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REMAINS 
 
 OF 
 
 SAMUEL BARTLETT PARRI8, M. D 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND ESSAYS, 
 
 SELECTED 
 
 FROM HIS MANUSCRIPTS ; 
 
 WITH 
 
 8 35i015*3jif)ical Sftetcij 
 
 OF 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 PLYMOUTH, MASS. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY EZRA COLLIER. 
 
 Allen Danforth, Printer. 
 1829. 
 
 
 rT 
 
 
3 
 
 
 DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS to wit: 
 
 District Clerk's Office. 
 
 ^wwv^^^ BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the thirteenth day 
 | j c I of December, A. D. 1828, in the fifty third year of the 
 $ J Independence of the United States of America, Martin 
 
 **™*™~*& Parris, of the said District, has deposited in this Office 
 the title of a book, the Right whereof he claims as Proprietor in the 
 words following, to wit : 
 
 (t Remains of Samuel Bartlett Parris, M. D. comprising Miscella- 
 neous Poems and Essays, selected from his Manuscripts ; with a Bio- 
 graphical Sketch of The Author. 
 
 In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, en- 
 titled " An Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the 
 Copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of 
 such Copies, during the times therein mentioned:" and also to an 
 Act entitled u An Act supplementary to an Act, entitled, An Act for 
 the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps, 
 Charts and Books to the Authors and Proprietors of such Copies dur- 
 ing the times therein mentioned; and extending the Benefits thereof 
 to the Arts of Designing, Engraving and Etching Historical and other 
 Prints." JNO. W.DAVIS, 
 
 Clerk of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 This volume is the production of a youth, who had 
 scarce exceeded the age of minority, before death put a pe- 
 riod to his labors. It is collected from the numerous 
 manuscripts which he left at his death. These manu- 
 scripts were written at different periods of his life. The 
 reader will not, therefore, expect to find, on every page, 
 the productions of a matured mind. Some of them were 
 composed at a very early age, and are published as 
 specimens of his youthful acquirements. The most of 
 them were written, as the reader will perceive by the dates, 
 between the age of twelve and eighteen. During his short 
 life the author wrote much ; and the large collection of 
 his manuscripts remains as a monument of his talents and 
 industry. They were found after his death, concealed in 
 his trunks — but few of them had ever been seen by even 
 his nearest friends. They were written, probably, for his 
 own pleasure and improvement, and without the most dis- 
 tant intention of publishing. 
 
 Copies of some of these compositions have been circulat- 
 ed among his friends since his death. They have uni- 
 formly expressed their approbation, and anxiously desired 
 a publication of his writings, with some account of his 
 life. They desire some memorial of a beloved associate. 
 Some relick of a departed friend — some remembrancer to 
 keep alive the recollections of his person and character — 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 is always dear, and cherished with a sacred regard by the 
 survivors. What is better adapted to such a purpose, than 
 a copy of his productions — a faithful record of his mind 
 and heart — of his thoughts and feelings, written with his 
 own hand ? Such a record is furnished in the following 
 pages. These are all that now remain of one of whom 
 so much was justly expected, and of whom, if life had been 
 spared, so much would doubtless have been realized. No 
 better token, then, can be offered as a keep-sake. 
 
 The work has been published by subscription, to give 
 those of his numerous friends, who desired, an opportunity 
 of obtaining a copy. It was at first intended to furnish 
 only the number of copies subscribed for ; but the propo- 
 sals were distributed so short a time before the commence- 
 ment of the publication, that there are probably many 
 whose names are not on the list of subscribers, that will 
 wish to purchase the volume. An edition, exceeding the 
 number of subscribers, has, therefore, been published, and 
 distributed at various book-stores, to afford to all his 
 friends an opportunity of procuring the work, and to oth- 
 ers, who feel a curiosity to become acquainted with the 
 productions of a youthful genius. Since the proposals 
 were announced, not only his acquaintance, but the pub- 
 lic in general have manifested an unexpected interest in 
 the work, and given many consoling proofs of their re- 
 gard for the lamented author. 
 
 This volume is similar to many of those which are pub- 
 lished under the title of Remains — like them consisting of 
 a collection from the manuscripts which were left by their 
 authors in an unfinished state. It is published under all 
 the difficulties and disadvantages which necessarily attend 
 posthumous publications — the author is not present to ex- 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 plain, alter or amend. It must be expected, then, that 
 there will unavoidably be some defects or errors, which 
 the author himself might have prevented. 
 
 The different poems in this volume, as well as different 
 parts of the same poem, possess different degrees of merit. 
 Some passages, in particular, which could not be omitted 
 without destroying the connexion, will be found of une- 
 qual merit. The subjects of some of these descriptions, 
 however, do not admit of poetic embellishment — such as 
 his description of the labors and duties of professional 
 life. In such parts the style is plain and unadorned, as 
 simple narration or historical description always should be. 
 In his poems will be found none of that mysticism, and 
 that affected sentimentality, which has been the passion 
 of the age. There is no attempt to excite the attention 
 by extravagant opinions — to interest the feelings by 
 shocking the understanding and the heart. In this vol- 
 ume his acquaintances will possess a faint but true image 
 of the mind and heart of him whom they so highly res- 
 pected and so warmly loved. His real character is here 
 exhibited. The sentiments which are contained in these 
 pages, are those which always guided his conduct in life. 
 If the reader is not instructed by the deep lessons of wis- 
 dom, the inventions of philosophy, or the experience of 
 age, he will not be in danger of being misled by vicious 
 example, corrupted by impure sentiment, or allured by 
 the light of false opinion. He will behold here an unsul- 
 lied page— unstained by any indelicate image or indecent 
 language ; for his moral character was in conformity with 
 his intellectual. The rays of knowledge which enlight- 
 ened his mind, at the same time warmed his heart. 
 
 Such a selection has been made as would exhibit a fair 
 2* 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 !| 
 
 specimen of the author's compositions at different periods, 
 and at the same time give a variety to the work. His two 
 medical Dissertations have been included in this collec- Is 
 tion, which may not please the taste of all, though they 
 are, by no means, without interest to the general reader 
 They will give an idea of his professional qualifications, 
 to his medical friends, who have solicited their publica- 
 tion. These compositions display uncommon powers of r 
 mind for one of his age. A few pieces of a humourous 
 kind are introduced. These are numerous, for he was 
 naturally inclined to such composition. But many of 
 them are necessarily excluded. The incidents on which 
 they are founded, or the circumstances connected with I 
 them, prevent their publication at present. Several more 
 had been selected for the work, but the limits prescribed 
 would not admit their publication. One of these is an 
 amusing Epistle in rhyme, written in a measure peculiar 
 to Burns. To his friends, all his productions are interest- 
 ing ; but to strangers, many of them will possess a peculiar 
 interest, from the circumstances of the author's age. 
 There is a value attached to them, independent of their 
 absolute merits. A peculiar interest is felt in the labors 
 of a youth travelling in the path of learning. Many will 
 dwell with delight upon the scenes of early exertion. 
 There is a pleasure in viewing the bud and the flower, 
 as well as in tasting the ripened fruit. The spring-time 
 is the most interesting and important season r in life ; and 
 the most abundant in example for the young. All that 
 can afford encouragement to rising genius, should be ex- 
 hibited for imitation. The young reader will find in the 
 kfe and writings of the author motives and examples to en- 
 courage him in the pursuit of knowledge and the practice 
 ©f virtue. 
 
PHEEACE, til 
 
 These pages, it must be remembered, are not the pro- 
 duction of his matured mind. However excellent they 
 are in comparison, they are but the youthful efforts — the 
 unfinished performances of his rising genius — the bright 
 promises of a rich and plentiful harvest. Though these 
 may not compare with the more labored productions of 
 elder poets, yet, considering the circumstances under 
 which they were written — the early age of the author — 
 that they were composed while he was occupied in acquir- 
 ing his education — and amidst the engrossing pursuit and 
 practice of a profession — and all this aocomplished within 
 the short space of his brief existence, they certainly ex- 
 hibit evidences and specimens of a powerful and cultivat- 
 ed mind. It is not perhaps becoming the editor to say 
 much in praise of the work, but thus much he can ven- 
 ture, that there is nothing in this volume, of which any, 
 at the author's age, need be ashamed, and much of which 
 they might be justly proud. 
 
 There are some pieces omitted, which display as much 
 talent as those published ; but their subjects are too lo- 
 cal. The reader, unless intimately and personally acquain- 
 ted with the circumstances with which they are closely 
 interwoven, (and which often constitute so much of their 
 interest,) could not perceive their merits. The elucida- 
 tion would require too many explanations, and of that 
 kind too, which it is extremely difficult to communicate 
 by pen. 
 
 It has been remarked that the author did not intend 
 these compositions for publication, at least till they had 
 passed under the examination and correction of his riper 
 years. But his friends are not willing to permit his mem- 
 ory and labors to perish with his body, and to with- 
 
YIII PREFACE. 
 
 hold from the public the example of one so worthy of imi- 
 tation. They wished something as a consolation for the 
 disappointment they have felt in his loss. Not only hb 
 friends but even strangers will find much to admire and 
 praise, much to amuse and instruct them. Without fur- 
 ther comment, we commend this collection of his Remains 
 to the hearts of those who remember his excellence, and 
 to the favor of all who desire to encourage the efforts of 
 youthful genius and virtue. 
 
 Editor. 
 Plymouth, Dec. 18, 1828. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Tributary Verses, - - - 11 
 
 Biographical Sketch of the Author, - 13 
 Anticipations and Recollections, 
 
 Part First, ... 59 
 
 Part Second, 85 
 
 The Duel, ... 109 
 
 The Memory of the Dead, - (*JEtat 16) 113 
 
 Lines on the Downfall of My Woodpile, 114 
 
 Lines written in an Album, - - 117 
 
 On a Sprig of Juniper, - - f 17,) 118 
 
 Lines icritten in an Album, - - 120 
 
 Home, - - - 121 
 
 Lines written in an Album, - • 122 
 
 To the New Year, January 1, 1827, - 123 
 
 To his Friends on New Year's morning, - 124 
 To a Loch of [Hair taken from the head of a 
 
 Young Lady (A. T.) when three months old 125 
 
 Lines written in an Album, - - 127 
 
 Address of The Peruvian Damsel, 128 
 
 The Molian Harp, - - (16) 131 
 
 The Still Small voice, - - (15) 133 
 
 On a Rose blooming in October, - (16) 133 
 
 The Church Yard, - - -(16) 135 
 
 The Happy Life, - - 139 
 
 * The age of foe author is here affixed to those pieces which were 
 not dated on the page where they are printed. 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 Lines on the Death of Henry Smith, (\S) 145 
 
 Recollections on visiting College, - (^) 147 
 
 The Creation, - - (15) 148 
 
 The Shipwreck, - - - 154 
 
 An Extract from "Alonzo," - - 158 
 
 An 'Extract from the same Poem, - - 159 
 
 The Sultan's Vision, - - 161 
 
 The heart lenoweth his own bitterness, (^) 169 
 
 Wliat constitutes a Good Moral Character, ISO 
 
 A Discourse before the Attleborough Society, 192 
 
 A Dissertation on Animal Heat, - 218' 
 
 A Dissertation on Symptoms, - - 246 
 
 Johnson's Lives of the Poets, - - 288 
 
 Henry Kirke White's Remains, ^ - 291 
 
 Burns' Life and Writings, - • 294 
 
 Byron's Works, - - 298 
 
 Rollin's Ancient History, - - 300 
 
 Extracts from Asylum for Vagrant Thoughts , 304 
 
 Notes. - - - - 306 
 
TRIBUTARY VERSES. XI 
 
 TRIBUTARY VERSES TO THE MEMORY OP 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Where has Parris fled ? 
 He's left this world of joy and woe — 
 His spirit soaring looks below, 
 And whispers mortals to bestow 
 A thought on him and heaven. 
 
 His body rests in the damp cold earth ; 
 His voice is hushed that wakened mirth ; 
 His eye, once sparkling with delight, 
 Is closed to sleep in endless night. 
 
 And where has Parris fled ? 
 
 He's winged his way to some strange land unknown ; 
 
 To other realms his wafted spirit's flown ; 
 
 Mortals can only know that he has gone 
 
 To that abode, whence none can e'er return. 
 
 The dark domain of earth has him received — 
 Fairest of flowers that bloomed in virtue's field. 
 While here his body slumbers with the dead, 
 His angel-spirit to his God has fled. 
 
 Though o'er his dust the heedless stranger tread, 
 Nought can disturb the slumbers of the dead, 
 Until the great Archangel from the skies 
 Sound the loud trumpet, and the dead arise — 
 
 Then will he burst the cerements of the tomb, 
 And sainted spirits hail him as he comes — 
 Then through the vault of heaven he'll soar and sing, 
 " O grave ! where is thy victory ? O death ! where is 
 thy sting V 
 
XII TRIBUTARY VERSES. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OP S. B. PARRIS. 
 
 Ye, who have wept o'er genius in its bloom, 
 That faded soon, and withered in the tomb — 
 Who love to linger where the mourner weeps, 
 Oh come, and drop a tear where P arris sleeps. 
 
 A mother bends in anguish o'er his bier — 
 Drops on his closing grave a bitter tear — 
 And o'er his perished hopes a father mourns — ■ 
 With one sad look from that dark grave he turns. 
 
 Around that spot no kindred footsteps tread, 
 Yet there shall friendship's warmest tears be shed ! 
 And though the tongue has bid its last farewell, 
 Yet o'er his name shall faithful Mem'ry dwell. 
 
 A mother's fondness o'er his-mould'ring form 
 In fancy hears the winter's midnight storm — 
 In fancy sees the clayey load that's prest 
 So close around his cold, unconscious breast. 
 
 But faith is taught beyond the bounds of time 
 To view that bright, that heav'nly clime, 
 Where " virtue's faded flower" shall bloom anew, 
 In verdure clothed, and bathed in heav'nly dew. 
 
 J. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 OF 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 It is always a melancholy, but sometimes a pleasing 
 task to record the life, and delineate the character of a 
 departed friend — melancholy, as it renews our sorrow for 
 the loss which death has occasioned; but pleasing, as it 
 recals to mind scenes of past intimacy and objects of past 
 delight, and affords the opportunity of reviving his memo- 
 ry, recording his virtues, and dwelling on his worth. 
 But doubly melancholy is the performance of the task, on 
 the present occasion, since it reminds us of the greatness 
 of the loss ; but doubly pleasing, since the character to be 
 delineated, and the virtues which come in review, are 
 bright and excellent, and the scenes to be portrayed, and 
 the events to be recorded, are interesting and innocent. 
 To dwell on the memory and paint the character of a 
 virtuous friend is a duty, and in the performance of this 
 duty, in this instance, there is nothing to excite regret, 
 but that final event which deprived his friends of his so- 
 ciety, and the public, of his services. 
 
 On me, one of his intimate associates, devolves the du- 
 ty of performing this task. The editor is conscious of 
 his inability, in so short a sketch as this, to do justice, to 
 the memory of one who possessed such varied exceilen- 
 2 
 
14 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 
 
 cies ; but let not the memory of the dead suffer by the in- 
 ability or negligence of the living. He, who was so well 
 qualified for the task, cannot now defend and guard his 
 own reputation. To discharge the duty of surviving [ 
 friendship, with that faithfulness due to the hallowed 
 memory of the dead, is a delicate and difficult office. 
 
 The short but well-spent life of the author of these Re- 
 mains affords but few incidents for the pen of the biogra- 
 pher. A life of domestic virtue and secluded study, how- 
 ever excellent it may be, is not usually marked by any 
 events sufficiently novel or varied to attract the attention 
 of the busy world. His scene of action was not in the 
 theatre of active life ; it was the retired closet of the stu- 
 dious scholar. His operations were unseen by others, 
 for they were conducted within the depths of his mind. 
 There is nothing apparent in the habits of a scholar in 
 general, to render detail interesting. But the life of this 
 author, in particular, was diversified but by a very few 
 striking or uncommon occurrences. His character was 
 peculiarly that of a secluded student, devoted to the cul- 
 tivation of his mental powers, and the acquisition of 
 knowledge. His external conduct — the general habits of 
 his life, from the days of childhood to its closing scene, 
 were so exactly uniform, that the description exhibits no j 
 variety to interest those who read merely for amusement. 
 The history of one week is the history of a year — and the 
 history of one year is the history of his life. But what 
 distinguished him more especially from others, were the 
 operations of the mind. These were unrevealed to hu- J 
 man eye. They cannot now be portrayed by the pen. 
 His time was occupied in labours which will not admit of 
 fall description. Who will reveal to us the secret recess- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. lO 
 
 es of the human mind? The operations of his mind, 
 then, can be known only from their results : — from his 
 acquisitions — from his state of mental cultivation — and 
 from his literary productions. But he had scarce com- 
 menced labour ; for the most of his life had been occupi- 
 ed in disciplining and preparing his mental powers for 
 action. And one, who died so young, it cannot be ex- 
 pected, would leave just specimens of the literary excel- 
 lence which he really possessed. 
 
 Since the materials for composing a history of his life 
 are so few and ordinary, the principal object of this 
 sketch must be to delineate his moral and intellectual 
 character. It was this in which his chief excellence and 
 distinction consisted. This must be effected by a consid- 
 eration of the sentiments and principles which influenced 
 and guided his conduct ; and since there are so few anec- 
 dotes and incidents to illustrate his manner of life, the 
 best knowledge of his sentiments and principles may be 
 obtained from a perusal of his writings. To them the 
 reader is referred. From the opinions contained in them 
 some idea of his character may be discovered. 
 
 The subject of this memoir, Samuel Bartlett Parris, 
 was the third son of Rev. Martin Parris of Marshfield, 
 Mass. and of Julia his wife. He was born in Kingston, 
 Mass. January 30th, 1806. His education was commenc- 
 ed in his native place. An account of his childhood, 
 could particulars be ascertained, would afford subjects of 
 interest, for we love to trace the developement of talents — 
 the dawning of the human faculties. 
 
 The disposition of his mind was manifested early in life, 
 even in infancy. His mental powers were early develop- 
 ed, and exercised in the acquisition of knowledge. In 
 
16 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 this respect he followed the natural bent of his mind. By 
 his own choice he learned the English alphabet, before 
 any attempt was made to teach him. This he did by in- 
 quiring of some one in the family the name of each letter 
 until he had thus fixed it in his memory. He acquired 
 the art of penmanship, without any assistance or instruc- 
 tion from others. This he did by imitating the printed 
 letters which he found in his picture books. From this 
 circumstance his hand-writing varied materially in differ- 
 ent periods, and never possessed a fixed character, as ap- 
 pears by the specimens of penmanship from his first at- 
 tempt at writing, and during his life. Before he was 
 eighteen months old he had learned all the Hebrew letters, 
 out of an old Hebrew Bible in his father's possession, 
 though at that age, he was scarcely able to articulate, or 
 pronounce a letter distinctly. He also learned to read by 
 his own choice, and from his voluntary exertions. The 
 only assistance given him, w^s merely answering the 
 questions which he asked. He used to take some little 
 book, set down in his chair, and occupy himself, by the 
 hour together, in spelling the words ; and after a few weeks 
 had thus been employed, his parents were surprised to 
 discover, that he could not only read, but, in some meas- 
 ure, comprehend what he read. This was the only atten- 
 tion which they bestowed on his instruction, until he had 
 acquired the rudiments of his education : and this must 
 have been rather a pleasure than a task. He thus discov- 
 ered a quick perception, and a wonderful facility of ac- 
 quiring knowledge. This voluntary and successful appli- 
 cation, and these acquirements obtained by almost unaid- 
 ed exertions, evince a disposition and power of mind un- 
 common at that early age, and form an eminent, and al- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. IT 
 
 most sole exception to the general character of children. 
 The elements of education are usually taught a child by 
 earnest persuasion, by patient and oft repeated attempts, 
 and frequently by severe compulsion on the part of the 
 instructor. The child generally manifests a strong aver- 
 sion from giving close attention to mental exertion, at a 
 period of life, when the whole scene of earth is new to 
 him, and exhibits before his wondering eyes a thousand 
 objects to attract his unsated curiosity, and to occupy his 
 time. 
 
 The character of this child presented a direct contrast 
 to this picture. He but seldom amused himself with the 
 usual play-things of children. He never showed but little 
 desire to engage in the ordinary sports of his equals ; but 
 whenever he did engage in play, his amusements were of 
 a different kind from those of children in general. Even 
 at this infantile age his mind seemed to be entirely devot- 
 ed to learning. From the first dawn of reason, he was 
 inquisitive and observing — nothing escaped his inquiry or 
 observation. There was no need of resorting to the usual 
 means of exciting his curiosity — his attention was already 
 sufficiently alive. It was only necessary to guide his at- 
 tention in a proper direction, and to answer the numerous 
 questions which he was so readily disposed to ask. There 
 are anecdotes preserved among his friends, affording nu- 
 merous striking examples of quick perception, accurate 
 observation, and premature understanding. 
 
 He early commenced the practice of composition. 
 From this fortunate circumstance, specimens remain of 
 his genius and learning at a very youthful age. He kept 
 the most of these, however, concealed from all his friends, 
 
 till after his death. Genius is always attended in youth 
 
 2# 
 
18 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 with this diffidence, and is followed by it, until its efforts 
 have been tested, and its confidence assured by frequent 
 experiment. It is an inconvenience to which all are at 
 first subjected, who have the privilege of enjoying those 
 exquisite powers of mind, which are the constituents of 
 genius. It is a retired feeling, which is not manifested in 
 flippancy of conversation, or pertness of behaviour. It is 
 ignorance alone which is pert and forward. From the 
 want of this knowledge of human nature, often arises that 
 false estimate of the natural endowments of children ; and 
 to the same cause must be attributed the circumstance, 
 that the bright promises of childhood so often disappoint 
 the expectations of their inconsiderate friends. 
 
 In order to illustrate his early character, it will be prop- 
 er to introduce some extracts from these juvenile produc- 
 tions — not important in themselves, but valuable as being 
 the best evidence of his character. To some these ex- 
 tracts may appear too childish ; but a virtuous mind de- 
 lights to dwell on the scenes of childhood. Those too, 
 who wish to study the native character of an individual, 
 must recur to its first manifestions at a period, when 
 he is free from that mask sometimes assumed in after life ; 
 when he freely displays every feeling of the heart, with all 
 the artless simplicity of childhood, and without those cold 
 restraints which society imposes, and experience dictates. 
 In after life you may be temporarily deceived by laboured 
 attempts to conform his conduct and opinions to the stand- 
 ard of those whom he respects, or of those with whom he 
 associates ; and his true natural character may be thus 
 concealed for awhile from the view of the observer. But 
 in childhood the conduct is the direct result of feeling, 
 and not of habits acquired in the school of the world. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 19 
 
 Untutored in the ways of man, unpractised in the arts of 
 life, his manners are then the dictates of nature ; and his 
 language is the simple, unsophisticated expression of the 
 heart, and not the studied phraseology of design. 
 
 After his death there was found among his papers a 
 little Journal or Diary, which he began at a very early 
 age* — in which he noted down the daily occurrences and 
 the ordinary events of life, and, in particular, the domestic 
 affairs of his father's family. It contains a daily account 
 of his studies from his first attendance at school, until his 
 admission into college. The writing of this Journal was a 
 labour which he voluntarily undertook, and pursued for 
 his own satisfaction. It serves to illustrate his character, 
 to denote the progress of his studies, and the gradual un- 
 folding of his mind. There is nothing peculiar or remark- 
 able in this Journal, except that candour and openness of 
 heart which adorned his whole life. Its pages exhibit a 
 faithful transcript of his heart. In this he recorded all 
 his conduct, and every motive of his heart ; in this he 
 confesses every fault and error, with as much impar- 
 tiality, as if it were the judgment book of justice. It 
 would be gratifying to his friends to peruse this little 
 juvenile history of his life, as it contains rare examples of 
 innate goodness of heart, honorable to human nature ; and 
 affords pleasing specimens of his early acquisitions, and a 
 minute account of the progress of his studies. The ob- 
 ject for which it was undertaken evinces the disposition of 
 his mind — his strong desire for the attainment of excel- 
 lence. As specimens of the Journal referred to, a few 
 extracts will be made. One of these volumes is prefaced 
 with the following title and remarks, explaining the design 
 with which it was written : " Journal of Samuel B. Parris, 
 *The first volume of this Journal was begun when he was six. 
 
20 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 aged 11 years and one month, begun at Kingston, March 
 24th, A. D. 1817 — wherein I intend to record every 
 thing material that happens near me, and also my faults, 
 that by looking on this I may remember them and do so 
 no more." 
 
 " Thursday, April 3rd. I got a letter from M to 
 
 day, but did not open it. I thought I saw a certain name 
 through the paper. She burnt the letter, and appeared to 
 be offended. No wonder. Undoubtedly I did very 
 wrong. I see my folly — fateor culpam esse mei. [I con- 
 fess the fault to be mine.] I am very sorry. I was put 
 out with her in the forenoon. Fateor me non facere recv 
 te." [I confess I do not act right.] 
 
 " Friday, 4th. I was allowed to stay out of school this 
 forenoon. I stayed and played ball some time. And the 
 company went up to Black water. I, not wishing to go 
 with them, came into school, and was marked for late. 
 Non puto me facere non recte. [I do not think I did 
 wrong.] Also this forenoon, / and the rest of the schol- 
 ars were playing goal ball, and one of them stood before 
 the goal. I told him several times to get out of the way, 
 but he would not. I happened one time to get the ball, 
 and threw it at the goal, and he standing before it, it hit 
 him in his eye. Et in hoc non puto me facere non recte, 
 nam prae-monebam." [And in this I do not think I did 
 wrong, for I warned him of it.] 
 
 " Wednesday 9th. Yesterday when Pa was not at 
 home, I went up stairs, and was playing with the electric 
 machine. Pa says it will not go to-day. Fateor me facere 
 non recte. , ' [I confess I do not act right.] He had been 
 told, he must not touch the machine without liberty from 
 his father. There are many other examples of the same 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 21 
 
 kind scattered throughout the volume. All this is done 
 without the least ostentation, or the most distant expecta- 
 tion that any human eye would see it but his own. In 
 the same manner, the other volumes contain a record of 
 his own feelings, opinions, and resolutions ; his little dis- 
 appointments, and misfortunes ; and the errors and faults 
 into which he was tempted. He records them with all the 
 amiable ingenuousness, and amusing simplicity of child- 
 hood. They exhibit a faithful mirror of his heart. These 
 extracts are exact transcripts from the original, with all 
 those Latin phrases just as he had written them. At the 
 close of each month, he sums up what he had accomplish- 
 ed during the past month. 
 
 " Friday, September 6th, A. D. 1816. At the time 
 that August was out, I had studied through the Oration 
 Pro Rege Deiotaro, and begun the Oration Pro Lege 
 Manilio, in Orationibus Ciceronis — none in the Minora — 
 written no Latin — ciphered a little in' Vulgar Fractions — 
 studied a little Geography — done two or three Geometrical 
 Problems — written composition on Drunkenness, on Rich- 
 es, on Pride, and on War. Had studied a little in Eng- 
 lish Grammar, and a few lessons in the Hebrew Grammar, 
 and spoken a few pieces and dialogues," &c. 
 
 " Wednesday, January 1st, 1817. When December 
 was out, I had studied through the Manilian Law in Cice- 
 ro — gone as far as de Cyri institutione, in Minora — writ- 
 ten a little Latin — written some Composition — studied 
 English Grammar — ended the Hebrew Grammar, the first 
 two Books of Horace, and fifteen Odes — studied some 
 Geography — written some — drawn three Maps, viz. of 
 the Eastern, and Western Continents, and of the United 
 States of America — besides many other trifling things, 
 and perhaps others which I have forgot," 
 
22 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 In this manner he gives a minute and detailed account 
 of his studies from month to month. It displays an inter- 
 esting map to those who delight to trace the progress of 
 the youthful mind from its first feeble infantile attempt at 
 motion, till it attains its more rapid and majestic strides. 
 From these accounts of himself it appears, that he began 
 early to take notice of events which happened within his 
 observation ; and to exercise his own judgment in form- 
 ing his opinions. By accustoming himself to write down 
 the daily occurrences around him, with his remarks, and 
 inferences drawn from them, he acquired the useful habit 
 of observing and investigating whatever passed before him 
 either in the moral or physical world. To this cause may be 
 attributed in part his uncommon discretion in youth. As 
 his early attention to writing was prompted by the natural 
 impulse of his genius, so the early improvement of his 
 mind was the consequence of the habit induced by this ex- 
 ercise. The sentiments and opinions dispersed in van< 
 parts of his juvenile productions alTord clear proofs of un- 
 common discernment, and show that he soon estimated 
 things according to a real, and not that imaginary value, 
 which the youthful imagination is so apt to attach to objects. 
 
 He was prepared for college at Kingston, Mass. under 
 the sole instruction of his father, who then resided at that 
 place with the charge of a numerous school. He com- 
 menced the study of the languages at the age of six years. 
 He showed great facility in the acquisition oflanguag 
 Such was his application, and progress in study, that, be- 
 fore he had arrived at the age of ten, his father carried 
 him to the University, and offered him for examination. 
 Such an extraordinary instance of early genius, and suc- 
 cessful exertion, combined with his diminutive statui 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 23 
 
 and childish appearance, justly excited the curiosity and 
 surprise of the college faculty. . The professors held him 
 in their arms during his examination, and in this manner 
 examined him in the various branches necessary for ad- 
 mission, and heard him construe and translate Virgil, Cic- 
 ero, the Greek Testament, and so forth. He was pro- 
 nounced by them qualified for admission, and accordingly 
 admitted a member of the college. But by their advice, 
 on account of his extreme youth, and that he might not be 
 exposed at that age to the numerous temptations which 
 beset a college life, his father consented to take him home 
 with him. After this he remained with his father at home 
 about two years. At the end of this period, (during which 
 he made rapid progress in the paths of learning,) he re- 
 turned to college, and entered upon its duties. Such ear- 
 ly developement of talent, .such premature acquisitions of 
 learning, are certainly extraordinary ; they excite our ad- 
 miration and astonishment, while they merit our warmest 
 approbation. 
 
 The comprehension of his mind, and the amount of his 
 early acquisitions were surprising. But he never laboured 
 to display the treasured riches of his mind ; neither did 
 the consciousness of such superior acquirements have the 
 usual effect of rendering the possessor vain and indolent, 
 for he was always remarkable for modesty, diligence, and 
 activity. 
 
 The beauties of nature attracted and delighted his in- 
 fant eye, and thus awakened his poetic imagination, and 
 excited that poetic feeling which nature has implanted, in 
 a greater or less degree, in the bosom of every human be- 
 ing, but which is often permitted to lie dormant, until the 
 cold experience of life and its practical occupations, until 
 
24 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 the lapse of time and the vicissitudes of the world have 
 rendered the heart unsusceptible of those finer impres- 
 sions, when this feeling is soon lost amid the busy and 
 engrossing scenes of life. This was that bud of poesy 
 which afterwards bloomed in fragrance and beauty be- 
 neath the dews and sunshine of heaven. In his childish 
 occupations — in the objects which attracted his attention, 
 he discovered this poetic spirit and that love of nature 
 which are always mingled with great and generous souls. 
 This spirit of poetry and this love of nature he ever after 
 cherished amid all his pursuits. 
 
 The days of his childhood were spent, not in childish 
 amusement, but in the constant acquisition of knowledge, 
 and the exercise of virtue. From the earliest period of 
 his life, he showed the most scrupulous obedience to his 
 parents. When their will was once ascertained, he made 
 that the rule of his conduct. His friends can recollect no 
 instance of his ever being corrected, or deserving correct- 
 ion, for disobedience. Whenever he was conscious of 
 having committed a fault, he candidly confessed it, showed 
 great anxiety to amend it, and, whenever in his power, 
 made restitution to those who suffered on his account. His 
 childhood displayed a scene of beauty and innocence 
 which the memory of kindred fondness ever delights to 
 recal — on which the eye of imagination ever delights to 
 dwell. His life could not have been passed more to the 
 satisfaction of those whose care or rather pleasure it was 
 to govern and instruct him. Always inclined to do his 
 duty, and eager in the pursuit of knowledge, the days of 
 his childhood were passed beneath the paternal roof, af- 
 fording his friends a bright promise of his future excellence 
 in the paths of learning and virtue. Such an amiable dis- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 25 
 
 position, such a practical virtue could not but gain the 
 love and even respect of all who knew him. Such in fact 
 was the truth. He was beloved and esteemed by all with 
 whom he associated in school, in college, and in after life. 
 
 The school of childhood combines the circumstances 
 which give character to the future man. The impress 
 which is there stamped upon the youthful heart is durable 
 as its existence. The characters there imprinted are legi- 
 ble during life. Particular characters may be changed, or 
 partially defaced, but the general impression remains the 
 same. The direction given in youth to the path of life is 
 continued through the whole journey in the same line, un- 
 less the impulse of some uncommon force be applied, or 
 some powerful obstacle be opposed, to change its course. 
 The youthful mind is like that insect which assumes the 
 colour of the plant on which it feeds. The outlines of the 
 picture, it is true, are formed by nature — traced by the 
 finger of the Creator, but the colouring- and shades, which 
 form the traits, are reflected from the surrounding scene- 
 ry. Thus the circumstances in which one is placed 
 have the most powerful influence on character. This 
 was happily illustrated in the example before us. The 
 mould of his childhood formed the image of his manhood. 
 The blended but harmonious picture of his mental and 
 moral character retained the same outlines and features, 
 but these became more marked and distinct as he ad- 
 vanced in life, while the colouring grew brighter and 
 brighter, till the darkness of the grave covered it from our 
 sight. He continued his path of life in the same straight 
 course till his progress was arrested by the hand of death. 
 
 His college life was in exact uniformity with his previ- 
 ous character. It was distinguished by a cheerful and 
 3 
 
26 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 
 
 entire obedience to the regulations of the institution ; by 
 a dutiful respect to his instructors : by a constant and 
 punctual attendance on the recitations and other stated 
 exercises of the college ; and, in short, by the strict per- 
 formance of the duties of a student. He here continued 
 the same studious and industrious habits — possessed the 
 same unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and the same 
 integrity of character, which distinguished him in child- 
 hood. His collegiate life was distinguished not by a short- 
 lived brilliancy of talents, appearing only to expire, nor 
 by a studious display of his acquired abilities ; but by an 
 industrious application to study, and by a preparation of 
 his acquisitions for future use in the concerns of life. He 
 was not desirous of a temporary reputation, and to waste 
 more time in gaining it, than it was worth. He sought 
 for knowledge that was valuable, rather than showy. His 
 application was steady and noiseless, and directed to solid 
 and substantial acquirements. He did not aim to acquire 
 what would appear best for a moment, but what would be 
 the most important for life. 
 
