own selfish and sordid lusts, has become, at length, a matter of such pressing and in- tense importance, that the chances of a failure cannot be contem- plated without horror and dismay. Success would, indeed, renew our strength like the eagle's ; but, amidst the doubts and fears and despondency of men, who shall venture to predict the whole awful, and perhaps forever, irreparable consequence of defeat ! Another administration, based upon the same principles,-if prin- ciples they are, - which have distinguished the present; another cabinet, constructed of the same, or similarly pliant and corrupt materials ; another executive, irresolute for good, and strong only in error ; another distribution of the spoils of victory,' to gratify the cupidity and to secure the services of greedy partizans, in- stead of providing for the public service such as would be saſe- guards of the public weal; another eight years' system of per- Mr. Webster. 221 verse, reckless, intriguing and profligate mismanagement, — and what remains to us of all we have hitherto honored ? What, – but the fulfilment of our fears. What, but the abyss of our degrada- tion. What, - but that polluted page of history, which records us in the mournful catalogue of broken and lost republics. It is not enough, that the letter of the Constitution is preserved. It is not enough, that the barren sceptre' is wrested from his grasp, who is said to contemplate another resumption of that golden sorrow with such republican complacency. No lineal heir of his virtues can assume it, with safety to the State. The reign of evil must cease. The career of grasping ambition must be checked. The corrupted sources of legislation must be cleansed and purified. The minds and the hearts of the people must be disabused of the fatal delusions, which they have clasped to their bosoms, until the poison has gone far to insinuate itself into the very sluices of life. The candidates for public office should be selected upon some better ground than servile adherence to the worst tactics of a party. They should execute their trusts upon higher considerations than mere personal aggrandizement. They should discharge their consciences of the delirious dream of selfish ambition. They should tear from their hearts that unholy veil, which shuts out the common welfare, and every noble object of human action, and leaves them to see only within, — the mean, petty and miserable workings of their own corrupt desires. They should give to office something of its dignity. They should de- rive from it something better than its stains. The fountains of public spirit and public honor should be unsealed, and their gen- erous streams let loose to refresh and fertilize the land. There must be some return to the plain virtues of the old republic, (and would to God, it might be speedy and thorough) or, even that name of Freedom, that all, which presumptuous ignorance, or something worse, has now left us, shall sound as a bitter mock- ery upon our lips; and her voice, (sweetest of all human melodies) broken and dying, as it has lately been, shall at length sink into the utter silence of eternal death. If it should, indeed, come to this, — and the tendency of things points to no consequences more likely, — if we should, indeed, forfeit this great thing, called Liberty, - a possession so precious, that it constitutes the dear- est ingredient in every earthly good, without which, indeed, there is no real good, — if we, whose hearts may yet throb without de- grading fears, — whose eyes may yet glance from the broad earth to the unbounded heaven, and draw in something from every sympathy and association, that ever inspired the energies of the generous and the brave, — if we, endowed with the capacities of freemen, should wantonly or negligently tamper with this in- valuable blessing, this right of honest thought, this privilege of honorable action; this charmed cup, which infuses all that is most 222 Mr. Webster. graceful and beautiful into life; this burning thirst of the world's prilgrims for an unbroken soul, and an unfettered conscience; this vantage ground, so hardly won and so easily lost, by them that do the work negligently ; if this high gift of God should become to us a bauble and a name ; if we should lose the understanding to appreciate, and the spirit to defend it, — shall we not be held to strict account? How shall we answer it to the good men, who, on every hill-top and in every green field, have left their blood as a memorial that the oppressor had ceased ? How shall we answer it to posterity, who will demand the sacred inheritance at our hands ? It would not be possible to speak of the course of the present administration in too strong language. Its vices and its follies are beyond the flight of ordinary exaggeration. The downward tendency of all things under its auspices, is its truest and severest commentary. The madness of trusting the direction of affairs in such hands has long been manifest to men of clear minds and sound hearts. Its ignorance, or its contempt of the plainest principles of free institutions, has long been but too appa- rent. The difference between a despotism and a republican government is told in a single sentence. In the one, the public good is secured by the enlightened action of the people's repre- sentatives, whose first responsibilities are to their country, their consciences, and to God; in the other, the executive will is the paramount authority, sustained by a dominant party, leagued to their chief and to each other by motives of mutual and selfish interest. Under which system, this government has been lately administered, and under which it is preferable to live, are ques- tions which it will soon become this people very deeply to con- sider. They cannot long continue ignorant of the true character of the party-leaders who have hitherto so strangely maintained the power which they so strangely acquired. They will not always submit to an administration, which evidently has no more honest purpose than the indulgence of its own blind and headlong will. We are not willing to believe that the present administration is forined upon any definite and settled purpose of subverting the institutions of the country. True, it would be no unjust suspi- cion. True, the whole course of its measures, if it does not absolutely indicate such a design, does directly and inevitably tend to no other possible result. But, there is one thing which we do most firmly believe ; that, in the pursuit of its own venge- ful and determined will, there is nothing in this country valuable enough to weigh a feather in the comparison. And is it not equally momentous to the people, is it not equally fatal to all that makes life worth possessing, if, for the gratification of such pur- poses, it would sacrifice the dearest privileges, the highest im- munities, the purest institutions, the rights won with toil, the Mr. Webster. 223 have acter, tas met galy, firmbies, by ha' men, the nation and wailly charters sealed with blood, - would pervert the Constitution, tram- ple upon the laws, insult earth and dare Heaven ! Let it not be said, that we urge this subject in too vehement terms. We are well aware that some of the language which we employ, may sound strangely in the ears of a few honest but cool and cautious men. We are well aware that anything, but the calmest statement of the subject, might be deemed inexpe- dient, and perhaps impolitic, by those whose convenient rule of conduct is— to beguile the time, look like the time.' But, it is not for such men that we write. Their services may be valuable in their own way. But it is not thus, that the victory is to be won. The great enterprise which the constitutional party of this Commonwealth has undertaken, and for which we need and seek the co-operation of the friends of the Constitution and the laws everywhere, should have a rallying-call, to thrill upon the hearts of nien like the echoes of battle. And, we thank God, there are those, everywhere throughout the broad land, who are, themselves, the strength and honor and glory of the state ; whose hearts have long been stirred by the same impulses that beat strong and warm in the homes of New-England ; men, who have felt that a crisis was rapidly approaching - terrible in its character, tremendous in its consequences, fatal to all good, unless it was met and resisted, — not by cold and indecisive calculations, but boldly, firmly, heartily, — with their best pow- ers and their noblest energies, by all such as love the sacred name of COUNTRY. It is upon such men, fearless, spirited, in- corrupt and intelligent, that the safety of the nation depends. It is through them, and by their exertions, that appeals and warn- ings must be reiterated in the ears of the people ; until they fully awake from the delusive security, in which they have been already too long reposing. There cannot be a doubt, that the people, that great mass, so full of real strength, and so unconscious of its uses, — are friendly to the institutions of the country. But they have been most grossly deceived and misled. Their hearts are right, but their understandings have been clouded. Every pas- sion, every prejudice, every interest, which they have, or which they imagine themselves to possess, have been played upon, and brought to bear against those who have become the opponents of the administration, by the force of irresistible events. They have been taught to consider those their worst enemies who have been uniformly contending for popular rights. They have been made to believe, that support of government is the true test of patriotism ; and have forgotten that a just jealousy of rulers is the best security of the ruled. They have been cajoled by the watch- words of liberty, into mistaking the shadow for the substance - the false image for the true divinity. They have listened to the 224 Mr. Webster. flattering protestations of hollow friends, until the worst measures of the administration have seemed to them but honest errors ; and they were ready to believe that, whether sober or beside itself, it was equally for their cause. Thus has freedom always been destroyed. Slowly and imperceptibly, strength steals from the people to the government. Every day there is some new inva- sion of popular rights ; every day, some valuable privilege melts from the grasp of those who will not exert themselves for its security ; until, at length, the power becomes firmly established in the hands of the corrupt and unprincipled few, and the institu- tions of the country are miserably subverted. No matter how many centuries it may have required to build the State. No mat- ter what thought, what solicitude, what perils, what watchings, what painfulness, what sufferings, what deaths, or finally, what glo- rious hopes, may have consecrated its establishment, — an hour may lay it in the dust :- in spite of the prayers of martyrs offered upon the scaffold, and the blood of patriots shed upon the field, — in spite of reason and eloquence and prophet-voices, that, Cassan- dra-like, predicted, in vain, the ten-fold ruin which befalls those who believe not until sudden destruction cometh as a whirlwind. It is in this view of the subject, that good men have become too despondent respecting the preservation of popular rights. The course of history presents so melancholy a picture ; and their own experience, to a certain extent, so sadly justifies it, that it would be a wonder if the minds of reflecting men were not somewhat shaken. But we are of that number who entertain better hopes. The history of nations affords no just parallel to the character and condition of the people of these United States. We do not believe they will tamely forfeit all that has hitherto constituted their chief glory. If they must strike anew for liberty, the struggle will be fearful. It will be written in another and a bloodier page of the world's annals. But let us not anticipate a contingency so terrible. This life is not a con- dition of unmixed excellence. It is too much to expect, that evil principles will not always be actively engaged, demanding the constant and steadfast opposition of the friends of human good- ness. Heaven affords its aid to those who are resolute for the truth. The combined forces of freedom, true to themselves, are irresistible to others. The time has, indeed, arrived for them to collect their moral energies ; to come to the rescue of the national honor and the national institutions ; to stand together and unbroken around their country's altars, and imploring the blessing of God upon a good cause, to live or die free amidst the memorials of their fathers' glory. The nomination of MR. WEBSTER by the Legislative Conven- tion of Massachusetts, and the cheerful echoes which have re- Mr. Webster. 225 iselves, we canings of hihis question, England, sponded from every quarter of the land, shew, too plainly for mistake, the current and complexion of men's thoughts. The next canvass for the presidency will assume more of a national character than any which has yet occurred. It will involve the de- cision of the most momentous political question, which could be presented to the consideration of a free people:- Whether that Constitution shall be maintained, which has proved the safeguard of the public liberty! The decision of this question is in the hands of the people. They are beginning to awake to the dan- gers which encompass them; and it is high time that the friends of the republic should call together and concentrate all their fac- ulties upon the thorough enlightenment of the public mind. Not by despondency, not by doubts and fears, can the noble under- taking be accomplished; not by deploring the follies and vices of the times ; not by lamenting over the evils which are insepar- ably connected with popular forms of government; but by giving, to the great work set before them, their best powers and thoughts and influences ; in a word, by devoting themselves and their's to the service of their country, in the hour of her utmost need. It is, indeed, a great stake which demands their skill ; infinitely beyond every party feeling or local predilection. That man must have but slightly considered the current of events, who regards this nomination in any other light than as a high national enter- prise. For ourselves, we care not where Mr. Webster may have displayed the first dawnings of his brilliant and honorable career. It matters nothing, in view of this question, whether he drew his first breath in a homely mansion of New-England, or amidst the untrampled forest-solitudes of the West. It is not the great man, but the great citizen, in whom we confide, — the American in heart, in soul, and in life; the honest and unde- viating republican; above the ordinary interests, that weigh down the faculties of ordinary men ; beyond the fears or the enticements of party influences; the wise and good statesman ; the pilot, ever at the helm, who, through the night and darkness, has kept his eye steadfastly fixed upon the light of the Constitu- tion, and contended with the storms of faction for his country's honor, and her chartered rights. The claims of Mr. Webster, upon the people of these United States, are of a very uncommon character. His services have been of such a nature as to be very readily understood. Friends and foes alike have acknowledged the splendor of his wonderful abilities, and the great and unbending character of the man. Whenever danger, real or supposed, was abroad, he has been always at his post. According to his views of the public good, he has followed, throughout life, a direct, a noble and a manly course. If the question of his election could be left to the un- biassed decision of his countrymen, there could nat remain a VOL. viii. 29 226 Mr. Webster. doubt of his success. The American people are not, in our opin- ion, disposed to depreciate the talents and services of eminent citizens. On the contrary, there is a strong disposition to allow the just measure of reward to every description of merit. If they could determine this question, uninfluenced by the miserable in- trigues, which are corrupting the purity of elections, — that only source and security of popular rights, - we might hope every- thing from the justice of their judgment. As it is, we anticipate the best possible result. There will be a sense of security in electing Nr. Webster, which the people cannot but feel. The illustrious talents, the firm integrity, the ardent patriotism, which have distinguished his career, would render him the pride and glory of the nation. His elevated views of the dignity and value of republican institutions, afford the surest pledge of his devotion to our best interests. On the brightest page of his country's ju- risprudence, in the proudest annals of our national legislation, will be found the record of his fame. Wherever the voice of elo- quence has captivated the affections, or the name of Freedom has stirred the hearts of men, his name has become an honor and a praise. If the idea which we have formed of a republican Chief Magistrate be not falser than the falsest of all theories, we know of no man better suited than Mr. Webster to constitute the origi- nal of the picture. He should possess a mind capable of appre- ciating the principles upon which the government was established; a clear view of the meaning of the Constitution ; a solemn vene- ration for the laws of the land. He should bring to his high re- sponsibilities the most fervent wishes for the welfare of the peo- ple committed to his charge. He should feel that, in comparison with their good, his own interests and his own wishes were but as the smallest dust of the balance. He should examine into the deepest recesses of his heart, and free himself from every im- pulse of selfish passion. The deliberate decision of the Legis- lature should, in general, constitute his only will. He should shrink from the least imagination of legislative interference. He should be above the reach of party prejudice and party manage- ment, and party influence ; above the desire of power ; above corruption, above suspicion ; above all the base, low, groveling things, which fester in the hearts of ignoble men. It should be his chief concern to secure the perpetuity of our institutions. He should bring to his great office a deep sense of its duties. He should bring to it a clear mind and an upright heart. He should determine to discharge the highest trust upon earth with a con- science void of offence towards God and towards man. We believe Mr. Webster to be second to no man living in all the qualities which constitute a great and honest statesman. It is no part of our design to enter, in this place, into an examination of his eminent public services. Posterity will appreciate them. Mr. Webster. 227 The world has already acknowledged their value. At home, we honor him most as the great champion of the Constitution ; freeing it, day by day, from the misty sophistries, with which ignorance and wickedness would envelope its noble features ; but distant nations have heard of him as the friend of freedom and of man, and have caught courage and hope from the beautiful overflowings of his eloquent and masculine mind. If Mr. Webster should be elected, what glorious anticipations might we not realize! His strong and manly character would at once impart an elevated tone to the administration of the government. The institutions of the country, under his friendly and intelligent auspices, would become re-established upon a still firmer basis, which the corrup- tions of many years would be unable to destroy. Liberal opin- ions, throughout the world, might count upon more encour- aging and permanent prospects. The friends of freedom, who have long regarded this land as their only refuge, would hail his election to office, like the orient gladness of a newer and a brighter day. God forbid we should intimate that his failure would de- prive them of hope. The good and the brave are beyond the reach of events. An unseen power sustains their courage. Let them never despair. But, the better fortunes of this country are connected so indissolubly with the principles of the party which has nominated Mr. Webster ; the success of these principles is so absolutely necessary to the permanence of all that we count most valuable, that we hardly dare to anticipate the consequences of defeat. In such an event, it is not likely that any sudden or immediately observable changes would take place in the direction of affairs. But the leading partizans who would become fixed in power, are those who, excepting a solemn regard for their own private and peculiar interests, have as yet exhibited no other rule of conduct than blind devotion to the will of one man. The false notions of policy and government, lately introduced, would be- come still more deeply rooted. Still falser opinions would be sedulously propagated. All respect for the manners, the senti- ments and the principles of the republic, would gradually give way before the steady march of corruption. Old thrones, which shook for fear of our infancy, would bitterly laugh in derision of our manhood. Some strong hand would finally shake over us an iron sceptre, and we should go down to after times in the list of nations weak enough to trifle away those possessions which valor acquired, but which virtue only can maintain. For ourselves, we confess that we venerate the republican vir- tues and institutions of our fathers. We still value that great In- strument, for the sake of whose principles those good men haz- arded their lives and fortunes and sacred honor.' And the still greater instrument, — the fountain of every privilege; the char- ter of our liberty, to whose construction the sages of another day 228 Mr. Webster. brought the deliberate wisdom and experience of all ages of the world ; the solemn testament to their children of all that their own blood purchased, — in our eyes it has lost nothing whatever of its venerable and consecrated character. However its honest meaning may confound the sagacity and perplex the councils of evil-disposed men ; however its plain provisions may refuse to be accommodated to the present purposes or the future designs of the administration, — we cannot help thinking it is worth preserv- ing; and, if need be, still worth fighting for, before it shall be trampled in the dust. It were too late to say that the Constitu- tion is in peril. How grossly has it been violated ! How wan- tonly, openly, deliberately violated! If there be an enemy of usurpation, let him hasten to the rescue! It cannot be, that we shall tamely submit. If we are anxious to save our country from that terrible train of evils, which wait upon anarchy and despot- ism, we must nerve our hearts now to do battle for the good cause. It is our own cause — the cause of our children, of freedom, of the world, of posterity. The struggle will not be in vain. Provi- dence does not altogether desert a nation, which is not thoroughly and utterly debased. Let us trust, that the God of our fathers will also be with us. Let us believe that, as in times past, He has raised up one who will be his servant to succor us in the evil days upon which we have fallen. Let us faithfully discharge our duty. Let not treason to our country weigh upon our hearts. Let us never submit to be slaves ! TO - The dove that found no rest, To which her foot might cling, Turned to the ark her drooping breast, Turned back her weary wing ; Still the dark waters covered o'er All vestige of her promised home; Yet, from the crested waves she bore An emblem of the rest to come. And thus, my weary soul, Upon the world's wide sea, Tossed, as the stormy waters roll, Turns back, dear love, to thee ! Still thou art far, oh, far away, - And fainting hope grows like despair ; Yet, through the gloomy night, one ray Of starry promise glitters there. EDITOR'S CORRESPONDENCE. LETTER ON PHRENOLOGY. We cheerfully admit this letter from the author of the paper on phrenology, in the Christian Examiner, which has elicited the animadversions of a correspondent, in whose knowledge of his subject we entertain the most perfect confidence.* As far as our own acquaintance with phrenology extends, we are devout believers in its doctrines — true disciples of the Spurzheim school, warm advocates for the truths which it professes to teach. We cannot discover in its principles any incompati- bility with religious belief, and we do not think that the charge of materialism could be brought against it, with conscientiousness, by any one who had given to the subject that candid investigation which its importance demands. But, however deeply interested we may feel in its discussion, and however ardent to engage in the combat may be those who have the ability to be controversialists, this Maga- zine affords but a narrow arena ; it is impossible, on such small ground, to allot a space wide enough for the lists. There is an excellent journal devoted to the ex- planation and further developement of this important science, which is the proper medium of communication. We do not believe that the highly respectable editors of the Christian Examiner are disposed to resume this subject; and, though we willingly give place to the letter below, as coming from a contributor, on whose aid we set a high value, we decline, deferentially and respectfully, any fur- ther papers upon phrenology, which must occupy a greater number of pages than can be devoted to any subject of so little general interest. To the Editor of the New-England Magazine. MR. EDITOR, You ask whether I have any objection to the appearance in your journal of a paper, written in reply to some remarks of mine in the Christian Examiner,''on the subject of phrenology. Had I any such objection, it would be unbecoming in me to urge it ; but I have not the slightest. On the contrary, though for fear of being tempted into controversy I have made it a point to read none of them, I rejoice in such replies as the surest evidence that my poor efforts have answered their in- tent. I have no personal interest in phrenology, nor should I have assailed the doctrine but for the apparent countenance given to it in one or two previous num- bers of the journal in which I wrote. I was anxious to redeem a work, in whose religious character I am much interested, from the imputation of a philosophy which appeared to me to be so irreligious in its tendency. Do not misunderstand me. When I denounce phrenology as irreligious in its tendency, I do not mean that its disciples are necessarily irreligious men. I am well aware that, though this system has spread chiefly among infidels, it has also been embraced by many pro- fessors and even teachers of religion. But this fact does not invalidate my charge. For, so great is the inconsequence, the want of discernment, and the inability to follow out to their legitimate consequence the opinions they adopt, among the * See article in reply to Christian Examiner.' 230 Editor's Correspondence. would-be philosophers of the day, that it is nothing uncommon for the same indi- vidual to embrace doctrines the most opposite and irreconcilable. Could the ‘half-reasoning' phrenologist discern the remoter bearings of his own system, and did he dare to push his speculations to their final results, he would arrive, I think, at conclusions which, however they may co-exist in the same mind with the dogmas of Christianity, are utterly irreconcilable with its high philosophy. With regard to the paper in the “Examiner,' although I am convinced that my reasons against phrenology are unanswerable, I have no doubt that the reasoning, there used, may be answered, for there is no reasoning that may not be. I have no doubt, that apparent inaccuracies and discrepancies may be found in some of my statements ; for, though I examined slowly, I wrote rapidly, and perhaps did not always express myself with sufficient clearness. But this thought does not disturb me, for I well know that had I written ever so carefully, and reasoned ever so powerfully, I should not have convinced a single phrenologist. No reasoning ever yet converted any one to a belief to which he was not already pre-disposed. Truth is not the product of reasoning ; if it were, it might be manufactured to any amount by the mechanical operation of logic. It is not made by argument — it is a pure inspiration of the universal reason ; no chain of sequences can bind it - no sophistry can loose it. I hold, therefore, all argumentation, which is used for any other purpose than that of illustrating truths already discovered, as worse than use- less. To prove, to demonstrate, is not to produce truth ; neither is failure in de- monstrating, an evidence of falsehood. In the Phædon of Plato, there are many inconclusive arguments; and yet no believer, I presume, ever read that book with- out feeling his faith in immortality confirmed. As to abuse and vilification, I have nothing to apprehend on that score. In the hands of respectable opponents, such weapons are never found ; and in the hands of any other, they are powerless. One thing more. I think it but justice to myself to say, that I was once a be- liever in phrenology - I should rather say craniology - and that I am still disposed to admit a connection of concomitance, if not of causal dependence, between the formation of the head and those faculties, sentiments, and propensities, which be- long to man, considered merely as an animal of a higher order ; though I think this is a mere hypothesis, and am far from allowing it that absolute scientific cer- tainty and universality, which its supporters claim. * But, man is something more than an animal of a higher or the highest order; he is likewise an angelic nature and a son of God. There belong to the spirit, that dwells in him, whole provinces and large kingdoms, which have nothing to do with his animal nature, or with the faculties that connect him with the outward world. To any knowledge or adequate conception of these regions, let not phrenology aspire. While, there- fore, considered simply, as an account of the animal, man, this doctrine seems to me not only harmless but plausible ; considered as the whole account of the whole man, I cannot but regard it as foolish and impious. · Let its disciples confine them- selves to the cavities and protuberances and winding passages of the brain ; let them expound the true doctrine of the nerves, and tell whence they come and whither they go ; let them unfold the sublime philosophy of skulls, and explain how they should be shaped and handled and construed ; let them do this, and no one will listen more reverentially than myself. But when, from this stand, they under- take to reason concerning the mind the spiritual mind — I cannot refrain from expressing my conviction that they have mistaken their way, and that what they are seeking is not to be found in this direction or in any other path of physical inquiry. F. H. H. * It was against this certainty and universality, that the physiological reasoning in the Examiner was chiefly aimed. 231 A LETTER FROM THE CAPITAL. · WELL! here I am, Mr. Editor, in the metropolitan melee, and having been jog- tled about in parties and politics, jactatus terra et alto,' until I conceive myself to be saturated, if not satisfied with the elements of the Central City, I proceed, ac- cording to promise, to copy the crayons of my diary for your editication, all crude as they are. In the outset, to be on fair terms with you, I must freely acknowledge myself disappointed in the place. We get a conception of it as a city, from various sour- ces, which there is nothing to sustain. Its name, its political destinations, the rush of people hither from all quarters of the Union, convey an impression of splendor and size, proportionate in the mind to the magnificence of the great nation of which it may be considered the miniature epitome. With such expectations you approach it, in the dreariest season, over the worst roads, and through a country which resem- bles the far-famed deserts of Arabia so closely, that I anı disposed to believe our ven- erable Bedouin had reference to it when he promised to take refuge, under certain emergencies, in that desirable portion of the globe, Well; with this introduction, you come upon the Capitol at once. That is a glorious structure, you are aware ; but it is not in a city, nor part of one. It stands by itself, as it should, in its majestic solitude- scorning connection or comparison with the rabble-rout of rickety old boarding houses and vile groceries, which adorn the Avenue, on either side, for half a mile or more- reminding one, for all the world, of an abortive attempt of your weak-kneed war- riors, on a muster-field, to form a line,' after dinner in dog-days ! Not that all the buildings are upon this scale. There are spots of a city, here and there - rusty, but respectable looking fragments, that appear like pieces scattered from the explo- sion of a metropolitan meteor in the air. The worst of it is the immensity of space which lies between and around them; much of it, perhaps most, is ground unoc- cupied in any way - desolate looking, dreary and dull to the eye. The fields stretch away, after this fashion, on either hand, as you walk down the Avenue, level and sunny ; but the sense aches, with the dumb sterility and ruinous solitude of the vague expanse. It has no aspect, on the whole, of youthfulness. It looks more like the old shell of an ancient townlike some we read of in other countries. You know the explanation. It was no place for a city. There were no intrin- sic resources for it. Such as there were, were apparently over-estimated by the mind of its projector, who counted, unduly also, on the help of the government and the political position to improve it. It was said of him, by an intelligent Abbe, who was once resident here as a minister, that every great man has his folly, like other men ; but, while others had spread their folly all over their lives, Washington seemed to have buried his, all together and at once, in the site of his favorite Capital. Everything, then, as you will already conceive, has the air of being forced. It is superficial and artificial. You can discern nothing like a New-England sort of at- tachment to the soil ; no snugness ; no comfort ; no inhabitiveness ; no esprit de corps; no genius loci ; no disposition to improve. The streets are great, vacant, staring highways. The houses look as if they were rented by people that had as lief be turned out tomorrow as not. No persons have flowers in the windows, or, generally, names on the doors. No lamps are lighted in the night-time, except about the localities, where the nation pays for the oil. There is no reading-rooms worth noticing ; no decent restorateur; no symptom, that I can discover, of public spirit, or private, either. The museum ! the theatre! I will not speak of them. Even the little luxury of a few o’er-branching trees has been denied the pilgrim, who pants, in summer, up and down the long, dusty, blistering walks of the Avenue. The ragged remains of a regiment of Lombardy-poplars, alone, expose their haggard shabbiness to the suffering citizen of a country, the variety and splendid beauty of whose forests are without a parallel, perhaps, upon earth. I have said nothing of the population, as yet. I have only to say, that it consorts well with the place - I speak with a reservation, of course, of a small proportion of old settlers, some of whom are among the excellent of the earth. But the general aspect, to a stranger, is motley, indeed; heterogeneous, to an extent unequalled, probably, considering the size of the city, except - no, I will make no exception, not even of watering towns. But, in all these, there is no place 232 Editor's Correspondence. independently of the people who visit it. The population without a character, is incidental to the population with one. But in Washington, there is little to choose, in this respect, between those who reside here, by courtesy, and those who resort here. The residenters are established but for a short season, and for purposes, mostly, which are individual, isolated, foreign, and transient. They feel no interest in the location, nor in any who do, nor in each other. Even the Americans, - including such as come here for what the Dutchman called “pishness,' when he said it was only cheating each other all day,' -- are, for the most part, either office-holders or office-hunters, worrying and working to hold on by a sinking salary, or to hunt one down. They are speculators in the peltry of politics, (if that be not fur-fetched) and they have the lean and fidgety look, which belongs to the business — the look of gamblers, far gone. Multitudes, to be sure, come hither to see and hear; and because it is fashionable ; or they have nothing to do at home. These are loungers and lookers-on. They are harmless enough, I dare say, but they do n't help to give a character to a place which has no character of its own. They help rather to dilute what there otherwise might be. They are a vapid miscellany, mixed up with the fiery spirits, like boiled water with bad gin. They are gathered, of course, like every-body else here, from all the ends of the Union, and bring with them as great a variety of manners and dialect as of faces and dress. Gadsby's is a small Babel ; and all Washington is only a bigger one. Think of a jam in such a place, and which is itself all a jam ; a thoroughfare, thronged with travelers; a great entry to the Capitol and the White House. No- where is one more easily collected ; nowhere will it furnish more vividly the char- acteristics of such a collection. You want variety and vivacity and multitude, and these you will have here, by the bare opening of the door. They will rush upon you as the Ostrogoths rushed upon Rome ; they have nothing else to do. To be sure, there is no heart in it, but that is not wanted. Habit takes the place of heart. It will do so, you know, in an animal quite inferior to man or woman. The steed of old Pulaski, (who was a great giver of alms) after his decease, always. stood still in the road at the sight of a beggar. Well, then — here is a genuine jam ; the flood-gates have been let loose, and the invasion has poured in. Some are the more collect, and some the more select; but they are all, the best jams in the world. They are a 'vulgar fraction' (math- ematically - I mean nothing personal) of the great mixed number' of Washing- ton, ‘reduced' to its lowest terms'; nothing much smaller is thought of. It is a tincture of the world. The essence of everything is in the cauldron, though the cooks are far motlier than Macbeth’s. Congress is a curiosity to the new-comer ; but that is a representation only of our country — of one half of it, I mean, - the men, not the · better' half, of course ; and they are kept in comparative restraint- like the lions in a menagerie - to be looked at by the ladies above, and poked at (with long poles) by the editors, the sovereign people, and the letter-writers ! below. But, here are men, women and children. They are from every state, territory, and district. Quisconsin is arm in arm with Delaware, as a bear-hunter with a belle ; Virginia and Vermont go cheek-by-jowl ; Georgia looks gruff at Connecti- cut ; but Massachusetts is quiet as a lamb at the side of South Carolina, — and a little and a lovely child it is that leads them both.. They are from all the corners of Christendom, too. The Englishman feels at home, and looks proud. The Frenchman flirts and shrugs. The Spaniard is silent and surly. The German, who has half learned the language, chatters in jargon like a magpie. The Russian talks everything but Russian ; while the poor solitary Tyrolese, dumb and demure, reconnoitres warily through his thick beard, and a chevaux-de-frise of mustachios, like a Cossack watching through woods an eve- ning's onslaught. Then the vast variety of costume. If there be a jain uniform, there are few who wear it ; few, at least, who wear anything but their own ; the foreigners, for- eign — and the Americans, local or none. What fantastic fancies! What ming- ling of coiffures, wigs, curls, and whiskers ; leggins and white-tops, plumes and epaulettes ; every gradation, in a word, from the last fashions of Paris down to the homely guise of a beau from the edge of the Huron. But my brain is getting dizzy with the whirl of these eternal waltzers. So, with your leave, I'll adjourn to the President's levee. Good night! Editor's Correspondence. 233 Our highly esteemed friend, who wrote us the foregoing epistle, has been in Wash- ington all the winter, and has had many opportunities, we have no doubt, of judging fairly of the indigenous natives of the soil, as well as of the sojourners, who, like himself, have migrated thither only for a season. Their return will be as cheering to the hearts that beat warmly in this cold clime, as that of the spring-harbingers, whom they will precede only by a few days. We enter no protestando against the pleasant severity of our correspondent, and we make no apology for the too great fidelity of his picture — for if Folly's maze be the same at the Capital as else- where, the face of Soberness may well wear a scornful smile. But, the 'good society,' who resort to Washington, — the superannuated dandy and the des- pairing maid ; the brainless fop and the simpering miss; the turn-coat office- seeker ; the unsophisticated, and the blazee; the standers-still and the futterers- about, – shall all shine in certain cabinet pictures, that we propose to hang up in the gallery of Maga. We have a skillful artist engaged; the canvass is stretched, the paints ground, the pallet and brushes ready, - and certain portraits shall soon start into life! Since we have displayed our grave and our pleasant correspondence to you, kind readers, and kinder contributors, suffer us, ye latter favored few, and unfavored many, to address to you A BRIEF EPISTLE. Trusty and well-beloved Correspondents, – We greet you all. While we wish you length of days, we deprecate your length of articles. We solemnly assure you, that if your papers must occupy over ten blessed pages of the eighty or ninety, which are our monthly dole, nobody will read them but yourselves and your maiden aunts. Sweet bardlings! spare us, we beseech you! Read the verses we print - the melodious strains that float around us — must they give place to such wren-like chirpings as yours? Ye may be pretty birds, but ye are not birds of song. • Harp of the Hills'! Pr’y thee! Hang thyself on the willow, or on any other tree which may be more convenient, We are moved with regret, that we cannot find the paper styled Change and no Change.' It cannot, therefore, be restored to the author, to whom we are tempted, despairingly, to exclaim, in the words of Rolla, -We seek no change, and, least of all, such change as you can bring us.' Genius, Industry and External Circumstances. What a comprehensive title ! Kind composer of long sentences, we respect the "genius' which prompted, the industry' which executed, and the external circumstances,' under which this "theme' (to borrow a college word) was written. May the first be undimmed, the second undiminished, and the third undisturbed ; but we are no tutor, and can- not peruse 'compositions.' Ūnavoidably deferred !' has been written on the spirited translation of Schiller's Hymn to Joy. Will the poet pardon such delay? Authors of Church Reminiscences,' and Abulfida,' — from the Arabic ! let each remove the “ nominis umbra,' and your papers shall delight onr compositor in the printing thereof. The former pleased us, but it must be clipped a little ; and the latter is a gem of price, and carefully laid in our casket of acceptance. It is so bright, that we fear that it may not be new from the mine ; but sent only to be re- set in the clear gold of Maga. Can this be so? Trusty and well-beloved correspondents : If you find yourselves among the great accepted, thank your good talents more than our good taste ; if among the 'great- rejected,' blame, rather than your deficiency of good talents, the deficiency of good taste in -- your bounden servant EDITOR. Given at our Sanctum, froin our arm-chair, ) this twentieth day of February, in the fourth year of the Magazine, and the forty-fifth number. VOL. VIII. 30 CRITICAL NOTICES. Sephora, a Hebrew Tale, descriptive of the Country of Palestine, and of the Manners and Customs of the Ancient Israelites. Abridged and corrected from the London edition, by Rev. Thad- deus Mason Harris, D. D. Worcester : Clarendon Harris. The editor of this instructive and agreeable little book, has been long known and highly esteemed, both at home and abroad. As a divine, he has always enjoyed that distinction, which a Christian minister should most desire — the love and re- spect of the people whom he was appointed to serve. As a diligent and well- furnished scholar, he maintains a high rank in our community. As an author, he would have been as happy as he could have desired to be, if the curiosity of the public had kept up with the praise of his few judicious readers, and his bookseller's accounts had shown a worthier correspondency to the value of his labors. This, however, has been far from being the case. When he first appeared before the public as the writer of " A Poem on American Patronage,' delivered at the Anni- versary of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, in 1805, he seemed to prophecy the recep- tion of his subsequent publications. · Let him be told of some, with equal skill, Who had, themselves, to pay the printer's bill.' We sadly fear that t'is is but too true a description of his own literary experience. His elaborate and learned work on · The Natural History of the Bible,' met with 80 cold a reception, that it is said there were not copies enough sold to pay for the ink used in the impression ; and at length the whole was consumed, when the store of the publisher, in Court street, was burnt. His fortune in England has in- deed been very different ; but this, of course, increased the fame of the author, rather than his revenues. A copy having been sent to the Rev. Thomas Hartwell Horne, of London, he recommended its publication there, and in two years it passed through three large editions. There was also an abridgement of it for academies and schools. Its credit is still so well sustained, that an edition was printed in 1833, improved by some corrections and additions of the learned editor, and embellished with engravings. The preface of the publisher closes with this remark ; — With these additions, and it is hoped) improvements, the volume is submitted to the public, with the confidence that it will meet with general acceptance, and maintain its place as a standard work in the common literature of both countries.' The Rev. Doctor has now adopted the Jewess SEPHORA, and commissions bis son, a bookseller in Worcester, to seek for her that public notice which she well deserves. In his letter of introduction, he refers to a work of his own, on a some- what similar plan, which was for many years in preparation, but which at length Critical Notices. 235 he consigned to the flames, from very despair of gaining for it purchasers. We have no doubt, that we have lost something by its destruction ; but this is better, than that he should have lost by its publication. A manuscript, long toiled over, and then thrown into the fire instead of coming into the light of life, is more than one can well bear to think of; but, even this is a comfort, compared with seeing a whole printed edition upon such a burning passage to the skies, and doubting whether it might not be as well so, as to remain unscorched upon unexamined shelves. We hope better fates for the pleasing volume which he has now edited. It is intended to be popular, and at the same time to convey valuable information upon subjects of sacred interest. We hope that it will attract favor, and we sincerely bespeak it. Inequality of Individual Wealth — the ordinance of Providence and essential to civilization. Dr. Wainwright's Annual Elec- tion Sermon. Boston : Dutton f. Wentworth. The object of this discourse is the establishment of the proposition above-named; and Dr. Wainwright has succeeded in so doing to the extent practicable within the limits of an Election Sermon. He begins with suggesting certain modifications of the broad assertion contained in his text, in its present application ; and then pro- ceeds to argue, that inequality of pecuniary condition, in the existing constitution of man and things, is a requisite element in the process of human improvement. The concluding and most eloquent portion of the discourse, is devoted to a consid- eration of the means of ameliorating the most repulsive features of this characteris- tic of the social system. The arrangement of the topics enabled the preacher to discuss, more or less fully, the important points of his subject — and this he has done with great clearness, and in an interesting and forcible manner. Tales of the Border. By James Hall. Philadelphia : H. Hall. Something more than half a score of years ago, it was rumored in the literary world that an author had made his appearance in the west, who was to take his stand in the same rank with Irving. This was James Hall, the author of the vol- ume now before us. A writer of any kind was then a rara avis in the valley of the Mississippi, and the isolation of Mr. Hall rendered him an object of some admi- ration to the curious. His first work was puffed without mercy, and it certainly deserved some praise, for it was a very harmless affair, and contained a sprinkling of veracious narrative that was then new, and therefore not without its use. The style, too, though somewhat washy, was not inferior to other soup maigre of the kind. It is not very important to remember its title. Some souvenir articles next appeared, by the same hand, and obtained what they deserved -- a considerable share of applause. The puff manufacturers of the day were not slow to dub the new aspirant a genius ; and he seems to have been easily satisfied of the validity of his claim to the appellation. Since then, he has made his bow to the public with the frequency and regularity of Galt or Scott. There are a few proverbs and considerations to which some authors ought to give very heedful attention. Make not thy visits too frequent or too long, lest, 236 Critical Notices. peradventure, thy neighbor grow weary of thee.' 'A small measure is soon empty.' These observations may be of particular benefit to the author of Tales of the Border.' It will do him no harm to learn, that it is no very hard matter to work up the rough traditions of a new country into amusing narrative, and that the ability to do this by no means involves the possession of taste, invention, and other qualifications, without which no writer ever reached his grand-children. Mr. Hall appears to have nearly worn out his welcome already. The stale slang of the Salt river roarers' no longer elicits a smile ; an Indian murder or speech is the heaviest drug in the market, and the forest and the prairie have become beaten highways. The author of this unhappy volume, and of many others of the same descrip- tion, appears to us liable to one or two imputations. Either he began his trade with a very small and soon exhausted capital of ideas, or he was very largely in- debted to some source other than his own genius for the materiel of the early pro- ductions which once entitled him to favor. Pete Featherston' was a good story - worth the book before us and twenty more like it, collectively. It was spirited, and evidently the work of a lively brain. •Tales of the Border' are seven in number, dull, hacknied, unnatural, and indicative of an extreme poverty of thought. They even evince an ignorance of western matters and things, which is truly as- tonishing in one who has set foot on the other side of the Alleghanies. The first is the often-told tale of Col. Moredock, the Indian Hater,' - nowise improved by its new vamping. “The Capuchin' is better ; it is a poem, and may be classed with that exquisite morceau given to the world by a cotemporary, and beginning 'Tis sweet upon the impassioned wave To watch the little fishes swim.' • The New Moon' is taken from · Long's Expedition,' where all of it, that is worth reading, is told in much better language. These two are the best in the book ; but there are some creations not less novel than ingenious. We have an unutter- ably ignorant and sanguinary cut-throat, reasoning like a doctor of divinity until he becomes a preacher of the gospel ; borderers and squaws whimpering sentiment by the hour ; a burning prairie mistaken for Pandemonium ; Indians using the third person singular where the first would be proper, and conversing about the ordinary affairs of life in the blistered language of Ossian's ghosts and heroes. Enough. Mr. H. has outlived his faculties, or has descended to the rank of a professed book- maker of the lowest order. It is painful to pass a sentence of such unqualified censure on one who has once deserved well of his country. We perceive that he has assumed the management of a western magazine, and sincerely hope that, in conducting it, he will endeavor, by great exertion, to cause it to be forgotten that his name is on the title-page of his two or three last works. Allen Prescott; or, The Fortunes of a New-England Boy. By the Author of the Morals of Pleasure,' and the Young Emigrants.' New-York: Harper & Brothers. A pleasing, simple story, admirably told. A story of humble life, by one who has drawn the picture with fidelity. The gay and the fashionable may turn away from the contemplation of such a picture with a sneer ; its simple delineations, its homely scenes may wear no charms for eyes accustomed to false coloring and un- Critical Notices. 237 natural shapes. But to hearts still fresh with the dews of youth, still unfaded be- neath the glare of worldly pleasure, these descriptions will afford gratification and amusement. Country life, in England, has been rendered interesting and ro- mantic by the magic skill of Miss Mitford. The very name, “Our Village,' sug- gests the most charming thoughts of domestic quiet and fireside content, of green lawns and innocent sports, the May-tree and the merry dance, and joys that spring from the indulgence of innocent mirth. And why may not an equal charm be shed upon country-life in New-England? Have we less happiness, more discontent? Does it not present characters and wants which may be invested with a romantic interest equally engaging ? Such works as Allen Prescott prove that it does ; and had we room for an analysis of the story, our readers might be convinced without resorting to the book itself. But, let it be read. Let us learn, by the bright examples of homely life, not to despise homely virtues. Mrs. Sedgwick, of Stockbridge, is the author of these volumes. She is, we be- lieve, a near relation of Miss Sedgwick, the best of the American novelists — the author of Redwood, of Hope Leslie, of Clarence. We trust, that the same success which has crowned these works, may attend the author of Allen Prescott. Gener- ous be the reward of their labors ! Green be the coronals that wreathe their brows! Oration on the Life and Character of Gilbert Motier Lafayette, delivered at the request of both Houses of Congress of the United States, before them in the House of Representatives at Washing- ton, on the thirty-first of December, 1834. By John Quincy Adams, a Member of the House. This is a respectable production. The phrase may seem an improper one to ap- ply to a work by so distinguished a man, and may appear to shew arrogance in us who use it ; but it happens to express our opinion as fully as a long circumlocution would. The oration is neither very striking, eloquent, profound, nor philosoph- ical, as a whole ; and, on the other hand, it has fewer sins against good taste and simplicity in style, than most of Mr. Adams's writings. As a specimen of de- liberative eloquence, we should put it much below the beautiful and eloquent Eulogy delivered before the young men of Boston, by Mr. Everett, which is, in every re- spect, a most admirable production. The oration commences with some striking and appropriate reflections, upon the condition of Great Britain and France at the birth of Lafayette, and in the persons of George the Second and Louis the Fifteenth, shews the absurd results of the princi- ciple of hereditary succession. The next seventy pages are occupied with an elab- orate and minute biographical sketch of Lafayette, written with clearness and force, and with that thorough knowledge of facts, which might be expected from Mr. Adams's great industry and acquisitions. We meet, occasionally, one of those purple patches' he is so fond of, as the following sentence. There were ten years of pleading before they came to an issue ; and all the legitimate sources of power, and all the primitive elements of freedom, were scrutinized, debated, ana- lyzed, and elucidated, before the lighting of the torch of Ate, and her cry of havoc upon letting slip the dogs of war. And these: The bastile was a State Prison, a massive structure, which had stood four hundred years, every stone of which was 238 Critical Notices. saturatel with sighs and lears, and echoed the groans of four centuries of oppres- sion.' Napoleon, a military adventurer, had vapored in proclamations, and had the froth of Jacobinism upon his lips ; but his soul was at the point of his sword.' The allusion to ‘Pride's purge,” (p. 62) is pedantic, and in bad taste ; not one in a hundred of his readers understanding what it means. The concluding paragraphs are conceived with force, and written in a style which is a fair specimen of the whole oration. Moore's Ancient Mineralogy. This is a very curious work. Its author is one of the most accomplished schol- ars in the United States. He has examined the subject of ancient minerals with a thoroughness of research, that does honor to his talents and perseverance. The result of his labors is embodied in this little volume, in a style of admirable clear- ness and force. He has brought together, condensed and arranged, in lucid order, all the information that can be gathered from the Greek and Roman classics, on a subject of much obscurity. We look through these pages, in vain, for a careless assertion, an unauthorized position, or a misty and paraphrastic expression. The volume is one, which ought to be in the hands of every classical scholar. It will be found an excellent torch to light him through one of the darkest regions of clas- sical learning. We should be glad to enforce, in detail, the claims of this work on the attention of the learned, but the necessary limits of our literary notices compel us to be content with this brief, though emphatic, testimony to its extraordinary though unpretending merits. The District School. By J. Orville Taylor. There is something in the pompous getting up of this book, in the imposing array of puffs, compliments and distinguished signatures, with which it is ushered into public notice, that can hardly fail of prejudicing its readers against it. But if this difficulty is once overcome, there will be found an amount of valuable thoughts, sufficient to pay the reader's trouble. Mr. Taylor writes like a man — at home in his subject, and deeply interested in enforcing his convictions on the minds of his countrymen. He has examined the district-school system with a scrutinizing eye, and points out its defects with an unsparing hand. Many of his suggestions, by way of proposing remedies, are of great importance, and deserve the attention of parents, citizens and legislators. Some of his views he carries too far — the subject being clearly his favorite hobby. Many difficulties, in the way of a radical reform, he has taken no notice of; and many of his remedies, for difficulties he has noticed, would not probably be successful on trial. But, of the general correctness of his views, we have no doubt, and we speak with no little experience and observation. The district-school system has faults that affect it vitally. The instruction it im- parts is poor in quality, and small in quantity. The men engaged in it, are unfit to take care of cattle and sheep, and therefore are held to be the most suitable per- sons, by the guardians of the rising generation, to take care of their little bipeds. The labor is heavy - the reward is light ; and of course, few men, who can get any- thing else to do, will submit to the thankless drudgery, unless they are patient and self-denying to martyrdom. Critical Notices. 239 Mr. Taylor is wholly unpractised in composition, especially in that most impor- tant part — omission. He discusses a multitude of topics with but little order, and less logic. His pen is the most rambling goose-quill that ever scampered over the regions of thought. His grammar is not always quite the thing, nor is his English any better than it should be. He is the most unmerciful proser ; he repeats his thoughts over and over again, until they are fairly out at the elbows. He spreads his lucubrations over an uncommonly disproportionate space. His thoughts float about on a sea of words — apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto. Now all these, are sad drawbacks on the pleasure and profit that Mr. Taylor's book would other- wise afford. We hope he will go to a second edition ; and if he does, we hope he will re-write the whole, leave out three-fourths, and apply the most unsparing criti- cism to the gramınar, idioms and logic of the contingent remainder.' History of the Rise and Progress of the Arts and Designs in the United States. By William Dunlap. Mr. Dunlap has become well known in this country, both as an author and an artist. In this work, he has devoted himself to the grateful task of recording the merits of those who have practised in the arts, which seem to have been his earliest passion. We had no idea that the United States had been so fruitful in the fine arts until we read Mr. Dunlap's book. Here are two large octavos, printed in hand- some style, full of interesting matter touching the lives of men whose daily walk has been in the regions of imagination. The industry, which Mr. Dunlap must have exercised in bringing together this immense mass of materials, is truly amazing. Every source of information, public and private, seems to have been consulted ; and the scattered information thus gathered up, to have been used, in general, with much judgment and good sense. It must be confessed, however, that the story of many artists, who figure in his pages, is not worth the telling. The poorest dauber of portraits, even the painter of signs, has not escaped his microscopic search. These parts of the book can be of but little service, by way of instruction or infor- mation ; for there is nothing in the lives of blockheads or drunkards, whether they be daubers, scribblers, or chiselers, which can repay the trouble of reading, or the storage on the reader's memory. Neither do the biographies of such men throw much light in the history of human progress. The truly great artist derives instruc- tion, it is true, from the works, good, bad and indifferent, of those who have gone before him. But, after all, the only essential benefit he receives, out of his own genius and the promptings of his own nature, is from the great standard works, the landmarks in the region of creative art. Perhaps it is well enough, that the lives of such persons, as we have alluded to, should be somewhere recorded - and a history of the progress of the arts may be thought as good a place as any. But, for our own part, we should have much preferred a smaller book, containing only the lives of the eminent artists, with a more detailed and philosophical analysis of their principal works. We doubt the possibility of making so large a work, con- sisting of such an infinite variety of facts, many of them of but little consequence, a generally readable book ; and that is the thing now wanted to stimulate the inter- est of the public in the humanizing art. But, if we have faults to find with Mr. Dunlap's labors, we feel bound to say that they have abundant merits. His narratives are generally clear, his anecdotes 240 Critical Notices. well told, his criticisms, though not very profound, yet intelligible, practical and judicious. The introductory essays he has prefixed to the lives of artists in the several departments of the arts, are filled with important information, - containing, as they do, explanations of the processes in the practical parts of the profession. In many cases, Mr. Dunlap has introduced auto-biographical letters from the artists, which add greatly to the variety, interest and beauty of the work. Mr. Alexander's sketch of his early life, for instance, is one of the best things of the kind ever written. Mr. Allston's letters are overflowing with poetry, grace and lively anec- dote. Other letters, besides these auto-biographies, are valuable for the light they shed on the history of artists. Of all these, we cannot speak in decided praise. Dr. Waterhouse's letters about Gilbert Stewart, though professing to be written in the spirit of friendship towards that celebrated man, are yet filled with the idlest stories, all tending to detract from the reputation of the great painter, and to glorify the name of the magnanimous Doctor. There is something revolting in the manner which this gentleman has seen fit to adopt, of sacrificing the delicate confidence of private friendship on the altar of an insatiable egotism. The small-talk of Dr. Water- house, about Mr. Stewart's obligations to his (the Doctor's) pocket money, and the broad insinuations of the important influence he exerted to bring the painter into notice, and especially to introduce him to Mr. West, are, if true, wholly unworthy of the place they occupy in this work. Mr. Dunlap has, in one instance, shown the Doctor to be in error ; and we are inclined to think that in many others, the objects of his memory, seen through the medium of half a century, have assumed a shape and coloring not altogether their own. Many of the lives in the second volume, are deeply interesting. Indeed this is, beyond all comparison, the best part of the book. The artists here commemorated, are those whose works will live, and whose influence will be felt throughout the his- tory of American art. Allston and Greenough are men whose genius would adorn the brightest age of any country. Their works exhibit all those qualities — native genius, careful culture, exquisite finish — which, when blended together in the pro- ductions of the mind, confer on their authors an immortality of renown. Cruise of United States Frigate Potomac round the World, in 1931, '34. Embracing Attack on Quallah Battoo, &c. &c. By Francis Warriner, A. M. The ship Friendship, of Salem, (Mass.) was, two or three years since, boarded by the Malays, of Quallah Battoo, and part of her crew were butchered. There- upon, a representation was made to the Executive of this and other depredations committed on American commerce by the pirates of the East-Indian seas, with a petition for present redress and future protection. It had its effect; the Potomac, a frigate of the largest class, was immediately ordered to inflict summary punish- ment on the whole tribe of the captors of the Friendship. Quallah Battoo is a seaport town in the kingdom of Acheen, in Sumatra - con- taining about a thousand inhabitants, and frequented by ships on account of its trade in pepper. Like the other towns of the warlike and predatory Malays, it is, or rather was, defended by several forts, which, though sufficient for the protection of the inhabitants against neighboring tribes, were slight obstacles to the attack of Critical Notices. 241 disciplined troops. The Potomac approached the place disguised as a merchant- man, and landed a large party in the night. This party took the Malays wholly by surprise, at day-break ; stormed the forts and carried them, in spite of the desperate resistance of their defenders, most of whom perished in the conflict. They then set fire to the town and retreated to their boats, in good time to escape the ven- geance of the exasperated natives, who were rallying to the fray by thousands. In the course of the day, the Potomac opened her batteries upon a fort, that had hith- erto remained untouched, and the Malays, in consequence of all these proceedings, sued for peace. In this onslaught, about sixty Malays are supposed to have per. ished, among whom were several women, who fought and fell, sword in hand, by the sides of their brethren and husbands. Only two of the Potomac's crew were killed. Some strictures were passed by the public prints on the conduct of Captain Downes, of the Potomac, in this affair, which, in our opinion, were wholly unde- served ; inasmuch as he did but execute the orders he was bound to obey. It seems too, to be generally conceded, that the Malays are a ferocious, treacherous race ; that the inhabitants of Quallah Battoo, in especial, deserved correction, and that a display of American force on the coast of Sumatra was absolutely necessary. With some qualification, we assent to these conclusions ; but, even at the risk of running counter to public opinion, we have some objections to state against the course of the Potomac's proceedings. It was not, in the first place, alleged that more than a score or two of persons were engaged in the slaughter of the Friendship's crew, and there was not a parti- cle of evidence that they belonged to Quallah Battoo. It is not known but that the said crew might have given the natives deadly provocation, which has often hap- pened in the intercourse of whites and Malays, if we may trust our author. We should like very much to hear what the Malays would say on this head. It is not probable or possible, that the great portion of the denizens of the devoted town had any part in the outrage ; and therefore it is certain that, in attacking them indiscrim- inately, the rule which says that it is better that ten guilty should escape than that one innocent should suffer, was terribly violated. Then, the people of Quallah Battoo had a government ; from whom, probably, atonement for the wrong and pun- ishment of the wrong-doers might have been obtained, had they been asked. In our mind, had such a demand been made and refused, our government would have escaped a just imputation of blood guiltiness. Such a course has been thought proper to be pursued even toward the pirates of Algiers, who have taken ten of our ships, and slaughtered ten of our men, where the Malays bave offended in the like sort once. Nor are the Algerines a whit superior, in morals or civilization, to the East-Indian pirates. There is no doubt that the Malays are a bad people, but it is contrary to all law to punish any people for a bad character. At any rate, even the guilty are entitled to a trial. Nevertheless, whatever the justice of the castigaa tion inflicted at Quallah Battoo may have been, we are far from questioning its ex- pediency, and have no doubt that it will be followed by the most happy results. The literary merits of the book before us are small. It is a mere note-book of common events and descriptions, which have been so often and so much better laid before the public by others, that we admire how the publishers ventured upon printing. Surely, we have had enough of bull-fights and iceberge and Gallipago- VOL. Vill 31 242 Literary Annotanda. tortoises, already. Unless an author has something new to say, on such hacknied subjects, he should avoid them altogether. Of anything like originality, whether in reflection or observation, our author is wholly innocent. His style is diffuse, in the extreme, and whenever he attempts to moralize, and that is very often, abomi- nably inflated. The best thing we can say of him, as an author, is that a com- mendable strain of piety pervades his volume. It is, however, not a very consci- entious proceeding to make a book like this — all the important matter being easily compressible into an ordinary pamphlet. It is very much spun out, not only with regard to the ideas, which glimmer along its pages, but, in the printing - being hugely lealed, and displaying whole blank pages before the chapters, so as to eke out a sizeable book. The whole is sct off by two or three wietched wood-cuts, unfit for a hawker's almanac -- and this is what the title-page calls 'embellished with engravings!!! LITERARY ANNOTANDA. We shall be pleased to record, under this title, in future numbers, all books, whether original or republished, which may be in the press, as well as all those which have appeared -- if the publishers will forward to us the necessary infor- mnation. Whatever is worthy of note in literary matters, -appertaining to societies, colleges, and other institutions for the promotion of literature, we shall duly set down ; so that the New England Magazine shall hereafter be thought valuable, as a work of reference, for the literary character and progress of the times when it ap- peared. During the last month, ſew original works have been published. We have taken notice of the most important. Neither do the usual number of republications lie on the booksellers' tables. The best are the LIFE OF CRABBE, – the subject of a paper in this Magazine ; and Philip VAN ARTEVELDE, a Dramatic Poem, by Henry Taylor, - the most remarkable poetical production which has appeared since Childe Harold. We shall give a paper on this school of poetry, and an ana- lysis — interspersed with extracts — of the drama, next month. Both these works are republished in Boston, by James Munroe & Co., in a style highly creditable to the publishers. The other republications have been, for the most part, novels — the best of which, are · The Coquette, by the author of Miserrimus,' and “The Princess, by Lady Morgan.' We are glad to see that Professor Longfellow's OUTRE MER has been an- nounced by the Harpers, New-York: because these publishers seem to have a just appreciation of literary labor ; their offers to authors being generous, and very promptly - sometimes in advance — paid. We hope these men will continue to be prosperous, for their liberality seems to have kept pace with their great success in their extensive business of publication. Mr. Sparks's magnificent work of “THE LIFE AND CORRRSPONDENCE OF WASĦINGTON' has reached its sixth volume - the first, containing the life, not yet completed. This work seems to have been received with the greatest favor throughout the country. It will, doubtless, be ranked among the best standard works of biography in England, as well as in the United States. In typographical appearance, these volumes are the handsomest ever issued from the American press. Russell, Odiorne & Co. are the publishers. POLITICS AND STATISTICS. NATIONAL AFFAIRS. · United States, as the man of the coun- Nomination of Daniel Webster. The try,' thoroughly acquainted with all its nomination, by the Legislative Conven- interests, just and impartial in his regard tion of Massachusetts, of the Hon. Daniel for the East and the West, the North and Webster to the Presidency, has been the South — known on both continents as cheerfully and heartily responded to by one of the most enlightened and power- almost all the leading, influential Whig ful advocates of free principles which the journals, throughout the United States. age has produced ; an American, in We have no space in which to give a sy- thought, word, and deed,' and a most nopsis of these opinions for the present firm, zealous, and eloquent defender of month ; but we shall hereafter present the glorious Constitution under which we to our readers a full account of the pro- live. gress of this distinguished champion of “In proposing Mr. Webster for this ele- the Constitution, towards that high erni- vated station, we are governed solely by nence, which, of all men in the republic, an earnest conviction of what is best cal- he is most worthy to attain. The Whig culated to produce the welfare of the party, in their support of this eloquent country ; and in supporting himn we shall and profound statesman, assume to them- act ourselves, and we invite others to selves the name of Constitutionalists,' join us, and act with us under his own as opposed to that party now appropriate- WATCHWORD, announced by himself on ly denominated Tories and Anti-Consti- the field of the first great Revolutionary tutionalists, whose standard is the banner battle, amidst the remnants of the gallant of a faction, not the glorious flag of the band of the soldiers of liberty, and con- Constitution. gregated thousands of ardent and patri- The Convention of members of the otic citizens — Our Country, our whole two Houses of the Legislature, by which Country, and nothing but our Country.' this nomination was made, was very nu- A committee was also appointed to merously attended. It was held on the draft an address to the people of the twentieth of January. About four hun- United States, which consisted of Hon. dred and fifty members attended the Julius Rockwell, Speaker of the House, meeting. Mr. Pickman, President of the Hon. Franklin Dexter, George Bliss, Wal- Senate, presided in the Convention ; Mr. do Flint, George Lunt, of the Senate; Rockwell, Speaker of the other House, Benjamin Thompson, and John H. Clif- acted as Viee President, and Messrs. ford, Esquires, of the House. Hedge, of Plymouth, and Chapman, of On the twenty-eighth of January, an- Springfield, as Secretaries. other meeting was held. An able ad- The Hon. Henry Shaw, Senator from dress, presented by the committee, was Berkshire, called the meeting to order, accepted by the Convention, and is now and made some animated remarks on the before their fellow-citizens of the United object of it. Mr. Parsons offered the resoStates. Jutions, and was supported by Messrs. Attempt to assassinate the President. Sturgis, Blake, and Dalton. On the thirty-first of January, an attempt •We recommend,' - thus conclude was made on the life of the present Chief the resolutions - DANIEL WEBSTER Magistrate, by a foreigner, named Rich- as a candidate for this high trust, not as ard Lawrence. The facts, as elicited by a citizen of Massachusetts, not as one, legal investigation, were as follows. In who, if elected, would favor in any es- proceeding to the funeral of the Hon. pecial manner, the interests of this State Warren R. Davis, of South Carolina, Mr. or of any State ; but as a citizen of the Jackson was coming out of the eastern 244 Politics and Statistics. portico of the rotunda of the Capitol, lean- and that excessive bail ought not to be ing on the arm of Mr. Secretary Wood- required. He was accordingly held to bury, when Lawrence stepped forward bail in the sum of fifteen hundred dollars, and snapped a pocket pistol at him. It in default whereof he was committed. would seem that those about the person It has since been gathered, from his own of the President were paralized by hor- admissions, that he was not afflicted with ror or surprise ; for time was given to the politico-mania, in the least ; that he had assassin to shift a second pistol from his no instigators, and was not moved by any left hand to his right, to take deliberate dislike to Mr. Jackson, personally, but aim, and to snap it with the like want of would have acted in the same manner effect. The man was then struck down against any other person who might have by Lieut. Gedney, of the Navy, and Mr. been seated on the throne. W. also aimed a blow, which missed its As a matter of course, this affair crea- object. A crowd instantly assembled, ted much excitement. Some of the and the demented man was for a mo- Tory papers attributed the outrage to the ment in no small danger of being tom to promptings of party zeal ; others to brib- pieces. The President himself rushed ery, on the part of the United States upon Lawrence, and would, no doubt, Bank. The Washington Globe charged have indicted summary vengeance on the Senate, in broad terms, with having him, had he not been prevented by the turned the unhappy lunatic's brain, by crowd. Among other violent exclama- their denunciations of the second Wash- tions elicited from him, by the excite- ington's conduct, especially noticing cer- ment of the moment, it is said that he tain language used on a fornier occasion attributed the assault to the instigation of by Mr. Calhoun. Mr. C. condescended to Mr. Senator Poindexter. reply to this characteristic calumny on It was ascertained, by the subsequent the floor of the Senate chanıber. examination of the pistols by the editor Mr. Poindexter wrote to the President, of the official organ, that they were both requesting to know whether or not he well loaded with powder and ball, and it h:d, as reported, charged him with hav- further appeared that the percussion caps ing instigated the attenipt of Lawrence, of both had exploded without igniting the At this writing, it is not known to us that charges. That such an occurrence should he has received any answer. The pub- take place twice running, is little short lic prints, indeed, speak of one in which of a miracle, insult is added to injury ; but this report On the examination of Lawrence, be- wants confirmation. ſore Judge Cranch, and by the report of The French Question. - On the sev- the medical gentlemen wlio attended him enth ult. the President communicated to in prison, the following facts were elici- the House of Representatives the corres- ted. He was an Englishunan by birth, and pondence of Mr. Livingston, the Minister had been in the United States several to France, up to the thirty-first of De- years. Ile was a house-painter, and bad cember last, in relation to the French borne a good, moral character. He had claims. This correspondence reports, in long been subject to strange mental hal- substance, that the citizen King and his lucinations ; was quarrelsome in the ac- ministry are desirous to carry the treaty cess of his insanity, and had attempted of indemnification into effect ; but were the life of his sister. It was so notorious, unwilling to risk their own popularity by that he supposed himself to be rightful agitating the question before the legisla- King of England, that the boys gave him tive branch of the government. Mr. L. the sobriquet of King Richard.' He feared that the claims would not be fa- imagined that the President had slain his vorably considered by the Chambers, and father at New-Orleans; that he stood in was of opinion that his own endeavors to his way ; that vast sums of money obtain a ratification of the treaty, would were due to him ; that the magnates of be much furthered by a shew of resent- the land were in a conspiracy against ment on the part of the United States, him ; that Mr. Benton was a fine speaker Thereupon, Mr. J. Q. Adams, of Mas- and would make a good President. These sachusetts, moved to refer the message and other delusions, left no doubt of his and the accompanying documents to the insanity. Judge Cranch decided that, Committee on Foreign Relations, with in- under the circumstances, the offence did structions to report forthwith. This reso- not come within the penitentiary act, lution gave rise to a debate, in which Politics and Statistics. 245 Mr. Adams not a little surprised all who The reading of the document occupied were not well acquainted with his politi- two hours. It is comprehensive in its cal career. He shewed himself publicly, character, and entirely divested of party as he once did privately, when the Sem- recrimination. Patronage, in a govern- inole war was the subject of discussion, , ment, says the report, is at best but a the friend and advocate of Mr. Jackson. necessary evil; the tendency of which, In an enthusiastic speech, he declared that even when comparatively restricted in its the time for deliberation had passed away, extent, is to debase and corrupt the mor- and he was now decidedly for action. als of the community. In all well regu- Whatever might be the prudence of the lated free governments, therefore, no President's message, as it referred to our more of it will be retained than is neces- affairs with France, he could not but sary to their healthful existence. The admire its spirit.' The last vote of the idea that a large executive patronage is Senate on the subject, he considered as necessary to give etficiency to the gov- 'dodging the question.' The motion did ernment is combated as a fallacy - de- not coincide with the views of the ma- monstrated to be such by a comparison jority of the House, and was finally re- of the present with the past extent of that ferred to the Committee on Foreign Re- patronage in this government. For this lations, with the omission of the instruc- comparison, the Committee select the tions 'to report forthwith.' years 1825 and 1833, the former year Though Mr. Adams was sent to the being one in which the extent of the ex- House as a Whig member, and though ecutive patronage already began to be the Whigs, as a party, are decidedly op- thought too great ; and the latter, be- posed to any immediate hostilities with cause it is the latest of which they can France, we think he cannot fairly be obtain correct returns. From this com- charged with inconsistency. This gen- parison, it appears that the income of the tleman is not in the habit of asking the government, including the post-office, advice of his colleagues or of consulting was, in 1825, $28,147,000 ; in 1833, the wishes of his constituents; and, in $36,667,000, (rejecting fractions.) That this case, he has but adhered to his usu- the expenditure of the government, ex- al practice. Having rules of thinking clusive of the public debt, was, in 1825, and acting entirely his own, he cannot $12,719,000 ; in 1833, $25,685,000; be expected to do as other men do. His and that the number of persons receiving conduct on this occasion will not fail of emolument or compensation from the its effect, though that will not, probably, government, was, in 1825, 55,777; and be the effect he intended. It will not in 1833, 100,079 persons. secure to him the confidence of any par- Under a proper administration of the ty ; it will not seat him a second time in government, the committee calculated the executive chair ; it will not obstruct that there will be, annually, an unavoid- the career of Mr. Webster ; but, it will able surplus revenue of about nine mil- cause the Whigs of his native State to in lions of dollars in the treasury during the quire how far he, who has so grossly mis- coming seven years. represented them in the House, is fit to They come to the conclusion that the represent them in the Senate, or in the only, and the least objectionable, mode House hereafter. of disposing of the surplus revenue, is Erecutive Patronage. — The report to make an annual distribution thereof of Mr. Calhoun, on this subject, has at- among the several States and Territo- tracted no ordinary share of attention. It ries, including the District of Colu'. is a powerful paper, containing a plain bia, to continue until the year 1842, statement of facts, which are indeed ap- which will terminate the existence of the palling. Well may we tremble for our present compromise act, and leave Con- liberties, when it is demonstrated to us, gress at liberty to reduce the income to beyond the possibility of a doubt, that the actual wants of the government. The there are MORE THAN A HUNDRED committee propose to effect their object THOUSAND persons in the United States, by an amendment of the Constitution, giv- dependent on the will of the executive ing power to Congress to make such distri- for the means of livelihood. This Præto-bution, which a majority of the commit- riun band is divided into several legions, tee deem not now within the competency viz: the customs, the post-office, the pub- of Congress. For that purpose, they re- lic lands, the funds, and the pension-list. port a joint resolution, and propose to di- 246 Politics and Statistics.' vide the annual surplus revenue into such quently has served the double office of number of shares as there are Senators an authority for the grant, and of a record and Representatives, to be divided among of its existence. Some dark corner of a the States in proportion to their represen- contract, or loose scrap of paper, is com- tation, with two shares to each Territory monly the only official evidence of the and the District of Columbia. order for large disbursements of money, Post-Office Reports. — Within the last under the name of extra allowances. It month, four different reports have been is a puzzling problem to decide, whether made by the committees appointed by this discretionary power, throughout its the two branches of Congress, to inves- whole existence, has done most mischief tigate the concerns of the Post-office De- in the character of impostor upon the partment. These reports, made by the Department, or seducer to contractors. majorities of the committees, do not dif- It has doubtless, been an evil-doer, in fer materially in the statements, or in the both guises.' conclusions at which they arrive. They Our limits do not allow us to go into the all admit that inexcusable mismanage- miserable details of • blanks, twine,' ment is chargeable upon the Depart- and extra allowances ;' for these we ment - the affairs of which, have been must refer the reader to the report itself. conducted loosely and carelessly. From One mail contractor, in Ohio, is shewn to the majority report of the House, we have received $4,000 per annum for ser- take the following extracts: vices which it only cost him $ 400 to per- • The finances of this Department have form. Mr. Reeside obtained contracts hitherto been managed without frugality, for carrying the mail on two routes — system, intelligence, or adequate public for $40 in the one instance, and for $99 utility. The cardinal principles of an en- in the other. Mr. Barry's books shew lightened economy have been violated. that he received $1,400 for the first and Ignorance of the real fiscal ability of the $1999 for the second, which discrepancy Department has long prevailed. Expen- the Postmaster explains to the committee ses have not been kept within the limits by saying that the figures were originally of income. Means have not been pro- written by Mr. Reeside in pencil, where- portioned to the ends sought to be at- by $40 was inistaken for 1,400, and $99 tained ; expenditures to the benefits to for $1,999. In proof that the sums were be purchased. The records of the De- far beyond the value of the services ren- partment, in this vital particular, have dered, one witness testified that he had not been kept with method and accura- heard Mr. R. declare that he would cy - for the data they furnish, conduct rather pay $500 a year to the govern- to widely varying results. The accounts ment for the above contracts than lose of the receipts, expenditures, and losses them. These are but specimens of the of the Department do not, in fact, illus- report, which abounds in details of simi- trate, with certainty, the actual fiscal lar frauds. condition of the Department. • The practice of granting extra al- MASSACHUSETTS. lowances has, at various dates in the Report of the Boston and Worcester history of this Department, run into Rail Road Directors. - This document wild excesses ; some illegitimate, and shews that the railroad has been open therefore without an apology ; and oth- and in constant use since November last, ers legitimate, but very questionable as as far as Westborough, a distance of to their expediency. To this source may 31 1-2 miles. The part of the city, be- be ascribed, without hazard of error, tween Washington street and the South much of the embarrassment of the De- Cove, (one hundred and eighty rods) is partment; and, in whatever aspect this yet to be built. The road is carried un- committee has had an opportunity to er- der Washington street, and the filling of amine it, it strikes them that its practical the flats at South Cove is so far advanc- operation has been fraught with much ed, that sites for stores, &c. will be rea- more of evil than of good. Among its dy in the course of the ensuing season. other achievements, it has signalized The remaining twelve miles, from most eminently the too ready faith and Westborough to Worcester, will be rea- too loose business-method of the Depart- dy by the month of April. The chief ment. The letter of a contractor, sug- part of the iron for this division, is al- gesting an extra allowance, not unfre- ready imported, and it is expected that 248 Politics and Statistics. quire, before we relinquish the weapons take place -- which may Heaven avert- of logic and moderation, whether we we think the United States will not again have any means of compulsion. It is have such an administration or such an worth while to ask, too, whether it be executive as the present, until the last expedient to rush into a war, of which we of the present generation shall have can neither calculate the cost nor the passed away. consequences,'for the paltry sum of about five millions of dollars. But then our honor is implicated. Will it be healed, Greece. — By an ordinance of the however, by a disastrous war and a final young sovereign of Greece, the seat of relinquishment of our claims ? for such Government has been transferred from we apprehend would be the result. How Napoli to Athens ; so that the ancient can we injure or annoy France, and what seat of arins, arts, and literature, has means of retaliation has she ? Invasion some chance to resume its former pros- on either side, is too absurd to be thought perity and splendor. We translate the of. We doubt if we could, in an unpopu- ordinance. lar war raise force, enough to make a "Olho, bu the grace of God, King of descent, with any reasonable prospect of success, even on the island of Guadaloupe. Greece. With the advice of our minis- • ters, we have ordained and do hereby It is very true that we can very well dis- ordain, the following articles. pense with French brandies and wines, 1st. Our capital shall be removed on and with all French manufactures, and it is equally certain that France can get the first of December, (0. S.) from Na- poli to Athens. cotton from Egypt and elsewhere. Nay, 2nd. From this day forward, the city in stopping that branch of trade, we should of Athens shall be entitled The Royal hurt the southern proprietors more than Residence and Capital of the Kingdom. any class in France. We can fit out privateers ; but France, too, can send 3rd. On the first (13th) of Decem- ber, our departments, together with the forth ten to our one. She has also a great naval superiority. On the whole, sections which immediately appertain to them, will be established at Athens, viz. France can do to us more mischief than the Holy Synod, the Court of Accounts, we can do to France. The distress must at first fall upon the mercantile classes of the Treasurer General, and the General Post Office. the community, but it must ultimately 4th. The precise times at which the reach all others, and we must end where other central authorities are to be re- we began, or rather much farther back. moved will be fixed by particular orders. Good may nevertheless come out of 5th. All the subordinate authorities evil. It sometimes happens that a na- of the kingdom will address their corres- tion so far loses its senses and commits pondence to the authorities named in such follies, that God sends it a tyrant as a scourge. His rod is felt till it is intol- article 3d, at Napoli, until the 29th of November (0, S.) at the latest. erable. It is then applied to his own 6th, Our Secretary of State and Se- back :- the people recover their senses, cretary of the Home Department are di- and, warned by past suffering, refrain rected to attend to the publication and for a while froin sin. We do not mean execution of this ordinance, which will to insinuate that such is the present state be inserted in the official journal. Our of things in this country. We mean that when we have thrown the haft after the other ministers are equally charged with blade, by the time we have spent two or the execution of the same, each so far as three hundred millions in trying to re- it concerns him. In the King's name, cover five, we shall probably, in our dis- THE REGENCY,' tress, curse the rank spirit of Jacobinism Napoli, 30 (18) Sept. 1834. and the spring flood of corruption which have been bearing down the constitution, The young king of Greece will have and undermining our liberties for these attained his majority, (21 years) and six years, and with which we have borne his coronation will take place next sum- so tamely. Should a war with France mer, TIE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. APRIL, 1835. ORIGINAL PAPERS. YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN. - BY THE AUTHOR OF 'THE GRAY CHAMPION.' YOUNG goodman Brown came forth, at sunset, into the street of Salem village, but put his head back, after crossing the thresh- old, to exchange a parting kiss with his young wife. And Faith, as the wife was aptly named, thrust her own pretty head into the street, letting the wind play with the pink ribbons of her cap, while she called to goodman Brown. Dearest heart,' whispered she, softly and rather sadly, when her lips were close to his ear, “pr’y thee, put off your journey until sunrise, and sleep in your own bed to-night. A lone woman is troubled with such dreams and such thoughts, that she's afeard of herself, sometimes. Pray, tarry with me this night, dear hus- band, of all nights in the year !! My love and my Faith,' replied young goodman Brown, of all nights in the year, this one night must I tarry away from thee. My journey, as thou callest it, forth and back again, must needs be done 'twixt now and sunrise. What, my sweet, pretty wife, dost thou doubt me already, and we but three months married !' • Then, God bless you !' said Faith, with the pink ribbons, and may you find all well, when you come back.' Amen!' cried goodman Brown. "Say thy prayers, dear Faith, and go to bed at dusk, and no harm will come to thee.' So they parted; and the young man pursued his way, until, being about to turn the corner by the meeting-house, he looked back, and saw the head of Faith still peeping after him, with a melancholy air, in spite of her pink ribbons. Poor little Faith!' thought he, for his heart smote him. What a wretch am I, to leave her on such an errand ! She VOL. VIII. Amand go to bed and the youby z 32 250 Young Goodman Brown. talks of dreams, too. Methought, as she spoke, there was trou- ble in her face, as if a dream had warned her what work is to be done to-night. But, no, no ! 't would kill her to think it. Well; she's a blessed angel on earth ; and after this one night, I 'll cling to her skirts and follow her to Heaven.' With this excellent resolve for the future, goodman Brown felt himself justified in making more haste on his present evil purpose. He had taken a dreary road, darkened by all the gloomiest trees of the forest, which barely stood aside to let the narrow path creep through, and closed immediately behind. It was all as lonely as could be ; and there is this peculiarity in such a soli- tude, that the traveler knows not who may be concealed by the innumerable trunks and the thick boughs overhead; so that, with lonely footsteps, he may yet be passing through an unseen mul- titude. “There may be a devilish Indian behind every tree,' said good- man Brown, to himself; and he glanced fearfully behind him, as he added, "What if the devil himself should be at my very elbow!' His head being turned back, he passed a crook of the road, and looking forward again, beheld the figure of a man, in grave and decent attire, seated at the foot of an old tree. He arose, at goodman Brown's approach, and walked onward, side by side with him. "You are late, goodman Brown,' said he. • The clock of the Old South was striking as I came through Boston ; and that is full fifteen minutes agone.' "Faith kept me back awhile,' replied the young man, with a tremor in his voice, caused by the sudden appearance of his com- panion, though not wholly unexpected. It was now deep dusk in the forest, and deepest in that part of it where these two were journeying. As nearly as could be discerned, the second traveler was about fifty years old, appa- rently in the same rank of life as goodman Brown, and bearing a considerable resemblance to him, though perhaps more in expres- sion than features. Still, they might have been taken for father and son. And yet, though the elder person was as simply clad as the younger, and as simple in manner too, he had an indescri- bable air of one who knew the world, and would not have felt abashed at the governor's dinner-table, or in king William's court, were it possible that his affairs should call him thither. But the only thing about him, that could be fixed upon as re- markable, was his staff, which bore the likeness of a great black snake, so curiously wrought, that it might almost be seen to twist and wriggle itself, like a living serpent. This, of course, must have been an ocular deception, assisted by the uncertain light. Young Goodman Brown. 251 Come, goodman Brown !' cried his fellow-traveler, this is a dull pace for the beginning of a journey. Take my staff, if you are so soon weary.' Friend,' said the other, exchanging his slow pace for a full stop, having kept covenant by meeting thee here, it is my pur- pose now to return whence I came. I have scruples, touching the matter thou wot'st of.' "Sayest thou so ? ' replied he of the serpent, smiling apart. "Let us walk on, nevertheless, reasoning as we go, and if I con- vince thee not, thou shalt turn back. We are but a little way in the forest, yet.' Too far, too far!' exclaimed the goodman, unconsciously resuming his walk. “My father never went into the woods on such an errand, nor his father before him. We have been a race of honest men and good Christians, since the days of the mar- tyrs. And shall I be the first of the name of Brown, that ever took this path, and kept' - Such company, thou wouldst say,' observed the elder person, interpreting his pause. Good, goodman Brown! I have been as well acquainted with your family as with ever a one among the Puritans; and that's no trifle to say. I helped your grandfather, the constable, when he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem. And it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in king Philip's war. They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you, for their sake. If it be as thou sayest,' replied goodman Brown, 'I marvel they never spoke of these matters. Or, verily, I marvel not, seeing that the least rumor of the sort would have driven them from New-England. We are a people of prayer, and good works, to boot, and abide no such wickedness." Wickedness or not,' said the traveler with the twisted staff, I have a very general acquaintance here in New-England. The deacons of many a church have drunk the communion wine with me; the selectmen, of divers towns, make me their chairman ; and a majority of the Great and General Court are firm support- ers of my interest. The governor and I, too — but these are state-secrets.' "Can this be so !’ cried goodman Brown, with a stare of amazement at his undisturbed companion. Howbeit, I have nothing to do with the governor and council; they have their own ways, and are no rule for a simple husbandman, like me. But, were I to go on with thee, how should I meet the eye of that good old man, our minister, at Salem village ? Oh, his voice would make me tremble, both Sabbath-day and lecture-day!' 252 Young Goodman Brown. Thus far, the elder traveler had listened with due gravity, but now burst into a fit of irrepressible mirth, shaking himself so vio- lently, that his snake-like staff actually seemed to wriggle in sym- pathy. Ha! ha! ha!' shouted he, again and again ; then composing himself, · Well, go on, goodman Brown, go on; but, pr’y thee, do n't kill me with laughing !' Well, then, to end the matter at once,' said goodman Brown, considerably nettled, there is my wife, Faith. It would break her dear little heart; and I'd rather break my own! Nay, if that be the case,' answered the other, 'e'en go thy ways, goodman Brown. I would not, for twenty old women like the one hobbling before us, that Faith should come to any harm.' As he spoke, he pointed his staff at a female figure on the path, in whom goodman Brown recognized a very pious and exemplary dame, who had taught him his catechism, in youth, and was still his moral and spiritual adviser, jointly with the minister and dea- con Gookin. A marvel, truly, that goody Cloyse should be so far in the wilderness, at night-fall!' said he. “But, with your leave, friend, I shall take a cut through the woods, until we have left this Chris- tian woman behind. Being a stranger to you, she might ask whom I was consorting with, and whither I was going.' "Be it so,' said his fellow-traveler. • Betake you to the woods, and let me keep the path.' Accordingly, the young man turned aside, but took care to watch his companion, who advanced softly along the road, until he had come within a staff's length of the old dame. She, mean- while, was making the best of her way, with singular speed for so aged a woman, and mumbling some indistinct words, a prayer, doubtless, as she went. The traveler put forth his staff, and touched her withered neck with what seemed the serpent's tail. The devil!' screamed the pious old lady. · Then goody Cloyse knows her old friend?' observed the traveler, confronting her, and leaning on his writhing stick. "Ah, forsooth, and is it your worship, indeed ? ' cried the good dame. "Yea, truly is it, and in the very image of my old gossip, goodman Brown, the grandfather of the silly fellow that now is. But, would your worship believe it? my broomstick hath strangely disappeared, stolen, as I suspect, by that unbanged witch, goody Cory, and that, too, when I was all anointed with the juice of smallage and cinque-foil and wolf 's-bane'- Mingled with fine wheat and the fat of a new-born babe,' said the shape of old goodman Brown Ah, your worship. knows the receipt,' cried the old lady, cackling aloud. “So, as I was saying, being all ready for the Young Goodman Brown. 253 will.' meeting, and no horse to ride on, I made up my mind to foot it ; for they tell me, there is a nice young man to be taken into com- munion to-night. But now your good worship will lend me your arm, and we shall be there in a twinkling.' • That can hardly be,' answered her friend. "I may not spare you my arm, goody Cloyse, but here is my staff, if you So saying, he threw it down at her feet, where, perhaps, it assumed life, being one of the rods which its owner had formerly lent to the Egyptian Magi. Of this fact, however, goodman Brown could not take cognizance. He had cast up his eyes in astonishment, and looking down again, beheld neither goody Cloyse nor the serpentine staff, but his fellow-traveler alone, who waited for him as calmly as if nothing had happened. " That old woman taught me my catechism!' said the young man; and there was a world of meaning in this simple comment. They continued to walk onward, while the elder traveler ex- horted his companion to make good speed and persevere in the path, discoursing so aptly, that his arguments seemed rather to spring up in the bosom of his auditor, than to be suggested by himself. As they went, he plucked a branch of maple, to serve for a walking-stick, and began to strip it of the twigs and little boughs, which were wet with evening dew. The moment his fingers touched them, they became strangely withered and dried up, as with a week's sunshine. Thus the pair proceeded, at a good free pace, until suddenly, in a gloomy hollow of the road, goodman Brown sat himself down on the stump of a tree, and refused to go any farther. Friend,' said he, stubbornly, my mind is made up. Not another step will I budge on this errand. What if a wretched old woman do choose to go to the devil, when I thought she was going to Heaven! Is that any reason why I should quit my dear Faith, and go after her ? • You will think better of this, by-and-by,' said his acquaint- ance, composedly. "Sit here and rest yourself awhile; and when you feel like moving again, there is my staff to help you along.' Without more words, he threw his companion the maple stick, and was as speedily out of sight, as if he had vanished into the deepening gloom. The young man sat a few moments, by the road-side, applauding himself greatly, and thinking with how clear a conscience he should meet the minister, in his morning-walk, nor shrink from the eye of good old deacon Gookin. And what calm sleep would be his, that very night, which was to have been spent so wickedly, but purely and sweetly now, in the arms of Faith! Amidst these pleasant and praiseworthy meditations, goodman Brown heard the tramp of horses along the road, and 254 Foung Goodman Brown. deemed it advisable to conceal himself within the verge of the forest, conscious of the guilty purpose that had brought him thither, though now so happily turned from it. On came the hoof-tramps and the voices of the riders, two grave old voices, conversing soberly as they drew near. These mingled sounds appeared to pass along the road, within a few yards of the young man's hiding-place; but owing, doubtless, to the depth of the gloom, at that particular spot, neither the trav- elers nor their steeds were visible. Though their figures brushed the small boughs by the way-side, it could not be seen that they intercepted, even for a moment, the faint gleam from the strip of bright sky, athwart which they must have passed. Goodinan Brown alternately crouched and stood on tip-toe, pulling aside the branches, and thrusting forth his head as far as he durst, with- out discerning so much as a shadow. It vexed him the more, because he could have sworn, were such a thing possible, that he recognized the voices of the minister and deacon Gookin, jogging along quietly, as they were wont to do, when bound to some or- dination or ecclesiastical council. While yet within hearing, one of the riders stopped to pluck a switch. Of the two, reverend Sir,' said the voice like the deacon's, I had rather miss an ordination-dinner than to-night's meeting. They tell me that some of our community are to be here from Fal- mouth and beyond, and others from Connecticut and Rhode- Island ; besides several of the Indian powows, who, after their fashion, know almost as much deviltry as the best of us. More- over, there is a goodly young woman to be taken into com- munion.' Mighty well, deacon Gookin!' replied the solemn old tones of the minister. Spur up, or we shall be late. Nothing can be done, you know, until I get on the ground.' The hoofs clattered again, and the voices, talking so strangely in the empty air, passed on through the forest, where no church had ever been gathered, nor solitary Christian prayed. Whither, then, could these holy men be journeying, so deep into the heathen wilderness? Young goodman Brown caught hold of a tree, for support, being ready to sink down on the ground, faint and over- burthened with the heavy sickness of his heart. He looked up to the sky, doubting whether there really was a Heaven above him. Yet, there was the blue arch, and the stars brightening in it. "With Heaven above, and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the devil!' cried goodman Brown. While he still gazed upward, into the deep arch of the firma- ment, and had lifted his hands to pray, a cloud, though no wind was stirring, hurried across the zenith, and hid the brightening stars. The blue sky was still visible, except directly overhead, where this black mass of cloud was sweeping swiftly northward. Young Goodman Brown. 255 Aloft in the air, as if from the depths of the cloud, came a con- fused and doubtful sound of voices. Once, the listener fancied that he could distinguish the accents of town's-people of his own, men and women, both pious and ungodly, many of whom he had met at the communion-table, and had seen others rioting at the tavern. The next moment, so indistinct were the sounds, he doubted whether he had heard aught but the murmur of the old forest, whispering without a wind. Then came a stronger swell of those familiar tones, heard daily in the sunshine, at Salem vil- lage, but never, until now, from a cloud of night. There was one voice, of a young woman, uttering lamentations, yet with an uncertain sorrow, and entreating for some favor, which, perhaps, it would grieve her to obtain. And all the unseen multitude, both saints and sinners, seemed to encourage her onward. • Faith!' shouted goodman Brown, in a voice of agony and desperation ; and the echoes of the forest mocked him, crying- • Faith! Faith!' as if bewildered wretches were seeking her, all through the wilderness. The cry of grief, rage, and terror, was yet piercing the night, when the unhappy husband held his breath for a response. There was a scream, drowned immediately in a louder murmur of voi- ces, fading into far-off laughter, as the dark cloud swept away, leaving the clear and silent sky above goodman Brown. But something futtered lightly down through the air, and caught on the branch of a tree. The young man seized it, and beheld a pink ribbon. My Faith is gone!' cried he, after one stupefied moment. There is no good on earth ; and sin is but a name. Come, devil ! for to thee is this world given.' And maddened with despair, so that he laughed loud and long, did goodman Brown grasp his staff and set forth again, at such a rate, that he seemed to fly along the forest-path, rather than to walk or run. The road grew wilder and drearier, and more faintly traced, and vanished at length, leaving him in the heart of the dark wilderness, still rushing onward, with the instinct that guides mortal man to evil. The whole forest was peopled with frightful sounds; the creaking of the trees, the howling of wild beasts, and the yell of Indians ; while, sometimes, the wind tolled like a distant church-bell, and sometimes gave a broad roar around the traveler, as if all Nature were laughing him to scorn. But he was himself the chief horror of the scene, and shrank not from its other horrors. "Ha! ha! ha!' roared goodman Brown, when the wind laughed at him. Let us hear which will laugh loudest! Think not to frighten me with your deviltry! Come witch, come wizard, come Indian powow, come devil himself ! and here comes good- man Brown. You may as well fear him as he fear you!' 256 Young Goodman Brown. forth such an inspirasi his staff"win. On he, In truth, all through the haunted forest, there could be nothing more frightful than the figure of goodman Brown. On he flew, among the black pines, brandishing his staff with frenzied ges- tures, now giving vent to an inspiration of horrid blasphemy, and now shouting forth such laughter, as set all the echoes of the forest laughing like demons around him. The fiend in his own shape is less hideous, than when he rages in the breast of man. Thus sped the demoniac on his course, until, quivering among the trees, he saw a red light before him, as when the felled trunks and branches of a clearing have been set on fire, and throw up their lurid blaze against the sky, at the hour of midnight. He paused, in a lull of the tempest that had driven him onward, and heard the swell of what seemed a hymn, rolling solemnly from a distance, with the weight of many voices. He knew the tune ; it was a familiar one in the choir of the village meeting-house. The verse died heavily away, and was lengthened by a chorus, not of human voices, but of all the sounds of the benighted wil- derness, pealing in awful harmony together. Goodman Brown cried out ; and his cry was lost to his own ear, by its unison with the cry of the desert. In the interval of silence, he stole forward, until the light glared full upon his eyes. At one extremity of an open space, hemmed in by the dark wall of the forest, arose a rock, bearing some rude, natural resemblance either to an altar or a pulpit, and sur- rounded by four blazing pines, their tops a flame, their stems un- touched, like candles at an evening meeting. The mass of fo- liage, that had overgrown the summit of the rock, was all on fire, blazing high into the night, and fitfully illuminating the whole field. Each pendent twig and leafy festoon was in a blaze. As the red light arose and ſell, a numerous congregation alternately shone forth, then disappeared in shadow, and again grew, as it were, out of the darkness, peopling the heart of the solitary woods at once. A grave and dark-clad company !' quoth goodman Brown. In truth, they were such. Among them, quivering to-and-fro, between gloom and splendor, appeared faces that would be seen, next day, at the council-board of the province, and others which, Sabbath after Sabbath, looked devoutly heavenward, and benig- nantly over the crowded pews, from the holiest pulpits in the land. Some affirm, that the lady of the governor was there. At least, there were high dames well known to her, and wives of honored husbands, and widows, a great multitude, and ancient maidens, all of excellent repute, and fair young girls, who trem- bled, lest their mothers should espy them. Either the sudden gleams of light, flashing over the obscure field, bedazzled good- man Brown, or he recognized a score of the church-members of Salem village, famous for their especial sanctity. Good old dea- Young Goodman Brown. 257 con Gookin had arrived, and waited at the skirts of that venerable saint, his revered pastor. But, irreverently consorting with these grave, reputable, and pious people, these elders of the church, these chaste dames and dewy virgins, there were men of disso- lute lives and women of spotted fame, wretches given over to all mean and filthy vice, and suspected even of horrid crimes. It was strange to see, that the good shrank not from the wicked, nor were the sinners abashed by the saints. Scattered, also, among their pale-faced enemies, were the Indian priests, or pow- ows, who had often scared their native forest with more hideous incantations than any known to English witchcraft. * But, where is Faith ? ' thought goodman Brown; and, as hope came into his heart, he trembled. Another verse of the hymn arose, a slow and solemn strain, such as the pious love, but joined to words which expressed all that our nature can conceive of sin, and darkly hinted at far more. Unfathomable to mere mortals is the lore of fiends. Verse after verse was sung, and still the chorus of the desert swelled between, like the deepest tone of a mighty organ. And, with the final peal of that dreadful anthem, there came a sound, as if the roar- ing wind, the rushing streams, the howling beasts, and every other voice of the unconverted wilderness, were mingling and ac- cording with the voice of guilty man, in homage to the prince of all. The four blazing pines threw up a loftier flame, and obscurely discovered shapes and visages of horror on the smoke-wreaths, above the impious assembly. At the same moment, the fire on the rock shot redly forth, and formed a glowing arch above its base, where now appeared a figure. With reverence be it spoken, the apparition bore no slight similitude, both in garb and manner, to some grave divine of the New-England churches. Bring forth the converts !' cried a voice, that echoed through the field and rolled into the forest. At the word, goodman Brown stept forth from the shadow of the trees, and approached the congregation, with whom he felt a loathful brotherhood, by the sympathy of all that was wicked in his heart. He could have well nigh sworn, that the shape of his own dead father beckoned him to advance, looking downward from a smoke-wreath, while a woman, with dim features of des- pair, threw out her hand to warn him back. Was it his mother ? But he had no power to retreat one step, nor to resist, even in thought, when the minister and good old deacon Gookin, seized his arms, and led him to the blazing rock. Thither came also the slender form of a veiled female, led between Goody Cloyse, that pious teacher of the catechism, and Martha Carrier, who had received the devil's promise to be queen of hell. A rampant hag was she! And there stood the proselytes, beneath the can- opy of fire. VOL. VIII. 33 258 Young Goodman Brown. Welcome, my children,' said the dark figure, to the com- munion of your grave! Ye have found, thus young, your nature and your destiny. My children, look behind you ! They turned ; and flashing forth, as it were, in a sheet of flame, the fiend-worshippers were seen ; the smile of welcome gleamed darkly on every visage. .. "There,' resumed the sable form, are all whom ye have rev- erenced from youth. Ye deemed them holier than yourselves, and shrank from your own sin, contrasting it with their lives of righteousness, and prayerful aspirations heavenward. Yet, here are they all, in my worshipping assembly! This night it shall be granted you to know their secret deeds; how hoary-bearded elders of the church have whispered wanton words to the young maids of their households ; how many a woman, eager for wid- ow's weeds, has given her husband a drink at bed-time, and let him sleep his last sleep in her bosom ; how beardless youths have made haste to inherit their fathers' wealth ; and how fair dam- sels – blush not, sweet ones! — have dug little graves in the gar- den, and bidden me, the sole guest, to an infant's funeral. By the sympathy of your human hearts for sin, ye shall scent out all the places — whether in church, bed-chamber, street, field, or forest — where crime has been committed, and shall exult to be- hold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty blood-spot. Far more than this ! It shall be your's to penetrate, in every bo- som, the deep mystery of sin, the fountain of all wicked arts, and which, inexhaustibly supplies more evil impulses than human power — than my power, at its utmost !- can make manifest in deeds. And now, my children, look upon each other.' They did so ; and, by the blaze of the hell-kindled torches, the wretched man beheld his Faith, and the wife her husband, trembling before that unhallowed altar. 'Lo! there ye stand, my children,' said the figure, in a deep and solemn tone, almost sad, with its despairing awfulness, as if his once angelic nature could yet mourn for our miserable race. Depending upon one another's hearts, ye had still hoped, that virtue were not all a dream. Now are ye undeceived ! Evil is the nature of mankind. Evil must be your only happiness. Wel- come, again, my children, to the communion of your race !' · Welcome!' repeated the fiend-worshippers, in one cry of despair and triumph. And there they stood, the only pair, as it seemed, who were yet hesitating on the verge of wickedness, in this dark world. A basin was hollowed, naturally, in the rock. Did it contain water, reddened by the lurid light ? or was it blood ? or, per- chance, a liquid Aame? Herein did the Shape of Evil dip his hand, and prepare to lay the mark of baptism upon their foreheads, that they might be partakers of the mystery of sin, more conscious Young Goodman Brown. 259 of the secret guilt of others, both in deed and thought, than they could now be of their own. The husband cast one look at his pale wife, and Faith at him. What polluted wretches would the next glance shew them to each other, shuddering alike at what they disclosed and what they saw ! • Faith! Faith!' cried the husband. "Look up to Heaven, and resist the Wicked One! Whether Faith obeyed, he knew not. Hardly had he spoken, when he found himself amid calm night and solitude, listening to a roar of the wind, which died heavily away through the forest. He staggered against the rock and felt it chill and damp, while a hanging twig, that had been all on fire, besprinkled his cheek with the coldest dew. . The next morning, young goodman Brown came slowly into the street of Salem village, staring around him like a bewildered man. The good old minister was taking a walk along the grave- yard, to get an appetite for breakfast and meditate his sermon, and bestowed a blessing, as he passed, on goodman Brown. He shrank from the venerable saint, as if to avoid an anathema. Old deacon Gookin was at domestic worship, and the holy words of his prayer were heard through the open window. What God doth the wizard pray to?' quoth goodman Brown. Goody Cloyse, that excellent old Christian, stood in the early sunshine, at her own lattice, catechising a little girl, who had brought her a pint of morning's milk. Goodman Brown snatched away the child, as from the grasp of the fiend himself. Turning the corner by the meeting-house, he spied the head of Faith, with the pink ribbons, gazing anxiously forth, and bursting into such joy at sight of him, that she skipt along the street, and almost kissed her hus- band before the whole village. But, goodman Brown looked sternly and sadly into her face, and passed on without a greeting. Had goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest, and only dreamed a wild dream of a witch-meeting? Be it so, if you will. But, alas! it was a dream of evil omen for young goodman Brown. A stern, a sad, a darkly meditative, a distrustful, if not a desperate man, did he become, from the night of that fearful dream. On the Sabbath-day, when the con- gregation were singing a holy psalm, he could not listen, because an anthem of sin rushed loudly upon his ear, and drowned all the blessed strain. When the minister spoke from the pulpit, with power and fervid eloquence, and, with his hand on the open bible, of the sacred truths of our religion, and of saint-like lives and tri- umphant deaths, and of future bliss or misery unutterable, then did goodman Brown turn pale, dreading, lest the roof should thunder down upon the gray blasphemer and his hearers. Often, awaking suddenly at midnight, he shrank from the bosom of Faith, and at morning or eventide, when the family knelt down at prayer, 260 Random Leaves, he scowled, and muttered to himself, and gazed sternly at his wife, and turned away. And when he had lived long, and was borne to his grave, a hoary corpse, followed by Faith, an aged woman, and children and grand-children, a goodly procession, besides neighbors, not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tomb-stone ; for his dying hour was gloom. RANDOM LEAVES. NO. 1. FROM A VOYAGER'S COMMON-PLACE-BOOK. On the morning of the twenty-sixth day of October, I bade adieu to my friends in — ; and the little narrow brigantine, in which I was compelled to take passage for the West-Indies, sailed onward through the rushing waters of Long-Island Sound. For the first day, we had what our Captain denominated 'a fine run.' I was happy, in the consciousness of having commenced my voyage, and felt much exhilaration of spirit, when, with “every sail to the breeze,' we dasbed bravely along, until the blue line of land melted into the sky. I was disappointed in my view of the ocean-circle. It appeared much narrower than my imagination had pictured ; nor, as my eye passed over the horizon, did it seem to roll . so boundless and sublime as when viewed from the shore. I thought, then, to account for my disappointment by the horrid sensations attendant upon the pitching and rocking of the small vessel, in which, with two fellow-passengers, seven sea- men, a cook and a steward, besides the captain and mate, I was cabined, cribbed, confined.' But, whether from a continuance of the causes of my disaffection, my feverish restlessness and dis- content, or from the very unfavorable circumstances under which I went to sea, my mind was not so deeply awed or so wildly ex- cited by the glories of the great deep, which surrounded me, as when I had, in sunshine and in tempest, gazed over its mighty waters from the shore. I thought myself singular in my opinion, for I had never heard of any other person's having been similarly impressed. I attributed 'my emotion of disappointment to one of the trivial causes just related ; and I should not have ventured to record, in this my common-place-book, so strange a sensation, had I not been informed, by an intelligent friend, that he had seen the same sentiment expressed in the Journal — of whom? even the most sacred and the most true of modern bards, COLERIDGE. It is not heterodoxy then, and I set it down. From a Voyager's Common-Place-Book. 261 The thought is original with myself, because I remember being impressed by it, forcibly and disagreeably, too, when the land faded away and nothing but one waste of waves met my aching sight. This idea could not have floated into my brain, like an un- embodied mist, that may or may not gather into cloud ; for the journal of the poet was not printed until many months after my return home'; and my friend, in relating this sentiment of Coler- idge, referred to my having feelingly expressed the same, shortly after my arrival. I am not ashamed, therefore, to say, that the constant view of the ocean, from which I had anticipated so much delight, filled my mind with few poetic raptures. During the first part of our voyage, the days were very weari- some. The sun arose surrounded with clouds, scarcely gilding his ocean-bed; and he set, drawing the folds of a pavilion of thick vapor around him, not half so magnificent as those curtains of his rest, that hang over hill and valley, when, from shedding light and warmtb on the land, he sinks, with slowly-lessening splendor, to repose. But, as we approached the tropic — the weather grow- ing warmer and warmer, sunrise and sunset were events to which I looked forward with great pleasure. They were strange to a landsman and a dweller in a northern clime. The blaze of the most brilliant sun, in the morning; and, in the evening, the dark shadow of the night, preceded only by momentary twilight, were grand and impressive. The shifting and innumerable colors upon the waters, when the slant beams fell upon their crests - waving and glowing, as with the reflection of burnished scales and gems, of silver and gold; the lightly-falling shower, through which shone gorgeous rainbows, painted on the unclouded sky ; — sights like these sometimes made me forget the tedium of my voyage, and summoned Fancy from her air-built throne.' I used to think — when I saw the waves, so tinged with a thousand combinations of the most dazzling hues, and so transparent, that I could, while leaning over the vessel's side, look far down into their myste- rious depths — that the uncounted treasures of empires unknown, the lost diadems of kings, crowns, tiaras, circlets for the brow of beauty, and prize-diamonds - one of which would have purchased a princedom for a lord, or freedom for a mining slave, — were gleaming up, distinct and visible, through the illuminated water. I grow poetical on paper now; though I do not believe I could have written such things at the time. A dream of the sea is much more charming than its reality. I remember one sight, however- and I do not record it lest I should cease to remember that will live in my memory, undimmed, when the shadows of age fall dark- ly! The sun had just begun to decline, and some light drops of rain were falling, when, on the eastern verge of the sky, there appeared a regular arch of colors, very broad, and resting with one contin- ued base upon the water. The prismatic hues were defined with 262 Random Leaves, the utmost accuracy ; not seeming to melt into each other, but with almost a line of light between.' As the sun declined, the broad arch gradually arose, showing underneath a wider and wider space of blue, until, at length, it formed one magnificent rain- bow, whose bases seemed to touch the very sides of the vessel. When the sun dipped his outer rim into the water, the bow was still there, spanning the whole eastern horizon — its glorious splen- dor growing fainter and fainter, until one bright star gleamed in the midst of the arch, and the last smile of the day-light faded from the ocean. · An angry storm had preceded us at sea, for we everywhere found the billows in commotion. The first sail we saw, was a brig“ lying to.' She was very near, but the waves rolled and tumbled about so horribly, that it was very difficult to get a peep at her through the spy-glass. What a disappointment! The dis- turbed weather would not allow us to speak her. Everybody, who has been to sea, knows that the most important event, which can happen, is the meeting with another ship. "Sail-ho!' is the first joyful sound that is heard. Then, what bustle and confusion ! what running to-and-fro! what eager looks! what happy anticipation ! On our outward voyage, we were seldom favored with so blessed a sight ; until, in the latitude of some of the windward West-India islands, we began to cross the track of British vessels, merchantmen and men-of-war, outward and home- ward bound. I used to sit and watch for sails, hour after hour, though the sailors, who were never on the look-out, would always see them first. How keen-sighted these men are ! They will tell a landsman the kind of vessel in sight before he can distin- guish her sails. I spent many a weary and fruitless hour in watching for them— in the midst of which I would often fall asleep, or read one of the many pleasant books I carried with me. These books lie on the table before me, now. I open my Anas- tasius. Here is something from its blank leaf. I believe Edmund Burke would have called yonder ship, under full sail, sublime ; yet, how beautiful she is ! More gracefully than a gull, she stoops and sweeps, as her sheets strain to the full canvass. By Jove! how magnificently she bears down upon us ! Ha! how she spurns and dashes the waves from her prow! The captain is going to speak her, I believe. Steady! steady! Now luff, a little ! Give the stars and stripes an airing. Up with the signal — Freedom's banner — the American ensign! Blast your timbers !' roars our captain to the careless sailor, who, in his haste to set the flag, has entangled its folds in the rig- ging — Mind your eye, my fine fellow, for if you tear asunder those stars and stripes, I 'll nullify you, you lubber !! From a Voyager's Common-Place-Book. 263 There, she floats, at last : Freedom's banner streaming o'er us !' And what answers the bold barque ? St. George, for merry England! There flies the Union-jack, the terror of the seas. Steward ! uncork that champagne ! Here's to the me- teor-flag of England’; may it burn forever ! It always made my heart leap to read of a British ship-of-war, and now I see one! I am an American, to be sure - true- blooded ; but, have I not a prescriptive right to glory in the fame of Old England ? To be sure I have. She is our mother-coun- try. Our arts and arms and literature are derived from her. All true Americans do glory in her fame. We rejoice at her victo- ries, we mourn at her defeats — except when she is fighting with ourselves. How magnificent is her naval power! She, indeed, could meet the world in arms. Like Tyre of old, she covers the sea with her ships. And nearer and nearer comes one of those ships. Lo! she passes us, within hail; yet, she will no more deign to speak to us, than her majesty of the desert would con- descend to notice a cat! I'm thankful she happened to espy us, and did not run over us. . I will read her name, as she passes — VICTORY.' · The Victory!' exclaims the captain. I have seen her in port; a fifty-gun ship ; the heaviest in the royal navy ; she car- ries the admiral, Sir George Cockburn; on the North-American station ; the same who took Bonaparte to St. Helena; bound to Barbadoes, perhaps ; from Halifax.' Luckily, it is morning ; and this will afford a topic of conver- sation for all day, at least. Heigh-ho! We shall hardly see so goodly a sight, again. The best that we can hope for, is a re- turning horse-jockey, or a brigantine, bound to British America, deep in the water, with a prime load of rum, sugar, and mo- lasses.' I once said, that I fell into few raptures at sea. I will except the magnificent tropical nights. In a fair and unclouded night, it was my happiness to gaze upon the strange beauty of the sky and across the waters, lighted up by the moon ; when Orion, with his splendid belt, was above me, and the planet, Jupiter, blazed with steady ray in the zenith, like the monarch of the starry realm. The nights of the tropics have more beauty, but their sublim- ity cannot approach those of northern latitudes. The stars are not so clearly, so deeply, so thickly, set in the blue foil, nor does the heavenly arch appear so grand and limitless. Nothing can well be imagined more sublime than a cold winter's night - dark, unclouded, moonless - except that same night, suddenly illu- 264 Random Leaves, mined by the streaming glories of the Aurora ;-a sight far more worthy of wonder than • The varying form of that dial of night, The beautiful cross of the South!' The numerous company of stars are more distinctly seen, and the largest are so intensely brilliant, that they hide all those count- less little points of light, which are seen in a northern sky. There is less confusion, less obscurity, consequently less awe. Indeed, you can almost number the stars, one by one, in the clair obscure, they are so strangely dissimilar. But the moon- light of the tropics is infinitely superior. I could read my books very well by the moonlight, without distressing my eyes. I one night saw a lunar rainbow. It was very soft and beauti- ful, and seemed thrown, by the Queen of Night, over the path of her subject-waters, as a token and a promise of her return ; for she was in her latest wane. In fair weather, I used to remain on deck almost all the night ; and, though my health forbade it, often endured the drenching of showers, sooner than submit to an im- murement in the narrow cabin. I have been a star-gazer from my boyhood ; perhaps the moon- light has touched my brain ; but the most perfect object I ever beheld — more lovely than the light of a blue eye in woman — is the centre star in a girdle of lesser gems; I cannot remember the name of the constellation. To compare its effulgence to that of an immense diamond, of the purest water, gives but a faint idea of its exquisite brilliancy. I had read of the colored stars of Arabia, but could not believe the brightest more bright than this, for it gleamed and flashed with blue and green and silver light. I open "D’Israeli, On the Literary Character,' and find on a blank leaf this apostrophe: - Jewel of Heaven's own mine! thou art the only visible object of my love. Night after night, while tossed upon these billows, I watch for thy coming; and when thy mild ray trembles upon the waters, the feeble fire, on the altar of my heart, shoots brightly up, like the flame into which the hand of a vestal has thrown in- cense. Better than soft sleep, I love thy constant beam ; for I look' on thee, and all the happy memories of my life glide into my waking dream, bringing the forms of those far away, and of one, fairest and dearest, whose emblem thou dost seem, sweet star! Some people, who have the patience to read all this, will say — nonsense! But it softens the heart wonderfully, to be two thou- sand miles from home ; and I can easily pardon myself for talking wildly about the few sources, from whence I drew all the hap- piness, which was mine at sea. From a Voyager's Common-Place-Book. 265 But, dear reader, I must detain you a moment longer, over the leaves of my common-place-book — if you have not already closed it, from weariness, or gone to sleep with it open before you — to tell you, that the supreme delight of reaching shore compensates for all the evils, which have been endured by one, who, like myself, has an instinctive horror of life at sea. I will write no more, for the present; but close with one or two sober reflec- tions, which may account for my misery and melancholy, and be better worth reading than all these scraps. As I had been, for some months previous to my departing on my voyage, accustomed to the stirring sights and sounds of a busy city, the solemn stillness of the great deep, broken only by the remorseless dash of billows,'spread over my spirit a gloom, which may be likened to the long, low cloud, sometimes seen at evening, above the crimson glories of the departed sun. Philosophy has no balm for a mind chafed with petty vexations, and I was restless and unhappy. But, to a person afflicted with a serious grief, to one mourning under a recent loss, it is my advice, that he choose the hour of his fresh sorrow for a departure to a far country. His affliction will occupy his mind and leave no room for the annoy- ances, to which all on ship-board are subject. He will meditate and be consoled by a scene so much in unison with his grief. Let him listen, and he will hear the wind's sighs, through the dull sails, falling in harmony with his own. Let him listen, and he will hear the moan and the sobs of the great deep come mys- teriously to his ear. Let him look over the wide waters and view the horizon, against which they seem to roll, as the goal of their voyaging, and say — Even thus do our spirits wander, but further and further on, into Eternity, though Time's horizon may seem their final bound.' Let him stand, when Night solemnly pauses, as if to bid farewell to her brother, Day ; and, as the stars melt into the blue of Heaven, receive the holy and invisible influence, which, at such an hour, will descend, like a dove, and brood over his spirit. Such is the consolation, which the sea and the sky will yield to a wounded heart; such, their secret sympathy. Oh! there is no place and no season for sadness, like a long voyage at sea. But, to the cheerful man, who loves the ever-varying face of na- ture and the happy society of home, the monotony of life at sea must be painful. If one could be accompanied by a chosen party of friends, who would never be sea-sick, and who, by conversa- tion and by music, would make the Hours put on thier swiftest and rosiest pinions to fly with — then, if, in spite of all these pleasant things, they never yawned in each other's faces — a ship might be rendered endurable and its ten thousand little disagreea- bles smiled at or forgotten. VOL. VIII. 34 MOGG MEGONE. A POEM IN TWO PARTS. BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. PART II. 'Tis MORNING over Norridgwock On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred At intervals by breeze and bird, And wearing all the hues which glow In Heaven's own pure and perfect bow, That glorious picture of the air, Which summer's light-robed angel forms On the dark ground of fading storms, With pencil dipped in sunbeams there, And, stretching out, on either hand, O’er all that wide and unshorn land, - Till, weary of its gorgeousness, The aching and the dazzled eye Rests, gladdened, on the calm blue sky- Slumbers the mighty wilderness ! The oak, upon the windy hill, Its dark green burthen upward heaves - The hemlock broods above its rill, Its cone-like foliage darker still, While the white-birch's graceful stem And the rough walnut's bough receives The sun upon their crowded leaves, Each, colored like a topaz gem; And the tall maple wears with them The coronal which autumn gives, The brief, bright sign of ruin near, The hectic of a dying year ! On the brow of a hill, which slopes to meet The flowing river and bathe its feet - The bare-washed rock and the drooping grass And the creeping vine, as the waters pass, - A rude and unshapely chapel stands, Built up in that wild by unskilled hands ; Yet the traveler knows it a place of prayer, For the holy sign of the cross is there: And should he chance at that place to be, Of a sabbath-morn, or some hallowed day, When prayers are made and masses are said, Some for the living and some for the dead, Well might that traveler start, to see The tall dark forms, that take their way, From the birch-canoe, on the river-shore, And the forest-paths, to that chapel door ; Mogg Megone. 267 And marvel to mark the naked knees And the dusky foreheads, bending there, And, stretching his long thin arms over these, In blessing and in prayer, Like a shrouded spectre, pale and tall, In his coarse white vesture, Father Ralle ! * Two forms are now in that chapel dim, The Jesuit, silent and sad and pale, Anxiously heeding some fearful tale, Which a stranger is telling him. That stranger's garb is soiled and torn, And wet with dew and loosely worn, Her fair neglected hair falls down O’er cheeks with storm and sunshine brown; Yet, still, in that disordered face, The Jesuit's cautious glance can trace Those elements of former grace, Which, half-effaced, seem scarcely less, Even now, than perfect loveliness. . i With drooping head, and voice, so low That scarce it meets the Jesuit's ears, While, through her clasped fingers, flow, From the heart's fountain, hot and slow, Her penitential tears ! She tells the story of the wo And evil of her years. • Oh, Father, bear with me; my heart Is sick and death-like, and my brain Seems girdled with a fiery chain, Whose scorching links will never part, And never cool again. * Pere Ralle, or Rasles, was one of the most zealous and indefatigable of that band of Jeruit missionaries who, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, penetrated the forests of North America, with the avowed object of converting the heathen. The first religious mission of the Jesuits, to the savages of North America, was in 101. The zeal of ihe fathers, for the conver- sion of the Indians to the Catholic faith, knew no bounds. For this, they plunged into the depth of the wilderness; habituated themselves to all the hardships and privations of the na- tives ; suffered cold, hunger, and some of them death itself, by the extremest toitures. Pere Brebeuf, after laboring in the cause of his mission for twenty years, together with his compan- ion, Pere Lallamant, was burned alive. To these might be added the names of those Jesuits who were put to death by the Iroquois - Daniel, Garnier, Buteaux, La Riborerdr, Goupil, Con. stantin, and Liegeouis. For bed, savs Father Lallamant, in his Relotion de ce qui s'est dans le pays des Hurons, 1640, chap. 3., we have nothing but a miserable piece of bark of a tree ; for nourishment, a handful or two of corn, either roosted or soaked in water, which seldom satisfies our hunger; and after all, not venturing to perform even the ceremonies if our religion, with ut being considered as sorcerers.' Their success among the natives, however, by no means equalled their exertions. Pere Lallamant says: "With respect to adult persons, in good health, hrle !S little apparent success ; on the contrary, there have been nothing but storms and whir winds from that quarter.' Ralle, or Rasles, established himself some time about the year 1970, at Norridgwock, whero he continued more than forty years. He was accused, and perhaps not without justice, of exci. ting his praying Indians against the English, whom he looked upon as the enemies not only of his king, but also of the Catholic religion. He was killed by the English, in 1724, at the fort of the Cross, which his own hands had planted. This Indian church was broken up, and its mem- bers either killed outright or dispersed. In a letter written by Ralle to his nephew, he gives the following account of his church and his own labors. All my converts repair to the church regularly twice every day; first, very early in the morning to attend mass, and again in the evening, to assist in the prayers at sun- rise. As it is necessary to fix the imagination of savages, whose attention is easily distracted, I have composed prayers, calculated to inspire them with just sentiments of the augusi sacrifice of our altars; they chant, or at least recite them aloud, during mass. Besides preaching to them on Sundays and Saints' days, I seldom let a working day pass without making a concise exhor- tation, for the purpose of inspiring them with horror at those vices to which they are most ad- dicted, or to confirm them in the practice of some particular virtue.' Vide Lettres Edifiantes et Curieuses, vol. 6, p. 127. 268 Mogg Megone. Bear with me, while I speak — but turn Away that gentle eye, the while - The fires of guilt more fiercely burn Beneath its holy smile ; For half I fancy I can see My mother'a sainted look in thee. My dear, lost mother! sad and pale, Mournfully sinking day by day, And, with a hold on life as frail As frosted leaves, that, thin and grey, Hang feebly on their parent-spray, And tremble in the gale ; Yet watching o'er my childishness With patient fondness — not the less For all the agony which kept Her blue eye wakeful while I slept ; And checking every tear and groan, That haply might have waked my own ; And bearing still, without offence, My idle words and petulance ; Reproving with a tear — and, while T'he tooth of pain was keenly preying Upon her very heart, repaying My brief repentance with a smile. Oh, in her meek, forgiving eye There was a brightness not of mirth — A light, whose clear intensity Was borrowed not of earth. Along her cheek a deepening red Told where the feverish hectic fed ; And yet, each fatal token gave, To the mild beauty of her face, A newer and a dearer grace, Unwarning of the grave. "T was like the hue wbich autumn gives To yonder changed and dying leaves, Breathed over by his frosty breath ; Scarce can the gazer feel that this Is but the spoiler's treacherous kiss, The mocking-smile of Death ! She died. Oh, father! can the dead Walk on the earth and look on us? And lay upon the living's head Their blessing or their curse? For, oh ! last night she stood by me, As I lay beneath the woodland tree ! The Jesuit crosses himself in awe - •Jesu ! what was it my daughter saw ?' · She came to me last night. The dried leaves did not feel her tread, She stood by me in the wan moonlight, In the white robes of the dead ! Pale, pale, and very mournfully She bent her light form over me. Mogg Megone. 269 I heard no sound - I felt no breath Breathe o'er me from that face of death : Its blue eyes rested on my own, Rayless and cold as eyes of stone ; Yet, in their fixed, unchanging gaze, Something, which spoke of early days — A sadness in their quiet glare, As if love's smile were frozen there - Came o'er me with an icy thrill ; Oh God! I feel its presence still ! The Jesuit makes the holy sign - "How passed the vision, daughter mine?' • All dimly in the wan moonshine, As a wreath of mist will twist and twine And scatter and melt into the light - So scattering, melting on my sight, The pale, cold vision passed ; But those sad eyes were fixed on mine, Mournfully to the last ! God help thee, daughter ! tell me why That spirit passed before thine eye!' * Father, I know not — save it be, That deeds of mine have summoned her From the unbreathing sepulchre, To leave her last rebuke with me. Ah, wo for me! my mother died Just at the moment when I stood Close on the verge of womanhood, A child in everything beside ; And when, alas, I needed most Her gentle counsels, they were lost. My father lived a stormy life, Of frequent change and daily strife; And, God forgive him ! left his child To feel, like him, a freedom wild ; To love the red man's dwelling-place; The birch boat on his shaded foods, The wild excitement of the chase Sweeping the ancient woods — The camp-fire, blazing on the shore Of the still lakes — the clear stream, where The idle fisher set his wear, Or angled in the shade – far more Than that restraining awe I felt Beneath my gentle mother's care, When nightly at her knee I knelt, With childhood's simple prayer. There came a change. The wild, glad mood Of unchecked freedom passed. Amidst the ancient solitude Of unshorn grass and waving wood, And waters glancing bright and fast, Moga Megone. 271 Through camp and town and wilderness, He tracked his victim -- and, at last, Just when the tide of hate had passed, And milder thoughts came warm and fast, Exulting, at my feet he cast The bloody token of success. Oh God! with what an awful power I saw the buried past uprise — And gather, in a single hour, Its ghost-like memories ! And then I felt, alas, too late, That, underneath the mask of hate- That shame and guilt and wrong had thrown O'er feelings which they might not own — The heart's wild love had known no change ; And still, that deep and hidden love, With its first fondness, wept above The victim of its own revenge ! There lay the fearful scalp, and there The blood was on its pale-brown hair ! I thought not of the victim's scorn, I thought not of his baleful guile, My deadly wrong, my outcast name, The characters of sin and shame On heart and forehead drawn ; I only saw that victim's smile- The still, green places where we met- The moon-lit branches, dewy wet ; I only felt, I only heard The greeting and the parting word — The smile — the embrace — the tone, which made An Eden of the forest-shade ! And oh, with what a loathing eye, With what a deadly hate and deep, I saw that Indian murderer lie Before me, in his drunken sleep! What though for me the deed was done, And words of mine had sped him on ! Yet when he murmured, as he slept, The horrors of that deed of blood, The tide of utter madness swept O'er brain and bosom, like a flood. And father! with this hand of mine'- Ha! what didst thou ? ' the Jesuit cries, Shuddering, as smitten with sudden pain, And shading, with one thin hand, his eyes, With the other he makes the holy sign - * I smote him, as I would a worm ; With heart as steeled — with nerves as firm - He never woke again !! · Woman of sin and blood and shame, Speak — I would know that victim's name !' • Father !' she gasped, “a chieftain, known As Saco's Sachem — MoGG MEGONE!' 272 Mogg Megone. Pale priest! what proud and lofty dreams, What keen desires, what cherished schemes, What hopes, that time may not recall, Are darkened by that chieftain's fall ? Was he not pledged, by cross and vow, To lift the hatchet of his sire, And, round his own, the Church's foe, To light the avenging fire? Who now the Tarrantine shall wake, For thine and for the Church's sake! Who summon to the scene Of conquest and unsparing strife, And vengeance, dearer than his life, The fiery-souled Castine? * Three backward steps the Jesuit takes- His long, thin frame, as ague, shakes ; Hate— fearful hate is in his eye, As from his lips these words of fear Fall hoarsely on the maiden's ear: The soul that sinneth shall surely die!' She stands, as stands the stricken deer, Checked midway in the fearful chase, When bursts, upon its eye and ear, The gaunt, grey robber, baying near Between it and its hiding-place; While still behind, with yell and blow, Sweeps, like a storm, the coming foe. • Save me, oh holy man !'