 By his studious habits as a scholar, by the affability of 
 his deportment as a companion, by the suavity of his man- 
 ners, and the sweetness and cheerfulness of his disposition, 
 he gained not only the esteem, but the affectionate fond- 
 ness of his fellow-students, and especially of his intimate 
 associates. By his docility as a pupil, and by his cheer- 
 ful and respectful obedience to superiours, he attracted 
 the attention of the government. He was but a boy in 
 age and appearance, and this circumstance, combined 
 with his amiable disposition and unusual literary acquire- 
 ments, made him the wonder and delight of the whole 
 college. Though young in years, he obtained many 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 27 
 
 marked distinctions from his classmates and instruct- 
 ors. He was frequently appointed to deliver the poems, 
 addresses, &/C which custom has established among the 
 students. This circumstance, though unimportant in it- 
 self, is no little distinction for one so young, and shows 
 the regard which they felt for him, and their opinion of 
 his qualifications for such performances. These are still 
 preserved among his college manuscripts, and exhibit 
 much ingenuity in the composition, and a most playful 
 and amusing humour. Notwithstanding his extreme 
 youth, he preserved his purity of principles amidst the 
 corruptions which surrounded him, and the utmost regu- 
 larity of conduct amidst the disorders which too often 
 prevail in such an institution. He continued his upright 
 course of conduct, unseduced by the charms of indolence, 
 uninfluenced by the temptations of pleasure. This con- 
 duct evinced an uncommon decision of character, and a 
 mature discretion even at that early period of life. But 
 his steady perseverance in the path of virtue happily dis- 
 appointed the fears which his friends entertained, lest his 
 strength should not be sufficient to resist the influence of 
 vice. It is a rare instance, that a youth of his age, sur- 
 rounded by such powerful temptations, entirely escapes the 
 contaminating influence of vicious example, and the pre- 
 vailing corruptions of the place. It was a decisive trial 
 of his virtue. This same resolution of character he main- 
 tained amidst all temptations throughout the subsequent 
 period of his life. No ridicule, or persuasion could ever 
 seduce him from his duty. His principles and his obedi- 
 ence to them were fixed. 
 
 He obtained the honours of the University at the usual 
 period, received an honourable appointment in the liter a- 
 
28 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 xy exercises of Commencement, and, though but a child 
 in appearance, performed a part in the exhibition of the 
 day. He acquitted himself, on this occasion, with satis- 
 faction to his friends, and with credit to himself and the 
 institution. The part assigned him was the Greek Ora- 
 tion, which then held a high rank among the appoint- 
 ments. He was ranked in the first grade, as appears by 
 the custom, which then existed, of printing in capitals the 
 names of those speakers who were entitled to that distinc- 
 tion. 
 
 Having thus completed the course of his collegiate ed- 
 ucation at the early and extraordinary age of fifteen, he 
 the University, with qualifications far superior to 
 what many of an older age possess at the end of their 
 course. Few, in fact, leave their Alma Mater, with a 
 purer character, with more studious habits, or with a bet- 
 ter disciplined and better stored mind. After this, he 
 remained at home with his father about a year, that 
 mind might acquire greater strength and more maturity, 
 in order to fit him for the still more severe and arduous 
 labours of professional study. But this time was not spent 
 hi idleness or indolence, but in the continuance of his 
 literary habits and pursuits, while every day brought addi- 
 tion to the stores of his knowledge. 
 
 Having determined the choice of his profession, he af- 
 terwards at the age of sixteen entered on the study of 
 Medicine, under the tuition of Dr. Paul L. Nichols, of 
 Kingston, Mass. with whom he remained one year. His 
 instructor gives a most flattering account of his conduct, 
 and the rapidity of his progress in study, during his re- 
 sidence with him. Study seemed to be his whole occu- 
 pation — to this he devoted every moment of time and eve- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. *29 
 
 ry energy of his soul, scarcely allowing himself sufficient 
 leisure to unbend his mind, and exercise his body. He 
 mentions several instances in which his pupil showed, on 
 an emergency, a surprising sagacity in comprehension, a 
 thorough knowledge of the principles and even skill in 
 the practical part of his profession. During this one 
 year he laid a solid and extensive foundation for profess- 
 ional eminence. He gave entire satisfaction to his in- 
 structor, and obtained from him his unqualified approba- 
 tion of the course of conduct he pursued. Not only so, 
 but he gained the esteem and attachment of all his ac- 
 quaintances. 
 
 He then* removed to Boston, for the purpose of attend- 
 ing the Medical Lectures delivered in that place. He 
 continued here the usual time, attended by the same ar- 
 dent thirst for knowledge, by the same unremitted appli- 
 cation in the pursuit While in attendance on these 
 Lectures, he gave the closest attention to the subjects" of 
 which they treated, as abundantly appears from the fact 
 of his having taken down each lecture as delivered, in 
 short hand, and afterwards copied in full. The branch 
 of each professor occupies a separate volume of about 
 two hundred pages. The manuscript volumes still re- 
 main among his papers — a monument of his industry and 
 perseverance. 
 
 Though he was the youngest member of the school, in 
 attendance at the time, and his competitors were numer- 
 ous, he obtained the Boylston Medical Prize, by an Orig- 
 inal Dissertation, which he read and presented to the 
 
 * I have been iuformed since this was written, that he attended 
 three courses of Lectures, at this institution, one before he completed 
 the first year of his medical studies. 
 
 3* 
 
3Q BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 committee appointed to award it.* This was a distinc- 
 tion which entitled him to notice, and excited the admira- 
 tion and suprise of his fellow-students, who were before 
 unacquainted with his mental excellence, and the extent of 
 his acquirements. The theme which he selected for his 
 Dissertation, was c< Animal Heat."f The manner of 
 treating the subject, the variety of proofs, the cogency 
 and clearness and conclusiveness of the arguments ad- 
 duced, evince uncommon strength of mind, accuracy and 
 variety of information, extent of research, and a familiar 
 acquaintance with the principles of chemical and natural 
 science. He was next admitted into the family of Dr. 
 Samuel Bugbee of Wrentham, Mass. for the further pros- 
 ecution of his professional studies. Under the charge 
 and instruction of this gentleman he finished his course 
 of Medical reading, having continued with him the two 
 remaining years required by the rules of the profession. 
 
 After attending his second course of Lectures at the 
 Boston Medical Institution, and passing through the usual 
 examination in a manner which did credit to his acquire- 
 ments, and gave great satisfaction to his examiners, he 
 received his Medical Degree, 31st August, 1825, on 
 which occasion he read and defended, with his usual 
 felicity of execution, a Dissertation " On Symptoms, "f 
 which, though a common subject, is distinguished by orig- 
 inality of thought, by lucid order and arrangement of the 
 parts, by purity and elegance of language. This disser- 
 tation, if the editor is not widely mistaken, will be found 
 to embody a valuable collection of medical observation, 
 
 # The Prize awarded consisted of a neat elegant pocket case of 
 Surgeon's Instruments, valued at Sixteen Dollars. 
 
 t This is published ainong his prose pieces. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 31 
 
 clothed in a style, and treated in a manner, which might 
 attract the regard of even those who are not immediately 
 interested in the subject. If it does not convey any new 
 ideas to experienced practitioners, it may suggest val- 
 uable hints to those, who, (as the author was at that time,) 
 are about to commence practice. 
 
 r Having thus at a very early age acquired his profession, 
 and gained the esteem and regard of every one with whom 
 he lived, by the most unexceptionable conduct in every 
 situation ; and distinguished himself as a student by the 
 strength of his mental powers, by unremitted application 
 to study, and consequent thorough knowledge of medical 
 science, he was eminently qualified for practice. We 
 have the uniform testimony of all those with whom he 
 pursued his medical studies, as evidence of his uncom- 
 mon qualifications for a physician. He pursued his stu- 
 dies systematically ; sought for the principles of the sci- 
 ence in the nature and constitution of man — he was not 
 satisfied, as one of his tutors remarked, with a knowledge 
 of effects, he traced them to their causes — he was not sat- 
 isfied with beholding appearances, he must discover the 
 reality. He made a science, and not a mere trade of his 
 profession — he had a higher aim— a nobler object in riew. 
 His ideas of the profession, and of the qualifications nec- 
 essary in its professors, were elevated and generous — he 
 was aboye all the artful resorts often used to conceal an 
 ignorance in theory, or a want of skill in practice. He 
 disdained all pretensions — all appearances — all art — all 
 quackery. He was fully sensible of the high charge en- 
 trusted to the Physician — the health and lives of his fel- 
 low-creatures — and of the fatal, irretrievable consequences 
 which may arise from ignorance or negligence. 
 
32 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 
 
 In his range of medical studies, he embraced not only 
 the regions of knowledge on which his profession was 
 immediately founded, but those indirectly connected with 
 it, — moral and mental philosophy — those departments of 
 science, which lead to a more intimate acquaintance with 
 human nature. He deemed the science of medicine 
 founded in a knowledge of the human system — in the 
 moral and physical nature of man — not to be acquired by 
 a few years of compounding drugs, and visiting patients — 
 but by a life devoted to laborious study and careful ob- 
 servation. He has been often heard in conversation to 
 lament the ignorance which has heretofore prevailed too 
 much among many of his profession, but rejoiced at the 
 superior qualifications now requisite — at the more elevat- 
 ed standard of education, and the encouraging prospects 
 which it holds forth at the present age. It is, indeed, a 
 profession at present sustaining a high rank for knowl- 
 edge and philanthropy. It has afforded many benefactors 
 to the human race, distinguished for their cultivation of 
 science and general literature — has added many a rich 
 discovery to the annals of science — inscribed many an 
 illustrious name on the rolls of fame.* 
 
 To chemistry and botany, in particular, so intimately 
 connected with his profession, he had given great atten- 
 tion. His partiality for these branches of study, is dis- 
 covered in his Poem, entitled Anticipations and Recollec- 
 tions, in which he vividly and warmly describes the 
 pleasures which the study of botany affords, and the 
 scene of wonders which chemistry unfolds to the eyes of 
 her votaries in the gorgeous temple of nature. 
 
 * In the first Poem published in this volume, the author has eulo- 
 gized several eminent men of his profession, and paid a just tribute to 
 their noble exertions in the cause of humanity. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 33 
 
 October 14th, A. D. 1825, he commenced practice in 
 Attleborough, at the residence of the late Dr. Thomas 
 Stanley. In this situation he continued, in the perform- 
 ance of professional duty, and the further improvement of 
 his mind by the most diligent application to study, and the 
 unceasing exertion of the powerful energies of his soul, 
 while he gradually acquired the confidence of the com- 
 munity, as his excellence became known. Notwithstand- 
 ing he settled here with the disadvantage of his inexperi- 
 ence and his retiring habits, &, though his practice was not 
 extensive, as must naturally be expected, yet he had many 
 cases intrusted to his care which required great caution 
 and skill in the management, and in these he was success- 
 ful. 
 
 Though he bestowed the most of his time on subjects 
 connected with his profession, yet he did not confine his 
 attention within these limits ; he cultivated general litera- 
 ture, and sought to adorn and improve his mind by the 
 help of universal knowledge. He did not spend his time 
 here in making acquaintances, and seeking the favour of 
 the people by courting their society, but he spent it in the 
 seclusion of his study, and wisely left it, with confidence, 
 to the progress of time to make known his qualifications, 
 and establish his reputation. Though he had acquired a 
 liberal education, and had pursued the usual routine of 
 professional studies, yet he did not, like many, consider 
 his education finished. He had no such contracted views 
 of human improvement, His standard of excellence 
 was elevated far above such a level. His aspiring 
 mind was not satisfied with the bounds to which he 
 had already proceeded ; he longed to extend his research- 
 es still farther into the literally boundless fields of knowl* 
 
34 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 edge — to enlarge still more the already extended horizon 
 of his mental vision. There were bright regions which 
 his eye had never beheld — there was delicious food which 
 his lips had never touched. He had tasted the sweet foun- 
 tains of knowledge, and thirsted to drink still deeper 
 draughts — he had soared on the wings of imagination, and 
 gazed on its beautiful prospects, and its scenes of enchant- 
 ment, and longed to soar still higher, and gaze still longer 
 on its beauties, and gather newer charms from its" inex- 
 haustible treasures. 
 
 He thus proceeded on, accumulating stores of knowl- 
 edge for future use, and disciplining his mental powers 
 for future contest, until his promising hopes were sud- 
 denly blasted, and his ardent pursuits arrested by the 
 hand of death. 
 
 Poetic feeling is often so closely interwoven with the 
 finest texture of the human heart, that the least vio- 
 lence will disorder it — like the "delicate strings of a nice- 
 tuned instrument, which tremble with every vibration — 
 thrill with every touch — and whose chords are suddenlv 
 snapped, while breathing the sweetest music. Genius 
 is often connected with such delicacy of constitution, 
 that the human frame cannot long endure the powerful 
 action to which this mysterious union subjects it. It often 
 inhabits a mortal tenement too fragile in its construction 
 to confine its^ever-restless spirit — the searching fire of 
 genius consumes while it glows, and the brittle mould of 
 clay which contains the fiery element, crumbles away by 
 the incessant influence of its action, till it bursts the 
 prison of clay which confines it to earth, and soars to 
 its native skies, to mingle with kindred spirits. 
 
 His health was evidently impaired several months pre- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 35 
 
 vious to his last sickness, in consequence, it is thought , 
 of too assiduous application to literary pursuits, and of too 
 severe exertion of the mind. The form which embodied 
 that noble spirit was about to decay. 
 
 u, Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, 
 And helped to fix the wound that laid thee low — 
 Unhappy friend ! while life was in its spring, 
 And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
 The spoiler came." 
 
 The last sad scene of time was now approaching, when 
 he was destined to yield his immortal soul to the world of 
 spirits. 
 
 About the first September, 1827, he complained of be- 
 ing unwell, but not seriously so — he remained, however, 
 for several days in a lingering state. During this 
 time he was his own physician — took some common med- 
 icines — and several times bled himself, or at least at- 
 tempted it, but without succeeding to his wishes. But as 
 he daily grew worse, with increasing symptoms of a dan- 
 gerous disorder, he began to feel serious apprehensions, 
 that some powerful disease had attacked him. Still he 
 kept up courage, walked about the house, continued to 
 take his own prescriptions, refused to take his bed, and 
 endeavoured to amuse himself with his books. His dis- 
 ease, however, was growing upon him, hour after hour, 
 accompanied with more aggravated pains, and alarming 
 symptoms, — at last he reluctantly took to his bed, and 
 consented to have a physician called. At this time he 
 seemed, from a critical examination of his case, to be sat- 
 isfied of the nature of his disease, and convinced of the 
 fatal termination of it, though he did not then mention 
 
36 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 his convictions to the family in which he lived. A short 
 time previous to this, as one of his neighbours called in to 
 see him while he was sitting in his study, and inquired of 
 him, in the most encouraging and cheerful manner he 
 could assume, the state of his health, and what he thought 
 of his disease since he had examined it — he answered in 
 a firm and decided tone, " I have been running it through 
 the books, and am convinced, it is fatal." His disorder 
 had now assumed the form of a malignant typhus fever, — 
 but little expectation was entertained of his recovery. 
 He was unwilling for some time, that any intelligence of 
 his sickness should be sent to his parents, for fear of 
 causing them needless anxiety. But one day after an in- 
 effectual attempt to bleed himself, and the unsuccessful 
 application of all the remedies which he had tried, he 
 said, " If things operate in this way, you had better send 
 for them immediately.' ' During his sickness, he was oc- 
 casionally delirious, as is usually-the case in such diseas- 
 es, but at no time entirely deprived of his senses ; it was 
 rather temporary absence of mind than continued deliri- 
 um. He retained the use of his reason remarkably for 
 one in his condition ; he manifested much anxiety for 
 fear that such would not be the case ; and frequently in- 
 quired of those around him, if they had seen him when 
 they thought he was deranged. His disorder every day 
 becoming more alarming, and the apprehensions of his 
 friends increasing, a message, agreeably to his wishes, 
 was sent to his parents, who arrived at the residence of 
 their son in Attleborough, Wednesday September 12th. 
 On Tuesday morning, the day before their arrival, he 
 called one of the family to his bed-side, and enjoined her 
 to tell his parents, (as he knew this thought would be a 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH* 3? 
 
 consolation to them in their afflictions) ci I wish you to 
 tell my parents, said he, if I should die before they come, 
 that I am ready and willing to die ; that I have no desire 
 to live, but for their sakes — for myself, I think, the ex- 
 change will be a happy one/' 
 
 The substance of the following account is obtained 
 from the notes which his father took at the time, and from 
 the recollections of others who were present during his 
 sickness. 
 
 Wednesday September 12th. He appeared to be per- 
 fectly sensible, but said little. He was entirely resigned 
 to the will of his heavenly Father, and, on his own ac- 
 count, had no choice either to live or die. He told his 
 father, in relating his feelings, that he felt a hope in the 
 Redeemer, but regretted his neglect of duty while in 
 health. 
 
 Thursday 13th. In the morning he said, " I have an 
 irrepressible desire to depart and be with Jesus." He 
 was asked, what was the ground of his hope, that he 
 should be with him, when he departed ; he answered, 
 " because I love him and trust in him." 
 
 Friday morning. His father asked him, if he felt any 
 different from what he did the day before ; he said his 
 head was very much confused. This was nearly all he 
 had said to him, since the morning before, except to ask 
 for necessaries. 
 
 Saturday morning, 6 o'clock. He called his father to 
 him, wished him to shut the door, and said, " I have had 
 a comfortable night, but begin to be confused in my 
 head. I cannot think much of my situation, but when I 
 can think, my views are as they have been. I am entire- 
 
38 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.. 
 
 \y willing to live or die. Whatever the dispensation of 
 Heaven shall be, is also my will." 
 
 His symptoms having previous to this appeared more 
 favourable, and his friends entertaining some expectations 
 of his life, his father told him^ that from Dr* B — 's state- 
 ment, there was hope of his recovery, though he was not 
 out of danger. He said, *' The cause of my disorder is, 
 in no sense, removed — the disorder in my head and the 
 heavy load in my stomach yet remain, and other indica- 
 tions are against my recovery, I do not wish to alarm 
 you, but I think the chance is against me. 55 His parents 
 had been too much encouraged by a temporary appear- 
 ance in his favour, though the opinion of his physicians 
 was not altered. Even one beam of hope amid the dark- 
 ness of despair often deceives by its cheering contrast, 
 and expands the spirits beyond a reasonable bound. 
 Their hopes were raised only to be disappointed. He 
 soon relapsed, after this short rerxval, and even hope was 
 almost gone, though there is hope, while there is life. 
 At this time he was reduced so low that he could not 
 speak distinctly ; and he said some things which were 
 not perfectly understood. One night he requested them 
 to retire early, but with the expectation of being called 
 up in the night to see him die, as he thought he should 
 not survive till morning. He did, however, survive, but 
 still would not admit there was any hope of his recov- 
 ery. 
 
 A short time before his death he called his parents to 
 him to take leave of them, and bid them a last farewell — 
 he gave some directions respecting his private affairs — 
 mentioned to them his trunk of manuscripts, and what 
 they would find in it, particularly a paper containing 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 39 
 
 some of his religious opinions and sentiments — expressed 
 his sorrow that his death would leave them childless, and 
 his hope that he should meet them in a happier world ; 
 and then asked to kiss them, as the last token of earthly 
 affection. But this was not their last meeting. 
 
 Monday P. M. They thought he was dying; the 
 neighbours were called in ; but in a short time he again 
 revived. They were so much encouraged by this, that his 
 physicians were immediately called in. After a consul- 
 tation, they concluded to try the effects of some other 
 prescriptions ; but all in vain. He again appeared to be 
 in a dying state. All that human power could do was 
 done by his physicians. But his disease was fixed, and 
 resisted every means of human art. 
 
 Tuesday morning. He was more than usually deliri- 
 ous — frequently appeared to be conversing with persons 
 who were not present — and called on the names of many 
 of his early friends — his mind seemed to be dwelling on 
 the fading recollections of the past. This forenoon he 
 said to one present, " Ask my father and mother to come 
 to me, for the scene will soon be closed." He held out 
 his hand to them, as they approached, but could not 
 speak. 
 
 Wednesday morning. He asked his father, if he was 
 willing to part with him ; when he remarked, " but we 
 shall not be parted long. 5 ' " No," said he, " we shaU'riot, 
 The separation is but momentary. The narrow space of 
 time between us will soon be passed." In the afternoon, 
 some of his symptoms appeared more encouraging ; and 
 during the next day, there was a faint hope that his dis- 
 ease would take a more favourable turn. 
 
 But on Friday September 2 1st, between the hours of 
 
40 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 two and three in the morning, he expired, at the age of 
 21 years, 7 months and 22 days. For several hours be- 
 fore his death he remained speechless, but having his 
 senses ; his strength gradually failed, until the last mo- 
 ment arrived, when he calmly sunk into the repose of 
 death. During the whole period of his sickness, no com- 
 plaint or murmur escaped his lips — but, on the contrary, 
 he manifested a cheerful resignation to his fate. After 
 his life was despaired of, he felt great anxiety in regard to 
 the feelings of his parents. Knowing their attachment to 
 him, he was sensible that his death would be to them the 
 cause of the deeoesi affliction. On his own account he 
 was willing to leave the world, but on theirs he desired to 
 live. The feelings of his parents, while standing around 
 the death-bed of their last son, on whom they had fixed 
 their fondest hopes, may be imagined, but not expressed. 
 He was the only stay and comfort of bereaved parents, 
 who had placed on him their warmest affections, which 
 were late torn from other objects, and who, in the decline 
 of life, must pass the remainder of their days, without the 
 consolations of an affectionate and dutiful son. 
 
 His dying hour was worthy the life he had lived — pos- 
 sessing a firm faith in the doctrines of the gospel, to 
 which he was always attached, and animated by its senti- 
 ments, and encouraged by its consoling promises, he died 
 ill peace. 
 
 His closing scene was calm and composed — no enthu- 
 siasm mingled with his feelings — no dying raptures dis- 
 turbed the solemn calmness and gentleness of death's ap- 
 proach. Angels of mercy ministered around his dying 
 bed. He died in the full and blessed hopes of Christiani- 
 ty. The agonies of death were supported by the con- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 41 
 
 fsciousness of a well-spent life, and the hopes of redeem- 
 ing mercy. His path through the " valley of the shadow 
 of death" was illumined by a beam of that eternal light 
 which dawns on the closing eye of faith. He lived, as 
 every man should live, in the performance of his duty ; 
 and died, as every man should die, in the hopes of ever- 
 lasting life. 
 
 The funeral services were performed in the afternoon 
 of the succeeding Sabbath. An unusually large concourse 
 of people assembled on the occasion, to testify their re- 
 spect for his character, and their sorrow for his death. 
 When his death was known, a general gloom pervaded 
 the town ; they seemed fully sensible of the loss which 
 they had sustained. Every one mourned that a star so 
 Jbright should set so soon. 
 
 The Attleborough Society of which the deceased was 
 an active member marched, as a body, in the procession. 
 It was one of the longest ever known in the place. Hun- 
 dreds of sincere mourners followed him to his last abode. 
 His resting place is in a burying ground situated near hi* 
 late residence. There kindred footsteps do not tread, 
 but hundreds, who knew him but a short time, still re- 
 tain an ardent, unfading affection for his memory. His 
 mortal remains were there committed to their kindred 
 dust, but his emancipated spirit ascended to the bosom of 
 his God. 
 
 Thus has descended to the tomb one of the most prom- 
 ising youths — one in the flower of his age — in the pros- 
 pect of eminence and public usefulness — and in the 
 warm anticipation of happiness. We cannot but feel a 
 deep and melancholy regret, when a youthful aspiring 
 genius, like him, is arrested in the outset of his career. 
 4* 
 
42 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 If gives a pang to the heart, to behold the arrow of death 
 piercing the bosom of the new-fledged bird, and laying it, 
 while just rising on its eager wings, prostrate on the 
 earth, with all its bright plumage around it. So we feel 
 when the youthful bard expires. When the hoary head, 
 like a ripened sheaf "of corn, is gathered to the garner of 
 the grave, we mourn for the dead, but we feel 'tis man's 
 appointed time — that his services to the world have been 
 rendered — that his work is finished — we expect no more — 
 we are satisfied. But not so with the young man, when 
 he is cut off in the full vigor and eager expectation of 
 youth. Something is promised which is not fulfilled. 
 The mind cannot rest with satisfaction on its disappoint- 
 ed hopes. We mourn not only for the dead, but for the 
 living. He thus perished — 
 
 u And all his promise fair," 
 
 u Has sought the grave to sleep forever there." 
 
 All the treasured and precious stores of knowledge 
 which he had been for years in collecting — all his lofty 
 aspirations after excellence ; all his favourite plans for 
 future improvement and felicity ; all his high-souled pur- 
 poses for the benefit of his fellow-men ; all his ardent and 
 generous hopes have descended with him to the tomb. 
 The triumphant hand of death has seized and destroyed 
 them. His body is now resting in a lonely grave at a 
 distance from the abodes of his parents and early friends. 
 Oh Death ! if 'tis thy glory to destroy 
 With sudden blast the opening buds of joy ; 
 If His thy boast severely to display 
 And wide diffuse the terrors of thy sway, 
 High o'er this grave thy proudest trophy rear, 
 And tell with exultation ivho lies here !* 
 
 * From a manuscript Poem on the Death of a Young Man. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 43 
 
 The duration of the earthly existence of the subject of 
 this sketch was short indeed ; but in that short period of 
 life he was enabled to accomplish much. It is a matter 
 of astonishment, that within the compass of so contracted 
 a life, he could have accumulated so great and valuable a 
 store of knowledge, and left in his numerous manuscripts 
 such full evidence of his industry and ability. " That 
 life is long which answers life's great end." 
 
 It is beyond the power of this pen to portray his char- 
 acter in all its amiable and excellent traits. Some 
 things there are which cannot easily be described. That 
 which possesses a character of uniformity, however appro- 
 priate that may be, does not admit those distinguishing pe- 
 culiarities which afford objects of description. Unless the 
 object of description be distinguished by some striking or 
 irregular features, an attempt to convey a correct concep- 
 tion of it, will be found difficult. Who can describe to 
 the imagination of a stranger the countenance of a perfect 
 beauty 1 That scenery admits of the most vivid and 
 graphic description, which possesses a wild and irregular 
 character — which contains some features out of keeping 
 with the general picture. Thus the various traits which 
 compose the character of the author, were so harmonious- 
 ly blended and disposed, as to form a whole, uniform pic- 
 ture, without any of those irregular features which often 
 disfigure the characters of individuals. That uniformity — 
 that consistency — that harmony of his moral and intellec- 
 tual features, which render his character amiable and ex- 
 cellent, render it also difficult of description. 
 
 The powers of his mind were not brilliant and glaring ; 
 in this respect he was different from many others — some 
 of whose mental faculties are superior in a high degree, 
 
44 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 while the rest are equally inferior. His were generally 
 and uniformly excellent. Particular faculties of some 
 minds, from various inducements, are highly and careful- 
 ly cultivated, while others are permitted to run to waste, 
 uncultivated, and unregarded. This may answer partic- 
 ular purposes ; but it is not the safest way to the attain- 
 ment of excellence and happiness. The exclusive cultiva- 
 tion of a single faculty of the mind may enable the pos- 
 sessor to attain greater eminence in those branches with 
 which that faculty is the most intimately connected. But 
 each faculty derives aid and strength from the general and 
 equal cultivation of all the mental powers. The benefit 
 is mutual. They are all thus strengthened by the numer- 
 ous links which connect them. Of this truth his mind 
 afforded a convincing example. 
 
 The traits of his moral character were not, some of 
 them brilliant and beautiful, and^others dark and deform- 
 ed. The traits composing the moral characters of some 
 individuals are soiled and deformed by a connection with 
 those of an opposite character. The most eminent vir- 
 tues are sometimes linked with the most degraded vices. 
 But his mental and moral character, without any thing 
 dazzling or uncommon in the individual traits of either, 
 formed a complete and harmonious whole, without appa- 
 rent spot or blemish. He was a bright instance of the 
 harmonious union of moral and intellectual excellence. 
 
 His mind did not, like Byron's, resemble a wild, uncul- 
 tivated tract of earth, " where weeds and flowers promiscu- 
 ous shoot ;" where all objects are irregular and mixed in 
 confusion ; where you behold amidst barren wastes, occa- 
 sional spots verdant and blooming in all the wild and 
 rank luxuriance of nature ; where one breeze is redolent 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 45 
 
 with the fragrance of sweetest flowers, and fresh with the 
 coolness breathing from the purest founts, and the next is 
 filled with the noxious breath exhaled from stagnant wa- 
 ters and decaying matter ; where the melody of birds is 
 mingled vritfi the howls of beasts of prey ; where bright 
 spots are warmed and enlightened by the beams of a 
 smiling sun, and others are enveloped in impenetrable 
 darkness ; where, in one part of the horizon, bright 
 glimpses of a blue sky are seen serenely smiling, and in 
 others, frequent flashes of lightning are gleaming athwart 
 the awful gloom of impending clouds ; where the mind is 
 alternately delighted or cheered, and disgusted or terrified 
 with the objects of the scene. But it resembled a uni- 
 formly improved landscape, where the vegetation is culti- 
 vated with care ; w r here the noxious weeds are eradicated, 
 and flowers are blooming in their place ; where the soil is 
 watered with perennial springs, and shaded with cool re- 
 treats , where the odour of flowers is' wafted on the breath 
 of every wind, unmingled with the effluvia of corruption ; 
 where the scene is enlivened by eternal sunshine ; where 
 the intensity of heat is delightfully tempered by the cool- 
 ing breezes wafted from the surrounding groves and foun- 
 tains ; where the whole scene is agreeably diversified with 
 the prospect of hill and valley, river and wood ; where, in 
 fine, every object is beauty to the eye, and every souud is 
 music to the ear. 
 
 His was a mind uniformly cultivated. All its powers 
 were brought into operation. Though he often indulged 
 in the pleasures of a poetic imagination, yet his reasoning 
 powers were strong and highly cultivated. This he evinc- 
 ed by the solidity of his acquirements, the originality of 
 his conceptions, and the strength and clearness of his ar- 
 guments. 
 
46 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 There was one trait among his numerous excellencies, 
 particularly worthy of imitation by all engaged in like pur- 
 suits — a trait, by the want of which the rich treasures and 
 splendid talents of many a powerful mind have become use- 
 less to the world, and its energies been lost amid the multi- 
 lipcity of its pursuits and the confusion of its acquirements. 
 This was, the order and regularity of his studies. He had 
 a system of his own — not an artificial, but natural system, 
 adapted to his peculiar circumstances. The discipline of 
 his mind was excellent. The chain of his thoughts was 
 nicely linked through all their gradations. His conclu- 
 sions were rapidly and correctly formed. His mind was 
 not a universal store house where e very species of knowl- 
 edge was collected in confusion — -a mingled mass of use- 
 less learning, useless because never found when wanted : 
 but every addition was arranged in its appropriate depart- 
 ment, and ready whenever occasion required its use. 
 The same attention to order was carried into all his pur- 
 suits. It may be particularly observed in the condition of 
 his manuscripts. Every piece in them is neatly written ; 
 every subject, arranged under its proper title. By follow- 
 ing this method he became complete master of whatever 
 he undertook. 
 
 He made study both the business and amusement of 
 his life. Possessing in himself an inexhaustible fund of 
 enjoyment, he had no inducement to seek any other 
 amusement. He had a mind unceasingly at work. His 
 life was one unvaried scene of exemplary industry — one 
 continued series of effectual application. No enticements 
 of pleasure — no charms of society — no bowers of indo- 
 lence could seduce him from his duty as a scholar and 
 professional mam He resisted every temptation, and 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 47 
 
 travelled on, with unabated ardour, in the pursuit of 
 knowledge. He had no desire to turn aside from its 
 paths. The acquisition of new ideas, and the perception 
 of truth had charms enough to retain his affections — af- 
 forded pleasure enough to satisfy his desires. In whatev- 
 er he engaged he manifested the most unyielding perse- 
 verance, the most unwearied industry. Though his 
 learning was great, he made no intended display of it ; 
 neither was his manner tainted with that professional 
 cant so frequent in the conversation of those who have 
 never extended their observation beyond the limits which 
 circumscribe a particular profession. His information 
 was general and liberal. Though he had given particu- 
 lar attention to his profession, it was not exclusive. He 
 delighted to range abroad over the extensive fields of sci- 
 ence and literature, to gather thence materials to enrich 
 his intellectual treasury, and to add strength and orna- 
 ment to his professional acquirements. The strength of his 
 intellectual powers has been proved by the nature of his 
 acquisitions ; the liveliness and beauty of his imagination 
 have been displayed by his poetic productions ; and the 
 purity of his character, and the benevolence of his heart 
 shone conspicuous throughout the period of his life. 
 Such examples of industry, perseverance, regularity and 
 success gave an earnest of the future eminence which he 
 might have attained But it is in vain to predict what 
 might have been accomplished by those who are now 
 dead, and to lament the unattained hopes of those who 
 are beyond hope. 
 
 In his manners he was modest and unassuming. He 
 always manifested an uncommonly gentle and placid tem- 
 per. His passions were entirely under the control of his 
 
48 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 
 
 reason. Unlike poets in general, he appeared not to have 
 hours of rapture, succeeded by hours of dejection. Though 
 he often indulged himself in the reveries and delights of po- 
 etic fancy and feeling, yet he did not discover his poetic 
 talent by his conversation or manners. The feelings of his 
 heart were not painted on his countenance. No one would, 
 from his appearance, take him for an enthusiastic poet ; yet, 
 when he was interested and animated in conversation,there 
 shone in his clear eye that light, which, to an expeirenced 
 observer, indicates deep thought & passionate feeling. He 
 exhibited no pedantry in his manner, the want of which is 
 often mistaken, by the inconsiderate, for a want of talent, 
 but which is, in general, the strongest evidence of the con- 
 trary. He avoided even the appearance of it. He was not 
 the trumpeter of his own fame. He was conscious of the 
 possession of talent, he did not, therefore, endeavour to 
 assume the appearance of it. 
 