- her cry Fills all the void, as if a tongue, Unseen, from rib and rafter hung, Thrilling with mortal agony ; Her hands are clasping the Jesuit's knee, And her eye looks fearfully into his own ;- Off-woman of sin ! nay, touch not me With those fingers of blood – begone!' With a gesture of horror, he spurns the form That writhes at his feet like a trodden worm ! What yell is there? - with forehead black, And fierce eve glancing through his hair, Fierce as the blood-hound on his track, Or panther in his lair, A tall, gaunt form comes plunging through The narrow chapel-door. * Jesu ! what would the great Brave do, At a time like this, in this holy place? Go back, and sin no more !'. The words are lost on the Indian's ear; He sees not the priest, and he does not hear. His eye glares into the maiden's face One moment, as if in doubt - * The character of Ralle has probably never been correctly delineated. By his brethren of the Romish Church, he has been very nearly apotheosised. On the other hand, our Puritan bisto- rians have represented him as a denion in human form. He was, undoubtedly, sincere in his devotion to the interests of his Church, and not over-scrupulous as to the means of advancing those interests. The French,' says the author of the History of Saco and Biddeford, 'atter the peace of 1713, secretly promised to supply the Indians with arms and ammunition, if they would renew hostilities. Their principal agent was the celebrated Ralle, the French jes- uit.' p. 215. Mogg Megone. 273 · When the white woman struck at my brother's life In her father's lodge, with her father's knife, The Great Spirit's eye looked out ; And the Manitto's whisper came to me, As I lay in my lodge by night ; And the blood of a Sachem seemed to be On the head of an evil white. When I took the scalp, on my wampum strung, From that head so old and grey, The white man spoke, with a bitter tongue, Of his daughter far away! Does the squaw know this !' — and the Indian flings His blanket back from his wampum-rings. Merciful God! what sees she there? Her father's scalp of thin grey hair ! Nor shriek is given, nor groan is heard Nor lip is moved, nor hand is stirred ; With one long, glassy, spectral stare, The enlarging eye is fastened there, As if that scalp of whitened hair Had power to change at sight alone - Even as the serpent-locks which bound Medusa's fatal forehead round- The gazer into stone ! The Indian's knife is raised on high — Why stays it in the empty air ? Before the startled warrior's eye, The Jesuit's silver cross is bare ! * Cowering and trembling, at the sight, And muttering, in his wild affright, A prayer to Squawmanit, with whom, Of weal or woe, rests woman's doom, Yet tracing, midst that heathen prayer, The Christian's holy sign in air ; Rebuked and awed, that savage wild Is powerless as a very child. Rise, woman !- nought can harm thee now; Live for repentance, vigils, prayers ; The crimson may be made as snow, By penance long and tears.' She does not speak — she stirs no limb - . No breath waves back the fallen curl ; Awe-struck, the Jesuit bendeth him Over the wretched girl. The heart is still — the pulse has fled — The unclosed eye is fixed and dim, Ruth BONYTHON is dead ! * Father Hennepin, misionary among the Iroquois, mentions that the Indians believed him to be a conjuror, and that they were particularly afraid of a bright silver chalice, which he had in his possession. The Indians,' says Pere Jerome Lallamante, fear us as the greatest sorcerers upon earth.' VOL. VIII. 274 GLIMPSES OF SOCIETY AND MANNERS. BY A COSMOPOLITAN. CINA. I HAVE been a wanderer on the face of the earth, and am not yet satisfied to be at rest. In this interval, I set down for your amusement - for edification I may not call it — some notices of men in different climates and under various governments. China has a vast population, for there is little celibacy, war, or pestilence ; many find no cover set for them at nature's table'- the straightened parents suppress the best law of nature, and cast their helpless offspring upon the streams. The infants, thus aban- doned, are tied in a box, and many are rescued by public officers. It would be better, that the officers should be appointed rather to receive them from the parents. The water, like the land, hath its inhabitants — two millions, to whom the earth is but an occasional element, have no home but the frail barks on the rivers. These boats, at the large cities, are moored in lines, with spaces, like streets, between them. The whole population may be one hundred and fifty millions ; of these, one million and two hundred thousand are soldiers — better fitted, however, to suppress insurrections at home than to achieve foreign conquests. The Chinese are, to an extreme, the reverse of warlike, or the Great Wall had never been built to show how much their industry exceeds their courage. In all China, there are but about a hundred family names, and the Chinese are sometimes called, collectively, the hundred names.' No marriages are contracted between persons of the same name. The Chinese dress, it has been said, was devised by Modesty herself, though it is little indebted to Taste. It is loose and clumsy, and conceals the shape. The Chinese have a repugnance to the display of the human figure, even in sculpture ; the less they have of virtue the more they pretend to decorum. The chief garment is a long and loose robe, bound with a silken sash, from which are suspended the chop-sticks, and, in the higher ranks, a rich pipe, tobacco-pouch, two watches, and a fan. No gentleman is dressed without his fan. This peaceful instrument hangs in a case, like a scabbard, and is worn alike by civil and military. The dress of the females nearly resembles that of the men ; but the colors are more gaudy. A Chinese lady conceals every part but her face; she trims her eyebrows into an arched line, stains her teeth, paints her face, and permits her nails to grow several inches - carrying them in a sheath of bamboo. Her China. 275 feet are cramped, in childhood — making childhood a season of torture, and crippling her through life, so that she rather totters than walks. The compressing bandages occasion so much pain, that children are sometimes restrained by force from tearing ihem off. The shoe of a belle is four inches in length and two in width. These horrid feet are called “golden lilies.' As the Chinese never change their dress from motives of clean- liness, but wear the same, night and day, — and as there is no washing machine, no washing, and but an unfrequent dipping of the garments in ley, — the presence even of a grandee may be de- tected by more than one of the senses. There are no handker- chiefs, but little pieces of paper are used for the nose, and the hands are wiped on the sleeve of the robe. Truth requires it to be said, that vermin spare not the highest classes. One badge of servitude only is retained — the long queue, de- rived from the Tartars. It is a single tuft of hair, depending from the crown, while the rest of the head is shaven: it reaches to the waist, and is terminated by a braid of silk. A Chinese cannot be more disgraced than by losing his queue, or more affronted than by having it pulled. When he stands, it hangs down, but when he runs, it stands out, horizontally. The Chinese are neither so good nor so bad as they have been represented. The early travelers and missionaries, finding a state of society in which there was no discord, though there was no freedom, were prone to overvalue it, and the French writers spread the same delusion over Europe. Two opposite parties in France vied in extolling the Chinese — the Jesuits, to show the importance of a country they were converting — and the philoso- phers, that they might prefer the doctrines of Confucius to Rev. elation. Subsequent travelers, finding much of this praise unde- served, were perhaps disposed to deny credit to the Chinese for their actual virtues, and described them, in general terms, as dis- honest, inhospitable, cowardly, false, and ungrateful. No for- eigner, however, bas of late had an opportunity of seeing them to good advantage, and it is admitted that they are, with all their faults, tractable, frugal, cheerful, and most industrious. Their moral virtues rest upon a slender foundation, but their habits are domestic. The despotism of the government, the severity of the police, and the demoralizing tendency of corporeal punish- ment, inflicted at the will of an officer, on all ranks, must lead to the abasement of the people. The bamboo, like the cudgel in Russia, is never at rest; it is the image of authority ;' honor and generosity vanish before it, and falsehood and meanness are as general as the fear of it. The shadow is followed, rather than the substance ; ceremony is a greater study than duty. Yet, nothing is more common than moral inscriptions in houses and shops; they are a part of Chi. 276 Glimpses of Society and Manners. nese ostentation. They are like much of the national lore, indis- putable truisms, as — when men discover their errors, they ought to reform ;' (act with sincerity, and you will be trusted.' A say- ing peculiarly Chinese, is — music distinguishes the honorable from the ignorant ; ceremony, the courtier from the plebeian.' Ceremony makes up the life of a Chinese ; it is his study, his guide ; there is no authority so strong with him as custom. The very children of the higher classes are infected with a gravity be- yond their joyous age, which restrains them from the natural sports of childhood. The books of ceremonies are numerous, and regulate nearly every occurrence in life. The invitation to a feast is repeated several times, in writing, before it is accepted, and after this distant skirmishing the battle of ceremony begins. A Chinese banquet is not to be tasted without long study and prac- tice in the ceremonial. Vauban never had more indirect modes of approaching a fortification than the Chinese have in sitting down to dinner. Each guest has a small table to himself, but no one must begin until all are ready ; and in eating, the company preserve the reg- ularity of a drill. To drink, is a more serious undertaking. The head-waiter, falling on his knees, invites the company to take a glass, when the parties rise, as one man, and walk solemnly into the middle of the room, each one holding his cup with both hands; these they raise as high as their lips, and then sink them almost to the ground — the lower, the more polite. This is re- peated several times, each one watching intently the progress of the other, and no one drinking until, after many attempts, the cups all touch the lips at the same moment. The cups are then drained and inverted, and, after various salutings, the company return to their seats. To the Chinese, we are indebted for that convenient subterfuge, the visiting-card; but we have reduced to a single slip, that which is, in China, a pocket-volume. The Kotou, or act of adoration' to the emperor, is performed by nine prostrations. The English diplomacy, on these ceremo- nies, consumed as much time as the object of the mission, and after all their caution, the distrustful strangers were marched back to their ships, under flags, describing them as tribute-bearers to the emperor. By an imperial order, it was arranged, at Lord Amherst's re- ception, that · His Majesty should, with profound veneration, as- cend the throne, in the Palace of Light and Splendor ; that the guard should wear their leopard-tail dresses, and that the band should play the Lung Ping,' or a glorious subjugation.' Then the great officers were to proclaim the word Peen, (whip) and the band to play Che-ping, 'a subjugating sway.' The Chinese, though insolent to foreigners, for whom the com- mon term is foreign devil, are timid before magistrates, having China. 277 been trained to obedience under institutions that have inverted the very passions and instincts of nature. A Chinese child is early made to believe that the emperor is the general father, and that to resist his authority is both treason and impiety. The books abound in anecdotes of dutiful children ; they uphold the fifth commandment ; parents are cherished, and infants abandoned to perish. Many of the incidents related of filial duty are pecul- iar. The highest encomiums have been bestowed on the son of parents who were too poor to purchase curtains to their bed ; he prescribed it. to himself, to lie motionless upon his own couch and let the mosquitos feast upon him, rather than brush them off, lest it might add to the number that afflicted his parents. But the art of defence is taught in books, though there are no pitched battles. The Canton Register says, that the first lesson of a boxer is to thrust, for hours, at a bag of sand, and he varies his assault in the manæuvres called — a dragon thrusting out his claws, a drunken China-man knocking at your door, and a crane and eagle reciprocally embarrassed.' To an American traveler, China seems like another planet. Its peculiarities of language and customs have preserved ihe na- tionality, by rendering difficult all communication with foreigners. The first impression of a stranger is, that he is in the midst of a redundant population ; everywhere he sees masses of people, chiefly of one sex, for females are secluded. The good-humor of the crowd is remarkable ; there is no brawling or complaint, except the wailing of some unpitied offender undergoing the bam- boo, for justice here is prompt, if not discriminating. In the interior, the foreigner sees frequent and populous cities, with walls, gates, and pagodas ; he sees fields without cattle or enclos- ures, and soldiers in paper helmets and quilted petticoats, fanning themselves, or kneeling to salute a passing officer. The shops glitter with varnish and gilding, and gaudy lanterns are suspended before them, incribed — they do not cheat here,' to remove the more probable belief that they do. There are many processions, civic, military, nuptial and funereal. In these is music, in which noise prevails over harmony. The streets offer every variety of occupation. There, the barber has his chair, the cobbler, his bench. At sunset, the tumult of the busy and the idle ceases, the streets are deserted, and the city is quiet. The Chinese have, if not invention, a great talent for imitation, and copy, very exactly, any European work. Their powers of deception are great, and the cheats of a city almost equal in num- ber every bargain and sale. No purchaser, who would be just to himself, buys without his own measure or weight; and many a foreigner, at Canton, has bought as a capon only the skin of one, adroitly stuffed ; or as a ham, a gammon, from which he could slice nothing but chips. The condition of females is universally 278 Glimpses of Society and Manners. the test of civilization, and in China their lot is deplorable. Few of them can read, and all, whose condition permits it, are se- cluded. They are drudges and slaves, not wives. They are contracted without their own consent, and they may be repudiated without their own fault. The stronger sex have made the laws which bind the weaker to domestic servitude, forgetful that Prov- idence has entrusted the protection of the weak to the generosity of the strong. The Chinese have considerable skill, and many secrets in the arts, which they seem to have obtained by accident, for they are ignorant of the principles. They have lenses and spectacles, without a knowledge of optics. Their music is rude and dis- cordant, and, to an European ear, a Chinese concert is intolera- ble. They calculate numbers, readily, by means of a table with balls. They carve neatly, in ivory and wood, and we are famil- iar, in this country, with their concentric moveable globes, one within another, and all cut from one piece of ivory. Many of their inventions were anterior to the same in Europe, but they have been little improved. They had, centuries ago, a knowl- edge of gunpowder, of the magnet, and of printing. Yet, their guns are clumsy match-locks; their types, stereotype pages cut in wood; and their mariner's compass is a guide little to be trusted. Types are so cumbrous, that they are housed in large buildings, and a memorandum is made in a book, stating where they may be found for a future edition. The general beverage is tea, which is taken at all hours, and always without sugar or milk, hot water being poured upon the leaves in the cup. The tea is much improved by a voyage to Europe ; and a most acceptable present, at Canton, is a box which has been returned. The conoscenti in tea are very care- ful to boil the water over a fire made of pine, in an earthen vessel made in a particular province, and to infuse it in a cup of another kind. The manner of presiding at a tea-table is, in this ceremo- nious country, an art with its principles, rules, and instructers. The emperor, Kien Long, recorded the virtues of tea in an ode, which may be read on half the tea-cups in the Empire. « On a slow fire set a tripod, whose color and texture show its long use; fill it with clear snow-water, boil it as long as would turn a fish white, and a cray-fish red, throw it upon the delicate leaves of choice tea in the cup, and let it remain as long as the vapor rises in a cloud. At your ease drink this precious liquor, which will chase away the five causes of trouble. We may taste and feel, but not describe, the state of repose produced by it.' The Chinese language has no affinity with any other. In the tongues of Europe, the knowledge of one is a step towards an- other ; but when the linguist has mastered many languages, he has few principles to aid him in the Chinese. The written and China. 279 oral languages are entirely different. The spoken is composed entirely of monosyllables, and these are few, though they are varied by various tones and inflections, some of them so delicate, that they escape an European ear ; thus, the word po signifies, among many other things, an old woman, a captive, wise, in- clined, a very little, to boil, to winnow rice, to prepare, and to cleave. This ambiguity of language leads the Chinese to use many gestures and contortions of body, in speaking ; and they often make with a finger the sign or character which expresses the thing. The number of sounds in the language, which can be expressed in English, are about three hundred and fifty, so that a similar sound is applied to more than two hundred different ideas. All words are indeclinable ; there is neither gender, num- ber, case, mode, tense, or person. This defect is remedied in part by an invariable order, or following of the words. Their written language is good in theory, only it expresses no sound being intended, without the intervention of it, to represent ideas alone. The characters are, some of them, rude representations of the objects signified, as in the sign for a woman, child, &c. The character for a prison is an enclosure — and a dot in it, re- presents a captive. The character for a tree, if used twice, repre- sents a thicket — and thrice, a forest ; that for time, repeated, is eternity. Many of the emblems, expressing simple ideas, are ingeniously compounded ; thus, the character for mother and water, when combined, make the sea, mother of waters. Good and word, unite to make praise; and calamity is expressed by the characters for fire and sword — also, by the sign for a broken reed. The signs for ear and door, make to listen ; to grieve, is expressed by a heart and knife ; and to meditate, by a heart and field. A bargain is denoted by a word and a nail. The sign for a barber is compounded of the characters for razor and re- spect; and comfort is expressed by the emblems for rice and mouth. Happiness is denoted by the characters for children and land ; and this symbol embroidered, is often presented by the emperor as a mark of peculiar favor. The Chinese are as little gallant in their signs as in their courtships. The sign for a wife is compounded of woman and broom ; and security is represented by a claw placed over a woman. To scold, is expressed by the signs for two women ; and levity is a man between two women. Conceited, is a woman and to strut ; anger, a woman and sour wine. Handsome, however, is a woman and to sigh ; and to marry, is a woman and take. There is a general key, by which about two hundred characters, which enter into the composition of most others, may be known. These characters mark the prin- cipal objects of nature, and are the roots or genera of the lan- guage. The dictionaries are arranged in reference to them. The heart is one of these roots; and the curved lines for heart, enter 280 Glimpses of Society and Manners. into the character, for all sentiments, passions and affections. Under the genus hand, are arranged all trades and manual em- ployments; and under that of word, all kinds of speech, debate, study, writing and knowledge. Some of the usual figures of speech are peculiar ; a mat or bed is called the kingdom of sleep; the head, the sanctuary of reason; the eyes, the stars of the fore- head; the stomach, laboratory of aliments; and a lamb, a sucker on its knees. The wounded, in a battle, are said to be spoiled ; and widows and orphans are called the poor of Heaven. The fundamental part of the Chinese penal code, has been translated by Sir George Staunton. The first and greatest crime is treason, which is defined to be an attempt to violate divine order of things upon earth ; resistance to the emperor, is there- fore a disturbance of the peace of the universe.' The punishment for treason, is to be executed by a lingering and painful death ; the criminal's goods are confiscated, and all his male relations, over sixteen years of age, and within the degree of father, grandfather, son, paternal uncles and their sons, are put to death. If under sixteen years, they are enslaved. The other crimes, defined next after treason, and punished with nearly equal severity, are desertion, or quitting the empire to adhere to a foreign power ; parricide, or an attempt to murder a parent, grandparent, uncle or aunt; massacre, or the murder of three or more members of one family ; sacrilege, or stealing from temples, or the emperor ; counterfeiting the emperor's seal, or administering to him any im- proper medicines ; impiety, or disrespect to parents or near re- lations, or refusal to honor their memory ; discord, or maltreating members of the family ; and insubordination, or rising of the peo- ple. The penalty for these crimes is never remitted. In the laws regulating the palace, it is provided that the em- peror's physician shall receive a hundred blows, if he administer unusual medicines ; and that the cook, if he serve up unusual food, shall first swallow it and then receive a hundred blows. If his majesty ask a question, the first officer in rank is directed to reply ; and if an inferior should speak first, he is mulcted in a month's salary. Any officer of state, who ambitiously addresses the emperor, in artful terms, soliciting places, is punished by a hundred blows, and if he falsely accuse another officer, is be- headed. The government is, in theory and practice, a despotism. The will of the emperor is above all law, and obedience is inculcated to him as a general Father, for his government, such as it is, is called paternal. 281 MR. EVERETT. - The office of Governor of Massachusetts requires peculiar rather than great powers. It does not task severely the creative faculties, nor call for depth and strength of reasoning or splendor of eloquence, but requires qualities of mind and character as rare, perhaps, as these. It demands strong good sense and the power of seeing things precisely as they are — a proper share of political experience as well as of general knowledge — a mind free from the madness of party spirit — coolness and deliberation in form- ing opinions, and promptness in acting upon them, and decision of character and independence of mind, combined with a readi- ness to take advice from competent sources, and free from the taint of self-willed obstinacy. In his private as well as official con- duct, it is important that there should be a consistency and pro- priety — a freedom from extravagance and eccentricity, and an unostentatious simplicity and dignity, in order to ensure the re- spect of the public ; since the good people of this commonwealth are a shrewd and cautious race, fond of watching the doings and sayings of their rulers, and not disposed to think small-beer' of themselves; and they distrust a man of whims and caprices and hobbies, and shake their heads at any one in whose character, manner, or bearing, there is anything to excite even a good- natured smile. We are too much inclined to frown upon vivid personal traits, and electric impulses of thought and feeling, and to estimate a stately and uniform propriety of conduct at rather more than it is worth. The public man, in our Staté, who should commit a freak like that of Alcibiades, in cutting off his dog's tail, that people might talk about that, and not about him, would be considered a candidate for the Lunatic Hospital in Worces- ter, rather than any honors or offices. The peculiar fitness of Edward Everett for the station of Gov- ernor, has been testified by the unanimity with which the nomina- tion was made, and the general favor with which it has been re- ceived. There is no quality essential to the office, with which he is not amply endued ; and we need hardly say, that he has, in an uncommon degree, those great powers, which we have before spoken of as not being absolutely essential to it. We would not, by any means, however, be understood to say, that they are therefore useless; since, in one who has the substantial and indis- pensable qualities, new lustre and dignity will be conferred upon the office by splendor of genius and variety of intellectual accom- plishments. Mr. Everett's brilliant powers, as a writer and an orator — the depth, soundness, and extent of his learning, and the beauty and vigor of his style, need no tribute of applause from VOL. VIII. 36 292 Mr. Everett. our humble pen. Our Magazine is probably read by few who require to be enlightened as to the nature and extent of his services to American literature. As long as clear and logi- cal reasoning wins the assent of the understanding; as long as true eloquence stirs the blood; as long as ease and grace of style approve themselves to the taste - so long will the com- positions of Mr. Everett be quoted and admired. But, it is not because he is a fine scholar, a fine writer, and an eloquent speaker, that we think him so worthy of the support of the peo- ple of Massachusetts -- for it would be very possible for a man to be all these and yet not be fitted for the office of Governor — but because, in addition to these splendid gifts, he has those sub- stantial, serviceable, working-day qualities, which do qualify him, most eminently. The Corinthian capital of polished scholar- ship rests upon the fine column of common sense, reason, and judgment. In this respect, justice has hardly been done to Mr. Everett, even by his warmest admirers. In common with all men of va- rious genius, (Edmund Burke, for instance) he has been obliged to encounter a common prejudice, that eininence in one depart- ment of intellectual labor can only be obtained at the price of me- diocrity in all others — a notion, untrue, abstractly considered, and strikingly so in the present instance. During the many years in which Mr. Everett has represented his district in the National Congress, he has given abundant proof of all the quali- fications requisite in a statesman and a politician ; except, perhaps, that of readiness and dexterity in extemporaneous debate — a tal- ent of no very high order, by the bye, and often found in con- junction with narrow views, vulgar passions, and shallow self- conceit. He has applied to the consideration of every subject, a sound judgment, unwarped by prejudice, and an elevated tone of feeling, untainted by narrow interests and petty prepossessions. Remarkable as he is, for brilliant endowments of mind, he is not less so for substantial and practical ones. No man investigates a dry subject with more industry and thoroughness, or presents the re- sults of labor with more clearness and force. In political knowl- edge, and in a complete understanding of the prominent political questions of the day, he is allowed to have no superior and few equals. His powers are of that dexterous and versatile charac- ter, which make them susceptible of an infinite variety of appli- • cation. No man can throw off (if we may be allowed the ex- pression) a greater amount of intellectual labor in a given time. The extent and accuracy of his knowlege give peculiar weight to his opinions, on subjects of national interest, as those of a man who has not formed them rashly, or taken them by an act of transfer. During the period in which he has been a public man, the amount of his political labors alone, has been prodigious. Mr. Everelt. 283 Without taking into account his incessant and laborious efforts, as a member, and during one session as Chairman, of the Commit- tee on Foreign Relations, as one of the minority of the famous Retrenchment Committee and of the Committee on the Bank, appointed last spring, and as Chairman of the special Committee on the Georgia controversy — we would mention, by way of proof, his speeches on the tariff and the removal of the Indians ; his profound and elaborate articles, in the North American Re- view, on the north-eastern boundary, the nullification question, and reform in England, and the letters to Mr. Canning, on the relations between the general government and the Indians. The sound views and political sagacity displayed in these productions, are not less remarkable than their elaborate research and literary ability. The people of Massachusetts need not be informed, that Mr. Everett's sentiments, upon all the great political questions of the day, are sound and correct. He has been an undeviating supporter, from the first, of the principles of which the Whig party are now the representatives. The moderation of his char- acter and the coolness of his temperament, have saved him from political intolerance and the rancor of party-spirit. He is not exclusive or proscriptive in his views ; nor is be a man to irri- tate, wantonly and needlessly, an lionest political opponent. His dignified deportment, both in public and private, and his amiable character, also, cannot but insure him the respect of men of all parties, who have not yet abandoned decency in the discussion of everything that relates to politics. We trust, that there will not be any division caused in the ranks of the Whig party, on account of Mr. Everett's nomination by the Anti-masonic party, or on account of the sentiments, he has expressed upon the subject of masonry. Upon that ques- tion - apart from all political considerations — his views, proba- bly, do not differ from those of a majority of the reflecting men in the Commonwealth. We have little sympathy with political Anti-masonry, but we should be very unwilling to call in question the sincerity and honesty of the numerous intelligent and respec- table men, who belong to that party. To imagine, that Anti- masonry taints whatever it touches, shows more of the ſervor of zeal than of the coolness of sound judgment. We believe that, in the gubernatorial office, Mr. Everett will be guided by that moderation, dignity, and propriety, which have always characterized his public conduct. We believe that, in the selection of public officers, he will regard personal qualifi- cations, and not the claims of a party. We believe, that he will not be a partizan Governor, but the Governor of the whole State. If we did not believe so, we would not give him our own vote, much less enforce his claims upon the consideration of others. 284 Credulous People. It would be a proud day for Massachusetts, that should see Mr. Everett its Governor and Mr. Webster the President of the United States. To bring about the dawning of that day, there are no toils, which patriotism should refuse to undergo ; no sacri- fices, which it should hesitate to make. To the old, it would be a renewal of youth, and to the young, a restoration of those glories of the first temple,' which their fathers beheld. The star of Washington would again be in the ascendant — obscured by no murky mists and earth-born vapors; but shining with mild and auspicious light, and shedding sweet influences' from its sphere. Whether both these fond anticipations shall ever be re- alized, is now merely a matter of hope and conjecture ; but the people of Massachusetts owe it to themselves to leave no efforts untried, to secure success to the true man, in the less as well as the greater election. Whatever may be the result, in either case, they can do their duty, and neither men nor angels can do more. · CREDULOUS PEOPLE. Talia contingant somnia saepe mihi. Milton, Elegia 3d, L. 68. . - In a shoemaker's shop, in a town not far from Boston, about sixty years ago, worked Samuel Smallcorn, a youth who was placed there by his father, that, under a sponsible master, he might learn a reputable trade. Sam was an honest lad, some- times easily imposed upon, from the simplicity of his heart, though by no means lacking in understanding. He was rather credulous, because he never wished to impose upon others; and hence, he was the butt of the wit of some of his fellow-appren- tices, whose malice, in the law phrase, supplied their years. Sam had been honestly educated — had been taught his cate- chism, which he could repeat, every word of it, with all the com- mandments and the reasons annexed. He had the highest respect for his father, who was the worthy representative of a long line of Puritan ancestors. In the same shop worked Phil Blake, who was the suspicious son of a very suspicious mother. One day, when Sam was quoting, very innocently, some of the sayings of his father, Blake cut him short, by remarking - • Your father, Sam, is a sly old fox; he has more blots on his character than you know of. Blots !' said Sam, what blots ? he is as honest a man as ever trod soal-leather.' Credulous People. 295 That may be,' said Blake ; “but, let me tell you, what you never knew before, and what you may as well know now as at at any other time — he has one son that is not your brother.' Impossible !' cried Sam ; you are joking.' No, upon my soul; it is the truth. I should not fear to lay my hand on the bible, and say — that your father has one son, that is not your brother.' Sam heard the awful assertion, and turned as pale as death, His father ! his respected father !- a member of the church, and once having two votes for the office of deacon !—could the vene- rable old Mr. Smallcorn have an illegitimate son! It was just after breakfast ; but the contents of the morning meal did not stay long on Sam's stomach. He was sick of the world ; sick of his father ; sick of himself ; and it seemed to him, as it did to Bru- tus under the rock, that virtue was an empty name. He worried over the tidings all that day ; nor was it, until the shades of dewy evening came over the earth, that he found out the dreadful am- phibology — for Blake asked him, whether he himself was brother to himself ?' and whether he was not his father's son ?' Then poor Sam had a second penance to undergo — being laughed at for his credulity. For my part, I sympathize with poor Sam Smallcorn, and I de- test Blake, whom I devotedly hope was brought afterwards to the gallows; for there are cases when credulity is more honorable than unbelief. Indeed, I do not know a phrase, which is more abused than that of credulous people.' What is it that makes a man credulous ? If, moved by a tale of wo, you give to a being, whose form is emaciated and whose eyes are sunk in sorrow, some skeptical old Hunks, who loves bis purse better than his conscience, will call you credulous. . If you think it best to part with your gold to spread the purest principles, purer than fined gold, you will be regarded as the dupe of some holy cheats, whose chief design, however, seems to be to cheat mankind into virtue and happiness. Some people seem to have a mortal aversion to any kind of credulity, which lays the least tax on their selfish- ness, or calls for any benevolent exertion. It is credulous to be- lieve, that the sufferings of the poor are great, as that there are such beings as the poor. It is credulous to believe the Bible ; or to suppose, that the Author of nature values the salvation of men more than the laws of nature. It is credulous to believe, that religion is anything else than a dream. It is credulous to suppose, that this vast systeni was made for any purpose, or that the mighty wheels of nature were first created, and are now rolled round, by an invisible hand. It is credulous to imagine, that there is any moral government ; any reward for the virtuous, or any future punishment for the most abandoned of mankind. In some people's imagination, conscience is the very organ of cre- 256 Credulous People. dulity ; and the only way of being a philosopher is to suppress its dictates and blunt its sensibilities. To hear some people talk, you would suppose, that to be credulous was the greatest disgrace; and the only way to avoid that imputation, was to reject all the truths around which the pious have gathered ; and which Heaven has bound, by the most sacred obligations, on the hopes and fears of mankind. I remember that Plato, in one of his dialogues, says that there was an order of men, in his day, who rejected spiritual con- ceptions ; and taking hold of rocks, hills, or oaks, or some other material substance, affirmed that these were the only real exist- ences; that no wise man would puzzle himself about any ideas or notions, but such as he could see with his eyes, smell with his nose, or touch with his fingers. Perhaps the peculiar, tenuous and transcendental philosophy of Plato, was calculated to repel opposing sects to opposite extremes ; and he who was always above the clouds might provoke others to be always groveling on the ground. But, however this may be, we seem, in these days of innovation, which some call improvement, to be making rapid strides to this blessed system. I was told, of a certain book- seller, in a certain city, that often scratches his head and declares that the only work which he fully understands is a treatise on cookery. Another substantial gentleman, who boards at Tre- mont-house, assures me that, after having long studied Chauncey on the Benevolence of the Deity, he is convinced he never un- derstands the blessings of Heaven so well as when they descend before him in the shape of a plum-pudding. One man tells me, that even his eye is almost too spiritual an organ for him to trust to ; he is not sure of the existence of an object of sight, especially if he sees it at a distance. Of all spiritual objects, he is most sure of the being and happy influence of a good glass of gin, when he feels it warming his stomach. An infidel is too incredulous to believe the gospel; and, har. ing laid up whatever stock of merit is to be gained by rejecting the Bible, he thinks he is going full sail, down the seven streams of the river of Wisdom. He congratulates himself, that, what- ever else the world may say of him, they cannot accuse him of being a gull or a hypocrite. But, my dear sir, do you not see that every proposition has two sides to it, and that credulity con- sists in believing that sin which has the least evidence ? Believe ing a negative, always implies a hearty faith in all the positive proofs, which support that negative, and the rejection of all the evidence on the other side. You cannot believe in Christianity, but you can believe, that life is without an aim, and death with- out consequences ; you can believe, that such a character as that of Jesus Christ (which even commanded the admiration of Rous- seau) was drawn at random ; you can believe, that apostles and Credulous People. 287 martyrs conspired to deceive mankind, though their lot was pov- erty and their reward death. You can believe, that all that has animated the hopes of the saint, cheered his prison with consola- tion, and strewed his pillow with immortal roses, was delusion ; you can rejoice in a discovery, which makes life a blank, and leaves man little better than a two-legged beast. You can be- lieve, that the Son of God was an imposter, and Bolingbroke and Tom Paine were the benefactors of mankind.* I confess, that such philosophy is too credulous for me. But, it is not merely in what he rejects, that the infidel's cre- dulity appears. When a man abandons the word of God, it is almost always the case, that some strong delusion is sent into his mind, which makes him infamous on his own system. It would be a laughable catalogue enough, to collect all the fooleries which infidels have most devoutly believed, and which are too much for the deglutition of most Christian old women. The great Hobbs, whose atheistic metaphysics shook all England to the centre, was so afraid of pokers, that he never ventured to sleep alone in a dark room. Hume, who regarded all religions, and Christianity among the rest, as the playsome whimsies of monkeys in human shape, yet rather supposed, on the whole, that the Pagan Mythol- ogy was the true system of the universe - he was sure that, that worship was the most easy and pleasing to his taste. Lord Her- bert, who could not believe the miracles of the gospel, nor see anything in the moral designs of the gospel worthy of an occasion on which miracles should be wrought, nevertheless supposed his own book so important to the welfare of mankind, that a sweet voice, about noon-day, as he was sitting in his room, came from Heaven and urged him to publish it. Cardinal Mazarin was kept awake for whole nights, by the predictions of an astrologer ; and Cardan could foretell his future fortunes, by little specks rising on his finger nails. Such are the triumphs of philosophy ; and these are the men, who charge Christians with credulity for be- lieving in a system, which commanded the assent of a Newton, and lighted up the devotions of a Pascal. If infidelity works such folly in the strongest brains, one may well suppose that it will upset the wits of those who are only in- fidels as far as their parts will allow. The truth is, a man must have some genius to make infidelity wear well ; and nothing is more credulous than a weak head attempting to carry the strong notions of its betters. Infidelity is like brandy, which, while it makes some good fellows gay and amusing, taken in the same draughts, it turns others into drunken sots. Let common mortals beware, and leave to Hercules his club, and to Voltaire his prin- * Yes, though the one raced with his naked harlots, and the other loved his bottle better than his God. 288 Credulous People. ciples. I heard a poor man, in a country town, complaining, a few years ago, that the political movements of our country puz- zled him ; he had his eye on the office of post-master; he had been trying to know which party would be uppermost; but no sooner did he take his side, than, unluckily, the party he joined went down ; and, with some spleen, he remarked, he wished he could tell which party would be uppermost for six months to come. Our political movements, he said, in Washington, completely baffled his powers. Now, what this man is to Van Buren, a common infidel is to David Hume. The system is too much for his head, however congenial it may be to his moral feelings. • My neighbor, Dr. LITTLETOAD, is an infidel as far as he un- derstands the subject. He has imbibed the notion, that it is highly becoming a doctor of medicine to be very skeptical on all other subjects; and I hardly know which are most harmless, his principles or his pills. I have never taken either ; and I am as ignorant of the composition of the one as the other. The doctor is always laughing at the credulity of mankind. He wishes to believe the Bible, but he is a philosopher; and cannot be so cre- dulous as the vulgar herd. I was reading to him, the other day, the account of the resurrection of Lazarus, and asked him what he thought of it. Why, sir,' said he, there are great difficul- ties in the way of receiving that story. It cannot be accounted for on any of the principles of gravity, or galvanism, or electri- city. Perhaps, however, Lazarus may have been in a state of suspended animation ; and we have known people in a syncope to recover by a blow on the hand or a voice in the ear.' So, Dr. Littletoad has some hopes, that the story of Lazarus may be true. Dr. Littletoad delights to hold the balance of probability with an impartial hand, as if it were a moot point, and a matter of in- difference to mankind, whether the supernatural events of rev- lation were believed or not. The genealogy of Moses puzzles him amazingly; and he considers it very hard to conceive that mankind descended originally from one pair ; though, on other occasions, I have heard him maintain, that the orang-outang is but an uneducated off-shoot of the human race. He rather sup- poses there may be such a thing as equivocal generation. He has seen a horse-hair play strange pranks after having been soaked in water; and a very sensible ship-master told him, on his honor, that he saw growing, on a tree in the West-Indies, a something, which looked very much like an incipient man. He wished that the vegetable embryo had been suffered to ripen. En this, however, the doctor was very disinterested; for the best part of his practice consists in being a man-midwife. But the most credulous man, that ever I knew, is my old school-fellow, ABNER ALLTAIL. Abner was an unaccountable boy, when young ; and signalized himself at school, by endeavor- Slavonia. 291 POLAND, Mickiewicz. Dzis sepy czarnem skrzydlem oblatuja groby, Jak w miescie, ktore calkiem wybije zaraza, Wiecznie z baszt powiewaja choragwie zaloby. Now, black-winged vultures hover over graves, As in a town, by wasting plague consumed, Wave ever funeral-banners on the walls. Thou standest as a castle on a rock, Dismantled, dark — the hospitable flame No longer lights its halls ; unknown to fame, The simple shepherd shelters there his flock. With trumpet-peal its gilded arches rung; Forth from its gates, the lordly champions rode ; Bannered and helmed, the dazzling torrent flowed ; On tower and keep, the royal standard hung. A fire has swept along those festive halls ; Broken and toppling, reel the blackened walls ; The voice of love and hope and joy is gone. Like funeral-flags, the raven spreads his wings ; In chambers, once the proud abode of kings, Now dwell the lizard and the owl alone. Zemsta pospiech radzi, Juz pojechali — Niech ich Bog prowadzi. SLOWACKI. Vengeance bids haste, Already they are gone — may God conduct them. Vengeance calls you ! Quick, be ready- Rouse ye, in the name of God. Onward, onward ! strong and steady- Dash to earth the oppressor's rod. Vengeance calls! Ye brave, ye brave ! Rise, and spurn the name of slave. Grasp the sword !- its edge is keen; Seize the gun !— its ball is true ; Sweep your land from tyrants clean Haste, and scour it through and through. Onward, onward ! Vengeance cries. Rush to arms — the tyrant flies. By the souls of patriots gone, Wake - arise - your fetters break. Kosciuzko bids you on - Sobieski cries, awake! Rise, and front the despot Czar — Rise, and dare the unequal war. Vengeance calls you ! Quick, be ready --- Think of what your sires have been. Onward, onward ! strong and steady - Drive the tyrant to his den. On, and let the watchword be : Country, home, and liberty ! 292 Slavonia. SERVIA. Zemaljsko je za maleno tsarstvo, A nebesko u vek i do veka. N. S. P. (TZAR LAZAR.) Small and transient is an earthly kingdom, But the heavenly is now and ever. Go forth, and ask no blessing on thy sword — Go forth, and rush upon the turbaned foe; Strong be the hand, that deals the deadly blow; That hand shall scatter wide the Turkish horde. Thine shall be earthly power and fame ; but know, The gates of Heaven shall ever on thee close- In vain, for thee, the stream of mercy flows; For thou hast chosen thy good, thy all, below. Pause on the field, and bend thyself in prayer; Yield reverently unto thy God and Lord ; Listen the hopes and terrors of his word ; Then thou shalt fall — thy better lot is there - Thy crown shall be in Heaven. He knelt and prayed ; He marched and fought, and low in death was laid. Srblji vichu : za vjeru rishtjansku, I za slavu imena Srpskoga. N. S. P. Cry the Servians : for the faith of Christians, And the glory of the name of Servia. For faith and fame : be that the cry — We have our pride, and we our fame - Heroes of high and mighty name, On thousand fields of battle lie. Long centuries we in arms have stood ; Have kept our faith when others fell : The Turk might crush ; he could not quell — Our covenant we have sealed in blood. Our land is free — the cross alone Shines o'er our vales, and crowns our hills ; The peasant reaps the soil he tills ; The Moslemvultures far have flown. Again they come — like clouds of night, They hang along yon mountain's brow. Rise, Servians, rise — be heroes, now - This be the last and fatal fight. Hark to the charge — their Allahu - It rings, not ours — it rings their knell. Rush to the shock, and bursting through, Leave not a Turk the tale to tell. Slavonia. 293 BOHEMIA. Kdoz gste Bozj bogownjey A zakona geho. Ye warriors of God, and of his word. ZIZKA, A holy feeling leads them on ; For God their swords they draw ; Their chief, the fearless champion Of God and of his law. Not theirs, the strength of mortal fight- Religion nerves their hands; They lift their arms for truth and right; For faith, each warrior stands. The ardent hymn, the solemn prayer, Instead of trump and drum, Tell to their enemies : beware — . The sacred legions come. With brow serene and steady eye, Firm foot and measured tread — • Huss :' bursts at once their battle-cry- • His blood for truth was shed.' And loud, as pealing thunder, breaks, From thousand hearts, their hymn ; Headlong they rush — earth 'neath them shakes - Smoke rolls — the day is dim. • Huss :' swells the cry, and Zizka's shout * Rings through the roar of war. The foe recoils — he breaks in rout, And scatters wide and far. Glory to God!' the victory-song- • Praise him — the field is won. He only makes the warrior strong, His will — his will, be done!' 294 AARON BURR. FROM THE JOURNAL OF A FOREIGN TRAVELER. While I was in the city of New York, I felt desirous of an interview with the celebrated Col. AARON BURR. On inquiry, I found that he lived in a retired and obscure manner; but that, he permitted strangers of respectability to visit him, when he had reason to believe that their visits were not prompted by an im- pertinent curiosity. I procured an introduction. On entering his apartment, I was struck with the careless manner in which everything appeared about him. His attire seemed to partake of the same indiffer- ence. My reception was cold and formal, but courteous. As I advanced towards him, he arose from his chair, with some incon- venience, if not difficulty. After the usual ceremonies, he re- quested me to take a seat. He made a few common-place re- marks and inquiries, but evinced'a taciturnity that I had not an- ticipated. In truth, I was awed by his manner. His piercing, but sunken black eyes, seemed to watch every movement of my countenance. Col. Burr was born in the State of New-Jersey, in February, 1757. He is under the middle stature. A short time since, he had a paralytic stroke, which has affected the extremities of his lower limbs. From his knees downwards, he is somewhat para- lized. He walks but little, and that with labor. My visit did not exceed twenty minutes, and was, in some respects, unsatisfactory. When I was about to take my departure, he appeared to me an entire different man. Every lineament in his face was changed. A smile of welcome seemed to play around his mouth. He in- quired how long I should remain in the city ; and, without invi- ting, indicated a willingness to see me again. I remarked that, with his indulgence, I would renew my visit previous to my de- parture. He appeared to be gratified, and requested me to do so. I visited Col. Burr a second time, and was received with the utmost cordiality. In a few minutes I found myself at ease, and as if in company with an old and intimate friend. His remarks were frequently playful, but always dignified. He seemed to avoid every topic, which might lead to a conversation respecting himself. He spoke with some freedom of the abuses under the government ; but made no personal allusions. He considered the experiment of universal suffrage, which had been made in some of the States, as unfortunate, and operating differently from what had been expected by its friends and advocates. Aaron Burr. 295 reatly surpistory of any greatorians are parti During the interview, I referred to the history of Napoleon, and some allusions were made to Talleyrand. Of the latter, he expressed himself in strong terms of dislike, and related several private anecdotes, which had operated upon his mind to create the prejudice he evinced. I was greatly surprised to hear Col. Burr's opinion of history ; but especially the history of any great statesman or captain. He contends that, in most instances, historians are partizans, on one side or the other, and that no confidence can be placed in their statements, except as to dates, or some great event, such as, that a battle was fought, &c.; but, that the details cannot be re- lied upon. Col. Burr's memory appears to be perfectly good, and his mind in full vigor, notwithstanding his emaciated frame. His colloquial powers are yet fascinating. He permits you to in- troduce the topic of conversation, and then satisfies you, whatev- er may be the subject, that he understands it as well as you do, and no better. I noticed that he was nervous. It led us to a conversation on diet. He informed me, that he had benefited greatly, by abstaining from the use of either tea or coffee. He takes but little animal food, subsists, principally, on light soups, vegetables, milk and rice — drinking wine moderately, generally weak French wines. I prolonged my visit for nearly two hours. When taking leave of him, he remarked — 'If you wish to know anything of me, personally, I would recommend, that you call on my friend *****, who has been intimately acquainted with me for about forty years. He is familiar with the events of my life ; and, in particular, with those which have occurred within that period. He will cheerfully satisfy any curiosity, which you may feel on the subject. I had a long and, to me, interesting interview with Mr. *****. He stated that, at eighteen years of age, Col. Burr was a volun- teer with Gen. Arnold, on his expedition to join Gen. Montgom- ery against Quebec. That he marched from the Penobscot to the river Chaudierre, as a private. On the arrival of the army at the Chaudierre, it was deemed necessary to notify Gen. Montgom- ery of their approach. Burr was selected for the occasion ; and, in the disguise of a young Catholic priest, he traveled nearly two hundred miles, through an enemy's country, thinly settled, partly a wilderness, inhabited only by savages. Having accomplished his mission, he was taken into the family of Gen. Montgomery, and was one of his Aids when he fell in the assault upon Quebec. In the spring of 1776, Burr proceeded to New York, and re- mained a short time in the family of Gen. Washington, until he was appointed Aid to Gen. Putnam. After the battle of Long- Island, on the retreat of the American forces from the city of New-York to Harlæm, Col. Burr, by his promptitude and intre- pidity, saved from capture a large detachment of Gen. Silliman's 296 Aaron Burr. brigade, which, through some accident, was left behind, and their retreat, apparently, cut off by the British. Col. Burr took com- mand, and conducted them, with but little loss to the main body. In 1778, Burr was attached to Col. Malcolm's regiment, as Lieut. Colonel. That regiment was frequently in battle, and was considered among the best disciplined in the American army. At the battle of Monmouth, in New-Jersey, Col. Burr suffered so much, from the fatigue and heat of the day, that it brought on him a severe fit of sickness — the effect of which, ultimately, compelled him to obtain a furlough, and retire from the army. Historians mention the efficiency and gallantry of Malcolm's regiment. It is believed, however, that, in no instance, when in action, was Col. Malcolm with it. On these occasions, it was commanded by Col. Burr ; and yet, the name of Burr is never mentioned, under any circumstances, or at any time, by any his- torian of the American revolution. This fact, perhaps, has tend- ed to lessen his respect for history. After the peace of 1783, Mr. Burr pursued his profession, in the city of New-York, as counsellor at law. The fame which he acquired at the bar, was surpassed by none, and rivalled by few in the United States. As a pleader, he was remarkable for per- spicacity, and the labor and care with which he prepared his causes for trial. He appeared to be armed at all points, whether for attack or deſence. His oratory was mild and persuasive ; his language pure and chaste. About it, there was no tinsel or gaudy imagery. He was seldom known to use, at the bar or in the Senate, an un- necessary sentence or word. In argument, he was lucid and forcible — never coarse or ungentlemanly. He occasionally in- dulged, when excited by his antagonist, in sententious and biting sarcasm. He possessed, in a pre-eminent degree, the power of condensation. He was never known to speak more than two hours on any question, and seldom more than one hour. He had great self-command, and was of a lofty port and daring character. As a gentleman, his manners were peculiarly engaging. He was courteous and condescending, but dignified. In every respect, he might be ranked as a successful pupil of Lord Chesterfield. In his attire, there was a studied neatness, free from all affecta- tion of parade or show. He was very generally in black — not wearing any garment of tawdry colors. His style of living was sumptuous ; although, personally, his habits were abstemious. He drank but little, and never indulged in play at any game. His application to business was intense. He seldom participated in the accustomed amusements of the day. He was not a member of any Society — refusing even to join the Cincinnati Society, consisting of the officers of the revolutionary army. He was frequently elected a member of the Legislature of the State of New-York; was a member, and president of the con- Scenes in Europe. 297 vention which revised the Constitution ; was Attorney-general of the State, and was appointed one of the Judges of the Supreme Court. He was six years a member of the United States Sen- ate, and four years Vice-President. This is a brief outline of the communication made to me by Mr. *****, who appeared to be perfectly conversant with the history of Col. Burr. His half- pay, as a Lieut. Colonel, in addition to some other revenue, is sufficient to render him comfortable. I inquired whether it was probable, that any developement of the real views of Col. Burr, in his Western Expedition, would be made ? He replied that it was ; as he (Mr. *****) contem- plated such a publication, at a proper time. Mr. ***** evincing a desire to avoid conversing on this subject, I did not press it. He remarked, however, that great injustice had been done to this highly gifted, but unfortunate, man. SCENES IN EUROPE. PARISIAN THEATRES. The fondness of the French people for theatrical amusements, has always been greater than that of any other nation ; and their theatres are consequently the best in the world. The first thing which an American notices, on seeing a play performed in Paris, is, that each actor is perfect in his part. The great complaint in our own theatres, arises from the circumstance, that good play- ers are so feebly supported in their performances. One star seems enough for a company with us, no matter how deficient the other actors may be. Not so in Paris ; each one must play well his part, be it ever so humble. The effect is surprising ; every play and every part of the play is made interesting ; noth- ing is wanting ; and the deception, or rather the imitation, is bet- ter than I have ever seen it elsewhere. There are probably not less than twenty theatres in Paris, and of all sizes and descriptions. Everybody goes to the theatre, and the prices are suited to the means of the lowest. In the little theatre of Madame Saqui, for instance, the dearest places are only fifteen sous, and a seat in the parterre, or pit, costs only four sous ; and many a poor fellow goes without his dinner, in order to save his money for the spectacle in the evening. Besides the variety of sizes, and of the kinds of exhibitions in the different theatres, there are two important distinctions. VOL. VIII. 38 Parisian Theatres. 299 of the world had come. The piece was extremely well managed and acted, and was irresistibly ludicrous. At the Bobinot, my risibles were excited by an actor, who gave us a song in the style of the Grand Opera. It was received with rapturous applause by the audience, who appeared to regard it as a chef d'ouvre. But it formed such a ridiculous burlesque upon the singing of the Opera, that my companions and myself were obliged to retire to conceal our merriment. Franconi's Olympic Circus is one of the most beautiful thea- tres in Paris. It is intended for the exhibition of equestrian feats, which are performed in the arena that occupies the place where the pit commonly is. The company of Franconi has not its superior, probably, in the world ; the feats of horsemanship were so wonderful, that I could hardly credit my senses, but seemed to be looking upon miracles. The usual feats of riding upright, mounting and dismounting at full speed, jumping through the paper-covered hoop, balancing on the toe, &c., were exhib- ited, and even by a woman. But the finale of the exhibition was the best. Franconi himself, in a dress fitted closely to the form, appeared, standing upon a horse which was driven at full gal. lop round the arena. In this swift course, he assumed the atti- tudes of the boxer, the wrestler and the gladiator, and also of the celebrated antique statues. After this, taking his son, a child of five or six years, in his hands, they both threw themselves into numerous very remarkable and graceful positions ; and as the horse coursed round the arena, at full speed, they seemed like aerial messengers — so swift was their passage, and so easy and beautiful their attitudes. This exhibition closed, and I was preparing to withdraw, highly delighted with what I had seen; but was advised to wait, as the evening's entertainment was not finished. A number of work- men now entered the arena, erected seats for an orchestra, in the usual place, and made a sort of bridge on each side, to connect the pit with the front of the stage. The musicians took their pla- ces and played the overture, and the curtain rose, and a large and elegantly decorated stage appeared. The play was called Napo- leon, and was almost unique in its kind. It was a representation of the most important and interesting events in the life of that great man — a succession of pictures, forming a regular history. Such a piece could be well represented only by a company of equestrians, and in a theatre adapted to their exercises. It was very well done, and was intensely interesting. The first scene represented Napoleon receiving the orders of the Directory, and the remaining scenes gave the most exciting events in his history, until his death in the island of St. Helena. The scenery was admirable ; and the vast numbers who compose the company, or are in the employ of Franconi, appearing in arms on the stage, gave 300 Scenes in Europe. life and animation to the whole. The siege of Toulon, the battle of the Pyramids, the coronation at Notre Dame, the explosion of the infernal machine, the expedition to Russia, the burning of Moscow, the retreat, the farewell at Fontainbleau, the passage to St. Helena, and the death of the Emperor, are the scenes which re- main the most deeply impressed on my mind. I have rarely wit- nessed a more brilliant spectacle than the coronation scene. The stage had the appearance of an immense church, perfectly lighted, and crowded with persons in the richest costumes. It was like Da- vid's painting ; and the whole brilliant pageantry of that fine piece seemed to have started into life, and to be breathing and moving before us. The representation of Moscow was extremely in- teresting. From the balcony of a palace, the Emperor reviews his troops, who are making their entry into the ancient capital of the Czars. It seemed as if an immense army were defiling be- fore us. The uniforms of the troops of Napoleon, exactly imita- ted; the proud eagles; the fine military music-allthe pomp and circumstance of glorious war' were there. The feelings of the spectators were wrought up to the highest degree, and they seemed ready to join in the forbidden cry of Vive l'Empereur !' raised by the mock army — a cry, which, at the moment, I could have sounded out with all my heart. While these things are pass- ing, a few ill-looking wretches are seen gliding under the arches of the palace, and skulking in the corners and dark places of the city, whose lengthened streets, with the gilded domes and spires, are extended majestically before us. Their purpose is soon dis- covered by the flames, which are seen bursting out in every di- rection; the Emperor is obliged to abandon his post and retreat ; the flames grow brighter and more fierce, until the whole city seems but one intense and terrific glare of light ; and the act closes. Then come the horrors of the retreat. A vast, open country, covered with snow as far as the eye can reach, is trav- ersed by a stream, on whose rough and icy banks vast numbers of famished and perishing soldiers are crowding. A single bridge affords but small means of escape from the murdering foe, who are hovering upon the rear ; and the river is filled with men and horses, who endeavor to pass it by swimming. In the midst of all, the bridge falls, and the crowds, who are crossing it, sink into a watery grave. In this picture, it was not difficult to recog- nize the fatal passage of the Berysina. It was well represented, and formed so mournful a scene, that many of the audience were affected to tears. Other scenes represented the continued re- treat and suffering of the army, the abdication, the passage to St. Helena, and the death of the Emperor. The effect of this simple piece was like that of a powerful tragedy ; perhaps be- cause it was so true to life. There is nothing in romance more wild and marvellous than the career of Napoleon ; and the plain- Parisian Theatres. 301 est narrative of the events of his life assumes the form of the most highly-wrought fiction. It was announced one morning, that Paganini would, that eve- ning, give a concert at the Grand Opera, previous to his depart- ure for London. This was an occasion not to be missed ; and I stationed myself at the door of the theatre about two hours be- fore the time for opening. The crowd was immense ; and though I stood in a favorable place for getting in, the house seemed ab- solutely crowded before I entered — though a few minutes only had elapsed from the first opening of the doors. After a long overture, played by the orchestra, the curtain was raised, and in a few moments this singular man came forward alone upon the stage. His appearance is very remarkable ; his tall, thin and bending figure; his long hair combed back and descending upon his shoul- ders; the strange expression of his countenance, which has some- thing in it almost supernatural, a mixture of good-nature and dia- bolic sneering ; all become strongly impressed upon the mind, and serve to increase the effect produced by his music. He advanced slowly to the front of the stage, with a very awkward, one-sided motion, and bowed to the audience, who received him with the warmest applause. There he stood, for a minute or two, look- ing at the splendid scene before him, of an immense theatre filled to overflowing, and brilliantly lighted ; then bowed again, to the reiterated plaudits, in his excessively awkward manner; and after that, pulled out his cambric handkerchief, wiped his fingers, and raised his violin, as if about to commence. The profound- est silence immediately ensued; but something seemed to be wrong, and he took away his violin again, giving a most satanic grin' at the disappointment of the audience. This only called forth more applause. He raised the violin again ; the noise was instantly hushed to the deepest stillness, and the first note of his magic instrument was heard. It was unlike that of any other one, and could be clearly distinguished, even when the whole orchestra was playing. There was a richness in the tones, something like the reedy sound of a fine open diapason. As the player proceeded, the attention of the audience became more and more fixed, as their wonder was excited and increased, by the successive powers which he displayed. The most rapid and in- conceivable execution seemed to cost this wonderful man no trouble ; but the notes appeared to glide from his bow without his volition. Occasionally he rose on the scale far above the reach of ordinary instruments — and the tones came out clear, liquid, and sweet, like the warbling of a bird ; then he descended to the lowest notes, as if amusing himself with the compass of his instrument. Indeed, through the whole performance, he had the air of playing for his own amusement, rather than that of his au- dience. At the end of some of his most difficult passages, he Philip Van Artevelde. 303 rebuked by that of Joseph Hume, with his slate and pencil ; and the auroral flashes of Fisher Ames would vanish before the day- light of reason, embodied in the person of the Chairman of the Committee of Ways and Means. Within the last ten or fifteen years, Death has been busy among the sons of song. The divine genius of Coleridge has but just been released from the infirmities of the flesh. Crabbe has peace- fully ended a peaceful life. The glory of Scott has passed away from earth. The fiery spirit of Byron has found rest in that grave, where cruel indignation can no longer lacerate his heart.' The sensitive Shelley has gone where there are neither persecu- tors nor reviewers. Wordsworth, and Southey, and Campbell, and Rogers, and Moore are yet with us ; but their harps are si- lent. Three of them have caught the tune of the times, and have devoted themselves to the more thrifty employments of biogra- phy, history and criticism. The other two are reposing on their laurels. And who is there to take the place of the silent and the dead ? Echo answers, Who? We may choose between the affec- tation of Tennyson, the bombast of Atherstone, and the ponder- ous nonsense of Robert Montgomery, the greatest literary hum- bug of the day. The springs of poetry, however, have not, all this time, been entirely dry ; but they have watered the magazines and annuals, almost exclusively. These have contained a great deal of pleas- ing and occasionally some striking poetry ; but such ephemeral productions do not, of course, give a character to a literary pe- riod. The same remarks apply to the poets on this side of the water. They are all busy about common things — editing papers, making books, posting legers, &c., and writing poetry only on a holy day. Prose has come down upon the world, like night.* In this state of affairs, a new candidate for poetical honors has arisen-one who, by his intellectual port and stature, plainly shews himself to be a giant in the land. He has come out, as was said of Goldsmith, at the time he published his Traveller, ' like the Irish rebellion, ten thousand strong, in a single night.' It is many years since a poem has appeared, which has excited so much at- tention in the literary world, as Philip VAN ARTEVELDE, by Henry Taylor; and a corresponding degree of curiosity has been felt to know something of the personal history of one who, at * It would be doing injustice to a man of real genius, not to mention, as an ex- ception to the above remarks, the name of Ebenezer Elliott, author of Corn-law Rhymes,' &c., whose poems are full of strength, fire and originality, but deficient in taste and grace. They abound in the raw material of poetry. They are tinged, too, with the bitterness of personal feeling, and have frequently an air of fierce de- fiance and stern wrath, which adds to their power, while it causes them to be read with less pleasure. He is, however, a very remarkable man, and we should be glad, at some future day, to tell our readers something more about him. We are not aware, that notice has ever been taken of him in any American periodical. 304 Philip Van Artevelde. once, performs and promises so much. All that rumor has blown across the Atlantic, is, (so far as we know) that he is a clerk in the Foreign Office in London, and quite a young man, not yet thirty. Young though he be in years, he is old in intellectual experience, and has lived long in the world of thought. Philip Van Artevelde' is an historical romance, in a dramat- ic form — being, as the author tells us in his preface, about six times the length of a common acting play. It is divided into two parts, with a poetical interlude between them, and contains, also, an historical introduction, and an admirable critical preface. The scene is laid in Flanders, in the fourteenth century, and the subject of the poem is the life and fortunes of one of the leaders of the citizens of Ghent and others, who resisted the tyranny and oppression of their feudal lord, and for a season, successfully. The principal facts are from Froissart, but the conception of the hero's character belongs to the poet alone. We shall not under- take to give an abstract of the story, which, besides doing injus- tice to the author, would be superfluous to such of our readers as had read the poem, and unfair to those who had not, and might, perhaps, be induced by our remarks to do so. The first part contains the rise and progress of Philip Van Artevelde and the popular party, and the second, his decline and fall, and their entire overthrow. The literary merit of the poem is very great, and will ensure it a permanent admiration, long after the first excitement of nov- elty has subsided. It is not only a fine work of art, but belongs to the highest department of art. Mr. Taylor gives us his views of poetry in a preface, which is one of the noblest specimens of philosophical criticism in the language, and which, alone, would have shewn him to be an original and independent thinker, and master of an admirable English style. His remarks upon the po- etry of Lord Byron and Mr. Shelley, and their respective iini- tators, are made with much boldness, and will not meet with the approbation of all ; but, in our opinion, they contain the doctrine of the true church upon the subject. He insists upon strong good sense, reason, and philosophical intellect, as essential in the composition of a great poet — and that, without them, there is a want, which neither melody of language, nor splendor of imagery, nor picturesque beauty of style, can supply. The criticism he pronounces upon Lord Byron's characters, as creatures aban- doned to their passions, and essentially, therefore, weak of mind,' will not be relished by those, who mistake foam and turbulence for strength and depth, but will receive the assent of all who understand the true nature of moral power. As a specimen of this preface, we extract the following remarks upon the poetry of Shelley, being equally true in principle and beautiful in expres- sion: - Philip Van Artevelde. 305 Mr. Shelley seems to have written under the notion, that no phenomena can be perfectly poetical, until they shall have been so decomposed from their natural or- der and coherency, az to be brought before the reader in the likeness of a phantasma or a vision. A poet is, in his estimation, (if I may venture to infer his principles from his practice) purely and pre-eminently a visionary, Much beauty, exceeding splendor of diction and imagery, cannot but be perceived in his poetry, as well as exquisite charms of versification ; and a reader of an apprehensive fancy will doubt- less be entranced whilst he reads : but when he shall have closed the volume, and considered within himself what it has added to his stock of permanent impressions, he will probably find his stores in this kind no more enriched by having read Mr. Shelley's poems, than by having gazed on so many gorgeously colored clouds in an evening sky. Surpassingly beautiful they were whilst before his eyes ; but foras- much as they had no relevancy to his life, past or future, the impression upon the memory barely survived that upon the senses. I would by no means wish to be understood as saying that a poet can be too imaginative, provided that his other faculties be exercised in due proportion to his imagination. I would have no man depress his imagination, but I would have him raise his reason to be its equipoise. What I would be understood to oppugn, is the strange opinion which seems to prevail amongst certain of our writers and readers of poetry, that good sense stands in a species of antagonism to poet- ical genius, instead of being one of its most essential constituents. The maxim that a poet should 'be of imagination all compact,' is not, I think, to be adopted thus literally. That predominance of the imaginative faculty, or of im- passioned temperament, which is inconipatible with the attributes of a sound un- derstanding and a just judgment, may make a rhapsodist, a melodist, or a visionary, each of whom may produce what may be admired for the particular talent and beauty belonging to it: but imagination and passion, thus unsupported, will never make a poet, in the largest and highest sense of the appellation : - For Poetry is Reason's self sublimed ; "Tis Reason's sovereignty, whereunto All properties of sense, all dues of wit, All fancies, images, perceptions, passions, All intellectual ordinance grown up From accident, necessity, or custom, Seen to be good, and after made authentic ; All ordinance aforethought, that from science Doth prescience take, and from experience law ; All lights and institutes of digested knowledge, Gifts and endowments of intelligence From sources living, from the dead bequests, – Subserve and ininister.'* In the poem, the speculative theories of the author will be found carried out into practice. It is of a philosophical and meditative cast, written with pure severity of taste, and rich in contributions from every department of the mind. The airy pile of Fancy rests upon the solid basis of vigorous sense and copious observation. The shaping spirit of imagination is guided and controlled by the presence of a disciplined and philosophical reason. It abounds with those striking reflections, which shew, at once, a habit of deep thought, and an eye, practiced like a blind man's touch,' to watch and observe the various forms of life. It is a very healthy pro- duction, and betrays great soundness as well as power of mind. It is free from exaggeration, from sickly sentimentality, from * MS. VOL. VIII. 39 306 Philip Van Artevelde. affectation, and sour, false misanthropy. There is none of that multiplication of one's-self, and perpetual obtrusion of one's own feelings, which have been so fashionable, of late, and which have such high authority to sanction them. It has, on every page, the marks of that calmness, which is an important element in true in- tellectual power. It was evidently not written under any feverish excitement, or wrung from the mind when goaded into unnatural and convulsive activity ; but flowed, naturally and easily, as a stream issues from a copious fountain-head. In all that relates to the execution of his art — in style, lan- guage, and decoration — in what may be called the drapery of poetry, Mr. Taylor's taste is plain and severe. His muse wears but few ornaments, and those are of massive gold ; the glitter of paste and tinsel she magnanimously disdains. His lan- guage is drawn, fresh and sparkling, from the undefiled wells of English, and shews that familiarity with the early writers, which is essential to a pure Saxon style. He observes the rules of dramatic propriety, and does not, for the sake of say- ing a brilliant thing, put a speech into the mouth of a character, which he could not, in the nature of things, be supposed to have uttered. Indeed, he never goes out of the way to introduce an embellishment, and his images could never be withdrawn without leaving an important chasm in the thought and the sentiment. He never lays on his language (if we may so say) too thickly, or accumulates so many illustrations, that the thing illustrated is lost and hidden. He never makes the picture secondary to the frame. He does not set out a lean and meagre thought with such florid exuberance of diction, that the superficial reader is ready to ex- claim, “how fine!' without stopping to examine if there is any- thing more than brave words.' Some poets treat their readers like the cook of Louis the Fourteenth, who dressed up a dainty dish out of an old slipper. Mr. Taylor's fine passages are such as address themselves, not to the ear or the blood, but to the philosophical understanding, and will bear the most rigid analysis. We should not consider his genius as being essentially dra- matic ; nor do we think, that this poem is remarkable, especially, for those things which constitute a good drama, as such. His characters are well conceived and consistently sustained; but there are few of those points which are effective on the stage, and the dialogue is deficient in that terseness and compactness, which is requisite to keep the attention of an audience unflagging. It will probably be most valued for its stores of thought, and the just, noble and striking sentiments and reflections, with which it abounds; and which might, with equal propriety, have been intro- duced into a different sort of poem. Mr. Taylor has great intellectual resources, and that happy combination of the reflective and creative faculties, without which Philip Van Artevelde. 307 no man was ever a great poet. Sometimes we meet with a pro- found observation on human nature, worthy of Lord Bacon ; or a political maxim, that Machiavelli might have uttered ; and now with a touch of character, like Shakspeare ; and a vein of high philosophical poetry, reminding us of the finest passages of Wordsworth's · Excursion.' In the character of Philip Van Artevelde — upon which almost all the interest of the poem rests — a few hints from Froissart, have beem amply and magnificently expanded. The author's aim is to represent in him that union of thought and action, so rarely seen in the world ; and of which Julius Cæsar is perhaps the only perfect specimen on record. Circumstances summon him sud- denly from a life of almost indolent meditation to one of constant activity, and requiring great presence of mind and rapid decision of character. The listless angler, upon the banks of the Lis, be- comes the leader of armies and the guiding-spirit of multitudes. But, he neither grows giddy with his sudden elevation, nor does he betray any of that anxious doubt and timid irresolution, which might have been expected from his previous habits. He performs the duties of a skilful general and a wise statesman, as if he had passed his life in camps and cabinets. There is a vein of reflect- iveness, tinged with melancholy, running through his character, which takes nothing from its efficiency, but adds much to its in- terest. The man of business does not cease to be a philosopher, even in the tumult and press of action. His energy of mind is made more striking by the coolness of his temperament and his freedom from the gusty passions of the vulgar hero. He is a man whom Hamlet might have worn in his heart's core' – for he is not 'passion's slave,'- of a humane and sympathising spirit; he can be severe when his duty requires him to be so ; and he has none of that yielding to importunity, in opposition to judg- ment, which is sometimes miscalled clemency. He gives us the impression, that he has powers and faculties in reserve, and that he would be equal to new and more trying emergencies – an im- pression always given by true greatness. His character and mind never seem to have reached the extreme limit of their capabili- ties. He commands others because he has learned to command himself ; and that knowledge of the human heart, which he had acquired by reflection and observation, is turned to practical ac- count, in the selection of his agents and ministers, and in the means which he employs to win and retain the confidence and affection of his followers and partizans. The scene is laid in a revolutionary age ; and Philip Van Ar- tevelde is the champion and representative of the oppressed, popular party, and the asserter of the rights of the many against the claims of the few; and the sympathies of the author are plainly on his side. But there is a feeling, from the first, in the 308 Philip Van Arterelde. reader's mind, which forebodes his ill success and his fall. We perceive, that he is a man above his age and destined to strug- gle against insuperable difficulties. He can find nothing, congen- ial to his enlarged and liberal views, in the iron rigidity of the feudal system. Respect for man, as a man — and not as a noble, a priest, or a soldier — was a truth, which had hardly dawned upon the world in the fourteenth century.* The fierce spirit of chivalry is destined to triumph over the mild spirit of humanity. The cause, espoused by Philip Van Artevelde, is upheld solely by his own personal influence, his force of talents, and weight of character, — and must fall when he falls. His power is in what writers on hydrostatics call a state of unstable equilibrium, and the slightest touch will restore things to their old condition. Such is Philip Van Artevelde ; and such are the circumstances in which he is placed — a noble theme, and nobly handled. He is a wise and great man, richly deserving the eulogium pronounced over him by his enemy. • Dire rebel though he was, Yet with a noble nature and great gifts Was he endowed: courage, discretion, wit, An equal temper, and an ample soul, Rock-bound and fortified against assaults Of transitory passion, but below Built on a surging subterranean fire That stirred and lifted him to high attempts So prompt and capable, and yet so calm, He nothing lacked in sovereignty but the right ; Nothing in soldiership except good fortune. Wherefore with honor lay him in his grave, And thereby shall increase of honor come Unto their arms who vanquished one so wise, So valiant, so renowned. !' We should be glad to make copious extracts, in confirmation of what we have said ; but our limits permit us to indulge in one only. It is a dialogue between Philip Van Artevelde and his preceptor — being the first introduction of both to the reader. We select it, as being a fair specimen of the author's style and manner. There are hundreds of passages besides, equally beau- tiful and striking. VAN ARTEVELDE. I never looked that he should live so long. He was a man of that unsleeping spirit, He seemed to live by miracle : his food Was glory, which was poison to his mind, And peril to his body. He was one Of many thousand such that die betimes, Whose story is a fragment, known to few. Then comes the man who has the luck to live, *Geoffrey Testenoire,' says Froissart, was a cruel man and void of feeling, and would as soon kill a knight or squire as a villain'— that is, a feudal vassal. Philip Van Artevelile. 309 And he's a prodigy. Compute the chances, And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times Who wins the race of glory, but than him A thousand men more gloriously endowed Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand others Have had their fortunes foundered by a chance, Whilst lighter barks pushed past them ; to whom add A smaller tally, of the singular few, Who, gifted with predominating powers, Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace. The world knows nothing of its greatest men. FATHER JOHN. Had Launoy lived he might have passed for great, But not by conquests in the Franc of Bruges. The sphere, the scale of circumstance, is all Which makes the wonder of the many. Still, An ardent soul was Launoy's, and his deeds Were such as dazzled many a Flemish dame. There'll some bright eyes in Ghent be dimmed for him. VAN ARTEVELDE. They will be dim and then be bright again. All is in busy, stirring, stormy motion, And many a cloud driſts by, and none sojourns. Lightly is life laid down amongst us now, And lightly is death mourned: a dusk star blinks As fleets the rack, but look again, and lo!. In a wide solitude of wintry sky Twinkles the re-illuminated star, And all is out of sight that smirched the ray. We have not time to mourn. FATHER JOHN. The worse for us ! He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out, There wisdom will not enter, nor true power, Nor aught that dignifies humanity. Yet such the barreness of busy life! From shelf to shelf Ambition clambers up, To reach the nakedest pinnacle of them all, Whilst Magnanimity absolved from toil, Reposest self-included at the base. But this thou knowest.* As we have been liberal in the praises we have bestowed upon this poem, we shall not hesitate also to express, with equal free- dom, our sense of its deficiencies. There is a serious, moral blemish in it, which we have noticed with regret and surprise ; with regret, because it lessens our admiration of it, as a work of art; and with surprise, because it seems inconsistent with the au- thor's otherwise high and just views. In the first part, Philip * Part I. pp. 64, 65. 310 Philip Van Arterelde. Van Artevelde is the lover and husband of Adriana Van Mere- styn -- an exalted being, worthy of the love of such a man — gentle, heroic, and feminine — A perfect woman, nobly planned To warm, to comfort, and command. She is supposed to die, in the interval of time which passes be- tween the two parts; and in the second part, we find her place in his affections abruptly filled by a beautiful but fallen creature - the lady Elena. Her early history is sketched in the poetical interlude, which is a connecting link between the two parts ; and never did the lyric muse warble a more graceful and touching lay. It would be impossible, without copious quotations, to give our readers any notion of its melody of verse, its depth and tender- ness of feeling, its sweet and natural imagery, and its airy beauty of style. Its heroine is one upon whose heart and soul the lov- liness of her own Italian earth and sky had been poured in pro- fusion ; but all her radiant gifts of beauty, of lively susceptibility, of poetical sensibility, of strength and depth of feeling, had only produced a darker disappointment, from the want of something higher and better. She had made idols, and found them of clay; and wasted the wealth of her redundant affections upon the sands of the desert. · The fortune of war brings her into the power of Artevelde, and she conceives for him a passion, marked with all the original fervor of her enthusiastic nature; and he too, impatient of the loneliness of grief, and longing for some object for his unemployed affections to cling to, surrenders himself to this new passion, and prefers, to the memory of his pure and ex- alted wife — a mistress ; one, too, who had been the mistress of others. This want of moral taste may be a common want; but we grieve, to see a man, like Mr. Taylor, wantonly combining it with a character, in whom there is so much that is noble and elevated, as that of his hero. We lose half our interest in him, from this moment; and feel, that the original excellence of his nature has been sadly impaired. It may have been the author's design to represent Philip Van Artevelde's character as sensibly affected, and not for the better, by the death of his wife, and the hollow greatness to which he has attained ; and to trace a depend- ence between his moral degeneracy and the decline of his for- tunes. But if so, he has not made his purpose sufficiently mani- fest. The poison will be too apt to operate without the antidote. This blemish has taken from the literary merit of the latter part of the poem ; and one reads the early scenes of the second part, with a sickening sense of disappointment, and feels somewhat indifferent as to what becomes of a man, who has acted in a man- Philip Van Artevelde. 311 ner so unworthy of his high nature. Our former admiration and interest seem to have been undeservedly bestowed, and a pro- portionate revulsion of feeling takes place. The character of the lady Elena is beautifully conceived and skilfully sustained. Noth- ing can be finer than those passages, which reveal her melancholy depth of feeling, her wealth of soul, her boundless imagination, and that sense of degradation, which hangs with the weight of lead upon her spirit, and the remorse, which turns even the spark- ling cup of love into bitterness. And in a literary point of view, inany of the dialogues, between her and her lover, are worthy of the highest praise. But the more fascinating a picture of illicit love is, the more dangerous ; and the opinion, that the passion of love hallows all the circumstances under which it is indulged, is fraught with mischief, not only to society so called, but to the soul of man. There is one scene, in the second part, which we cannot help mentioning, as betraying, apparently, a singular want of delicacy of moral taste in the author. It is that, in which Philip Van Artevelde speaks of his dead wife to the lady Elena, in the interview in which he declares his love to her, and even in- stitutes a comparison with her. How could he have been so false to the memory of the stainless and angelic creature he had lost! In tenderness, even to the fallen being he loved, his lips should not thus have mentioned his wife's name ; for, upon her sensitive mind, must have rushed the stunning thought, that, in one respect, there was an overwhelming distance between them. This is the great objection we have to urge against this poem; and it is one which cannot fail to qualify, essentially, the admi- ration with which it is regarded — and the more so, in the minds of those whose good opinion is best worth having. It is an es- sential defect, extending to the very core ; and can neither be explained away nor removed. There are also some slight blem- ishes, of no great consequence, in its literary execution. The style is sometimes needlessly rough and bald ; and an air of an- tiquity is occasionally assumed, where it seems like studied affec- tation. There are a great many coarse expressions, which a man would be unwilling to read aloud in a family; and not a few offensive images. We have such a line as this, occurring in the midst of a speech, equally beautiful in conception and expression : * Lean beggars, with raw backs and rumbling maws.' * Many of the speeches of Clara and Artevelde betray a singular want of feminine delicacy. The following expression, occurring in a jeering description of an unsuccessful lover, (which is alto- gether in bad taste) strikes us as very unbecoming the lips of a young lady: * Part II. p. 157. 312 Sonnet. -' for your beard, They vow 't is like your cook, that fattened is With sundry sops, that should have reached your stomach.' The third scene of the fourth act, in the second part, describ- ing the sitting of the French Council, might have been shortened with advantage ; as the speeches, though very judicious, are quite dull. Philip Van Artevelde's philosophical disquisitions — in the third scene of the fifth act, of the second part — are not very luminous or appropriate. In taking leave of Mr. Taylor, we tender him our cordial thanks for the pleasure he has afforded us, and hope that his next production will have all the literary merit of Philip Van Arte- velde, without its moral defect. He has great powers, and can do wonderful things, if he will. Let him dedicate his high gifts to high ends. Let him remember, that we demand of a great poet, not merely entertainment and delight; he has a nobler voca- tion — to exalt, to elevate, to purify. SONNET. FROM THE ITALIAN. Let those, who will, seek rank and honor's prize ; Fair halls and palaces and domes of state ; Enjoyments, wealth, - upon whose presence wait A thousand gloomy thoughts, a thousand sighs! A green lawn, painted with all-colored flowers, A stream, that keeps through grassy banks its way, A little bird, that sings its love-lorn lay, Are dearer, far, to ardent souls like ours. The sombre groves, the rocks, the lofty hills, The shadowy caves; the wild beasts, roaming free - Whom graceful Nymphs, all pale with terror, flee - Bring to my mind, which one true passion fills, Those gently-bearning eyes — my life's sweet light! Ah me! that care should ever veil the sight! Cabinet Councils. 315 BERKELEY. Upon my word, I like the fellow's humor. Politics should be the engrossing topic, now. At all times, perpetual vigilance is the price of liberty. Every honest and patriotic man should take an interest in the choice of his rulers. It is the prin- ciple upon which our system of government is based. But now, now — when a cor- rupt and profligate administration are preying on the energies of the republic ; when intrigue, perjury, and venality, are openly practiced in the high places of the nation ; when our affidavit-collecting Presi — SINGLETON. All very true, as you were going to remark; but spare us, my dear Berkeley, and wipe the foam from your lips. You perceive, that the Editor is in a medita- tive mood. His brain appears big with some momentous communication. EDITOR. Hark you, Singleton ; and you, Berkeley ; at each ear a listener. We are no partizan. We are no editor of a partizan work. We do not admit, that we are under party influences. But, as a conductor of a public journal ; as a pretty close observer of passing events ; as one, aloof from the arena, but watchful of the com- batants — we do not hesitate publicly to speak our sympathies and our opinions. We will not attempt to argue the question, whether a Magazine be the fit place for political disquisitions ; but we do say, that where we are brought in direct com- munication with a portion of the public, we shall not hesitate to speak out, fear- lessly and independently, on all matters of public interest, which may fall under our especial notice. We are not to be diffuse upon one subject, and tongue-tied upon another. As a citizen of this great republic, we have, in its welfare, a deep, an affectionate interest, which is confined to no separate department, to no peculiar class of its inhabitants. We revere its Constitution ; we respect its laws. (Cries of • Hear him! Hear him!’ from Berkeley) We have no disposition to be si- lent, when we behold the former violated and the latter defied. We honor its rising literature, and will not, without expostulation, see it disgraced. To hasten to a conclusion — we shall speak our minds upon men and things ; upon professions and places ; in fact, de omnibus rebus et quibusilam aliis, as often as to us may seem proper, and in such language as may most forcibly convey our meaning to those, whom it may concern. SINGLETON. Spoken like yourself, Mr. Editor. If there is anything I abominate, it is those mealy-mouthed gentlemen of the press, who, putting then selves up as the guide- posts of public opinion, are yet afraid to give utterance to an opinion in terms, which may render it of any effect. “Tell the truth and shame the devil,' is a maxim, which many very worthy men are daily and hourly in the habit of disre- garding. EDITOR. (Rings a bell.) Samson ! drag the basket into a corner. There – hand me the letter you have dropped, and disappear. Berkeley, have the goodness to break the seal and read. BERKELEY. Sir: As a subscriber to your work, permit me to express my high sense of its pre-eminent merits. The literary papers are unexceptionably good. The political pieces are spirited and appropriate ; and the critical notices are remarkable for their fidelity, justice, and vigor. . The whole management' - EDITOR. Enough, Berkeley. Why repeat such a string of truisms? - as if they were not matters of general notoriety! And is it surprising, that our merits should be pre- eminent ? Is not our prose worthy of the Spectator, in its best days ? --- our poe- try, 'orient pearls, at random strung'? Look at our contributors. Consider the power and pathos of Percival's verse; the energy, vivacity and meteoric brilliancy of John Neal; the quiet humor and deep philosophy of Holbrook ; the genius of 316 Cabinet Councils. Holmes; the originality and graphic freshness of coloring of the author of the Gray Champion’; the boldness, fidelity, and truth, of the author of Credulous People'; the lavish beauty and melody, which flow through Whittier's poetry ; the rich, but too infrequent promptings of the muse of Hedge ; the strength, the manliness, the classic purity of Professor Felton's ever-welcome communications ; the agree- able trifling of you, Singleton ; the sledge-hammer vehemence and gladiatorial skill of our absent Vanderblunt; the enthusiasm, the taste, the accomplishments, of our friend Berkeley- SINGLETON. . And then, my dear Editor, you seem to forget, that you are a host in yourself. EDITOR. Exactly - and now, can the multitudes, who, on the first day of every month, are made happy, by the appearance of our Magazine, be amazed at our supremacy? Can they wonder, that we should distance all competition ? SINGLETON. How many copies may your publisher circulate ? EDITOR. Will you believe it? In Massachusetts, with her literary emporium, her col- leges and lyceums, there are but two thousand subscribers to the work. I beg you, gentlemen, not to mention this fact. I have no wish to say anything deroga- tory to my native State. With all her faults, I love her, still ; and I must do her the justice to say, that she is fast awakening to a sense of her unaccountable neg- lect. In New-York, our circulation is extensive. Some hundreds only, go to Pennsylvania. Two or three wagon-loads cross the Alleghanies, and shed a monthly irradiation over the valley of the Mississippi. South of the Potomac, we are much read and applauded. In New-Orleans, the demand for our work is great. Indeed, our Cincinnati agent suggests to us the expediency of chartering a steamboat, every month, for the transportation of the Magazine. There is this in- convenience, he says, in sending the boxes containing it by the accommodation- boats. As they are punctually transmitted, the day of their being shipped is gen- erally known. The consequence is, a tremendous accession of passengers to the favored boat. No sooner does it leave the wharf, than there is a general rush to the hold ; the boxes are broken open, and a copy of the Magazine is borne away in the hands of each one of the crowd. The scene of rapacity and contention, which takes place, is described as truly appalling. Why, Singleton — at the time of the blowing up of the Syren steamboat, most of the passengers, and a part of the crew were sitting under the awning, on deck, and intently perusing the last number of our world-renowned work. When the flue collapsed, nobody seemed to be alarmed ; and when the boiler burst, and hundreds of human beings were sent aloft, shorn of their fair proportions, it was distinctly noticed, that, while in the air, they did not take their eyes from the page, which they were reading - but grasped the Magazine, until they fell into the water, when its buoyancy saved them from drowning. This circumstance was told me by a Kentucky friend, who once whipped a man, until there was nothing left of him — because he ventured to question the probability of the statement. BERKELEY. Of course, we shall not impeach your friend's veracity. EDITOR. It was afterwards discovered, that the individual, whose duty it was to let off the extra steam, had, in his eagerness to devour one of our articles in the Magazine, forgotten to open the safety-valve ; and thus were we the innocent cause of the ca- tastrophe. His negligence has been palliated by some ; but, in our opinion, it is worthy of the strongest reprehension. BERKELEY. Your foreign circulation is, I believe, small. Cabinet Councils. 317 EDITOR. Comparatively small. In South America, we have some subscribers ; but the jealousy of the different governments has prevented us from doing much there. Our friends in Demerara, however, are liberal in their demands for the work. To Europe, we send perhaps some fifteen hundred copies ; and our circulation there is fast increasing. The Americans, in Canton, look for our arrival, with becoming anxiety ; and we learn, that the grand minister Hum — who has recently been in- vested with the peacock's feather, to the discomfiture of the minister Loo — has manifested a decided preference for our work. Our excellent friend, the Pasha of Egypt, whose efforts to civilize his subjects, have been so encouraging, will be ma- terially assisted in his undertaking, by his new plan of introducing the study of the English language into his dominions, in order that the New-England Magazine may extend its humanizing influence among his people. We are not read in Timbuctoo. VOICE FROM WITHOUT. Safely housed, at last — the fates be thanked! Show me up, Samson. EDITOR. Vanderblunt's voice, by all that is obstreperous ! · (The door opens, and Vanderblunt enters.) BERKELEY. Vanderblunt ! SINGLETON. Vanderblunt ! VANDERBLUNT. Vanderblunt. Monsieur le redacteur, a grip of your hand. Berkeley, my fine fellow, I am glad to see you. Captain Singleton, your very humble servant. EDITOR. You have taken us by surprise, Vanderblunt. We thought you were in New- York, at this time ; but not the less welcome are you, for being an unexpected guest. When did you leave the seat of government ? VANDERBLUNT. Some six weeks since — and what a journey I have had of it! We left Wash- ington in the mail-coach, under cover of a furious rain-storm. We had not got far- ther than Bladensburgh, than, in crossing the bridge, we were upset into the river. Here I floundered about for some minutes ; but at last succeeded in attaining the shore, carrying with me — one on each arm — two forlorn damsels, who looked like sea-nymphs emerging, with Neptune, from their briny caverns. From Balti- more to Philadelphia, I came by land. I arrived at the “city of brotherly love,' without any serious dislocations ; but this was rather owing to my own unyielding sinews, than to the tender mercies of the roads, over which I was jolted. After various perils, by flood and field, steamboat and railroad, I found myself at New- York; remained there two or three weeks ; looked in upon my old friends; and yesterday went on board the Ben Franklin, and — here I am. EDITOR. At Washington, you were in at the death? You witnessed the breaking up of Congress ? VANDERBLUNT. No, I was not present. But your question reminds me, that I have in my pocket a letter, franked to me, probably by mistake ; but, as I know the writer, I will brave her resentment, and read it to you. It may, without any sinister intention of perpetrating a bad pun, be called — 313 Cabinet Councils. A MIS-DIRECTED LETTER. Yes, cousin ! the session is ended ; The House has this morning adjourned ; The confusion, the noise, which attended Its close, you have long ago learned. I witnessed its last scenes of riot, I heard its last shriekings of woe - Ah, surely, a conscience unquiet Could only have troubled it so ! The floor of the House was invaded By bevies of ladies and beaux ; And I - it was no more than they did — Remained wide awake till the close. The members were out of their places - Some laughing, some talking aloud — Some shaking their fists in the faces Of others, who stood in the crowd. Mr. Speaker, am I out of order?' * Down with him — do n't hear him — Shame! Shame!' • Will gentlemen, then, set no border To tumult and’ —'Gad, Bob is game.' I'll not be put down, Mr. Speaker ! Sir, what was I sent here to do?'- 'Indeed, I can't say, Mr. Squeaker'- Heaven knows — though it may puzzle you.' “Now vanish, ve serfs, with the collars !'- "'Tis too late to speak or to vote !'- "To refuse us three millions of dollars! The country shall not have a groat.' • With anger and scorn I am swelling !?- · The Committee can make no report '- « That voice comes from little Cambreleng '- *Not a cent for a ship or a fort!' Order ! Order!' 'No quorum is present'- "'Tis midnight — 't is near one o'clock' • The weather without is unpleasant'- · The Senate is firm as a rock !' The bill for defence is defeated'- By intrigue and fraud it is lost!'- · The Hero is not to be cheated, The Senate will find to their cost.' But, enough. To describe to you truly All that happened that terrible night, The uproar, the speeches unruly, Is more than I'd venture to write. Papa, who, you know, is a member, And a Tory, (though I am a Whig) While the weather was cold as December, Came and handed me into my gig. I am glad, that the session is ended ; . I am sick of the Capitol's walls — Of hearing bills read and amended - Of speeches and motions and brawls. Cabinet Councils. 319 I am quite ennuyee with the city, The parties and balls every night, The young fops, who tried to be witty, The old ones — a ludicrous sight! I am glad that the session is over, For homeward we now shall return; And ah ! though but too long a rover, There — there, my affections still burn. Again, shall we see the fond faces, Which brighten to welcome us home; Again, view the favorite places, Where, of yore, we delighted to roam. And, cousin, the spring-flowers, blooming, Will soon shed their lustre around —. With sweetest of odors, perfuming The breezes, that sweep o'er the ground. Again, shall we sail on the river, Again climb the mountain-top high, Looking down on the forests, that quiver — Again, shall we — Cousin ! Good bye,! SINGLETON. Very clever verses, I confess. One or two of them I might have written myself. But a lady-politician is my aversion. A bas bleu is bad enough, but a female dis- putant, in politics, is positively past endurance. BERKELEY. Excuse me ; but the sentiment you have uttered is pure cant, and quite as bad as the opposite cant of the day, about the rights of women, and all that sort of stuff. The fair creatures should be privileged to adopt and express their opinions upon political matters, as well as upon matters of fashion and dress. I will admit, that there are more congenial subjects, to which their attention might be more suitably directed. But, when they are brought within an atmosphere of politics, within the radiating point of political excitement, as they are at Washington - where, unless their minds be utterly stagnant and callous, they must, of necessity, receive certain in pressions, you surely cannot find fault with them for forming opinions upon topics, obtruded constantly under their notice. A female wrangler is, I grant you, a melancholy object; but not the female, who takes sides in politics, and, with modesty, maintains her ground. Can you be severe upon a lady, especially a young lady, who goes to Washington and returns with political opinions, which she does not hesitate to express? She visits the Capitol. She hears the debates, and sees the debaters, in Congress. She sees, with intuitive tact, the overshadowing intellectual superiority of the oppositionists over the servants of the administration. She enters the Senate Chamber. She listens to the animated appeals, which ring within its walls. Mr. Webster rises to speak. The impressiveness of truth is in all that he says. He engages the understanding ; and, without delaying to dazzle the fancy or to touch the heart, he interests, illuminates, and persuades the reason. She listens to the bewildering eloquence of Clay- to the melodious intonations of his unrivalled voice. She is moved by the force and cogency of his remarks. She acknowledges the weight of his reasoning, the scorching fervor of his satire. While he speaks, the mists of ignorance are dispelled from the hearer's mind ; the bul- warks of prejudice are broken down, and conviction towers above the ruins. (Singleton is here seen to stuff a handkerchief into his mouth. Vanderblunt bursts into a loud guffaw. The Editor smiles, faintly.) She is the witness of yet far- ther triumphs. She hears Calhoun speak, whose irrepressible sincerity of heart is manifest in all his words and in all his movements ; Preston, who launches into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind ; ' Southard, Ewing, Porter, and a dozen others, whose looks, whose language, whose characters, prove them to be good men and true ; and she learns, that these men are the opposers of the admin- istration. And who are its supporters? Have patience. Isaac Hill rises ; and, 320 Cabinet Councils. after much difficulty, is delivered of a few impeded ejaculations. Benton stands up, and roars in a voice, which is grating to the ear, and in a language, which is revolting to the taste. Cuthbert enters the area, and pours forth his frothy drivel- ings. My fair hearer exclaims: “Enough! Call you these, the prominent support- ers of the administration? If such be the advocates, how miserable must be the cause!' And satisfied with this unanswerable logic, she is thenceforward a staunch, stuunch Whig. And now, a truce to politics ! SINGLETON. Ably argued, Berkeley. I assure you, you have brought a powerful battery to bear upon the ' bulwarks of my prejudice.' But, chacun a son gout. Did you see anything, Van, of Sheridan Knowles, in your journeyings? VANDERBLUNT. Pr’y thee, do not call me Van, my dear boy. It reminds me of my friend, the Magician. Call me Nic, if you will. My name, you should consider, is my misfor- tune, and not my fault. I met Knowles, a few weeks since, at the Mansion House, in Philadelphia. It was at the time, that he was delivering a course of lectures upon dramatic literature. He gave me a ticket, and I attended one of his improvisations. I was sorry and surprised, on entering the hall, to find a thin audience. Knowles was, however, as interesting and eloquent as ever. He described the abuses of the stage, and mentioned some of its advantages. Its original influence was beneficial, and calculated "To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To rouse the genius and to mend the heart. He spoke of Shakspeare - and a spark of Shakspearean fire seemed to have kindled his lips, as he proceeded in his subject. Never before did I hear the character of Hamlet so lucidly and satisfactorily explained. It was altogether a brilliant affair. BERKELEY. I hope that Knowles will be induced to deliver a course of lectures in Boston, before he leaves the country. VANDERBLUNT. I think he may be, if the Boston people will take a notion to attend them. At present, I understand, they are geologically mad. My friend, Professor Silliman, for whom I have a particular regard, has by no means contributed to allay the ma- nia. The symptoms are still at their height, and it is apprehended, that they will not disappear until somewhere about the summer solstice. SINGLETON. There is this advantage in the epidemic: it has absorbed, to an extent, a malady of greater magnitude, which was introduced here by the lamented Spurzheim. The demand for plaster-of-Paris has much decreased, within the last month. BERKELEY. Yet Freedom, yet - thy banner, torn but fiving, Streams, like the thunder-cloud, before the gale.' Yes, gentlemen, there is still a redeeming spirit in the people. The cause of the Constitution is not yet abandoned ; and, on the emblazoned folds of its banner, we read — in hoc signo vinces! The administration - SINGLETON. Poor fellow ! Touched in the brain, as you see. He cries —'a truce,' and then assumes a pugilistic attitude, and flourishes about his arms as though he would renew the combat. BERKELEY. I beg pardon, gentlemen ; and may I be struck taciturn, if I again break through the amnesty, which you have granted me. (The Editor is here seen to clap his hands. Immediately a strain of soft mu- sic is heard, which gradually grows louder and louder. The folding-doors open slowly. A table is seen, glistening with glasses, and elegantly supplied. Vander- blunt rubs his hands. The Editor takes his seat, at the head of the table. The audience-room is deserted; and the folding-doors close, as the music concludes, in a full diapason.) CRITICAL NOTICES. - Annual Report of the Trustees of the New-England Institution for the Education of the Blind, to the Corporation. This report shews the external affairs of this excellent institution to be in a very flourishing condition. The appropriations for the support of pupils, from the States of Massachusetts, Connecticut, New-Hampshire, Vermont and Maine, together with the income derived from the munificence of private individuals, are sufficient for the ordinary expenses of the institution. It is stated, however, that an extension of the premises is necessary for the accommodation of the pupils. The purchase of these premises, and the erection of the required buildings, will leave the institution dependent on the generosity of the State Legislatures. We hope the annual grants, already made by the Legislatures of the five New-England States, will be contin- ued for a longer term of years; and that, other States, to which appeals may be made, will be equally generous. The aspect of the internal affairs of the institution is also very favorable. The number of pupils is forty-two — of whom, thirty-three are beneficiaries of States ; five are supported from the funds of the institution, and four pay their own ex- penses. The greater part of their time is spent by the pupils in intellectual pur- suits ; but it is very judiciously ordered, that no long-continued effort shall weary their minds; and, though the hours from six o'clock in the morning until nine at night are passed in the school-room or at their music, frequent intermissions, for recreation, render their tasks pleasant and their employments agreeable. That study, which to a seeing child is a labor, is to a blind one, a delight. We believe, that no person has been received into the institution who does not dread the ap- proach of that season, when he must relinquish the immediate blessings which it confers. When we meditate on the happy change in the lot of each individual, who has been received into this most excellent institution, we cannot, for a moment, be doubtful with regard to the importance of using every exertion to perpetuate and to extend its means of doing good. The mere consideration, that it fits for the business of life a class of persons who have hitherto spent their days in inactivity, and in a precarious state of dependence, should be sufficient to impress on every mind its vast importance. But, when we come to reflect that, with something of that power which gave sight to the blind man of Scripture, it can liſt a human soul from the caverns of darkness into the free sunshine of mental day, how ought we to bless the Inspirer of all benevolence, that such gratifying results have at- tended the efforts of those who first established institutions of this kind, and who peculiarly deserve to be called — benefactors of the race. It is truly astonishing, to witness the acquisitions of these pupils, even in the higher branches of science. By the care and ingenuity of the director, the ex- VOL. VIII. 41 322 Critical Notices. penses of printing, in the raised letter, have been much diminished ; and the man- ner of printing so improved, that paper of ordinary consistency can be used, and the blind can themselves do some part of the labor. Music is, of course, a very important branch in the education of the blind. The system, pursued at the insti- tution, is not the best that could have been devised ; but a new plan has been laid down, in the performance of which, the pupils will obtain a thorough and scientific knowledge of the principles of music. The pupils have likewise improved greatly in handicraft. They make mat- tresses, cushions, baskets, &c.; and it is hoped, that the institution will be able to offer for sale handsomely-finished articles. In this manner, the pupils may essen- tially contribute to their own support. No discontents have as yet existed in the institution. The children are very friendly to one another, and their affections, as well as their intellects, have ex- panded under the genial influence of education. They enjoy good health ; for care is taken to cause them to exercise, and to overthrow that habit of indolence, which is always peculiar to blind persons — whose minds, unabstracted by the sight of passing objects, are apt to fall into a thoughtless lethargy. Specimens of the hand-writing of the pupils, and of the new mode of printing, are given at the close of the report. We refer those readers, who wish to be more particularly informed, to the report itself. It cannot fail to prove highly sat- isfactory. We hope, that it will be widely disseminated throughout the commu- nity ; for it conveys a full and just idea of the great good effected by this institu- tion — of the debt which the public owe to the beneficent individuals, by whose generosity it was established, and of the paramount importance of strengthening and increasing its powers and usefulness. Prose Sketches and Poems ; written in the Western Country. We have had an intention of noticing this book for some time ; but have de- ferred it, because we thought it would make its own way. We had very good reasons for our belief. The book is written with uncommon spirit, the subject is new, the incidents striking, and the mechanical execution is in the best style of Light & Horton ; which is no small recommendation. All these considerations have not attracted very general attention from the press ; though infinitely worse works are puffed extensively every week. The author, Mr. Pike, is, we believe, our townsman, and began early in life to write verses for newspapers and maga- zines, which had the usual fate of such ephemerals. He wisely resolved to abandon the ungrateful muse, and unwisely suffered himself to be persuaded to try his fortune in New Mexico, by the moonshine-in-the-water tales, concerning the wealth of the country, which, at times, serve to fill the columns of western newspapers. He became a traveler and hunter of the prairies, and the book under consideration is the detail of what he saw and heard. There are some persons who like to read such books as the adventures of Robert Drury, and the travels of Lewis and Clark. Their peculiar taste cannot fail to be gratified by the first part of Mr. Pike's book, which is a narrative of a journey, made by a hardy pioneer named Lewis, from Red river to New Mexico, through the prairies. The country is described, and the tale of his adventures, his dangers, and his sufferings, is told with a minuteness and force of detail, that precludes the need Critical Notices. 323 of coloring, and is sufficient evidence of the truth of the story. It is recommended by several peculiarities. First, it treats of a country only described before by Capt. Pike, and by hiin very imperfectly. Secondly, Boswell did not more faith- fully portray Dr. Johnson than this work does the western pioneer. It is no fancy sketch, but a sober portrait, drawn from the living originals, and we vouch for its accuracy. The scenes peculiar to the prairie are so faithfully delineated, that, while reading, we fancy ourselves there once more. Novelists may bring Indians and buffaloes from the hunting-grounds of imagination, and use them with much effect, but they cannot make them look like the realities. To take a likeness, the original must be seen. We dwell upon the fidelity of Mr. Pike's pencil, because the majority of readers get their ideas, of all that appertains to the extreme west, from such sources as Cooper's · Prairie,' and it is fit, that they should know where to find a glass, that neither distorts nor magnifies. The remainder of the volume is filled with tales and poems. The tales are all descriptive of life and men and manners in New Mexico, and certainly possess con- siderable merit. The author is not without invention, and is very capable of dis- tinguishing shades of difference of individual character. Indeed, his stories are much above those we usually see in annuals and magazines ; as, we doubt not, those who read them will allow. We said, that Mr. Pike had given over making verses ; we were wrong. He is somewhat romantic in his thoughts and feelings, and cannot always refrain from giving them vent in rhyme. There are about a dozen pieces in this book, of which some display gleamings of a poetical mind. Nevertheless, we take the liberty to admonish the writer to forbear and confine himself to plain prose, which, with a little more care than he has now thought fit to bestow on his style, he can write elegantly. We scarce need say, that Mr. Pike did not make his fortune in Texas and Mex- ico. El Dorado exists only in the imagination, and so he found it. He has lately thrown aside the rifle and the hunting-shirt, and has settled down in a chair editorial, somewhere in the west. west. A Winter in the West. Harper and Brothers : Nero-York. These volumes are understood to be the production of a gentleman well and fa- vorably known to the literati of New-York. The chapters are in the form of leta ters - a very convenient style for traveling-contributors to newspapers and periodi- cals. Many of them have been separately submitted to public inspection before, and have been generally liked. Sketches of travel, and first impressions, are generally but gossip ; especially when the traveler gets over his ground fast. He must necessarily judge from im- perfect premises, and rely chiefly on hearsay for his facts. The author of the book before us, has skimmed over a vast surface in a very short time ; hence, his re- marks are chiefly valuable as illustrations of the manners of the people, among whom he has journeyed; and it is no more than justice to him to say, that he seems to have a very quick and accurate perception of distinctive traits of charac- ter, and a happy facility of expression. We are indebted to him, too, for a know- ledge of the existence of many things heretofore unknown ; and for some pretty 324 Critical Notices. just reasoning on the causes and effects of the present state of things in the remote West. He seems to us to have a great deal of the milk of human kindness in him. The principal fault of the work is, that it is altogether too charitable. It contem- plates only the bright side of things, and exhibits so strong a determination, or dis- position, to be pleased with whatever may present itself, that it is not just. The weakness is amiable, but it is, nevertheless, a fault. Whoever takes the book for authority, will, we think, rise from its perusal with much too favorable an idea of Western character, of which the author appears to have had an eye for the nobler traits. The style of the writer is pleasant, and more than passably correct; though truth compels us to say, it is somewhat diffuse. Like most works of the present day, his book would be all the better for much compression. Altogether, it is lively, instructive, and amusing; and we can recommend it, with a safe conscience, to the lovers of light reading. The worst part of the book consists of notes, having little or no connection with the matter in hand — most of them quoted from authors of no authority. Among others, we see the name of Carver - who, we have good reason to believe, was an arrant imposter — mentioned with commendation.* The Cavaliers of Virginia ; or, The Recluse of Jamestown. Being in a placid mood, when this book came to hand, we sat down, with a de- termined resolution - first, to be pleased with it, and then to puff it. We had good reasons for our determination, beside our constitutional clemency. The author is an American ; and it is understood to be the paramount duty of an editor, in this country, to encourage native literature, and to speak well of everything, that appears on this side of the water, good or bad. Then, it came from the press of the Harpers, who are men of liberal views, and deserve the good will of the whole reading community. We thought it would be but discharging a part of the large debt of gratitude we owe them for beguiling many a weary hour, to help the sale of any book of theirs. But, all this availed nothing. We read the first chapter, and yawned — we read the second, and yawned again ; at the third, we threw the volume down. Ilowever, we took it up again, and, with desperate exertion, got through the whole. We tried as hard to like the work as we could ; but, neither patriotism, good nature, nor gratitude to the Harpers, could make it endurable. Nevertheless, as we had seen it strangely pufied in the public prints, we were wil- ling to believe, that the fault might be in our own bad taste ; so we gave the book to a friend, in whose judgment we have confidence, and requested his opinion. He returned it, saying, that if the second volume were like the first, nothing but a literary boa-constrictor could swallow it. The novel is founded on the local history of Virginia, at the time of the restora- tion. The first characters, of any importance, to whom we are introduced, are Sir William Berkley, the Governor ; Frank Beverly, his nephew; and Virginia Fairfax, his niece. The nephew is in love with the niece, and is favored by the * The two foregoing notices (as well as the two succeeding) were written by a gentleman, who has an excellent knowledge of Western matters --- and whose critical acumen is beyond dis- pute.- ED. Critical Notices. 325 old folks ; but she rather prefers the hero of the tale, who goes by the very ro- mantic name of Nathaniel Bacon. Two pages, of uncommon insipidity, which, however, we had the fortitude to read, describe the uncommonly insipid hero- ine — young and gentle,' of surpassing loveliness,' blooming face,' Juxu- rious tinting,' .budding rose of spring,' etc. etc. etc. Next, we have Mr. Gideon Fairfax — a stout cavalier, and the most agreeable character in the book, because we see less of him than of the others. Then, there is one Brian O'Reily, servant to the hero, who is brought in, for no purpose, that we can discover, but to drink whiskey and talk bad Irish. He is the Jack Pudding of the show — and a very stupid one, too. His speech is without wit or meaning ; and his actions without end or aim. Indeed, the same remark will apply, nearly to every one of the dramatis persone. Mr. Bacon persuades Miss Fairfax to avert certain dangers, from her parents, by accompanying him, clandestinely, in the night, to visit a certain hermit, who is seven feet high, and whose acts and speech bespeak him a compound of fool, sin- ner, and madman. The danger arises from a conspiracy, of the roundheads in the colony, against the authorities; but, how the hermit is to ward it off, or how or why the lady is to move him thereto, the author has not thought fit to inform us. We may as well say, once for all, that it is his habit to leave his readers much to guess. The interview, between the lady and the recluse, is supremely nonsensi- cal ; and it passes our comprehension, to discover the author's meaning. We doubt, if he could explain it himself. What we can understand, amounts to this : The hermit lives, as a hermit should — in a cave; he appears to suffer from the effects of remorse ; he shews Virginia the print of a bloody hand, in a book - why or wherefore, the deponent saith not; he forbids her to look on Nathaniel, with the eyes of affection — and promises to do what he can for her. This scene was probably meant to be very striking ; and if it is not so, it is not for want of mystery and obscurity. On the way back from this visit, Mr. Bacon and his servant fall in with half a dozen Indians, on a robbing excursion. They attack and kill them all — and there- by hangs a tale. We are next made acquainted with a Miss Wyanokee - an Indian damsel, who has been taken in war, and half domesticated and tamed in the family of Gideon Fairfax. She has the bad taste to follow the example of her young mistress, in falling in love with Mr. Bacon - a circumstance, which the author turns to ac- count, thereby deviating from his usual practice. Wyanokee is rather less insipid than the other actors. She is decidedly better than the nose-ringed Queen Ali- quippa of Dr. McHenry, and not much worse than the squaws in Mr. Cooper's * Prairie.' We get along tediously ; but, how can we help it, on so bad a road? The re- cluse does not interfere ; the conspiracy breaks out, and is quelled ; and divers cavaliers and roundheads are slain and wounded. The hermit does, indeed, ap- pear on the field of battle, in order to slay some score or two of his brother fanat- ics, with his own hand. There is one thing, that puzzled us much, in this trans- action. What was this battle brought in for? It has no bearing on the main action of the piece, or the characters or fortunes of any of the actors. We know, that it is absolutely necessary for a novel to have a battle. We like blood- shed, and it gives an author a chance to shew his want of talent at description, 326 Critical Notices. which he has here done, most effectually. But this could not have been the object; for there is another fight or two, in the second volume. On the whole, we suppose it was necessary, to give the hero an opportunity to become respectable, by fighting and getting wounded. . We are beginning to be weary, and shall therefore get on as fast toward the blessed conclusion as we possibly can. Messrs. Beverly and Bacon quarrel about Miss Fairfax and measure swords, and Mr. Beverly is wounded. Then comes the marriage of the hero and heroine ; and, just as the clergyman bids all gainsayers hold their peace forever, the hermit steps forward and forbids the union — on the ground, that the parties are brother and sister. The whole scene is a palpable im- itation of a bad model. See the wedding in Lionel Lincoln. Nathaniel, still we suppose in imitation of Lionel, mounts his horse, which probably stood ready-saddled, and spurs away, without any definite object or des- tination, into the darkness. Here we have a sublime description of a hard gallop, in a midnight storm. There is wind, rain and hail, mixed up in just proportions ; light and gloom, black despair, a swim over raging waters, and a pretty consider- able’ sprinkling of thunder and lightning. All this cannot fail to be acceptable to the lovers of the sublime and beautiful, and, we regret to say, render the author liable to prosecution before some western Augustus Pease — not for doing any par- ticular harm, but for riatotious conduct, making a great noise and kicking up a row.' With the lack of common sense, which appears to be his prominent char- acteristic, the hero stumbles upon an Indian camp, where he is bound to the stake, secundum artem, and pine knots are thrust into his flesh, with a view to his im- mediate combustion. Here we hoped, that we were to see the last of him ; but it does not so please the author. The lighted brand and Wyanokee appear together, and Bacon is released, on condition of marrying the lady. The copper-colored sen- timentalist, however, only marries him out of pity, which he soon after requites by burning her village and butchering her people. The recluse now appears again, for the purpose of helping him to a horse. He repairs to Jamestown, and is ille- gally elected general of the militia. An Indian war takes place, just like other im- aginary Indian wars, and the savages are extirpated. In the meanwhile, Governor Berkley conceives it to be his duty to arrest Gene- ral Bacon, as a rebel, which is done ; and he is sentenced to death. The people rebel, as is known to every one ; the hero escapes ; a battle is fought ; the Gover- nor is routed, and Jamestown is reduced to ashes. Then there is a clumsy con- trivance, in which a locket, with a secret spring, and picture, is made to throw some light on Bacon's parentage. We cannot go through the long process, by which the union of the two principal parties is legalized. Suffice it, that Mr. Ba- con proves not to be the son of the two-and-a-half-fathom hermit, as the latter had conjectured, or the half-brother of Virginia. The recluse turns out to be no other than Major-General Whalley, the regicide. We have dealt tenderly with this work. Its materials, where they are not historical, are common, ill-chosen, unnatural, and improbable, and very awkwardly put together. Where the author has meddled with history, he has marred it, de- plorably. We ask pardon of our readers, for having so long detained them in our critique of this “ latest novel ; ' but we have considered it our duty to tell the truth of a book, which has been liberally plastered by every McGrawler, from Maine to Georgia. Critical Notices. 327 An Old Sailor's Yarns. A book bearing this title has lately been published by Dearborn, of New-York, and is the production of N. Ames, Esq., author of two lively books, called “Mari- ners' Sketches,' and · Nautical Reminiscences.' We choose to consider our author as the child of his own works, and shall not, therefore, recommend his book to public favor by saying that, he is the son of the celebrated Fisher Ames. Imprimis : it contains five stories, three of which are about on a par with the tales of weari- ness usually written for annuals, and for the prizes advertised by editors of news- papers. In these three stories we have, in their construction, nothing that sa- vors of novelty or invention. The incidents they contain are the old stock- materials of romance ; love, courtship, cruel relations, a pirate, and a sea-fight or two, all of the standard, circulating-library pattern. Verily, such tales are enough to make us think, that modern story-tellers have, like quakers, some religious principle, which requires them to cut their coats from the same piece of cloth, and to work them up in the same fashion, from skirt to collar, or from clue • to ear-ring, as the erudite Fennimore Cooper would say. As a proof we do the author no injustice, we proceed to strip one of his plots of its apparel, that the world may see what a beggarly scarecrow the wires of his invention hold together. Morton' occupies two hundred and thirty pages ; but it will be no hard matter to put the narrative into one. Isabella de Luna is the daughter of a Spanish gen- teman, by a Scotch lady ; is very pretty and tender, and is introduced to us under the guardianship of her uncle, the governor of San Blas, on the Pacific. This worthy is remarkable for his ignorance and love of punch, and for nothing else. He wishes to marry his ward to Don Gregory Nunez, whom the lady abhors, merely because he happens to be a fool, a sot, and a coward. While she is resist- ing his plans with all her might, an American whale-ship comes into port, and the lady and Charles Morton, the first mate, fall in love with each other, exactly as the law, in such cases made and provided, prescribes. The lady agrees to wait two years, and then to elope with her lover ; which, as she has made up her mind al- ready, and there is nothing to hinder her, it seems to us she might as well do without any such unnecessary delay. Morton returns to the United States, and then sails back again to San Blas, where he is apprehended for the very unsenti- mental offence of smuggling. His mistress contrives to set his guards asleep with an opiate ; they escape to sea -- are pursued and attacked by a guarda costa, which comes by the worse, and finally get safe to New-Bedford. There they un- dergo that disagreeable ceremony, which, to use Mr. A's own words, begins with * dearly beloved,' and ends with amazement, and become the parents of sons and daughters, as in duty bound. Mary Bowline’is purely the offspring of Mr. A's own brain, and is rather better than the other tales ; which is not saying much for it. Old Cuff' is a collection of very amusing anecdotes. We really think, that the frequent use of quotations from the Latin, is in bad taste, inasmuch as they serve no purpose but to shew that the author has been at school, and is willing that the world should know it. Then, as it is very clear that he is a scholar and a man of taste, the careless roughness of his style is inex- cusable, and we cannot easily forgive him for quarrelling with a well-known poet, for seeing the moon through the dead-lights, while he was lying in his berth. The MONTHLY RECORD. POLITICS AND STATISTICS.* resolution, and moved that it be laid upon The twenty-third Congress closed its the table. The motion prevailed ; ayes, second session on the morning of the twenty-seven — nays, twenty. The Sen- fourth of March. In the House, on the ate took a recess, until five o'clock. In Monday evening preceding, there was an the evening, after the transaction of ex- animated debate upon the subject of our ecutive and other business, the Vice- relations with France. Mr. Adams, of President retired from the chair, and Mr. Massachusetts, offered several Resolu. Tyler was elected President, pro tein., tions, the first of which, after some mod- on the fourth balloting, by the following ification, read as follows:- Resolved, vote: Tyler, twenty-five; King, of Ala- That, in the opinion of this House, the bama, nineteen ; scattering, one. treaty with France, of the fourth of July, The scenes in the House of Represen- 1831, should be maintained, and its exe- tatives, on the last night of the session, cution insisted upon.' Another amend- are described as having been of rather an ment to this Resolution was reject- exciting character. Several Bills, which ed, and the question was taken on the had passed the Senate, were unacted first Resolution of Mr. Adams, modified upon by the House — the most impor- as above, and decided by yeas and nays; tant of which, was that relating to the yeas, two hundred and ten; nays, none. repairs of our fortifications. To this Bill, The annunciation of this result was re- the House, on the last day of the session, ceived with a loud burst of applause, added the following amendment: • And from the galleries, which was re-echoed be it, &c. That the sum of three millions from the floor. Mr. Adams then with- of dollars be and the same is hereby ap- drew his two other Resolutions, and the propriated out of any proney in the treas- question was taken on the second Reso- ury not otherwise appropriated, to be ex- lution, reported by the Committee on pended, in whole or in part, under the Foreign Affairs, which was adopted, and direction of the President of the United by which, the Committee was discharged States, for the military and naval service, from the farther consideration of the sub- including fortifications and ordnance, and ject. The third Resolution of the Com- increase of the navy ; provided such ex- mittee, declaring that contingent prepa- penditures shall be necessary for the de- ration ought to be made, to meet any fence of the country prior to the next emergency, growing out of our relations meeting of Congress. When this came with France, was laid on the table, and to the Senate, the section was opposed, the House adjourned. as conferring on the President unlimited In the Senate, the Resolution of Mr. military power. The Senate disagreed Benton, proposing to expunge from the to this vote, for the three millions of dol- journals the Resolutions of twenty-eighth lars, by a majority of ten. The Bill went of March last, was taken up. On motion back to the flouse. The House insisted of Mr. King, of Alabama, the words on its amendment, and again returned the Ordered to be expunged from the jour- Bill to the Senate. The Senate voted to nals of the Senate,' were stricken from adhere to its disagreement - twenty-nine the Resolution ; ayes, thirty-nine-nays, to seventeen. A committee of conference geven. Mr. Webster then observed, that was the result. They met, and resolved this vote had accomplished all that he had to strike out the appropriation of three ever desired, relative to the expunging millions, and insert in its place, 'as an ad- * There occurred an error, under this head, in our last number, which we here correct. In the account of the votes cast for United States Senator, it was inadvertently stated, that the Hon. John Quincy Adams received the support of the Jackson Representatives. It is now un- derstood, that they voted for Gov. Davis. THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. MAY, 1835. ORIGINAL PAPERS. THE SMUGGLER.* BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. And think ye now, ye sons of ease, Because the Smuggler's life is rude- Midst bawling winds and roaring seas, He lives a man of cheerless mood ? Ye little guess, how many a smile To fickle fortune's frown we owe ; Ye little guess, the sons of toil Know softer ease than you can know. Now, bless thee, girl! The wind is fair And fresh, and may not long be so ; We've little time, you know, to spare, So gi's a buss and let us go!! The Smuggler cries. A wight is he Fit for his trade! — so reckless rude, He looks like - something of the sea ! He is not of the landsman's brood ! His stature 's big — his hazle eye Glistens beneath his bushy hair ; His face is of a sunny dye - His hand, his bosom that is bare. His voice is rough, yet kindly. You Can tell he's wont to talk with winds And thunders, and the boisterous crew Of waves, whose moods he little minds. • We take great pleasure in presenting to our readers this beautiful production of the hest dramatist of the age. To those who have listened with delight, to the author's recitation of it from the stage, we feel assured that we could offer no ficher treat, and by all, who love the true and bigh inspirations of genius, we are confident, that this fine poem will be highly esti- mated. It was printed long ago in England; but this is its first appearance in an American periodical. The manuscript, which lies before us, is the author's own, given to us by him- self, and it has been enlivened, in the copying, by many touches, from the hand that drew the original picture. -Ed. VOL. VIII. 43 334 The Smuggler. His rosy, hardy infant son Sits, crowing, on his lusty neck ; His wife, a fair and tender one, Murmurs, and weeps upon his cheek. He must not stay! The treasure's dear ; He hurries from her, with a sigh ; His manly soul disdains a tear - Not but he has one in his eye! The sail is set !- she clears the shore She feels the wind and scuds away, Heels on her little keel, and o'er The jostling waves appears to play. This is the Smuggler's little crew:- The mate, his tall and strapping son ; Another active youth or two, Besides an old and childless man, Who many a storm and wreck had seen ; His head as hoary as the foam Of the vexed wave! — He once had been Another man !- had now no home, Save what the ocean and the winds Made for him! 'Twas a ruthless one ; And they were rough, inconstant friends ; But, every other friend had gone ! At length, the cliff is seen no more - Around is naught but sea and sky ; And now, the Smuggler ponders o'er His hopes and fears, alternately. O Hope! thou little airy form! Thou thing ~ of nothing !- subtlest thing, That deals in potent spell or charm! - Queen of the little fairy ring, That dances up and down the beam Of the midnight moon, and loves to play Such antics, by its witching gleam, As scare or wrap the sons of day. When was the smile of human bliss More fair than painted still by thee? Thy phantom gives as sweet a kiss As e’en the lover's fairest she ! Illusion blest! How many a son, Of hard, unchanging destiny, Whom fortune never smiled upon, Has yet been taught to smile by thee! Now, with thy little golden wand, Perch'd on the Smuggler's helm, the wild And savage sea thou would'st command, And make it merciful and mild ! But, it is a bleak and squally sky, A restless and a raging sea, Whose surge and clond thy power defy, And make their moody mock of thee! The Smuggler. 335 Yet, little moved, thou keep'st thy place Beside the staunch and reckless wight, Who looks thee cheerly in the face, And little apprehends thy ilight, Till, through the war of waves and winds, Regardless of their threatening roar, Thou guid’st him, till at last he finds His path, and treads the sunny shore ! The traffic 's made-- the treasure stowed ; The wind is fair, the sail is spread, And, laboring with her secret load, Scarce heaves the little skiff her head. Now is the Smuggler's time of care ! A wary watch he keeps — nor night Nor day he rests, nor those who share The fortunes ef the venturous wight. A veering course they steer, to shun The armed sail, and strive to reach The nearest friendly land, and run In some safe creek, or sheltered beech, Which now, at night they near; and then Laugh at their fears and perils o'er — When, lo! the wary beacon 's seen To blaze !- An enemy's ashore ! Down goes the helm!Let go the sheet!' The little bark obeys; and now "To clear the fatal land, must beat The heavy surge, with laboring prow! She weathers it ; but, ah! a sail, By the bright starlight gleam, they find Has left the shore - as they can tell, She is about a league behind - In chase of them, along the shore. The Smuggler knows it well !— There lies A little cove, three leagues or more, And thither will he bear his prize! Well sails the little skiff, but vain Her efforts !- Every knot they run The stranger draws on them amain ! She nears them more than half a one ! The Smuggler thinks 't is over now ! Thrice has he left the helm - aud The fruitless dew, from his sullen brow, Dashed with his indignant hand ! When, lo!-(And think you not there was Some bright and pitying spirit there, That hover'd o'er the Smuggler, as He gave his rudder to despair ? ) - Just as the heavy tears begin, Adown his manly cheek, to roll, Warm from that not unholy shrine ---- The husband's and the father's soul ! - 337 SCENES IN EUROPE. LAFAYETTE, IN 1832. I SHARED in the desire, common to all my countrymen who arrive in France, to see Lafayette ; but, I was told that it would be of no use to call and present letters at his house, for he was so much occupied with public affairs, that I should never be able to obtain an interview in this way. Not long after my arrival in Paris, however, I had the pleasure of meeting him at a soiree, at the house of the American Minister. I saw him surrounded by a crowd, who flocked to meet him at his entrance ; I saw him entertain- ing them with conversation, bright and courtier-like, as when, half a century before, he formed the ornament of the dainty sa- loons of Marie Antoinette. I softly joined the number who had gathered round him, but did not then venture to be presented. I afterwards met him at many other balls and parties, and observed, in every instance, the same appearance of vivacity and youth- ful feeling, which surprised me at first. Age did not appear to have dimmed his powers in the least; and at seventy-five, the old man was still the star of the saloons, the foremost of his party, the pride of two worlds. It was my good fortune to become much acquainted with La- fayette, during the succeeding year. A number of Americans, at bis instance, had formed themselves into a committee, to as- sist him in distributing to the refugee Poles the money sent them from America, for their relief. I was a member of this commit- tee; we met every Wednesday evening, at the house of Mr. J. Fenimore Cooper. · Lafayette was a constant attendant, and as our business never occupied much time, we were usually enter- tained by his conversation. He was a great talker, and he talked well. I have never been more interested in any discussion, than in the conversations at these meetings. One evening, I shall long remember. It was the twenty-second of February, the hundredth anniversary of Washington's birth-day. We had met to transact the business of the committee; probably most of us, without re- flecting what the day was. The fact was mentioned, by some one, in the course of the evening, and our hospitable entertainer proposed drinking to the memory of the father of our country ; and, accordingly, champaigne was brought. Lafayette was much interested — told us numerous anecdotes of Washington, and the American revolution; and we remained. till a late hour of the night, listening to the conversation, and not envying our friends at home, the dinners and balls and other festivities, which graced the occasion. Having received an invitation, from Lafayette, to visit La- 338 Scenes in Europe. grange, I left Paris, in company with an American friend, one fine morning in June, in the diligence for Rosoy, the nearest vil- lage to the General's estate. The distance is about thirty-five miles, over a road, for the most part, uninteresting. The castle of Vincennes attracted our attention, though we had not time to stop and examine it. It appeared to be a collection of towers, joined by a wall of great height and thickness. Some of the towers had the appearance of antiquity ; but the rich old gothic carved work, being supplied with plain masonry, wherever it had perished, the effect was very bad. On the whole, if we except the Gothic chapel, the summit of which alone could be seen above the wall, the edifice had rather the appearance of our States' prisons, than of a military fortress. The forest of Vin- cennes is very fine, extending over an immense tract, and formerly used by the Kings of France, as hunting ground. Since the ac- cession of Louis Phillippe, the royal forests have been thrown open to the public, and the game is now nearly all killed. Arrived at Rosoy, we took a guide to conduct us to Lagrange; and having followed the public road for about half a mile, we came to a path, by the road side, which, we were told, would con- duct us to the house. We followed this for some time, winding through the wood or along the meadow, till we at length discerned, amidst a bower of trees, the gray towers of the chateau. We traversed a short causeway, deeply shaded with pines and weep- ing willows, crossed the little bridge, which is thrown over the moat, and entered at the dark and heavy Gothic portal, which opened before us between two circular towers covered with ivy, which curtains the whole side of the castle. We afterwards gathered a few leaves of the ivy, as a memorial of Lagrange- the more interesting, from its having been planted by the hands of Charles James Fox. Having passed the gateway, we found ourselves in a quadran- gle, around three sides of which, the castle is built. The fourth side opens to the west, and affords a fine view of the park, which is clustered with elms and other trees, and stretches away, to a great distance, on each side of the chateau. With much ado, we found our way to the right door ; and, having sent up our names, were immediately welcomed by the General, in his usual kind and hospitable manner, and at once installed as members of the family. The rooms in the chateau are charmingly situated, especially those in the circular towers, as they command a view on three sides. The General told us, that the building was probably erected some time in the thirteenth century. It was, originally, a very strong castle — the walls being immensely thick, and of solid masonry ; and, as we looked at it, there was no great diffi- culty in imagining what its original appearance might have been. Scenes in Europe. 