 He was blessed with a most happy disposition for the 
 enjoyment of simple and ordinary pleasures. When he 
 desired to unbend his mind, no one could participate in 
 innocent amusements, with more glee and heart-felt satis- 
 faction. Plain, open, and unostentatious in his manners, 
 he had no taste for the dissipation and extravagance of 
 life. He preferred the elegant, the ennobling enjoyments 
 of literature. Entirely free from all foppishness, he had 
 that native politeness, prompted by kind and benevolent 
 feelings, which creates respect, and wins the heart. 
 
 His talents and acquirements were not his only or best 
 possessions. He had a heart endowed with all the amia- 
 ble and generous affections which belong to human na- 
 ture. The evidence of his mental endowments is partial- 
 ly preserved in his writings, and exhibited by his great 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 49 
 
 and varied acquisitions ; but that which endeared him to 
 his friends, which embalmed his image in the affections 
 of all who knew him, and shed the sweetest fragrance 
 around his memory, has perished with the once warm 
 heart that is now mouldering coldly in the dampness of 
 the grave. 
 
 No person ever lived a more morally upright and prac- 
 tically religious life. His conduct was always governed 
 by a high and refined moral principle. To use the words 
 of one of his intimate associates, " if ever there was a 
 christian, he was one." This is the uniform, uncontra- 
 dicted character given him wherever he lived. But to 
 enumerate the traits of his moral excellence — to portray 
 his moral character — would require to detail the whole 
 circle of moral virtues. Those who were acquainted with 
 him have no need of description, and those who were not 
 can never know his worth. 
 
 This character is drawn without the usual accompani- 
 ment of human faults ; but it is drawn faithfully — as it 
 appeared in living reality. He had faults, for he was 
 human. But he was so happy either in the want, or con- 
 cealment of them, that they were never discovered by the 
 writer of this sketch. 
 
 A short time previous to his death, and with that 
 amiable modesty and christian humility which always at- 
 tended him, he expressed the hope, that, since he had had 
 no opportunity of doing good to his fellow-creatures by 
 his life, he might be the means of doing some good by his 
 death. Mysterious indeed is that Providence which has 
 deprived the world of the services of a youth so promis- 
 ing, and cut short a life so well fitted to benefit himself 
 and his fellow-beings. But if, bv the bright example of 
 5 
 
50 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 his character, he can reclaim one youthful votary of pleas- 
 ure from the paths of dissipation, and allure him to the 
 love of literature and the practice of virtue, his life, though 
 short indeed, will not have been in vain. 
 
 The character of this lamented youth, and the recollec- 
 tions of his life have often reminded me of that unfortu- 
 nate scholar Henry Kirke White. There were striking 
 points of resemblance in their character and fate. Both 
 were remarkable for early developement of talent ; both 
 were endued with uncommon genius ; both were studious 
 and indefatigable scholars ; both were early and produc- 
 tive poets ; both were distinguished for a strict and con- 
 scientious observance of the laws of morality and relig- 
 ion ; both were in possession of ardent and benevolent 
 feelings ; both were esteemed for their virtues, and loved 
 for their amiable characters ; both injured their health by 
 an intense pursuit after excellence ; and both, in fine, 
 found an early grave. I cannot conclude this unworthy 
 sketch of an amiable and learned scholar better than with 
 the words which he himself applies to his brother poet : 
 " His feelings appear to have been occasionally subjected 
 to higher degrees of excitement, than human nature could 
 endure with impunity. He lived much in a short time, 
 and hence perhaps one reason, why the resources of life 
 were so soon exhausted. In him were united genius and 
 application. Both contributed to give him an early 
 niche in the temple of fame — both contributed to give 
 him an early shroud in the mansions of the tomb." 
 
 J. D 
 
 Attleborough, October 6th, 1828. 
 
LETTERS. 51 
 
 A few extracts from letters received by his father since 
 the death of his son are here added, as farther evidence 
 of what has been said of him in the preceding pages. It 
 is deemed proper by the editor that the testimony of oth- 
 ers should be produced, that the public may not rely 
 wholly on the representation of an individual — not that 
 there is the least fear that any who were ever acquainted 
 with the author, will doubt the truth of the character here 
 given him ; but, should the volume fall into the hands of 
 strangers, they might impute the tints of the picture to the 
 partial favour of friendship. But the writer is conscious of 
 no other partiality for the amiable author than that respect 
 aud affection which his talents and virtues justly inspired in 
 every one who was intimately acquainted with him. It 
 has been said that " he was esteemed and beloved wher- 
 ever he was known." As evidence of this we have here 
 the testimony of persons, who were acquainted with him 
 at different periods of his life — of persons unknown to 
 each other, and ignorant of each other's testimony. The 
 highly commendatory obituary notices which appeared in 
 the public prints are too numerous and full to be intro- 
 duced here. 
 
 So consistent and uniform is the character given him 
 in these letters, that it was remarked of them, if the 
 name were not mentioned, it would be known from a pe- 
 rusal of them, that the character described belonged to 
 the same individual. They constitute separate sections in 
 the direct line of his earthly course. They are warm 
 tributes of affection to the memory of a departed associate. 
 
 The first extract is from a letter of Dr. S. Bugbee of 
 Wrentham, under whose professional instruction and in 
 
52 LETTERS. 
 
 whose family Dr. Parris resided the last two years before 
 he commenced practice. 
 
 Wrentham, 20th January, 182a. 
 " His character, while he resided with us, was so uniform, and 
 void of incident to give it any diversity, that it furnished (if you can 
 conceive of such a thing) a picture without a shade. 
 
 u During the whole time he was in our family, an entire devotion 
 to his professional duties sequestered him, in a measure, from the 
 circles of society in which the youth of this place generally move — of 
 course he was very little personally acquainted throughout the town, 
 except from the opportunities afforded by professional visits, which, 
 when made in company with me, his native modesty forbade him to- 
 improve by way of conversation, as his whole soul was employed 
 in attention to clinical observations. 
 
 14 I have, however, heard it remarked by close observers, that 
 when he visited their families professionally in my absence, his de- 
 portment was characterized by a prompt decision in his medical 
 prescriptions, & a free, unembarrassed and lucid conversation on the 
 passing topicks which were presented for discussion. 
 
 u In our family he was profoundly 4>eloved by all. His unremit- 
 ting application to study excited an apprehension that his health 
 would be injured ; if this was not a fault in his character, he surely 
 had none. An equanimity — a temper at all times dispassionate and 
 calm, irradiated by an intellectual acumen brightened by philosophi- 
 cal research, resembled him not unfitly to the placid surface of the 
 ocean, when the rising sun diffuses the still brightness of his beams 
 over its unruffled expanse. The immense stores of intellectual treas- 
 ure, which he had accumulated and assorted for use, distanced him, 
 in my estimation, from all his equals in age, with whom I have ever 
 had the fortune to be acquainted. A genuine politeness, which ren- 
 dered him neither inaccessible* nor obtrusive, maintained invariably 
 \hcxt straight and narrow path which so few are able to rind and pur- 
 sue. - No gentleman, in fine, acquainted with his reputation, but 
 would consider himself highly complimented by the ascription of any 
 quality whereby the observer should remark a resemblance to Doc- 
 tor Samuel B. Parris. 
 
LETTERS. 53 
 
 14 His name, like precious ointment of Arabian spices, sheds a rich 
 perfume of the most exquisite fragrance sufficient to embalm it, in 
 perpetM) amoDg the most sacred reminiscences of all his associates. 
 44 JEre perennius monumentum erigit," may in truth be predicted of 
 his short but useful course. Be assured, Dear Sir, that we shall all 
 cherish amid our latest recollections the consecrated image of so dear 
 a friend, encircled with a halo of the most benignant and exalted 
 virtues. More I am unable— less it were injustice to have said." 
 
 From the Rev. R. Babcock, one of his room-mates in 
 college, and, subsequently, one of his correspondents. 
 
 Salem, 21st November, J 827. 
 41 The letter of yours, announcing the death of your son, I have 
 read with mingled emotions indeed, but, on the whole, with unspeak- 
 able satisfaction — for, since all must die, and the most endeared re- 
 latives and friends have the sure prospect of separation, what can 
 afford the surviving such satisfaction, as the assurance of the ineffable 
 peace and blessedness of those who have preceded them to the world 
 of spirits ? A few more changes of this changing world, and we too 
 who now live to weep and mourn over what we have lost, shall veri- 
 fy in our own experience what is now the subject of our grief. I 
 know indeed that life is rendered far less desirable to those who feel 
 the chilling loneliness of scenes that were recently 'gladdened with 
 the companionship of those they most loved ; but I cannot doubt, that 
 in this renewal of your sorrows, the religion you have so long taught 
 has furnished you its soothing and consoling influence. It is no 
 small solace, that this is not the blind decree of fate, nor the malice of 
 a potent enemy, but is all to be attributed to the wisdom and kind- 
 ness of our best and most stedfast Friend. 
 
 41 The recollection of the happy years I spent with him will ever be 
 very dear to me. He came to the University, where our connexion 
 was formed, at so early an age, that I wonder often, on reviewing 
 those scenes, that he persevered so pure — so stedfast — so worthily — 
 amid the temptations and follies which too frequently allure and de- 
 base those of riper years. What he was, when at your own fire 
 side, he ever was, in all the lovely attributes of moral excellence. In 
 5* 
 
54 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 his friendship he was sincere, ardent, and unchanging. He had no en- 
 emies— no altercations — nor did he ever to my knowledge fail of doing, 
 to others as he would they should do to him. 
 
 u His mind, naturally of the first order, and early trained to habits 
 of careful discrimination, was constantly, during our intercourse, 
 gaining fresh acquisitions, and developing its capacities and attain- 
 ments. Pie was passionately fond of the studies of nature — Botany 
 and Chemistry were his constant delight. His Herbarium was prob- 
 ably the best formed in our class ; and the outlines of lectures which 
 he preserved were more full and perfect than any others I saw. He 
 had a fine taste, and, considering his age, was a handsome proficient 
 in poetry and elegant literature. But all these are fading flowers, 
 and as such I know he always regarded them. 
 
 u More than six years have passed away since I saw him ; but we 
 have had a free rather than a frequent communication by letter. 
 In all those which I have received from him, the same traits of mind 
 and of heart, which used to delight me, have been obviously exhibited. 
 A sportiveness of humour always made his letters exhilerating ; and 
 Mrs, B. from an interest which she early felt for him, ever claimed 
 the privilege of perusing his communications, and joined with me in 
 awarding to him the highest praise of a correspondent. 
 
 u It is indeed a chilling reflection as I now look back over these let- 
 ters, that the hand which penned, and the heart which dictated them, 
 are cold in death. But the better, the immortal part still survives ; 
 and under happier auspices, and in a higher sphere, is, I trust, per- 
 forming the duties and tasting the enjoyments of the world of Glory. 
 
 u To you he was dear, as a son — to me, as a brother ; and never 
 have I felt the influence of bereavement — even in our own family — 
 more sensibly than now. The order of nature is now reversed, and 
 those, who, you had hoped, would live to sustain and soothe your de- 
 clining years, and at last close your eyes, have gone before you. With 
 you and your afflicted companion, as the parents of one of the best 
 of sons, the best of friends, and the most hopeful of the rising age, 
 now suddenly cut down, I deeply and sincerely sympathize." 
 
LETTERS. 55 
 
 The following account of his residence in Attleborough 
 is extracted from a letter communicated to his father by 
 the editor, which could be better introduced here in; the 
 form of a letter than in the Biography. 
 
 Attleborough, 4th March, 1825. 
 
 During his residence in Attleborough nothing occurred peculiarly 
 to diversify the uniform aspect of his settled and peaceful life, for his 
 habits were, emphatically, the habits of a student. Reading, study, 
 and writing were his occupation and his delight. 
 
 He usually rose early and breakfasted light ; and then retired to 
 his study, and remained constantly employed till about fifteen min- 
 utes before dinner, when he amused himself with his flute. After 
 dining he returned to his books, and continued engaged till dark, 
 when he again had recourse to his flute, to soothe his agitated feel- 
 ings, and restore the tone of his wearied mind ; or, by awakening 
 under the calm and soothing influence of evening, the delicious feel- 
 ings of the poet, to amuse the few moments which could not be oth- 
 erwise employed. The only variations from these rules were the 
 interruptions occasioned by professional duties,(as to the strict perfor- 
 mance of which he was very particular,) and the small portions of 
 timealloted to exercise and society. During the summer season he 
 had a favourite walk in a retired situation ; from this solitary excur- 
 sion so well fitted to harmonize with a pensive imagination, to excite 
 reflection, to nourish poetic feeling, and attract to the admiration of 
 Nature, he seldom returned home, without bringing a bunch of flow- 
 ers, or some other Botanical specimens* So regular were his habits, 
 that his neighbours, whose situation commanded a view of a small 
 portion of his path, expected him at his appointed hour, with as 
 much certainty as they did the arrival of the hour itself. So much 
 are all under the influence of habit, that, long after his remains had 
 been committed to the dust, they could not forbear expecting his 
 usual appearance in his accustomed retreat. 
 
 As to j r our particular inquiries in regard to his manner of spending 
 the Sabbath, I am informed by the family with whom he resided, 
 that it was in every respect agreeable to the practice of the purest 
 christian. He attended meeting in one of the neighboring churchei, 
 
56 LETTERS* 
 
 whenever his professional duties or other circumstances did not nec- 
 essarily require his absence. The rest of the day he employed in 
 reading the scriptures, in which he seemed to take delight. He was 
 intimately acquainted with the history and principles of the Bible, 
 which he evinced by frequent and appropriate quotations, to prove 
 and illustrate his sentiments in conversation. He refrained from 
 reading other books than those connected with the religious duties of 
 the day, and generally confined himself to the Bible— in fine, he 
 passed the Sabbath, not with a cold and rigid observance of exterior 
 ceremonies, but as a moral man and practical christian would do. 
 His was a religion not confined to his robes and books ; it was that 
 calm and unpretending religion of. the heart, " which vaunteth not 
 itself." He was opposed to all superstition, and all extravagant 
 pretensions to holiness — to all mere show of piety or morality. He 
 was rather inclined,on the contrary,to conceal his goodness in his own 
 bosom, than display it to others. He was opposed to those religious 
 parties, which arise from disputes about forms and ceremonies, and 
 to that religious intolerance which excludes every thing but its 
 own creed ; but, on the contrary, he was disposed to indulge that 
 "charity which hopeth all things." He never meddled with politics 
 as a subject of party dispute, but only as^ajcience, calculated to im- 
 prove the happiness of nations, in whose political welfare he always 
 expressed a deep interest. 
 
 In regard to his literary pursuits : they are probably better known 
 by you than me, from the possession of his manuscripts, which afford 
 the best evidence of his mental character, exhibiting a chart by 
 which you may follow the track of his mind in its pursuit after 
 knowledge . 
 
 His taste was pure and correct. His reading and conversation 
 usually formed a contrast with the soft and brilliant effusions of the 
 Muse, which delighted his hours of leisure. To the world he exhib- 
 ited a cold indifference to the charms of poetry, which had secretly 
 fascinated his heart. His intercourse with the Muses was stolen. 
 
 He was devoted to severe mental discipline, and highly recom- 
 mended closeness and connection of thought, and method in reading. 
 To moral and mental philosophy he was much attached ; upon these 
 subjects he delighted to converse, and had evidently read much and 
 
LETTERS. 57 
 
 thought more. Of the histories he read, he usually made an abstract ; 
 and on other works he often made elaborate criticisms.* 
 
 But amidst these severer pursuits he could occasionally relax his 
 mind from its rigid discipline, to wander in the flowery fields of poesy 
 — could delight his imagination with the visions of the poet's heaven — 
 and permit his heart to revel in the delightful feelings inspired by 
 draughts from the Castalian fount — and thus charm his solitude with 
 the brighter scenes and lovelier beings of his own world of fancy. 
 He made his poetry not the business, but the elegant amusement of 
 his leisure hours. It was the overflowing of a full heart, and the oc- 
 casional wanderings of a lively, but restrained imagination. 
 
 He had read most of the modern English poets. He was delighted 
 with the touching elegance cf Campbell; he loved the sweet and 
 simple melody of Burns ; he admired the tenderness and sublimity of 
 Byron, but his admiration was always mingled with regret, that he 
 had united so much moral deformity with so much poetic beauty. 
 
 I hear he has left a large collection of poetry, the most of which 
 he carefully concealed from the knowledge of even hh friends. I 
 have seen a few specimens, which are truly beautiful. He was en- 
 dued with the true genius of poetry, and with this possession waj 
 united the peculiar sensitivene3s of poetic genius — he seemed to shrink 
 back with the most painful sensations from an investigation of his po- 
 etic productions. He blushed at even merited praise. If the pieces 
 which he has left were only the effusions of his leisure hours, what 
 would he have produced, had he devoted himself to poetry! 
 
 The evidence of his talents is written in his productions ; but the 
 evidence of his moral worth is written in the hearts of his acquaint- 
 ances. If he did not interest at the first interview, he always im- 
 proved by acquaintance. It required more than a momentary ac- 
 quaintance to discover his worth. He had the happiness of gaining 
 the esteem of all with whom he lived. The longer and more inti- 
 mate their habits of intercourse, the greater was their esteem for him. 
 He not only possessed the disposition of benevolence, but performed 
 the part of beneficence. Of this he has left numerous living testimo- 
 nies among his neighbours. A more amiable and virtuous disposition 
 
 Specimens of which may be seen among his prose pieces, 
 
58 LETTERS. 
 
 was never implanted in a human bosom. 1 cannot omit to mention 
 the deep sorrow which the community manifested for his untimely 
 death, and the frequency and respect with which he is still mentioned. 
 I fear, Sir, you will be disappointed in the paucity of the details 
 here given. There are Jindeed many anecdotes which, connected 
 with the circumstances that suggested them, are interesting, for he 
 was cheerful in his disposition, and frequently enlivened conversation 
 with sallies of humour and flashes of wit, which, combined with his 
 fund of information, rendered his company amusing and instructive ; 
 but these it is difficult to commit to paper. While pursuing the 
 "peaceful tenor of his way," there was nothing to diversify his life. 
 This was owing to the nature of his employment. The history of a 
 scholar's life is the history of thoughts and feelings unexpressed— of 
 hopes and fears, of joys and sorrows, all buried deep in his own bo- 
 som. His mental powers, however intensely and nobly and success- 
 fully employed, display no outward signs by which to arrest the at- 
 tention, and denote his progress in the path of improvement. The 
 aspect which the studious scholar presents to the world is often far 
 less attractive at first view, than that of the more brilliant but trifling 
 votary of fashion and pleasure. In the scholar's life there is a long 
 period of preparation — the enjoyment ofihe^fruit of his labours must 
 be long postponed. The occurrence of Dr. Parris' death under such 
 circumstances awakens the most melancholy reflections, that he was 
 arrested in the commencement of his career of usefulness, and in the 
 hour of his warmest expectations. We must mourn over blooming 
 hopes early blasted— over extended plans defeated — over long labours 
 unrewarded. By patient industry he had collected a rich and exten- 
 sive store of various knowledge, and by unremitted exertion, had dis- 
 ciplined the powers of his mind for new and more glorious acquisitions. 
 The seed he had sown, the soil he had cultivated, the plant was in 
 bloom — but the harvest he had not gathered. 
 
ANTICIPATIONS AND RECOLLECTIONS, 
 
 A POEM IN TWO PARTS. 
 
 But first and foremost I should tell, 
 Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
 I to the crambo jingle fell, 
 
 Though rude and rough ; 
 Yet crooning to a body's sel, 
 
 Does well enough. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 My rude and untaught harp ! Thy soothing power 
 
 Has often wakened in the idle hour 
 
 The rapt'rous flame, which Poesy alone 
 
 Can kindle with her soul-inspiring tone. 
 
 Still might the music of thy faithful strings 
 
 Preside o'er many airy wanderings, 
 
 Or on the senses of the soul impress 
 
 Fair Nature's charms in all their loveliness ; 
 
 But stern Necessity forbids — and I 
 
 Must yield submission to her potency. 10 
 
 Severer studies now demand my care, 
 
 And cal^me from these reveries, to prepare — 
 
 Not for poetic flights amid the skies, 
 
 But for life's sober, cold realities, 
 
 Beneath whose influence, deadening and damp, 
 
 Dim burns the flick'ring blaze of fancy'* lamp. 
 
60 ANTICIPATIONS - 
 
 Though some stoPn hours in this fatiguing round, 
 
 To strike anew these chords, perchance were found, 
 
 Still they, unwonted, and untuned so long, 
 
 Could only give a harsh, discordant song ; 20 
 
 Yet let them vibrate one faint, parting lay, 
 
 Which o'er the gloom of many an anxious day 
 
 Some cheering brightness may extend, to quell 
 
 The inward storm, and all its clouds dispel. 
 
 The poet's sensibility is blest 
 
 With transports foreign to the rustic's breast ; v 
 
 But dear the price he pays ; for keener far 
 
 The pain and anguish, he is doomed to bear. 
 
 Through the same channel, pleasure softly glides, 
 
 And tribulation pours its whelming tides. 30 
 
 Although some brighter sun-beams light his path, 
 
 He oft'ner cowers beneath the tempest's wrath. 
 
 Those keen susceptibilities of mind 
 
 In this rude world, more pangs than pleasures find ; 
 
 Yet when subdued to reason's calm control, 
 
 They form the noblest pleasures of the soul ; 
 
 They teach us, not alone to sympathize 
 
 With fancied or romantic miseries, 
 
 But seek and succour poverty's distress 
 
 Amid the haunts of squalid wretchedness. 40 
 
 They teach, in Nature's universal frame 
 
 To read her mighty Artificer's name. 
 
 And who, but in life's busiest tumult sees 
 
 Unnumbered objects kindling thoughts like«these ? 
 
 And who so cumbered with unceasing care, 
 
 That doth not many an idle moment spare, 
 
 To muse in rapture on the skill Divine, 
 
 Whose glories from the face of Nature shine ? 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 61 
 
 Then welcome to the labours and the cares 
 
 Which wait on him whose ev'ry thought prepares 50 
 
 To go, where pallid sickness holds its sway, 
 
 And drive the ghastly monster from his prey — 
 
 To bid the rose of health to bloom anew, 
 
 Where chill disease had shed its with'ring dew. 
 
 Observe the man whose feelings are so keen 
 He cannot look on misery's haggard mien ; 
 He hears the agonizing shriek of pain, 
 And shiv'ring horror thrills through ev'ry vein ; 
 Far from the scene he flies in haste, dismay'd, 
 Nor to the helpless suff'rer gives his aid ; 60 
 
 Regardless, what may be the wretch's lot, 
 So he may but escape the dreaded spot. 
 But let such mis'ries daily meet his eyes, 
 No more in horror from the sight he flies, 
 But from his inmost soul, to ev'ry .groan 
 Responsive Pity wakes her melting tone. 
 She bids him go — his kind assistance lend — 
 She bids him go and stand the mourner's friend, 
 And taste the matchless luxuries that flow 
 From deeds of pity to the sons of woe. 70 
 
 There's not a moment flies but on its wings 
 To hapless man some new affliction brings. 
 Where man is found, woe, want and fell despair 
 Will ever fix their hideous mansion there. 
 He who would hide him from the plaintive cry 
 Of surT'ring, sorrowing humanity, 
 Must seek some distant spot, where human sound 
 Has never broke the solitude profound ; 
 In some wide, desert plain, or deep recess 
 Far in the drear and pathless wildernes. 80 
 
 6 
 
62 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 But who, with social sympathies endued, 
 Could bear this misanthropic solitude ? 
 Far better with a fearless front to face 
 The sight of fellow-beings in distress, 
 And with unshrinking soul our proper share 
 Of toil, anxiety and grief to bear. 
 
 Where shall we find a more instructive school, 
 To teach us those nice sympathies to rule, 
 Than when our daily, hourly walks we bend, 
 Where all the horrors of disease attend ; 90 
 
 Where, paralyzed by their appalling frown, 
 The rich and powerful sink in anguish down ; 
 Or where they smite with unrelenting rod 
 The wretch in cheerless Poverty's abode ? 
 They do not make us with unpitying eye 
 Look on a being racked with agony, 
 But merge keen sensibility 's^exeess 
 In efforts to promote his happiness. 
 And when those efforts with success are blest, 
 What lively transports kindle in the breast? 100 
 
 Go to the sick man's bedside — mark how dim 
 The eye, once bright with meaning ; and the limb 
 Once strung with nature's firmest energies, 
 See how unnerved and impotent it lies ! 
 Where are the kindlings of the mighty soul, 
 Whose daring independence scorn' d control ? 
 Where are the quick sensations, once alive 
 To all the rapture, life can ever give ? 
 Dead to delight, he loathing turns aside 
 From ev'ry luxury, kindness can provide ; 110 
 
 His aching temples throb with furious beat, 
 Flushed is his burning cheek with fev'rish heat ; 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 63 
 
 To his parch' d mouth,his tongue,unmoisten'd,cleaves, 
 
 Refreshing sleep his wakeful eyelids leaves: 
 
 Or if a moment they may chance to close, 
 
 'Tis not to slumber in a calm repose, 
 
 But in distempered and delirious dreams, 
 
 Beset with foes and fears and death, he seems, 
 
 Till waked with horror, he affrighted springs, 
 
 Glad to escape those dark imaginings. 120 
 
 To him more painful is the sun's glad light 
 
 Than all the horrors of the deepest night. 
 
 Mark, how the friends with timid, silent tread, 
 
 And fearful to disturb, approach his bed ; 
 
 They catch your ev'ry look, your ev'ry word, 
 
 To learn, what good is hoped, what danger feared. 
 
 But let the well-directed means succeed, 
 
 And note the glad reverse. With how much speed 
 
 Doth health her smiles upon his count'nance spread, 
 
 And breathe again her influence round his head; 130 
 
 Roused by her touch, he wakes to life once more, 
 
 With pleasures which he never felt before. 
 
 (For w T ho, that has not felt the loss of health, 
 
 Can measure its inestimable wealth ?) 
 
 He hastens from his nursery prison, where 
 
 He rather gasped than breathed the noisome air. 
 
 Again he greets the sun, again inhales 
 
 The cheering odours of the health-winged gales. 
 
 See ! How, as on his pallid cheek they blow, 
 
 It brightens with a fresher, ruddier glow. 140 
 
 It seems, as if, wide-spreading through his frame, 
 
 A renovating, thrilling influence came. 
 
 But 'tis by you that he is raised again 
 
 From listless stupor, or from torturing pain, 
 
64 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 And to the world, his friends, himself restored ; 
 A richer pleasure, earth cannot afford, 
 Than when it is your lot, a friend to save 
 From sinking down to his untimely grave. 
 
 He, who would learn, with skilful hand, to force 
 The vital motions from their errant course, 150 
 
 And from their deviations call them back, 
 Smoothly to flow along their wonted track — 
 Must know the various laws of Nature's plan, 
 That form and guide the living frame of man. 
 He too must study being's various forms, 
 With which the vast domain of Nature swarms ; 
 For, through the whole of her dominion wide, 
 Nature by wond'rous sympathies has tied 
 Her creatures, all in one design embraced, 
 And man is firmly link'd to all the rest. 160 
 
 Hence all our pains, and all our maladies, 
 Are caused, diminished, or removed by these. 
 What theme more fit than this, to light the flame, 
 Whose ardour consecrates the Poet's name? 
 
 When jaded with the turmoil that awaits 
 On those who crowd at fame's or fortune's gates, 
 How pleasing to unbend the mind, and cast 
 Th' astonished gaze o'er that area vast, 
 Where Nature o'er her triple realm* presides, 
 And, as the grand machinery she guides, 170 
 
 Points the amazed spectator from the earth 
 To Him who gave its countless myriads birth. 
 His works proclaim His goodness and His power — 
 The zephyr's whisper, and the whirlwind's roar, 
 
 •Triple realm— the Animal, Mineral, and Vegetable kingdoms. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 05 
 
 The rose's blushes, and the lightning's blaze 
 Alike are suited to express His praise. 
 
 In lifeless matter, see, what wond'rous things 
 Th' inquiring Chemist to our knowledge brings ; 
 See Volta's engine* rend the cords, which held 
 The elements together, till compelled 180 
 
 They yield, and bring new forms of things to light, 
 That long escaped the nice inquirer's sight. 
 See ! What Protean changes passing through, 
 Matter appears in aspects, strange and new. 
 The subtle fluid,f on whose full supply 
 We ev'ry moment for our life rely, 
 Flies on the breezes to maintain our breath, 
 And in the pois'nous drug is fraught with death — 
 Dispenses from the flame its burning rays, 
 Or pouring in the flood, o'er whelms its blaze — 190 
 Borne by its power, on fatal errand speeds 
 The death-winged bullet, and the victim bleeds. 
 From vernal blossoms now it breathes delight, 
 And now it nerves the warrior's arm with might. 
 With him it merges with its parent earth, 
 In some new form to have another birth. 
 
 These changes of material things are made 
 The useful purposes of life to aid. 
 Jiarth, air and ocean, with their secret stores, 
 The eager industry of man explores, 200 
 
 And tortures ev'ry substance they contain, 
 Some end of pleasure, or of use, to gain. 
 
 * The Voltaic or Galvanic Battery. 
 
 t Oxygen — an essential ingredient in the atmosphere, necessary 
 to the support of animal life. — Ed. 
 
 6* 
 
66 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 Hence o'er the waters with majestic sweep 
 
 The wind-defying traveller* of the deep, 
 
 (That lasting monument of Fulton's fame) 
 
 Keeps its unwav'ring course, with steady aim, 
 
 Regardless how the winds above may blow, 
 
 Or how the ocean's currents move below. 
 
 Hence too the aeronaut with eagle flight 
 
 Mounts on the winds, till almost lost from sight, 210 
 
 And trembles, as he sees beneath his car, 
 
 The gath'ring clouds extend their curtains far, 
 
 And hide the earth, till from his airy race, 
 
 Nought can be seen, save the immense of space. 
 
 The Botanist beholds the opening spring, 
 To please his taste, her various foliage bring. 
 Who needs in measured numbers to be taught, 
 What countless beauties Flora's hand hath wrought, 
 From the pale violet's unassuming hue, 
 Bending beneath the gentlest drop of dew, 220 
 
 To the far-spreading monarch of the wood, 
 That reckless of the change of times has stood, 
 On whose scathed trunk the tempest's searing blast 
 Has registered the lapse of ages past ? 
 The forest, with its vernal verdure crown'd, 
 Or else w T ith Autumn's riper tints embrowned — 
 The meadow 7 , whose soft green supports the eyes 
 Against the splendour of its thousand dyes — 
 The lake, upon whose calm and mirrored breast 
 The lilies, spread in gay profusion, rest, 230 
 
 Emblems of their own nymphs, whose fos'tring care 
 Preserves their blossoms ever pure and fair — 
 
 The Steam Boat, invented by Robert Fulton. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 67 
 
 And other scenes, which smiling Nature shows, 
 Lull the tumultuous thoughts to calm repose. 
 They too may call those feelings into play, 
 Whose ardour consecrates the poet's lay. 
 
 The landscape at the morning's hour of birth 
 Joins in the burst of universal mirth, 
 And smiles responsive to the cheerful glow, 
 The sun-beams wide o'er all the scen'ry throw. 240 
 The morning winds, waked from their late repose 
 Upon the lily's breast or blushing rose, 
 Fragrant with health and pleasure, float along, 
 To bid the woodland choir awake their song. 
 
 The midway sun another scene displays, 
 When shrinking from its fierce an4 withering blaze, 
 We hasten to the forest, to recline 
 Beneath the refuge of the shadowy pine. 
 Its scattered blossoms there the Cornel* shows, 
 As covered with a shroud of wintry snows ; 250 
 
 In ranker verdure is the Rose-bay drest, 
 And fairer blooms ; and tow'ring o'er the rest, 
 The tall Magnolia's beauties there expand 
 In all the pride of their luxuriance grand. [steals 
 
 While through the thick and sombrous grove there 
 A breath of balmy sweetness, that reveals 
 The spot, where May's fair favouritet appears, 
 Half buried in the wrecks of former years. 
 While the monotonous and drowsy tone 
 Of murmuring tree-tops on the wind is thrown, 260 
 Till pressed with listless languor, every sense 
 Reposes in voluptuous indolence. 
 
 * Dogwood Tree, 
 t May Flower. 
 
68 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 With still another and more sacred thought, 
 The parting moments of the day are fraught. 
 Tinged by the sun's more soft and chastened ray, 
 The hill, the forest, and the vale display, 
 Far as the eye can reach, their teeming store, 
 And smile with sweeter aspect than before — 
 Yet there's a sadness in the smile. It seems, 
 As if the flowers before the sun's last beams 270 
 
 Were spread, to meet in his embrace of light, 
 Before he leaves them to the gloom of night, 
 When they shall shut their ev'ry charm from view, 
 And droop, and shed their tears of fragrant dew, 
 Till in the East again the sun's glad ray 
 Appears, as if to kiss those tears away, 
 When they again their wonted smile shall wear, 
 And fling their grateful odours on the air. 
 Who, that has heard, at such an hour as this, 
 The lonely wailings of the Wekolis,* 280 
 
 So sweetly mingling with the plaintiveness, 
 Which all things else with one accord express — 
 Who has not felt the musings of the time 
 Work by degrees to extacy sublime, 
 When he has soared on contemplation's wings 
 In her untired and lofty wanderings, 
 Until the Sun, with its attendant train, 
 Seemed but a speck upon the distant plain ; 
 When reaching to creation's utmost verge, 
 He backward shrunk, as if about to merge 290 
 
 In that unknown and fathomless profound, 
 Far, far extending from creation's bound ?. 
 
 * The Indian name for Whip-poor-will. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 69 
 
 Such are the views, and such the trains of thought, 
 Which to his senses and his mind are brought, 
 Who rambles in the flowery, smiling fields, 
 To cull the choicest beauties Nature yields. 
 