339 It was not unlike the ancient barons' castles, described in the Waverly novels ; the fourth side of the quadrangle was then undoubtedly protected by a lofty and strong wall, and perhaps another tower to complete the six. Behind the battlements, the knights were stationed, on the approach of an enemy, and a broad, deep moat encircled the whole ; the drawbridge was raised, and the portcullis — the grooves of which are still visible — defended the entrance, while the narrow loop-holes, in the towers, bristled with arrows. At a little distance stood the chapel — respected even by the enemies of the lords of La- grange - now, most unceremoniously, converted into a barn. The exterior, however, retains its ecclesiastical appearance; and being surrounded with trees, is a very picturesque object. In the evening, we went to look at the presents, which Lafay- ette had received from America. The first which we noticed, was the race-boat, “American Star,' which beat the English boat, at New-York. A very pretty house is built over it, the sides of which are covered with wire net-work, so that the boat can al- ways be seen without entering. Thence we went to the farm- yard, where we found a large collection of domestic fowl, of every kind ; also, pigs, sheep, cattle, of American breed, in abundance. Everything looked flourishing and in fine order ; and the barns and their contents would have done honor to an English farmer. We spent two days, at this charming place, walking in the park, or conversing with the General and his interesting family. The morning after we arrived, we had a proof of the reverence and affection, with which Lafayette was regarded by the neigh- boring inhabitants. There was a review of the National Guard of Rosoy that day, and the commandant proposed to come and salute the General — for the session of the Chambers had but lately closed at Paris, and the two Lafayettes, both of them Dep- uties, had very recently arrived at Lagrange. The troops, to the number of three or four hundred, were marched into the inner square of the castle ; and the Mayor of the town, who accompa- nied them, made a speech to the General, expressing the appro- bation of his constituents, and their satisfaction at seeing him among them again ; which speech was followed by lively accla- mations of Vive le General! The old man replied to them with propriety and eloquence; and, as I had never been able to hear him respond in this way in America, I was greatly pleased to hear him speak on such an occasion, at home. Indeed, it had a strong effect on my feelings, to visit this ven- erable man, thus at his own quiet home. I had seen him six years before, on his triumphal journey through the States, and I supposed, when he bade farewell to our shores, that I had seen him for the last time. To behold him again, in his own country, after my long wanderings ; to visit him at his home, to see him hipposed, ore; onhat hiss effe 340 Skating. surrounded by his children, down to the fourth generation, and living among them in patriarchal dignity ; to wander with him, in the hospitable shades of Lagrange, and listen to his conversation, alike interesting, whether it turned on the past or the present all this inspired me with new emotions; and I seemed rather to be in the presence of one who was rewarded for the labors, coun- sels, and dangers of a well-spent life, by a habitation in the dwel- ling-place of the blest, than of a mortal like myself. SKATING. Wir gleiten, O Bruder, mit frohlichem Sinn, Auf Sternengefilden das Leben dahin. HERDER. We glide, O! brothers, in cheerful play- On starry fields, through life, away. We speed o'er the star-lighted mirror along, And the wood and the mountain re-echo our song, As on, like the wing of the eagle, we sweep, Now gliding, now wheeling, we ring o'er the deep. The winds whistle keenly — the red cheek is warm, And there's none, who would yield not his breast to the storm. The stars are above us, so full and so bright, And the mirror below us is gemmed with their light. Like the far-wheeling hawk, in the mid-air, we fly ; A sky is above us — below us a sky. As onward we glide in our race, we keep time, And clear, as the morning bell, eches our chime. By pine-covered rock, and by willow-bound shore, Breast even with breast, like a torrent we pour. Short, quick are our strokes, as we haste to the mark, And shrill is our cry, as the trill of the lark. The goal is now reached, and we bend us away, Wide-wheeling, or curving, in fanciful play. How fondly I loved, when my life-blood was young- When buoyant my heart, and my limbs newly strung, When the friends of my childhood were round me and near - O'er the dark lake to sweep, in our sounding career ; And high beat my soul, with enthusiast glow, As a clear-ringing music was pealing below. We heeded no danger — we carelessly flew O'er a deep, that in darkness was lost to our view; And onward we rushed, in the heat of our strife, As, o'er dangers and ruin, we hurry through life. . So we sped in our flight, as on pinions, along, And the wood and the mountain re-echoed our song. J. G. PERCIVAL. 341 WAKEFIELD. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE GRAY CHAMPION.' In some old magazine or newspaper, I recollect a story, told as truth, of a man — let us call him Wakefield -- who absented him- self for a long time, from his wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very uncommon, nor — without a proper distinction of circumstances — to be condemned either as naughty or non- sensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance, on record, of marital delinquency; and, moreover, as remarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of human oddities. The wedded couple lived in Lon- don. T'he man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodg- ings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt upwards of twenty years. During that period, he beheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his matri- monial felicity — when his death was reckoned certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from memory, and his wife, long, long ago, resigned to her autumnal widowhood — he entered the door one evening, quietly, as from a day's absence, and became a loving spouse until death. This outline is all that I remember. But the incident, though of the purest originality, unexampled, and probably never to be repeated, is one, I think, which appeals to the general sympa- thies of mankind. We know, each for himself, that none of us would perpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other might. To my own contemplations, at least, it has often recurred, al- ways exciting wonder, but with a sense that the story must be true, and a conception of its hero's character. Whenever any subject so forcibly affects the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. If the reader choose, let him do his own meditation; or if he prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of Wakefield's vagary, I bid him welcome; trusting that there will be a pervading spirit and a moral, even should we fail to find them, done up neatly, and condensed into the final sentence. Thought has always its efficacy, and every striking incident its moral. What sort of a man was Wakefield ? We are free to shape out our own idea, and call it by his name. He was now in the meridian of life; his matrimonial affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm, habitual sentiment ; of all husbands, he was likely to be the most constant, because a certain sluggishness would keep his heart at rest, wherever it might be placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so; his mind occupied itself in VOL. VIII. 44 Wakefield. 343 Yet, for its sake, when all others have given him up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is a widow. But, our business is with the husband. We must hurry after him, along the street, ere he lose his individuality, and melt into the great mass of London life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let us follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after several superfluous turns and doublings, we find him com- fortably established by the fireside of a small apartment, pre- viously bespoken. He is in the next street to his own, and at his journey's end. He can scarcely trust his good fortune, in having got thither unperceived — recollecting that, at one time, he was delayed by the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lan- tern ; and, again, there were foot-steps, that seemed to tread be- hind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him ; and, anon, he heard a voice shouting afar, and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless, a dozen busy-bodies had been watching him, and told his wife the whole affair. Poor Wake- field! Little knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great world! No mortal eye but mine has trace thee. Go quietly to thy bed, foolish man; and, on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs. Wakefield, and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself, even for a little week, from thy place in her chaste bosom. Were she, for a single moment, to deem thee dead, or lost, or lastingly divided from her, thou wouldst be woe- fully conscious of a change in thy true wife, forever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in human affections ; not that they gape so long and wide — but so quickly close again! Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may be termed, Wakefield lies down betimes, and starting from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide and solitary waste of the un- accustomed bed. No'-thinks he, gathering the bed-clothes about him I will not sleep alone another night.' In the morning, he rises earlier than usual, and sets himself to consider what he really means to do. Such are his loose and rambling modes of thought, that he has taken this very singular step, with the consciousness of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. The vagueness of the project, and the convulsive effort with which he plunges into the execution of it, are equally character- istic of a feeble-minded man. Wakefield sifts his ideas, how- ever, as minutely as he may, and finds himself curious to know the progress of matters at home — how his exemplary wife will endure her widowhood, of a week; and, briefly, how the little sphere of creatures and circumstances, in which he was a central object, will be affected by his removal. A morbid vanity, there- fore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. But, how is he to at- tain his ends ? Not, certainly, by keeping close in this comfort- Wakefield. 345 quate sensation which he conceived to have been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wakefield. He will not go back until she be frightened half to death. Well; twice or thrice has she passed before his sight, each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek, and more anxious brow; and, in the third week of his non-appear- ance, he detects a portent of evil entering the house, in the guise of an apothecary. Next day, the knocker is muffled. Towards night-fall, comes the chariot of a physician, and deposits its big- wigged and solemn burthen at Wakefield's door, whence, after a quarter of an hour's visit, he emerges, perchance the herald of a funeral. Dear woman ! Will she die ? By this time, Wake- field is excited to something like energy of feeling, but still ling- ers away from his wife's bedside, pleading with his conscience, that she must not be disturbed at such a juncture. If aught else restrains him, he does not know it. In the course of a few weeks, she gradually recovers ; the crisis is over ; her heart is sad, per- haps, but quiet ; and, let him return soon or late, it will never be feverish for him again. Such ideas glimmer through the mist of Wakefield's mind, and render him indistinctly conscious, that an almost impassible gulf divides his hired apartment from his former home. It is but in the next street !' he sometimes says. Fool! it is in another world. Hitherto, he has put off his return from one particular day to another ; henceforward, he leaves the pre- cise time undetermined. Not to-morrow — probably next week — pretty soon. Poor man ! The dead have nearly as much chance of re-visiting their earthly homes, as the self-banished Wakefield. Would that I had a folio to write, instead of a brief article in the New-England! Then might I exemplify how an influence, be- yond our control, lays its strong hand on every deed which we do, and weaves its consequences into an iron tissue of necessity. Wakefield is spell-bound. We must leave him, for ten years or so, to haunt around his house, without once crossing the thresh- old, and to be faithful to his wife, with all the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be remarked, he has lost the perception of singu- larity in his conduct. Now for a scene! Amid the throng of a London street, we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with few characteristics to attract careless observers, yet bearing, in his whole aspect, the hand-writing of no common fate, for such as have the skill to read it. He is meagre ; his low and narrow forehead is deeply wrinkled ; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes wander ap- prehensively about him, but oftener seem to look inward. He bends his head, and moves with an indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to display his full front to the world. Watch him, long enough to see what we have described, and you will allow, that circumstances – which often produce remarkable men from 346 Wakefield. nature's ordinary handiwork — have produced one such here. Next, leaving him to sidle along the foot-walk, cast your eyes in the opposite direction, where a portly female, considerably in the wane of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is proceeding to yonder church. She has the placid mien of settled widowhood. Her regrets have either died away, or have become so essential to her heart, that they would be poorly exchanged for joy. Just as the lean man and well conditioned woman are passing, a slight obstruction occurs, and brings these two figures directly in con- tact. Their hands touch ; the pressure of the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder ; they stand, face to face, staring into each other's eyes. After a ten years' separation, thus Wakefield meets his wife! The throng eddies away, and carries them asunder. The so- ber widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds to church, but pauses in the portal, and throws a perplexed glance along the street. She passes in, however, opening her prayer-book as she goes. And the man ? With so wild a face, that busy and selfish London stands to gaze after him, he hurries to his lodgings, bolts the door, and throws himself upon the bed. The latent feelings of years break out ; his feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength ; all the miserable strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a glance; and he cries out, passionately — Wakefield ! Wakefield! You are mad!' Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation must have so moulded him to itself, that, considered in regard to his fellow-crea- tures and the business of life, he could not be said to possess his right mind. He had contrived, or rather he had happened, to dissever himself from the world — to vanish — to give up his place and privileges with living men, without being admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit is nowise parallel to his. He was in the bustle of the city, as of old ; but the crowd swept by, and saw him not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside his wife, and at his hearth, yet must never feel the warmth of the one, nor the affection of the other. It was Wakefield's unprecedented fate, to retain his original share of human sympa- thies, and to be still involved in human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influence on them. It would be a most curious speculation, to trace out the effect of such circumstances on his heart and intellect, separately, and in unison. Yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be conscious of it, but deem himself the same man as ever; glimpses of the truth, indeed, would come, but only for the moment; and still he would keep saying — I shall soon go back!' - nor reflect, that he had been saying so for twenty years. I conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear, in the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week to which Wakefield had Wakefield. 347 at first limited his absence. He would look on the affair as no more than an interlude in the main business of his life. When, after a little while more, he should deem it time to re-enter his parlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy, on beholding the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, Alas, what a mistake! Would Time but await the close of our favorite follies, we should be young men, all of us, and till Doom's Day. One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, Wake- field is taking his customary walk towards the dwelling which he still calls his own. It is a gusty night of autumn, with frequent showers, that patter down upon the pavement, and are gone, be- fore a man can put up his umbrella. Pausing near the house, Wakefield discerns, through the parlor-windows of the second floor, the red glow, and the glimmer and fitful flash, of a comfort- able fire. On the ceiling, appears a grotesque shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, the nose and chin, and the broad waist, form an admirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the up-flickering and down-sinking blaze, almost too merrily for the shade of an elderly widow. At this instant, a shower chances to fall, and is driven, by the unmannerly gust, full into Wakefield's face and bosom. He is quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he stand, wet and shivering here, when his own hearth has a good fire to warm him, and his own wiſe will run to fetch the gray coat and small-clothes, which, doubt- less, she has kept carefully in the closet of their bed-chamber? No! Wakefield is no such fool. He ascends the steps — heav- ily !—for twenty years have stiffened his legs, since he came down — but he knows it not. Stay, Wakefield! Would you go to the sole home that is left you? Then step into your grave! The door opens. As he passes in, we have a parting glimpse of his visage, and recognize the crafty smile, which was the precur- sor of the little joke, that he has ever since been playing off at his wife's expense. How unmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! Well; a good night's rest to Wakefield ! This happy event — supposing it to be such — could only have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. We will not follow our friend across the threshold. He has left us much food for thought, a portion of which shall lend its wisdom to a moral, and be shaped into a figure. Amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one another, and to a whole, that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever. Like Wakefield, he may become, as it were, the Outcast of the Universe. 345 CITIES. NO. III. GENEVA. "CLEAR, placid Leman' is a mirror, in which no pleasant city need blush to see its face. Many pretty towns are on its bor- ders; and, at its outlet, is Geneva, divided by the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. It is a city, that dwells in decencies forever ; ' not lively and not very dull. The citizens are good psalm-singers, and they take pleasure in the utilities. There is no dissipation and not much gaiety. Your Swiss is marvellously like your Yankee, except that his features are more plain. I know not where a town stands, in which nine female faces in ten have so little of the fatal gift of beauty. Of course, there is closed one fruitful source of envy and all uncharitableness. I have seen the Genevese, in their churches, their lectures, their singings and their school visitings — in whatever the most attracts them, in companies, from their front windows and their firesides — and I never saw but one face worth looking at twice ; and whether that was in the Leman or the looking-glass, is best known to myself. But, handsome is that handsome does ;' goodness is not de- pendent on the features or complexion. The citizens of Gene- va are a good people — industrious, orderly, moral and religious. The most of them are so fortunate as to have something to do; and the general tendency is towards mechanics, or rather ma- chinery. They are unrivalled in horology ; no people measure time so exactly, which is one reason why they are so punctual. The chief manufactures are watches, musical boxes, and trinkets. Yet, there is hardly a watchmaker in sight; the workshops being chiefly in the attics. If a good workman springs up in another can- ton, he comes at last to Geneva, where the wages and advantages are greater. Many watches are sold in America, that are marked Geneva,' but these are made in other cantons, or in France. Geneva is a city so fortified, that it would surrender only after a long siege ; it would cost fifty thousand men to take it by as- sault. Napoleon intended it as one of his frontier posts, till he extended his empire to the Adriatic. When the city gates are passed, all is rural; the country adjoins immediately the town. Nothing creates a bustle, though the departure of the steamboat collects a few idlers. It takes a daily trip around the lake, and a beautiful voyage it is. There are pretty walks, too, around the quiet city. I started, when the town-clock struck six, and all the other clocks were beat- ing time simultaneously, for a day's journey. At a good hour 1 came to Sicheron, where is the best hotel in Europe. I defy a trav- eler to remain there and sigh for home; it is an antidote of home- Geneva. 349 sickness. There is just what is requisite ; the traveler pays his bill, with the satisfied feeling of a man that has received his quid pro quo; and he is treated so respectfully, that he goes away with a more dignified estimation of himself, so that he has, not only his ease in his inn, but his dignity, or his otium cum dignitate. Besides, he may put down his own obscure name in the same book with poets, painters, generals, and princes, as I did mine under Scott, Wilkie, Yermoloff, and Maria Louise. • Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road.' The chateau of Ferney — the residence of Voltaire ; the man, whose wit was under the guidance of his malice, and both in ex- tremes. When speaking of an enemy, every word was a sting, every thought an epigram. His ridicule raised blisters ; it forced a laugh even from the best friends of the victim. His mind was a lens, and could be concentrated, with burning power, upon any point. He was all intellect — he had no affections. I caught the spirit of the place; my heart turned into a grindstone, whereon I could have sharpened arrows for my enemies and friends ; I was inspired with malice, if not with wit ; for then I first thought of writing you this article. I cut a crab-stick in the grounds, that would have reminded you of the old proprietor himself, it was so knotted, hard, and crooked. . I returned by Copet, the residence of a being of a different order -- an opposite sphere ; one, whose wit, imagination, and affections, were boundless ; whose great grief it was, that others did not love her as she herself loved ; who wished to be beauti- ful, only that she might be more an object of love. She had a double existence, in the intellect and the affections. At Copet were her happiest and her most sorrowful days. Here was her exile from that France, which was half her existence; from hence, she fled from the power of that soulless man, who could carry on a harrassing war of proscription against one helpless, sensitive, and most illustrious woman. •Why to yon mountain turns the roving eye, Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky?' That is Mont Blanc, the monarch of mountains.' The Hima- leh and Andes may pierce a little deeper into the sky, but they have not such glories, of forests, glaciers, and cataracts. At the distance of fifty miles, the eye often turns involuntarily to that sublime mass of dazzling white, rising so high above the clouds, that they seem to hover about the base. The summit is above all earthly vapors ; sun, moon, or stars, forever shine upon it, and it is one of the most dangerous and daring exploits of man, to VOL. VIII. 45 350 Cities. ascend it. Many a time have I caught myself looking at it, not as a mountain, but some gorgeous summer-cloud, sailing far up in the sky. The road to Chamouni is chiefly up the river Arve ; and, on entering the mountains, the whole route is glorious. The moun- tains are high and abrupt, but often covered with cultivation and streaming with waterfalls. These are cataracts, that would have astounded Sam Patch; he would have found some mistake in them.' One of them, by the road-side, called “Nant d’Arpenas,' is a cascade of eight hundred feet, and others are roaring on all sides. At a mile or less from Geneva, is the frontier of Savoy, now pertaining to Sardinia. Here, passports are examined ; and, at a village thirty miles beyond, the hunters of the picturesque are obliged to descend from their own carriages, and mount a car, belonging to no less a contractor than the King of Sardinia and Je- rusalem. In this substantial machine, which swings a foot and a half above the ground, he rides sideways, unless, like me, he prefers to walk before. He passes over torrents, on rustic bridges, and enters meadows, enamelled with a thousand kinds of flowers. There is a narrow margin between the mountains, and much of it is like a flower-garden. Every flower has a bee in it, and the honey of Chamouni is celebrated throughout Europe. Chamouni is a little village, with half a dozen large hotels, for there are caravans of travelers, though the existence of this charm- ing valley was unknown to any of the tribes until it was described by orator Windham and traveler Pococke. The hotel of London received me, and there I found eighteen others, of the curious, bent upon crawling up, a day's journey, on the base of the mountain. Having before me a most excel- lent repast, of trout and kid, I prepared to recruit my strength for the undertaking, and rose up with a courage enough to attempt Chimborazo. In the morning I set off, without a guide, while lords and la- dies were preparing to go on mule and palfrey. I wished to be alone — to enjoy my own thoughts, such as they were — and started with a pike in hand, sufficient to slay a wolf. There was but one path, as high as I wished to go ; and, once in it, there was no danger of being lost. It winds around, through for- ests of fir trees, in which are glorious glimpses of mountain and sky. Four hours of patient labor brought me to an elevation above the forests, on the bank of that strange congelation, the Icy Sea ; and here is a neat little hospice, with a good fire and refreshments. From this, is a view of the Sea of Ice, with the abrupt pinnacled mountains, called the Needles,' on the other side. This frozen sea is half a dozen miles wide and three times as long. It looks like the ocean, frozen when the waves are The Fields of War. 351 highest. It is full of chasms, some of unfathomed depth. Many are covered with snow, and the danger is invisible. I went upon it a little way, stepping only where I saw tracks. When I re- turned to the hospice, the dozen and a half English had arrived, each one with a mule and a guide to lead it. THE FIELDS OF WAR. BY 1. M'LELLAN, JR. The leaders of the war of the Revolution are seen, by Fancy's eye, to take their stations on the mount of Remembrance. They come from the embattled cliffs of Abraham ; they start from the heaving sods of Bunker's Hill; they gather from the blazing lines of Saratoga and Yorktown -- from the blood-dyed waters of the Brandywine, from the dreary snows of Valley-Forge, and all the hard-fought fields of the war. EDWARD EVERETT. THEY rise, by stream and yellow shore, By mountain, moor, and fen; By weedy rock and torrent hoar, And lonesome forest-glen! From many a woody moss-grown mound, Start forth a war-worn band, As when, of old, they caught the sound Of hostile arms, and closed around — To guard their native land. Hark! to the clanging horn - Hark, to the rolling drum ! Arms glitter in the flash of morn - The hosts to battle come ! The serried files, the plumed troop Are marshalled once again, Along the Hudson's mountain-group, Along the Atlantic main ! On Bunker, at the dead of night, I seem to view the raging fight, The burning town, the smoky height, The onset, the retreat! And, down the banks of Brandywine, I see the levelled bayonets shine ; And lurid clouds of battle twine, Where struggling columns meet. Yorktown and Trenton blaze once more ; And, by the Delaware's frozen shore, The hostile guns at midnight roar, The hostile shouts arise. The snows of Valley-Forge grow red, And Saratoga’s field is spread With heaps of undistinguished dead, And filled with dying cries ! 352 Artists and Angels. 'Tis o'er ; the battle-shout has died By ocean, stream, and mountain-side ; And the bright harvest, far and wide, Waves o'er the blood-drenched field. The rank grass o’er it greenly grows -- And oft, the upturning shares disclose The buried arms and bones of those Who fell, but would not yield ! Time's rolling chariot hath effaced The very hillocks, where were placed The bodies of the dead in haste, When closed the furious fight. 'The ancient fort and rampart-mound Long since have settled to the ground, On Bunker's famous height - And the last relics of the brave Are sinking to oblivion's grave! ARTISTS AND ANGELS. BY SAMUEL WEBBER, M. D. AMONG the studies of painters and sculptors, much stress is laid upon their acquiring a correct knowledge of anatomy ; at least of that division which is called the anatomy of expression, compre- hending the true proportions, configurations, and relative positions of the bones and muscles of the human body and of the bodies of some animals, in all positions, both of motion and rest, and as va- riously affected by the different passions and emotions of the mind. That many have indeed acquired great skill in this sci- ence, is too well known to require confirmation ; but, compara- tive anatomy has been too much overlooked ; and, for want of a little attention to some of its primary laws, forms, both in paint- ing and sculpture, are occasionally exhibited, that, however beau- tiful they may appear to the eye of the ignorant and uninquiring, can be considered as nothing but monsters by the disciples of Cuvier; and in them produce a sense of the ridiculous, sufficient greatly to mar, if not in some to overpower, the emotions arising from the exhibition of skill in the artist, and excellence in the work in other respects. The great principle, upon which the science of comparative anatomy rests, is that of harmony of structure ; by which is meant the agreement, with each other, of the different parts of the same species of animal, so that they form a whole, having an uniform Artists and Angels. 353 adaptation to the particular nature and habits of the animal. Thus, the peculiar teeth of the feline tribe are always found associated with the retractile claws; and these, with a peculiar conformation of the bones of the foot, adapted to claws of such a make, and, in connection with other parts of the foot, suited for the soft and stealing step, and the sudden and long spring. To suit this foot, the bones of the leg are likewise fashioned in a manner different from that in which the same bones are found in other animals ; and the bones of the trunk have, also, their adaptations to those of the limbs, so that any bone, of an animal of this class, will be found perceptibly different from the bone of the corres- ponding articulation in an animal of another kind. The same re- mark will apply to all the different races of beasts; and a skilful observer may, with certainty, from a single bone, tell the race of the animal to which it belonged. So, too, in birds. The strong talons of birds of prey are found associated with a peculiar structure of the beak; to these is suit- ed the structure of the bones of the wings ; and to these, the structure of the skeleton throughout. Thus, it is, indeed, through all the tribes of nature. In every organized being, however seemingly insignificant, may be traced a harmony of parts, mak- ing it a complete whole, with all its various members modified and suited to each other. Nothing is incongruous. Even those organs, which, in the distinction of sexes and races, have only a nominal existence, being what are called abortive, if exceptions to the rule, as some may deem them, are only such exceptions as serve to establish it as firmly as positive proofs, since this very abortiveness has its harmony and correspondencies in other parts of the frame. It is from want of attention to the comparative anatomy of birds, that artists have erred most glaringly, in the way in which they have represented angels, and other figures of a supposed etherial nature - endowing them with a human form, with the superadded faculty of Aying ; and, as the means of employing this faculty, annexing, to the backs of their shoulders, a huge pair of bird's wings. To understand fully the folly and inconsistency of all this, let us examine a little the structure of a bird, in the points in which it differs from that of a man, and see how it is adapted for its pe- culiar power of flying. It may be premised, that the general ru- diments of the frames of man, birds and beasts, are the same — pe- culiarities in the shape and adaptation of these rudiments, and the addition and retrenchment of minor parts, being sufficient to ac- complish the great diversities in outward appearance. In the first place, the wings of birds answer to arms in man ; like these upper extremities of the human race, they have collar-bones, shoulder-blades, humerus, or arm-bone, radius and ulna, or bones 354 Artists and Angels. ome to the hanheir relative projder, and thos of the fore arm, carpus or wrist, bones of the metacarpus or body of the hand, and phalanges or bones of the fingers. In the num- ber, position, and distribution of these, there is little difference, until we come to the hand and wrist. In the form of the radius, ulna and humerus, and their relative proportions, there is much similarity ; but, in the bones of the shoulder, and those of the trunk, to which they are attached, and in the proportions and ar- rangements of the muscles, by which motion is communicated to the whole extremity, a great difference is to be found. The ster- num or breast-bone, in man, is a narrow flat bone, a little more than an inch broad on the average, a third of an inch thick, at the most, and, even with the addition of its cartilaginous lower extremity, not half equal in length to the trunk. It is of a spongy structure, and naturally divided into three portions. The breast- bone of a bird, on the contrary, is both broad and long — some- what of the shape of a shield or buckler, and like one cover- ing almost the whole of the front of the body. Along its middle, it has a deep carina, or keel, rising boldly, yet gradually, from its lower pointed extremity, and terminating in a high peak, at its upper end. In many land birds, the height of this ridge, or keel, from the flat surface of the breast-bone covering the body, is more than half the breadth of the breast-bone itself; while, in the waterfowl, generally, the breast-bone is broader, and the height of the keel not so great, in proportion. This breast-bone, moreover, is firm and dense in its structure. The great end of this difference of shape seems to be, to afford in birds a site and place of attachment for their huge pectoral muscles, by which, principally, the wing is moved in flight. These muscles are three in number, and constitute the great mass of flesh called the breast in birds. The pectoral muscles in man, though among the largest and most powerful muscles of his frame, are comparatively small and feeble. Were a man reduced to the size of a robin, his pectoral muscles would not present, either in superficies or thickness, a bulk bigger than a finger nail ; yet those of a well fed robin are almost half of an inch thick, and more than an inch long and broad; and, were a robin expanded to the size of a man, by weight, retaining its own proportions of form, the pectoral muscles, in order to support such a weight and propel it swiftly through the air, would have a thickness of a foot, and a length and breadth of nearly two feet, by a rough calculation. The collar bones are the next things deserving attention. In man, these are long, slender, and of a wavy curve, nearly hori- zontal in position, passing from the top of the breast-bone to the shoulder-blade. In a bird, they are straight, and much thicker and stronger, in proportion to their length, more firmly connected to the breast-bone, and rise high up by the side of the neck, to meet the top of the shoulder-blade, joining it at a very acute angle. 356 Artists and Angels. with this they are provided, in a broad fan of feathers, projecting far beyond the body, capable of being spread, more or less, lowered, raised, and turned, so as to vary the direction of the flight, in every possible way — besides serving, at the same time, to support the hinder part of the body, and thus to preserve the equipoise of the whole. Now, as artists have provided angels with wings, without muscles to move them, or suitable frame- work for the attachment of such muscles, they have, with equal inconsistency utterly neglected to provide them with a tail, to di- rect their flight, withal ; so that, even supposing they could fly, and could conveniently raise their heads to see what might be before thein, we do not perceive any means by which they could readily fly, otherwise than straight forwards. In order to turn about, they would have to alight somewhere and take a fresh start. Moreover, there is also a great difference in the make of the hip-bones of the two races. In birds, these are greatly longer, in proportion, than in man ; the sockets of the hip joints are placed much higher up on the sides, and on a level with the sur- face of the back; by which, with the peculiar structure of the lower extremities, the leg and thigh can be folded up by the sides of the body, a little back of the wings. In this position, the bal- ance of the whole is, with the help of the tail, easily preserved. A man, however, attempting to fly, by means of a pair of wings attached to his shoulder, would find his legs a sad incumbrance, situated as they are, at the extremity of the body, and capable of being but very imperfectly doubled up under it, and that only with an effort, that could not well last but for a short time. The consequence would be, that the weight behind the wings would far overbalance that before them, and he would necessarily as- sume a sitting or upright position in the air ; and, in that case, a flap of his wings would seem more likely to tumble him over backwards, than to give him a motion in any other direction. The back-bone, too, in birds, is much broader than in men; and, from the neck to the tail, has but one or two very imperfect joints, the rest being firmly united together, as one bone. This gives the body firmness to bear the weight of the legs, without the fa- tigue of muscular exertion, and to withstand, in like manner, the powerful jerks of the muscles moving the wings, and the shocks occasioned by the recoil of the air. For such a purpose as this, the human back is but poorly adapted, with its seventeen joints between the neck and the sacrum, or broad bone at the back of the hips. It is true, that the motion of these joints, separately, is but small, though the amount of it, in them all, is considerable ; and the back can be kept straight and firm only by a muscular exertion, that, when opposed, for any length of time, to a jarring or vibrating force of considerable power, becomes very fatiguing. Artists and Angels. 357 In short, it seems to be as plain as demonstration can make it, that the form of man is utterly at variance with any idea of flying, by means of a pair of wings attached as has been described ; and the union of such incongruous elements is a monstrous sin, not only against reason, but against good taste. The proportion, too, of the wings — in such instances as we have chanced to see of the representation of these fleshly-built etherial beings — is rather at variance with the office they are supposed to perform. The wings of a good-sized eagle, when expanded, measure seven feet, from tip to tip, across the back ; at the same rate, the body of a well-grown, fair-sized man, would require, for its flight, wings with a sweep of some thirty or forty feet, which is, at least, double what is usually assigned to them. Many birds, to be sure, fly with wings of somewhat smaller pro- portions, but it is by dint of incessant action; and an angel, flying through the heavens with the flippity-flappity motion of a wild duck, would savor somewhat of the ridiculous. Such vans might, perchance, do for a cupid ; but, in the ordinary representations, even he is gifted only with those of about the same comparative size as the pinions of an ostrich or a cassowary — things utterly incapable of lifting the body of their owners from the ground. Sometimes, indeed, like the sylphs and gnomes, he is portrayed with a pair of gossamer wings, like those of the dragon-fly or the may-bug, yet far too small for the bulk and weight of the body. It is true, that among the precious relics of some Italian con- vent is preserved what is called one of the pen feathers of the wing of the angel Gabriel, said to have been dropped by him when he came to announce to the Virgin her high future destiny. This feather is but some two feet long, and might seem to coun- tenance the size that has been assigned to such wings; yet, it may be remarked, that some sneering, heretical, caviling travel- ers, to whom it was shown, aver that it seemed to them nothing more or less than a feather from the wing of a large Alpine eagle or vulture ; and, if they be right, the proof, that might be drawn as just mentioned, will fail. Artists, however, ought not to bear alone the credit of these · anomalies ; for their brethren in fiction, the poets, have commit- ted their full share of such absurdities, though not so conspicu- ously, since they do not usually define the measure and propor- tion of these creature of their fancy, so as to present the out- lines to the mind with a distinctness at all like that with which painting and sculpture present them to the eye. Milton assigned to Gabriel three pair of wings — a treble piece of nonsense, so far as muscles and bones are concerned in the matter. It may be asked, “how then shall these heavenly existences be represented fittingly, as formed to move through the regions of space?' Truly, it does not appear necessary that they should VOL. VIII. 46 358 Spring Stanzas. be at all, bodily ; but, if they must be — to suit the fancy of an artist or a patron — let not the shape, assigned to them quite so conspicuously, mark the ignorance of the designer. The ques- tion may be left for the answering of those who desire its solution. Wings do not appear so sadly misplaced where used merely as emblems, as allegorical expressions for flight, united to a body so obviously incapable of having them as organs, as to make it evi- dent, that they are but emblems, as in the winged globe of the ancient Egyptians, in the Caduceus of Mercury, or even on his cap and sandals. No one could, for a moment, suppose that such wings might move, since they can have no life. Even at- tached to a head, as in the common representation of cherubim, they do not seem, on consideration, to be altogether inadmissi- ble, though the allegory may not always be understood, from want of considering the head, as the residence of the mind, to be put as an emblem of intelligence, or the soul, or simply of thought, and the wings merely as added to denote its quickness of trans- ition from one object or place to another. To be sure, as cher- ubim are often to be found graven upon old tombstones they are abundantly ridiculous in their appearance, and we never see one without thinking of the boy, who, being frightened in the twilight by an owl, a thing he had never before seen, flying out of a barn, almost in his face, as he was about to enter, ran down to the house, in great alarm, and told the family that he was cer- tainly going to die, for he had seen a cherub. SPRING STANZAS. The cold, bleak days of Winter! They 're past — they all are past; And, on the dewy lap of Earth, Spring has her blossoms cast. The unchained fountains laugh and play, The trees are dressed in green, And, crowned with roses, May-sweet May ! Reigns o'er the happy scene. My garden walks are pleasant now, Its beds are decked with flowers ; The climbing vines will trellice soon My calm, secluded bowers. The early buds perfume the air, The early minstrels sing ; All forms of life and beauty share, With me, the joy of Spring! - P. B. 360 The Adventures of Abulfida. not less from the statue-like dignity of his form and nobleness of demeanor, than from the loveliness of his countenance. When you saw him walking, silent and thoughtfully, along the devious paths of the valley of Allamboken, silvered over by the imperfect moonlight, you would have thought, that melancholy reigned in his soul. But, when the princes met in the Emir's hall, then his full, dark eye awoke from its slumber, and gleamed with all the starry vehemence of an archangel, when he addresses a band of the happy in the regions of the blessed. Then his soul of fire spoke through its melting blackness. Abulfida had been trained with all the assiduous care, that a wise and tender parent could bestow. All the treasures of sci- ence and poetry, which the language of the sons of Elam could afford, had been exhausted. The wisdom of Zardhusht had been infused into his heart, and the poetry of Hafir had been poured upon his soul. The most erudite sage, that visited his father's court, confessed, that never, since the days of Zoroaster, had so many talents been granted to a single mind. Abulfida was not to engage in the affairs of state — for the right of the first-born has ever been held sacred by the descend- ants of Elam; though they add with a sneer, the patriarch Abram forgot the rule which had given Ishmael the supremacy. Omar was destined to succeed his sire. What shall occupy the time and talents of Abulfida ? — for a good mussulman must have some employment to benefit his species, and discharge the duty he owes to Mohammed, and to beneficent Allah. Shall he com- mand the armies ? Shall he dwell at the Holy City, and ex- pound the will of the Prophet to the devout ? — or shall he at- tend the court of the greatest and noblest of monarchs, at Istam- boul ? These were questions, on which many an hour was ex- pended, vainly attempting to read the will of the Almighty, Through those glowing interpreters, which hold — though darkly writ — the destiny of all. The wisest of astrologers declared his insufficiency, and stood confounded at the failure of his art. Often did Abulfida consult the wisest of the Nabas, that fre- quented his father's court, or those who dwelt only in the moun- tains — acquiring a knowledge more than human, by their inter- course with the wildest and most mysterious forms of nature. And often, in solitude, the contemplative youth knelt down, in the grove of palms, and implored assistance from the Most High. All was in vain. Months passed away, still there was no reply. He determined to visit Mecca. But the Great Temple, which we all adore, seemed to his eyes only a little brown tent of cam- els' hair, with some mysterious words inscribed above the en- trance. “Farah min-yom, min-yom, farah.' What did this mean? It was in vain, that he asked the aged dervish, who sat in the great square of our Holy City, and gave water to The Adventures of Abulfida. 361 all who asked it in the name of the Prophet. He stared, as Abul- fida pronounced the mysterious words, and shook with terror when the youth called the temple a little brown tent. The crowds of pilgrims, who were entering the gates of the temple, appeared to him only as emmets, creeping into their humble habitation. He followed them, not without fear; for, though he had willingly encountered the spotted leopard, the stoutest quail, when the laws of nature seem to be changed, and an invisible antagonist is feared. He entered, and saw the mys- terious stone ; but, instead of a black marble, as it is, in his eyes it gleamed like an opal ; and a small white hand seemed to write with its snowy fingers, the same mysterious words he had seen inscribed above the gate. The writing gleamed, like lightning, when it traces its sharp angles on a summer-cloud. The hand passed slowly along the line, erasing the words — then wrote them again — then added his own, “ Abulfida,' not in characters of light, but of gold. Abulfida fell prostrate on the earth ; but, in the midst of so many worshippers — some standing, some kneeling, and all singing, or shouting aloud — his emotion passed unnoticed, or, at most, was taken for the contrition of some young sinner, whose heart had been seasonably smitten by the kind Prophet. The astonished youth, at last — thanks to gracious Allah — recovered, arose, and withdrew, without imparting the result of this visit to any of his friends. Seven days he repeated the visit — seven times that same snowy hand appeared, writing as before ; and seven times did the son of Alcansir fall prostrate to the ground. At last, at the conclusion of the appointed days of pious fes- tivity, the people began to leave the city. Abulfida was depart- ing for his home, and lingered, for a moment, to look back upon the City of Domes he had just left, and admire its beauty, as it lay in a gulf of dim obscurity ; for the setting sun now only gild- ed the summits of the hills, that surround the Holy City, and sep- arate it from the impious world without — as the Veil of the Tem- ple divides the world from the Holy of Holies. As Abulfida was gazing upon the scene, and musing upon the mysterious appear- ances, which had been presented to him, suddenly there appeared beside him an old man, mounted on a camel. His beard Howed down to his girdle, and shone like the snow on Caucasus, when it reflects the full moon of summer. Age had furrowed his cheek with the traces of god-like, not human, beauty. Abulfida thought him one of the old patriarchs, that lived when men held inter- course with the inhabitants of Hcaven ---- not as now, by dreams and doubtful visions, but by communion, face to face. Such a fire beamed in the eyes of the ancient man, that the youth cast his looks upon the ground, unable to endure that glance, so pier- 362 The Adventures of Abulfida. cing and so bright. And the camel of the stranger, like his master, seemed of another race — so princely was his step, and so beau- tifully smooth his snowy hair. The old man repeated the same words that had so much astonished the young Perriem, when at Mecca - in a slow and measured cadence, but with a tone so thrilling, that Abulfida felt an icy chill pierce him to the heart. He raised his eyes, resolving to summon up what courage re- mained, and demand the object of so singular an interview ; but, all had vanished — nothing was before him but the eternal hills and the city, now dimly lit by the full moon ; and behind him, in the distance, he heard the light tinkle of the camel-bells, and the deep, full voice of the driver, cheering his patient beast. The prince soon joined his band — for his camel was swift — and found considerable alarm prevailing, at his unaccountable absence. In silence, he pursued his journey, apparently in deep medita- tion, which was not disturbed by the cheerful song of the camel- driver, or the dark and gloomy clouds, that now and then sailed slowly over the face of the moon. During the whole journey, he held none but the most necessary conversation with his attend- ants and companions. All were struck, at the change in his man- ners, and not less at the alteration of his countenance, which had now become pale and wan, though his eyes gleamed like meteors. Neither the cities, that he passed, nor the fields, attracted the smallest attention. Whether the sun scorched him at noonday, or Arcturus and Orion smiled coldly but sweetly upon him, at night, all was still the same. The caravan continued its slow and pleas- ‘ing march ; now in the midst of a desert, with nothing to greet the eye, but the star-studded heavens above, and the brown sand around ; and now crossing a river, or threading aromatic valleys, whose shades were filled with songsters, sweet as those that awaked Adam from his sleep, on that night, when Allah's last and greatest benefit was bestowed upon man. At last, after some weeks of travel, he reached his home. All, full of joy, rushed out to welcome the return of the prince ; but they shrunk back from his embrace, when they noticed his wild and unaccount- able appearance. "May the Prophet preserve us !' said the father; but the evil demon has seized my son.' All were amazed at the mournful change a few weeks had wrought upon his countenance, and attempted, with all the arts that kindness could suggest, to remove the clouds of melancholy, that lowered upon his brow, in vain. He no longer delighted to mount his snowy steed, and to course over the plains, or to follow the antelope in the chase, as he bounded from crag to crag. The Aowers of Alamboken, and his favorite birds — that came and perched upon his hands - were no longer the objects of his solicitude. The dark eyes of the maids of Cabul gleamed with the lustre 364 The Adventures of Abulfida. a flash of lightning laid a terebinth in ruins at his feet — the thun- der answered, in its world-frightening voice. The youth must fly — for exposure in a storm so fearful, were certain death. But, where shall he seek an asylum in this perilous event! It is the predestined will of Allah,' said the youth ; I am ready to die.' And recollecting — with the quickness, that awful situa- tions always inspire – the wonders of Mecca, he sat down to await his fate with composure. Suddenly, in the midst of the storm, there was a pause, more awful than the tempest itself — SO deep and unnatural was the silence. And, high above his aston- ished head, and surrounded with clouds of light, Albufida recog- nized the old man of Mecca. He was mounted on a camel, as before, but enveloped with a blaze of light, of so dazzling an in- tensity, that mortal eye could not rest upon it. A moment, and the old man was at his side — and requesting him, in the most gentle and persuasive accents, to mount and ride to a place of safety. The prince felt an unnatural strength of soul, and over- powering the terrors of his frame, he leaped upon the dazzling animal, and earth was lost to his view. A single instant bears him above the clouds; the camel stops without a signal — they dismount, and enter a mysterions mansion. Mortal eyes are struck and dazzled, with the more than lightning splendors of the place — mortal pen cannot describe, nor mortal heart conceive, the glorious prospect which now bursts upon their sigḥt. A train of maidens conducted them to a magnificent apartment, where the air was one delightful perfume, and music, of inexpressible sweetness, filled the mansion. Abulfida and his mysterious guide were now alone. But, who is this wonderful being, that has conducted him! A sudden con- viction rushes upon the heart of the bewildered prince. It is the Prophet — ii is Mahommed! He throws himself at his feet -he clasps his knees, he weeps, he trembles. “Oh! celes- tial benefactor of mankind - Heaven-sent protector of the earth,' he cries, tell me my fate, and why thou hast condescended to bring hither a sinful son of earth. He raises his eyes, with trembling, to that face, which wears an eternal smile for the vir- tuous and pure, but bears a frown, blacker than the darkness, for the wicked. The eye of the Prophet beamed kindly on bim, and his heart revived. The earth,' exclaimed the Prophet, is no sphere for thee : long hast thou been disturbed by dark meditations upon thy future lot. One less conscientous had soon determined ; but I have purposely protracted the delay. I placed the mist before thine eyes, and changed the appearance of the Temple into a little tent. I brought the Empress of the Sea, to write thy destiny upon the marble in letters of light. "Ocean thy province — thy province ocean ;'— this is the meaining of those inysterious words. Thou Old News. 365 shalt be spouse to the daughter of the Queen of the Sea,and I will conduct thee there.' 'I am unworthy of the earth,' said the modest youth ; "what have I done to merit the favors already enjoyed? My opportunities have been numerous, while my good actions have been but few. I have indulged in contempla- tion rather than action, and have made more good resolutions than I have ever brought in practice. Oh Prophet, I am un- worthy '— Thou hast been pure in heart,' interrupted the Prophet. When enticed by the wanton, thou hast not yielded, and thy prayer has arisen from the fullness of thy heart. Such supplications — alas, they are few — are never in vain : but the prayers. of hypocrites, which are but solemn words, are visited upon their own heads, like the fire-showers, that fell upon the Cities of the Plain. Thy prayers have been modest — thou hast asked aid and discretion from Allah, thou hast confessed thy sins aright, and I am witness to the sincerity of thy midnight grief, because thy good deeds were so few, and thy benevolence so feeble.' But, my father, my sister, my brother ! 'ejaculated the astonished mortal, who shall comfort them when they lament my departure ? Gracious Allah !' exclaimed the Prophet, with exultation — how thou showest anew, the deep goodness of thy heart! I myself will communicate the glad tidings- come thou to the happiness, which awaits the good, the holy, the pure of soul ! The song of innumerable choirs broke forth, as they mounted the expectant camel. Now they sang the mortal, and now the god — but vain were the efforts of the scribe to repeat the strains. Mortal ears cannot endure the melody. Down, down, with lightning speed, they shot into the deep, where the Daughter of the Waters received the mortal in her snowy arms, OLD NEWS. NO. III. THE OLD TORY. AGAIN we take a leap, of about twenty years, and alight in the midst of the Revolution. Indeed, having just closed a volume of colonial newspapers, which represented the period when mo- narchical and aristocratic sentiments were at the highest ; and now opening another volume, printed in the same metropolis, after such sentiments had long been deemed a sin and shame, we feel as if the leap were more than figurative. Our late course of read- VOL. VIII. 47 The Old Tory. 367 tion. Where are the united heart and crown, the loyal emblem, that used to hallow the sheet, on which it was impressed, in our younger days? In its stead, we find a continental officer, with the Declaration of Independence in one hand, a drawn sword in the other, and, above his head, a scroll, bearing the motto - WE APPEAL TO HEAVEN.' Then say we, with a prospective triumph, let Heaven judge, in its own good time! The material of the sheet attracts our scorn. It is a fair specimen of rebel man- ufacture, thick and coarse, like wrapping-paper, all overspread with little knobs, and of such a deep, dingy blue color, that we wipe our spectacles thrice before we can distinguish a letter of the wretched print. Thus, in all points, the newspaper is a type of the times, far more fit for the rough hands of a democratic mob, than for our own delicate, though bony fingers. Nay; we will not handle it without our gloves ! Glancing down the page, our eyes are greeted everywhere by the offer of lands at auction, for sale or to be leased — not by the rightful owners, but a rebel committee ; notices of the town con- stable, that he is authorized to receive the taxes on such an es- tate, in default of which, that also is to be knocked down to the highest bidder; and notifications of complaints, filed by the At- torney-general, against certain traitorous absentees, and of confis- cations that are to ensue. And who are these traitors ? Our own best friends — names as old, once as honored, as any in the land, where they are no longer to have a patrimony, nor to be remembered as good men, who have passed away. We are ashamed of not relinquishing our little property, too ; but com- fort ourselves, because we still keep our principles, without grat- ifying the rebels with our plunder. Plunder, indeed, they are seizing, everywhere, by the strong hand at sea, as well as by le- gal forms on shore. Here are prize-vessels for sale -- no French nor Spanish merchantmen, whose wealth is the birthright of Brit- ish subjects, but hulls of British oak, from Liverpool, Bristol, and the Thames, laden with the King's own stores, for his army in New-York. And what a fleet of privateers — pirates, say we — are fitting out for new ravages, with rebellion in their very names ! The Free Yankee, the General Green, the Saratoga, the Lafayette, and the Grand Monarch! Yes, the Grand Mon- arch; so is a French King styled, by the sons of Englishmen. And here we have an ordinance, from the Court of Versailles, with the Bourbon's own signature affixed, as if New-England were already a French province. Everything is French. French sol- diers, French sailors, French surgeons — and French diseases, too, I trow -- besides, French dancing-masters and French milli- ners, to debauch our daughters with French fashions ! Every- thing in America is French, except the Canadas — the loyal Can- adas — which we helped to wrest from France. And to that old 368 Old News. French province, the Englishman of the colonies must go to find his country! Oh, the misery of seeing the whole system of things changed in my old days, when I would be loth to change even a pair of buckles ! The British coffee-house — where oft we sat, brinfull of wine and loyalty, with the gallant gentlemen of Anherst's army, when we wore a red-coat, too — the British coffee-house, forsooth, must now be styled the American, with a golden eagle, instead of the royal arms, above the door. Even the street it stands in, is no longer King-street! Nothing is the King's, ex- cept this heavy heart, in my old bosom. Wherever I glance my eyes, they meet something that pricks them like a needle. This soapmaker, for instance, this Robert Hewes has conspired against my peace, by notifying that his shop is situated near Liberty Stump. But when will their mis-named liberty have its true emblem in that Stump, hewn down by British steel ! Where shall we buy our next year's Almanac ? Not this of Weatherwise's, certainly ; for it contains a likeness of George Washington, the upright rebel, whom we most hate, though rev- erentially, as a fallen angel, with his Heavenly brightness undimin- ished, evincing pure fame in an unhallowed cause. And here is a new book, for my evening's recreation — a History of the War till the close of the year 1779, with the heads of thirteen distin- guished officers engraved on copper-plate. A plague upon their heads! We desire not to see them, till they grin at us from the balcony before the town-house, fixed on spikes, as the heads of traitors. How bloody-minded the villains make a peaceable old man! What next ? An Oration, on the Horrid Massacre of 1770. When that blood was shed — the first that the British soldier ever drew from the bosoms of our countrymen — we turned sick at heart, and do so still, as often as they make it reek anew from among the stones in King-street. The pool, that we saw that night, has swelled into a lake - English blood and American — no ! -- all British, all blood of my brethren. And here come down tears. Shame on me, since half of them are shed for rebels! Who are not rebels now ? Even the women are thrusting their white hands into the war, and come out in this very paper with proposals to form a society — the lady of George Washington at their head — for clothing the continental troops. They will strip off their stiff peticoats to cover the ragged ras- cals, and then enlist in the ranks themselves. What have we here? Burgoyne's proclamation turned into Hudibrastic rhyme! And here, some verses against the King, in which the scribbler leaves a blank for the name of George, as if his doggerel might yet exalt him to the pillory. Such, after years of rebellion, is the heart's unconquerable reverence for the Lord's annointed ! In the next column, we have scripture par- The Old Tory. 369 es.ulbii drapery illains who Three odied in a squib against his sacred Majesty. What would our Puritan great-grand-sires have said to that? They never laughed at God's word, though they cut off a King's head. Yes; it was for us to prove how disloyalty goes hand in hand with irreligion, and all other vices come trooping in the train. Now-a-days, men commit robbery and sacrilege, for the mere luxury of wickedness, as this advertisement testifies. Three hundred pounds reward, for the detection of the villains who stole and destroyed the cushions and pulpit drapery of the Brattle- street and Old South churches. Was it a crime? I can scarcely think our temples hallowed, since the King ceased to be prayed for. But it is not temples only, that they rob. Here a man offers a thousand dollars — a thousand dollars, in Continen- tal rags ! — for the recovery of his stolen cloak, and other articles of clothing. Horse theives are innumerable. Now is the day, when every beggar gets on horse-back. And is not the whole land like a beggar on horse-back, riding post to the devil ? Ha! Here is a murder, too. A woman slain at midnight, by an un- known ruffian, and found cold, stiff, and bloody, in her violated bed! Let the hue and cry follow hard after the man in the uni- form of blue and buff, who last went by that way. My life on it, he is the blood-stained ravisher! These deserters, whom we see proclaimed in every column — proof, that the banditti are as false as their stars and stripes, as to the Holy Red-Cross — they bring the crimes of a rebel camp into a soil well suited to them; the bosom of a people, without the heart that kept them virtu- ous — their King ! Here, flaunting down a whole column, with oficial seal and signature, here comes a proclamation. By whose authority ? Ah! the United States — those thirteen little anarcbies, assem- bled in that one grand anarchy, their Congress. And what the import? A general Fast. By Heaven ! for once, the traitorous blockheads have legislated wisely! Yea : let a misguided peo- ple kneel down in sackcloth and ashes, from end to end, from border to border, of their wasted country. Well may they fast, where there is no food — and cry aloud, for whatever remnant of God's mercy their sins may not have exhausted. We, too, will fast, even at a rebel summons. Pray others as they will, there shall be, at least, an old man kneeling for the righteous cause. Lord, put down the rebels! God save the King! Peace to the good old Tory! One of our objects has been to exemplify, without softening a single prejudice proper to the character which we assumed, that the Americans, who clung to the losing side, in the Revolution, were men greatly to be pitied, and often worthy of our sympathy. It would be difficult to say whose lot was most lamentable — that of the active Tories, who gave up their patrimonies, for a pittance from the British pension- 370 Old News. roll and their native land, for a cold reception in their mis-called home; or the passive ones, who remained behind to endure the coldness of former friends and the public opprobrium, as despised citizens, under a government which they abhorred. In justice to the old gentleman, who has favored us with his discontented mu- sings, we must remark, that the state of the country, so far as can be gathered from these papers, was of dismal augury, for the tendencies of democratic rule. It was pardonable, in the con- servative of that day, to mistake the temporary evils of a change, for permanent diseases of the system, which that change was to establish. A revolution, or anything, that interrupts social order, may afford opportunities for the individual display of eminent vir- tue ; but, its effects are pernicious to general morality. Most peo- ple are so constituted, that they can be virtuous only in a certain routine. One great source of disorder, was the multitude of dis- banded troops, who were continually returning home, after terms of service just long enough to give them a distaste to peaceable occupations ; neither citizens nor soldiers, they were very liable to become ruffians. Almost all our impressions, in regard to this period, are unpleasant, whether referring to the state of civil society, or to the character of the contest, which, especially where native Americans were opposed to each oiher, was waged with the deadly hatred of fraternal enemies. It is the beauty of war, for men to commit mutual havoc with undisturbed good 'humor. The present volume of newspapers contains fewer characteris- tic traits than any which we have looked over. Except for the peculiarities attendant on the passing struggle, manners seem 10 have taken a modern cast. Whatever antique fashions lingered into the war of the Revolution, or beyond it, they were not so strongly marked as to leave their traces in the public journals. Moreover, the old newspapers had an indescribable picturesque- ness, not to be found in the later ones. Whether it be something in the literary execution, or the ancient print and paper, and the idea, that those same musty pages have been handled by people - once alive and bustling amid the scenes there recorded, yet now in their graves beyond the memory of man — so it is, that in those elder volumes, we seem to find the life of a past age preserved between the leaves, like a dry specimen of foliage. It is so dif- ficult to discover what touches are really picturesque, that we doubt whether our attempts have produced any similar effect. 372 A TALK UPON TALKING. BY CAPTAIN SINGLETON. We are not a talking people. We have not the art, so suc- cessfully cultivated by the French, de bien conter. We are, for the most part, a stupid, taciturn, and uncommunicative set of bi- peds. Candor compels me to say it, although my patriotism re- bels at the assertion. We seem to have adopted Talleyrand's maxim, that the faculty of speech was given us for the purpose of concealing our thoughts. Our frivolous conversation is uncon- scionably heavy ; our serious conversation, is laughably trivial and superficial. Of course, there are exceptions, which go to prove the rule; but it is a lamentable fact, that the many promising young men, the many excellent old gentlemen, the many remarkably fine young ladies, the many highly respectable matrons, the many voluble old women of both sexes, who are the component ingre- dients of society — do n't know how to talk ! Mrs. Fitz Arnold holds a leree to-night. She calls it a con- versazione. Suppose you go with me, obliging reader, just to afford me an opportunity of proving to you, that my dicta are not altogether paradoxical and untenable. The carriage is at the door. Permit me to hand you in. There! “Drive to number seven, Cloud street.' We are ratiling over the pave- ments, in grand style. One corner is turned — another — and now we draw up in front of Mrs. Fitz-what 's-her-name's splen- did mansion. Do you know the lady? No? Well; n'im- porte, I will introduce you. She is partial to new faces. Have the goodness to take my arm. We pass up stairs. The parlor door opens. We enter. We approach the lady of the house. She greets me cordially. Captain Singleton, I am glad to see you. When did you arrive in town ?? Madame, permit me to present to you my friend, Mr. — Mr. — (aside) What's your name ? — my friend, Mr. — hem — huh-huh,'— Any friend of Captain Singleton cannot fail to be welcome.' "Madame, you do me too much honor; but we are detaining you from your com- pany.' And now, forbearing reader, that I have dragged you here - for all that I know, against your own inclination - I must do my best to entertain you. But first, let me elucidate to you my au- tocratical asseverations upon the subject of talking. Listen to the dialogue, which is going on at your side. The dramatis per- sonæ are a distinguished belle — beautiful, accomplished, and moving in the first circles ' — and a young gentleman, who has just been introduced to her, and who has an office in Court street, and signs himself — attorney-at-law.' He is a highly estimable 376 Letter to the Man in the Moon. that has a plan for extracting blood from turnips, and sunbeams from cucumbers, is said to be moon-struck — as if those peace- ful beams of yours, which play with so soothing an influence upon the fevered brow, had any power to disturb the harmonious ac- tion of the brain. I have some curiosity to know whether you, on your part, return the compliment — whether you hold the earth responsible for the madness in the moon. Are your crack- brains said to be earth-struck? If such be the case, it is but po- etical justice. If your lovers are as much more frantic than ours, as the earth is larger than the moon — your politicians much more absurd, your editors as much more rabid — your situation is little to be envied. I think you would, if such be the case, have se- rious thoughts of retiring to what in the moon corresponds to our deserts of Arabia.' Finding it so hard, as we do often, to get through a day of twenty-four hours long, I should like to know how your people contrive kill one, a month in length. How often must your fine gentlemen yawn and stretch themselves, between breakfast and dinner — and what an amount of shopping your fine ladies can accomplish in a single forenoon! What an ample web of small- talk and gossip can be woven in your morning calls ! What a serious thing a ball must be with you. It cannot be till after four or five of our days, that your fiddlers begin to hang their drowsy heads; and impatient mammas twitch the sleeve of their daugh- ters, who petition for only one dance more. What volumes of soft nothings must be whispered, during the extent of such an evening, by young gentlemen, to their partners — and how many soft smiles bestowed in return! What unbounded facilities for flirtation, during those lingering, long-protracted hours ! I hope the beaux of your dominions have more ample resources than ours to talk from — or sad must be the fate of the belles they attempt to entertain. The shallow stream of small-talk, which meanders through the mind of a dandy of earth, becomes dry in a very few hours; and a day would reduce him to a state of gasping exhaus- tion. How do you manage about your suppers? Have you one general feed, or a succession of them, at regular intervals ? On the earth, the descent of the bipeds to a supper (after an absti- nence of an hour or two) is like the rush of an army of famished wolves upon a flock of sheep. A very promising young man lately ran over his mother, in his eagerness to get to the supper- table, on a false report being spread, that the last dish of oysters had been brought in. What a scene must be presented, when the door is thrown open to guests, whose appetites have been sharpened by a fast of two days! I take it, no infirm person goes to a party without having his or her life insured. How is the press in your dominions? Do the insect-race of newspaper editors buzz and sting in your world, as much as in Letter to the Man in the Moon. 377 zine, or as scurriagitation — as you have no desire fo ours? Have you anything as good as the New-England Maga- zine, or as scurrillous as the Globe ? I presume you have very little of political agitation — as your people are so accustomed to your mild and patriarchal sway, as to have no desire for a change. Probably you have a Jack Cade, now and then to put down. Do your poets babble as much about the earth as ours do about the moon? I take it, you have the good taste to put into the fire everything that comes to your hands, whose lines begin with a capital letter. Does this dark, prosiac earth, when seen from your sphere, look as pure and as calm as your realm does from ours ? Do your heart-stricken people sigh for it, as for a better world, undimmed by care? They would find life the same cheq- uered web of sunshine and shade here as there. In the moon, as well as on the earth, it is the mind that makes the world. You are, doubtless, aware that there is one half of the moon we have never had the pleasure of seeing. Does your authority extend over the other side of the sphere ? — or is there a separate dynasty ? Your subjects are, of course, the most en- lightened and intelligent, and probably look upon those unfortu- nate persons, who do not enjoy the earth's glad beams, as deci- dedly an inferior race. These last must make frequent pilgrim- ages to the circumference of the circle, which we behold, for the sake of seeing the earth — and a majestic sight it must be! With- out doubt, there are many admirable descriptions, in prose and verse, of the sensations and reflections of the several writers, on the first sight of this globe of ours. A selection from them would be a good speculation for you, as we should like very well to know how we appear from that point of view. Our friends, the Harpers, would, no doubt, close a bargain with you, entirely to your satisfaction. Pray, in what part of your dominions is situated that Limbo, which, as every body knows, is the receptacle for things lost on earth.' It must be a place of ample dimensions. What a hete- rogeneous assemblage of things there must be there! The schol- ar would find there the missing books of Tacitus and Livy, the comedies of Menander, the philosophical works, of Democritus, the Margites of Homer, and innumerable other glorious creations of divine minds. There must be fortunes enough there to pay off the national debt of Great Britain, and reputations enough to fur- nish the administration-party, kitchen-cabinet, and all, with de- cent characters. As for hats, cloaks, umbrellas, penknives, &c. their names must be legion. Could we have access to its stores, what good results might take place! Mr. Van Buren might find his consistency, Mr. Cambreleng his self-respect, Mr. Hill his de- cency, Mr. Benton his modesty, and our venerable President his equanimity of temper. The mystery of the man in the claret- colored coat, would also be solved, as he is undoubtedly there, 378 Letter to the Man in the Moon. in propria persona. Are our lost opportunities, our mispent days, the : neglected golden occasions there, also ? If so, who would not pray for an eagle's wings. But, nothing can bring back the past — not even a journey to the moon. It is but fair, to apologize to you, for the impertinent conduct of those persons, who are constantly peering at you through their telescopes. It is, certainly, very rude, to intrude upon the pri- vate hours of a gentleman, in the way they do ; but, if you could hear the things, which they pretend to discover, you would have your revenge in the laughter that would shake your sides. Are there any such inquisitive and ill-bred persons, with you? If there are, we should delight to hear what they have to say about their discoveries. A lecture on the earth, delivered by one of your professors, to a Lunar Lyceum, must be a rare treat. I have often thought, how interesting a volume of reminiscen- ces you might bestow upon the world. We look, with rever- ence and respect, upon the man who can recall the events of threescore and ten years ; but, what should we say to you, who can remember when Cain was a little boy. You might reveal to us all the mysteries, and solve all the riddles, of the old world- the statue of Memnon, the oracle of Dodona — the fountain of Jupiter Ammon, that was hot at midnight, and cold at noonday. You could settle all the disputes, of the learned, as to the object of the Eleusinian mysteries. You could unveil all the juggleries of " fanatic Egypt, and her priests ; ' and, tell us who really built the pyramids, and obelisks. What chasms in history, you could fill! what dark passages, you might elucidate ! what new light, you could shed upon the characters of eminent men! Were the ancients a taller, stronger, and more beautiful race, than we? Have we degenerated — as old croakers say — from our progen- itors ? Could not Tom Cribb have stood up a single round before Milo ? Would Helen now look in vain through the world, for her peer ? Important as your communications might be, to the historian, the scholar, and the antiquary, still, I cannot but think, that they would have the interest of a romance, to the general reader. What an infinite variety of extraordinary adventures, has taken place, under your observation ! and, what atrocious crimes have been perpetrated, away from all eyes, but yours! What appall- ing tragedies and mirthful comedies have been acted, with no spectator to behold them, but you. How many romantic mani- festations of the passion of love, you must have witnessed, from the first enamored whisper of Adam, in Paradise, to the last flirt ation, on a balcony! In how many elopements, must you have been an involuntary confidant- and how many rope-ladders have you seen dangling from chamber windows! Your knowledge of the human heart must be unbounded — more than Shaksperian. Letter to the Man in the Moon. 379 We see one another in masques, and dominoes; but you discern the real face, and the true form. You have seen the darkest passions openly painted upon the brow and the lip. You have watched the assassin, stealthily dogging his victim ; and the mur- derer, openly striding to the accomplishment of his fell purpose. You have beheld the clenched fist, and the frantic gesture of despair, constrained to wear a smooth smile in daylight. You have witnessed the unrest of guilt and the spasms of remorse. Many of the human passions are like certain wild beasts, that slumber in the day, and go about their work of destruction un- der the friendly veil of night. Your experience, in the darker traits of human character, I fear, has given you but a poor opin- ion of us ; though not a few good and generous actions must have fallen under your observation. But you are too benevolent, and too wise, to be a misanthrope. You are too philanthropic, to judge of the whole kingdom of the human heart, by a few re- bellious and disorderly.provinces. Though the inquiry may be an impertinent one, I should like to know, whether you are a married man or not; and, in general, any personal details about yourself would be highly ac- ceptable to me. I have frequently imagined, that it was very possible that your lady, the Woman in the Moon, resided on the reverse side of your luminary; and, that the true solution of our being deprived of the light of your countenance, is to be found in the fact, that you are absent on a visit to her. I am, certain- ly, inclined to admit an explanation, which supposes in you so much warmth of conjugal attachment. The astronomers — who are a very fanciſul set of men — give us a very different one; but entitled to about as much respect, as their hardy denial of your existence. It is possible, that I may have rudely touched a ten- der chord, and awakened painful vibrations, by these remarks ; if so, let my apology be found in the strong interest I feel in you, and in everything that relates to you. I have gone on, talking to your Serene Highness, as familiarly as if we had been college chums. But, this is a republican country, and a leveling age'; and, I beg that you will take no offence, as none is intended. I hope that you will overlook my troubling a person, of so many and such important cares, with this frivolous and rambling letter. I should hardly venture to trou- ble you with it, did not your face, which I now behold from my window, beam with such an air of friendly invitation, as embold- ens me to conclude it, and to subscribe myself, with sentiments of the profoundest gratitude, for the remarkable countenance you have ever shewn me ; Your most obedient servant. 380 HYMN TO JOY. FROM SCHILLER. Joy, thou brightest Heaven-lit spark, Daughter from the Elysian choir, On thy holy ground we walk, Reeling with ecstatic fire. Thou canst bind in one again All that custom tears apart ; All mankind are brothers, when Waves thy soft wing o'er the heart. Chorus. Myriads join the fond embrace ! 'Tis the world's inspiring kiss ! Friends, yon dome of starry bliss Is a loving father's place. Who the happy lot doth share, Friend to have and friend to be ; Who a lovely wife holds dear - Mingle in our jubilee ! Yea: who calls ONE soul his own- ONE, on all earth's ample round; Who can not, may steał alone, . Weeping, from our holy ground ! Chorus. Sympathy! with blessings, crown 'Alī, that in life's circles are ! To the stars she guides us, where Dwells enthroned the Great Unknown. Joy, to every living thing, Nature's bounty doth bestow - Good and bad still welcoming ; On her rosy path they go. Kisses she to us has given, Wine, and friend in death approved ; Sense, the worm has — but, in Heaven Stands the soul, of God beloved. Chorus. Myriads, do ye prostrate fall? Feel ye the Creator near ? Seek Him, in yon starry sphere - O’er the sturs, He governs all ! Joy impels the quick rotation, Sure return of night and day ; Joy's the main-spring of creation, Keeping every wheel in play ; She draws from buds the flow'rets fair, Brilliant suns, from azure skies, Rolls the spheres in trackless air — Realms unreached by mortal eyes. Chorus. As her suns, in joyful play, On their airy circles fly; As the knight to victory - Brothers, speed upon your way. Hymn to Joy. 381 From Truth's burning mirror, still Her sweet smiles the inquirer greet; She, up Virtue's toitsome hill, Guides the weary pilgrim's feet. On Faith's sunny mountain, wave, Floating far, her banners bright; Through the rent wall of the grave, Flits her form, in angel light. Chorus. Patient then, ye myriads live! To a better world press on ! Seated on his starry throne, God the rich reward will give. For the gods, what thanks are meet! Like the gods, then let us be ! All the poor and lowly greet, With the gladsome and the free! Banish Vengeance from the breast, And forgive our deadliest foe; Bid no anguish mar his rest, No consuming tear-drops flow. Be the world from sin set free- All our follies be forgiven ! Brothers, in that starry Heaven, As we judge, our doom shall be. Joy upon the red wine dances ; By the magic of the cup Rage dissolves, in gentle trances, Dead Despair is lifted up. Brothers, round the nectar flies, Mounting to the beaker's edge ; Toss the foam off to the skies — Our Good Spirit' here we pledge ! Him, the seraphs ever praise, Him, the stars, that rise and sink ; Drink to our Good Spirit, drink ! High to Him, our glasses raise ! Spirits firm, in hour of woe - Help, to innocence opprest - Truth, alike to friend or foe- Faith unbroken, wrongs redressed ; Pride, unquelled by tyrants' thrones, Cost it fortune, cost it blood - Still may merit win her crowns ; Down with Falsehood's poisonous brood ! Closer draw the holy ring! By the sparkling wine-cup, now Swear to keep the solemn vow - Swear it, by the Heavenly King ! Chorus. VOL. VIII. 49 352 UNITED STATES SENATE.* NO, I. THOMAS EWING. The biography of this Senator from Ohio, is but another illus- tration of the power of intellect, in struggling with and overcom- ing all obstacles, with which birth, fortune, and situation seemed to have clogged it. It is therefore instructive and interesting. And, while it instructs and interests, it stamps a denial upon, and a refutation of, the charges of those men who have attempted to prejudice the people of the United States against the Senate, by comparing it to the British House of Lords, and representing its members as princes, dukes, and nobles ; so that, one would al- most suppose, from their description, that at least every Whig Senator was a nobleman, sprung from royal blood, adorned with stars, garters, and ribbons, and wearing all the robes of royalty. The biography of Mr. Ewing — of · Tom Ewing,' as he is fa- miliarly called, at the Salines, in Virginia and Ohio — will set all this matter right. The family of Thomas Ewing resided, prior to the Revolu- tionary War, near Greenwich, Cumberland County, New-Jersey, where the old family-mansion is still to be seen. George Ewing, the father of the Senator, was born there in 1754. In 1775, the father enlisted in the New Jersey line, where he obtained the rank of a lieutenant, in which he continued till ”78, when he resigned and left the army. Whilst in the army, he sold, on credit, the property which had descended to him; but, when the bonds be- came due, continental money, then a legal tender, was rapidly depreciating. Nevertheless, he was obliged to take it, in pay- ment; but, in a short time, it was worth nothing. Thus reduced in circumstances, with the prospect of a large family, he removed to the wrstern side of the Alleghanies, in 1786, and settled on a small farm, near West Liberty, Ohio County, Virginia, where Thomas Ewing, the Senator, was born, in December, 1789. In April, 1792, the family removed to the mouth of Olive-green Creek, on the Muskingum River. About the year 1795, the Indians rising in all directions, they were obliged to take refuge in a block-house, at Olive-green, to avoid the danger of being massacred. An elder sister had taught young Ewing to read; and, while he was in the garrison, he very assiduously cultivated * This is the first of a series of sketches of some of the prominent members of the United States Senate. The author has had ample opportunities of collecting authentic materials for his undertaking ; and full reliance may be placed upon his statements. - ED. Thomas Ewing 393 acquaintance with (almost) the only book it afforded — the Bible ; and thereby got the cognomen of Bishop. Old Mrs. Seely – well known, upon the Zanesville and Marietta road, as an enter- prising and talkative landlady – delights in recounting her recol- lections of Tom Ewing,' while in the block-house. He was not, she says, like other boys — for, though he would be often found sitting in the ashes, in the chimney-corner, it was always with a book in his hand. He was, according to her account, constantly reading something. In 1797, he was taken back to West Liberty, and there went to school about seven months — at the expiration of which time, he returned to his father, who had then removed to the waters of Federal Creek, into what is now Athens County, Ohio. The spot selected by his father, was then in the wilderness, and sev- enteen miles beyond the frontier settlements. Here, for nearly three years, they were shut out from any intercourse with the world. Young Ewing, during this time, . read the Vicar of Wakefield,' and · The Fool of Quality. These, and the Bible, were all the books, which, up to that time, he had been able to procure. In the year 1800, a few other families, from New- England, had settled on Federal Creek ; and, in the winter of that year, a school was opened, under the superintendence of Charles Cutler, a Cambridge graduate, who was succeeded by Moses Everett, from the same College. Ewing studied, one quarter under each, the rudiments of a common English Educa- tion, and this was the total of his schooling,' until 1812. This little enterprising community of New-Englanders, that were then settled upon Federal Creek, had but few books; and, to procure a further stock, they formed a library association, and raised a small fund, by subscription. This literary fund (in all probability, the first that was ever formed in the north-western territory) was sent to one of the eastern cities, and invested in books. The whole collection was brought across the mountains on horseback, in a sack. With the exception of Goldsmith's works, the books were not well selected — consisting principally of the novels then fashionable, such as “ Amanda,' the · Romance of the Forest,' and dull treatises on controversial doctrines of divinity. Subsequent additions were made to the library, among which, were Plutarch's Lives, Stewart's Philosophy, Darwin's Zoonamia, and Locke's Treatises on the Understanding Young Ewing fell upon these, with a literary avidity, which none can understand but those who, under like circumstances, have felt it ; and he devoured the whole — reading, at all his leis- ure hours, and principally at night, by the light of hickory bark. From the age of thirteen, the life of Ewing was laborious. Then he became a substantial assistant to his father, upon his farm; and by and by, he had the principal management of it. 384 United States Senate. Still, he found time to read, as all can find, who have a thirst for knowledge ; but, as he grew older, he had less time to read, than when a boy. The little he had learnt, however, but inflamed him with the desire of learning more. The love of knowledge was the prevailing and all-absorbing passion of his soul. To be a scHOLAR, was then the summit of his highest ambition. He ſelt, that he had acquired all the information then within his reach; but this only taught him how little, in fact, he knew ; and was far from allaying his burning thirst for knowing more. Knowledge there was, he knew ; but how to reach it, was more than he could tell. Poverty stared him in the face. Obstructions thickened upon him. The father and his farm anchored him at home; but his buoyant spirits led him off, on a thousand plans — through many aerial castles, and in many delightful visions. Calculations were made, but made in vain. Plans were formed, but they were soon but air. A world was abroad, but what it was, the eager student hardly knew. And yet, the more he knew of it, the more he panted to act his part in it. But, the more he thought of his situation, the more he despaired. Reflection, at last, ripened into actual suffering. His feelings became intensely interested. The bitter and melancholy conclusion, at last, was, that he must abandon all hopes, forever. But, in the summer of 1808, he was awakened from this stu- por, by a youth, nearly of his own age, whom his father had hired, for a few months, to assist him in farming — and who had rambled about and seen much of the world. The narrations of this young man, and of many of his adventures, awakened Ewing; and, as money was what he wanted — in order to obtain the means of pursuing his studies — he was induced to go with him to the Kanawha Salines, in Western Virginia, in order there to try his fortunes. He obtained the consent of his father, and left home, early in August, with his knapsack on his back, and but little spending money in his pocket. He got on board of a keel-boat, at Marietta, bound for Kanawha, and made his way to the new El Dorado of his imagination. During the three or four months he was absent, he worked, as a common hand, at the salt-wells, and was tolerably successful ; but the greatest satisfaction he had was, that he could do something in future. He returned home, in the winter, with about eighty dollars, the amount of his wages, leaving his companion behind, whose roving disposition prompted him to rove still more. This money, Ewing gave to his father, to assist him in paying for his land. The surrender of this little and hard-earned treasure, to his father, for the purpose of ena- bling him to save his land from forfeiture, was no ordinary sacri- fice - as it postponed, for a year, all prospect of prosecuting his studies, and condemned him, for a while, to stifle the high hopes he then nourished in his bosom. Thomas Ewing. 385 Early in the spring of 1809, Mr. Ewing set out again for the Kanawha salt-works. The whole of this season, until November, he spent in more assiduous labor, and he succeeded well — the profits of the season being about four hundred dollars, out of which he appropriated sixty, to pay the balance due on his fath- er's land. He spent the winter at Athens, then a flourishing academy, but irregular in the course of studies; as it left the stu- dent to pursue such a course as he might think proper. At the end of about three months, he left this academy, and returned to Kanawha — after receiving there such encouragement, from the the President of the institution, and such a stimulus from others, as fixed his determination to procure the means of obtaining an education. The two next years, he devoted to this object; and he returned from the Kanawha, in November, 1912, with about eight hundred dollars, in money ; but, with his health considera- bly impaired, by severe hard labor. This sum, he supposed would be sufficient to enable him to go through the preparatory studies, and acquire a profession. His health, however, was so much injured, that he was unable to recommence his studies. But he again fell upon the library, in the neighborhood of bis home, which was now enlarged ; and, from the repose given him, and the leisure spent in reading such authors as Don Quixote, he laughed himself into such good health and spirits, that, in De- cember, he was able to go back to Athens, where he continued to be a most indefatigable student, until the spring of 1914. His progress, during this time, was very rapid. He became familiar with many of the best English authors; and, as his judgement matured, he easily obtained a knowledge of English grammar, rhetoric, and logic. Mathematics, however, was his favorite study, for which he had a natural inclination — and hence, Euclid was the favorite author. The philosophy, which depended upon mathematical demonstration, he studied with care and pleasure - and in it, made much proficiency. He also studied the Latin, but determined to omit the Greek. In 1814, Mr. Ewing became satisfied that his funds would not hold out, and he took a school in Galliapolis. Not liking this employment, at the end of a quarter, he relinquished it, and re- turned to Kanawha — the old scene of his labors — to collect a small sum that was due him, and to see what could be done towards adding something to his funds. He threw off the dress of the student, and again went to work at the Salines. He hired a furnace, and in one month of incessant toil — the sever- est he ever undertook — he improved the state of his finances, so that he felt confident they would bear him through his studies. At some period of his labors, at the Kanawha salt-works -- and it was probably this — he labored twenty hours, out of the twen- ty-four; and he was often found, during the four hours allotted 386 United States Senate. to sleep, walking with open eyes, but still asleep, between the two rows of boiling salt kettles, where a false step would probably have destroyed life! With this hard-earned treasure, he returned to Athens ; where he continued till the spring of 1815. At the examination, in May, 1815, the trustees of the institution voted him the degree of A. B. ; being the first, with one other, upon whom this degree was conferred, by a college in Ohio. The circumstances which decided Mr. Ewing's choice of profession, were probably these. In 1910, he took a boat-load of salt to Marietta. While there, accident led him to the Court- house. The court of Common Pleas was in session ; and he entered a Court-house, for the first time in his life. It happened that an interesting criminal trial was going on. The attention of the young sall-boiler was riveted to the scene ; nor did he quit the room until the case was closed. He had witnessed a bigh intellectual effort; he had listened to an advocate (the late Eli- jah B. Merwin) of uncommon ability. Hitherto, he had not known or felt the power of eloquence. We may suppose, that, along with this admiration of intellect in another, there was asso- ciated a consciousness of his own mental powers, and a feeling, kindred to that which caused the untutored Correggio to exclaim after gazing, for the first time, upon the picture of Raphael — 'I, too, am a painter !! In truth, this must have been so ; for he turned away to pursue his toilsome occupation, with the fixed purpose of becoming a lawyer. After he left college, he spent a few days with his relatives ; and then began his legal studies, in the office of General Beech- er, at Lancaster, Ohio — a man of sense and intelligence; and, for several years, a menber of Congress, from Ohio. General Beecher discovered the merit, and approved the efforts of Mr. Ewing. He received him,'as a student, into his office ; and, im- mediately upon his admission to the Bar, took him into partner- ship. While Mr. Ewing was pursuing his law studies, he was an indefatigable student – devoting to his books every hour, that was not required for necessary repose. In the year 1816, he was admitted to the Bar; and, by a sin- gular concurrence of circumstances, he again entered the Court- house, at Marietta, where, but six years before, he had received his impulse towards the legal profession; and was there to exert his own powers, in conducting a criminal defence. The charge was larceny, without positive proof; but, it was supported by a chain of circumstances, that established it beyond doubt. The secret removal of the accused, about the time the goods were missed, was among the circumstances most strongly relied upon by the counsel for the State. In the cross-examination, Mr. Ewing inquired of the witnesses, whether his client had not been Thomas Ewing 387 convicted of a similar offence, and punished at the whipping-post. This turned out to be the fact ; and it was a matter of surprise to the Bar and the bye-standers, that he should have been so much off his guard, as to elicit this condemnatory fact. He then directed his examination, almost exclusively, to the manner of removal ; and re-examined the witnesses as to that — and gave it the most prominent station among the facts. But, with all his efforts to the contrary, the proof, in respect to it, remained clear and indisputable. The evidence was closed — the case seemed to be hopeless ; especially in that aspect of it, which the course of examination had made the most important. The counsel for the State fell into the snare which was laid for him. Hardly noticing the other facts, he dwelt alone upon the contro- verted fact of secret removal. Confidant that the proof was with him, as to that, he magnified its consequences, and made the guilt or innocence of the accused depend upon its existence. This was precisely what the young advocate desired; and, in his address to the Jury, he at once admitted, to the surprise of all, that the proof of absconding was undeniable. Unless it could be satisfactorily accounted for, he agreed that it was con- clusive. He then, with admirable art, addressed himself to the task of explaining it away, consistently with the innocence of the accused. It had been proved, that, on a former occasion, he had been publicly disgraced, at the whipping-post. He had be- come an object of scorn and derision to the neighborhood. It was not likely that he would remain among those who had wit- nessed his degradation ; or that, when he had fixed the time of his departure, he would be surrounded by his neighbors. He would go, just as it appeared he had gone, shunning the sight of those, who had no sympathy for him, and no regret that he was about to leave thein. He would depart in silence and se- cresy. In this way, the effect.of this prominent circumstance, upon which the case had been made to depend, was successfully removed. Mr. Ewing's rise at the Bar was rapid. He entered, almost immediately, into full practice, in the counties of Washington, Athens, Fairfield, Pickaway, Licking, and Knox; and, as they were subsequently created, in the new counties of Meigs and Perry. Although this circuit embraced a territory larger than the State of Connecticut, yet, it was a small affair, when com- pared with the labors of the territorial lawyers, who practice, an- nually, in Marietta, Cincinnati, Detroit, Vincennes, and Kas- kaskia. Mr. Ewing has been distinguished at the Bar, for sound judg- ment, careful investigation, and the happy faculty of seizing upon any circumstance, occurring during the trial, and moulding it to the purposes of his case. In keeping with the character he 338 United States Senate. displayed, in the appropriation of his first savings, at Kan- awha, he expended his first accumulations at the Bar, in the pur- chase of a fine tract of land, in Indiana, upon which he settled his father and family. Mr. Ewing finished his collegiate studies at so late a period, and was, subsequently, for some years, so constantly devoted to his profession, that his attention was never turned to political con- cerns, until the animosities of the old parties of our republic had been healed, by the balmy influence of Mr. Monroe's administra- tion. He was, consequently, neither a federalist nor a demo- crat, according to past party designations ; and hence, he read of and judged of those parties, as he would read and judge of any other matter of history. His election to the United States Senate, was honorable to the legislature of Ohio. Wholly without family influence, and equally destitute of political influence, he was elected from a strong and just sense of his eminent qualifications. Before Mr. Ewing had taken his seat in the Senate, or reach- ed Washington, his reputation preceded him. But, the reputa- tion a Senator may have at home does not always stand exam- ination, when contrasted with the brilliant and powerful minds, with which he comes in contact, upon the enlarged area, where the whole Union meet. A man who is great in a single county, or mighty in his town, may dwindle into insignificance, when his taper is to burn amid the brighter luminaries of the Senate. Not so, however, with Mr. Ewing. He has but shifted the the- atre of his reputation, and augmented that with which he started in political life. Others, perhaps, there are, more eloquent in manner than he is — to whom, nature has given a finer voice, or a more captivating oratory ; but few are more powerful in thought, few with more resources, few who have more, or better weapons, in any logomachic tilt. At once, he took a high stand, which he yet sustains, and daily strengthens. His speech on the tariff, in 1832, commanded attention, and had a wide circulation. The same session, Mr. Ewing engaged in the debate upon Mr. Clay's bill, providing for the distribution of the proceeds of the sales of the public lands, for a limited time ; in which, he advocated the passage of that bill, with great ability and effect. In the session of 1833, he made some remarks upon the Force bill, which he supported at the same time that he voted for the Compromise bill of Mr. Clay. These speeches, togeth- er with an address to the students of the Miami University, de- livered in September, 1833 — a production, remarkable for its sound sense and excellent advice — and an oration, at the com- mencement of the Ohio canal, on the fourth of July, 1825, are all the published speeches or addresses, which have come under our observation, previous to the last session of Congress. Thomas Ewing. 359 In the agitating session of the last winter and spring, (1835,) Mr. Ewing bore a conspicuous part. The legislature of Ohio, which, like the legislatures of Maine and New-Jersey, had be- come suddenly inspired upon the deposite question, so as to see, in a twinkling, through the constitutional and legal questions, which cost other minds days and weeks of painful investigation, at once instructed him to sustain the President. The right of the legis- lature thus to instruct, Mr. Ewing did not assent to. The people, he argued, were his constituents, not the legislature. Memorials, almost innumerable, sustaining him, were sent from different parts of Ohio ; and few, and far between, were the me- morials sustaining the legislature. Mr. Ewing delivered a speech, at length, upon this deposite question, in April ; and, at various other times, on presenting memorials, he discussed the subject, and the effect of the disordered state of the currency, upon the State, which he in part represented. But, the great object, upon which he was engaged during the session; the one in which he, in common with his colleagues, Messrs. Clayton and Knight, did the most service to their country — and, of course, thereby brought upon themselves the peculiar abuse of that new depart- ment of the Government, commonly known as the Kitchen Cab- inet — was the searching investigation made into the affairs of the Post-office Department. Suspicion, three years ago, fell upon that Department. Mr. Clayton, the Senator from Delaware, and Mr. Holmes, the Sen- ator from Maine, both averred, then on the floor of the Senate, that, if the Senate would give them power, they would unfold corruptions and frauds in that Department, which would strike the nation with surprise and alarm. The friends of Gen. Jack- son, however, then prevailed in the Senate, and they dodged this inquiry, by resolving that it was illegal to inquire into im- peachable matter ; for, if the Postmaster-General was proved guilty of fraud, the Senate, in its judicial character, might be called upon to impeach and try him! During the past winter, different auspices prevailed. The Whigs had a majority in the Senate, and upon the Post-office Committee, there was a ma- jority of Whigs, though Mr. Grundy, of Tennessee, was Chair- man. This Committee prosecuted the inquiry into the affairs of the Department, with zeal and ability ; and upon Mr. Ewing, who stood next to Mr. Grundy, in the Committee, devolved the duty of making the report, Before this report came out, public expectation was highly ex- cited. Rumors of delinquency in the Post-office Department, were spread far and wide. That corruption and favoritism ex- isted, many believed. But, the extent of that delinquency, the magnitude of that corruption, the peculiar characteristics of that favoritism, few suspected. And, when the report, signed by VOL. VIII. 50 390 United Stalcs Senale. Messrs. Ewing, Clayton and Knight, was published, the whole public was shocked; and even the most daring defenders of the Administration, staggered under the blow. Abuse was lavished upon the Committee, of course, and Mr. Ewing came in for more than his share. The whole kennel of extra-allowance men, whose abuses he had exposed, were let loose upon him. The imple- ments of that new branch of the Government, of which we have before spoken — the shovel, the tongs, the poker, the spit of the kitchen — were in lively commotion. The Post-office had been their chief instrument, by which this branch of the Government had created itself, and established its reign; and hence, it was in a tempest of indignation, that any man should dare invade their premises, and drag their deeds to light. But, nevertheless, Mr. Ewing and his associates, boldly entered the Augean stable. Hercules himself, could not have cleansed such a stable. But, they dragged forth its impurities to public view, and upon them the public voice is pronouncing its verdict. The first resolution reported by the Committee, condemning the borrowing of money, as illegal, and, of course, without law, was passed by the unan- imous voice of the Senate. In the searching investigations, which Mr. Ewing made into the corruptions of this, the most powerful and the most extended, department of the government, he deserves great praise ; and great praise he has received from all. It required great firmness and much heroism of character, to grapple with a power so gigan- tic, yet so corrupt — a power, that holds all the avenues of intel- ligence, in this great country ; and that can poison them all, or stop them up, at pleasure ; where sentinels are located almost everywhere, from the islands on the Atlantic sea-board, to the remotest settlement of the far West ; — a power, that enters at every man's fire-side - upon which almost all are dependent ; and from whose blows and persecutions, no man can say he is free. The moral courage, to ferret out the abuses of this tremen- dous engine for good or evil, it is fortunate for the country, that Mr. Ewing possessed. He sbrank from no responsibility. He bearded the lion in his den. Under the authority of the Senate, he entered the Department itself, and ventured, as it were, into the very penetralia — dragging to light whatever was dark or mysterious, and exposing all to public view. How far corrup- tion would have gone, if he had not thus rebuked it, no one can tell. To what extent the Department would have been involved in debt, what bounds its favoritism would have been contented with, or where it would have stopped, no one could predict. Certain it is, that Mr. Ewing rendered a most essential service to his country ; and one, which the community cannot soon forget. 392 The Ursuline Community. of such a man — and with what force does it commend itself to every young American, not only arousing him to exertion, but admonishing him to fix his ambition high, and to gratify it only in the path of virtue, integrity, and honor; and thus to win that reputation, that abides and outlasts the corrosive rust of Time ! Honors ever seek him, in the virtuous days of a republic, who deserves them ; but, that is not honor, which is won by mean- ness and intrigue, amid the contempt of the world. Groveling ambition tarnishes and stains whatever it touches ; but, an ambi- tion, like that which animated the bosom of Ewing, dignifies and ennobles whatever it wins. THE URSULINE COMMUNITY.* Were we seriously convinced, that every word of the work, purporting to be written by Rebecca Theresa Reed, under the the general title of Six MONTHS IN A CONVENT,' were true, we should not, for one moment, hesitate to declare ourselves for the Ursulines — to defend the persecuted party. Before enter- ing, however, upon the exposition, which we propose to make, of our own views, concerning the recent persecution, which has been leveled against the unoffending and harmless society of women — known under the name of the Ursuline Community, for some years past conducting a seminary, for the education of young ladies, on Mount Benedict, in the town of Charlestown— we will, by the leave of the sovereign mob, make a few prelimi- nary remarks. We would be distinctly understood to assert the right, enjoyed by any number of individuals in this free country, to form them- selves into an association or community, governed by any by- laws and rules they may see fit to adopt ; provided such by-laws and rules are not repugnant to the laws of the land, and provided also, that their practices are not treasonable, and no infractions of the well-regulated order of society. I have an undeniable right, with as many persons as I can persuade to join me — with **Six Months in a Convent ; or, the Narrative of Rebecca Theresa Reed, who was under the influence of the Roman Catholics about two years, and an inmate of the Ursuline Convent, on Mount Benedict, Charlestown, Mass., nearly six months, in the years 1831, '32 ; with some Preliminary Suggestions, by the Committee of Publication: Russell, Odiorne and Co.' 'An Answer to “Six Months in a Convent ;' exposing its falsehoods and mani- fold absurdities. By the Lady Superior ; with some Preliminary Remarks: Printed and Published by J. H. Eastburn.' The Ursuline Community. 393 them to immure myself from all intercourse with the world ; yea, even from the blessed light of the sun ; and, as long as my conduct is decent, and no guilty action, or nefarious design can be proved against myself and my companions, as a community, no tongue can gainsay that right. Should one of our number offend against the laws, so as to be amenable to punishment, that individual could be made to undergo the penalty of his offence; but, no harm should, on that account, befall the community, of which he was a member. As a society, we should have a per- fect right to be strangely absurd in our manners, peculiar in our dress, and surperlatively ridiculous in everything else. We might, could we so agree, salute one another by touching noses, in- stead of shaking hands — button our coats behind our backs, and cut a pigeon-wing or a pirouette whenever President Jackson's name was mentioned, or any other popular saint's or devil's ; if we chose to do so. We might determine never to marry, to be honest in politics, to make or not to make any queer maneuvres, that entered into our thoughts. So long as we did not offend against the proprieties of life, and violated neither the laws of God or of man, so long should we have a right to preserve our retire- ment, unmolested. The Ursuline Community, as a community, in that part of Six Months in a Convent,' peculiarly the production of Miss Reed, are blamed chiefly for a set of foolish ceremonies, con- nected with their religion, or imposed by the rules of their order. Nobody is found fault with, during her residence at the Convent, except the Bishop and the Superior. Now, the Bishop's impro- per questions cannot be called criminal, as the amiable Rebecca Theresa did not understand them ; (qua-re: how did she conjec- ture their impropriety ? ) and, if they had been made comprehen- sible by her intellect — with the assistance of “Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, it is not improbable that a young woman, of her romantic name and disposition, may have heard improper questions before, for which she did not so severely blame the youth who asked them. The Superior's detention and threatened abduction of her person, would, if carried into effect, have subjected that lady (not the Community) to an action for forcible imprisonment, which proba- bly would not have been sustained, for want of sufficient evidence. Now this is the sum and substance of all the bitter accusations of Miss Reed; the embellishment of her imagination, and the flour- ishes of her advocates — supposing the Committee of Publication, under whose fatherly care this modest volume has been issued, to. stand in that interesting regard — would go for nothing. Their breath would only serve to cool the porridge of their own wrath. But, supposing all were proved, beyond the remotest possibility 394 The Ursuline Community. of a doubt, what would be the sentence of the law? The court would probably fine the Lady Superior one dollar, and admonish her not to seduce interesting young ladies into her Convent any longer. But, suppose We, the all-glorified people, take the law into our own hands, and proceed to execute our united vengeance — being fully convinced that the Ursulines are as bad as we could wish- what remains for us to do? What farther steps shall we take ? In school-boy phrase, what are we agoing to do about it? In Heaven's name, what are we making all this fuss about ? Shall we go and burn the house, lately the country-seat of one of our most respectable citizens, where these few women and the pupils have taken refuge, as we did their own fair dwelling on Mount Benedict ? I am afraid the loyal citizens of Roxbury would give us a warm reception. I have it ! Yes — we will burn the women themselves — all five of them, if there be so many. Let us accuse them of witch-craft. Let some young woman — Miss Reed, for instance — swear before several respectable gen- tlemen -- as respectable as the Committee of Publication — that she was ridden through the air on a broomstick all night, pinched black and blue, and fainted through excess of fear, one Sunday, in church, because, in the midst of her devotions, the devil ap- · peared to her, in the shape of a nice young man. This will be evidence enough. We can then burn them incontinently. But will this answer? No — we might be laughed at; and though, like Mawworm, we likes to be abused,' we won't be laughed at.' All that remains to do, then, is to kick up such a row as to send every mother's soul of them packing into Canada. This would be a glorious victory. We should then have time to cool, to remove the graceful ruins on Mount Benedict, and be all ready to put ourselves into another furious passion ; not with the anti-slavery people — we have fixed them ; ' not with the nest of hornets at the Federal-street theatre - they will die a natural death, if let alone ; but with the Methodists! Yes -- the anti-Catholics! Having destroyed their antagon- ists, we can set about demolishing these wbining, hypocritical rascals,' as the mob delights to call the most extended sect of Christians in the United States. One word more — still under permission of our rulers, the pop- ulace — before we take it upon ourselves to say, whether we se- riously trust in the production of Miss Rebecca Theresa Reed ; sustained, as it is, and promised and vowed for, by such god- fathers as the Committee of Publication. We are about to an- nounce to the world, a solemn and important fact; known only to a chosen few ; fact, of awful import; a fact, which — when exploded and blown sky-high, by the train along which we are now sprinkling our small grains of powder, and to which we shall 396 The Ursuline Community. of the outraged feelings of the mob. Others have asserted, that the stories, concerning Miss Harrison, superadded to facts told by Miss Reed, formed the cause. Miss Harrison's affair was discredited by many ; it was entirely disproved. She was said either to have been incarcerated by the nuns, or spirited away ; but the selectmen of Charlestown knew better, and judgmatically declared their knowledge, when it was too late. We all know better — cloak our knowledge as we will. The most opprobrious epithets, the most vile accusations are constantly applied to the Community of Ursulines. All the monstrous calumnies, which have ever been inflicted, in former times, on Convents, were heaped up, like faggots, around the fame of these few Roman Catholic women ; and one new lie applied the firebrand to popular fury. Yes! and the flames are not yet quenched. The smoldering embers are still hurled against the nuns and novices, in their retreat ; and the pres- ence of some of the most respectable daughters of Protestant parents, have not deterred many wretches from shouting, as they rushed by their house of refuge in Roxbury, the vilest terms of a blackguard vocabulary. On the last Fast-day, a host of these rioters, in gigs, drove by the dwelling, and bellowed forth volleys of abuse, shouting names too vile to be repeated — applicable, doubtless, to their own female associates. But, we will not 'Leap our light courser o’er the bounds of taste;' though the indignation, which such devilish conduct inspires, can hardly be restrained within the goal of calm reason. Having thus expressed our conviction that, on the hypothesis that the little work of Rebecca Theresa Reed were strictly true, no very heinous offence could be proved against the Ursulines; and that the relation of her experiences could not, if fully known at the time, have instigated the Mount Benedict conflagration, * - unaided by the disgraceful falsehoods, which were industriously disseminated by the enemies of good order — we come now, se- riously, to ask ourselves the question, whether we believe, or not, in her published narrative. We answer unhesitatingly — No! We believe, in common with the most respectable portion of our fellow-citizens, that Miss Reed is a weak, silly person, of a very romantic turn of mind, and * We must not fail to express the gratification, which we have received in the perusal of the very convincing and eloquent argument before the Committee of the House of Representatives, by Richard S. Fay, Counsellor at Law, upon the petition of Benedict Fenwick and others, for restitution for the wanton destruction of their property, on Mount Benedict. The Resolutions passed by the Legislature, disapproving, in set terms, of the crime of burning the Convent, were, in our opin- ion, a shameful avoidance of their duty, in providing for the miserable deficiency of the laws. The Ursuline Community. 397 given to acting and speaking deceitfully. Her own book would prove this, were not the answer of the Lady Superior so entirely satisfactory. This answer is written in a style, which shews its author a woman of an excellent education, fully adequate to the important task of presiding over a seminary of young ladies, and eminently worthy of the praises which are bestowed upon her by the intelligent parents who have placed their daughters under her care. We have been told, by ladies who have conversed with her — in confirmation of her own denial of the vulgar phrases at- tributed to her by Miss Reed — that her conversation is elegant and her manners refined. To our view, one of the strongest arguments against Miss Reed's veracity, may be derived from the low-lived expressions, which she attributes to the Lady Superior and the Bishop. No person, acquainted with people in their sit- uation, would believe that they could talk about pancake,' and Old Scratch.' These terms, Rebecca Theresa probably heard among her particular friends. She may, for instance, have been so often told, that her fair hand was as soft as a pan- cake — that, desirous of advising the world of such an enviable possession, she attributed the compliment to the Lady Superior. Old Scratch' is an expression made use of so frequently by maid-servants, that she probably considered it the most familiar way in which she could make the reverend Bishop speak of his Satanic Majesty. The story of the Bishop's requesting the dying nun to im- plore the Almighty to send him a bushel of gold, when she had got to Heaven, is another strong argument against the veracity of her narrative ; for; in the language of the Lady Superior, if this story be true, they not only imposed upon others, but suffered themselves to be imposed upon. Such an egregiously absurd and improbable story, as this, is enough, without her own silly confessions, to render her statements perfectly ridiculous. That the young woman is capable of the meanest acts of decep- tion, is evident in almost every page ; and nothing but the ex- treme gullibility of the mob would prevent the immediate expo- sure of the Committee of Publication. Their prefatory sug- gestions show them to be too wise to have been gulled them- selves. The blame of the matter is not with Miss Reed. Let us wait cooly a little, till the present unwarrantable excitement shall sub- side, and see what will be the result. Meanwhile, we have two or three questions to put, which must be answered. There is a general determination to know the names of the wire-pullers of this grand puppet show. A word or two, however, in explana- tion of our manner of treating this subject — a subject which, by so many, is deemed of the most vital importance. A very re- spectable portion of our fellow-citzens have, since the burning of VOL. VIII, 51 398 The Ursuline Community. the Ursuline Convent, expressed very little interest in the matter ; they look upon the excitement prevalent, with regard to the publications, to which we have referred, as a temporary gust which will blow over ; and that, therefore, the least that is said about it, the better. Our own view of the affair, is different. We think that the people should persuaded to look on this mat- ter in its proper light. The infinite absurdity of Miss Reed's book should be exposed. The Lady Superior's answer will probably make some converts to her cause ; but all that she can oppose to assertions, are assertions. Her reply, we consider very good ; but it is, nevertheless, colored by her own feelings, and she is betrayed into expressions which are injudicious.* The keen shafts of her satire fall harmlessly from such bull-bides as those of Miss Reed's Committee of Publication. All that can be hoped from her answer, is that people will set off her charac- ter against Miss Reed's, and judge between them. But what what would she gain by that? She will be answered, and an- swered again. Forty thousand works would do no good. What if she could disprove every word that has been published ? What would be the effect? What matters it, whether Miss Reed's statements, except with regard to the threatened abduc- tion, are true or not? They amount to nothing. The trouble does not lie there. Should Miss Reed herself be entirely ex- onerated from the charge of falsehood, or most darkly implicated, we do not believe that it would be effective of any important re- sult, one way or the other. No; the evil lies elsewhere. "Six Months in a Convent,' would have been bought and read and for- gotten — and the Convent might have been rebuilt without mo- lestation ; for nobody, as we have shown, can have a right to in- terfere with any number of individuals, in acting and living as they please. The Ursuline Community have little to fear from the state- ments of Miss Reed. To sensible persons, they appear ridic- ulous ; and they would appear ridiculous to every body, were not such importance imparted to them by the Committee of Publication, who are generally thought to be responsible per- sons. The friends, whom this persecution of the Ursulines will raise up among the Protestants, must laugh at Miss Reed, and frown upon the Committee of Publication. Such questions as these, must be asked — yes, and they must be answered, too. Sneer at this demand as they will, the public will insist upon be- ing elucidated as to certain points, like the following. The * We would reprehend, in the strongest manner, the abusive language used by the Catholic presses, with regard to the reverend gentleman, who gave a certificate concerning Miss Reed's disposition to tell truth. Such lying accusations can only tarnish those from whom they proceed ; and will fade away from his undimwed and irreproachable character, like vapor from a diamond. A New Movement. 399 is in a comber wrote the Were they self whom were names of this Committee — who are they? By whom were they constituted a Committee ? Were they self-constituted ? Who of their number wrote the preliminary remarks to Six Months in a Convent ?' Who, besides the publishers, receive the immense profits arising from the sale of this book ? These questions may appear unimportant; but, if answered, the public will know where to look for responsible confirmation of any state- ments, which may appear in print, or be industriously circulated, for the purpose of inflaming the mob to new acts of persecu- tion and outrage, on this small Community of women ; who, from the industrious malice with which they are pursued, would seem to be the very hand-maids of the Romish church, in the plenti- tude of her wickedness and power. A NEW MOVEMENT. There is a movement, so very strange, now going on in the political world, that, though our Magazine is not a newspaper, yet we feel it our duty to expose and to condemn it; and to call upon all good citizens to come to the rescue. Who would have believed, three months ago, that, in Boston, — where stands the old Cradle of Liberty,' within sight of Bunker-hill — in Bos- ton, too, where the Whig flag has so often waved, in triumph ; and where it has ever waved, since Gen. Gage and his Tory throng were driven from our harbor, by American Whigs, – that here, at this late hour, men, high in place, high in the affec- tions of their fellow-citizens — men, too, abounding in property, and with a superabundance of means, both intellectual and mate- rial, to carry their wishes into execution, — that such men could here be talking of the expediency of surrendering old Massa- chusetts to the office-holders and their Chief! God forbid, that such a project should succeed. The pride of New-England, her long-cherished associations, the fame of our ancestors, which we, their children, have sworn to maintain — all forbid it. Yet, startling as such a project is, there is a plan, among certain men, who think more of their gold than of their God, to hand us over to Van Buren !— to harness us and ours to the car of the Empire State, and to introduce here all that agrarian system of politics, that make New-York and New-Yorkers, not men, but mere ma- chines! Our leaders may be surprised at such an announcement. Credat Judæus Appella, non ego, some may cry ; but, neverthe- 400 A New Movement. less, such is the fact; and though we run some hazard, in making the announcement, yet we shall turn neither to the right nor to the left, when imperative duty commands us to go onward. What has brought about this state of things ? some may ask. We can tell them. Disguise it as we may, there are strong prejudices existing in all parts of this country, disgraceful to us, as Americans, and perpetually jeoparding the fairest prospects of our Union. The South indulges in such prejudices with as much and probably more warmth than any other section of the Union. The West fosters them also, and western politicians, acting upon them, formed a coalition with the South against a man of the North ; so that Gen. Jackson was elected President, to the utter ruin though, of almost every politician engaged in the unhallowed work. The North has these prejudices too, and they are strong ; but not so strong as in other sections — because our blood is mingled with the blood of our countrymen, in almost every State of this broad Union. But, the North has such prejudices, nev- ertheless ; and this feeling, united with the position and the alliance that Van Buren has in New York, has given him Connecticut, came near giving him Rhode Island, and is preparing to give him — start not! reader even old Massachusetts. Van Buren, it is well known, is intimately connected with the manufacturers and bankers of New York. His interest is theirs. He is bound with them, and dependent upon them. Hence the reason why he has used his influence for the destruction of the U. S. Bank, because the destruction of this institution increased the value of bank stock, owned by the Albany Regency; strengthened the corps of safety-fund banks, under their control — the ultimate ob- ject of the whole contest being, to bring the other States and State banks under the management of New-York banks — as New-York is the focus of the trade of the Union, and as remit- tances must ever be made to her and through her, her bills will be current everywhere. This is the secret of Van Buren's oppo- sition to the U. S. Bank, although he and the whole Regency, before this plan was undertaken, petitioned for a branch of this bank in Albany. So with the tariff:-Van Buren voted for the tariff of 1328; and the most effective, though secret, supporters of the tariff, in the trying contests, that succeeded after 1828, were the friends of Van Buren, who resisted the compromise of Mr. Clay, even with Mr. Forsyth to aid them, as long as it could be done. The polititical connexions of Mr. Van Buren were for the tariff. His alliance was a tariff interest ; which interest, how- ever much he might wish to shake off, for political purposes, he dare not shake off entirely. In 1828, Van Buren attempted to balance these interests; and he partially succeeded, with his usual cunning. To the very day that he voted for the tariff of 1828, all the Southern Senators believed he would vote against A New Movement. 401 it; and though he endeavored to excuse himself, for his decep- tion, under instructions that he himself got up in New York, yet he never can forget the withering rebuke of Mr. Tazewell, of Virginia, who told him, as he (Mr. V. B.) passed his seat, in the most bitter tone - Sir, you have deceived me!' This manufacturing and banking interest, with which Van Bu- ren is connected in New-York, exists all over the northern and eastern States, from New-England to Maine. This interest has made us the most prosperous part of our conſederacy. Our southern friends forced us into it, and we went into it with great reluctance; but, with the usual enterprize that distinguishes our people, we have made it one of the great interests of the North. The interest — the pecuniary interest of New-York, we mean — is the same as that of Massachusetts — at least, so far as manufac- tures are concerned, if no further. If Van Buren be elected, we know he must be a Northern President. We also know that, as he must always depend upon New-York for support, so he must always consult the interests of the Regency of that State, who rule the State, as it is well known, with a rod of iron. The kindred interest that exists in Massachusetts, is now seeking an alliance with the same interest in New-York ; and a billing-and-cooing are going on, such as can exist only between gentle turtle doves. The friendship, proffered from New-York, has been met; and, un- less the people arouse to the defence of their principles, we shall be sold before we know it. The truth is, a great appeal is to be made to our interests, apart from our principles. Already has one prominent organ of Whig principles, in Boston, ten- dered Van Buren an alliance, under certain circumstances. "We shall go for Van Buren before we will go for White,' is a common phrase in the mouths of many, since the result of the Connecticut election. Before our citizens commit themselves, in any of these points, we ask their attention to a few reflections. What is our position in the Union ? Have we not selected a man, whose reputation, all over the world, is an ornament to the State and our city, and solemnly nominated him as a candidate for the Presidency? In point of character, for singleness of purpose, in all that makes a man good or great, who is his superior ? And, if we look to the highest achievements of human intellect, no matter where we look — whether it be in Grecian, Roman, or English story - we turn to the boy of our woods, with a conscious pride, that this son of ours is foremost among them all. And, when such a man is before the public, in a position where we placed him, and where he never thrust himself; because Connecticut is lost, we talk of a crisis, in which we may sacrifice him for Van Buren ; because, forsooth, money here is allied with money elsewhere! If we are the true defenders of Whig principles, there can be no crisis in 402 A New Movement. which Van Buren can be the selection of Massachusetts Whigs; and the vote of Massachusetts can never be given to him, but upon the grossest sectional and pecuniary impulses. Ten thousand times more preferable, in our estimation, is even Judge White ; who, it true, is but a geographical candidate; but what objection is that, to men who proffer a support to Van Buren, because Van Buren is from the North, and will support northern interests ? The principles on which Van Buren is to be elected, if elected at all, must inevitably end in the destruction of this Government. The Prætorian guard of office-holders, which he is now summoning in Baltimore, is one of the worst signs of the times. What better is this guard, thus represented there, than the Prætorian guard, that surrounded the Roman Emperors, and ministered to their will. If there were no argument against Van Buren, other than this, it would be argument enough. Here are one hundred thousand men — Mr. Calhoun estimates the number to be thus large — who purpose and intend, if they can, to fasten upon thirteen millions of Republicans, a President, to be elected in a national convention ; which nomination, if so it be named, all are ordered to support —- under a penalty of proscription, if they do not sup- port it. And thus acting under such a threat, thirteen millions of people are called upon to rally round such a candidate, and ratify such a nomination ! Such a system of politics as this, is ruinous to public morals, and has degraded them, and is grad- ually undermining all our free institutions ; so that the question no wherenow arises, Is the candidate fit, honest, capable ?' - but, “Is he regularly nominated ?' And, if so, he must, ac- cording to the Van Buren rule, be supported, though he be the arch fiend himself. What man of talents, what man of character, in a community like ours, is willing to reduce himself to such mechanism as this? What Whig, in Massachusetts, will consent to become such a machine? Who that loves Massachusetts, will consent to degrade her to the level of New-York caucuses — and be manacled by an Albany regency; who, if they were to be of our own growth, our local pride might support ; but who, when the spawn of another State, no man, who has the soul of a free- man, can ever knuckle and kneel to. The labor-saving machinery of caucuses and conventions, after the Van Buren plan, will never do for Republicans. The price of their liberty is perpetual watchfulness; and that, too, at the polls. In fact, the whole tendency of that general plan, for the regulation of elections, which Van Buren has contrived, is to transfer, from the many at the polls, to the few in the caucus, the whole power of the peo- ple, in the choice of their officers. Already has it generated a fungus in society that is its pest — a political aristocracy, called office-holders — who infest all the high places of power, and the low places too ; and who attempt to rule society by an iron scep- A New Movement. 403 tre, demanding of every man an abject compliance, not only with the will of their master, but with their own petty tyrannies ; and punishing and proscribing all, who have too much pride to be the slaves of slaves and the instruments of arbitrary and vindictive power. This political aristocracy, unknown to the Constitution, is more than a third estate in the realm, and is as violent and pro- scriptive, in all its proceedings, as the Spanish inquisition. Not that it takes life ; for that, it has not yet attempted to do — unless it be, that the aim in the Poindexter conspiracy was to end in the destruction of his existence, as well as his character — but, hot-headed and reckless, it attempts everything audacity dare do, and is advancing further every year ; now plundering upon Indian reservations — now wallowing in the corruption of one great De- partment of the Government — anon seizing the whole treasury, and holding it, at this moment, under their absolute and unlimited control, so far as its custody and transfer are concerned, with all the revenues likely to arise from such an immense fund at interest. To hold on to this aristocracy of office-holders — these nobility of the elections — to extend, to fortify and perpetuate its power, is the object of the Baltimore Convention, where the representa- tives of this oligarchy are about to assemble, for the purpose of selecting a nominal head, (already selected, by-the-way,) who is to give them the loaves and fishes of the State ; for which they, in return, are to cajole the people into being his hewers of wood, and drawers of water. Purposing to exclude the people from all participation in this Convention — this grand packed jury, as it has well been called — is the assembly, to be holden in Baltimore, accessible to all the movements of the northern Albany Regency, almost within eye-shot of the Kichen Cabinet ; and by such jury- men, with the treasury-teats already in their mouths, a Chief Magistrate, for twenty-seven confederated States, is to be elect- ed — provided the machinery turn out to be strong enough to manacle a majority of the people. . In such a Convention, vested with such high powers — a mere sham Polish Diet — there is to be but one branch; no Senate, no check, no power of revisal for itself, no appeal ; a Convention too, ruled, no man can tell how or by whom — uttering the fearful and terrific edict, Carthago delenda est, against all who do not obey its mandate. All the State governments, too, are melted down in its crucible, and this great confederacy is to be made one con- solidated empire, in which New-York is to reign, in all the mag- nitude of her mighty population. Called, we say, the Conven- tion was at Baltimore, on purpose to exclude the people, and the direct representatives of the people. Pittsburg would not do. The yeomanry, on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers and their tribu- taries, might pour in there — for Pittsburg is accessible to them all by water. The chain of the Alleghanies must be thrown be- CRITICAL NOTICES. An Oration, delivered before the Transylvania Whig Society, February 22d, 1835. By Robert Wickliffe, Jr. Lexington, Kentucky. The author of this oration is a young man of great promise. He was gradu- ated, or was to be graduated at Harvard University, in the class of 1834. He was, we believe, among that number, who, upon remonstrating against the pro- ceedings of the college government, in relation to certain disturbances, were refused the baccalaureate. For his future success, it is plain that he need be dependent upon no influence, indebted to no favor. His talents - which, for a young man of twenty, are very remarkable— will, if properly exerted, render him an honor to that country, of which, with all the freshness and the glow of youth about him, he speaks so enthusiastically and so well, in the oration before us. Societies of young gentlemen, at college, who demand every year to be cele- brated by some effort of oratory or flourish of poetry, generally make them- selves very ridiculous by certain annual promulgations of nonsense, which, in the shape of pamphlets, the members inflict upon all their acquaintance, with their · best respects. We seldom do so rash a thing as to read a production of this kind; wheth- er emanating from a young head, or from the overtasked brain of an old declaimer. Prepossessed, however, in favor of the gentleman whose name is on the title-page of the ill-looking, badly-printed pamphlet, with a blue paper cover, that lies before us, we bestowed upon it an attentive perusal. We arose from it with gratifica- tion — and we take pleasure in speaking favorably of this youthful piece of elo- quence. We are no prophets — and if we were, should perhaps have little honor in our own country — but we ask our readers to watch this young man ; for we venture to predict for him, a successful and brilliant career. The faults of Mr. Wickliffe's oration are a great desultoriness of style, a changing from one subject to another with unphilosophical rapidity, a defect in the arrange- ment of his subjects, and too frequent reference to the examples of ancient time. The two first are the peculiar errors of a young mind, not subjected to any severe application; and the last, of a youth still musty with academic lore. 'Qui nous delivera des Grecs et des Romains ?' We wish that those who are ambitious to be scholars, would make a more successful display of a knowledge of English lit- erature, refer more frequently to the great men of modern ages, and suffer the ashes of the old days of Greece and Rome to rest for a little while undisturbed, without being constantly raked over, in the hope of finding some faint sparks, that have not glimmered in every oration and poem, since the revival of letters. We do not accuse Mr. Wickliffe of any false pretensions to scholarship ; he may have thought it fit to talk learnedly before a learned society. VOL. VIII. 52 406 Critical Notices. The orator's excellencies consist in a calm and dignified manner of treating great subjects, of an entire freedom from affectation, and of a certain loftiness of expres- sion, which gives energy to his thoughts. He is entirely free from arrogance, does not indulge in the caviling spirit of modern Ciceros, and displays a liberality of senti- ment, which would do honor to an experienced statesman. That part of the oration in which Mr. Webster is so eloquently eulogized, is, we are happy to percieve, 'going the rounds of the newspapers. We prefer to present an extract, which is not so favorable a specimen of the orator's powers, but which shews him fully en- titled to the praise we have not hesitated to bestow. *Among the many measures which would undoubtedly tend to the permanent interests and union of the States, none is so important, or so desirable, as the bill which was proposed, but unfortunately not adopted, to divide the proceeds arising from the sale of the public lands among the several States according to their popu- lation. It is a measure founded upon just principles of public policy, and compre- hensive views of public interest. The public lands were purchased by the blood and the treasury of the whole confederacy. It is unjust that the proceeds arising from their sale should be confined to the States in which they happen to lie. When these benefits shall be thus distributed, we shall have another, and a very strong motive to union. They are benefits which will interest every man's feelings, and every man's door. So long as the public domain continues open and unfilled, there will be a refuge for the poor, and a home for the unfortunate. The emigrant bears with him the feelings and attachments which he formed in his native land. The hardy pioneer recounts to his children the deeds of their fathers in another clime, but not in another country. The son of New England is the same man amidst his own rocky hills, and the high mountains of the West ; the emigrant from Carolina changes not his character by settling on the banks of the Missouri. We all know the policy by which Rome made herself mistress of the world ; but ours is a juster and more humane policy. We do not conquer nations feebler than ourselves, and then drag them through the streets of our capital, in all the pomp of triumph, and all the insolence of victory. We plant no dependent colonies ; we hold at our nod no subservient allies. The wilderness is redeemed from the savage, and lo! the desert smiles. In the midst of trackless forests, and on the banks of almost unnar- igable rivers, cities and towns and villages spring up in a day. Impenetrable woods and deep morasses, are changed into fruitfulfields and fertile meadows. On the ruins of the Indian's cabin, soon arise the splendid mansion of the rich ; on the site where once stood the Indian's wigwam soon is built a great and populous city. Our territory has stretched farther and farther ; our population has spread wider and wider, but we have not yet reached the limits our domain. They appear to end, when they only commence, and like the deceptive horizon, they recede as fast as we advance. Sixty years ago, the spot upon which we now stand, was a perfect wilderness. A party of hunters who had penetrated thus far into the woods, hearing of the first battle that was fought in the Revolution, gave the name of Les- ington to the place of their encampment. This great and powerful State ; these rich and cultivated fields ; this liberal and intelligent population ; this beautiful city, and the noble public works which adorn and distinguish it ; this literary soci- ety, and the learned university of which it is a part - all bear striking, and yet only partial proof to the progress and improvement of a little more than half a century. It is quite probable that the establishment of a National University, would sub- serve the same purposes as the measure, of which I have just been speaking. It was one of the plans which Napoleon conceived in the height of his power, to in- stitute an academy, where the young princes of Europe should be brought up in friendship and intimacy together. There can be no doubt that the friendships which are formed in youth, frequently last during the whole of our lives. There can be no doubt, that acquaintance seldom fails to beget kindness and esteem, When young men from the various States, shall receive their education in a Na- tional University, they will get rid of their prejudices — will acquire a more liber- al mode of thinking, and will return home so many able and zealous advocates of our common union. It is painful to see the influence which geographical limits ex- Critical Notices. 