 But there's another work of heav'nly skill, 
 A theme for greater admiration still. 
 'Tis this machine, whose living organs bind 
 To earth th ? immortal principle of mind. 300 
 
 Who, when he first this mighty work surveyed, 
 " So fearfully and wonderfully made," 
 Was not compelled to give his feeling vent 
 In one deep burst of rapt astonishment ? 
 Driv'n from its central fount, the vital tide 
 Is poured throughout the system, far and wide ; 
 To ev'ry point and ev'ry pore it flows, 
 Dispensing genial warmth, where'er it goes. 
 Each part, with an unerring skill endued, 
 From this unfailing fund selects its food. 310 
 
 There it receives, changed by an unknown power, 
 Forms far diverse from those, it had before. 
 With those effete materials charged again, 
 Which can their vital power no more retain, 
 Backward the darkened current turns its course, 
 And hastens on to reach its former source ; 
 But first it feels the breath of life dispense 
 Its own re-animating influence. 
 
 Each part, exactly fitted to its use, 
 Joins with the rest in concert, to produce 320 
 
 Life's complicated, but harmonious train 
 Of movements linked in one continuous chain. 
 There's not. an organ in our frame but tells 
 Of that great Power throughout all space that dwells. 
 
TO ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 The heart's unceasing~throb, the eye's bright glance, 
 
 Beaming with life, are these the work of chance 1 
 
 Has chance alone thy limbs with vigour crowned, 
 
 Or giv'n to them their light, elastic bound ? 
 
 No ! But the Being, whence these wonders came, 
 
 Upon our very selves has writ his name ; 330 
 
 His " word is nigh thee, even in thy heart," 
 
 To give the lie to all the sceptic's art. 
 
 But o'er the habitation of the soul, 
 
 Th' imperious clouds of deeper mystery roll ; 
 
 There's none its hidden energies can trace, 
 
 Working unseen within that dwelling-place. 
 
 Yet when upon that place we look, and see 
 
 Its parts arranged in faultless symmetry, 
 
 We seem to see the difF'rent powers of mind, 
 
 (Each to its own appropriate place assigned) 340 
 
 Throughout the body various powers dispense, 
 
 Or gather in the numerous gifts offense. 
 
 Perception, here, collects the copious store, 
 
 Which different senses through their inlets pour ; 
 
 Here, it receives, transmitted from the eye, 
 
 The bright impress of Nature's imagery ; 
 
 Or from the ear receives the charms which float 
 
 On music's soft and spirit-melting note ; 
 
 Or to quick anguish roused, it feels the smart 
 
 Of poignant suffering with a wounded part. 350 
 
 Here too we see, (by airy fancy led, 
 
 Where cold philosophy dares not to tread,) 
 
 The ample store-house, where in order lie 
 
 The treasures gathered in by Memory. 
 
 These, like choice food, by Reason's power refined, 
 
 Are destined for the nourishment of mind, 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 71 
 
 Here careful Reason holds his seat and draws 
 
 From Memory's fund materials for the laws, 
 
 By which, in philosophic order joined, 
 
 It holds its empire o'er the realm of mind. 360 
 
 The Passions here, impatient of the sway, 
 
 Are forced calm Reason's mandates to obey ; 
 
 Yet oft rebelling, they usurp the throne, 
 
 And make his laws submissive to their own. 
 
 Imagination on its pictured walls, 
 
 Its images to Memory's look recals, 
 
 Which first upon the senses were impressed, 
 
 Here in their fresh and glowing brightness dressed. 
 
 But yet its art is not entirely spent, 
 
 These strict resemblances to represent. 370 
 
 Its skill is often called in play to choose 
 
 From every picture its most lovely hues, 
 
 And, like the Grecian Sculptor,* to combine 
 
 Their mingled lustre in one grand design, 
 
 And some new image to existence call, 
 
 Whose matchless beauty may surpass them all — 
 
 Or else perhaps to distant worlds it flies, 
 
 (Tired of the earth and its realities) 
 
 Back from its lone and trackless voyage to bring 
 
 Some forms of more romantic colouring, 380 
 
 And from them its fantastic figures weave, 
 
 In dreams the slumbering mortal to deceive. 
 
 See, where the Will forever active stands, 
 
 Calmly to put in force just Reason's plans, 
 
 Or rashly else, to execute the word 
 
 Of kindling passions into fury stirred. 
 
 # See note A at the end of the volume. 
 
72 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 Its power through every part pervades, and all 
 
 Awake at once responsive to the call. 
 
 The limbs obedient in the task engage, 
 
 Bounding with joy, or strung with fiery rage; 390 
 
 The voice pours forth its notes of softness mild, 
 
 Or rings with bold defiance loud and wild; 
 
 The countenance with gen'rous ardour burns, 
 
 Or else with fear to death-like paleness turns ; 
 
 The eyes are bright with winning smiles, or glare, 
 
 Strained with the haggard wildness of despair. 
 
 Such are the wonders fancy can create ; 
 
 For slow philosophy with step sedate, 
 
 By reason's light in surer paths is led, 
 
 Nor ventures in such devious ways to tread. 400 
 
 Guided by fact alone, she but descries 
 
 The part which the immortal mind supplies 
 
 With powers so various — nor presumes to tell, 
 
 Where are the diff'rent seats in which they dwell. 
 
 How pleasing to employ in thoughts like these 
 The mind which wrangling contests fail to please — 
 To join with those, who in one cause unite, 
 To study Nature's laws by Reason's light ! 
 No wrangling discords here the mind confuse, 
 To draw it from the objects, it pursues, 410 
 
 But in each other's aid they all unite, 
 Each glad to learning's store to add his mite. 
 
 How diff'rent, where Religion's theme is made 
 The heat of controversial rage to aid; 
 Or where, unchecked by cautious Reason's curb, 
 Conflicting parties would the peace disturb 
 Of nations, to exalt to honour's height, 
 Or clothe with power some factious favourite. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 73 
 
 , No mild forbearance these disputes admit, 
 But trait'rous knave or cursed hypocrite 420 
 
 Must ev'ry one be called, who dares to feel 
 Or think adverse to their infuriate zeal. 
 
 But other chances he may meet, who strives 
 To keep the watch o'er human healths and lives. 
 Not always can his utmost skill withhold 
 His drooping friend, from death's dominion cold. 
 His is no life of ease, nor e'en a round 
 Of daily toil, like his, who tills the ground. 
 Whene'er the wayward fits of chance may call, 
 He's made the servant and the slave of all. 430 
 
 He may not choose for his more active hours 
 The season, when the earth is drest in flowers ; 
 When sunbeams smile, or cooler breezes blow, 
 Whisp'ring voluptuous sweetness as they flow ; 
 Nor may he hide him from the storm that pours 
 Its loudly rushing torrent round his- doors ; 
 But winter's keenest blast he's doomed to meet, 
 And summer's ardent glow of swelt'ring heat. 
 Evening her dark and shadowy tissue weaves 
 Around his path — his eye of light bereaves. 440 
 
 But through the window oft with light serene 
 The feeble glimmerings of the lamp are seen, 
 Showing, within, the bright and happy ring 
 Of friends around the fire-side gathering, 
 While mirth convivial and untarnished glee 
 Sit on each mien in pleasing harmony. 
 While these he views, how strongly he contrasts 
 Himself exposed to bleak and freezing blasts 
 And smoth'ring storms — with that contented crowd, 
 All reckless of the night-wind whistling loud 450 
 7 
 
74 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 Around their dwellings, save that as they hear 
 
 Its fitful wailings, hollow, deep and drear, 
 
 Still closer round the cheering blaze they press, 
 
 And smile upon the comforts they possess. 
 
 E'en when fatigued, exhausted and depressed 
 
 By toil and anxious thought, he sinks to rest, 
 
 Soon as his wandering thoughts begin to lose 
 
 Their consciousness of pain in calm repose, 
 
 Forth from his dreams of fancied bliss he's torn, 
 
 To be anew with irksome labours worn, 460 
 
 Then, when the biting winds of night assail, 
 
 And chill the spirit with their dismal wail, 
 
 When the cold moon, throned in the midnight sky, 
 
 Looks down in calm and silent majesty, 
 
 And when he sees the peaceful dwellings where 
 
 All others are allowed the sweets to share 
 
 Of welcome sleep — where all is hushed and calm 
 
 As peace itself secure from thought of harm — 
 
 When e'en the quiet lamp has ceased to throw 
 
 Athwart the traveller's path its gentle glow — 470 
 
 Ah ! then how enviable seems the rest, 
 
 That dwells securely in the slumberer's breast ! 
 
 But though all still and peaceful they may seem, 
 
 As the chaste lustre of the moon's own beam, 
 
 The smarting wounds of grief may rankle there, 
 
 And writhing conscience howl with fell despair ; 
 
 Sleep may but close their eyes, that she may raise 
 
 Her fearful phantoms to their frightened gaze ; 
 
 Yea, they may long their fortunes to exchange 
 
 With him, who's doomed in lonesome paths to range, 
 
 For happier far is he, if through his heart 
 
 No pangs of keen remorse or anguish dart, 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 75 
 
 Than those, to whom their luxuries can give 
 No joy in life, nor e'en the wish to live. 
 
 When the fell pestilence asserts the power, 
 Its hecatombs of victims to devour, 
 Then mark the man, who hastes to rescue such 
 As fall beneath its paralyzing touch. 
 Where'er he moves, where'er he turns his eyes, 
 On every side a thousand dangers rise — 490 
 
 When with protracted labour sunk and faint, 
 He must inhale contagion's foulest taint, 
 Must breathe the noxious vapours, that are bred 
 In loathsome steams around the sick man's bed. 
 
 Nor can he fail of calumny to bear 
 And ill-deserved reproach a double share. 
 Though every nerve were strained, and all his mind 
 In study deep and thought intense confined, 
 Though all his powers were on his duty bent, 
 Still envy's keenest shafts at him -are sent, 300 
 
 With venom winged, by bitter malice sped, 
 To strike his dearest reputation dead. 
 
 Not always can his feeble power avail 
 To combat with success the monarch pale, 
 Not always may his heart with gladness burn, 
 To see the sick again to health return. 
 The shafts of destiny know not to spare 
 The great and mighty, or the young and fair. 
 
 When first the signs of danger he descries, 
 Revealed before his ever watchful eyes, 510 
 
 With what intentness does he watch, to learn, 
 Which way the wav'ring scale of fate may turn ! 
 But when he sees, despatched by Heaven's behest. 
 The arrow quivering in the victim's breast — 
 
76 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 When hope's last glimmering flies before despair, 
 Then what an hour of woe awaits him there ! 
 
 Pale— -mute in consternation, when they hear, 
 The last, the parting gasp is now so near, 
 The weeping friends are gathering round the bed, 
 To watch life's fading lustre ere 'tis fled, 520 
 
 And fled forever. They,* who fondly thought 
 A few short moments since (alas! how short!) 
 That he, ere long restored to health, should bless 
 Their little band with love and happiness, 
 Now find their ardent expectations gone, 
 And changed for grief's realities alone. 
 They come not forth with gratulations now, 
 To hail new brightness beaming from his brow, 
 But with their tender aid to smooth the road, 
 Which leads him to his long and last abode. 530 
 
 O'er their departing child the parents bend — 
 From the full heart the deep-drarwri sigh they send, 
 While from their eyes the gushing torrents flow, 
 Urged forward by unutterable woe. 
 That form, which once, with graceful elegance, 
 Moved in the nimble bound or airy dance, 
 Strangely distorted with convulsive throes, 
 Now writhes in anguish ere its struggles close. 
 That sunken cheek, how ghastly now and pale, 
 Whose blooming fairness they were wont to hail. 540 
 
 * When his friends looked over these pages after his death, 
 this description recalled vividly to the minds of those who were 
 present with him at his last hour, the circumstances which at- 
 tended his own death. He here, unconsciously, describes, with 
 minute and prophetic accuracy, the affecting scene which his 
 friends were destined. soon to witness — a scene in which he him* 
 self was the sufferer. — Ed. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 77 
 
 The brother, sister or the consort too 
 
 Approach to bid their long and last adieu, 
 
 With cautious tenderness his hand they press, 
 
 Hoping to see some mark of consciousness ; 
 
 They speak his name, and beg in trembling tone 
 
 For one last token if their voice is known ; 
 
 And if his hand, with faint and doubtful clasp, 
 
 Compresses theirs within its feeble grasp, 
 
 Even in that uncertain sign they find 
 
 Some consolation for the sorrowing mind. 550 
 
 The stroke, that now impends, must quickly leave 
 The orphan for a parent's loss to grieve. 
 Then childhood's playful sports no more delight, 
 And youth forsakes ambition's ardent flight ; 
 Beauty forgets her fascinating charms, 
 And all are tortured with the same alarms, 
 And cling half frantic to the last embrace 
 Of one, whose eye watched o'er their youthful days, 
 Who taught their feet in virtue's paths to tread, 
 And o'er their woes the tear of pity shed. 560 
 
 'Tis hard for hope to dark despair to yield — 
 To be before its freezing touch congealed. 
 Till life's last motions shall have ceased to play, 
 Till quenched its flame, extinct its latest ray, 
 They cannot cease to cherish some vain hope, 
 That human skill with Death's dread arm can cope ; 
 They turn th' expectant eye on one to whom 
 No power is giv'n to ransom from the tomb ; 
 His skill, which checked disease's milder course, 
 Is now o'erpowered by its resistless force ; 570 
 
 He sees the falt'ring powers of life decay, 
 
 And death, with slow incursions, seize the prey, 
 
 7 # 
 
F9 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 The sunken countenance more bloodless grows ; 
 
 Back from the cheek the crimson current flows ; 
 
 The limbs, no more obedient to the will, 
 
 Have ceased to move ; and o'er them comes a chill, 
 
 An icy chill, which its still progress keeps, 
 
 And onward to the vital centre creeps. 
 
 The wand'ring thoughts on various subjects range, 
 
 Perplexed with phantasies uncouth and strange, 580 
 
 As if his spirit felt the bonds were rent, 
 
 That bound it to this earthly tenement, 
 
 And longed and panted from this clay to fly 
 
 To realms more worthy of its destiny, 
 
 That eye, once bright with life's and reason's rays, 
 
 Is growing dim with death's unconscious glaze ; 
 
 The breath is drawn with gasping, struggling sound, 
 
 Almost the only trace of life that's found ; 
 
 The heart now moves, with rapid, flutt'ring beat, 
 
 While toward it fast the vital streams retreat, 590 
 
 Till thus oppressed and weak, no more it strives, 
 
 No more its feeble stroke the current drives ; 
 
 It feels death's chilling influence still more near — 
 
 It stops — no more to move in life's career — 
 
 With one expiring, agonizing groan, 
 
 The contest ends — the fatal struggle's done ! 
 
 These are fears, anxieties and cares 
 Which ev'ry one must know, who boldly dares 
 Attempt the noble task to blunt the fangs 
 Of fell disease, and soothe the sufferer's pangs, 600 
 Yet shrink not from the frightful image yet, 
 Nor all those venerable names forget, 
 Who followed where the sense of duty called, 
 By all these fearful pictures unappalled. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 79 
 
 Such was " the Coan Sage."* By schools untaught, 
 
 On Nature's page he for her precepts sought ; 
 
 With eye observant marked each wayward change 
 
 In maladies of frightful shapes, and strange, 
 
 And gave to ages of succeeding date 
 
 His labours to admire and imitate, 610 
 
 Nor less his patriotic virtues shine ; 
 
 In vain might honour, wealth and power combine, 
 
 To tempt his footsteps to a foreign land — 
 
 He all their bright allurements could withstand, 
 
 For far surpassing wealth and power he viewed 
 
 The noble consciousness of rectitude. 
 
 By his example led in later years, 
 The great, th' immortal Sydenhamt appears ; 
 His genius, bright with reason's piercing ray> 
 Dispelled those mists of ignorance away, 620 
 
 Which in the gloom of intellectual night, 
 Had veiled fair science long from human sight. 
 Though his imagination half obeyed 
 The idle speculations that assayed 
 His feet from reason's paths to draw aside, 
 Yet stubborn fact was his unerring guide, 
 To whose decisions all these fickle schemes 
 Were, in his eye, like unsubstantial dreams. 
 
 Among the worthies on that list enrolled, 
 The name of RushJ a noble rank must hold/ 630 
 
 * Hippocrates, a native of the island Coo*, and a celebrated 
 physician among the ancients. His writings procured him the 
 appellation of divine, and the moderns have conferred on him 
 the title of" father of medicine." He died in his 99th year, 
 B. C. 361. — jErf. 
 
 t See note B. % See note C. 
 
80 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 His was the feeling heart, the pitying eye, 
 The ear that ever heard misfortune's cry. 
 When the devouring pestilence was sent, 
 And all its awful rage around him spent ; 
 Its terrors could not drive him from his stand, 
 Where numbers daily sunk on ev'ry hand, 
 Lamenting, but undaunted he remained, 
 Rejoicing often in the conquests gained 
 O'er his tremendous foe. But feeble still 
 His power against that arm so strong to kill — 640 
 Smitten at once before the monster's blight, 
 His friends around him vanish from his sight ; 
 Now nearer still the cruel arrow flies, 
 It comes to sunder love's endearing ties. 
 Even himself begins its force to feel, 
 Threatening upon his doom to fix the seal. 
 While Death in every grim and ghastly shape 
 His eye averted vainly would escape, 
 On every side it meets his waking glance, 
 And his disturbed and restless slumber haunts. 650 
 He seems to see the fatal sword on high, 
 Charged with the errand of mortality — 
 While each succeeding stroke, with wider sweep, 
 Adds its new victims to the slaughtered heap. 
 Surviving friends, o'ercome with wild affright, 
 Leave unperformed the sad funereal rite — 
 They hurry to the tomb the last remains 
 Of those they mourn for.*— Sable-costumed trains 
 Of weeping friends to follow, there were none— 
 The hearse moved on its weary way alone, 660 
 
 The deep and solemn tollings of the bell 
 Had ceased the fearful tale of death to tell. 
 * See Note D. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 81 
 
 But in that sullen stillness, there was more 
 
 Of deep solemnity than e'er before 
 
 The funeral knell, or funeral train expressed, 
 
 Attending the departed to their rest — 
 
 As when the eye is fastened in the glance 
 
 Of mute despair, too deep for utterance. 
 
 The deafening din of business had ceased ; 
 
 No mirth nor music graced the social feast. 670 
 
 In halls that late resounded with the tread 
 
 Of airy footsteps, — now the sick and dead 
 
 Were mixed in horrible confusion there, 
 
 And foul effluvia poisoned all the air. 
 
 Few were the human faces, you could meet, 
 
 Scattered along the still and vacant street, 
 
 Save those whose task compelled them to convey 
 
 To the insatiate grave its copious prey. 
 
 It seemed as if the city had become 
 
 A charnel-house or vast mausoleum, 680 
 
 Where every object wakens with its gloom 
 
 The awful contemplations of the tomb ; 
 
 Where, at the echo of his footsteps light, 
 
 Th' astonished traveler trembles with affright, 
 
 As if 'twere daring for the foot of man 
 
 T' intrude where death's unnumbered trophies stand — 
 
 Or, save the crumbled arch, and reeling spire, 
 
 (The monuments of Time's relentless ire) 
 
 Akin to that mysterious spot* it seemed, 
 
 Where Tadmor's temple in the desert gleamed. 690 
 
 Where men were seen, they seemed like men no more; 
 
 No change of cheerful glances, as before, 
 
 * The ruins of Palmyra, supposed to be Tadmor in the wil- 
 derness, which was built by Solomon. 
 
82 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 The recognition showed of human kind, 
 But vacant looks betrayed the absent mind, 
 And told in unison with all things round, 
 That nought but desolation there was found. 
 
 Oh ! for some genius, Jenner,* great as thine, 
 To quench the venom of that power malign. 
 Thine was the glorious work, and thine the skill, 
 To stop one mighty flood of human ill. 700 
 
 Ages had rolled on ages, while the scourge 
 From mourning friends had called the frequent dirge ; 
 Empires had trembled, when they saw with dread 
 The dreadful weapon brandished o'er their head ; 
 Thousands before its path made haste to fly, 
 Only to spread its sure mortality. 
 Its touch dissevered every sacred bond 
 That binds the spirit in attachments fond ; 
 The objects of its wrath were shunned with fear, 
 E'en those, to whom their welfare was most dear,710 
 Avoided their approach with horror wild, 
 As though by fiend-like crimes they were defiled. 
 If by no care for her own life restrained, 
 The mother with her sickening child remained, 
 She bought the privilege with life alone — 
 To save her child's she sacrificed her own ; #• 
 And even that price in vain was often paid, 
 And child and mother in one grave were laid. 
 
 Oh ! fearful and heart-rending was the cry 
 Of nations whelmed with this calamity, 720 
 
 When Heaven in pity looked upon their woes — 
 It gave the mighty word, and Jenner rose ; 
 The demon of the pestilence beheld, 
 And by his heaven-directed power compelled, 
 * See note E. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 83 
 
 Dropped from her hand the vengeance-whetted blade 
 And fled his presence, trembling and dismayed. 
 Now she has ceased the shrinking throng to force 
 To death's dark vale, along their downward course. 
 Closed are those gaping portals of the tomb, [doom. 
 Through which she drove the thousands to their 
 None but her rash and willing slaves expire, 
 Self immolated to her vengeful ire. 
 
 Immortal Jenner ! Were thy name enrolled 
 On every heart in characters of gold, 
 'Twere but the homage justly due thy deeds, 
 Whose worth all calculation far exceeds. 
 Hadst thou upraised the desolating sword, 
 And o'er the earth thy slaught'ring legions poured, 
 Until thy thirst for conquest sacrificed 
 As many as thy genius has devised 740 
 
 To rescue from the grave — thy name had shone 
 With those of Caesar and Napoleon, 
 High on the list of those, whose deeds sublime 
 Of glorious murder and heroic crime 
 Have given them acknowledged right to claim 
 The death-earned glory of the victor's name. 
 But no such brightness now is round thee thrown ; 
 Even thy name to those alone is known, 
 Whom studies of the healing art engage, 
 While plodding o'er the weary midnight page ; 750 
 Yet, who would not exchange the blood-bought crown, 
 And all the conq'ror's ill-deserved renown, 
 To purchase thy proud consciousness of worth, 
 Richer than all the diadems on earth ? 
 
ANTICIPATIONS AND RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 PART SECOITD 
 
 With such examples to direct and cheer, 
 To tread the thorny path I will not fear ; 
 I'll cull the scattered flowers that round it grow, 
 And gladly taste the sweets which they bestow ; 
 But those delights shall be relinquished all, 
 Which interfere with duty's pow'rful call. 
 Though to these claims severe I must resign 
 The pleasures which in former years were mine, 
 Yet 'tis no crime to pass in sad review 
 Before my eyes the joys which once I knew ; 10 
 
 They are no Sodom — as I swiftly flee 
 From them, and they as fast escape from me, 
 There's no stern interdiction on them lies, 
 That back to them I may not turn my eyes. 
 
 Whence is the strange enchantment, that displays, 
 In such bewitching charms, our former days — 
 That gives their pleasures an unsullied hue 
 Of heav'nly purity, more bright than true, 
 When all the hours, which memory paints so fair, 
 Were pressed with anguish, or were dark with care ? 
 Thus when on high the gathering storm impends, 
 And when its voice of wrath the concave rends, 
 8 
 
86 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 The deluge rushes, and the lightnings blaze — 
 In mute astonishment and awe we gaze ; 
 But when the storm is past, we see alone 
 The arch of promise round its blackness thrown, 
 And captivated with its heav'nly charms, 
 Forget the tempest and its dread alarms. 
 
 There is a spot, which, with extatic dreams 
 And images of bliss celestial, teems — ■ 30 
 
 'Tis Home. There is a magic in the sound, 
 That makes the heart with very rapture bound. 
 There is a soft and gentle picture there, 
 That rests the eyes, strained by the tiresome glare 
 Of tints more brilliant, but less pure, which blend. 
 To life's more busy scenes their light to lend. 
 When the tired soul, to seek a resting-place, 
 Has held in vain its long and weary chase 
 Along the turbulent, tumultuous deep, 
 Whose waters of affliction round us sweep, 40 
 
 And when to some support it fain would cling, 
 Like Noah's dove upon her flagging wing, 
 Home, like the precious olive, makes it blest. 
 With shelter and support, with peace and rest. 
 
 Though far remote from home, I may retrace 
 The pleasures of that consecrated place. 
 Both distant time and distant place shall lend 
 Their mystic lustre to the scene, and blend 
 Upon those visions all their radiance, 
 Unseen, except by mem'ry's backward glance. 50 
 
 The painless flow of childhood's early years 
 Brest in the most alluring form appears. 
 Its wanton gambols and its trivial plays 
 Seem like the happiness of golden; days, 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 87 
 
 And from us draw the sigh of deep regret 
 
 For all those scenes, we never can forget 
 
 In the first workings of the mind we see 
 
 The consciousness of its high destiny. 
 
 In its first efforts on some trifling theme, 
 
 We see the rays of dawning reason gleam. 60 
 
 With imitative art it strives to rise, 
 
 And wear the sage's or the poet's guise. 
 
 The child attempts to emulate the man, 
 And mocks in miniature his every plan. 
 Upon its breast the riv'let bears his ships; 
 His palaces, with pigmy art, eclipse 
 Whatever fancy in its flights conceived, 
 That Lilliputian genius has achieved. 
 He apes the bustle of commercial life, 
 And all the pomp and show of martial strife. 70 
 
 He joins in fierce, but safe and bloodless frays, 
 As if ambitious of the warrior's praise. 
 With eye discriminating he selects 
 All that is bright and noble, and rejects 
 The enterprise, with pain and danger fraught, 
 The vexing care, and miser's sordid thought. 
 When favoured with a calm and prosp'rous gale. 
 His navies on the stream securely sail ; 
 But when with storms the sky is overcast, 
 They're wisely sheltered from the ruthless blast. 80 
 The music and parade of war are his, 
 Without its desolating ravages. 
 He joins his comrades with a friendly heart, 
 To fight a social battle and depart. 
 
 The school-boy's prize excites his youthful zeal ; 
 Not more ambition can his elders feel 
 
88 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 For learning's highest meed, than he to stand 
 Foremost in rank among the little band. 
 This ardour gives his look a livelier glow, 
 When on his cheek the winds of winter blow, 90 
 As to his morning task, with quickened pace, 
 He hastes, with pleasure smiling in his face. 
 His cold and scanty morsel then he tastes 
 With keener relish than the rich repasts 
 (Though filled with ev'ry dainty and delight) 
 Can yield the glutton's pampered appetite. 
 But envy's loathsome taint doth not disgrace 
 The emulation of his youthful race. 
 Although his little heart with gladness swells, 
 When in that friendly contest he excels, 100 
 
 Yet let another* win the wished for prize, 
 And lie with gratulations to him flies. 
 Such trivial themes, as these, may seem too small, 
 From the world's busy stage oumthoughts to call. 
 But in such rev'ries who has never mused, 
 Till o'er his soul a sadness was diffused, 
 That made him almost weep to think how fast 
 Those times of spotless innocence had past? 
 Th' oblivious touch of time cannot efface 
 From our remembrance ev'ry hallowed place, 110 
 O'er which the thoughts of home diffuse a charm, 
 Its sacred recollections to embalm. 
 But most we love to think on those retreats, 
 Where we have tasted contemplation's sweets, 
 Where from the rude and restless world removed, 
 In solitary rambles we have roved. 
 For no untoward chance of life has there 
 Given them one feature less sublime or fair, 
 * See note F. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 89 
 
 But all the bold and glorious reveries, 
 Which we indulged in calm retreats, like these, 120 
 Make them appear like some enchanted spot, 
 With dazzling and unearthly radiance fraught 
 
 Along the sheltered, solitary grove,* 
 How often was it my delight to rove, 
 While the faint whispers of the winds, that sung, 
 As to their breath the pine's dark branches swung, 
 Lent all their pensiveness to thoughts, that stole 
 In contemplative musings o'er the soul. 
 Those thoughts, how well adapted to prepare 
 The mind to fix its close reflections there, 130 
 
 Upon that scene, to which the footsteps led, 
 The solemn habitation of the dead ! 
 
 No splendid monuments are there to keep 
 The memories of those who 'neath them sleep. 
 For there the simple, rudely-sculptured stone, 
 And scarcely prouder tomb appear alone ; 
 The glittering show of wealth was not their lot, 
 Who slumber in this consecrated spot. 
 But, mid the dark and fearful waste they chose 
 This safe retreat, and here their temple rose, 140 
 Where they might see the azure wave, that bore 
 Their fragile bark far from their native shore. 
 Within its humble walls their thanks they gave 
 To Him, who brought them o'er the stormy wave, 
 And on this favoured land had placed their feet, 
 Destined as Liberty's peculiar seat. 
 They prayed, that here they might in safety dwell, 
 And fearless of the red man's murderous yell. 
 They knew no empty show and vain parade; 
 With fervent heart and pious zeal they prayed: 150 
 8 *See note G. 
 
90 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 For they had ventured o'er the roaring deep, 
 Their own religion undefiled to keep; 
 And when they closed the labours of the week. 
 Hither they flocked, their holy rest to seek. 
 
 Did they not with the power of prophecy 
 Turn toward future times the raptured eye ? 
 Did they not see the frowning desert bloom 
 And blossom like the rose around their tomb — 
 Its giant oaks to their descendants bend, 
 And stately cities in their stead ascend ? 160 
 
 Saw they not from themselves a nation born, 
 To laugh the potency of kings to scorn, 
 Towering as its own mountains in their height, 
 Resistless, like its torrent floods, in might ? 
 Yes, with the eye of faith 'twas theirs to see 
 The blessings waiting for their progeny. 
 Upon this hope they rested, while they found 
 Nought but of hardships one unceasing round, 
 For turn them where they would, the tawny foe 
 Was lurking there, to deal the fatal blow. 170 
 
 They dreaded in the solitary walk 
 To meet the terrors of the tomahawk. 
 When on this spot they raised their prayers to Him, 
 Whose presence dwells between the cherubim, 
 As through the grove the whistling breezes rushed, 
 Those pure effusions of the heart were hushed; 
 Listening with fear, they trembling looked around, 
 To learn if 'twere the war-note's startling sound. 
 
 Short were their sufferings in this vale of tears : 
 And as they fell before the lapse of years, 160 
 
 Here 'twas their will to sleep beneath the clod, 
 Which, when alive, they had so often trod, 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 91 
 
 To bend the grateful knee and tune the lays 
 Of pure devotion to their Maker's praise. 
 
 Here let us tread with awe, nor vainly mock 
 The faithful pastor and his pious flock,* 
 Whose frail mementoes crumble o'er their graves 
 With every blast, that from the ocean raves. 
 But those time-shattered fragments let us find, 
 On which alone their names are left behind, 190 
 And seize the only chance, we shall possess, 
 That may redeem them from forgetfulness, 
 For when another storm has o'er them gone, 
 They're swept forever to oblivion. 
 
 Oh ! How it elevates the soul to tread 
 Among the silent dwellings of the dead ! 
 Here have I wandered, when the noise of day 
 Was hushed as death — when the moon's silver ray 
 Was flickering on the bosom of the deep, 
 Or where the riv'let's gentler waters creep, 200 
 
 And flung a ghostly and mysterious light 
 Upon the shady grove and mountain height — 
 Until there was a feeling o'er me thrown, 
 As if I stood upon the world alone, 
 And all, who once had lived, were now at rest 
 Beneath the turf, on which my footsteps pressed. 
 The measured pealings of the distant wave 
 The signal of each passing moment gave, 
 And seemed to say, as ever an anon 
 The. crash was heard— " Another moment's gone." 
 Then with the mists that from the meadows crept, 
 Methought I saw the forms of those that slept, 
 Towards their holy sanctuary come, 
 Wrapt in the shrouded costume of the tomb, 
 * See note H. 
 
92 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 Yet clothed in that mysterious sublime, 
 That veils the men and scenes of distant time. 
 Amid the sheeted spectres there methought 
 My eye the honoured form of Winslow caught, 
 Leaning upon the tomb, which still retains, 
 In undisturbed repose, his last remains. 220 
 
 He seemed to point me to the well-known strand, 
 Which first received their Heaven-devoted band, 
 And to the sea-worn rock, where first they stepped, 
 Which sacred to their names their sons have kept. 
 He bade me think with what a freezing power, 
 They saw the wintry tempests round them lower, 
 And what sublime, celestial fortitude [ed 
 
 Then manned their souls, when they, undaunted,view- 
 The rugged, bleak and barren cliffs that rose, 
 Dressed in a shroud of unrelenting snows — - 230 
 When for the shelt'ring roof and social blaze, 
 Nothing but one inextricable maze 
 Of pathless forests met the eye alone, 
 Resounding with the tempest's hollow r moan. 
 
 If 'mid the tombs, where the remains are laid 
 Of those we venerate, 'tis sweet to tread, 
 With equal pleasure is our journey bent 
 To where their pure, eventful lives were spent. 
 Such is the place,* which from the honoured name 
 Of Winslow wears a patriarchal fame — 240 
 
 From those, whose counsels led our fathers, when 
 Small were the numbers of those pious men — 
 And him,f who with a noble fervor rose, 
 To draw his conquering blade on Britain's foes, 
 But they are here no longer — they, for whom 
 The locust once put forth it's fragrant bloom, 
 * Winslow place, — See note I. t Gen. John WiosJow, 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 93 
 
 And strewn along the green walk, scattered there 
 
 Inviting odours on the vernal air. 
 
 But yet some relics* are remaining still, 
 
 Th' unwieldy workmanship of ancient skill, 250 
 
 Which sire to son hath in succession taught, 
 
 O'er the untried and dangerous deep were brought, 
 
 When Winslow joined the few, who crossed the sea, 
 
 From persecuting bigotry to flee. 
 
 Tbe portraits too of that illustrious race 
 
 Remain as yet, those silent walls to grace. 
 
 As I among them stood, the eyes of all 
 
 Seemed, as with one accord, on me to fall, 
 
 And in that look, so stedfast and intense, 
 
 There was a mute, expressive eloquence. 260 
 
 That gaze was fraught with so much meaning then, 
 
 I almost thought they were alive again. 
 
 But 'twas illusion all — The hoary sage 
 
 Has long since withered at the touch of age ; 
 
 Death has unnerved that arm that once could wield 
 
 The sword upon the reeking battle-field ; 
 
 That arm has mouldered in unconscious dust; 
 
 That sword is in its scabbard left to rust, 
 
 But though the master's gone, the faithful blade 
 
 Upon the hero's portrait still is laid. 270 
 
 These all are vanished, and we only see 
 The scattered few of their posterity. 
 Alas! what cruel, sad reverse of fate 
 Upon that scattered few has fallen of late ! 
 Sickness, Distress, and Death itself are linked 
 In one dread league, as if to make extinct 
 Their very name, and here to leave no trace, 
 To keep the mem'ry of that honoured race, 
 * See note J. 
 
94 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 Where ocean pours his ever-restless flood 
 Upon the sounding beach* — there I have trod, 280 
 To watch the ceaseless rolling of the waves, 
 Rushing along their rugged, rocky caves. 
 Who is there, can survey the vast extent 
 Of that immeasurable element, 
 And not shrink back, astonished, from the glance, 
 To think of his own insignificance ? 
 Yet, who is there, that dwells not with delight 
 Upon the awful grandeur of the sight — 
 To see the surface of that mighty world 
 In gentle swells of wavy waters curled ? 290 
 
 Above, the screaming sea-bird wheels on high, 
 Uttering aloud her shrill and plaintive cry ; 
 Surmounted with their white and snowy wreath, 
 The waters ring their endless peal beneath. 
 The wave afar is seen to raise its head 
 Above the surface of its azure bed> 
 It gathers force and speed upon its way, 
 Till from its curly top the dashing spray 
 Roars at your feet — while far on either side 
 Along the sandy shore it pours its tide, 300 
 
 Until among the distant rocks it sweeps, 
 And rings resonant on their darkling steeps. 
 Waves following waves successively prolong 
 For ages that unvaried, sullen song. 
 
 What numerous and unheard-of prodigies 
 Are hidden in that fathomless abyss ? 
 Are hill and vale alternate there commixed ? 
 In that damp soil are coral forests fixed ? 
 Say, do not those untravelled regions swarm 
 With monsters of uncouth, unwieldy form ? 310 
 
 * See note K. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 95 
 
 Doth nature there in sportive mood describe 
 
 Fantastic figures in each various tribe, 
 
 More strange than all that man has e'er descried 
 
 Upon the surface of the ocean-tide ? 
 
 In those vast caverns doth the Kraken* sleep, 
 
 Or teem they with the serpents of the deep ? 
 
 Doth an eternal spring with verdure grace 
 
 The unexplored recesses of the place ? 
 
 That wide domain, say, does it bloom with flowers 
 
 Of hues as fair, and fragrance sweet, as ours ? 320 
 
 All is unknown. Those realms have ever been 
 By man's inquiring, curious eye unseen. 
 In vague conjecture, all, we know, consists, 
 Of ev'ry form of life, that tnere exists. 
 
 Man only ploughs the surface of the tide — 
 'Tis there alone his gallant navies ride. 
 The standards there of diff 'rent nations float, 
 Together brought from realms the most remote. 
 Columbia's eagle towers in arduous flight — 
 The ramping lion dares the hottest fight. 330 
 
 Upon that boundless field the hero leads 
 His faithful followers to eventful deeds. 
 Witness the names, Columbia has enrolled 
 On fame's bright arch in characters of gold. 
 These met the cannon's tempest and the shower 
 Of swift destruction from th' oppressing power. 
 But in return, with aim unerring sent, 
 Back to the foe the bolts of vengeance went, 
 Until his riven and shattered ship no more 
 Could stem the fierceness of the cannon's roar; 340 
 Down from their height his dancing streamers came, 
 Hid in the clouds of mingled smoke and flame — 
 
 * An imaginary sea animal of enormous size. See note L. 
 
96 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 While still the star-decked banner, fixed on high, 
 
 Floated upon the breeze triumphantly. 
 
 Such too be your success, on whom the Turk, 
 
 Frenzied with rage, drives on his deathful work. 
 
 By great Canaris led, on to the fight, 
 
 Until the cowering Paynim owns your might, 
 
 And doffs his turban to your war-like race, 
 
 The brave descendants of Leonidas. 350 
 
 Across the ocean, Commerce on her wings 
 The various wealth of foreign nations brings; 
 Earth's wide extremes are by her influence joined, 
 And closer ties connect all human kind. 
 Yon bark upon its dang'rous way she speeds, 
 Which from the shore wifh rapid flight recedes. 
 See, how the rippling wave it bravely cleaves, 
 And in its wake the foam behind it leaves — 
 While all their sails the gallant seamen crowd, 
 And on she sweeps with course sublime and proud. 
 What anxious wishes with that ship are sent ! 
 What straining eyes upon that ship are bent ! 
 Watching her as she moves with quickening flight, 
 To bear away the seaman from their sight. 
 May all those wishes not be sent in vain — 
 And may his presence bless those eyes again 
 That have so often watched and wept for him, 
 Till weak with gazing, and with sorrow dim. 
 
 Heaven speed thee, seaman, on thy way, and guard 
 Thy life against the dangers, thou hast dared; 370 
 Hushed may the clamours of the tempest be, 
 While thou art tossing on th' unsteady sea. 
 May not the corsair and his ruffian crew 
 Along the tropic main thy bark pursue, 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 97 
 
 With his heav'n-daring, murd'rous deeds to stain 
 The azure waters of the indignant main. 
 Mild be the vapours of the dewy night, 
 And soft the radiance of the solar light, 
 E'en when the sun upon his lofty march 
 Burns from the zenith of his heavenly arch. 380 
 
 And when success thy enterprize has crowned, 
 Then hasten back to tread thy native ground. 
 Haste homeward then. Thou knowest, that for thee 
 Fond hearts are beating with expectancy. 
 Whene'er the stormy winds their dirges tell 
 Around the walls, where those, who love thee, dwell, 
 What terrors are excited for thy fate, 
 And for the dangers that around thee wait ! 
 The eyes that else in quiet sleep had closed, 
 E'en by the ravings of the storm composed, 390 
 
 In tiresome watchfulness are now awake, 
 While the loud gusts the cracking timbers shake ; 
 Or if they sleep, 'tis but to start again 
 From dreams of shipwreck on the stormy main. 
 Alas ! alas ! thy face again to see 
 Is not permitted by our destiny.* 
 Take now thy latest look of this fair shore, 
 For thou may'st look upon its hills no more. 
 From Western India's sultry, pois'nous gale 
 Ere long the seeds of death thou shalt inhale ; 400 
 And on thy homeward way thy limbs reclined, 
 Beneath the briny wave their tomb shall find. 
 When to thy friends those tidings are revealed, 
 Their anxious fears to poignant grief shall yield. 
 For the still, cautious breathing of suspense, 
 The full heart's groan shall burst with violence. 
 9 * See note M. 
 
98 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 When nature's ties are torn, the bleeding heart 
 Cannot but writhe beneath the tort'ring smart ; 
 But when calm reason once her sway resumes, 
 Hope with her light the darksome scene illumes. 410 
 She points to where, on the horizon's verge, 
 The blue sky mingles with the heaving surge, 
 So that the eye discerns not from the sky 
 The wave, that's lost in its immensity, 
 As from the deep 'twere but a short advance 
 To reach the clear, cerulean expanse — 
 E'en so the eye of faith is taught to see 
 The spirit from the ocean wave set free, 
 And with a short, but glorious remove, 
 High mounting to the peaceful world above. 420 
 
 What numbers, ling'ring far from friends and home. 
 Have sunk into that vast and briny tomb ! 
 But slow the ravages that sickness makes, 
 For when the billow in its fury wakes, 
 Its speedier work is done without delay, 
 And wide it yawns to close upon its prey. 
 When the embattled powers of wave and wind 
 Have been in fierce and wrathful conflict joined, 
 And when the tumult of their ire 
 Begins to slacken, as the storms retire, 430 
 
 How terribly sublime the scene, to stand, 
 Where the mad waters vent upon the land 
 Their last remains of rage ! The clouds on high 
 Frown on the noisy discord angrily ; 
 The sun behind his misty curtain hides 
 His cheering smiles from the conflicting tides ; 
 And they, no more in placid azure drest, 
 Heave the dark, gloomy surges from their breast. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 99 
 
 Far as the eye can reach, there's nought descried, 
 
 But one commotion, spreading far and wide. 440 
 
 The ocean's blackness, through its vast extent, 
 
 Is with the foam's unsullied whiteness blent. 
 
 Along the shore a foamy column shews 
 
 How far the waves above their bound' ries rose ; 
 
 The winds are uttering their hollow moan, 
 
 As if they wailed the mischief they had done. 
 
 It makes the gazer's cheek turn pale with fear, 
 
 To see the waves upon their high career. 
 
 Aloft in air their curling summits hang, 
 
 Or break upon the rocks with deaf 'ning clang. 450 
 
 Now for a moment, as about to rest, 
 
 They raise less high their proud and tow'ring crest, 
 
 Then with the rushing of the fitful gust, 
 
 The waters in a heavier thunder burst. 
 
 Drifting upon the floods, a wreck* is borne, 
 By furious winds and driving tempests torn, 
 Before whose might its racking timbers groaned, 
 And wide disparting, their frail structure owned. 
 The riches, it contained, are all dispersed ; 
 Some, far beneath the sounding floods immersed ,460 
 Have plunged at once, to seek below the waves 
 Their owners in the ocean's gloomy caves ; 
 Some in the air, before the winds are blown, 
 Or, as in sport, upon the waves are thrown, 
 That roar and revel in tumultuous glee, 
 As if triumphant in their victory. 
 
 Among those treasures, shall the sea-nymphs find 
 Proud India's silks of sumptuous dye, to bind 
 Upon their graceful limbs ; and they shall wear 
 Across their shoulders, too, those mantles fair, 470 
 # See note N. 
 
100 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 Whose fleecy texture clothed the 'flocks, which feed 
 In Cashmere's fertile vale and flowery mead. 
 Along the shore, among the ruins thrown, 
 The costly works of art are thickly strewn, 
 Or, deeply buried, mid the sands are cast, 
 Rent and disfigured by th' unpitying blast. 
 
 But where are they — the hapless men, who stood 
 Upon the wreck, when first the angry flood 
 Made its mad onset, and the tall masts bowed 
 Before the winds that filled the gathering cloud ? 480 
 There as they clung, it made their blood congeal, 
 When the red lightning-blaze and thunder-peal 
 And frowning waters with terrific sound, 
 Were flashing, crashing, dashing madly round. 
 Often they looked, affrighted and amazed, 
 When their frail bark, upon the waters raised, 
 Hung tot'ring on the billow's utmost top, 
 High in the air, as if about to drop. 
 Awhile it danced upon the dizzy verge, 
 Poised in the feath'ry foaming of the surge, 490 
 
 Suspended far betwixt the sea and sky, 
 Twirled by the winds in wanton mockery — 
 A moment, and a- fearful plunge was made, 
 Deep in the briny wave engulfed they laid. 
 The waters gathered into towering heaps — 
 Far o'er their heads uprose the lofty steeps, 
 To which so near the lightning's meteor streamed, 
 That like volcanoes of the deep they seemed. 
 Bending before the storm, th' aspiring mast 
 Into the wide and wasteful flood was cast. 500 
 
 The mighty and o'erpowering waters crush 
 The groaning, gaping planks, and through them rush. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 101 
 
 Vainly the seaman with a desperate grasp 
 Clings to the wreck, till breathed his final gasp. 
 Sinking at last before his conquering foe, 
 He's swept and swallowed in the galf below. 
 
 Thou all Rapacious Deep ! awhile forbear, 
 Once let thy mitigated fury spare. 
 Enough of human blood dost thou not get, 
 To glut and satiate thy cravings yet ? 510 
 
 Is't not enough, that the bold seaman braves 
 Upon the main the terror of the waves, 
 And climbs on high upon the rattling shrouds, 
 When storms are driving from impending clouds ? 
 Is't not enough, that far from home he flies, 
 To face the stormy seas and frowning skies ? 
 Pressed by the burden of incessant toil, 
 E'en then he's fated to become thy spoil. 
 Shudd'ring — unable to escape, he draws 
 Within the reach of thy rapacious jaws, 520 
 
 That, yawning to receive him, wide outspread, 
 And as he falls, again close o'er his head. 
 He sinks to join th' innumerable host, 
 That crowd thy damp, and dark, and dreary coast. 
 Thy huge, mis-shapen monsters round him twine 
 Their horrid shapes, and on his limbs recline ; 
 And the rank foliage of thy plants shall spring 
 Around his head, and to his bones shall cling ! 
 
 Think'st thou, Rapacious Deep, thou canst retain 
 Thy prey forever in thy vast domain ? 530 
 
 Can all thy waters quench the heavenly light 
 Of life and consciousness in endless night ? 
 Oh ! No. Remember well the times of old, 
 When o'er the earth th' Eternal's chariot rolled. 
 9* 
 
102 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 Thy voice of tempests the ethereal rent ; 
 
 Thy hands were lifted in astonishment ; 
 
 From Israel's path thy frighted waves retired, 
 
 And like a wall on either side aspired, 
 
 Know, that His presence shall again appear ; 
 
 Know, that His voice, thou shalt in terror hear. 540 
 
 He comes with power resistless and supreme, 
 
 His children from thy bondage to redeem, 
 
 When marble tombs are crushed and crumbled down 
 
 In scattered fragments, at His awful frown ; 
 
 When His omnipotent command shall bid 
 
 His thunders rive the shattered pyramid, 
 
 And call its tenants from their resting place, 
 
 To rise and stand before their Maker's face — 
 
 Then shalt thou, by His powerful call compelled, 
 
 Disgorge the victims, thou so long hast held. 550 
 
 Then the retreating waters of thy tide, 
 
 Hither and thither parting, shall divide, 
 
 And raised in heaps, affrighted: and aghast, 
 
 Shall shew the depths of thy dominion vast, 
 
 Far deeper than the Erythraean* wave 
 
 A path to Israel's favoured armies gave. 
 
 By beams of heav'nly brightness then disclosed. 
 
 Thy utmost caverns all shall lie exposed; 
 
 To each remote recess His eye of flame 
 
 $hall pierce, and thence the slumb'rers shall reclaim: 
 
 Then all, whom thou entomb'st, shall rise again, 
 
 No more to tremble at thy stormy main. 
 
 Go, Rav'ning Monster, then — Go and devour 
 All that are brought within thy tyrant power ; 
 'Tis but a sacred charge, consigned to thee. 
 Till raised and clothed with immortality. 
 * Erythraean wave — the Red Sea. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 103 
 
 Why should my song its errant course pursue 
 Through ev'ry place, where once the moments flew 
 With speed unmeasured — Ah ! and with them bore 
 Sweets of enjoyments, I can taste no more. 570 
 
 Like brilliant, fairy fictions now they seem, 
 Or the dim traces of a pleasing dream, 
 From whose fair visions waking with surprise, 
 We weep, to find them no realities. 
 
 Scene of life's early pleasures ! years may pass 
 In life's united tragedy and farce, 
 But with oblivious besom ne'er shall they 
 Sweep thy remembrance from my thoughts away. 
 What though my wayward and unruly muse 
 Once ventured satire's lash on thee to use, 580 
 
 And at thy rudeness smiled, as upstart beaux 
 Deride their sires' unfashionable clothes — 
 Yet, spite of every trivial defect, 
 I cease not to regard thee with respect ; 
 For the intrinsic worth, as well I know, 
 May not be measured by external show. 
 The toil-worn hand's rude grasp doth oft express 
 The glow of hearts that beat in faithfulness ; 
 The tongue, in courtly flippancy untaught, 
 May speak the bolder eloquence of thought. 590 
 The fop's unmeaning mummery and show, 
 The smirking smile and all obsequious bow, 
 The strained extravagance of flattery's speech, 
 And all the forms that fashion's school can teach— 
 Say, what are these ? They give, it is confessed, 
 To the convivial throng a higher zest ; 
 They add new charms to ev'ry sportive play, 
 With which mirth's children pass their hours away. 
 
104 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 But yet how often with the fair outside 
 
 The fickle, sordid spirit is allied ! 600 
 
 How many with the costume and the name 
 
 Of friendship are content, without the flame ! 
 
 More noble far the man who ploughs the soil, 
 
 Contented in his unambitious toil. 
 
 Rude in expression, but in heart sincere, 
 
 O'er others' woes he sheds the pitying tear. 
 
 He lacks for words, but not for deeds t' express 
 
 The wish he feels for others' happiness. 
 
 While the conceited cit with words o'erflows, 
 
 But nought his spirit of their meaning knows. 
 
 In after life should e'er the lot be mine 
 To offer up before the muse's shrine, 
 At distant intervals, the humble lay, 
 My thoughts the same attraction will obey — 
 Land of the Pilgrims ! thou wilt be the theme 
 Of Poesy's beatifying dream. 
 But hurried and abrupt the strain^must be. 
 For duty's voice imperious calls on me. 
 Why then regret, that it is not my fate 
 Vainly the Poet's fame to emulate, 620 
 
 If the inspired effusions, I could boast, 
 In such discordant tones as these were lost ? [free, 
 
 Where would my song have turned ? Land of the 
 Home of the brave, and seat of liberty, 
 Thy pathless forests and luxuriant plains 
 Might have awakened more poetic strains. 
 My thoughts had turned towards the days of old 
 That into dark oblivion have rolled, 
 When first the red man's shaft, with useless aim, 
 Was levelled at the mammoth's giant frame— 630 
 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS. 105 
 
 When first uprose the rampart* that defies 
 The antiquary's vain and vague surmise, 
 To calculate in what forgotten age, 
 It met unshaken the assailant's rage. 
 On times more recent might my thoughts have run, 
 And on the glorious deeds by Freedom done, 
 When truths, which her convincing logic taught, 
 Flashed home upon the bold invader's thought ; 
 When in the powerful plea the thund'ring drum 
 Rolled forth its wakening exordium, 640 
 
 And with unwav'ring zeal in our defence 
 The cannon poured its mighty eloquence. 
 I might have sung of that heroic host, 
 Our country's safeguard, and our country's boast, 
 Whose names shall ever live to animate 
 The patriot threatened by the frowns of fate. 
 Tossed on the deluge, should fair Freedom's ark 
 Be threatened by oppression's tempest dark, 
 Those gallant men around it shall appear, 
 Its drooping inmates to revive and cheer. 650 
 
 The pale and languid form they shall descry 
 Of dying Lawrence, in the stormy sky, 
 While from his bloodless yet unfaltering lip 
 Breaks the stern mandate — "Don't give up the Ship." 
 On themes more hateful might my muse perchance 
 Have cast a transient and astonished glance, 
 Her bitterest anathemas to speak 
 Against th' ignoble wretch who dares to seek 
 To fill his coffers by the cursed crime 
 Of plund'ring Africa's unhappy clime, 660 
 
 * Remains of ancient fortifications still existing in various 
 parts of the country.— Ed. 
 
106 ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 My muse might turn from such a theme as this, 
 
 To old Chaldea's famed metropolis, 
 
 And sing the night, when Babel's impious king, 
 
 Starting abruptly from his revelling, 
 
 Saw the mysterious writing on his wall 
 
 Predict his sudden and tremendous fall. 
 
 But though I may not join the tuneful throng 
 That charm us with the melodies of song, 
 With their harmonious rhapsodies I may 
 With pleasure pass a leisure hour aw r ay. 670 
 
 Majestic Maro's* lays I may peruse, 
 And the bold visions of the Chian's muse;f 
 Or Milton's daring song, whose ardent flight 
 With dazzling glories had o'erpowered his sight, 
 But that his rayless, darkly-rolling orb 
 Could nothing of their brilliancy absorb, 
 As the dim veil protect's the eagle's gaze 
 Against the brightness of the solar blaze. 
 Fair Avon's bard,f the glory of thej>tage,' 
 My closely-fixed attention shall engage. 680 
 
 Pope too shall claim my thought, whose beauties glow- 
 Like sunbeams scattered in the varied bow T ; 
 And Young, who utters volumes in a line, 
 As concentrated rays more brightly shine. 
 The Ayr-shire plongh-boy,§ Caledonia's child, 
 Shall lend his measures simple, strong and wild ; 
 And Cowper's gentle muse shall lull to rest 
 The angry passions in the troubled breast. 
 
 Nor quite forgot be Moore's voluptuous strain, 
 And the terrific births of Byron's brain, 690 
 
 * Maro, Virgil, t The Chian's muse, Homer, t Avon's 
 bard, Shakespeare. $ The Ayr-shire Plough-boy, Burns. 
 
AND RECOLLECTIONS, 107 
 
 Whose genius, like the tempest-blaze of night, 
 
 Seems more tremendous, as it shines more bright. 
 
 How low degraded such a mind as his, 
 
 When wit unchaste calls forth its faculties, 
 
 As when Alcides stooped in labours vain 
 
 Th' Augean stable of its filth to drain. 
 
 More gladly would I listen to his lyre, 
 
 Whom Hope's anticipating charms inspire,* 
 
 Or to the exiled wanderer ,f who bewails 
 
 His native Alps and desolated vales. 700 
 
 My untaught Harp ! should e'er my hand again 
 Sweep o'er thy chords — say, shall it be in vain ? 
 Can I from thine untuned, neglected string 
 The sweet, responsive note of music bring? 
 If so, perhaps from slumbers deep and long 
 Thou shalt be called, to breathe a hasty song — 
 But now thy music may no longer swell — 
 Hushed be thy voice, my Harp— Farewell — Farewell. 
 
 Attleborugh, March 1826. 
 
 * Whom Hope's anticipating charms inspire. — Campbell, 
 t The exiled wanderer. — Montgomery's Wanderer in Swit- 
 zerland. 
 
THE DUEL. 
 THE DUEL,* 
 
 109 
 
 1 Attend, all ye of high degree, 
 
 And eke ofjower station, 
 And hear me sing a wond'rous thing, 
 That happened in our nation. 
 
 2 Some time ago, I'd have you know, 
 
 John Randolph got to spouting, 
 With dirty stuff, he sure enough, 
 Friend Henry Clay was flouting. 
 
 3 With gibes and jokes, these honest folks, 
 
 As fast as they were able, 
 Kicked up a row, I know not how, 
 But, mark ye, 'tis no fable. 
 
 4 " H. Clay," Esquire, rose up irr ire, 
 
 He did not mean to budge on, 
 Nor would submit to suffer it, 
 But took it in high dudgeon. 
 
 5 He sent that night a note polite, 
 
 (In hope to wash his stains out) 
 And wrote thereon, requesting John 
 To come and blow his brains out ! 
 
 6 John stretched his limbs, and called for "Tims, ;J 
 
 Or for some other servant; 
 He scarce could speak — his heart was weak — 
 Till porter put some nerve in't. 
 
 * In imitation of Cowper's John Gilpin. 
 10 
 
110 THE DUEL. 
 
 7 He quickly quaffed a three pint draught, 
 
 Which to his spunk was fuel — 
 Then did he write, that he would fight 
 A duel—" Yes Sir/'— duel. 
 
 8 I'll tell you why Clay got so high — 
 
 When he before got stuffy, 
 Kremer, he found, would stand his ground 
 Much better than MDuffie. 
 
 9 Clay threatened that he'd have a spat, 
 
 But seeing Kremer's huge eye — 
 He dared not do, Caesar, like you, 
 But " veni, vidi,fugi."* 
 
 10 This brought ill fame on his great name, 
 
 And now, (would you believe it?) 
 He swore he'd try — survive-or die — 
 Some method to retrieve it. 
 
 11 Randolph and Clay went out next day, 
 
 And on the ground paraded, — 
 Oh ! had the tongue of Homer sung 
 What mighty wonders they did ! 
 
 12 They paced the ground, then both turned round 
 
 Their seconds, they were whist all ; 
 And they laid hold with fingers cold 
 Each one upon his pistol. 
 
 * Fugi,fled—\vi imitation of the sentence — u Veni, vidi, vi- 
 ci, t7 (I came, I saw, I conquered) words which Caesar used 
 in his famous letter to the Roman Senate, announcing a vic- 
 tory which he had just gained. — Ed* 
 
THE DUEL. Ill 
 
 13 When thus prepared, they were some scared — 
 
 Yet stood they in their places ; 
 Well might they be afraid to see 
 Each other's pale " dough-faces." 
 
 14 But Clay ere long waxed brave and strong ; 
 
 His heart felt rather bicker — 
 At once he put his fingers to't, 
 And boldly pulled the trigger. 
 
 15 Whizz ! went the ball — it scared them all, 
 
 But no man tumbled down, Sir; 
 And safe and sound, the ball was found, 
 Well lodged in Johnny's gown, Sir. 
 
 16 Then Johnny soon fired at the moon, 
 
 Because, (if right I scan it) 
 He then 'gan see, with grief, that he 
 Was governed by that planet. 
 
 17 And in good troth, he was much wroth, 
 
 And meant revenge to take, Sir, 
 
 To think she should, in wanton mood, 
 
 For him such trouble make, Sir. 
 
 18 Now up came Clay, as light as day, 
 
 With count'nance bright and shining, 
 (For whizzing lead about one's head 
 Is mighty reconciling.) 
 
 19 " We've made amends, and let's be friends, 
 
 " For it were most unlucky, 
 
112 THE DUEL, 
 
 " If I had died, the flow'r and pride 
 " Of my own dear Kentucky. 
 
 20 " And, my brave lad, I'm very glad, 
 
 " For honest old Virginia, 
 " Which, I believe, would sorely grieve, 
 " At losing such a — ninny. 
 
 21 If you told fibs, this firing squibs 
 
 Makes ample recantation ; 
 If you spoke true — I've fired at you, 
 So pray respect my station. 
 
 22 " Your Northern fools, (poor silly tools) 
 
 " Wont fight, when in a passion, 
 " But we'll maintain, with might and main, 
 " Our good old Southern fashion. 
 
 23 " Then here's a hand, my trusty friend, 
 
 " And give's a hand of thine, Sir, 
 " And we'll take a right good fid to-night, 
 " For days of auld lang syne, Sir." 
 
 24 Said John, " Content," — so off they went— 
 
 Each one to his own quarter — 
 Clay, as 'tis guessed, to play at whist, 
 And John to get some porter. 
 
 25 Now let us say — Long live friend Clay, 
 
 And Johnny — long live he, Sir. 
 And when they next get thus perplexed v 
 Mav we be there to see, Sir, 
 
 
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 113 
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE BEAD. 
 
 Proud Son of Earth ! Will Glory's brightest wreath 
 Luxuriant spread along the caves of Death ? 
 Will wealth and power protect thee from the blow, 
 That's destined, with the vile to lay thee low ? 
 Ask of the mouldered bones of ancient kings, 
 That long ere this, upon the whirlwind's wings 
 Have scattered with the dust. The lowliest slave, 
 With them has found in Earth a common grave. 
 What though above the ashes of the great 
 The marble stands in monumental state ? 
 Say — will corruption and the filthy worm 
 Before they seize upon the wasting form 
 Pause ere they pierce the storied monument, 
 And pass along on humbler victims bent? 
 All, all must moulder, and the proudest tomb 
 Will not preserve, for ages yet to come, 
 The memory of the dead, save those whose life 
 Has been with good, or glorious actions rife. 
 But these, although the mouldering form may rot, 
 Shall leave a fame that never is forgot. 
 The conqueror's power, the wisdom of the sage 
 Will chronicle the name on history's page. 
 Yet, wouldst thou leave a memory dear to all, 
 Join not in murder's horrid carnival ; 
 Nor write thy name in blood amidst the graves 
 Where the poor soldier's lonely widow raves. 
 Seek more to cultivate the peaceful arts, 
 Seek more to write thy name upon the hearts 
 Of all mankind by every generous deed, 
 And in their praise receive th' expected meed. 
 10* 
 
114 DOWNFALL OF MY WOODPILE. 
 
 Then tremble not before the shaft of Death, 
 But when he comes to take thy fleeting breath, 
 When thou art called to endless happiness, 
 Look down on those thy memory that bless, 
 (For thou hast wiped the tear-drop from their eyes) 
 And read the joyful story from the skies. * 
 
 LINES 
 
 COMMEMORATIVE OF THE DOWNFALL OF MY WOODPILE, 
 
 Written in December, 1826,* 
 
 1 I was piling a great heap of wood, 
 
 And I nearly had finished my labours, 
 And it stood up, all handsome and good, 
 A source of surprise to the neighbours. 
 
 * These lines may require some explanation. They are 
 founded on a very common occurrence — the falling of a wood- 
 pile! The author had been piling up a load of wood near the 
 door of his study, under a couple of beautiful elms which over- 
 shadowed it — he had almost finished his labour, when he discov- 
 ered (as many do in affairs of greater moment) that the founda- 
 tion was not sufficient for the superstructure — and the whole 
 pile suddenly tumbled down at his feet. He stood and gazed 
 for a moment upon the ruins of his work — and dropping his arm- 
 ful of wood, went into his room in the most pleasant humour, and 
 wrote these lines. To render so indifferent a subject interesting 
 is a surer test of poetic ability, than is afforded by a theme, in 
 itself, of greater interest. An ordinary event often suggested to 
 him a train of poetic thought ; and some of his best pieces are 
 founded on such themes. From so slight an incident as this,the 
 author had the ingenuity to draw a very good moral lesson. — Ed, 
 
DOWNFALL OP MY WOODPILE, 115 
 
 2 With joy I looked on it — (poor dunce !) 
 
 When but a few armfuls were lacking, 
 When, alas ! the whole pile all at once 
 Came down with a terrible cracking. 
 
 3 My armful I dropped on the ground, 
 
 And gazed on the ruins astonished — 
 When, lo ! a most wonderful sound 
 My glaring imprudence admonished. 
 
 4 My genius, who stands at the helm, > 
 
 And guides me with counsels sagacious, 
 Spoke out from the top of the elm, 
 
 With a count'nance smiling and gracious. 
 
 5 " My friend," she exclaimed with a smile, 
 
 " While to work you so ardently press on, 
 " The sad overthrow of your pile 
 u May teach you a very good lesson. 
 
 6 {i Reflect on your blunder with care — 
 
 " And if these admonitions should reach you, 
 " You will find it is better by far, 
 
 " Than for fatal experience to teach you. 
 
 7 " Remember, as long as you live, 
 
 " That to ardent and high expectation, 
 " You should not much confidence give, 
 " When it rests on a slender foundation. 
 
 8 '? If such hope you should build up too high, 
 
 f< No matter how much you may prize it, 
 
116 ^DOWNFALL OF MY WOODPILE. 
 
 "The very first gust, that comes by, 
 " Will always be sure to capsize it, 
 
 9 " And listen, I pray you/' said she, 
 
 " If you wish to escape tribulation, 
 " You must faithfully hearken to me, 
 " And build on a broader foundation. 
 
 10 " When winter is roaring around, 
 
 " This wood on your fire will be blazing, 
 " And you'll care not a fig for the sound 
 
 " That the storm and the tempest are raising. 
 
 11 " Thus Hope shall be glowing within, 
 
 " And its warmth and its light shall not fail you, 
 " When the sound of the storm shall begin, 
 " And adversity's blast shall assail you, 
 
 12 " Mourn not o'er the loss of your pains, 
 
 " And do not be sullen and fretful — 
 " It might have endangered your brains — - 
 " Of your good luck then be not forgetful. 
 
 13 " Go on — muster up all your powers — 
 
 " And build up two tiers all so clever — 
 " In the course of a couple of hours, 
 " The work will be firmer than ever." 
 
 14 I did so, and found very soon, 
 
 That whenever such accidents happen, 
 It keepeth one's temper in tune, 
 These sage cogitations to clap in. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 117 
 
 15 So now I have made a good fire, 
 
 And taken my pen, ink, and paper, 
 To gratify this my desire, 
 
 And give an account of the caper. 
 
 16 If there is a rhymster in town, 
 
 It is my desire he should know it, 
 
 That whenever a wood-pile falls down, 
 
 It makes a good theme for a poet ! 
 
 L.INES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 1 There is an hour — 'tis not the hour of noon, 
 When glaring sunbeams shed their dazzling blaze- 
 But at the hour of mid-night, when the moon 
 
 Casts o'er the slumb'ring world her pensive gaze, 
 
 2 There is a season — not when blooming spring 
 Wakes the wild music of her feathered band — ■ 
 
 But when stern winter waves his snow-plumed wing 
 In desolating grandeur o'er the land. 
 
 3 There is a place — 'tis not amid the throng 
 Of bustling commerce or of sportive mirth — 
 
 But where, the desert's solitudes among, 
 Unbroken silence seems to rule the earth. 
 
 4 And in that hour — that season — and that place — 
 To wander from the world and muse alone, 
 
 Fills the rapt soul with transports that surpass 
 All that can bless the monarch on his throne. 
 
118 ON A SPRIG OF JUNIPER 
 
 ON A SPRIG OF JUNIPER 
 
 FROM THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON, PRESENTED TO 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 The meadow may boast of its thousand dyes, 
 For their varied sphndours are far before thee ; 
 
 But still more fair in the patriot's eyes 
 Is the humblest branch from the trunk that bore thee, 
 For the place where it grows is a sacred spot, 
 With remembrance of high achievements fraught. 
 
 Thou didst not thrive on the blood of the slave, 
 Whom the reeking sword of oppression slaughtered; 
 
 But the grateful tears of the good and brave, 
 With a purer stream, thy roots have watered — 
 And green didst thou grow o'er the hero's bed, 
 Where the tears of his patriot son* were shed. 
 
 Say, where wert thou half an age ago, 
 When terrors were thronging around our nation — 
 
 When our land, by the word of its haughty foe, 
 Was marked with the sentence of desolation — 
 When the banner of freedom was wide unfurled 
 On the natal day of this western world — 
 
 When our fathers spared nor pain nor toil, 
 To purchase the blessing for their descendants, 
 
 And sealed with their blood on their native soil 
 Their claim to the glory of Independence — 
 
 # This was written soon after Fayette visited the tomb of 
 Washington. -Ed. 
 
 
ON A SPRIG OP JUNIPER. 119 
 
 When Life, Wealth, Honour, were all at stake, 
 That the holy cause they would not forsake. 
 
 Perhaps thou wast by the side of thy sire, 
 Whose branch to the breeze had for ages trembled. 
 
 Where gathered around the council-fire 
 The chiefs of the tawny tribes assembled — 
 Or it might have shaded the hunter's track 
 On the lonely banks of the Potomac. 
 
 And long on the place of the hero's sleep 
 May flourish the trunk, whence thou wert taken, 
 
 But a grateful nation his name shall keep, 
 When lifeless and bare, of its leaves forsaken, 
 The trunk and the branch to the earth are cast 
 Before the might of the rushing blast. 
 
 For in distant ages the day shall come, 
 When the vengeance of time its pride shall humble — 
 
 And the arch of the proud mausoleum 
 O'er the mouldering urn of the dead shall crumble — - 
 But till the last moment of time hath run 
 Shall live the remembrance of Washington. 
 