407 ercise over the conduct and feelings even of our public men. It is painful to hear some of our ablest statesmen declare, that they vote for measures, not because they add to the prosperity of the country at large, but because they will promote the interests of their own immediate constituents. Men of talents and deserved dis- tinction, are kept out of office and deprived of public estimation, because they have had the misfortune to be born within a certain State or within certain bounda- ries. The most vulgar prejudices are appealed to ; the worst passions are called into play ; integrity is forced to yield to corruption, and the vile demagogue pre- vails over the able statesman.' The Insurgents; a Historical Novel. This book is a quiet tale of still life, notwithstanding its bellicose appellation. We can hardly call a rebellion, in which only three drops of blood are spilled, a very outrageous affair. Thus runs the plot: Two gentlemen have each a sister, and the course of their true loves might be depicted by a square, with two right Jines drawn across from each angle to its opposite. In plainer words, Major Talbot falls in love with Miss Eustace ; and Major Eustace with Miss Talbot, and Miss Eustace with Major Talbot, and Miss Talbot with Major Eustace. We think this is sufficiently explicit. The gentlemen take opposite sides in politics; one fomenting and the other opposing the insurrection of Shay. Out of this foolish revolt, the piece is carved. All the incidents, but one or two, are connected and interwoven with it. The rest of the materiel consists of sketches of character and manners. It is easy to find fault with any book, and we intend to find a good deal in this ; but, always in a spirit of charity. For example: the work is much too long. A good part of the contents might be struck out, with advantage; and the rest might be com- pressed. It argues a poverty of invention, to introduce a petty riot into every chapter; and the author has no right to burthen the patience of his reader with a disquisition upon Homer's Iliad, a dissertation on the immortality of the soul,' or reprints of some twenty harangues in the Massachusetts Legislature. Per- haps he has been betrayed into this error, by a natural desire to shew his learning, or the graces of his style. A little of it might be excused; but we can read speeches enough in the newspapers. The two lovers are a brace of scoundrels ; it is hard to say which is worst. Tal- bot is a pitiful turncoat - an apostate, for the sake of place—who betrays his friends, and goes about to deprive them of their rights, without scruple or re- morse. He is likewise a mean, despicable enemy, who uses the chances of war and politics to crush the man, whose worst offences against him are, having staked his own life, in defence of his honor, and spared him when he was in his power. Still, he is invested with some good qualities. Major Eustace is as bad. He commits a deliberate seduction, under circumstances of peculiar baseness ; and all this passes, without a word of reprobation from the author. His father passes the matter over, as a little scrape ;' his brother is dea sirous of sharing the honors of the exploit with him ; his sister apologizes for him ; and even Miss Talbot will always treat him as an acquaintance and friend,' when she meets him. This is too bad. We do not expect an author to make saints of his characters ; but it is no more than decency to punish their crimes with proper consequences. Paul Clifford is brought to the foot of the gallows, by his ; and Tom Jones at least falls in the esteem of his friends, by his amour with Molly Sea- 408 Critical Notices. grim — though his is by no means so bad a case as this of Major Eustace. We have half a mind to call “The Insurgents' an immoral book. Our author talks good Yankee, and a great deal too much of it. It may be al- leged, that his characters are Yankces, and must needs speak their mother-tongue. So they should ; and each of them should chatter in the dialect befitting his rank and station. In our opinion, the Yankee of a Yankee Colonel, or Judge of the Su- preme Court, is pretty good English ; though that of a Berkshire ploughman may be some degrees removed from it. Who ever heard, from the lips of a Judge, in Massachusetts, such words as 'plaguey,'' pesky'? Most of the characters, whom the author gives us as men of rank, talents and education, talk in this barbarous way. Besides, some of them use the most vulgar and blasphemous expressions, and quote Scripture with a levity and profanity, which, we can assure the author, will not go a hair's breadth towards enhancing the respectability of his book. He is the less excusable, because it is evident that he is one who has kept good com- pany, and ought to know better. If his heroes had been thieves or pirates, he might have put such language into their mouths with less propriety. • The Insurgents’ presents a pretty wide range of character. The parts are many, happily conceived, well sustained, various, amusing, and consistent. We shall give a list of the principal ones:— Col. Eustace — a brave revolutionary officer ; honest, honorable, careless, benevolent, and full of that charity which hopeth all things. Major Eustace – is first a gay, ardent, gallant soldier; then a lazy student ; and afterwards a legislator, politician and rebel: he is,through- out, brave, high-spirited, sanguine, talented, hot-headed and wrong-headed. Tom — his brother - a spirited and amiable, though mischievous, gallant. Major Talbot - selfish, base, and malignant; but cool and brave, and fondly attached to Miss Eustace. Miss Eustace – a very woman, and a very loveable one ; full of all feminine and some masculine good qualities, with very little talent or energy. Miss Talbot a very sober, sedate, talented, and judgmatical' lady ; the beau ideal of womanly perfection ; just such a person as a man of sense would wish to make a wife of. Hezekiah Brindle — Yankeeism personified: it will trouble any author to produce a better specimen of this variety of the genus homo. Moses Bliss — another animal of the same kind, but with a character of his own ; a little of the knave, in a small way; a little of the hypocrite, and a good deal of the Yankee. Daniel Shays — a drunken, imbecile, vulgar creature, with a little touch of the Yankee, and a smaller one of the old soldier. Mrs. Appleton — a cream-of-tartar and four-of-sulphur widow. Governor Boudoin — a gentleman and statesman. General Lincoln - a gentleman and soldier ; – and many more, too tedious to enumerate. Our author does not often aim at wit, but falls into humor naturally and without effort. He is always good-natured, and sometimes shrewd. He has a keen sense of the ludicrous, and is never so happy as when describing the rustic of Massachu- setts. So great is his liking for this character, that he often blends it with others, totally dissimilar -- and, upon the whole, gives us rather too much of it. He is per- fectly at home in the country church, by the country gentleman's fireside, whether in the kitchen or parlor — or in the bar-room of the country inn; and, in short, wherever the shrewdness and humor of New-England are to be found. His Yan- kees are not two-legged monsters, with an outlandish jargon in their months, like Critical Notices. 409 those of some other novelists we could naine, but altogether or nearly what they should be. Perhaps they are sometimes a little overcharged. His women, too, are neither dowdies nor angels, but human beings — such as we sometimes see — who speak and act like rational creatures, excepting when love is on the tapis, and then they are excusable. Nothing makes man or woman talk nonsense like love. We dwell upon Jane Talbot and Elizabeth Eustace, because they are the first ladies we have seen, on paper, for some time. There is certainly more room for censure in The Insurgents,' than we have chosen to occupy ; yet, upon the whole, it is a pleasant book. The author is neither Irving nor Scott ; but he is a man of very respectable abil- ities, which he will do well to cultivate, with more care than is indicated by these volumes. We have criticized him for his own good, and he wili, no doubt, be thankful ; but if not, and his next volumes shall shew no improvement, we shall think it our duty to shew less mercy. a. Tour on the Prairie. By the author of the Sketch-book. Phi- ladelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard. The production of a new work, by Washington Irving, is an event of no common interest in the literary world. This book, in our opinion, fully equals the expecta- tions, which were long ago formed, concerning such a result of the author's tour to the far West. In exact and picturesque sketching of scenery, in fresh and vigorous description of character and adventure, he is inimitable. All classes of readers, whether they be found among the polished circles of European cities, or in the humblest village of the new world, can equally understand and feel the truth and beauty of his sketches. Pictures of the illimitable, the magnificent prairie, the boundless wilderness, covered with its numberless herds of wild animals, such as the deer, the elk, the bear, the wolf, and the buffalo, and traversed only by the savage Indian, or the scarce less savage borderer, must have a charm for the most phlegm- atic reader, had they been drawn by an ordinary hand. How much greater, then, our delight, when such subjects wake into life from the hand of Geoffrey Crayon ! Very admirable are the directness and simplicity, with which he describes natural scenery. There is no superfluous display of words, to obscure and mystify his descriptions. He seizes at once, with the eye of a skilful artist or poet, the striking features in a landscape, and paints them, in the most easy, natural, and unaffected style. He often gives us a vivid and perfect picture, by a single happy epithet, or a single well-conceived expression. His imagination never sleeps ; but every sim- ple object of beauty, in nature, at once suggests to him some fanciful image or illus- tration. For instance: at one time, he descries two horsemen, upon a naked hill, upon the prairie - and this simple occurrence calls forth the following remark:- • There is something exciting to the imagination and stirring to the feelings, while traversing these hostile plains, in seeing a horseman prowling along the horizon. It is like descrying a sail at sea, in time of war, when it may be either a privateer or a pirate. So, also, in describing so simple an affair as the destruction of a bee- hive, his imagination suggests a most happy and striking illustration : “As to the poor bees, the proprietors of the ruin, they seemed to have no heart to do anything, not even to taste the nectar that flowed around them ; but crawled backwards and forwards, in vacant desolation, as I have seen a poor fellow, with his hands in his THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. JUNE, 1835. ORIGINAL PAPERS. UNITED STATES SENATE. PELEG SPRAGUE. But few men in this country have, in so short a time, taken a more conspicuous and favorable stand in the public estimation, than Peleg Sprague, the distinguished Senator from Maine. And perhaps --among the many excellent illustrations, which we shall furnish, of the folly of keeping up, and the inapplicability of the old party distinction, which existed during the war, (a folly of which the Jackson party, assuming to be the only republican party, is ever guilty)—there is none better than the biography of Peleg Sprague. We therefore have taken some pains to collect facts, concerning his early life, in detail. Mr. Sprague was born in Duxbury, Commonwealth of Massa- chusetts, and is the son of the Hon. Seth Sprague, who is still living, and who now occupies the same farm upon which he and his ancestors have lived for more than two hundred years — Dux- bury being, next to Plymouth, the oldest settlement in New- England. His father was a whig of the revolution, in which he served a short time as a soldier ; and, from the first rise of political parties, under the Constitution, he was a republican of the Jeffersonian school. He was, for nearly twenty years, a member of the Legislature of Massachusetts; and he was an uni- form and steadfast supporter of the measures of the administra- tion, through the darkest and gloomiest periods of our history. As a member of the Senate, he ardently supported the late war ; resisting the resolution of that body, which condemned rejoi- cings at our victories ; and ten years afterwards, he moved the resolution, which expunged it from the records. Mr. Sprague, the son, received the rudiments of his education in the free VOL. VIII. 53 he wody, whichards, he mosprague, 414 United States Senate. schools of his native town, and at the public academy in Sand- wich, until he entered Harvard College, in the year 1808. He had been early and deeply imbued with the political sentiments, feelings, and opinions of his father. The four years which he spent in college, from August, 1808, to August, 1812 — the time of the embargo, restrictions, and declaration of war, and the com- mencement of hostilities — was a period of general excitement and intense political interest, which penetrated even the walls of the college, and produced conflicts among the great body of ar- dent and ingenuous youth, there assembled. All the officers of the college, and nine-tentlis of the students, were federalists; yet Mr. S. not only openly avowed, but at all times fearlessly and earnestly maintained his own opinions. In 1811, during the administration of Mr. Gerry, as Governor of Massachusetts, when his annual proclamation was, according to usage, read in church on the Sabbath, the students gave vent to their strong political feelings, by scraping, hissing, and other audible indications of dis- approbation, to the interruption of the services. So flagrant an act, in public, was thought to demand some animadversion in the government; to avert wbichi, a general meeting of all the stu- dents was called, the next day, in the public chapel. After be- ing duly organized, an address to the immediate government was proposed — professing to be apologetic; but, in fact, justifying all that had been done. On that occasion, Mr. Sprague, as one of the under-graduates, arose and made a speech against it ; and with so much success, that several, who had not before dared to avow themselves democrats or republicans, united with him. The address was, however, carried by an overwhelming major- ity. But, after it was adopted, the few, not exceeding twenty or thirty in the whole college, who, under the lead of Mr. Sprague, had the courage to raise their voice against it, determined to ad- dress a letter to Governor Gerry, as President of the Board of Overseers, expressing their disapprobation of the whole conduct of the students. Mr. Sprague himself wrote the letter, and was chairman of the committee, that presented it to the Governor, who returned a suitable and appropriate answer. Both the letter and the answer were published in the republican newspapers of the day ; and the letter of the democratic students was remarked upon for its spirit and ability. During the period that he was in col- lege, the celebrated Dr. Osgood preached one of his violent politi- cal phillipics, in the presence of the students, occasioning no little ferment, for the time. Notwithstanding the uniform openness, ener- gy and boldness, with which Mr. Sprague invariably asserted and maintained his political opinions and sentiments — so unpalatable to the heated and violent partizan feelings of his fellow-students, and so directly opposed to the opinions of his instructers — he was, nevertheless, not only highly respected but much esteemed and be- Peleg Sprague. 415 loved by both. He was sought for, as a member of all the most respectable college clubs and associations, whether literary or convivial, and was honored by marks of approbation and confi- dence, from the college government. He devoted himself, with great assiduity and remarkable success, to his books, until, in his Sophomore year, his eyes became so seriously affected as to pre- vent his using them ; so that, during the residue of his college life, he could pursue his studies only by hearing what was read to him by his friends and classmates ; and yet, under this disad- vantage, no one in his class was more distinguished as a scholar ; and, upon receiving a Master's degree, in 1915, he was selected to deliver the English oration, being the first honor in the class for that degree. His distinction was so well deserved, that it was universally approved by his class, notwithstanding it was composed of many young men, who have since distinguished themselves in several professions ; among whom was the Rev. Henry Ware, of Cambridge ; Rev. Doct. Wainwright, Charles G. Loring and Franklin Dexter, Esquires, of Boston ; and Doct. Abel Pierson, of Salem. After leaving the university, Mr. Sprague pursued the study of law — part of the time at the celebrated law school in Litchfield, Connecticut, under Judges Reeve and Gould, and subsequently under the Hon. Levi Lincoln, of Worcester, the late distinguished Governor of Mas- sachusetts. Mr. Sprague was adinitted to the bar in the fall of 1915; and, immediately after, began the practice of his profession at Augusta, Maine — then a part of Massachusetts. In 1817, he removed to Hallowell, where he has till of late resided, constantly pursuing his profession, with industry and success; so that he has ob- tained a rank, at the bar, second to no man in the State ; a bar, too, which is not without able and learned men, and in which, to obtain success, a man must struggle for and deserve it. - The first time Mr. Sprague entered into political life, was in 1820, when, upon the organization of the State of Maine, he was elected a member of the first Legislature. The ensuing year, he was re-elected to the Legislature ; after which, he declined a re- election, and chose to devote himself to his profession, although strongly urged to be a candidate for the State Senate. In 1923 and 1824, many of his friends urged him to be a candidate for Congress, which he declined. An unsuccessful attempt having been made to elect a member, from the Kennebec district, in which he resided, in the autumn of 1824, at the second trial he was induced to consent to become a candidate, and was elected by a large majority. He was re-elected, without serious oppo- sition, in 1824 and in 1828, but did not take his seat in the House under the last election — the Legislature, in the winter of 1328, '29, having elected him to the Senate of the United States. 416 United States Senate. He took his seat in the Senate on the fourth of March, 1829– on the same day that Gen. Jackson was first inaugurated as Presi. dent of the United States. In the House of Representatives, Mr. Sprague was put upon the Committee of Ways and Means — one of the most important committees in that body. Soon after his entrance into the House, his ability, industry, general information, and eloquence, attracted the attention of all. At once, his ability commanded influence ; and his popular manners attracted friends. His name and reputation were no longer bound within the limits of Maine, but became part and parcel of his common country. In the first session of the seventeenth Congress, in which he was, he took part in some of the important debates, which then engrossed the attention of the country. His speeches upon the Massachusetts militia claims, upon the revolutionary officers bill, and upon the Panama mission, are to be found in the register of debates. These speeches at once introduced him to his countrymen, and strengthened his reputation and popularity at home. In the sec- ond session of this Congress, lis answer to Mr. Rives, of Vir- ginia, on surveys in Maine — in which, as a set-off to a sneer from Mr. Rives, upon the unknown rivers of the North, he con- trasted, in an amusing mode, the harsh-sounding, but strong and original, Indian names of places in Maine with the · Prince Wil- liams,' King Georges,' and Queen Charlottes,' of Virginia — also added to his reputation and popularity at home. At this ses- sion, too, his reply was made to Mr. McLane, on the state of the finances. Mr. McLane was Chairman of the Committee of Ways and Means; but, after Mr. McLane resigned, Mr. Cook, the next on the committee, being ill, a great part of the labor, of that most responsible and busy committee, fell upon Mr. Sprague. Thus, not only from choice but from necessity, he became well versed in the finances of the country. In the first session of the twentieth Congress, as appears in the register of debates, Mr. Sprague was as active and as enterprising as ever. The question of the north-eastern boundary, which then was deemed so important to his own State, and which afterwards almost threatened to bring Maine into collision with the govern- ment of the British provinces of New-Brunswick, he was stirring at an early day. During this session, also, he made his impor- tant speech upon the tariff, which was printed in a pamphlet form, and was much admired at the time. In the second session of this Congress, he introduced a resolution, instructing the Com- mittee of Ways and Means 'to inquire into the tonnage duties. As a member of this committee, he reported the tonnage bill, advocated its passage in the House, got it through in 1828 ; and, in 1829, it passed both branches of Congress, and is now the law of the land. Peleg Sprague. 417 At the opening of the twenty-first Congress, Mr. Sprague went into the Senate of the United States. At the first session of that Congress, the ever-memorable debate begun upon Foote's reso- lutions, limiting the sale of public lands. Col. Benton, of Mis- souri, gave the first agitation to the waters. Gov. Hayne, of South Carolina, with an eloquence and enthusiasm not soon to be forgotten, launched forth upon what emphatically proved to be an ocean of debate - foating along, as it were, upon the tide of our whole history, with no rudder but his own brilliant imagination, and no rules and orders' but his own pleasures. Mr. Webster followed ; and, after a little skirmishing, burst forth, with his best and greatest speech, in which he displayed the full power of his luminous intellect. After such a speech - which may be advan- tageously compared with the most remarkable efforts of the great debates of the old world – it was difficult, alınost impossible, to re-awake attention or to impart new interest to the debate. Yet Mr. Sprague succeeded in his speech upon this resolution. It was remarkable for a wide acquaintance with facts, industrious re- search, well-timed application, and brilliant eloquence. This speech enlarged his reputation. It was his first effort of impor- tance in the Senate, and compared well with all the great speeches; which is no small approbation, when we remember that Livings- ton, Clayton, Holmes, and others, entered upon the debate. Henceforward, the ſame of Peleg Sprague was established. That name was acquired, which, of itself, is a tower of strength — and which, thus established, will be raised higher and firmer on the mountain-path of fair renown. The next topic of importance, that arose in the Senate, to which Mr. Sprague directed his especial attention, was the bill, appropriating money for the removal of the Indians. This bill created no small discussion in both branches of Congress. The country took a lively interest in it. Parties ranged and divided upon it, to a considerable extent; though probably a large por- tion of the people out of the States, interested in the removal of the Indians within their borders, condemned the measure itself, the manner in which the removal was proposed, and the appro- priation demanded for it. The bill passed the House by a trembling majority of only five votes ; for there, it was forcibly and eloquently resisted ; and in the Senate, also, it met with a most able opposition. Mr. Sprague discussed the question at length, with a strength of argument and vigor of eloquence, that left the bill to stand solely on party ground. Subsequently to this time, Mr. Sprague engaged in all, or almost all, the great political questions, which agitated the coun- try. Upon the investigations into the Post-office department, which commenced three or four years ago, he made some re- marks. The colonial trade he discussed at length, in a power- 415 United States Senate. ful speech - displaying great knowledge, and an intimate ac- quaintance with its whole bearing upon the whole country, par- ticularly upon his own State, which was largely interested in it. The whole country awarded praise to this effort; and it did much towards advancing public attention. The north-eastern boundary and the Dutch award, questions peculiarly interesting to Maine, he discussed with his usual ability. By his and his colleague's efforts, the Dutch award was set aside, so far as the Senate was concerned ; and that important question yet remains, amid the gloom and clouds, which party organization has thrown over it in his own State ; so that no one can yet say how the subject stands. Whether a large extent of territory, upon the eastern and north- eastern borders of Maine, is now under the government of the United States or of Great Britain, it is difficult to decide ; for, though Maine, almost with one voice, at first condemned and denounced the award ; though the Minister Plenipotentiary to the Netherlands, from the United States — a prominent citi- zen of Maine- joined in the outcry ; though the Legislature itself spoke in one tone ; yet, as it was found out that this agita- tion in Maine conflicted with the interest of the dominant party at Washington, means were devised for suppressing the agitation ; and, by a diplomacy yet unknown, the whole subject was slipped aside, amid political jugglery, that cannot well be unraveled! Mr. Sprague, however, did his duty to the State. The Legisla- ture instructed him to resist the award, and he resisted it. The Legislature then equivocated upon the question ; Mr. Sprague, however, persisted in what he had undertaken ; and the award, as we have said before, was set aside, so far as the power of the Senate was concerned. During this time also, and subsequently, Mr. Sprague has been instructed by the Legislature to oppose the tariff; whether he has obeyed or disobeyed these instructions, is yet a matter of ques- tion — for the instructions were so worded, that a political sup- port inight be given to the tariff, without violating their spirit or tenor. Extreme protection, by enactments of Congress, Mr. Sprague has never advocated. To the compromise bill of Mr. Clay, in 1833, he gave his ardent support; not only by his vote in the Senate, but by his influence in debate and in conversation. Upon the question of the removal of the deposites, he again dif- fered with his Legislature — they instructing him, in substance, to approve the removal ; and he, in his heart, deeming the act, and the circumstances attending it, an outrage upon the laws and upon the Constitution, as well as a violation of the chartered rights of the bank. We have not space, in a Magazine paper, to discuss the great question, and to say how far a Senator in Congress is bound to obey the instructions of his Legislature. Upon the abstract ques- Peleg Sprague. 419 tion, we will only add, that it reduces a Senator in Congress elected for six years in fact to a term of one year — making him dependent upon a Legislature annually elected, when he, by the Constitution, held his office for six years ! At the same time, we are ready to grant that, in States where instructions are fairly got up — where they express the deliberate majority of the peo- ple, and are not the tempestuous bursts of party excitement - then a Senator is placed in a most unpleasant situation, if what he deems his duty to his country, and to himself, conflicts with the voice of a majority. Certain it is, that the Constitution con- templated that a Senator should be placed beyond the puffs of every party breeze ; but it is equally the fact, that, when a man cannot stand upon the majority, the Constitution makes but little reparation for the annoyances he suffers. All these remarks, however, are more applicable to Virginia and to other States, where instructions are fairly got up, and where the caucus system is unknown. The machinery of Van Burenism has reduced members of the Legislature, in New York, New-Hampshire, and Maine, to mere automata. The most important questions agi- tating the whole country, and for the discussion and elucidation of which, the greatest statesman of the day seeks months of sol- emn deliberation, their caucuses settle in a single evening! and this, without discussion, without the necessary information, with- out knowledge or a forethought! The party leader, in the Legis- lature, sounds his horn. The clansmen are summoned. They meet together in secret, in the darkness of the night, with closed doors, and often with watchful sentinels. The leader comes, and unfolds what he wants. His second seconds him. His echo re-echos what he says. "The country demands it ;' the country, ex- pects it ;' regard to General Jackson requires it;' the fed- eralists oppose it ;' these are the watchwords of the country. If the instructions proposed be of too monstrous a nature, no doubt the honest portion of the party will oppose it. But, what avails the opposition, if a majority is obtained ? for it is the first duty of a democrat to submit to, and support the voice of a majority. Thus, not unfrequently, in a Legislature of one hundred and fifty members, a minority can carry the day. Ninety, for example, are Jackson-men, sixty are whigs ; the ninety go into caucus, and forty-six is a majority of ninety. Now, forty-six can not only bind the ninety, but, by uniting them, rule the sixty ; and thus in part, by the voice of a minority, instruct a Senator in Congress out of his seat. This is the manner in which instructions were got up. This, it is well known, is the manner in which they are got up wherever the Van Buren machinery is established. We need not add, that men, acting thus, are not free men, free legislators — explaining the spontaneous voice of the people. Certain it is, that they are 420 United States Senate. machines, as obedient to the wires as the figures in Maelzel's con- flagration of Moscow. True it is, that, after they have been thus committed to a certain course of policy, as they must defend or die with it, they will defend it - and often, too often, out of at- tachment to party or attachment to persons ; for, by means of de- ception, they will induce a majority of the people to sustain them. He, who demands from a Senator, whenever such machinery is at work, such an attention to instructions, as is given to instructions in the southern States, does not look at or reflect upon the different modes or systems of politics prevailing. In the South, a man can go before the people, and defend himself. There, if a man deserves the support of the people, for an office, he can pub- licly say so. There, he can meet the members, who instruct him in public discussion, face to face. But, in New-England, it would be almost the public death of a man publicly to proclaim, that he wanted an office from the people. A candidate is dumb, at the bar of the public. No matter how much misrepresented he may be be — no matter how virulent are his assailants ; he must fold his arms and submit, in silence, till the election is over. His friends alone can defend hiin. Political questions are not discussed before the public, as before a party. A caucus is for men on one side ; opposing candidates never meet each other in the same assembly. All is done by machinery. Candidates are selected by machinery. Representatives to the State Legisla- ture are the spring of caucus machinery — and hence, they often act as machines. All this is a most vicious system of politics; and, for much of it, the people of New-England are indebted to the political skill and magic of Mr. Van Buren. By a Legislature acting in this manner — who settled the de- posite question, which so long agitated Congress, in a twinkling, as it were — Mr. Sprague was instructed, the past winter. To argue in that body, his friends saw was ruin. After the screws of caucus were on, Demosthenes himself, should he start from the dead, could not move them; he might as well talk to the spin- ning-jennies and water-wheels, in a New-England manufactory. Mr. Sprague appealed to the people for their instructions. After he had made this appeal, the protest came out, in which he was personally assailed. The writer of this will never forget the morn- ing when that novel document was sent into the Senate of the United States. Rumor had announced, that something was com- ing. Public expectation was on tiptoe. The galleries of the Senate chamber were thronged, and the area below was crowded with both sexes. When the private secretary of the President sent the document to the chair of the Vice-president, a whisper might have been heard all over the hall. The secretary of the Senate read it. Alternately, surprise, indignation and ridicule, were pictured on the faces of every opposing Senator — surprise, 422 United States Senate. ands of his fellow-citizens arose to welcome him. Out of Ports- mouth, New-Hampshire, a cavalcade met him, and escorted him to that town. In Portland, the commercial capital of Maine, a large cavalcade met him and escorted him through the streets to the city-hall, where hundreds cheered him. Thus was he re- ceived, all along the road. Riots and violence had been pre- dicted for him, and other Senators in his situation, by some of the administration party. If such are the mobs,' was the excla- mation of Mr. Sprague,, as he looked round on the throng of grate- ful and admiring constituents, who crowded about him, with shouts of welcome and heartfelt approbation, if such are the mobs, with whose vengeance we were threatened, on our return, commend me to them for the rest of my life!' We cannot resist the temptation to quote the whole of an ex- cellent address, with which a citizen of Augusta welcomed him home. "In behalf of these, your fellow-citizens, I bid you welcome to your home. With- out effort, without premeditation, we bring you a simple offering — the tribute of grateful hearts; the only offering worthy of freemen — the only offering truly ac- ceptable to the representative of freemen. Sir, we are not man-worshippers — we bow not to idols, though graven in wood; we bow to acknowledged merit, to straight-forward integrity, to unbending rectitude. It is, sir, because you have been true to our country, true to the Constitution, true to our interests, true to yourself, that we bid you welcome. It is because you are not, as you yourself have de- clared, Jackson's man, nor any other man's man, but your own man — amenable only to conscience and to God. Sir, before you left the capital, it was announced, through the official organ of the administration, that our Senator Sprague - because he had dared to oppose President Jackson, had dared to stand forth in deſence of the Constitution — should meet with reproach and indignation from his fellow-citizens ; that his progress to- wards home would be impeded by an infuriated mob. Sir, was that a mob, that met you in Boston, in the cradle of American liberty, when thousands of your fellow-citizens rose up to bid you welcome? Was that a mob, that met you at Portsmouth and at Portland ? If these were mobs, then, sir, permit me to intro- duce you to another mob. Here they are, high and low, rich and poor, old and young, men of all classes and occupations in society — and they have come to bid you welcome ; but, let me add, so long as the friends of liberty shall remain, you will find them in just such a mob. Permit me again to bid you welcome to warm friends and a pleasant home. Bear with you, to that peaceful mansion, our re- peated thanks for your services in defence of the Constitution and of our liberties. Bear with you the approbation of your own conscience; but above all, and what is of infinitely more value, the richest of all rewards, may you bear with you the · smiles of Heaven.' After Mr. Sprague's return home, an immense assembly of whig citizens, in convention, solicited him to stand as a candi- date for Governor of the State ; and, as Mr. Sprague appealed to the people, he resolved to throw himself upon them for sup- port. But, popular as Mr. Sprague is, his popularity, it appears by the late elections in Maine, could not overthrow the power of the official defenders of the administration. Stationed, as they are in Maine, in almost every nook and corner, bay and creek, Peleg Sprague. 423 island and river, of her long line of sea-coast — and, not only there, but forming a cordon of custom-house officers in the Can- ada and New-Brunswick lines — their influence is almost as im- pregnable as the rock of Gibralter. Nevertheless, the popularity of Sprague shook this citadel of the office-holders. He almost doubled the whig vote of 1833; and though an immense vote, for so young a State, was thrown, yet thirty-four thousand free- men were found to sustain him, almost doubling their strength in the House of Representatives, and more than tripling it in the Senate. Again ; every member in the Legislature, who had in- structed him, found it necessary to sustain his instruction, and thus oppose the instructed; so that, here was a bulwark to be beaten down, as well as the bulwark of the office-holders. A ma- jority, however, of eleven thousand was reduced to about four thousand ; so that, if Peleg Spragué were defeated, another such victory might reduce his adversaries to despair. Above, all has been said of the political life of Mr. Sprague, that need be said. In 1832, he made an address, in the city of Washington, at the Washington centennial celebration. An eulogy of his, on Adams and Jefferson, is all of his other produc- tions, that have met our eye. We do remember of hearing of an address from him, before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, of Bow- doin College, which was highly extolled for beauty and elo- quence ; but it has never come under our notice in print. Now all that remains, is to add something upon the prevailing charac- teristics of Mr. Sprague's manner and mind. Mr. Sprague is about the middle size, well-proportioned, with a dark and very expressive eye. His countenance is pleasing, frank, and open. His voice full, musical, and capable of much strength. His action is graceful, and, when excited, very ener- getic. But few men speak with more power and ability, when aroused and animated by their subject or the occasion. His language is chaste and classical. His taste is admirable. He thinks well, and thinks deeply. He is a clear and logical rea- soner ; but yet he has imagination, lively and brilliant, which can adorn and beautify the structure, that logic rears. As a politician, he has that peculiar ability of discovering fitness of time and place, that political tact, which always gives a politician power and reputation. His mind is liberal and expanded — taking a statesman-like view of things, and advocating them in a patriotic manner. His ambition is elevated and laudable ; and though, no doubt, he covets fame, yet he seeks it in an honorable manner. The popularity that wears is his. Party may shake it — party tumults may dash around it, and weaken it ; but, as long as he lives, and among whomsoever he lives, and when he is dead, his reputation will brighten ; and no party can weaken it, or trample 424 Hope. bim under their feet. If he goes to private life, he carries with him the proud consolation of doing bis duty; and the apparent exile will be but the exile of the Roman orator — from that Rome to which thousands of admiring citizens soon welcomed him back. * HOPE. HERDER. Hoffnung, Hoffnung, immer grun- Dark before me lies my way: Not a blossom by it springs ; Not a bird, on sunny wings, Hovers round, and tunes his lay. On it stretches, wild and and lone: Chill the wind is whistling there; Gone the light, that early shone ; Vanished long, the young and fair. As with heaving heart, I tread Silent onward, Heaven uncloses ; Hope descends on clouds of roses ; Instant all my gloom has fled. Like an overflowing river, Round her flows a stream of light ; Radiant pinions o’er it quiver ; Countless joys are there in flight. But a moment - dark again, Dark and dreary, shiuts the sky; Heavy clouds above me lie; Round me clings an icy chain. 0! could but a single ray Gleam from cottage lamp or star, Then, along my lingering way, I could seek my home afar. Hark! what low and distant note Softly through the gloom is stealing - With it comes a voice of healing ; Sounds of Heaven around me float. Light, like vernal dawn, ascending, O’er new-wakened beauty plays; Flowers, with feathered foliage blending, Tremble in the golden blaze. * Since the above was written, Mr. Sprague resigned his seat in the Senate, on the opening of the Legislature of Maine, and has removed to Boston, where he is now engaged in the practice of the law, to which, we believe, he intends exclu- sively to devote himself. The Ambitious Guest. 425 Soon the soothing voice is still ; Broods the silence of the grave; O’er me, shades of cypress wave; Darker fears my bosoin fills. Thus must ever be my doom — Light and song, a moment, shed ; Then a cloud, of deeper gloom, Rolled, like torrents, o’er my head. 'Speed thee on !' — in sweetest tone, llope, the young and lovely ever, Breathes — the song shall leave me never — Speed thee !— soon thy night has flown. All the light, the love, the bliss, E’er in holiest vision given, In a fairer world than this, Greet thee soon -- thy home is Heaven.' J. G. PERCIVAL. THE AMBITIOUS GUEST. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE GRAY CHAMPION.' ONE September night, a family had gathered round their hearth, and piled it high with the drift-wood of mountain-streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees, that had come crashing down the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the room with its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed; the eldest daughter was the image of happiness at seventeen; and the aged grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of happiness grown old. They had found the · herb, heart's ease,' in the bleakest spot of all New-England. This family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the year, and pitilessly cold in the winter - giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency, before it descended on the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one ; for a mountain towered above their heads, so steep, that the stones would often rumble down its sides, and startle them at midnight. The daughter had just uttered some simple jest, that filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage — rattling the door, with a sound of wailing and lamentation, before it passed into the valley. For a moment, it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But the family were glad again, when they perceived that the latch was lifted by some traveler, whose footsteps had 426 The Ambitious Guest. been unheard amid the dreary blast, which heralded his approach, and wailed as he was entering, and went moaning away from the door. Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily converse with the world. The romantic pass of the Notch is a great artery, through which the life-blood of internal commerce is continually throbbing, between Maine, on one side, and the Green Mountains and the shores of the St. Lawrence on the other. The stage-coach always drew up before the door of the cottage. The wayfarer, with no companion but his staff, paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterly overcome him, ere he could pass through the cleft of the mountain, or reach the first house in the valley. And here the teamster, on his way to Portland market, would put up for the night — and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bed-time, and steal a kiss from the mountain-maid, at parting. It was one of those primitive taverns, where the traveler pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a homely kindness, beyond all price. When the footsteps were heard, therefore, be- tween the outer door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, grandmother, children, and all, as if about to welcome some one who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs. The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the melancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild and bleak road, at night-fall and alone, but soon brightened up, when he saw the kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old woman, who wiped a chair with her apron, to the little child that held out its arms to him. One glance and smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent familiarity with the eldest daughter. Ah, this fire is the right thing !' cried he ; especially when there is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite benumbed ; for the Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a terrible blast in my face, all the way from Bartlett.' • Then you are going towards Vermont ?' said the master of the house, as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man's shoulders. Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond,' replied he. "I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford's, to-night; but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as this. It is no matter ; for, when I saw this good fire, and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arri- val. So I shall sit down among you, and make myself at home.' The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire, when something like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down the steep side of the mountain, as with long and rapid The Ambitious Guest. 427 strides, and taking such a leap, in passing the cottage, as to strike the opposite precipice. The family held their breath, because they knew the sound, and their guest held his, by instinct. The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for fear we should forget him,' said the landlord, recovering himself. He some- times nods his head, and threatens to come down ; but we are old neighbors, and agree together pretty well, upon the whole. Be- sides, we have a sure place of refuge, hard by, if he should be coming in good earnest.' Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear's meat ; and, by his natural felicity of manner, to have placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family - so that they talked as freely together, as if he belonged to their mountain brood. He was of a proud, yet gentle spirit — haughty and reserved among the rich and great ; but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door, and be like a brother or a son at the poor man's fireside. In the household of the Notch, he found warmth and simplicity of feeling, the pervading intelligence of New-England, and a poetry, of native growth, which they had gathered, when they little thought of it, from the mountain-peaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of their romantic and dan- gerous abode. He had traveled far and alone ; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary path ; for, with the lofty caution of . his nature, he had kept himself apart from those who might other- wise have have been his companions. The family, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity among themselves, and separation from the world at large, which, in every domestic circle, should still keep a holy place, where no stranger may intrude. But, this evening, a prophetic sympathy impelled the refined and educated youth to pour out his heart be- fore the simple mountaineers, and constrained them to answer him with the same free confidence. And thus it should have been. Is not the kindred of a common fate a closer tie than that of blood ? The secret of the young man's character was, a high and ab- stracted ambition. He could have borne to live an undistin- guished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning de- sire had been transformed to hope ; and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty, that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on all his path-way - though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But, when posterity should gaze back into the gloom of what was now the present, they would trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner glories faded, and confess, that a gifted one had passed from his cradle to his tomb, with none to recognize him. As yet,' cried the stranger — his cheek glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm – as yet, I have done nothing. Were The Ambitious Guest. 431 but I may take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all's right ?' Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments,' mur- mured the stranger-youth. I wonder how mariners feel, when the ship is sinking, and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried together in the ocean — that wide and nameless sepulchre ! For a moment, the old woman's ghastly conception so en- grossed the minds of her hearers, that a sound, abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep, and terrible, before the fated group were conscious of it. The house, and all within it, trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful sound were the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild glance, and remained an instant, pale, affrighted, without utterance, or power to move. Then the same shriek burst simultaneously from all their lips. * The Slide! The Slide !! "The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the unut- terable horror of the catastrophe. The victims rushed from their cottage, and sought refuge in what they deemed a safer spot —' where, in contemplation of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared. Alas! they had quitted their security, and fed right into the pathway of destruction. Down came the whole side of the mountain, in a cataract of ruin. Just before it reached the house, the stream broke into two branches -- shivered not a window there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity, blocked up the road, and annihilated everything in its dreadful course. Long ere the thunder of that great Slide had ceased to roar among the mountains, the mortal agony had been endured, and the victims were at peace. Their bodies were never found. The next morning, the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottage-chimney, up the mountain-side. Within, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but gone forth to view the devastation of the Slide, and would shortly return, to thank Heaven for their miraculous escape. All had left separate tokens, by which those, who had known the family, were made to shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their name? The story has been told far and wide, and will forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets have sung their fate. There were circumstances, which led some to suppose that a stranger had been received into the cottage this awful night, and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates. Others denied that there were sufficient grounds for such a conjecture. Wo, for the high-souled youth, with his dream of earthly immortality ! His name and person utterly unknown ; his history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to be solved ; his death and bis existence, equally a doubt! Whose was the agony of that death-moment? 432 PAGES FROM MY DIARY. I am accustomed, on reviewing at night the thoughts of the past day, to select that one which seems most worthy of preser- vation, and to enter it in my journal. Any remarkable senti- ment or fact, met in my reading, some personal experience, or the observation of others' peculiarities, serves me for a nucleus ; and around it, I strive to gather the wisdom which the sun's rev- olution has placed within my reach. Out of this habit, have grown the following sentiments. They form the few last pages of my diary. The desire of posthumous influence, or fame, is the only feel- ing under which a man can write, in a manner worthy of himself, or with that energy and completeness of thought, of which he is re- ally possessed. He who writes for, and is contented with, the applause of the present, will find his powers shackled by popular notions — and his opinions seasoned too much to the prevailing taste, to possess the freedom and freshness of genius, or to bear, very legibly, the individual stamp of originality. An author, who writes with this feeling, is like one who, in the company of the illiterate and vulgar, fears to use his proper forms of expres- sion and pronunciation, lest he shall be thought ignorant. He omits many thoughts, which have struck him forcibly, lest they may not be understood by the many; while he who writes for, and (with the prophetic boldness of genius) in the surety of re- ceiving, the homage of posterity, knows that his page shall one day receive that scrutiny, which shall develope the nicest and most delicate thoughts of his mind to the admiration of the world — and untwist the thread of his eloquence and learning, till its ten- der filaments shall prove that beauty is a constituent of force- and that the strength of a giant can lift a hair, as well as cut off a head, or topple down a castle. II. I have often remarked, in sadness, the little feeling of affection, that seemed to subsist between brothers and sisters, or other near relatives, after time and distance, and the different allotments of life, had for a little while separated them. They who, in their youth, have been as one ; who have drunk from the same bowl of joys and sorrows; have wept and been glad together; whom ,one electric chain of sympathy bound ; who recoiled at the same blow ;, — these have lived through separation, have had their affec- tions weaned from those bound to them by such ties and birth and blood, and turned into strange channels. As the stream spar- 434 Pages from my Diary. originally intended. Such are Quinctilian's famed remark, that no bad man can become a good orator ;' and Socrates's trium- phant and decisive query, whether a bad man can possibly gain the affection of a good one;' the first of which maxims, Cicero, the greatest orator the world ever saw, refutes in person ; and the second of which, every day's experience and observation an- swers in the affirmative. Such remarks are made by that part of the world, ambitious of doing good and encouraging virtue, and believed by the rest, who are willing to credit that which, at first thought, seems the proper and desirable order of things — espe- cially since we readily worship every image of Virtue, that we may forestall the pardon of the goddess for those offences com- mitted against her at hours and places not particularly sacred. But these notions remove farther off the end they would approx- imate. Error is always dangerous — the more so, lurking under the armor of truth ; and even laboring for the establishment of her dominion. An erroneous principle may serve well to annul one dangerous instance ; but, admitted for that purpose, it intro- duces a host of evil, and thus smashes the bottle-nose upon the judge, when it only aimed at the troublesome fly upon his nose.' V. The great Messinian hero, Aristomenes, when thrown into the cavernous Ceanda, by the Spartans, and miraculously saved — one from fifty — by his shield, escaped from the care, by seizing by the tail a fox, who came to feed on the carcasses of his com- panions; and while he with difficulty defended himself, with one hand, from its bite, he made its windings the clue of escape from the fatal labyrinth. We should be more fortunate, if — while we seize, with one hand, new and untried methods of escape, from the desperate difficulties of life — we employed the other in guarding against the ills, that we ought to fear every new and un- tried method to possess. VI. The world is too often souring in its effects upon those who have remained long in it. Either its accumulating sorrows over- burden, or the old are depressed by the loss of those capacities, that made them alive to pleasure ; or, influencing little the pro- gress of society, and ceasing to be useful, they cease to com- mand the respect and attention of a selfish and interested world- and painfully feel themselves displaced by the bustling generation, who, thinking them fools, they know to be such.' Whether from one or all these reasons, they too often look, with stern, unsym- pathizing apathy, upon the pleasures and gaieties of the youthful, and seem to expect the gravity and propriety of fourscore, from those who have hardly gotten over their surprise, on finding them- Pages from my Diary. 435 selves in such a queer place as this world. But, we occasionally find an instance of one, who wears a white head, and has a cheer- ful heart — one who seems not to have outlived the remembrance of his own youth, and who has so lived, as not to regret his ap- proach to the bourne.' Who can tell the delightful influence such an one exerts ! Like the apples that have not fallen with the winds of autumn, they have lost their asperity with their fresh- ness — and the frost has given them, with all their shriveled wrin- kles, a sweetness peculiarly their own. As children run after the frost-apples, so run they after such persons. VII. The smallest permanent ill is more to be feared than the great- est temporal one. VIII. I have often thrown a scrap of paper into the blaze, and watched it while it burned — preserving, through the chemical nature of ink, the characters written upon it, till they beamed forth, brighter and plainer, the nearer the substance was reduced to a cinder- and finally, while yet distinguishable, have been caught up by the draught, from further observation. I have thought this no un- apt semblance of the close of life, when the body, worn out and slowly consuming — the soul and the memory of thought become more vivid and distinct, and prove themselves not indissolubly connected with their frail tenement — not liable to its decay, and only waiting its dissolution, to wing their flight towards home - bearing the indestructible impressions of life before the throne of God. ' Ix. I know no state of mind more dangerous than that in which one, in struggling between principle and inclination, makes the dictates of conscience matters of argument with himself. There are certain innate moral feelings implanted in the bosoms of all — the ignorant and the educated, the dull and the bright — infallible guides to right conduct. These are not subjects of logic ; they are moral axioms, which no reasoning can prove - none dispute; and he is in a dangerous situation, who seeks to question or con- trovert them; — for, while his inclinations ensure his arriving at false conclusions, his apparent scrupulosity, in obeying the direc- tions of his judgment, makes his situation ten-fold more alarming, by giving him grounds for persisting in it. Among the advantages of solitary study, I do not remember to have seen the following. There is a certain ambition to make advances, when one is unwatched, and looks forward to a distant Pages from my Diary. 437 • Are these the body's accidents ? no more? To live in it, and when that dies, go out, Like the burnt taper's flame?' If we cannot bequeath something, worthy of the past, to the future - be it the instruction of our example, the incitement of our renown, the propagation of our virtues, or the creative en- ergy of our minds — we have lived unworthy of that celestial im- mortality, which is the soul's upward rise, and searching out of that eternal spirit, with which it shall co-exist forever. XIII. It is often difficult to reconcile men's characters with their writings ; and it is an easier task, and much controversy is spared by it, to infer their characters from their works, than to attempt to explain away the inconsistencies between them. Indeed, I doubt not that, when biography assumes the high stand of philo- sophic speculation, we come quite as near to the core of men's hearts, as when we attempt to gather our opinion from a mass of incongruous acts, such as every great man's life presents — incon- gruous to all but the soul that took cognizance of the motives which produced them. It would have been a very difficult task for any other man than Boswell, to have written his life of Johnson ; and it would be almost equally difficult to mention any other person than Johnson, whose life would bear to be written in such a manner. Boswell seems to have lived merely for that purpose. A truly great and independent mind would never have conceived the work. It re- quired some one who was willing to risk his character for con- sistency, and his pretensions to self-respect, upon it; some one who would permit himself to be entirely thrown into the shade of greatness, for the time, that he might be invested with some in- terest afterwards ; who would become the butt, that he might be the companion of genius. If it had not been well known, that Boswell was the permanent shadow, which Johnson cast behind him ; and if his work, from its perfect carelessness about appear- ing consistent, had not thus supported its credit, it would never have been believed. On this account it is, that, although Bos- well's Johnson is perhaps the best biography that ever was writ- ten, yet is by no means a standard, or a subject for imitation. H. W. B. VOL. VIII. 56 438 GRAVES AND GOBLINS. Now talk we of graves and goblins ! Fit themes — start not! gentle reader - fit for a ghost like me. Yes; though an earth- clogged fancy is laboring with these conceptions, and an earthly hand will write them down, for mortal eyes to read, still their essence flows from as airy a ghost as ever basked in the pale starlight, at twelve o'clock. Judge them not by the gross and heavy form in which they now appear. They may be gross, indeed, with the earthly pollution contracted from the brain, through which they pass — and heavy with the burthen of mortal language, that crushes all the finer intelligences of the soul. This is no fault of mine. But, should aught of etherial spirit be per- ceptible, yet scarcely so, glimmering along the dull train of words — should a faint perfume breathe from the mass of clay — then, gentle reader, thank the ghost, who thus embodies himself for your sake! Will you believe me, if I say that all true and noble thoughts, and elevated imaginations, are but partly the off- spring of the intellect, which seems to produce them ? Sprites, that were poets once, and are now all poetry, hover round the dreaming bard, and become his inspiration ; buried statesmen lend their wisdom, gathered on earth and mellowed in the grave, to the historian ; and when the preacher rises nearest to the level of his mighty subject, it is because the prophets of old days have communed with him. Who has not been conscious of mysteries within his mind, mysteries of truth and reality, which will not wear the chains of language ? Mortal, then the dead were with you! And thus shall the earth-dulled soul, whom I inspire, be conscious of a misty brightness among his thoughts, and strive to make it gleam upon the page — but all in vain. Poor author ! How will he despise what he can grasp, for the sake of the dim glory that eludes him. So talk we of graves and goblins. But, what have ghosts to do with graves ? Mortal man, wearing the dust which shall re- quire a sepulchre, might deem it more a home and resting-place than a spirit can, whose earthly clod has returned to earth. Thus, philosophers have reasoned. Yet, wiser they who adhere to the ancient sentiment, that a phantom haunts and hallows the marble tomb or grassy hillock, where its material form was laid. Till purified from each stain of clay ; till the passions of the living world are all forgotten ; till it have less brotherhood with the wayfarers of earth, than with spirits that never wore mortality - the ghost must linger round the grave. Oh! it is a long and dreary watch, to some of us. Graves and Goblins. 441 monument. This upright spirit came to his grave, after a length- ened life, with so little stain of earth, that he might, almost imme- diately, have trodden the pathway of the sky. But his strong love of country chained him down, to share its vicissitudes of weal or woe. With such deep yearning in his soul, he was unfit for Heaven. That noblest virtue has the effect of sin, and keeps his pure and lofty spirit in a penance, which may not terminate till America be again a wilderness. Not that there is no joy for the dead patriot. Can he fail to experience it, while he contem- plates the mighty and increasing power of the land, which he pro- tected in its infancy? No; there is much to gladden him. But sometimes I dread to meet him, as he returns from the bed- chambers of rulers and politicians, after diving into their secret motives and searching out their aims. He looks round hin, with a stern and awful sadness, and vanishes into his neglected grave. Let nothing sordid or selfish defile your deeds or thoughts, ye great men of the day, lest ye grieve the noble dead! Few ghosts take such an enduring interest as this, even in their own private affairs. It made me rather sad, at first, to find how soon the flame of love expires, amid the chill damps of the tomb ; so much the sooner, the more fiercely it may have burned. For- get your dead mistress, youth! She has already forgotten you. Maiden, cease to weep for your buried lover! He will know nothing of your tears, nor value them, if he did. Yet, it were blasphemy to say that true love is other than immortal. It is an earthly passion, of which I speak, mingled with little that is spir- itual, and must therefore perish with the perishing clay. When souls have loved, there is no falsehood or forgetfulness. Mater- nal affection, too, is strong as adamant. There are mothers here, among us, who might have been in Heaven fifty years ago, if they could forbear to cherish earthly joy and sorrow, reflected from the bosoms of their children. Husbands and wives have a comfortable gift of oblivion, especially when secure of the faith of their living halves. Jealousy, it is true, will play the devil with a ghost, driving him to the bedside of secondary wedlock, there to scowl, unseen, and gibber inaudible remonstrances. Dead wives, however jealous in their life-time, seldom feel this posthumous torment so acutely. - Many, many things, that appear most important while we walk the busy street, lose all their interest the moment we are borne into the quiet grave-yard, which borders it. For my own part, my spirit had not become so mixed up with earthly existence, as to be now held in an unnatural combination, or tortured much with retrospective cares. I still love my parents and a younger sister, who remain among the living, and often grieve me by their patient sorrow for the dead. Each separate tear of theirs' is an 442 Graves and Goblins. added weight upon my soul, and lengthens my stay among the graves. As to other matters, it exceedingly rejoices me, that iny summons came before I had time to write a projected poem, which was highly imaginative in conception, and could not have failed to give me a triumphant rank in the choir of our native bards. Nothing is so much to be deprecated as posthumous re- nown. It keeps the immortal spirit from the proper bliss of his celestial state, and causes him to feed upon the impure breath of mortal men, till sometimes he forgets that there are starry realms above him. Few poets -- infatuated that they are ! — soar up- ward, while the least whisper of their name is heard on earth. On Sabbath evenings, my sisters sit by the fireside, between our father and mother, and repeat some hymns of mine, which they have often heard from my own lips, ere the tremulous voice lelt them forever. Little do they think, those dear ones, that the dead stands listening in the glimmer of the firelight, and is almost gifted with a visible shape by the fond intensity of their remem- brance ! Now shall the reader know a grief of the poor ghost that speaks to him ; a grief, but not a hopeless one. Since I have dwelt among the graves, they bore the corpse of a young maiden hither, and laid her in the old ancestral vault, which is hollowed in the side of a grassy bank. It has a door of stone, with rusty iron hinges, and above it, a rude sculpture of the family-arms, and inscriptions of all their names who have been buried there, in- cluding sire and son, mother and daughter, of an ancient colonial race. All of her lineage had gone before, and when the young maiden followed, the portal was closed forever. The night after her burial, when the other ghosts were fitting about their graves, forth came the pale virgin's shadow, with the rest, but knew not whither to go, nor whom to haunt, so lonesome had she been on earth. She stood by the ancient sepulchre, looking upward to the bright stars, as if she would, even then, begin her flight. Her sadness made me sad. That night and the next, I stood near her, in the moonshine, but dared not speak, because she seemed purer than all the ghosts, and fitter to converse with an- gels than with men. But the third bright eve, still gazing up- ward to the glory of the Heavens, she sighed, and said, "When will my mother come for me!' Her low, sweet voice embold- ened me to speak, and she was kind and gentle, though so pure, and answered me again. From that time, always at the ghostly hour, I sought the old tomb of her fathers, and either found her standing by the door, or knocked and she appeared. Blessed creature, that she was ; her chaste spirit hallowed mine, and im- parted such a celestial buoyancy, that I longed to grasp her hand, and fy - upward, aloft, aloft! I thought, too, that she only Graves and Goblins. 443 he! Alrest bear Wove, is no my home lingered here, till my earthlier soul should be purified for Heaven. One night, when the stars threw down the light that shadows love, I stole forth to the accustomed spot, and knocked, with my airy fingers, at her door. She answered not. Again I knocked, and breathed her name. Where was she ? At once, the truth fell on my miserable spirit, and crushed it to the earth, among dead men's bones and mouldering dust, groaning in cold and desolate agony. Her penance was over! She had taken her trackless flight, and had found a home in the purest radiance of the upper stars, leav- ing me to knock at the stone portal of the darksome sepulchre. But I know — I know, that angels hurried her away, or surely she would have whispered ere she fled! She is gonę! How could the grave imprison that unspotted one! But her pure, etherial spirit will not quite forget me, nor soar too high in bliss, till I ascend to join her. Soon, soon be that hour! I am weary of the earth-damps ; they burthen me; they choke me! Already, I can float on the moonshine ; the faint starlight will almost bear up my footsteps ; the perfume of flowers, which grosser spirits love, is now too earthly a luxury for me. Grave! Grave! thou art not my home. I must Ait a little longer in thy night-gloom, and then be gone — far from the dust of the living and the dead — far from the corruption that is around me, but no more within ! A few times, I have visited the chamber of one who walks, obscure and lonely, on his mortal pilgrimage. He will leave not many living friends, when he goes to join the dead, where his thoughts often stray, and he might better be. I steal into his sleep, and play my part among the figures of his dream. I glide through the moonlight of his waking fancy, and whisper concep- tions, which, with a strange thrill of fear, he writes down as his own. I stand beside him now, at midnight, telling these dreamy truths, with a voice so dreamlike, that he mistakes them for fictions of a brain too prone to such. Yet he glances behind him, and shivers, while the lamp burns pale. Farewell, dreamer — waking or sleeping! Your brightest dreams are fed ; your mind grows too hard and cold for a spiritual guest to enter ; you are earthly, too, and have all the sins of earth. The ghost will visit you no more. But where is the maiden, holy and pure, though wearing a form of clay, that would have me bend over her pillow, at midnight, and leave a blessing there? With a silent invocation, let her sum- mon me. Shrink not, maiden, when I come! In life, I was a high-souled youth, meditative, yet seldom sad, full of chaste fan- cies, and stainless from all grosser sin. And now, in death, I bring no loathsome smell of the grave, nor ghastly terrors — but gentle, and soothing, and sweetly pensive influences. Perhaps, 445 A CHAPTER ON WHALING. • A strange fish ; were I in England now, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give me a piece of silver.' – TEMPEST. Whaling! And what, О what, cries the reader, (that most tasteful and captious personage) can there be in connexion with whaling, the bare mention of which leaves not a palpable grease- spot on the hitherto unsullied pages of Maga? We are not in the oil line,' and take comparatively little interest in the light- engendering speculations of our neighbors of the treeless isle ; ' so pr’y thee, spare us thy spermaceti statistics. Placid reader ! if such be your ejaculation, permit me to say, you are unwarrant- ably raw to the romance of the subject. 'Tis high time you were aware that few voyages, at least, can boast of greater attrac- tions than a "whaling cruise' offers to the nautical lounger, the novelty-monger, the devotee of exciting sports — the anything, or any body, in short, who, like the Venetian Doges of yore, is in any degree wedded to the imperial sea.' 'Tis your whaler alone, who goes down to the sea, in ships ; other mariners hurry across it. He alone does business upon the great waters; and, more emphatically than other sea-farers,' makes the ocean his home. With his topsail-yard sharp up,' and his helm hard down,' he rides out the storm, month in and month out — nest- ling, like a sea-bird, in the trough, and feeling himself, as it were, in the harbor ; while other ships rise on the horizon and scud by, and lessen and reel out of sight, with blind celerity, on their re- spective courses. A trip to Europe may serve to introduce the novice to the cerulean deity ;' but, for a thorough acquaintance, commend me to the long, familiar intercourse of a whaling voyage. Art quite asleep? — if not, follow we yonder trim-looking ves- sel, a few thousand iniles, to her frolicking-place in the Southern Ocean. Were she a “Cape Horner,' the favor of your company were too much to ask ; but her cruise is to end in nine months ; and she shall confine herself to our own Atlantic — or straying thence, it shall be only for a few months, beyond the Cape of Hope.' Every one knows the incidents of a sail of fourteen days out ; the visits of porpoises, grampuses, Mother Caries, &c. &c. too tedious to mention. So let pass a fortnight ; and lo! the Azores — rising through the early mist; the orange-gardens of the Atlantic ; the roosting place, too, of bevies of clouds, which gather from the surrounding waters, to perch there regu- larly over night. That huge, steamy-looking rock (so it appears) is Fayal ; the seeming ravines are its vineyards; and yonder, towers the magnificent cone of Pico; its peak unveiled as the heat increases, with a girdle of iridescent vapor, and a crown of VOL. VIII. 57 A Chapter on Whaling. 447 the surface — hemmed in by four boats, two of which are shoot- ing towards him — the others, with peaked oars, quietly waiting his approach. Pull, pull — bend your backs ; see that line clear.' Now they are close upon him. There stands the boat- steerer, all eagerness, in the bows of the nearest boat ; his har- poon in one hand, and a coil of the line, gathered for greater se- curity, in the other. Hist! they are near enough. Lie, lie, lie; ' "hold water, hold water. There goes the barbed iron, with a gleam ! 'Starn, all.' Out shoots the tow-line, smoking, from the bows. Down dives the huge victim, with a flourish of his lignum-vitæ tail, which is especially to be eschewed. Indeed, if annihilation could occur to matter, I know of no fitter means of insuring it, than a few minutes' exposure to a similar weapon. The boat is now (in whaling dialect) fast, and her crew must pre- pare for a ride. Opine not, placid reader, that their task is ended ; by no manner of means. The prize is barpooned, to be sure; but bethink you how you would manage a powerful, unbroken colt, with the mere appliance of a rope tied to the root of his tail. The whale, as yet only wounded, is to be killed ; and to be killed, he must be exhausted with loss of blood ; so catching a turn,' as the line slackens, off dart our boat's crew, in the style and manner of Lilliputians in a tin pot, appended to the dorsal extrem- ity of a mad dog. The white foam dashes high — away! away' they scour, for thirty or forty minutes, at least, before hauling in upon their line ; and were I wishing bluebeard Neptune an appro- priate conveyance, it should be their cedar boat for a curricle, and a lively young whale for his nag, instead of the nondescript shapes, which serve him for coach-horses, on the antique reliefs. Well; the minutes fly, the boats converge, the game is almost spent; and now for the death ! "Haul in,? pull ahead,' 'lie,' hold water ;' and flash, again falls the glittering lance into his very vitals. Every opportunity for a thrust is improved ; not an inch of line, that can be safely retained, is lost; and onward they fly, through water crimsoned with the life's blood of their prey, which, since the first fatal stab with the lance, has whirled up from his lungs, with every heave, in à tall ruddy fountain. But its volume is lessening now - its color paling fast ; there is little struggling to ensue ; that little, however, is fearful in the extreme. It is difficult to imagine, without seeing it, such intense mobility in so bulky a mass. The whale seems at times literally poised on its head — as two thirds of its immense body whirls up, writh- ing into the air ; and it is needless to say that, during this exhibi- tion, starn all’ is the order of the day. The cutting in ' along side is the signal for a sort of parliamen- tary assembly of albatrosses, blue sharks, &c., with here and there, perhaps, a penguin : the former amusing you, as they gorge, with an unceasing, querulous noise, not unlike the braying of ten thous- 450 The Press and the Convent Question. prejudices of the great mass of their subscribers, or of those whom they hope to make their subscribers, differ entirely from their own, they are either compelled to be silent altogether, or to espouse the views of those for whom they cater. If they were to come out with an opinion— honestly adopted, too — which was at variance with the persuasions of a large number of those who fill their subscription-list, they would forfeit their claims upon so much of their patronage, and suffer starvation, (an editor's mar- tyrdom) for having intruded unpalatable doctrines upon their pa- trons. The result is, therefore — when a popular question of interest comes up — for the editors, each for himself, to decide which carries, or is likely to carry, the majority ; and, taking into account the ignorance and prejudices of the community, they form their estimate of the loss or gain likely to ensue from one side or the other; and the side which appears to be the most profitable, they adopt. This is the general rule ; we wish we could say that, there are many honorable exceptions — but we cannot. The most, that high-minded editors dare to do, is, when they find that they cannot bring their minds to the popular bent, to be silent, and let the question alone — to stand aloof, and per- mit opinions to grow up and be circulated, which they conscien- tiously believe to be false, without any attempt, on thier part, to give a right direction to the public sentiment, or to correct its erroneous views and tendencies. And this is not very strange. In a despotism, or in an ab- solute monarchy, the press would not attack the crown, upon any subject, if its judgment were openly expressed; but, as the government have enough to do, in order to keep its po- litical machinery in operation, private opinions — upon subjects not political, as coming from the throne — are declared. Nor is it more unlikely, that the press would act against the crown, that is the people, in the United States ; it is neither more nor less than quarreling with its own means of support. It dare not do it. It is too dependent to do it. Another cause ope- rates to lessen its independence here, which does not act so forcibly in England or on the continent of Europe ; and this is, that here, a great portion of the income to a newspaper establish- ment is derived from regular subscribers ; whereas, in Europe there are comparatively few persons who read, that subscribe for a newspaper. They purchase one or more, every morning, as they do their biscuits and muffins for breakfast ; and they vary their dish, much in the same manner, as they vary their daily meals. A newspaper, that is beforehand in any interesting news, finds a greater sale than any other; and the sentiments of its edi- tor are spread abroad by the aid of some stirring incident, politi- cal, domestic, or foreign and not by reason of the peculiar doctrines usually contained in the journal. The Press and the Convent Question. 