 Ah ! soon must branches like thine be spread 
 O'er another's tomb, and o'er yet another's — 
 
 For now from the sorrows of earth have fled, 
 As with one accord, two patriot brothers,* 
 Whom Heaven in mercy had given to see 
 The day of their nation's Jubilee. 
 
 * Adams and Jefferson. — Ed, 
 
120 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 O ! sadly, in tears sunk down, that day, 
 The sun, in the distant west declining — 
 
 But still in a holier splendour they 
 With their latest beams on the earth were shining, 
 When they were called from the earth to remove, 
 And shine in the realms of the blest above. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, 
 
 Silence and sleep are on the world, 
 
 The moon-beam rests on plain and river, 
 
 And where that stream is lightly curled, 
 The rays upon its waters quiver. 
 
 The sounds of the day — they are quiet all, 
 
 But the hum of the distant water-fall. 
 
 Yon azure arch is calm and fair, 
 
 The light cloud wreaths upon its brightness 
 Are sleeping on the moveless air 
 
 In moon-light robes of purest whiteness — 
 That one might deem them spirits of light, 
 That visit the earth in the hour of night. 
 
 At such an hour the fancy teems 
 
 With visions bright, or pensive musing ; 
 
 While highest thoughts, and loftiest themes, 
 Their powers throughout the soul diffusing, 
 
 Impel its flights to the worlds unknown, 
 
 Where the sun's faint radiance never shone. 
 
HOME. 121 
 
 The veriest wretch, that treads the ground, 
 He, who from passion's poisoned chalice 
 
 Has drained the very dregs, and bound 
 His heart and soul to deeds of malice, 
 
 Must feel the spell of the potent charm, 
 
 When he looks on a sky so pure and calm, 
 
 Not always thus, thou vast expanse, 
 Art thou so tranquil and unclouded — 
 
 E'en now, in one short hour perchance, 
 Thine arch shall be in tempests shrouded 
 
 And varying thus from peace to strife, 
 
 Is the changeful sky of human life. 
 
 Man's calm of peace may last awhile, 
 
 Then storms of anguish gather o'er him — 
 
 Now reason's rays upon him smile — 
 Now fancy's meteor flits before him — 
 
 And the light of hope, though it shines so fair, 
 
 May be lost in the gloom of deep despair. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 When distant we languish 
 
 From all we hold dear, 
 And the night gloom of anguish 
 
 Hangs over us drear — 
 How sweet by the beamings 
 
 Of Memory to roam, 
 In Fancy's fond dreamings 
 
 Of friends and of Home. 
 11 
 
122 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, 
 
 2 Though earth's fairest vallies 
 
 May welcome our sight, 
 Where city and palace 
 
 Rise proudly and bright — 
 Yet we turn from the splendor 
 
 Of turret and dome 
 To those transports more tender 
 
 That hail us at home. 
 
 3 Like the western sun's parting 
 
 And loveliest rays, 
 Are the bright visions darting 
 
 From happier days, 
 Where the twilight of sadness 
 
 Seems fading in gloom 
 O'er the past hours of gladness, 
 
 The pleasures of Home. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 Sacred to Friendship's hallowed shrine. 
 Fair Volume, be each page of thine — 
 As thine unsullied bosom bears 
 In faithful trust to distant years 
 These pledges of sincere esteem — 
 So, long may constancy redeem 
 From dark oblivion's control, 
 What Friendship writes upon the soul. 
 And while the suns of many a year 
 Are measuring Time's unstaid career, 
 
TO THE NEW YEAR. 123 
 
 May blithesome song, or pensive strain 
 
 On ev'ry glowing page remain, 
 
 To bid fond memory call more near 
 
 The thoughts of those, who placed them here. 
 
 And they, may they remember thee, 
 
 Whate'er their lot in life may be — 
 
 Whether they tread in untried ways, 
 
 Mid Arctic night, or Tropic blaze ; 
 
 Or venture, where the tempests rave 
 
 Upon the sailor's billowy grave, 
 
 And ocean rolls his gloomy tide 
 
 Above the wreck of human pride. 
 
 And since they never will forget, 
 
 That Friendship here their names has writ — 
 
 Long may these faithful pages last — 
 
 Long may they prove a constant token, 
 That till life's latest gasp be past, 
 
 True Friendships ties are never broken. 
 
 TO THE NEW YEAR, JAN. 1, 1827. 
 
 1 Hail ! Day of gladness ! now the sun again 
 Begins to move upon his annual round. 
 
 Man comes to greet thee with the mirthful strain 
 Of tuneful joy, and pleasure's sprightly bound. 
 
 2 Hail ! new born Year ! thy welcome presence wakes 
 The thrill of gladness in each heaving breast ; 
 
 Youth into songs exulting gladly breaks, 
 And age looks on and smiles serenely blest. 
 
124 TO THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 3 Yet why rejoice that Time's relentless scythe 
 From life's frail trunk another limb hath riven ? 
 
 Youth, Manhood, Age — say — why are ye so blithe, 
 To see yourselves adown the current driven ? 
 
 4 When the pale king comes on with fearful haste — 
 And takes another vast gigantic stride, 
 
 Leaving his path all desolate and waste — 
 Is this the time for revelry and pride ? 
 
 5 Then, new born Year — while we thy presence hail, 
 No wonder, that thou com'st with aspect stern — * 
 
 To chill with this thy lone and stormy wail 
 The glowing hopes that in our bosoms burn. 
 
 6 Think not that man shall always welcome thee, 
 For every former year was welcome so — 
 
 Scorned and neglected, thou lik^them shalt be, 
 To future years when future raptures flow. 
 
 [power — 
 
 7 Then, new-born Year — come with thy sadd'ning 
 Come not with pleasure and with thoughtless glee — 
 
 But pensive steal upon the midnight hour, 
 And thou art welcome — welcome e'en to me. 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 To his Friends on Netv-Year's morning. 
 
 Kind friends, I am happy to meet with you here, 
 And I heartily wish you a happy New- Year. 
 
 * The day on which this was written was stormy and tem- 
 pestuous. Though, in the extemporary lines which follow, he 
 warmly anticipates meeting his friends at the commencement of 
 of another year, this was the last he was destined to see. — Ed. 
 
TO A LOCK OP HAIR. lS& 
 
 May your pleasures be pure, and your prospects be 
 
 bright, 
 In storm and in sun shine — -by day and by night. 
 May the scenes of your lives, through the year twenty 
 
 seven, 
 Be crowned with the bountiful favours of Heaven. 
 And when this New Year shall have followed the last, 
 And is mingled again with the days that are past — 
 On another New- Year may I joyfully meet you, 
 Again with my warm benedictions to greet you. 
 
 TO A LOCK OF HAIR 
 
 TAKEN FROM THE HEAD OF A YOUNG LADY WHEN 
 THREE MONTHS OLD. 
 
 1 Wee, jetty lock o' babie's hair, 
 It wasna frien's a' greetin 5 sair, 
 Wha sned ye aff, and pit ye there 
 
 To lie thy lane, 
 Frae ane, whom they maun see na mair, 
 A' dead and gane. 
 
 2 On Annie's head when locks were scarce, 
 Syne did they wale ye frae the mass, 
 
 To ca' to min,' as years sud pass, 
 
 Wee childhood's scenes — 
 
 And she's grown up and lives — a — lass — 
 A' in her teens. 
 
 3> Ye was as sleekit as a whissel ; 
 For ance, the fient a curl or frizzle, 
 11* 
 
126 TO A LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 Crisped up by drouth, let down by drizzle, 
 Adorn' d the bairn. 
 Thou wasna sturtit wi' the fisle 
 O 5 curlin aim. 
 
 4 Heck ! gin ye had the crackin giftie, 
 For warl's gear, or niefu's fifty 
 
 O' gowd or siller, I'd na shift ye 
 
 Frae this right han', 
 
 Although I'm nae sae bien and thrifty 
 In plack or Ian'. 
 
 5 I wad hae spier't at ye fu' plain, 
 About the fancies in her brain — 
 Gin pawkie pliskies there were nane, 
 
 Just in thejerm, 
 Whilk shaw themseF e'en sin' the bane 
 Grew steeve and firm. 
 
 8 Yet I amaist hae grat for thee, 
 
 So think that nane thy curls may see, 
 Whiles wimplin ower that keek so slee, 
 
 That glinted through ye- 
 While dancin round that laughin e'e, 
 
 As the win's blew ye. 
 # # # * 
 
 7 But nae sic weird on ye maun fa' . 
 Belyve, thou'se na be ken'd ava, 
 By lad or lass — and, waur than a, : 
 
 MyseP hae won ye, 
 An' daurt on ilka muse to ca* 
 
 To rhyme upon ye. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 127 
 
 8 And sin' upon the wark 1 plumpit, 
 For lack o' words my pow I've thumpit, 
 Till it has rung like onie trumpit, 
 
 As if 'twere tooni, 
 And I wi' vera rage hae jumpit 
 
 About the room. 
 
 9 But sin J this clish-ma-claver's pent 
 Within my pow — it maun hae vent. 
 I'm wae to think I downa men't 
 
 Wi' phraisin cannie ; 
 But, sic as 'tis, right aff I'll sen't 
 Awa' to Annie. 
 
 L.INES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, 
 
 1 When the bonds of life are riven — 
 
 When a friend resigns his breath, 
 And his mortal part is given 
 
 To the dread domain of death — 
 
 2 Fondly then doth recollection 
 
 Bring his virtues all to light, 
 While the hand of pure affection 
 Veils his errors from our sight. 
 
 3 These from earth are fast decaying, 
 
 Like his ashes in the tomb, 
 Brighter hues are those displaying, 
 Like the flowers that round it bloom. 
 
 4 Hallowed thus, and pure forever, 
 
 Be of absent friends the thought. 
 
128 THE PERUVIAN DAMSEL TO THE WARRIOR. 
 
 Seas may Dart, and mountains sever, 
 But they shall not be forgot. 
 
 5 Ne'er may slander's venom blast them 
 
 With its foul and deadly spell — 
 Ne'er may dark suspicion cast them 
 From the bosoms where they dwell. 
 
 6 As from us their forms have vanished, 
 
 While their hearts with us remained, 
 
 Be their faults from mem'ry banished, 
 
 And their virtues still retained.* 
 
 *Most, if not all the preceding poems were written after he 
 cooynenced practice — from the age of nineteen to twenty. 
 Those, which follow, were composed at different periods of his 
 life — some, at a very early age, and others, just before his death. 
 Some are found among his college exercises.-J^df. 
 
 THE PERUVIAN DAMSEL. 
 
 TO THE WARRIOR, ON HIS DEPARTING TO FIGHT 
 AGAINST PIZARRO.* 
 
 1 Yes, on to the contest. My sighs are withholden, 
 Though grief with its fulness is rending my heart. 
 
 Let the words of thy Cora thy spirit embolden ; 
 The voice of thy country compels us to part. 
 
 [mangled 
 
 & I have trembled ere now, when thy keen knife has 
 The fierce alligator,* on Amazon's tide — 
 
 *The natives of some parts of S. America are paid to attack 
 the alligator in the river by thrusting a stick into his mouth, 
 when he raises his upper jaw. By this means he is prevented 
 from closing his jaws, and his assailant then cuts his throat. 
 * See note O. 
 
THE PERUVIAN DAMSEL TO THE WARRIOR. 129 
 
 Or when fast in the coils of thy lasso* entangled, 
 The beast of the forest lay stretched by thy side. 
 
 3 But now thou art called to redeem us from slavery; 
 The proud foe is venting his rage on our land — 
 
 And I would not extinguish the flame of thy brav'ry, 
 Or palsy the freedom-strung might of thy hand. 
 
 4 Round the limbs of thy country a serpent is coiling; 
 No Guacof avails from his venom to save ; [ing, 
 
 And the blood of her warriors with vengeance is boil 
 To wreak on the monster the wrath of the brave. 
 
 5 Then, away to the contest ; nor shrink from expo- 
 
 sure ; 
 And strong be thine arm on the battle's red field, 
 Till the fiends of the cowl &l the cross &/ the crosier, 
 O'ercome by the might of thy legions, shall yield! 
 
 6 Let the war-note be raised, and the battle's loud 
 
 clangor, 
 
 To where the dark mists on our mountains repose- 
 Where the fierce CotopaxiJ is flaming in anger^ 
 Or proud Chimborazo is mantled in snows. 
 
 * The Lasso is a long cord made ©f hides, having a ball at- 
 tached to the end. This ball the natives throw at beasts even 
 in their swiftest career, with such adroitness, as to wind the cord 
 round their legs, and thus throw them on the ground. 
 
 t The leaves of the Guaco are used in South America as a 
 cure for the bites of serpents. 
 
 J Cotopaxi is a volcano, one of the highest of the Andes, next 
 to Chimborazo. 
 
130 THE PERUVIAN DAMSEL TO THE WARRIOR. 
 
 7 From its air-cleaving journey thy shaft shall not 
 
 vary — 
 'Tis sped on the errand of death from thy bow ; 
 For its point I have dipped in the deadly Woorara,* 
 The strength of our arms and the dread of the foe. 
 
 8 I have spread the dark juice upon every arrow, 
 But one I have marked for a deadlier course ; 
 
 And I bade it fly home to the heart of Pizarro, 
 To curdle his very life-blood at its source. 
 
 9 The chieftains shall see thy heroic example, 
 Thy words shall inspire them with courage again ; 
 
 And triumphantly under their feet they shall trample 
 The blood of the foe and the corse of the slain. 
 
 10 Let the zeal of thy warriors be never diminished, 
 Till Spain's richest blood shall empurple the ground; 
 
 But return, when the glorious work shall be finished, 
 Return to thy Cora, with victory crowned. 
 
 11 But the counsels of Heaven from mortals are 
 
 hidden — 
 And oh! if death's darkness must cover thine eyes — 
 
 If to see thee again on the earth is forbidden- 
 Soon, soon may I follow thy course to the skies. 
 
 * The Woorara is prepared from the juice of certain plants, 
 and is used in some parts of South America to poison arrows. 
 
THE AEOLIAN HARP. 131 
 
 12 When the rocks shall be rent — when the moun- 
 
 tains are shaken,* 
 When our Guardian Power in the tempest shall 
 
 come, 
 From the sorrows of earth shall my spirit be taken, 
 And raised to a brighter, a happier home. 
 
 13 The hearts of the timid with fear shall be frozen, 
 When earth in dismay hathHis presence confessed; 
 
 But I shall be called with the host of His chosen, 
 To meet thee again in the realms of the blest. 
 
 THE AEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 ■ 
 
 Written in College. 
 
 Harp of ^Eolus ! when afar, 
 The pensive ray of eve's first star, 
 Resting on her watery pillow, 
 Shone in the foam of the eastern billow, 
 Oft thy melancholy strain, 
 Searching through my maddened brain, 
 Has stolen the sigh, -my breast that wrings, 
 To breathe it from thy wind-swept strings. 
 Oh ! once I heard thy solemn wail, 
 When the cool, fresh blow of the western gale, 
 
 * It is said that the natives of South America formerly thought 
 the phenomena of earthquakes to be produced by the coming of 
 the Great Spirit to call for his elect. For this reason, when they 
 heard them, they ran out from their dwellings, and cried out, 
 "Here am I." 
 
132 THE iEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 Like the breath of the spirit of twilight grey, 
 Had stolen the power of thought away — 
 Methought that, pure from the western sky, 
 As it sailed along, it bore the sigh, 
 The burst of wo, that the son of grief 
 Had told to the winds without relief, 
 And the sound had slumbered on its wings, 
 Till it told the tale to thy feeling strings. 
 As first o'er the placid lake it rushed, 
 To the purple hue of the sky that blushed, 
 It came, like Ariel's airy strain, 
 And winged with the peace, that I sought in vain. 
 As the darker shades of evening fell, 
 Now its deep and solemn swell 
 Burst upon the raptured ear, 
 In a strain so sweet and clear, 
 Like the song of a heav'nly choir, 
 Glowing with celestial fire. 
 Now it changed its varying tone, 
 Softly fading, till the moan, 
 That scarcely rose with its wavering plaint. 
 Had died away in murmurs faint. 
 Thus have I heard thy music sweet, 
 Till my throbbing pulse so madly beat, 
 As the soul would burst its bars of clay, 
 And from earth in rapture break away. 
 Let others choose the note of war, 
 And the trumpet's clang, that swells afar; 
 Their rude clamour I resign — 
 Harp of iEolus ! thou art mine ! 
 
ON A ROSE BLOOMING IN OCTOBER. 133 
 
 THE STILL SMALL VOICE!.* 
 
 1st Kings, Chap, xix, 9 — 14. 
 
 1 The whirlwind past by in the pride of its might, 
 And the steep rocks of Horeb were shook with affright. 
 It seemed as Omnipotence rode in the air, 
 
 But the prophet moved not — for theLordwas not there. 
 
 2 Then hard on the wind came the earthquake's far 
 
 shock, 
 And reeled every mountain, and shook every rock. 
 The sons of the mountain sunk down in despair, 
 But the prophet was silent — the Lord was not there. 
 
 3 % Then the forest was wrapt in a column of fire, 
 And its beasts at the glare of destruction retire ; 
 But the wreath of the flames, as they curled in the air. 
 Were unseen by the^prophet — the Lord was not there. 
 
 4 Then a still, a small voice through the deep cavern 
 
 stole, 
 It breathed inspiration, it thrilled through the soul — 
 It was heard in no thunder ; was seen in no glare ; 
 But it spoke to the heart — -for Jehovah was there ! 
 
 ON A ROSE BLOOMING IN OCTOBER. 
 
 Written at the age of sixteen. 
 
 Poor Rose ! thou art so out of season, 
 I think it nothing more than reason, 
 That some than I more gifted bard, 
 
 * This was written while the author was in college, and pub- 
 lished in the Providence Gazette. 
 12 
 
134 ON A ROSE BLOOMING IN OCTOBER, 
 
 Should not suppose the task too hard, 
 
 Thy various beauties to admire 
 
 In flowing numbers on his lyre. 
 
 But, if no knight of smoother lays 
 
 Will tune his pipes to chaunt thy praise, 
 
 I hope my song of condolence 
 
 Will give your Rose-ship no offence. 
 
 Hadst thou in summer's warmer hours 
 Put forth amidst thy sister roses, 
 Thy beauties in the fragrant bowers, 
 Where the cool breeze of morn reposes ; 
 Or had thy crimson blushes dressed 
 The buttons of a dandy's vest ; 
 Or hadst thou been by fairer fingers prest, 
 And handed round to tickle ladies' noses ; 
 Perhaps some genius of the harp, 
 Of thought so bright, and eye so sharp, 
 Had sung thy praises in a lay, 
 So soft and gay, 
 As might have lived for many a future day. 
 
 Hadst thou but come so soon 
 As to have decked the zone of June, 
 Thou wouldst have been a flower of gaudier feue ; 
 And as the pearly dew 
 
 A purer fragrance round thy leaves had thrown, 
 It would reluctantly have gone, 
 When the sun's beam had kissed its drop so gay, 
 And called it hence away. 
 
 But thou coms't in mantle sober, 
 On the front of late October. 
 Thou bloom' st in solitude — alone — 
 For thy sisters all are gone. 
 
THE CHURCHYARD. 135 
 
 No soft winds lightly brush thee by, 
 
 Or through thy waving foliage fly, 
 
 But in this dark corner pent, 
 
 Bathed in wat'ry element, 
 
 Thou art clothed in pale attire, 
 
 Where, though all see, there none admire. 
 
 Farewell — and 'mid the scenes of life, 
 With so much vanity and folly rife, 
 Should I see some blooming maid, 
 In beauty's finest robes arrayed, 
 Whom love-sick beau and sighing swain, 
 With weeping eye and burning brain, 
 Have often sought, and sought in vain ; 
 If, when her charms with youth have past, 
 She is forgotten quite, at last, 
 By her gallants and beaux, 
 I'll think of thee, and out of pity, 
 Will write to her a doleful ditty, 
 As now I have to thee — Poor Rose ! 
 
 THE CHURCH YARD 
 
 Doth silence give thy soul delight ? 
 Then at the hour of coming night 
 Go, visit in the church-yard's* gloom 
 The humble grave, and loftier tomb ; 
 From the soft beam of twilight sad, 
 Till night in darker vesture clad, 
 
 See page 91 and the note to which it refers. 
 
136 THE CHURCH YARD. 
 
 Shall shed her dreamy influence wide 
 
 O'er mountain-gloom and ocean-tide. 
 
 First the fading hues that play 
 
 Round night's blue robe with parting ray, 
 
 Shall waken a train of tender feeling, 
 
 That like the evening's darkness stealing, 
 
 Shall shut out every ray of mirth, 
 
 As the day is hid from the star-lit earth. 
 
 Ere long the glow of the full orbed moon 
 
 Shall deck the sky with a milder noon. 
 
 Then at the pause of every motion, 
 
 Save the roll of the distant ocean, 
 
 When sleep shall hold her wide dominion, 
 
 Then wakened fancy spreads her pinion, 
 
 In errant course to take her flight 
 
 Where the distant moon-beam sheds its light. 
 
 Now call up every solemn train, 
 
 And give thy thought the unchecked rein. 
 
 Say, does thy heart throb wildly now ? 
 
 And hangs surprise upon thy brow ? 
 
 When such a silent scene's before thee, 
 And Heaven's immensity is o'er thee, 
 Art thou alone on earth ? No sound 
 Is heard in all the space around, 
 Save the roar of the distant wave, 
 The death-song o'er the sailor's grave. 
 Art thou alone on earth ? The song 
 That lately swelled so loud and long, 
 Has ceased ; &> hushed are the plough-boy's numbers, 
 As the voice of the dead who beneath thee slumbers 
 
 The mount, the grove, the valley green, 
 Are mixed in one unvarying scene 
 
THE CHURCH YARD. 137 
 
 For just so dim and just so bright 
 
 Doth the cold moon shed her witching light, 
 
 That though around the horizon 
 
 All views are mixed and blent in one, 
 
 And one wide scene of silence lone 
 
 Before thy eye is faintly shown — 
 
 Though nought thou canst distinctly mark, 
 
 Yet there's an outline, dim and dark, 
 
 Which fanGy can distinctly fill 
 
 With grove and glen and bubbling rill. 
 
 Par distant here and there are seen 
 
 The spots of ocean burnished sheen, 
 And adding to the gloom profound, 
 That's cast from every scene around. 
 Now look at the dark and gloomy bed, 
 And pillow of the sacred dead, 
 The marble tomb, the humble grave, 
 Where sleep the master and the slave — 
 Then ask thy pride, (for thou art proud) 
 If Death must wrap his palsying shroud 
 On these thy limbs ; if rich and great, 
 And princes, throned in earthly state, 
 Must die and moulder with the poor, 
 Why seek of worldly goods a store ? 
 Or mount ambition's proudest height ? 
 A moment, and thy power — thy might 
 Is sunk in death.- — Mark now yon tomb, 
 That hides within its ample womb 
 The last remains of one, who led 
 The band of heroes, long since dead, 
 When first the voice of our fathers broke 
 Pn the gloom, where Plymouth's sacred rock 
 12* 
 
138 THE CHURCH YARD. 
 
 Stood moveless to the foamy tide, 
 
 That broke along its wave-worn side — 
 
 While bending o'er the moss-grown stone, 
 
 Upon thine eye what tear-drop shone ? 
 
 Ah ! 'tis with rev'rence thou hast thought, 
 
 What deeds his hands heroic wrought. 
 
 Thy soul is swelled with the emotion 
 
 Of rev'rence mingled with devotion. 
 
 Thy swelling heart demands a tear, 
 
 A gem to deck his ashes dear. 
 
 Yet must thy throbbing bosom know 
 
 A still more soft, more tender glow. 
 
 Here is a grave. It shows where late, 
 
 Stern Death has winged his shaft with fate. 
 
 Thy friend has left earth's cares and pains : 
 
 Here moulder now his last remains- 
 
 Or else some lately blushing fair, 
 
 Whose light blue eyes, and flowing hair 
 
 Soft floating on the summer gale 
 
 Have sunk before the monster pale. 
 
 Thou deem'st, again thou seest anew 
 
 Her health-flushed cheek and eye of blue. 
 
 So strong the image is impressed 
 
 Upon thy quite-believing breast, 
 
 That through the church's window cast, 
 
 As a flickering beam has past, 
 
 And decked some marble's glossy white, 
 
 That glows mid humbler grave-stones bright, 
 
 Thou deem'st some sheeted spectre's risen, 
 
 From its damp and darksome prison, 
 
 To tell thee of some deathly lore 
 
 That mortal never heard before. 
 
THE HAPPY LIFE. 139 
 
 Thy fancy sees the rising shade 
 In its sepulchral robes arrayed, 
 Its wavering figure dimly bounded, 
 With many a misty wreath surrounded, 
 Till it at last in darkness fades, * 
 Mingling with its sister shades. 
 
 Such solemn scenes thy bosom swell 
 With feelings far too deep to tell, 
 The place, where the mouldering dead 
 Must ever rest his lowly head, 
 Awakens such a train of thought, 
 That, earth and all its cares forgot, 
 It seems as if the mind were sent 
 Up to the boundless firmament, 
 Viewing with its enraptured eye 
 Heaven and its Immensity. 
 
 THE HAPPY JLIFE. 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM. 
 
 Written in College at the age of twelve. 
 
 This will perhaps please the taste of those who arc 
 fond of dwelling on the innocent conceptions of child- 
 hood — who can repose, with the youthful poet, " on 
 the green couch of nature," and participate his cheer- 
 fulness, when "winter comes, and shakes his hoary 
 locks." It is written with that simplicity and art- 
 lessness so pleasing in the productions of one so 
 young. It shows that he was, even at that early age, 
 a close observer and warm admirer of nature. — Ed. 
 
 Not the rude clamour of the crowded streets, 
 Or coaches rattling on the paved way, 
 Or haughty beaux, stalking with heads erect, 
 With hearts elate, and hair of fragrant smell, 
 
140 THE HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 Nor empty beauties of the table spread 
 With choicest dainties brought from Europe's clime, 
 Delight my soul. No. Rather would I dwell, 
 Jtemote from cities far, to live retired 
 Beside a shady grove in humble cot. 
 Beside my house, a garden filled with flowers 
 Should all my listless, idle hours employ. 
 Then would my cup with blessings overflow. 
 My joy should never he by grief alloyed, - 
 But with my lot contented would I rest. 
 Before the sun diffuses light and heat, 
 From eastern skies, old Somnus I would leave, 
 And with untainted pleasure would inhale 
 The morninor air, and listen to the voice 
 Of feathered songsters most divinely sweet, 
 While all aruond me the gay flowers afford 
 Refreshing odours such as might inspire 
 My soul with vigour ; while all nature green 
 And cheerful should participate my bliss. 
 The gaudy flowers luxuriant spread their leaves, 
 — <With beauty far excelling human art. 
 
 The sprightly lambkins skipping o'er the lawn, 
 Bounding from rock to rock, from crag to crag, 
 Like chamois sporting on the Alpine hills, 
 Patterns of innocence, delight my eyes. 
 The harmless cattle nip the verdant grass, 
 Whose milk affords me most delicious food. 
 And faithful Tray should play around my feet 
 In nimble gambols. When the noontide sun 
 Shall scorch with raging heat the arid plains ; 
 When withered plants, deprived of all their moisture, 
 Shall droop, and lifeless hang their flaccid leaves, 
 
THE HAPPY LIFE. 141 
 
 Reclining by a pleasant, murm'ring rill 
 Meandering through the mead, in winding maze, 
 On the green couch of nature, 'neath the shade 
 Of a tall oak which spreading wide its boughs, 
 By'ts gently rustling leaves, seems to invite 
 The wearied traveller to repose his limbs, 
 And from the burning sun defend himself — 
 In this inviting, calm and cool retreat, 
 Thus seated at my ease in listless mood, 
 Devoid of care I pass the time away. 
 My shepherd's crook lies on the verdant grass, 
 And bleating flocks encompass me around. 
 While from my pipe formed of unequal reeds 
 I warble forth my simple melody, 
 And sing the pleasures of a rural life ; 
 Or else, in social converse with a swain, 
 Our time unheeded swiftly passes on ; 
 
 Or lovely sitting by my side, 
 
 . I talk of sighs, of wounds, and Cupid's darts, 
 And tell, with throbbing heart, my tale of woe — 
 That cruel Cupid from his quiver drew, 
 A pointed arrow tipped with shining gold 
 (Not unlike that which once Apollo felt) 
 With steady hand he twanged the pliant yew, 
 With aim too sure, my tender heart transfixed. 
 
 I felt the wound ; if beauteous frown, 
 
 And turn from me with scorn, I pine, I die. 
 
 When Sol below the western skies withdraws 
 His radiant light, and Vesper comes apace, 
 The welkin thick bespangled o'er with stars 
 Distant from us, immensurate, and vast, 
 Our thoughts expand, and our ideas rise 
 
142 THE HAPPY LIFE, 
 
 To the Creator of the universe, 
 Who made and governs all things ; by whose will 
 They are created, by whose will preserved. 
 Then from the east, the lady of the night, 5 * 
 With native beauty, and her face unveiled 
 By envious, sable clouds, rises sublime. 
 And when the labour of the day is past, 
 Then sitting by a window I should feel 
 The cooling zephyrs gently on me blow, 
 And with a friend would talk of times now past, 
 Of things which happened when we both were young; 
 But if perchance no friend should be at hand, 
 Then would I listen to the tuneful birds, 
 Which, while I chanted forth a simple song, 
 Echoing in sweet response, melodious sing, 
 Filling the grove with their sweet harmony. 
 In contemplation then, I would behold 
 The beauties of the starry firmament. 
 Admiring I would view the milky way 
 Filled with innumerable, shining stars, 
 ^Where ancient poets feigned the Gods did dwell. 
 Thus happy would I spend the summer's day, 
 Nor envy usurers their shining gold, 
 Not troubled by the crowded cities' noise, 
 And din and clamour of the restless mob, 
 But far retired with few and honest friends 
 Whose love secured should be my chief delight. 
 At length, when summer's past, and autumn comes, 
 I reap the just reward of all my toils. 
 The golden fruit, which bends the strongest trees, 
 
 * A style of entitling her ladyship which several times occurs 
 in our poet's juvenile productions. 
 
THE HAPPY LIFE. 143 
 
 Beautiful to the eye, of flavour sweet, 
 
 And wholesome to the ta'ste, must now be gathered, 
 
 And stored away till stormy winter comes. 
 
 Now the adjacent land is hid beneath 
 
 The heaps of smiling fruit of yellow dye. 
 
 And now from some delicious wine is prest, 
 
 Than which celestial nectar's not more sweet. 
 
 Now from the horn of plenty Ceres pours 
 
 With liberal, bountiful and generous hand 
 
 The harvest of the year. And now when all 
 
 Is stored in well filled granaries, then I, 
 
 Secure from cares and sitting at my ease, 
 
 Would quaff the social glass, nor would refuse 
 
 To join the gen'ral mirth, to crack a joke, 
 
 To sing a pleasant song, or hear the news ; 
 
 And when we all are sated with the jokes, 
 
 To join in childish play ; to throw the quoit, 
 
 Or mix with wrestlers sporting on the green 
 
 Like the Athletae famed in days of yore. 
 
 Now all the trees, stript of their wonted clothes, 
 
 Expose their naked arms unto the wind. 
 
 All things presage th' approaching wintry storms, 
 
 And warn us to prepare for chilling frosts. 
 
 Nor would my pleasure end when winter comes, 
 
 And shakes his hoary locks. No ! still would I 
 
 Enjoy a sweet serenity of mind, 
 
 Which wealth and grandeur never could bestow, 
 
 And which the haughty conqu'ror never knows. 
 
 When blust'ring Boreas whistles 'mong the trees, 
 
 Bending the body of the pliant reed, 
 
 Tearing the branches of the sturdy oak, 
 
 And shakes the weak foundation of my cot, 
 
144 THE HAPPY LIFE, 
 
 And flakes of snow, thick flying, fill the air, 
 Sternly forbidding Sol to dart his rays 
 Upon the weary traveler's shivering limbs, 
 Then sitting by a warm and blazing fire, 
 The foaming liquor standing by my side, 
 To contemplation I should be inclined — 
 To read a little, or invoke the muse ; 
 Or singing to the merry violin, 
 The time insensibly would pass away. 
 Perchance the frozen ground might naked lie, 
 Then I, with skate tight fastened to my feet, 
 Would skim the surface of the slipp'ry ice ; 
 With easy glide and rapid motion cross 
 The frozen pond, and sweep in circle nice^ 
 And curious ; or, with redoubled speed, 
 Outstrip the movement of the swiftest horse. 
 And when the spring returns, with joy would hail 
 The renovated verdure of the trees, 
 Waving to every gentle western breeze, 
 With tender buds expanding to the sun ; 
 
 hile gaudy flowers their op'ning leaves unfold, 
 Of varions hue. 
 
 Meanwhile the genial influence of the sun 
 Warns me to plant in earth the early seeds. 
 
 Thus would I spend my life in calm retreat, 
 In happiness untainted by alloy. 
 Envy would never reach my peaceful breast, 
 But free from all the cares which misers feel, 
 Retired I'd live, retired I'd die. 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY SMITH. 145 
 
 L.INES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MY MUCH LAMENTED CLASSMATE, 
 
 HENRY SMITH, WHO DIED OF CONSUMPTION, IN 
 
 HIS SENIOR YEAR, DECEMBER 28, 1820. 
 
 1 What means the saddened brow, the falling tear, 
 That slowly trickles down the pallid cheek ? 
 
 Has death e'er hurled his ruthless arrow here ? 
 
 Does youthful blood upon his dagger reek ? 
 
 Ah ! one among our band in vain you seek, 
 Whose shortened days his weeping friends deplore, 
 
 And soft in faltering accents seem to speak, 
 The last, the fatal conflict now is o'er, 
 His dying pang has past, and Smith is now no more. 
 
 2 Yes, Smith has fled. But whither has he flown ? 
 Ask the dark Atheist, votary of chance — 
 
 His answer heard, all consolation's gone, 
 Sudden as meteors on night's blue expanse. 
 
 " Those eyes, which once beamed friendship in their 
 glow, 
 " Forever, ever sleep in death's dark bed ; 
 
 " Above his grave oblivion's stream shall flow ; 
 " That mind, which such a soothing lustre shed, 
 " Shall ne'er again revive — no, 'tis forever fled." 
 
 3 Oh ! consolation sad ! Forever gone ? 
 Thy soul from kindred souls forever riven, 
 
 E'en when the sacred monumental stone 
 
 Crumbles before the softest winds of heaven ? 
 Thy dust before the rapid whirlwinds driven ? 
 
 Sunk in eternal nothingness thy mind ? 
 Is this the only consolation given 
 13 
 
146 LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY SMITH, 
 
 To mourning friends and relatives behind ? 
 
 The heart is cold indeed, to such a thought resigned ! 
 
 4 The christian's faith unfolds a brighter scene. 
 Behold, exulting from its earthly clay, 
 
 His spirit mounting through the sky serene, 
 And entering on the realms of endless day. 
 The eye of faith can future scenes display, 
 
 Where death's dark stream rolls on its farther shore, 
 And sees, by aid of revelation's' ray, 
 
 Those realms unknown and unconceived before, 
 
 Where friends at last shall meet, and meet to part no 
 more. 
 
 5 Thy virtues, Smith, not like the noonday sun, 
 Burst full and dazzling on the feeble sight, 
 
 But more as when his burning course is done, 
 In silver robes the milder queen of night 
 Sheds far and wide her softly beaming light 
 
 Upon the mount, the forest and the lawn, 
 
 And on the lake's clear surface glimmers bright, 
 
 Whose murmuring waves her sparkling gems adorn, 
 That slowly fade away before the rising morn. 
 
 6 Not the cold monument shall rise to tell 
 The passing stranger of thy early doom. 
 
 But oft thy friends, who knew and loved thee well, 
 Shall drop a sacred tear upon thy tomb, 
 Yet they cannot again revive thy bloom, 
 
 Till the last trump shall sound its final blast, 
 To wake the nations from their awful gloom, 
 
 And from their orbs the radiant planets cast, 
 
 When all that now exists shall be forever past. 
 
 March, 1821. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 147 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 ON VISITING PROVIDENCE COLLEGE, SEPT, 4, 1822. 
 
 1 I looked on the scenes where I often have gazed, 
 And my memory painted before me 
 
 A vision of bliss which my fancy had raised, 
 As her powerful charm was thrown o'er me. 
 
 2 But where are the friends, on this spot, who have 
 
 loved 
 To list to instruction so often, 
 With whom through the wood and the meadow I've 
 roved, 
 The roughness of sorrow to soften ? 
 
 3 They have parted — on earth we are never to meet, 
 And ere we again shall assemble, 
 
 The earth and the seas on its borders that beat, 
 At the trumpet's last echo shall tremble. 
 
 4 I thought, as my fancy looked back on the time, 
 That had passed from existence forever, 
 
 Again I could wish for those pleasures sublime, 
 That again I might part from them never. 
 
 5 But all on the earth must be changed and be gone, 
 And none of our joys is abiding. 
 
 We grasp at our pleasures— those pleasures have flown, 
 As the waves of the ocean are gliding. 
 
 6 Yet still there's a transport of tender delight, 
 When memory gazes in sadness, 
 
 On the scenes that have past to the darkness of night, 
 Till we're lost in the vision of gladness. 
 
148 THE CREATION. 
 
 THE CREATION. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN. 
 
 TV Almighty frowned. The trembling rebels, driven 
 Far downward from the blissful realms of Heaven, 
 Affrighted fled. Th' Eternal's vengeance rose, 
 And like a flood overwhelmed his powerless foes. 
 Then all was peace. Then Heaven's celestial choir^ 
 Bowing before the eternal throne of fire, 
 Shout Holy, Holy, Holy is our God. 
 Heaven, hell and chaos tremble at His nod. 
 There while they warble, their extatic strains 
 Ascend on high, to where th' Eternal reigns. 10 
 
 Volumes of darkness round his footstool wreath, 
 And part above, where with his burning breath 
 A stream of fire bursts through the darkling cloud, 
 Where rides his powerful voice in thunders loud. 
 Thence gleams insufferable glory round, 
 At which seraphic bands with awe profound 
 ^Yeil their bright faces ; for the solar light 
 Breaks not so dazzling on our feeble sight 
 As that bright sun on every angel's eye 
 Pours the full light of Heavenly majesty. 20 
 
 Beside the throne stern Justice darts his beams, 
 As where the lightning's purple kindling streams 
 Of blasting fire sweep through the stormy sky 
 Before the thunder-peal that follows nigh. 
 There, like the moon, mild Mercy sheds her ray, 
 To turn the night of heavenly wrath to day. 
 Below, a train of bright archangels stands, 
 Waiting in reverence for His high commands. 
 
THE CREATION. 
 
 14§ 
 
 Without, dark chaos rolls its putrid tide, 
 
 Where silence, night and death in terror ride. 30 
 
 Earth, air and water in one mingled wave 
 
 Roll noiseless on, without a shore to lave. 
 
 All, all is silent, dark and waste and void, 
 
 Like mingled worlds in one wide heap destroyed, 
 
 Where the dark tempest of the Almighty's wrath 
 
 Spreads death and terror round His burning path. 
 
 And where that formless mass of matter lay 
 
 From endless ages, one enlivening ray 
 
 Ne'er beamed along the gloorn. The throne of night 
 
 Impervious to the beams of heavenly light 40 
 
 Frowned rayless o'er the wide, the vast immense, 
 
 Impressing nought but death on every sense, 
 
 If sense were there. A thousand spirits brood, 
 
 Formless, unconscious o'er the wasteful flood. 
 
 Light, life and sense in like confusion sleep 
 
 O'er the unsounding billows of the deep. 
 
 But now the time had come, when God's decree, 
 Formed in the ages of eternity, 
 Had thus ordained, that order, life and form 
 Should spring from this vast wilderness of storm. 50 
 Th' Almighty raised his awful voice of thunder, 
 The trembling angels bow ?n fear and wonder. 
 But Gabriel knew to him the signal given, 
 And darting through the glitt'ring arch of heaven, 
 He took the trump fraught with th' Almighty's breath, 
 The trump which yet shall shake the throne of death, 
 And on the shining walls of heaven he stood — 
 Beneath him, chaos spread its yawning flood. 
 He raised the trump. Into one breath he cast 
 Hi^ every nerve, and gave the awful blast. (50 
 
 13* 
 
150 THE CREATION. 
 
 Through Heaven's bright vault its notes tremendous 
 
 swell, 
 Roll o'er the trembling deep, and shake the depths 
 
 of Hell. 
 Quick at the signal all the heavenly train, 
 In bright array, throng o'er the spacious plain. 
 Th' Eternal from his radiant throne descends, 
 Beneath His power His golden chariot bends. 
 Then midst the train slow rolled the burning car ; 
 Th' adoring seraphs spread their wings afar. 
 Th' eternal gates of Heaven unfolding wide 
 Disclose the waves of chaos' mingled tide. TO 
 
 As 'neath their arch the host seraphic trod, 
 Wide chaos trembled at the voice of God — - 
 " Let there be light." Th' abyss of darkness shone— 
 A beam of glory from th' Almighty's throne 
 Burst on the night-wrapt waters. Darkness fled, 
 In hell's deep caves to make her lonely bed. 
 Now chaos first disclosed its dread profound, 
 Where far and wide the same disorder frowned. 
 As when some land forgets its God to praise, 
 By His command, above its impious race 80 
 
 Stern desolation waves her withering hand, 
 And fearful pest'lence shakes her flaming brand. 
 Thus, but far worse mixed, earth and waters lay, 
 Now first exposed before the light of day. 
 Tumultuous billows rolled without a sound, - 
 For want of air to force their circles round. 
 For not a breeze above the billows hung 5 
 A whirlwind never o'er the deep had rung. 
 The wind slept lifeless on the dreary ocean, 
 Nor swept the billow in its playful motion. 90 
 
THE CREATION. 151 
 
 Th' Almighty saw. He spoke. The waters fled, 
 Bursting through boundless space with quickening 
 
 speed, 
 And ne'er had ceased, but that same potent word, 
 Which tore them from their bed, again restored 
 Them trembling as adoring at his feet, 
 Where the tumultuous surges vainly beat. 
 " Spring order from disorder." Thus he spoke. 
 'Tis done. And seen by light that on them broke, 
 The rebel spirits brooding o'er the waste, 
 From heavenly light as they in terror haste, 100 
 
 Far downward held their solitary path, 
 Chased by the lightnings of eternal wrath. 
 Now backward rolling swift the waves retired, 
 And mid the deep a thousand isles aspired. 
 Now farther still the waves, as they retreat, 
 Thundering along the shores, are heard to beat. 
 The air elastic springs above the deep, 
 Soft through the waves its sighing murmurs sweep. 
 Again the Eternal spoke. Swifter than thought, 
 Worlds rise on worlds unnumbered. There the sun, 
 Quick as the lucid spark from steel that's caught, 
 Springs from the deep, prepared his course to run. 
 There sheds the moon her silver ray, and here 
 The planets stand around their central sphere. 
 Here the red comet waves its blazing train, 
 There stars innum'rous crowd the azure plain. 
 All these along th' immense in order stand, 
 Ready at once to move at God's command. 
 
 But not a tree its branches spread around — 
 Not e'en the waving grass bent o'er the ground. 120 
 The eyes might wander for a shrub in vain 
 
152 THE CREATION. 
 
 O'er all the earth, as on some Eastern plain, 
 
 O'er which unwatered by a single spring, 
 
 The blasting Siroc waves its scarlet wing. 
 
 Again th' Almighty's voice was heard afar, 
 
 And at his mandate trembled every star. 
 
 At once the forest cast its pensive shade, 
 
 And the long grass in gentle breezes played. 
 
 Again at God's command, earth, air and ocean, 
 
 All teemed with life and animated motion. 130 
 
 The eagle skimmed along the cloudless sky ; 
 
 Far through the forest rung the lion's cry ; 
 
 The huge leviathan extended wide 
 
 His scaly bulk along th' unruffled tide. 
 
 " Let us make man," Jehovah said — and straight 
 Upon the earth a God-like form there stood. 
 His eye glanced upward, thoughtful and sedate, 
 Nor fixed on earth, as did the brutish brood. 
 
 " Rule," said Jehovah, " o'er this wide domain, 
 " To thee 'tis given to rule the feathered train, 140 
 " Upon the pinions of the wind that sweep, 
 \" And all the monsters of the briny deep. 
 " Beast, bird and insect at thy feet shall bow. 
 " Thou art, O man, the Lord of all below." 
 Thus spoke Jehovah from his chariot throne, 
 And on the man in mild effulgence shone. 
 He bowing low, with humble voice confest 
 His Maker's image on his heart imprest. 
 But moveless yet the orbs refulgent stood, 
 Waiting the dread commend alone of God. 150 
 
 " Now," said Jehovah, " yon celestial train, 
 " Wake on each string your every morning strain, 
 " And ye bright orbs in boundless space that stand, 
 
tHE CREATION, 153 
 
 " Move on, obedient to the great command." 
 Then o'er each chord light swept the seraph's quill, 
 And every touch was answered by a thrill, 
 A heaven of sound, that through th' ethereal swelled, 
 And every being in new rapture held. 
 More soft, more mild it breathed than mountain gales, 
 More solemn than the winter blast that wails 160 
 In western wilds. More pleasing still it grew, 
 Than varied tinge of twilight's purple hue. 
 And far and wide as the celestial song 
 On heavenly wings majestic rolled along, 
 Winged with Jehovah's power, swift at the sound, 
 Each glittering orb began its course around. 
 Along its circling path the planet hies, 
 And far through space th' eccentric comet flies. 
 Then all the morning stars together sung, 
 And shouts of joy through Heaven's bright regions 
 rung, 170 
 
 From every son of God. Then ceased the strain. 
 Th' Eternal's chariot backward rolled again. 
 Far on the breeze each seraph spread his wing, 
 And tremblingHeaven received her Everlasting King, 
 
154 *HE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 The melancholy event, which the poet here commemorates, 
 occurred on Marshjield Bearh, within a short distance of his own 
 residence. It was an occurrence, which, from the distressing 
 circumstances attending it, attracted the attention of the public, 
 and excited the sympathy and generosity of the benevolent. A 
 short time after the event, the author, who was but a boy both 
 in age and appearance, was taken to the shore to view the scene; 
 and so deep was the impression it made upon his youthful im- 
 agination, that he made it the subject of a poem of considerable 
 length — from which the following extracts are taken. The brig 
 Grasshopper^ Captain Malbon, was driven ashore, in a violent 
 gale, Saturday, October 25th, 1823, at 10 o'clock in the even- 
 ing. The crew consisted of nine men exclusive of the command- 
 er and his wife. Captain M. was on his way to settle in this 
 country, attended by his youthful bride, to whom he had been 
 united but a few weeks previous. Followed by misfortune in his 
 own country, he had embarked for this, with the hopes of find- 
 ing a better fate in a land of liberty. He had been once be- 
 fore during this voyage nearly wrecked — in which he lost the 
 greater part of his property, which he had been able to save 
 from his own and his wife's fortune ; but he was now destined to 
 endure still greater miseries, not only by the loss of all his goods, 
 but by the severe sufferings to which he was exposed, in the ex- 
 pectation of momentary death. The night was dark, cold and 
 tempestuous. The brig struck upon a ledge of rocks within a 
 few rods of the shore ; but, so dark was the night, the land was 
 entirely invisible. She immediately parted, and nothing was 
 "eft but the shattered deck, which was unceasingly dashed upon 
 the rocks, at the mercy of the winds and waves. To this wretch-, 
 ed support they continued to cling, ignorant of their situation, 
 and expecting that every wave would sweep them from their 
 feeble hold, and dash them to instant ruin. In this awful condi- 
 tion, (immersed in water, and saved from sinking only by main 
 strength) they remained from ten in the evening till five in the 
 morning. They were then discovered by a person who resides 
 near the scene of suffering, and by his disinterested and laborious 
 exertions, were all saved. His name* deserves to be mentioned 
 with praise, but the consciousness of having preserved the lives 
 of eleven fellow-beings is his noblest reward. On shore they ex- 
 perienced a generous hospitality honourable to the benevolence 
 and kindness of its inhabitants. Mrs. M. was the only female on 
 board. Unaccustomed to such exposure, it seemed almost 
 impossible for her to endure the sufferings of that night. Her 
 uncommonly slender and delicate form, with the bridal garmenta 
 
 *yWr Waterman Thomas. 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 155 
 
 in which she was clothed, was ill fitted to endure the hardships 
 to which she was so long exposed. She was several times forc- 
 ed from her hold by the violence of the waves, and was saved 
 from instant death by the sole exertions of one of the crew, who, 
 with a generosity characteristic of the sailor, exposed his own 
 life to save hers. He placed himself as a protection between 
 her and the dashing elements that threatened her weaker form 
 with immediate destruction. By her husband's request she had 
 just retired at the moment the vessel struck, and was holding in 
 her hand the Church Prayer Book, in which she had been seeking 
 consolation, amid the horrors and fearful dangers that surround- 
 ed her* This was found the next morning in her bosom — and 
 the impressions made by its pressure remained distinct for months 
 after. To this circumstance the poet alludes. He describe! 
 the scene, not from fancy, but fact. The afflictions which she 
 endured were too severe for her delicate constitution. When 
 she was taken from the wreck, she was in a state of exhaustion 
 and insensibility — the vital spark seemed almost extinct. But 
 the yet survives — a fading monument of human suffering.— Ed. 
 
 Not former sufferings, nor their long fatigue 
 Appease the rage of the insatiate league 
 Of winds and waters, whose combined array 
 Gathered fresh dangers round their toilsome way. 
 'Twas at the evening hour. They hoped once more, 
 Ere the next dawn to hail the welcome shore. 
 That hope had lighted up the sunken eye, 
 And checked within the breast the rising sigh. 
 In vain night's rayless horrors gathered round, 
 And the blue wave in utmost darkness bound. 
 In vain the ocean raised its tempest cry, 
 In vain the rising billow rolled on high, 
 In vain the hurricane's resistless sweep 
 Whirled o'er the watery waste, in murmurs deep, 
 All these could not inspire their hearts with fear ; 
 The dauntless seaman saw no danger near. 
 
156 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 Then, M*****, on thy placid brow there shone, 
 
 The light that beams from fearless hope alone. 
 
 Yet all thy cheerfulness could not dispel 
 
 The sad forebodings, that so darkly fell 
 
 Upon her heart, whose sufferings alone 
 
 Strike thee with deeper sorrow than thine own. 
 
 Cease to console. E re one short hour be past, 
 
 On lurking rocks thy hapless vessel's east. 
 
 O ! Who can tell the sufT 'rings of that dismal night, 
 
 When not one object met the anxious sight, 
 
 And darkness o'er them hung her gloomy shroud, 
 
 Deepening the horrors of that tumult loud— 
 
 O ! Who can tell what terror filled their minds, 
 
 When, as they heard the howl of waves and winds, 
 
 Nothing to eye or ear, save these alone, 
 
 Spake ought of an existence but their own. 
 
 While all around the mighty waters swelled, 
 
 And o'er their heads a fearful revel held ! 
 
 Uprising darkly, oft the swelling surge, 
 
 (Raised by the winds that seemed to howl their dirge,) 
 
 Above them for a moment threat' ning stood ; 
 
 Then on them burst its suffocating flood ; 
 
 And as that deluge o'er their vessel hung, 
 
 Each hand to its support more firmly clung ; 
 
 And as that deluge burst with thund'ring roar, 
 
 Each hand from its support it almost tore. 
 
 How oft toward the east their longing eyes 
 Were turned in hope to see the morning rise ! 
 How oft as they intensely gazed, they deemed, 
 The gladsome ray athwart the ocean beamed. 
 And as they watched for its increasing light, 
 As oft the fancied ray, that mocked their sight, 
 Fled, and a more terrific blackness frowned, 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 157 
 
 Till in despair, they thought that every sound 
 
 Of winds that murmured from the deep afar, 
 
 Spoke their last doom in that eventful war, 
 
 And every wave, that whelmed them in its foam 
 
 Seemed like the angel sent to call them home. 
 
 Yet they in all the terrors of the storm, 
 
 Forgot not to protect that weaker form, 
 
 Whose bridal vestments could not now avail 
 
 To stem the fury of the eastern gale. 
 
 Her, almost hopeless, doth the seaman clasp, 
 
 Anxious to save from the unpitying grasp 
 
 Of rising billows that so fiercely wooed, 
 
 And seemed to threaten in their clamours rude, 
 
 To celebrate beneath the distant wave, 
 
 Her nuptials with the monarch of the grave. 
 
 Fear not, frail mortal ! Though thou'rt hid in gloom 
 Deep as the dread recesses of the tomb, 
 There's an All-seeing eye, which never sleeps, 
 That now beholds thee sinking in the deeps, 
 That, ere the seas rolled o'er thee, saw thee there, 
 Bent o'er the page, that guided thee in prayer. 
 
 Fear not, frail mortal ! Midst that deafening noise, 
 There speaks, (unheard by man,) a still, small voice, 
 That curbs the billow in its loftiest height, 
 Reins the fierce tempest, and directs its flight. 
 It is His awful presence, whose command, 
 Rules with like sway on ocean and on land ; 
 His breath stirs up the seas ; and ere you merge 
 Beneath the waters of the whelming surge, 
 Thus His command restrains them as they flow, 
 " Thus far, proud wave, no farther shalt thou go." 
 For He, who will not let the sparrow fall, 
 Without His notice, now preserves you all. 
 
 14 Nov. 1823. 
 
15S AN EXTRACT. 
 
 AN EXTRACT 
 
 ?OEM IN THREE C 
 ENTITLED ALONZO. 
 
 Alonzo thus begins the narrative of his life. 
 
 On the gilded sheen of Erie's wave, 
 When the glittering sunbeams glance, 
 
 I have seen the Indian wanderer brave 
 The water's wide expanse. 
 
 All reckless whether weal or woe 
 
 Lurked in its swelling breast, 
 I have seen him plough with his light canoe 
 
 The billow's glittering crest. 
 
 Too late he hears Niagara's crash, 
 And is swept to the gulf below — 
 
 He scarcely sees its torrent dash, 
 And the waters o'er him flow. 
 
 So who down life's deceitful stream 
 
 Hopes peacefully to glide, 
 Unrobbed of joy's entrancing beam, 
 Must wake from his illusive dream, 
 
 At the dash of sorrow's tide. 
 
 Who, when the cloudless face of morn 
 
 Laughs in the eastern skies, 
 Knows but its beams may soon be gone, 
 
 And scowling tempests rise ? 
 
AN EXTRACT. 
 
 159 
 
 AN EXTRACT FROM THE SAME POEM. 
 
 Edwin, a youth, in his wanderings over a desert, discover* 
 under a wide spreading willow, 
 
 " Low knelt beneath its awful gloom, 
 Beside a flower-encircled tomb, 
 An aged hermit. White as snow 
 His locks, which half obscured his brow." 
 Alonzo, the hermit, discovers the dead body of his daughter 
 Amelia, and buries it with his own hands. After years had pass- 
 ed away, and he had lingered, with a father's fondness around 
 her lonely tomb, and cherished her memory with undiminished 
 affection, he is relating to his guest the scenes of his past life, and 
 concludes with a description of the person and burial of Amelia. 
 This youthful stranger proves to be his own grandson — the "lost 
 infant" of his own loved daughter.* — Ed. 
 
 Oh ! Death but gave a softer grace 
 To the pensive beauties of that face. 
 It seemed, that as she breathed her last, 
 A placid smile o'er her lips was cast. 
 It told that reason came once more, 
 And heaven its smile of promise o'er 
 Her face had cast, ere it took her breath, 
 And stamped it with the seal of death. 
 Unseen of all, I brought her here, 
 Watering her path with many a tear. 
 She slumbers on her cold damp pillow, 
 Beneath yon softly sighing willow. 
 How oft, like winter's howlinp; wind, 
 The palsying thought comes o'er my mind, 
 That my Amelia, once my pride, 
 Unseen, unwept, unpitied died. 
 
 *This poem, which is very long,was written at the age of fifteen, 
 while he resided at home, between the time of his leaving college, 
 and the commencement of his professional studies. He compos- 
 ed it probably for his amusement, for he was never idle. It con- 
 tains some fine description, and abounds with pure and tender sen- 
 timent. — Ed. 
 
160 
 
 AN EXTRACT. 
 
 That she, from whose smiles I once could borrow 
 
 A beam to play on the cloud of sorrow, 
 
 Who soothed me by her gentle mirth, 
 
 Now lay a lifeless clod of earth, 
 
 For worms to feed on. Then the dawn 
 
 Of joy would bid the thought be gone. 
 
 And as I viewed her wasting form, 
 
 Long, long exposed to the wintry storm, 
 
 Then a tear would tremble in my eye, 
 
 A ray of hope from the realms on high, 
 
 Would fall, like the sun on a parting cloud, 
 
 And give it the rainbow's colours proud. 
 
 As it dissolved in the golden beam , 
 
 Methought I saw, as in a dream, 
 
 Her spirit clothed in robes of light, 
 
 Beyond the bounds of earthly sight. 
 
 When winter's hoary robe was gone, 
 
 And the vernal sun in beauty shone, 
 
 O'er that form unstained by guilt, 
 
 With my own hands this tomb I built, 
 
 Planted the willow by its side, 
 
 Which spreads its mournful branches wide. 
 
 When w r inter passed, I sought each flower; 
 
 (Frail emblem of life's passing hour) 
 
 To deck this tomb. The blushing rose, 
 
 The lily, chaste as winter's snows, 
 
 The honey-suckle's soft perfume, 
 
 The Columbine, with gaudy bloom, 
 
 The poisonous fox-glove's flowery stein, 
 
 The humbler star of Bethlehem, 
 
 The Arethusa's modest hue, 
 
 All these around her tomb vou view. 
 
THE SULTAN'S VISION. 161 
 
 THE SULTAN'S VISION. 
 
 The moon her gentle lustre gave 
 Along the Euxine's sparkling wave, 
 And beaming soft and fair and bright 
 Upon Byzantium fell her light, 
 Where tower, and dome and minaret 
 In pride of eastern splendour met. 
 As still the hour, as calm the view — 
 As soft the passing breezes flew, 
 As if no thought of rage or care 
 Could reach the souls, that slumbered there. 
 But, ah ! those quiet rays were beaming 
 On vengeful fiends, of murder dreaming. 
 
 The tidings had of late been brought. 
 How Missolonghi's heroes fought 
 And fell ; and with them came the boast, 
 How, gleaming from the Paynim host 
 The Janizary's scimitar 
 Had swelled the purple tide of war, 
 And how the bravest, richest blood 
 Of Hellas flowed to swell the flood. 
 Trophies were there of head and limb, 
 Sent from the bloody Ibrahim. 
 Madly their joy and tumult rose 
 To learn the slaughter of their foes, 
 And through the streets was heard to ring 
 The noise of mirth and revelling. 
 
 But now 'twas hushed — and bright and still 
 On azure wave and purling rill, 
 The moon looked calmly down and smiled, 
 Unmindful of the riot wild, 
 14* 
 
162 the sultan's vision. 
 
 That through the scene had rolled along, 
 With reckless laugh and mirthful song. 
 All sound of human life had fled — 
 Stilled was the Moslem's daring tread. 
 For sleep had closed his eyes to rest, 
 And spread her influence o'er his breast. 
 His lip no longer curled in scorn 
 On thoughts in gentler bosoms born, 
 Nor scowled his darkly lowering eye 
 On feelings of humanity. 
 But still his bosom sunk and rose 
 In dreams, with passion's furious throes. 
 Nought broke the stillness, save the howling 
 Of dogs, in hungry madness prowling, 
 To glut their greedy maws with flesh, 
 Straight from the field of murder fresh— 
 With mangled limbs, by fiends accurst 
 Cast out and trodden in the dust. 
 
 Such was the hour, when on his bed 
 The Turkish monarch laid his head, 
 With fierce and savage triumph gazing, 
 Where his dim lamp, by its last blazing, 
 Displayed, all ghastly, scarred and red 
 The vissages of heroes dead. 
 
 His eyelids closed in slumbers deep — ■ 
 Strange fancies mocked his startled sleep. 
 In painful waywardness they rove 
 Through space around, below, above. 
 Terrific forms before him rolled, 
 But whether of material mould, 
 Was unrevealed, unknown to him, 
 They moved so undefined and dim< 
 
the sultan's vision. 163 
 
 As they were flitting fast before him, 
 
 The fearful thoughts of dreams came o'er him. 
 
 A brighter ray the scene pervades, 
 And gleaming on the murky shades, 
 Reveals, that human shapes are there, 
 Though thin and light as fleeting air. 
 And as their outline plainer grew 
 Their form and features well he knew, 
 And quaked with fear, to see a band 
 Of ancient worthies round him stand, 
 Whose names have been, for ages past, 
 With freedom's boldest champions classed. 
 
 There great Miltiades proudly stood. 
 His blade was reeking with the blood 
 Of Persian slaves, that poured their life 
 In Marathon's eventful strife. 
 There, covered o'er with wounds was he, 
 The hero of Thermopylae, 
 Whose little band unquailing stood, 
 Breasting the fierce barbarian flood — 
 Nor knew, nor thought, nor wished to flee 
 From deeds of boldest chivalry. 
 There too the Theban from his heart 
 Drew calmly forth the fatal dart. 
 As when on Mantinea's plains, 
 The last life-drop forsook his veins. 
 With mien austere and aspect rude, 
 The Spartan legislator stood, 
 Regarding with defiance bold 
 The all-subduing power of gold. 
 The pride of Grecian eloquence, 
 His country's strongest, sure defence, 
 
164 the sultan's vision. 
 
 Shot from his dark and sparkling eye 
 The fire of truth and liberty. 
 
 He too, for justice long renowned, 
 Was in the band, that gathered round, 
 And they, who, as they calmly quaffed 
 The hemlock's paralyzing draught, 
 Misguided Athens had forgiven, 
 Though by a maniac frenzy driven. 
 The Chian bard was in the throng — 
 The life and soul of ancient song. 
 All these their looks terrific fixed, 
 On head and limb and carcass mixed 
 Of their own sons, whose doom was sealed 
 On Missolonghi's purple field. 
 
 The Chian rose. — Not rayless now 
 The orbs, that rolled beneath his brow, 
 But full they shone with heavenly light, 
 That burst upon his opening sight. 
 He thought with grief upon the hour, 
 When Chios felt the Moslem's power, 
 When his loved isle was crimsoned o'er 
 With slaughter's stream of purple gore. 
 The flush of inspiration came 
 Athwart his visage, like a flame. 
 He fixed his keen and piercing eye 
 On visions of futurity. 
 Not with the spirit now he glowed, 
 That from the Delphic tripod flowed, 
 But that, which shed its holy beam 
 On Daniel's bold, prophetic dream. 
 Then, like the sweeping whirlwind's gust 
 His voice upon the silence burst. 
 
THE SULTAN^ VISION. 165 
 
 Thou friend to destruction, and foe of the good, 
 Insatiate with slaughter and thirsting for blood — 
 That blood, which thy daring oppression hath spilt, 
 Is crying for vengeance and wrath on thy guilt. 
 The maiden — the infant — the warrior— -the sage 
 Have fallen alike by thy merciless rage. 
 The patriot's heart its last torrent has poured 
 And heaved its last throb on the point of thy sword. 
 Yet some have been spared, but to languish and pine, 
 Where the chains of oppression around them shall 
 
 twine. 
 In woe and in sorrow their lives they shall lead, 
 The flame of thy merciless vengeance to feed. 
 In bondage and wretchedness doomed to be bound, 
 While splendour and pomp shall thy palace surround. 
 Thou lookest with lofty contempt in thy mien 
 On those, who dare own the despised Nazarene. 
 With the voice of thanksgiving thy mosques shall re- 
 sound, 
 For the blood-wreath of conquest thy temples hath 
 
 crowned ; 
 And loud shalt thou raise acclamations of joy, 
 To thy prophet,who arms thee with power to destroy— 
 Who bids thee to spread with the sword and the flame 
 The power of his cause and the truth of his name. 
 In presumptuous boldness thou look'st for the hour, 
 When Hellas in terror before thee shall cower. 
 The name of her God thou dost boldly blaspheme, 
 And daringly scoff at His power to redeem. 
 ButHe looks on her suff 'rings — He lists to her cries — 
 From her place in the dust He shall bid her arise — > 
 Achaia shall triumph — her sons shall be free— 
 
166 the saltan's vision. 
 
 Before them the hosts of the despot shall flee. 
 
 For He slumb'reth not long — and He soon shall a- 
 
 wake — 
 And the voice ofHis vengeance its silence shall break. 
 
 The sun of prosperity shines on thy way, 
 Illuming thy path with the blaze of its day, 
 But the blood, thou hast shed, hath exhaled to the 
 
 sky. 
 Behold — it is gathering in clouds from on high. 
 There has falPn not a Christian, whose blood thou 
 
 hast shed, 
 But that blood shall return with a curse on thy head. 
 Behold — 'Tis the blackness of darkness impending— 
 The voice of the tempest the concave is rending — 
 The lightnings are blazing-the thunders are roaring- 
 The deluge in torrents around thee is pouring. 
 Thou shalt reap the reward, which thy crimes have 
 
 deserved — 
 Nay — shrink not — resist not — thine arm is unnerved- 
 And well shalt thou learn, ere the conflict is over, 
 That thou strivest in vain with the might of Jehovah. 
 It is He, that is coming. His spirits in crowds 
 Are thronging about his pavilion of clouds. 
 It is He, that is coming. Storm, tempest and blaze 
 Encircle his footsteps — attend on his ways. 
 The sound of His coming the Heavens shall rend, 
 The hills shall be scattered— the mountains shall bend. 
 With the speed of the windslle shall come to proclaim 
 His mercy to those, that have trusted his name : 
 And then shall his fury unmeasured be poured 
 On those, that have slaughtered His sons with the 
 
 sword — 
 
the sultan's vision. 167 
 
 And the souls of your bravest-the pride of your nation 
 Shall melt in the blaze of His fierce indignation. 
 How death-like the faintness and sinking and fear, 
 That shall seize on thy heart, when His power shall 
 
 appear ! 
 The tremblings of terror, convulsing thy frame, 
 Shall fill thee with dread at the sound of His name. 
 The cold drops of anguish shall stand on thy brow, 
 All pallid and deathly — Nay — tremble not now. 
 Say, where is thy helper, or where is thy friend ? 
 When He is against thee, O ! who can defend \ 
 To hide from His presence, say, where wilt thou flee 1 
 To the blackness of night, or the depths of the sea ? 
 Let Him but command, and the ocean's dark waves 
 Shall retire and reveal thee concealed in its caves. 
 Then shrink to the centre, in darkness and night, 
 All gloomy and rayless, and hide thee from sight. 
 The mountains shall sunder. The sun's broadest 
 
 glare 
 Shall burst on that darkness & search for thee there. 
 His hand there shall grasp thee, &> bring thee to see, 
 Where death and destruction are howling for thee. 
 Pressed, crushed &> tormented, escape there is none — 
 The last ray of hope and of comfort is gone. 
 The fire of His vengeance, with blast and with blight, 
 All with'ring and scorching, thy senses shall smite? 
 The warm thrill of life through thy bosom shall flow, 
 Alive but to agony, anguish and wo. 
 The waves of His fury upon thee shall roll, 
 And conscience shall fasten its thorns on thy soul; 
 The fiend of remorse with its venomous fangs, 
 Shall harrow thy breast with its deadliest pangs, 
 
168 the sultan's vision. 
 
 Shall fill thee with torments too fearful to bear. 
 And toss thee in sport on the wave of despair. 
 Upon thee the nations shall gaze, and shall own, 
 That the power, that hath cast thee to earth from thy 
 
 throne, 
 And made thee thus loathsome, detested, abhorred, 
 Was the word of the Highest— the hand of the Lord. 
 He spoke — and Mahmoud's slumber fled, 
 
 But still the visions round his bed 
 
 Appeared to move. The moon-light dim 
 
 Shone faint on head and trunk and limb, 
 
 Whose ghastly forms he dared not view, 
 
 Fearing they might recal anew 
 
 The vision, which had o'er him past, 
 
 And on his mind such terrors cast. 
 
 No sound was heard — 'twas hushed as death. 
 
 The very whisper of his breath 
 
 Was half suppressed ; he feared to hear 
 
 The Chian's accents meet his ear. 
 
 Palsied was every limb, and still 
 
 He trembling lay — and damp and chill 
 
 Across his count'nance, pale and cold 
 
 The death-like dews of terror rolled. 
 
 The jewels of his diadem — 
 
 He saw no lustre then in them. 
 