451 In matters of a political nature, we know exactly what to ex- pect from our periodical press. This subject forms an indispen- sable topic to most newspapers ; and they start with the espou- sal of the causes of certain men and measures, and exert all their talent, ingenuity and information, to further these alone. Editors know that their subscribers are of the same party with themselves; and there is a tacit agreement between them, that, on the one side, the newspaper shall support the cause, and that the favor- ers of the cause shall, by their subscriptions, support their ad- vocate. It is only on other subjects, that we wish to note the censorship ; and we think it will appear, that this agreement of support has extended its conditions still further of late, by adding to the duty of editors, not to express an opinion, upon any sub- ject whatever, which shall conflict with the prejudices of their subscribers. We expect to show that, when we rely upon the judgment of a newspaper, we are leaning upon a very weak and unsta- ble staff; inasmuch as newspapers, instead of taking the lead and direction of popular sentiment, humbly and sneakingly follow after it. Such a character as an independent editor, would hardly be allowed to exist in New-England ; and we do not think so severe a despotism is exercised, upon general subjects, over the press of any country, as of our own — a despotism, too, of the most illiberal and intolerant nature. Let an editor fear- lessly oppose popular madness, upon any subject — and there is such a disease known, at times, as madness, downright phrensy, among the people — and what would be the consequence ? He would lose his subscribers, and be stript of his support. We have been led to this train of remark, from observing the course of the newspaper press, in relation to our Catholic breth- ren; and, more especially, their conduct towards the Ursuline Community, whose affairs have for some time engrossed public attention ; and towards every one, who has dared to express his views in favor of that institution. We do not wish, in this place, to discuss the merits of the controversy, except so far as it may bear upon the topic we are mainly considering ; and we shall endeavor to look upon the controversy, not so much with a view to its merits on the one side and the other, as to point out what we conceive the deplorable state of the press, and its tendency to be instrumental in abusing, in the most unprincipled manner, individual character and reputation — arising, we think, from its degrading subserviency to popular clamor and prejudice. We shall notice only the Boston newspaper press — the excitement being principally in this city and its vicinity ; and we shall speak of the various newspapers, only as we know them from personal observation, and from some little knowledge we have of their va- rious conductors. 452 The Press and the Convent Question. It will be recollected that, ever since the destruction of the Convent, this subject has been the most interesting topic of news- paper discussion. From the outset, various pieces have appeared in the newspapers, intended to discredit the Ursulines and their friends ; and if any one will take the pains to revert to the files, they will find one piece after another, in different newspapers, the object of which has been, to throw discredit and mistrust upon the Ursuline Community, and to prepare the public for the subsequent statements of Miss Reed. At length, her book, en- titled - Six Months in a Convent,' made its appearance — prece- ded, however, by notices of the work, and remarks, which should excite a strong curiosity to read the book. After it was pub- lished, several of the newspapers contained the most laudatory notices of the work; while the rest — their editors unwilling to betray their consciences by an open approbation — were silent. Thus stood the newspaper press then ; and thus it has stood ever since. No doubts or criticism, upon the genuineness of the book, appeared in some ; praise, overwhelming praise was in the col- umns of the rest. One single newspaper - the Catholic Senti- nel — appeared against the book; and, by its intemperate zeal and harsh language, added strength to the cause of the anti-Catho- lics — a fair offset, however, to some of the minor and more vul- gar and abusive publications, which especially espoused the cause of Miss Reed. In our remarks, then, we shall notice the con- ductors of the press as divided into two classes: those who deter- mined, in the face of common sense and common reason and common justice, to lead on the attack upon the characters and reputations of the Ursulines — urged on by the bigotry of their opponents, or the hope of gain, and those, who believed the whole affair to be a humbug, on the part of Miss Reed and her friends — actuated by bigotry, a determination to put down Ca- tholicism, by means fair or foul, as they could, and a hope of gain, — those, we say, who discredited her book, but were cowed and afraid to speak out their opinions, because, forsooth, public opinion — that is, their subscribers — were prejudiced against truth and blind to conviction. If we are near the truth — and we mean to keep within its strictest bounds — we ask our readers how much reliance can be placed upon our independent press, upon any subject. We ask them to weigh well its character for firmness and incor- ruptibility. We ask them not to place confidence in absurd statements, because they appear in print. But we have, per- haps, jumped to our conclusion too soon! Let, therefore, what we have asked be borne in mind, while we proceed to descant upon some of the leading journals, that have prominently fig- ured, or that have been notoriously silent upon the convent question. And first of all, the Boston Courier claims attention. The Press and the Convent Question. 453 truth; Over the Puthe artificowing it When the Convent was first destroyed, this press came out, with much indignation, against the rioters; but, from some cause or oth- er, was soon silent. A little time elapsed, and it began to find fault with various friends of the institution ; it quarreled with the Re- port of the Boston Investigating Committee ; it denied the claim of the Ursulines upon the State for indemnity ; it contained arti- cles, abusive of the Catholics generally ; it received a letter and published it, as Miss Rebecca T. Reed's, knowing it not to be in her hand-writing, and knowing it not to be her composition ; it lauded the work of Miss Reed, knowing that the causes which led to its publication were not those put forth by the Commit- tee of Publication — and knowing the members of that Commit- tee, and aware of the artifices resorted to give it an undue influ- ence over the public mind. It treated the subject as genuine truth; the book, as gospel — containing the letter published in the paper as the production of Miss Reed, knowing it to have been written by the author of the Preliminary Remarks, which letter contained statements known to be incorrect, in points too material to be passed over. If that newspaper, or any other, be- comes the organ of politics, we know how far to make allowances; but, upon all other subjects, we hold that they are bound to be strictly honest. That the Courier has not the truth, so much as its subscribers in holy fear and reverence, we can entertain no doubt. As an instance, we will take its criticism of the Review of the Lady Superior's Answer, being a vindication of Miss Reed ; the title of which rather amused us, telling the secret at starting, viz: that it was no review, but a vindica- tion — thereby falsifying its first page, which declares, that the reviewers come to the work with impartiality, and a desire to know the truth. This review, of all flimsy productions, struck us as the weakest we had ever read. We should have noticed it last month, had it not been beneath criticism. It certainly was not worth a battle between its publishers and another office, who, it seems, also had it in press — its sponsors being many ; and yet, what notice does the Courier bestow upon it? Is the truth told, that the pamphlet is a catchpenny affair, miserably got up for a miserable purpose ? Where is the usual literary sagacity of the sapient editor? Where his keen insight ? Could he not see through the loop'd and window'd raggedness' of this production ? No; his journal lauds the review to the skies; it is a logical and able production; a perfect vindication. Let us quote one of its refutations, so as to place the sagacity of the Courier, and the pungency and force of the reviewer, as well as the point reviewed, at one and the same time, before the reader. In the Preliminary Remarks to the Lady Superior's reply, there is an illustration of the credulity of mankind, applied to the popu- lar belief in Miss Reed's stories, which struck us, at the time, VOL. VIII. 58 454 The Press and the Convent Question. with great force, and which is verifying itself more and more ev- ery day. We give the remarks, and the criticism upon them, one after the other; and, without a single further comment, offer it as a fair specimen of the force and pungency of the review, so much admired by the Courier. • The sage publishers (page 28) ask — with a triumphant sneer at the Boston Committee and Judge F., as if the question were unanswerable - how a young girl, in the humble walks of life, could have been the instrument of getting up a mob, to destroy the Ursuline Convent by violence! If they had any recollection of the history of mankind, they would see that nothing is more easy. Do they not remember the Popish plot, in English history? - that, only about one hundred and fifty years ago, (1678) Titus Oates, a man of infamous character and ordinary tal- ents, by the mere force of impudent falsehood and lying invention, threw all Eng- land into a state of such dreadful aların, that, for a long time, the wbole population of London thanked God, as soon as they opened their eyes in the morning, that they had not been murdered or burnt up, by the Catholics, during the night! Some of the best blood of England was shed, by means of this wretch's perjuries, aided by a few others, acting perhaps as a ‘Committee of Publication,' and vouch- ers for his veracity. The government were imposed upon, and Parliament gravely resolved, that the whole kingdom was in imminent danger, from a hellish Popish plot ; and the House of Commons actually expelled a member for venturing to doubt its reality. Innocent men were capitally convicted, by juries, against the strongest circumstantial and positive evidence; and the death, imprisonment, or exile, of many excellent, pious, and distinguished persons, were the awful conse- quences of the lies of one worthless individual. The eyes of the public were not opened for two years to the truth of the case, nor until the wretch was convicted of perjury. Even then, such hold had error got on the popular mind, and so forti- fied by its own ingenuity in finding other circumstances to support it, that probably a greater part of the whole people of England died in the belief of the plot, which, for a time, destroyed the happiness of millions, and had no foundation whatever, but in the impudent invention of an abandoned individual. It is also worthy of remark, that this wretch was first of the Episcopal church, afterwards a Catholic, and then was re-converted to his first faith.' – Lady Superior's Answer. • As to the insinuation, respecting the wages of iniquity,' (about which, the public were satisfied long ago by the publishers) and the comparison of Miss R. to Titus Oates, Joanna Southcote, and Matthias the prophet, we only say, that they are excellent specimens of the candor and argument of the learned counsel. They reason, if we understand them, in this way: Matthias, the prophet, was charged with murder ; therefore, Miss R. is a liar ! Q. E. D.'- Vindication, &c. We have spent more time upon the Courier than it deserves perhaps ; but we are desirous of doing our part, in opening the eyes of the public to the little confidence, that is to be placed in a periodical press, liable to be swayed by motives that may be called anything but honorable. The Advocate, we can readily pardon - its editor being the reputed author of the Preliminary Remarks in Miss Reed's book. We feel no indignation at the abuse of the press in this instance ; and can only smile at the religious zeal of its editor, who must be acknowledged to possess some wit, and considerable secretive- ness, notwithstanding his declared hostility to all secret combina- tions. He is, undoubtedly, the General Grand High King' of the anti-Catholic Fraternity. The American Traveller, we have reason to believe, is bound The Press and the Convent Question. 455 to make war upon Catholicism, from circumstances that are pretty generally known. . The Commercial Gazette has acted, with one exception, for an enemy, a more honorable part than either of those we have mentioned. It has allowed its columns, however, to be open to personal attacks upon individuals, towards whom we have always entertained the highest respect; and has allowed the publishers of Miss Reed's book to make their columns a vehicle for attack- ing, in the most wanton and shameful manner, a reputable family, upon the false supposition, that the head of it was the author of a letter published in a New-York newspaper, giving an account of Miss Reed. When we read that communication, we felt that our press had truly become a pest and a disgrace. We would not have believed, that a paper in the city, ignorant of the facts of the case, would have been willing to be instrumental in going into the bosom of any family, and striking a dastardly blow at its character and reputation. We could not realize, that the spir- it of persecution had become so systematic and violent, as that any person or persons could influence a respectable journal to publish an article — even had it been true — upon a subject of that nature, at least without the signatures of the authors of it. It is true, notice was given, that the columns were open to either side ; but, is that any apology? Is it any palliation to the offence of the assassin, that recourse can be had to the law, and the crime be punished ? Is a family, or an individual, to be compelled to come before the public in this manner ? The attack was made ; and we waited impatiently to see what would be the result. We felt assured, that the names of the authors of that communication would be exposed. Our astonishment was great — aye, greater than our first surprise — when a card appeared, stating that the ar- ticle was inserted at the request of the publishers of Miss Reed's book; and that it was a mere business transaction to help the sale of the book — a charge they have evaded, but not denied. We then made personal inquiry into the subject; and we were in- formed, that the authors of that villainous communication could not be ascertained. This gross and outrageous attack, in the columns of a daily journal, read by thousands of people, is thus permitted to be made, and its real authors lie concealed. We have perused the letters of one of those publishers to one of the injured parties. He says, in excuse, that this was done to prevent the injury, that the publication of the New-York let- ter would have upon the book of Miss Reed ; and we have no doubt — from the perusal of that letter, and from the circumstan- ces that it passed through the hands of Russell, Odiorne & Co., her publishers — that the communication in the Gazette, which first roused our indignation, and put us upon the alert, came from the Committee of Publication. 456 The Press and the Convent Question. It will now be seen, why we asked, in our last number, for the names of this Committee of Publication. We wish to learn how far they act from a prayerful consideration of their duty. We have a right to know, when we see this spirit of persecution, this tomahawk and scalping-knife work upon the characters and reputations of individuals going on, who wield the instruments. If they be honest, they will unmask; if they be dishonest, they will keep concealed. The authenticity of Miss Reed's narrative is nothing, in point of importance, to the manner which her friends have chosen to make it out. The baseness and wickedness of the Ursuline Community is of trilling importance, compared with the method adopted to force the people into an unsatisfying and persecuting belief of it. There is no necessity for concealment; it is disgraceful to the intelligence of the community, that it has been so long submitted to. Before this article shall meet the public eye, there will be, in New-England, no such being as an Ursuline. Persecution has driven them away. * Still, we want to know the names of the persecutors, for the sake of the injured parties who remain behind. Yes; to our regret, to the shame of all New-England, the Ursulines are going to another land — compelled to stay, in order to testify — against their will, too — against the destroyers of iheir home; denied the aid of the gov- ernment, to which they resorted for protection; despoiled of their home and habitation ; insulted daily in their temporary abode, by scoundrels who derive confidence from our daily press — they are about to verify the prediction of their counsel before the Legislature : to go to their ruined habitation, shed over it a last, a bitter tear, and depart forever from a spot consecrated by years of residence and of happy usefulness. They must seek some better land, where the strong arm of the law shall unite itself with the mild dictates of tolerance and religion, in shielding them from utter desolation and ruin.' We have but little room left for any further remarks ; and we are sorry for it. We wished to take some notice of that portion of our periodical press which has remained silent, while the vitu- perative attacks of the rest were going on. We happen to know and esteem the conductors of the most respectable among the silent journals ; and we know the indignant feelings, which we have expressed in this article, are as strong in their breasts as in ours. They express themselves, in private, as fully and uncon- ditionally as we have done in public ; but the readers of their respective papers are shut out from any knowledge of facts, and *Too much praise cannot be bestowed on the active and noble efforts of the citi- zens of Roxbury to protect the Ursulines, in their present residence – from which they will have departed, reader, when you look over this page! They have made choice of a temporary harbor of safety, where they may abide for a time, till they reach that blessed shore, "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.' 459 SCENES IN EUROPE. PARIS. July, 1832. One of the great charms of a residence in Paris, is, that you are never at any considerable distance from some beautiful promenade. The cemetery of Pere la Chaise, the gar- den of the Luxembourg, the Tuileries, the boulevards which ex- tend all around the city, are delightful resorts ; and the gay crowds, which throng them, especially of a summer's evening, give variety and animation to the scene. One of my favorite resorts has been the garden of the Tuiler- ies. One might there fancy himself in the groves of Academus ; for the garden is mostly planted with elm and linden trees, which form an impenetrable shade ; stone seats are placed at intervals among the trees, and classic statues, of white marble, contrast beautifully with the rich green. - In the depths of the groves, there is stillness and solitude ; but the broad alleys are worn by a thous- and footsteps, and ring with the merry voices of children, who find a glorious play-ground in these extensive gardens. Soldiers are stationed at the gates, and suffer none but well- dressed and decent looking persons to enter; so that here is a retreat from the numerous beggars, who tease you in the streets. A terrace extends around three sides of the garden, and, being planted with trees, forms also a fine promenade. From the south- ern terrace, the view is beautiful. The Seine glides at your feet, and winds away into the country ; the amphitheatre of hills, which are formed round its bendings, being covered with pretty villages and country-houses, with their gardens. In front, and on the opposite side of the river, are the superb buildings devo- ted to the legion of honor and to the Chamber of Deputies, and the palaces of the ancient nobility. The classic bridge, which conducts to the palais Bourbon, surmounted with colossal statues by the first French artists, is at no great distance below ; while, on the other hand, and higher up the river, the walls and towers of the island, where stood the Lutetia Parisiorum of the Romans, are seen rising from the river. Paris is seen to most advantage in summer, as the climate in winter, is very bad. An evening's walk, in summer, along the boulevard, will convey some idea of Paris amusements and Paris life. The broad sidewalks are thronged; the ladies, in their beautiful dresses, which they know how to wear better than any women in the world; the cavaliers, in their best costume. Chairs are placed on each side, under the shade of the elms, (which is needed, when the sun does not set till eight o'clock) and readily find occupants, at a sous each. The glittering cafes open upon 460 Scenes in Europe. the street, and the brilliant lamps, reflected by walls of mirrors, pour a stream of light upon the sidewalk, and replace the fading beams of day. The little marble tables and the velvet-covered seats are occupied by crowds, of both sexes, who make it their evening resort, and sip their coffee or lemonade, while they learn the news of the day. Meanwhile, a band of wandering minstrels gather round the door, and the music of the harp, the violin, the guitar, and other instruments, accompanied perhaps by a sweet voice, forms an agreeable concert, which is well repaid with a few sous. All is life; the moving crowds, the cries of the stall- keepers, the jugglers, the rope-dancers and tumblers, specimens of every class and description of people throng the boulevard, and form one of the liveliest pictures I have ever seen. One evening, however, this gay scene was all changed. It was the fifth of June, 1832. The funeral of General Lamarque, a dis- tinguished officer and patriot, had taken place that day, and I had heard rumors of disturbances excited by the officious zeal of the police, acting upon the fiery spirits of the young republicans. About six o'clock, my landlord came into my room to tell me that they were fighting, upon the boulevard. As I had never seen a battle, I sallied out, to observe how the business was conducted. The appearance of the street was solemn and mournful. Though it was broad daylight, the shops were all shut, and the great doors in every dwelling-house were closed, which, ordinarily, is not done till dark. A body of cuirassiers were stationed on the boulevard, near a gentle slope to a valley about a quarter of a mile long, beyond which the ground rises again. The opposite ele- vation was occupied by the rioters, who seemed to be amusing themselves with rolling down the hill a small office-building, which they had removed from the foundation. A dead horse was lying in the middle of the valley, which seemed to be abandoned, as about to become the scene of an engagement. No carriage, of any description, was to be seen. Presently, a detachment of the national guard and the troops of the line joined the cavalry, near which I had stationed myself. I heard the order given to load their muskets, and immediately they marched, at a quick pace, down the hill, towards the mob; but they had not proceeded far before they were fired upon. A general battle ensued. The troops returned the fire by volleys, which, perhaps, were not so destructive as the deliberate aim of the rioters, who were con- cealed in the arches of a neighboring theatre, and in the numer- ous other lurking-places, which the architecture of Paris affords. The cavalry now advanced, at full speed. The flashes of the musketry, the flight of the insurgents, the regular advance of the dragoons, whose cuirasses reflected the sun in glances of fire, the shouts and cries, the dead stillness which immediately succeeded each volley, were intensely exciting. Many were killed and Paris. 461 wounded on each side. The fighting lasted nearly all night, and through the next day in different parts of the city. Barricades were made, by tearing up the paving-stones or upsetting carriages, across the streets, to sfop the charges of cavalry ; and the insur- gents fortified theinselves in the houses, some of which they de- fended to the last extremity. A number of young men, of good families, members of the dif- ferent schools, had taken their position in a house, in the parish of St. Mery, where they remained till the evening of the second day, making great havoc among the troops who appeared in the street. Towards the evening of the sixth, Marshall Soult went in person to direct the operations against them; and, by a cross- fire of artillery, soon reduced the house to a ruin. They refused to surrender, and defended themselves to the last, crying, as they fell, "liberty or death.' Several of them, when they found there was no longer any hope, threw themselves from the windows upon the bayonets of the soldiery. Nearly all were killed, and none surrendered. Thus was the flower of many a proud family cut down in the spring-time of their existence; and their friends left to deplore their unhappy fate, without even the sad consola- tion, that they died for their country. The day after the battle, I visited the spot of the hottest fight. Almost every house in the street had the front windows broken, and some of them were riddled with cannon-shot. The government triumphed ; and all seemed to be soon for- gotten, save in those unhappy families, to whom the death of a parent, or brother, or husband, will long render the fifth and sixth of June a mournful anniversary. VOL. VII. VOL. VIH. 59 Fragments from the Confessions of Judas Iscariot. 463 stition and false philosophy ; Corinth, the metropolis of all that is voluptuous, seductive, and corrupting ; Sparta, the desolate and deserted city of freedom. I voyaged to Egypt; and, in the cities of the Nile, acquired new arguments in support of sin — new methods of sinful gratification. I sailed to Hispania and Gaul ; and even spent some time in the pearl fishery, on the rude shore of the distant island of Britain. Everywhere, I found mankind the same selfish, fierce, lustful, and brutalized race of beings; and, with scarce a single excep- tion, in either sex, wholly given to the habits of iniquity. I was never an exception to the great general rule of depravity. After fifteen years, of a vagabond's life, I resolved that I would return to my father and my early home. This resolution was made un- der a strong sense of the folly, which led me away from Caper- naum, and a determination to take up my abode in my native city. I was sickened with indulgence in unrestrained sin ; I loathed my animal nature ; I wished to revive the feelings of youth — the freshness of my early days. I returned to Capernaum. My mother was dead ; and of the family not one survived, save my father and my younger brother, Jechonias. To increase the desolateness of my former home, I learned, that Jechonias was now suffering under that terrible scourge, which I had been taught to consider as the abode in his body of a demon; he was possessed of a foul spirit. I should have called it insanity ; but my observation told me, that madness like this was more than mental derangement. At times, he was as calm and gentle as a child ; at other times, more fierce than a famished lion. In his violent moods, he was convulsed with spasms; he would plunge into the fire, or into the water, or dash himself upon the ground, uttering the most terrific cries, and the most horrible blasphemies. Frequently, there would arise in his breast a conflict for mastery, between his own mind and the infer- nal mind, that had fixed its abode therein ; and it was awful to behold the wrestling and struggling and fiery opposition of the two combatants — resulting, as they always did, in the triumph of the devil. Moved by my father's pitiable condition, and by my poor brother's sufferings, I became a fisherman of Gallilee — revived my early acquaintance with young men of equal age, and devoted myself to the acquisition of property. My new habits of industry taught me the value of money ; the contrast between the splen- dor of the wealthy and the squalor of the poor, increased my de- sire of acquisition, and made me long for the power of hastening my advances towards wealth. * * * * My father died, and upon me devolved the sole care of my afflicted brother. My former love of pleasure returned upon me, with all its former force ; but, poverty chained me down to com- Of Judas Iscariot. 465 marble portal ; and had it not been for the help of my demoniac brother, I could not have entered. But he dashed headlong into the crowd, gnashing with his teeth, uttering diabolical sounds, plunging and kicking, like a wild horse, and driving the multitude to the right and left, with supernatural strength. The people shrunk aside from his touch, so that he readily penetrated to the very heart of the synagogue, while I followed close behind, and thus obtained an easy entrance. But when we came within sight of this singular person, whom I so strongly desired to behold, Jechonias suddenly stopped in his career ; his countenance be- came convulsed with fierce passion, and he dashed himself, with frightful violence and loud yells, upon the pavernent. There was nothing perceptible in the countenance or conduct of the Nazarite, to which this sudden fury of Jechonias could be considered as owing. On the contrary, the emotions excited in me, by looking at Jesus, were those of calm admiration, silent awe, and tender melancholy. His form was commanding, and his face was wonderful. In his countenance, you might read the movements of a mighty intellect, of a humble yet dignified spirit, and of a most feeling heart. It was sweet, simple, and sublime. I felt convinced, that beneath it was hidden a sorrow such as is seldom borne, and which has, in this life, no cure. My curiosity was roused ; my feelings were touched ; I was moved, by im- pulses strange and new. I longed to ask him who and what he was ; but I dared not speak. The convulsive movements of my brother caught his eye ; and he looked down, with an expression of sweet pity, upon the poor maniac. The yells of Jechonias were now converted into artic- ulate utterance; and, in tones which thrilled horribly through the hearts of all within the synagogue, he exclaimed — Let us alone! Let us alone! What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus of Nazareth! Art thou come to destroy us before our appointed season? We know thee, who thou art, thou Holy One of God!' To this violent apostrophe, which was, to all present, incom- prehensible, the Nazarite replied as strangely, in tones which fell like plaintive music on my ear – Hold thy peace; be silent, and come out of the man! The evil spirit obeyed that voice ; Jechonias was, for a mo- ment, torn as with the agonies of death — and then, rising from the pavement, with a gentle countenance, he looked with grati- tude upon Jesus, grasped me affectionately by the hand, and sat down, as if exhausted. I was amazed ; the crowd was aston- ished. Who was he, that thus rebuked the foul spirit, and drove him from the wretched creature, whom he had so long tormented ? My soul was absorbed with wonder. In a few minutes, I heard once more that plaintive music; he spoke, and I looked up. He had ascended to the desk — usu- 468 Fragments from the Confessions and on the adjoining shore of the lake, and were silently gazing towards the house. The litter stopped, for a few moments, in front of the door — and the crowd drew in their breath, as if fearful that even the movement of their lungs would interrupt their attention. It was a moment of transcendent interest. But the door of the hut opened, and Jesus stepped forth into the evening air. Every eye was fixed upon his calm and reverend counte- nance. His head was uncovered, and the setting sun shone upon his long, waving locks, making them glisten like rays of light. He raised his hand aloft, and, in a voice which reached every ear, yet musical as a Spartan fute, he said to the sick man - Son! thy infirmities are healed! Come down from thy couch!' The command was instantly obeyed, and the invalid, restored to sound health, bowed at the feet of Jesus. The crowd sent forth a shout of joy, so long and loud that it echoed far down the lake, and scared the waterfowl from their nests along the shore. In a few minutes, another and another sick person was brought forward. Hundreds were every minute added to the crowd, until the whole of Capernaum seemed to have beset the door. In no case was the cry of healing mercy disregarded ; but every disease was healed, with the same alacrity and success. Night cast her blackness over the scene ; but, by torch-light, and the faint glimmer of the stars, the miraculous labor was continued, until scores and scores had been brought to the great physician, and not an invalid, or a cripple, or a demoniac remained to be recovered. It was midnight before the crowd dispersed ; and, long after that late hour, little groups and knots of people were to be dimly discerned, gathered in the streets. * * He left me; and, in the heat of my wrath, I vowed his destruc- tion. * * * * * * * * * When conscience wrestled with that cupidity, which had been roused by the offer of the blood-thirsty priests, 1 silenced its re- proaches by flattering myself that he, who possessed a power of working miracles, would not fail to deliver himself from the cus- tody of his enemies, and escape the ignominious death, towards which they urged me so earnestly to hurry him — thus anticipa- ting a double treachery: the betrayal of my master — the decep- tion of his foes. * * In the morning, I learned that the Nazarene had left the city alone, at a very early hour, and had gone up into a mountain to pray. His four disciples were about following him, and they in- vited me to go with him. I went. * * It was one of the loveliest mornings that ever opened its bright eye on the children of Abraham. Our slumbers upon the moun- tain had been sweet as the air, that now fanned us, in its flight from the spicy vale below; and at a very early hour, while the east was still hung with the crimson drapery which curtained the 470 Fragments from the Confessions when the crowd had formed themselves into a circle about him, and pushed the poor shrinking woman into the midst, and began to address him, he saw them not -- he heard them not; but, stooping down, wrote with his finger, upon the floor. The Jews were amazed ; the trembling woman looked as though she would sink through the stone pavement, to escape from the innocent presence of the master. The Scribes began to grow furious, and raised their voices very high. Master !' said they — with an ironical smile - Master, here is a woman, who was detected in the act of adultery - in the very embrace of her paramour. According to the law of Moses, she ought to be stoned to death. But, what sayest thou? What shall we do with her ?'' This question was put to ensnare him ; for, those who put it knew that the master bad shown great compassion for the de- graded and polluted females of Jerusalem — and had often spoken to them, not in the harsh terms of the Law, but gently, in the accents of pity and kind expostulation. I myself, knowing how much his feelings differed from those of the Pharisees, expected that he would now involve himself in difficulty, by making some reply, which should seem to cast a stigma upon the law ; nor was I sorry to see his impending peril. I did think of the money, however - of the thirty pieces of silver, which I might bave, by selling his life — and almost feared that I should now lose it, by his running upon his own destruction ; for I felt persuaded, that if ought he said was deemed opposed to Moses, the Scribes and Pharisees would have torn him in pieces at once. The master's conduct disappointed his enemies. He slowly erected bis majestic form, and revealing to the Jews a face of awful dignity, purity, and severity, thus replied to their treach- erous questioning: Let him among you, who has never commit- ted one sin, cast the first stone at this woman !' - and he imme- diately stooped down again, and went on with his writing. Never did I see a tumultuous assembly so perfectly silenced, and put to shame. Every Scribe looked conscience-stricken ; every Pharisee was self-condemned. For a niinute, not a move- ment was perceptible ; and then I perceived that the crowd, abashed by the soul-searching remark of the carpenter's son, was · slowly turning towards the door. One by one, (the oldest going first) they crept silently away, until not one of them remained; but the poor creature, who was thus rescued from death, remain- ing behind, like some fair statue in the midst, moved not a limb. It was then, ihat the master lifted himself up, and, for the first time, regarding the woman, whose tears now flowed like rain upon the pavement, spoke to her, in gentle tones. "Woman,' said he, .' where are thy accusers ? Hath none of them con- demned thee?' Her faltering reply was, None, Lord !'Nei- ther do I condemn thee, if thou depart to sin no more. Return Of Judas Iscariot. 471 to thy home, and to thy former purity of life, and pray God, that thy sins be forgiven !' . She fell, speechless and sobbing, at his feet; her joy was too great for utterance. But he gently raised her up, and dismissed her, with words of comfort. At that moment, I almost repented of my hateful purpose. But, remembering that he - he, whom I both loved and hated ; he, whom I feared and admired, but had resolved to destroy ; that he had reproached me, for my se- cret intentions, by his memorable saying: ' and one of you is a devil ;' remembering how often I had quailed before his searching eye — I would not repent; I hardened my heart ; I vowed, that the silver should be mine, and grasped the purse, beneath my. robe, with the clutch of desperate resolve. : * repent; That had quaileand one robe, wer should REBECCA AND THE TEMPLAR OF IVANHOE. BY GRENVILLE MELLEN. As Rebecca spoke thus, her high and firm resolve, which corresponded so well with the expressive beauty of her countenance, gave to the looks and manner a dignity, that seemed more than mortal. Her glance qmailed not her cheek blanched not ; the thought, that she had her fate at her command, gave a yet deeper color of carnation to her complexion, and a yet more brilliant fire to her eye. Bois Guilbert thought he had never beheld beauty so animated and so commanding. I. Now, maiden, the spell of thy pride, That turned all thy passion to scorn, In the fush of its triumph 's defied, By a spirit too fated to fawn.. Thy taunts were full bitter - but now, I'he tongue they made eloquent then Shall send no quick blood to thy brow, To stain its deep lustre again! ... 11. . Thy triumph is over — the halls, Where Beauty meets Valor in arms, Never saw, like these desolate walls, Half the light that escapes from thy' charms! And, for conquest of hundreds, no more Shall flash the keen light of their sun ; But its warmth and its glory shall pour, In splendor, umwasted on one ! , A Rill from the Town-Pump. 473 473 • Now, Templar - one foot, if you will - One foot less between us — and lo! My spirit unsullied is, still — My corpse, uppolluted, below !' IX. She triumphed !- 'Mid shame and amaze, As to voice of a strange command, All rebuked, sunk the Templar's gaze, And unnerved was his giant hand! Come down !- by the light of my cross, Unscathed, and untouch'd thou shalt go ; For the world may not fathom the loss Or a virtue that masters thee so !' x. He turned - and the turret-door fell With a crash on his rattling mail, That roused, from that terrible spell, The Jewish maid, panting and pale ! She entered — she knelt — prayed -- and wept - 'Mid the veil of her glorious hair ! For Israel his * promise had kept - She had found His · Deliverance' there! A RILL FROM THE TOWN-PUMP. (SCENE— the corner of two principal streets. The Town-Pump talking through its nose.) Noon, by the north clock! Noon, by the east ! High noon, too, by these hot sunbeams, which fall, scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make the water bubble and smoke, in the trough under my nose. Truly, we public characters have a tough time of it! And, among all the town-officers, chosen at March meet-' ing, where is he that sustains, for a single year, the burthen of such manifold duties as are imposed, in perpetuity, upon the Town-Pump? The title of town-treasurer' is rightfully mine, as guardian of the best treasure, that the town has. The over- seers of the poor ought to make me their chairman, since I pro- vide bountifully for the pauper, without expense to him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire-department, and one of the physicians to the board of health. As a keeper of the peace, all water-drinkers will confess me equal to the constable. I perform ** The God of Abraham's promise hath opened an escape for his daughter. 476 A Rill from the Town-Pump. place of the waters, now their grave. But, in the course of time, a Town-Pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring ; and when the first decayed, another took its place - and then another, and still another till here stand I, gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. Drink, and be re- freshed! The water is as pure and cold as that which slaked the thirst of the red Sagamore, beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow falls, but from the brick buildings. And be it the moral of my story, that, as this wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and prized again, so shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued since your fathers' days, be recognized by all. Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water, to replenish the trough for this teamster and his two yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere along that way. No part of my business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look! how rapidly they lower the water-mark on the sides of the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time to breathe it in, with siglis of calm enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their monstrous drinking-vessel. An ox is your true toper. But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for the remainder of my discourse. Impute it, I beseech you, to no defect of modesty, if I insist a little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifarious merits. It is altogether for your good. The better you think of me, the better men and women will you find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my all-important aid on washing-days ; though, on that account alone, I might call myself the household-god of a hundred families. Far be it from me, also, to hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces, which you would present, without my pains to keep you clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when the midnight- bells made you tremble for your combustible town, you have Aed to the Town-Pump, and found me always at my post, firm, amid the confusion, and ready to drain my vital current in your behalf. Neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my claims to a medical diploma, as the physician, whose simple rule of practice is preferable to all the nauseous lore, which has found men sick or left them so, since the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind. No; these are trifles, compared with the merits which wise men concede to me — if not in my single self, yet as the repre- sentative of a class — of being the grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream, that shall cleanse our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish, which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. A Rill from the Town-Pump. 477 In this mighty enterprise, the cow.shall be my great confederate. Milk and water ! The Town-Pump and the Cow! Such is the glorious copartnership, that shall tear down the distilleries and brew-houses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea and coffee trade, and, finally monopolize the whole business of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation! Then, poverty shall pass away from the land, finding no hovel so wretched, where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then dis- ease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw its own heart, and die. Then sin, if she do not die, shall lose half her strength. Until now, the phrensy of hereditary fever has raged in the human blood, transmitted from sire to son, and re-kindled, in every gen- eration, by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat of passion cannot but grow cool, and war — the drunkenness of nations — perhaps will cease. At least, there will be no war of households. The husband and wife, drinking deep of peaceful joy - a calm bliss of temperate affections — shall pass hand in hand through life, and lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted close. To them, the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow the delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces shall express what their spirits were, and are to be, by a lingering smile of memory and hope. Abem! Dry work, this speechifying ; especially to an un- practised orator. I never conceived, till now, what toil the temperance-lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they shall have the business to themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir ! My dear hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated, by my instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor- casks, into one great pile, and make a bonfire, in honor of the Town-Pump. And, when I shall have decayed, like my prede- cessors, then, if you revere my memory, let a marble fountain, richly sculptured, take my place upon this spot. Such monu- ments should be erected everywhere, and inscribed with the names of the distinguished champions of my cause. Now listen; for something very important is to come next. There are two or three honest friends of mine — and true friends, I know, they are — who, nevertheless, by their fiery pug- nacity in my behalf, do put me in fearful hazard of a broken nose, or even of a total overthrow upon the pavement, and the loss of the treasure which I guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let this fault be amended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with zeal for temperance, and take up the honorable cause of the Town-Pump, in the style of a toper fighting for his brandy-bottle ? Or, can the excellent qualities of cold water be no otherwise exemplified, than by plunging, slap-dash, into hot-water, and wofully scalding VOL. VIII. 61 430 Cabinet Councils. SINGLETON. . Very true. In this number, printed more than a month ago, John Neal, in refer- ence to our article upon Philip Van Artevelde, in a former number of the Magazine, speaketh thus: •Mr. Taylor is a very sensible sort of a man, who writes free, strong, musical prose, pretty much upon a par, judging by the specimens here quoted, with Amos Cottle, Richard Cumberland, Blackmore, Pollock, Satan Montgomery, and Orator Emmons; and the critic, in the New-England Magazine, understands poetry just about as well as Mr. Taylor writes it.' VANDERBLUNT. Philip Van Artevelde is a production, which will outwear nine-tenths of the cel- ebrated works of the day. It has in it the requisite stamina for a long life. SINGLETON. I used to consider Neal as something of a conjuror ; but the obtuseness mani- fested in his remarks upon this work, shakes my faith. You remember the pas- sage, wherein Van Artevelde alludes to the former Van Artevelde, his father: "Oh! what a fiery heart was his! - such souls, Whose sudden visitations daze the world, Vanish like lightning; but they leave behind A voice, that, in the distance far away, Wakens the slumbering ages.' Read this, John Neal, and say again, that the author is no poet. Does it not stir your generous heart, like the voice of a clarion piercing night's dull ear'? Out of the range of Shakspeare, what can surpass this description of the approach of morning ? - «The night is far advanced upon the morrow, And, but for that conglomerated mass Of cloud, with ragged edges, like a mound Of black pine-forest on a mountain top, Wherein the light lies ambushed, dawu were neur. These passages are taken at random, for I have not the book by me. They stamp the author as a poet of the first magnitude. I could repeat fifty more, equally beau- tiful - for sweet poetry, like sweet music, clings to my memory, haunts me, and recurs to me sometimes at the still hour of midnight, when I wake suddenly from a deep sleep, and sometimes amid the blaze of noon, and the bustle of men. VANDERBLUNT. It is laughable, to read over the notices, which our friends, the editors, make of our periodical. Here is one that calls a paper commonplace, and another that avers it is fiery, intrepid and generous ; one that says the review of Philip Van Artevelde is as high praise as could be bestowed, and another, that it is captious and unfair. SINGLETON. It is late in the day, to talk of such a matter ; but just listen to the wise remarks of the ladies' oracle here - the New-York Mirror. (Reads.) The prevalent error of reviewvers is, that they place themselves in the relation of enemies, and not of friends, to the authors upon whose works they assume the privilege to sit in judg- ment, and are more eager to detect a fault than to point out a merit. They are more anxious to display their own power of rebuke, than the claims to admiration of the writer, whom they summon before the self-elected tribunal of their own infal- libility. (Hem!) They would be censors, and not judges. We regret to say, that a most outrageous instance of this feeling has recently been presented, in a periodical for which we have great respect, and of which we are, at all times, glad to speak in the language of commendation - the New-England Magazine. Among the re- views, in the number for the current month, is one of the dramatic poem, (Philip Van Artevelde) which has been so highly eulogized by the capable and honest critics of England, (for such they are) and by many of our own ablest and most accomplished scholars. The work is what we have termed it, a dramatic poem ; its length — it fills two duodecimo volumes, of the ordinary novel size — its con- Cabinet Councils. 481 struction and its preface, all declare, in the plainest language, that it was never de- signed for representation on the stage. The author has taken pains to advise the reader of this fact; to remove any erroneous impression, as to the dramatic preten- sions of his work, that might arise from its division into acts and scenes, soliloquies and dialogue. Yet, in the very teeth of this, the reviewer, in the Magazine, be- gins his notice with a charge of unfitness for representation - of dramatic incapa- bility — assuming all the while, that this is a grievous failure.' EDITOR. That will do, Singleton. VANDERBLUNT. Hush! The Editor speaks. SINGLETON Wonderful! He has condescended to join the conversation. Savage and silent has he been, ever since his detection of the Van Buren conspiracy ! VANDERBLUNT. Cutting and acrimonious, ever since his article on the Ursuline Community! EDITOR. Amuse yourselves, gentlemen - even though it be at my expense. On me when dunces are satiric - I take it for a panegyric.' I arrested Singleton's career, simply to point out the absurdity of reading aloud such criticism. The mild gentleman of the Mirror should have taken some better instance to have illustrated the beauty of his observations. I saw a newspaper this morning, which said that nothing could be more favorable than our review. But, let us look back on this outrageous affair. The reviewer begins his notice by a charge of unfitness for representation.' Look ye, Singleton, Vanderblunt ; there is the first page of the article on Philip Van Artevelde. Nothing, of what the Mirror tells, on the first page — nor the second, nor the third, nor the fourth, nor the fifth — yes, at the bottom of the fifth page, there occurs a short paragraph — the only one that has the remotest bearing on what the Mirror speaks of; and in this, we have merely echoed the sentiment of the London Quarterly Review ; and considered it rather praise than dispraise. So much for the justice of cotemporary periodicals. VANDERBLUNT. Yes! and particularly severe upon yourself, who would have us believe that, Philip Van Artevelde is the most splendid affair, that has • dazed the world' since Childe Harold. EDITOR. The only fault found with the drama, was its moral blemish ; and about that, I am tempted to agree with a friend, who wrote to me the other day. Yes, here is the letter: I do not know whether I quite agree with the censure passed on the second volume, as to the loves of Philip and Elena. Is such an affair inconsis- tent with Philip's character? He is not, I think, set forth as a standard of virtue ; but only so far virtuous, as a wise, philosophic, and cool-tempered man must natur- ally be. I conceive that, it was the intention of the author to show how such a man would retain his strength of character, in an affair of light love, where other men are weakest. He is not passionate for Elena ; indeed, I do not think he loves her at all ; she is little more than a plaything to him. There is a feeling of con- tempt, on his part, in the whole of the first love-scene between them; and with what truth it breaks out, the moment after she has left him! His talk, respecting his wife, though addressed to Elena, is meant for the reader, that we may judge of the state of mind with which he engages in this amour.' I am willing, however, to forgive Mr. Morris for such blunders, for the kind-hearted feeling he occasionally exhibits. Sheridan Knowles tells me, that he behaved in the handsomest manner to him, in New-York, at his benefit. 482 Cabinet Councils. VANDERBLUNT. Yes'; but the address which he wrote was insufferably flat. SINGLETON. By the way, Mr. Editor ; somebody asks — Why imitate, what everybody is imitating now, the dialogue of Blackwood, under the title of Noctes Ambrosianae ?' EDITOR. Because it is our humor. VANDERBLUNT. What magnificent brevity! The soul of wit is in all that he utters to-night. EDITOR. With the same propriety, he might ask Blackwood - Why imitate the dialogue of Lucian, of Plato?' If the topics are our own, what matters it whether they are discussed in the form of a dialogue or of a monologue? We revere Blackwood, and consider John Wilson the prince of good fellows and the paragon of editors, besides being a glorious poet ; but we do not adınit, that he has prescriptive and exclusive right to figure, under his nomme de guerre, in all noctes and manners of noctes, which may be written or conceived. At the same time, we know of no one, whom we would welcome to our audience-room with a more cordial joy. Here's his health, gentlemen. VANDERBLUNT. With all my heart. SINGLETON May he live a thousand years ! EDITOR. With regard to the Cabinet Councils: I had nothing to do with their prepara- tion. Our conversations were taken down by a skilful stenographer, who, for all that I know, is at this moment putting in a note-book our most trifling words. So be careful what you say ; and Vanderblunt, mind — and do not be profane. VANDERBLUNT. I-profane! Tell a nightingale to bray! Where is Berkeley ? SINGLETON. Poor Berkeley! I entered his room, at the Tremont, the other day, and found this leaf, partly consumed, upon the hearth. It is dated April first; he went away shortly after, as you know, to Philadelphia ; and there he has been ever since. What a rage he must have been in ; but he is quite calm now, I believe. I will read it to you. A LEAF FROM MR. BERKELEY'S DIARY. • Unnumbered have been the vexations, which have fallen to my lot this day, Happening to step into a bookstore, in the morning, I took up a number of the New- England Magazine, which I seldom read. What was my indignation, on seeing my name paraded, at full length, in the pages of the work, over certain garbled passa- sages, from my confidential conversations with the Editor ! I actually burned with choler. Tossing the pamphlet into a corner of the shop, I rushed into the street, and proceeded in search of the Editor. Found him in his dissecting-room, as he calls it, with his sleeves stripped up, and his pen upraised, preparing to slash a new subject. He bade me good morning, and, in a bland tone, requested me to be seated. But I was not to be wheedled into good-humor, and broke out: “Sir, I come for immediate satisfaction. What right have you, without my consent, to make use of my name, in the manner you have?' Sit down, Mr. Berkeley,'- he replied, with his usual provoking suavity of manner — sit down, and we will discuss this matter, in that philosophical spirit, which is so favorable to the purpo- ses of calm inquiry, and to the successful elicitment of truth. Passion is but a dis- Cabinet Councils. 435 gaping wonder of a thousand fools ; nor mount her steed, without being surrounded by a crowd of admiring spectators. What wonder, then, is it that she should talk about her night-cap, and the paraphernalia of her secret apartment? It is matter of surprise, that she was suffered to remain alone even there. Her marrying in this country was a great mistake ; it was probably done for effect. Did n't she faint when the venerable bishop joined her hand to her liege lord's? But, there are evidences of great power in those pages, which you, Singleton, have had the politeness to turn over, during my discourse. Her descriptions are sometimes exceedingly vivid and true. Take out the exclamations, and they would shine brilliantly, in a new volume of Elegant Extracts.' VANDERBLUNT. Give me credit, most sagacious Editor, for the attention with which I have lis- tened to your remarks. I may reward your kindness, by and by, by writing, for the Magazine, my opinions of this magnificent work. Singleton, I am happy to see, is well used up' in it. I told him how it would be, when he was 'dawdling' about her. SINGLETON. (In great confusion.) Excuse me ; I am engaged at a party. (Going.) EDITOR. Why, my dear fellow, it is after ten o'clock ! SINGLETON. N'importe ; I shall have plenty of time to dress, and be there by eleven. (Exit.) VANDERBLUNT. Ha ! ha! ha! Poor Charley Singleton ! He will never get over the ingratitude of the lady whom he treated with such distinguished attention. EDITOR. Now that that rattlepate has departed, I request, Mr. Vanderblunt, the favor of your attention to this pile of communications for the Magazine. Many are re jected — some are deferred. VANDERBLUNT. What an imposition ! Do you expect, that I should tamely attend to your read- ing of all these ? EDITOR. By no means. I shall only read one. The remainder, I beg you will take home and look over at your leisure, that I may have the benefit of your critical observa- tions. They are mostly poetry, as usual. How I wish that people would write prose! A respectable piece of prose is tolerable ; but rhymes, unless of pre-eminent excel- lence, are good for nothing. I always look over a prose article with pleasure, and seldom read more than the two first lines of a poetical one. Here are some verses, that are exceedingly pretty — by a lady - yes, and a young lady of genius, who should cultivate her beautiful mind. She must be as lovely as she is gifted, if —; but why talk to such a stoic as yourself of female accomplishments ! Listen. TO - - You are not what you used to be, When we were merry girls; Your hair,- that floated then so free, In wild and sunlight curls, Or drooping, from your forehead meek, In beautiful repose, – Lay light and soft upon your cheek- A shadow on the rose ! - VOL. VIII. 62 486 Cabinet Councils. Is parted, with Madonna grace, Above a saddened brow, And shades a calm and thoughtful face, That wears no rose-bloom now ! You are not what you used to be ; Your girlhood's lightsoine mood, Your springing step and tone of glee, Are softened and subdued. You are not what you used to be ; But oh! how much more worth, Than that light thing of frolic free, The wildest girl on earth! Forever -- as the joyous play Of bloom and light has faded, And, tint by tint and ray by ray, By care has been v'ershaded, - You have been gathering bolier wealth Within - a store of treasures! Flowers, fairer than the Rose of Health, And rays, more rich than Pleasure's! And while the worthless splendor stole, Unheeded from those eyes, A lamp was lighted in your soul A star that never dies! The smile of Joy! - the lamp of Faith! The one - Earth's meteor gleam! The other -- radiant, in Death, With Heaven's unconquered beam! n gatherineasures Health, You are not what you used to be ; But you are less of earth, And richer, in your want of glee, Than others, in their mirth! FLORENCE. VANDERBLUNT. Very fair. I marvel who she is - and who, most serene of Editors, is the author of the Chapter on Whaling,' that you publish this month? EDITOR. I regret that I know not. He is a fellow of most excellent fancy. His sketch is admirable. His wit is the real Mousseux. His paper deserves the present of a basket of Champagne, for his next voyage. It's a pity we have n’t his address. VANDERBLUNT. Before we part, tell me if a benefit is to be given to Sheridan Knowles, in this city, before he sails for England on the sixteenth. EDITOR. There seems to be very little enthusiasm about the author of Virginius, in this literary emporium ; while in New-York and Philadelphia, he has been treated with the highest and kindest consideration. His benefit in New-York was splendid; and I am happy to see such efforts making in Philadelphia. The committee are to consist of gentlemen of the highest respectability. VANDERBLUNT. (Rings a bell enter Samson.) Samson ! elevate that conglomerated mass of manuscript, and become inconti- nently peripatetic. SAMSON. Sir! EDITOR Follow Mr. Vanderblunt, with that basket of papers. VANDERBLUNT. Good night! (Exit.) (Editor writes — SCENE closes.) CRITICAL NOTICES. Silliman's American Journal of Science and Arts. Vol. 28, No. 1. For January, February, and March, 1835. Here is a capital number of this capital work. It has now been too long before the American public --- indeed, before the world - to need any eulogy of ours, or of any one, to keep it up, or get it forward. If its intrinsic merits will not do all for it, which can be desired, there is no hope for it. It would be really lamenta- ble, however — even shameful - granting that the existence of such a work as this did really depend upon a sort of management, in the way of patronage, apart from its innate worth — if any appeal were made in vain, in regard to its money matters, to the American people. It would be mortifying, indeed, that a 'Journal'— which was the first in this country to embrace in its plan the entire circle of the physical sciences, and their application to the arts — which has now swelled to twenty-seven volumes, and which is admitted, in high places, and learned places, abroad, to be the best and most original journal of science in the English language,' should not be permanent, for want of encouragement, among ourselves. We speak in this way, on account of the remarks addressed to the friends of sci- ence and useful knowledge, which are found on the threshold of this number of the Journal.' The editor tells us, that, unless reinvigorated by an enlarged list of paying subscribers,' it cannot be permanent.' We hope — we presume that the bare mention of this will be enough — enough to procure new subscribers, whose names are as good as the bank, and to shame those who have not paid to get their receipts as soon as the mail can bring them. It should be remembered, that we have something more than a good portion of national pride, connected with this valuable work. It is instructive, peculiarly so, to the whole country. The knowledge it embodies is impɔrtant, as well as inter- esting, to the mass. As a people, we are, more than almost any other, necessarily wedded to the arts and sciences, as the means by which we live and move. They are not merely sources of wonder and amusement to us. They teach us lessons ; and, unless we mind them and lay them to heart, we are not only losers, but suf- ferers, by our neglect. As the Journal condenses much of this information — so useful to all classes of our citizens — and offers at the same time, so much that is instructive and enter- taining to the high-reaching and purely philosophic mind, it would seem that the ap- peal, which is inade in this number, cannot but be answered in the most effectual way — by an increased, attentive, and paying patronage. Surely they who were 80 happy as to listen to the learned gentleman who conducts it, during his late lec- tures in Boston, will need no further inducement to have as much more of his company as possible. They will find it in the Journal.' 488 Critical Notices. In writing, upon this bare thought of the work’s being given up, we have hardly remembered to advert to the material of this number. We have said it is capital. There are some curious facts upon cold weather, from Noah Webster - elicited, no doubt, by the last iron-hearted winter. He takes us back to Rome, in the year of the city 356, and gives us divers curious antiquarian matters, that will freeze your blood. There is a pleasant article upon Egypt — the Nile, the vast canal of Mahommadie, and the great genius and powerful mind of Mahomet Ali — with whom, we ſervently hope we shall never get to battle — let our French affairs turn as they will; for he has filled Alexandria with his men-of-war, all of one hundred guns, or more ; and has the stocks full of others, in embryo. This beats France, and England too. But we commend the Journal to our readers. New-England and her Instituions. By one of her Sons. Bos- ton: John Allen & Co., 1835. American Popular Library. There is not much to be said about this book, one way or the other. It is marked by entire mediocrity. Its purpose and object are commendable ; but its literary merit is not at all striking. In style, it is easy, but loose and careless ; and the re- flections contained in it, though generally just, are not original or profound. The author's powers of description and observation, however, are quite good. The • Pastoral Visit’ is very well done ; so are the . Pleasures of a College Scrape.' The chapter on traveling is lively and natural. If it be the intention of the book to give to a stranger a complete knowl- edge of the institutions of New-England, it has not succeeded in so doing. There is a great deal left unsaid ; and there is no order or arrangement in that which is said. It seems as if the author had collected his old magazine papers, and bound them into a volume. The first chapter is more applicable to the Western country than to New-England. The second, third, and fourth chapters, relate, exclusively, to one particular religious sect, and are written with the partiality of a partizan. The fifth and sixth chapters, on slavery, have very little to do with New-England. We notice a curious instance of bathos, on the fifteenth page. The author is describing a mountain thunder-storm ; and, speaking of the dark cloud, from which the rain was falling, says — We could not resist the impression, that it was a mighty engine, with which God was refreshing the fields.' Juvenile Popular Library. Conducted by an Association of Gen- tlemen. Domesticated Animals considered with reference to Civilization and the Arts.* This is one of those second-rate books, which have swarmed in such profusion, of late years, from the American press, under the guise of original works for children. We select it for notice, not on account of any peculiar demerits of its own, but to expose a system of jobbing, which is unfair to the public, as well as unjust to na- tive authors. This is, then, such a book as any clever school-boy, with paste-pot * Published under the direction of the London Society, for promoting Christian Knowledge. Revised by the Editors of the Popular Library, 490 . Critical Notices. this gallant and honorable and peaceable reptile ever seeks his human victim? We happen to know, that he never assails any living thing but what he needs for food. He never strikes but when struck or menaced, and never without giving fair warn- ing. We have a very considerable respect for so generous an enemy, and do not like to hear him standered. We have seen the Yemassee praised, in the public prints, as a correct delinea- tion of Indian character and manners. We deny it, in toto; it is no such thing. Like the Last of the Mohicans, it is an excellent story, well told ; and the charac- ters of both works are no more like any Indians, who ever existed, than they are like the celestial company of saints and angels. How often must we tell our ac- tors, painters, and engravers, not to dress chiefs and warriors in petticoats ! — a cos- tume they abhor. How often must we tell our novelists, that Indians do not use the third person singular for the first ? — and that their ordinary conversation is nothing like poetry run mad?' This book is assuredly a beautiful fiction - but it is purely a fiction ; and neither from this, or any other novel yet published, will the reader get anything like a correct idea of the warrior of the forest and prairie. A Scotch stone-cutter thought fit to depict an angel with a full-bottomed wig. • Who ever saw an angel with a wig? ' cried his astonished employor. 'And pray, who ever saw an angel without one !' replied the operative. On the same princi- ple, probably, our writers travesty and misrepresent the aborigines — for there is none to contradict them. NOTE. The department of CRITICAL Notices will hereafter occupy a much larger space in the Magazine. Publishers are requested to forward, as early as the fifteenth of each month, those works for which they desire an early notice. We shall hereaf- ter acknowledge, punctually, the receipt of books — and hope to be enabled to do so very soon after their publication. We sha!l, after our best ability, exercise perfect justice towards every author, whether native or foreign. We believe the system of indiscriminate puffery to be highly injurious, not only to the cause of a whole- some literature, but to the interest of publishers; for, if people are forced into pur- chasing an unworthy book, they will not seek those which have real excellence. The opinions of a journal like this would be valueless, if censure were entirely with- held. We have received, from Mr. Ticknor, Dr. Bird's new novel — The Infidel;' which we shall, doubtless, be enabled to praise with a clear conscience. From James Munroe & Co. we have also received several works, which shall claim our attention. 492 Editorial Proclamation. few articles in these pages, that yours, far more worthy than ours, might duly appear. We trust you will give us constant opportunity to exercise such pleasant self-denial. The remuneration, which we have been enabled to extend, is not, we are deeply conscious, commensurate with your deserts ; but the terms of one dollar by the page for prose, and double the sum for poetry, is all that the Magazine can afford ; and though lamentable the confession, we must aver that, even with these rates, not one solitary penny is left, to reward the editorial labor, at the close of the year. With the extension of our subscription list, your compensa- tion shall be increased, to two — yes, three dollars the page ; and even then, we could wish it were more. We will look for our own reward in the consciousness of having done something to encourage American literature. We talk in plain lan- guage ; for, in our opinion, nothing is more absurd than the squeamishness usually observed on the subject of payment for literary toil. The man of letters is a laborer as worthy as any other of his hire. And now, we end our brief Proclamation, in wishing for each one of you, the richest temporal possession — mens sana in corpore sano - a sound mind in a sound body. THE EDITOR. GIVEN at our Sanctum, from our arm-chair, ) this twenty-second day of May, near the close of the fourth year of the MAGAZINE and eighth volume. ) Long flourish the COMMONWEALTH OF LITERATURE ! MONTHLY RECORD. U. S. Bank.— The following are the Appointments by the President. - important items of the monthly statement William T. Barry, to be Envoy Extraor- of the U. S. Bank, for the first of May last: dinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to Loans on pers. security, 31,732,514 89 Spain. Amos Kendall, to be Postmaster bank stock. 880.724 14 General. J. C. Pickett, to be Fourth other securities, 5,384,707 84 Auditor of the Treasury Department. Michael Mahon, to be Consul at St. Jago 37,997,946 86 de Cuba. The President of the United Domesitc Blls of Exch. 23,921,478 20 States has recognized D. Pablo Chacon, - as Consul General of Spain, to reside at 61,919,425 06 Philadelphia Baring, Brothers, & Co. 2,384,766 40 14,385,843 42 Rhode-Island Election. — Governor Redemption of Pub. Debt, 392,149 96 Francis'was re-elected, by a majority of Treasurer of the U.S. 545,062 61 one hundred and six votes. George Engs, Public Officers, 1,046,688 61 the whig candidate for Licat. Governor, Individual Deposites, 9,383,954 47 was elected. On Wednesday, the thir- Circulation, 20,347,936 68 teenth ult. the Legislature met in Grand Due from Banks, 2,983,737 55 Committee, for the purpose of electing a Due to State Banks, 6,404,048 05 Senator in Congress. The result was as Notes of State Banks, 2,340,702 follows: for Nehemiah R. Knight, forty- one votes ; Elisha R. Potter, thirty-eight; majority for Knight, three. Mr. Knight was accordingly declared elected a Senas tor in Congress for a term of six years, from the third of March last. Specie, State Banks, Due to State Banks, Due from Domestic Bills, 1,648,298 87 7,594,625 10 ] { ? 1,359,130 38 772,067 38 108,872 56 437,010 61 1,477,559 46 9,242,923 97 4,462,461 45 8,660,586 05 212,611 81 2,061,336 48 2,401,124 97 2,084,109 92 6,576,476 13 8 ities, Bank Stock,'' D Loans on Per- sonal Security 30,000 Other Secur- 2999 079 84 Jºs 3,798,079 84 260,820 90 { 3,535,724 36 4,500 00 43,200 00 At the four principal branches — Philadelphia, Boston, New-York, Baltimore : 727,684 61 2,013,636 48 5,752,541 52 1,210,529 66 96,250 00 111,828 57 79,193 82 SOCIETIES, REPORTS, &c. - An Anti-Slavery Society has been formed in Danville, Kentucky — having for its object the entire abolition of slavery in Kentucky. The President is James' M. Buchanan, Esq. Subbath-School Union. — The nine- teenth anniversary-meeting of this Union was held in the city of New-York, on the eleventh ult. The following facts are presented by the annual report. There are sixty-seven schools under the care of the Society, conducted by nine hundred and thirty-five male and one thousand and thirty female teachers. The number of pupils is thirteen thousand three hun= dred and eight, of whom five thousand nine hundred and thirteen are males, and seven thousand three hundred and nine- ty three females. Sixteen teachers and eighty-eight scholars died during the last year. Three are sixty-three libraries, which contain twenty-one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five volumes. Many of the schools have infant classes con- nected with them ; in twenty-two, there are one thousand four hundred and fifty- 305,746 50 94,769 25 1,451,751 99 50,200 00 1,410,551 99 VOL. VIII. SAN