 He thought of nought, but terrors deep, 
 
 And dire forebodings of his sleep. 
 The sun arose — and many a day 
 
 In pomp and splendour passed away — 
 
 But yet that vision oft was brought 
 
 At once to his astonished thought, 
 
 And filled his mind with fear and gloom 
 
 At thought of Missolonghi's doom. 
 
 Dec. 1836. 
 
A DISCOURSE. 169 
 
 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 " The heart laioweth his own hitter nets" — Prow xiv. 10. 
 
 Every unprejudiced man, whether he believes or de- 
 nies the inspiration of the Holy Scriptures, must ad- 
 mit this, that the writer of them was one, who " knew 
 what was in man." The Bible is the only book, which 
 presents to our view human nature, stript of all poetical 
 embellishment, and which, without shrinking from any 
 deformities, casts its unerring glance into the inmost re- 
 cesses of human depravity, like the first beam that illum- 
 ined the deep, when the mandate, " Let there be light," 
 shook the waters of chaos. The numerous truths relating 
 to human nature, which are found in scripture, and the 
 manner in which they are expressed, form an argument 
 in favour of their divine origin. For with a conciseness 
 peculiar to the book, it unfolds in oire sentence some prin- 
 ciple of our nature, to have arrived at which, it would 
 have taken volumes of human treatises, and which, when 
 pursued into all its bearings, would lead into discussions, 
 longer than the whole volume of Holy Writ. This man- 
 ner indicates, that the author, instead of labouring a long 
 time to discover a few facts in the science of human na- 
 ture, comprehended the whole at one view, and could lay 
 down at once those general principles, from which more 
 particular facts were to be inferred. It shows, that he 
 was acquainted with all those latent springs, which give 
 rise to every movement of the human mind ; and this 
 method of proceeding appears,not like the student, but the 
 author of nature. 
 
 15 
 
170 A DISCOURSE, 
 
 Of this species of truth, we find an instance in those 
 words of Solomon, The heart knoweth his own bitterness. 
 These words not only apply in one sense or another to 
 every individual of the human race, but comprehend a 
 great number of less extensive principles. They may 
 apply to that peculiar animation, with which every one 
 engages in business, that interests him ; they may apply 
 to him, who mourns in secret, and to him, who, under a 
 fair countenance, conceals a depraved heart ; and to va- 
 rious other not less frequent characters. For further il- 
 lustration, let us pursue it into a few of its most obvious 
 applications. 
 
 The interest, which every one takes in whatever re- 
 lates to himself, is universally known and observed. 
 There are but few, however, who, when they hear a per- 
 son converse on a subject, in which he feels interested, 
 can enter into his feelings, and know how to make a suf- 
 ficient allowance for an engagedness, which is apt to ex- 
 cite the wonder, if not the contempt of an uninterested 
 observer. There are but few also, who, when conversing 
 on a subject which interests themselves, do not forget, 
 that their own interest in it gives it in their view an im- 
 portance, which others do not see. When one is engag- 
 ed in a favourite pursuit, he is apt to expect to see others 
 as much interested as himself, and wonders to find them 
 looking on with coolness and indifference. They on the 
 other hand, wonder perhaps no less at the warmth, with 
 which he pursues an object that excites no emotions in 
 them. This we find to be the case, "even where there is 
 no general difference or opposition between the sentiments, 
 occupations, prejudices and interests of him, who warmly 
 engages, and him, who looks coolly on. Nor would it 
 
A DISCOURSE. 171 
 
 probably be an uncommon instance, to find a person, who, 
 at one time, is deeply engaged in some project, or deeply 
 interested in some event, and, at another time, gazes 
 coolly and calmly on a similar object, and seems to be 
 quite unable to enter into the feelings of those, who are 
 engaged. This difference is produced, not by any altera- 
 tion in sentiment or prejudice, but by some trivial change 
 in circumstances, on account of which his interest was 
 not at first excited. On cool examination, therefore, he 
 cannot view the affair in the same light that he did for- 
 merly, and like one, who, on approaching a fancied ap- 
 parition, finds it to be some common and inanimate ob- 
 ject, he is unable to conjure up the phantom, which his 
 fancy had before formed. These remarks are so obvious, 
 so within the reach of common observation, and so con- 
 nected, or rather identified with the trite remark, that 
 every one has his attention most engaged and his feelings 
 most excited by what most nearly relates to himself, that 
 every one must have found them to be true. Yet when 
 we see one wondering at the apathy, or at the engaged- 
 ness of another, we should believe, that this obvious prin- 
 ciple of human nature yet remained to be learned by 
 him. 
 
 In persons of different feelings, habits, and manners of 
 life, we may find the same tiling perhaps still more strik- 
 ingly exemplified. Nor is it any way to be wondered at, 
 that we should not enter into all the views and feelings of 
 those, whose associations, and whose pursuits are differ- 
 ent from ours. The politician may discourse warmly and 
 eloquently and truly on political subjects. He may de- 
 light to trace every movement of Governments to its 
 prime motive, and to predict the political fate of empires. 
 
 
172 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 Who can wonder, that lie should be eloquent and warm 
 on the subject, to which his attention has been directed, 
 the investigation of which has called forth all the ener- 
 gies of his mind ? Who can wonder too that the honest 
 mechanic, 'whose attention has been turned another way, 
 and who, though interested in the effects of the move- 
 ments of the great political machine, feels his incompe- 
 tency to trace their causes ; who can wonder that he should 
 listen unconcerned to a discourse, which from another 
 calls forth the most undivided attention ? The poet, en- 
 dowed with the most exquisite sensibility to the beauties 
 of nature, may point out to the labourer the elegance of 
 those scenes, which are every day presented to view. 
 But if they come not clothed in the enchantment of de- 
 scription, the labourer sees them not ; and the poet is to 
 him like the seer, who points out in vain to others the vis- 
 sion communicated only to himself. While the poet 
 wonders at the bluntness of the labourer's feelings, the 
 labourer wonders no less, that any beauty is discovered in 
 -the rivulet, which gives him pleasure, only as it slakes his 
 thirst — or in the " waving field," which delights him, 
 only as it supplies him with food. Those finer feelings, 
 which in one are suffered to lie dormant, in the other are 
 cultivated and improved, and iu consequence of fiequent 
 exercise, vibrate with a thrill of delight on every view of 
 the works of Nature. 
 
 The discoverer of a principle in science is pleased to 
 retrace the chain of thought, which led him to that discov- 
 ery. But another, though pleased that the discovery is 
 made, cares not to know how, and scarcely takes the 
 trouble to listen to hear enumerated the chain of ideas, 
 which led to it. One, who has discovered his former 
 
A DISCOURSE. 173 
 
 opinions in theology, politics, or any subject of importance, 
 to be erroneous and unfounded, and determines to adopt 
 another system, loves to follow the train of argument, 
 which led him to that determination. He thinks, that 
 others may be convinced by the same arguments, which 
 had such an effect on him. But he does not consider, 
 that the same arguments may not make so strong an im- 
 pression upon the mind of another, as they did upon his ; 
 and that however clearly his ideas may be stated, it is im- 
 possible for him to communicate to another precisely his 
 own impressions. In all these cases, the heart only can 
 know its own feelings, for they cannot be communicated. 
 But this inability to communicate one's own feelings, is 
 felt still more sensibly by those, who are bowed beneath 
 the hand of misfortune. For the child of grief wishes to 
 see even inanimate creation sympathizing with him. Still 
 more does he expect, that man will feel for his sufferings. 
 But the great bulk of mankind. are quite insensible to 
 them. Every one knows that we feel no great emotion of 
 pity at the relation of the distresses of others, who are in 
 no way connected with us, even so as to prevent our 
 smiling at every thing ludicrous in the story. When, 
 therefore, the son of sorrow, instead of inanimate nature 
 joining in pity for him, finds even man insensible to his 
 calamities, he feels that his heart only knows his own 
 emotions. The pity and the kind words of his friends 
 may be some consolation to him — but oh! he feels, he 
 sadly feels, that they cannot enter into his feelings, and 
 that thought gives an additional pang. When every bond, 
 that binds him to this life, has been broken, and he sees 
 no hope this side the grave ; — when the world, which 
 once appeared one unvaried scene of delight, is now 
 15* 
 
1/4 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 wrapt in darkness, in death, and in desolation, then he 
 perceives, that he only knows, he only feels his own woe. 
 The fruitless attempts of the tender-hearted and the be- 
 nevolent to administer consolation, only drive home upon 
 him, in all its force, and with all its aggravations, the 
 gloomy reflection, that the heart only knowetli liis own 
 bitterness. 
 
 Hitherto the truth, we are illustrating, has been consid- 
 ered, only in regard to our inability to communicate to 
 others the impressions, which certain objects make upon 
 our minds. But the words evidently suggest those feel- 
 ings (sometimes of essential importance as they relate to 
 our happiness) which we do not choose to communicate — 
 sometimes not even to ourselves. In this sense, we find 
 the truth we are discussing to have a very extensive ap- 
 plication. There is none, that does not recollect, that 
 his bosom has been rent by many a pang, which he did 
 not see fit to disclose ; there is none, that knows not, 
 that the appearance of happiness often deceives us. 
 ^^The discontented poor man casts his eye over the 
 wide world. He sees kings and princes, the rich and the 
 royal, rioting in all the pleasures, that this world can af- 
 ford, surrounded with wealth and honour, and seemingly 
 without the weight of a single care, or the wound of a 
 single pain, to diminish from the heaven of pleasure they 
 enjoy. He looks on his rich neighbours. One, prudent 
 to excess, makes an idol of his gold, and rejoices in the 
 quantity he possesses. He is secure from want, and he 
 must be happy. Another, more fond of pleasure, spends 
 his time carousing in all the wantonness of mirth, and if 
 he has a care, drowning it in the cup of intemperance. 
 The glow of laughter never fades from his cheek, and he 
 
A DISCOURSE. 175 
 
 must be happy. The poor man, as he looks on these, 
 complains, that while he, as innocent as they, is writhing 
 under the scourge of poverty, they have scarcely a care 
 on their mind, to remind them, that they are mortal. 
 But, mistaken man ! could he have their hearts laid open 
 to his view, he would there read a tale of horror, that 
 should send every wish for an exchange of situations 
 back to his trembling heart ; should hush every impious 
 murmur, and wake in its stead the song of thanksgiving. 
 The king, whose rod is a nation's terror, who sits on the 
 throne of dominion as the representative of the Almighty, 
 even he has a tenfold share of the trials and the troubles 
 of this world. War alarms him ; faction and rebellion 
 threaten to cast him from his throne. The care of a na- 
 tion's welfare is ever on his mind. The scrutinizing eye 
 of a world is fixed on his every movement. What situa- 
 tion in life teems with caves aud anxieties more than 
 this ? All the great and the noble of the earth have a 
 care for every comfort, and every thrill of pleasure is an- 
 swered by a throb of pain. 
 
 The happiness of some is founded on the esteem of the 
 people. But the fickle people, as if glorying in their om- 
 nipotence, and pleased to see the happiness of others de- 
 pending on their wavering inclinations, may choose to- 
 morrow to plunge from their high station those, who are 
 now their favourites. Those, who depend upon thern, 
 fear and feel that fiickleness. 
 
 Are we to look to the avaricious man for an instance of 
 happiness ? His hand was never opened to the necessi- 
 ties of the poor ; his heart never responded to the call of 
 distress. His heart is locked up with his gold. For his 
 gold he denies himself the conveniences he might obtain. 
 He is not the man, that enjoys life. 
 
176 A DISCCURSE* 
 
 Nor is the votary of pleasure more to be envied. He 
 may always have the appearance of mirth, but too often 
 he flies to this to escape that terrible tribunal — his con- 
 science. Though this may not at first be his object, it 
 almost invariably proves so at last ; and unhappy truly is 
 the state of that man, who is afraid of himself In com- 
 pany with others, he may attempt to drive away care by 
 mirth. But it is in vain ; and whenever he is alone, his 
 heart fearfully tells him, that every drop from the inebri- 
 ating cup increases the torrent of misery, that is pouring 
 upon him, and that every flash of mirth, is but adding to 
 the Hell, that burns in his bosom, 
 
 Man cannot see the heart of man. We cannot tell by 
 our neighbour's outward appearance, whether all is 
 peaceful within. It is not only in the dazzle of glory 
 and honour and riches, that we are liable to be deceived. 
 The man, who, far from the tumult and strife of the 
 w T orld, seems to be reposing on the bosom of domestic 
 tranquility, may have some unseen wound rankling in his 
 heart, and the demon of despair may stand by him unob- 
 served, to lay its withering hand on his every joy, and his 
 every consolation. Who has not known the time, when 
 he felt, unseen and unpitied, some unknown anguish, 
 when an unobserving friend told him he was happy, and 
 when he felt, and sighed to feel, that his heart only knew 
 his own bitterness. That shaft of affliction pierces deep- 
 est, and wounds keenest, which is aimed at some tender 
 point, where the sufferer will not disclose the wound. 
 For he has none of the consolations, which pity and 
 friendship can supply; and the smothered fire, whic* 
 might be discovered and extinguished if it blazed out, 
 consumes, because unseen. 
 
A DISCOURSE. 177 
 
 But the heart conceals not only the sorrow which 
 wounds, but the anger which enrages it. Here, then, 
 in the character of the deceiver, we have an entirely dif- 
 ferent application of the words before us. Instead of be- 
 ing presented with one, who, with the wound of sorrow 
 festering in his bosom, strives to put on the appearance of 
 gaiety, we see one, who, with dark designs brooding in 
 his heart, sheds from his countenance the mild beam of 
 benevolence. Here we are presented with a character, 
 which we should believe to be peculiarly appropriate to 
 the arch enemy of mankind, did we not find, by experi- 
 ence, that its exemplifications on earth are too numerous 
 not to suffer it to be placed within the sphere of the most 
 contracted observation. The slightest acquaintance with 
 the human heart will tell us, that as happiness is not al- 
 way found where it seems to be enjoyed, so honesty and 
 benevolence do not always exist, where they appear to be 
 cultivated. Numerous are the forms in which deceit ap- 
 pears. The sycophant, who, with the most abject and 
 disgusting servility, plies his patron with praises ; the ruf- 
 fian, who puts on an appearance of friendship for one, 
 whom he intends to ruin ; the murderer, who hides his 
 hatred for his enemy, that he may make his prey the sur- 
 er ; the villain, who, under the appearance of advice and 
 instruction, seduces youth from the paths of virtue ; and 
 worst of all, the hypocrite, who, under the cloak of relig- 
 ion, conceals a vile mass of prejudice, bigotry, and world- 
 ly interest — all these are iustances of this character. 
 What a critical acquaintance with human nature it re- 
 quires to make our way safely through a world of such 
 characters as these ! 
 
178 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 A man seeks to form a circle of acquaintance. The 
 first he meets is all friendship — professes himself ready to 
 serve him — speaks in the smooth and honied tongue of 
 flattery. But the moment they part, he dips his tongue 
 in the envenomed dye of slander, and stamps the charac- 
 ter of opprobrium on him, whose friend he has but now 
 professed himself. Another seems equally friendly, but 
 with all the wiles of old and hardy iniquity, proffers to 
 him the poisoned cup of pleasure. And after all the 
 pleasing ideas, he may have formed of the character of 
 his companions, he may think himself happy, if, among 
 an extensive circle of intimate acquaintances, he can find 
 one real friend. 
 
 Nor amidst all this deception is there any resource, 
 any test, to which we can at once recur, and thus deter- 
 mine the character of others. Religion is no less fre- 
 quently than friendship the disguise to conceal infernal 
 malice. But here hypocrisy appears in its most odious 
 nature. 
 
 It is quite sufficient to make friendship and honesty a 
 screen for vice and malice. But, to hide them under 
 the awful sanctity of religion, is something too foul to be 
 the invention of sinful man. This was the prevailing 
 trait in the characters of the Jewish Scribes and Phari- 
 sees. This seems to have drawn the wrath of the Al- 
 mighty on Jerusalem, when the desolation of the Holy 
 City witnessed a scene of horror and bloodshed, that de- 
 fies the historian to point to its parallel on the bloodiest 
 page of the annals of War. 
 
 There are various ways in which the feelings of the 
 heart may be concealed from others. But when we see 
 the light of religion beaming from the countenance, 
 
A DISCOURSE. 179 
 
 while envy and malice and misanthropy are scowling 
 gloomily within and shrouding the heart in impenetrable 
 darkness ; when the flame of devotion seems to burn from 
 the lips, while the fires of hell are winding fearfully 
 around the heart, and shedding all their baneful and pesti- 
 ferous influence on the inner man, we must say, that 
 here in a peculiar sense, The heart knoweth his own bit- 
 terness. 
 
 So much for a few of the most important applications, 
 into which the words, we are illustrating, may be pursued. 
 The above observations are those, they seem most readi- 
 ly to suggest. We cannot enter into all the warmth and 
 all the feelings of others on subjects which interest them, 
 whether their habits and associations are similar or dis- 
 similar to ours. We cannot judge from the external con- 
 ditions of others, whether they can be said to enjoy real 
 happiness. We cannot determine from the countenance, 
 whether good-will or malice predominate at the heart. 
 
 With all our knowledge of human nature, we can pen- 
 etrate but a little distance into the feelings and motives 
 of man. And finally, after all the attempts of those, who 
 understand human nature, to discover the character and 
 feelings of those around them, they have much reason, 
 when they have done, to exclaim, The heart knoweth his 
 own bitternesss 
 
180 WHAT CONSTITUTES 
 
 AN ESSAY, 
 
 ON THE QUESTION 
 
 u What constitutes a good moral character ? ,} 
 
 This was prepared to be read before (he Attleborough Society ; but 
 death prevented the author from performing his part in the discuss- 
 ion. The circumstances under which it was written, and the purpose 
 for which it was intended will account for the form in which it ap- 
 pears, and for the manner of stating his arguments. His senti- 
 ments on the subject of intemperance, and the manner in which he 
 presents them, will meet the approbation of every lover of his coun- 
 try and every friend of mankind. — Ed. 
 
 When our Saviour was inquired of by the young man, 
 what he should do, that he might inherit eternal life 1 — 
 he answered by a brief enumeration of the principal du- 
 ties, enjoined in the moral law. But when the young 
 man, vain of his strict observance, replied, All these 
 things have I kept from my youth up — What lack I yet ? 
 Jesus, by commanding him to bestow all his property on 
 the poor, intimated to him, that a mere formal obser- 
 vance of the letter of the law, fell far short of bestowing 
 that perfection of character of which he so vainly boasted. 
 The question now before us may be answered in a some- 
 what similar manner. In general, we may say, that a 
 good moral character consists in avoiding the gross and 
 evident vices of theft, intemperance &,c. aud in maintain- 
 ing, by an upright deportment, a constant observance of 
 the well-known precepts of morality. But though a good 
 moral character, in the common loose and liberal mean- 
 ing of the term, has rather a negative signification, and 
 implies little more than an abstinence from gross immo- 
 ralities, yet there are other qualifications, which, though 
 
A GOOD MORAL CHARACTER. 181 
 
 their absence would not prove a person to be immoral, 
 must yet be present, before the moral character can be 
 considered as complete. 
 
 There is a certain merely external and ceremonial obe- 
 dience to the general precepts of the moral law, which 
 though better, at least as it regards the good of society, 
 than unrestrained licentiousness, is yet scarcely entitled 
 to the name of genuine morality. There may be so great 
 a degree of strictness in forbearing to. infringe upon the 
 rules of temperance, honesty &c, that it may be difficult 
 to point out any breach of good morals, and yet it may be 
 evident [to every one, that this strictness is only formal, 
 and deserves the name of hypocrisy, better than it does 
 that of morality. This consideration may evince the 
 propriety of insisting upon certain ingredients, which 
 should enter into the composition of a good moral charac- 
 ter, notwithstanding they may sometimes be denounced, 
 as savouring of puritanical strictness, an epithet which 
 has become so terrific, that some are almost ready to seek 
 refuge from it under the shelter of open and avowed im- 
 morality. 
 
 Let it be remarked, then, that in order to form and in 
 sure a correct and consistent morality, we should have a 
 sincere and earnest wish, not only to abstain from gross 
 immoralities, but also to use every means, which may 
 preserve us from the danger of ever falling into them, as 
 well as those, which will improve the morals of ail, over 
 whom we have any direct or indirect influence. If mo- 
 rality is any thing at all, it is something more than mere 
 idle ceremony. It is manifested in the conduct, but its 
 foundation is in the heart. He, who is truly moral, must 
 be deeply impressed with the importance of being so; and 
 16 
 
182 WHAT CONSTITUTES 
 
 he, who is thus impressed, will necessarily feel an anxiety 
 to keep both himself and others from those temptations, 
 which insidiously and insensibly lead us from innocent to 
 immoral habits. They, who, from their high standing in 
 society, or from their station as connected with the super- 
 intendence of institutions of any kind, are capable of ex- 
 ercising any beneficial influence over the characters of 
 those around them, are bound to do so. It is due to the 
 individuals immediately concerned — it is due to society. 
 They, who neglect using their endeavours to effect this 
 purpose, whether because the task is too arduous, or be- 
 cause the degraded and wretched state of others can in 
 any way be made subservient to their pecuniary interests, 
 commit as great, nay, a greater fraud on the public, than 
 he, who filches from the public treasury. They cannot 
 indeed be made amenable to human laws. But the great 
 principles of justice are not the less violated, and the of- 
 fender will be answerable at that tribunal, where not on- 
 ly his actions but his motives will be scrutinized, and 
 -where his merits and demerits will meet with their ap- 
 propriate returns with the most unerring precision. In 
 illustrating by particular instances the methods, in which 
 we might influence the moral characters of ourselves or 
 others, we might go into numerous details. A few illus- 
 trations, however, must suffice for our present purpose. 
 
 To the cause of morality, as well as that of religion, 
 much injury is done by levity. I speak not merely of rid- 
 icule, which is intended to exhibit moral duties in a con- 
 temptible light, bat also of that levity, which originates in 
 a flow of wit or the exuberance of spirits, and which is as 
 innocent in its intention, as it is sometimes disastrous in 
 its consequences. It has been happily observed, that it is 
 
A GOOD MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 183 
 
 difficult for any person to lay rude hands upon one, whom 
 he has always looked upon only with sentiments of awe 
 and veneration. The same observation applies with 
 equal or greater force to moral duties. If we have never 
 thought of them, but with the seriousness, which their 
 importance deserves, we cannot without horror think of 
 infringing upon them, however we may be tempted to do 
 so. But if we have become habituated to trifling, how- 
 ever innocently, with these momentous subjects, one 
 great barrier between us and vice is broken down. We 
 cease to be deeply impressed with the importance of what 
 we have so often looked on with levity. If we are brought 
 to debate with ourselves, whether we shall transgress the 
 precepts of morality, we are very ready to contemplate 
 the subject in the same light and trifling view, which we 
 have before taken of it. It then appears to us, as a sub- 
 ject of trifling concern, and we with little reluctance yield 
 ourselves to the control of appetites and passions, which 
 are ever suggesting some deviation from the path of rec- 
 titude. The restraints, which reason imposes, still re- 
 main the same. But the voice of reason is too feebly 
 raised and too easily suppressed, when we are under the 
 dominion of passion. Our self-deluding ingenuity is ev- 
 er at work, suggesting excuses for the crimes, to which 
 passion prompts us. 
 
 There are some practices, which in themselves may 
 seem innocent and unimportant, but which are far other- 
 wise, when viewed in relation to the consequences, to 
 which they may lead, either in regard to those, who follow 
 them, or in regard to others, who may be affected by 
 their example. The practices, to which I refer, are gen- 
 erally harmless, when moderately followed, but if freely 
 
184 WHAT CONSTITUTES 
 
 indulged in, will lead to more or less immorality. They 
 are not therefore unimportant in regard to those, who 
 follow them, since all of us are so much the creatures of 
 habit, that if we surrender ourselves to it in a slight de- 
 gree, we never know where it will terminate. A custom, 
 which we have begun for our amusement, or for the sake 
 of complying with the caprices of fashion, may terminate 
 in a confirmed habit. It may become necessary to our 
 happiness, and we are then continually exposed to a 
 temptation to indulge in it more and more immoderately, 
 till we may finally become completely the slaves of vice 
 and dissipation. Such practices may also have important 
 effects on others by their example. If they, who are look- 
 ed up to as patterns for imitation, indulge moderately in 
 these practices, others may be led to do the same, who 
 are not aware of their danger, and who are hence liable to 
 be led much farther than they ever thought of going. 
 Nay, those, who indulge themselves to excess, will plead 
 the precedent of exemplary persons, who by moderate 
 enjoyment seem to give a countenance to intemperate in- 
 trnlgence. But some of the practices to which I allude 
 are among the most common customs and amusements, 
 which give a zest to social intercourse. Are we then to 
 abandon forever all social intercourse, all innocent recre- 
 ation, because others may abuse our example, or because 
 it requires the governing power of prudence to prevent 
 ourselves being led astray ? Certainly not. But there is 
 a difference among these recreations. Some are almost 
 essential to the enjoyment of society, and are attended 
 with little risk of leading to bad consequences. Others 
 have no use, but what custom has given them, and are 
 attended with greater danger. While we need not debar 
 
A GOOD MORAL CHARACTER. 185 
 
 ourselves from the former, caution is necessary with re- 
 gard to the latter. We should exercise some self-denial, 
 rather than subject ourselves to the risk of forming habits, 
 which cannot be easily broken off, and after the forma- 
 tion of which, we cannot safely trust our resolution, that 
 they will not increase to an alarming degree. The effect 
 of the example on others also deserves attention. For 
 though we may not perceive, why the blame of their er- 
 rors should lie at our door, when they pervert our exam- 
 ples to their own ruin, yet every one, who feels as he 
 should do for the welfare of society, will deny himself 
 some gratifications, if he can thereby avoid furnishing 
 others with excuses for their dissipation. If we will 
 weigh this subject in all its bearings, perhaps we shall 
 find it proper to adopt something like the following rule 
 of conduct. — " Pursue no practices, however innocent in 
 themselves, if they are absolutely or nearly useless, and if 
 they are often so perverted and abused, as to lead to any 
 gross immorality." — The propriety of this rule can be 
 better tested by applying it particularly to some of the 
 practices, which have been alluded to. 
 
 There is no immorality in merely witnessing the per- 
 formance of a play. It is a pleasant, and may be even a 
 profitable amusement. But where exhibitions of this 
 kind are frequent, their fascinations draw many into an 
 habitual attendance upon them, at the expense of the neg- 
 lect of their duties, of the expenditure of their property, 
 and of giving an increased and vitiated sensibility to the 
 imagination without enlightening the understanding. 
 Nor is this all. Notwithstanding the boasted effect of 
 the stage upon the manners of the age, an effect, which 
 theory would perhaps naturally lead us to expect, we can- 
 16* 
 
186 WHAT CONSTITUTES 
 
 not conceal, that in actual fact, theatrical exhibitions are 
 roade to lead to other and more fatal dissipation. Would 
 it not then be proper in those, who profess to maintain a 
 strictly exemplary and moral character, not to lend their 
 countenance and active encouragement to these exhibi- 
 tions by a very frequent attendance upon them ? The 
 vslight self-denial, which they would exercise, would be 
 amply compensated, if it prevented one individual from 
 being led into vicious habits. 
 
 We frequently hear persons, who are somewhat rigid 
 in their notions of morality, charged with a superstitious 
 aversion to the game of cards ; and doubtless this charge 
 is not always groundless. This amusement is in itself as 
 completely innocent as the most simple sports, in which 
 every parent indulges his children. Why then should 
 many people, who are perhaps well versed in other games, 
 have such an antipathy to this ? The reason is, not that 
 this game is in itself more unjustifiable, but that it is 
 more liable to be abused than most others. Who does 
 not know, that many, who, in the social circle, have im- 
 bibed an apparently innocent relish for cards, have by 
 degrees become more deeply interested in them, and have 
 thus been led on from one stage of dissipation to another, 
 till the fatal vice of gambling, calling in all her sister fu- 
 ries of profanity, intemperance and the rest of the infer- 
 nal league, has seized at once upon her victim, and given 
 him over to irremediable ruin ? If it be asked, why this 
 occasional consequence of an innocent accompaniment 
 of social conversation, should deter others from enjoying 
 it in a rational and moderate degree, I answer, the rule 
 above laid down may be not improperly applied here. 
 The recreation, of which we are speaking, can form no 
 
A GOOD MORAL CHARACTER. 187 
 
 essential part of the enjoyments of life. Were it struck 
 from existence, the blank might easily be filled. Other 
 recreations might be devised, and such as might seem 
 more consonant with the festivities of the social circle, 
 than the mute employments of the card-table. It cannot 
 be of any real utility; and it would not be unworthy the 
 reason and the benevolence of a man of exemplary morals, 
 to abstain from an innocent gratification, if his indulging 
 
 , in it would make his weak brother to offend. 
 
 But there is another practice, to which the above rule 
 
 i will apply more forcibly, perhaps, than to any other. I 
 mean the use of ardent spirits. Every one knows from 
 his own observation, what alarming inroads the intemper 
 ate use of this article is making upon the lives, health and 
 morals of our fellow-citizens ; and nearly every one knows 
 from his own personal experience, as well as from obser- 
 vation, its multifarious power in heightening all the pleas- 
 ures, we enjoy, and alleviating all the calamities, to which 
 we are subject. I am weli aware, that all will not join 
 with ma in the belief, that no man on earth can make an 
 habitual use of ardent spirits without some danger of ulti- 
 mately filling into habits of intemperance. Yet such, I 
 believe, is the fact. If we reflect on the uncontrolable 
 influence, which habits exercise over us when formed, 
 and on the fatally insidious and concealed manner, in 
 which they creep upon us, we might readily infer, that 
 the slightest indulgence of this kind would not be without 
 danger ; and the melancholy results of experience fully 
 confirm the inferences of reason. We might dwell upon 
 the melancholy catastrophes, which every one has witness- 
 ed, of the most amiable men, the most useful members of 
 society, all orders of moral and religious persons, both 
 
188 WHAT CONSTITUTES 
 
 rigid and liberal, unwarily decoyed into the snares of in- 
 temperance — becoming first less strict in their morals, 
 then more completely addicted to this and other vices, 
 and finally outcasts from society, terminating a miserable 
 existence under the ravages of loathsome disease, or ar- 
 rested by the arm of the law, and expiating on the gal- 
 lows the crimes, they have committed. But to enlarge 
 on these and the other fearful details, with which the an- 
 nals of intemperance so fruitfully abound, would be so su- 
 perfluous, that we might perhaps " explain upon the thing 
 till all men doubt." Yet, perhaps, we cannot, to avoid a 
 slight risk, feel willing to abandon so necessary, so use- 
 ful an enjoyment, and one so essential to the preservation 
 of health. But let any one examine the greatly vaunted 
 powers of ardent spirits, and he will find them so contra- 
 dictory and inconsistent, that he cannot avoid the suspi- 
 cion, that part or all of them are merely pretences to cov- 
 er the real motive, which is the strongest inducement to 
 the use of ardent spirits, viz. the gratification of sensual 
 —appetite. Is a man exposed to the cold of winter ? Rum 
 is resorted to, to warm him. Does he suffer the heat of 
 summer ? Nothing is so good as rum to prevent the ill 
 effects of heat. Does he labour under the dry and parch- 
 ing influence of a hot sun ? Rum is the best substance 
 to quench his thirst. Is he afraid of suffering under a 
 moist, damp atmosphere ? The invigorating influences of 
 rum bid defiance to the effeGts of moisture. — Is he pre- 
 vented from taking as much exercise as is requisite for 
 his health ? Rum is necessary, to give him an appetitt 
 for his food. — Is he worried and harassed by extraordina- 
 ry fatigue ? What can give him such speedy rest, re- 
 freshment and renewed vigour as rum ? Is he in the so- 
 
A GOOD MORAL CHARACTER. 189 
 
 cial circle with his friends ? He is as solitary as Adam 
 before the creation of his consort, and conversation has no 
 charms for him, till the exhilerating influences of rum 
 awaken him to social pleasures. Is he, on the other hand, 
 alone, and do misfortunes, poverty and loss of health 
 make solitude intolerable to him 1 Rum is company, 
 friends, health, wealth, power and every thing else, and 
 can command the attendance of all the blessings of life, 
 as effectually as the ring and lamp of Aladdin could call 
 the genii from the earth. But many of the boasted and 
 innumerable powers, which are attributed to ardent spir- 
 its, at least those of supporting health and prolonging 
 life, must be imaginary. It is worthy of notice, that the 
 first account, we have, of the use of any intoxicating 
 liquor, was immediately after the deluge — the precise 
 time, when the period of human life was abridged from a 
 thousand years almost to its present term of three score and 
 ten.* 
 
 Many arguments might be adduced, did time permit, 
 to prove, that even the temperate habitual use of ardent 
 spirits is, in general, useless at least, if not positively in- 
 jurious. If this be true, what would be the injunctions of 
 strict morality ? If we are commanded to pray, that we 
 
 * The author does not intend to found any argument op that 
 fact— he takes notice of it only as a "remarkhle coincident e. rt It is 
 truly such. Coincidence in time too often leads to inference as cause 
 and effect. The use of intoxicating liquor could not he the cause, and 
 the abridgement of human life, the effect — for the cause assigned is not 
 equal to the effect produced. So great and sudden a change in the 
 human constitution conld not be effected hy human agency in the short 
 term of one generation. No circumstance, short of the special inter- 
 position of Him who formed the human frame, can account for an im- 
 mediate change from l'OOO 10 70 years. But it is evident that intem- 
 perance, in modern d^y*, has 0/1 en contracted even the short period 
 now allotted to human life. — Ed. 
 
190 WHAT CONSTITUTES 
 
 may not be led into temptation, are we not criminal, if we 
 expose ourselves to it ? But whoever indulges in a fre- 
 quent use of ardent spirits, both exposes himself to temp- 
 tation, and gives the authority of his example to a prac-* 
 tice, which has probably occasioned far greater ravages 
 among us, than the sword and the pestilence in the hour 
 of their greatest triumph. Here then, the rule above laid 
 down, seems to apply with peculiar force. The tempe- 
 rate use of ardent spirits is in itself harmless, as far as 
 morals are concerned, but yet it is useless, and frequent- 
 ly leads to the most extravagant abuses. What reason, 
 then, can be offered, why every one, who wishes to do all 
 he can, in the cause of good morals, should not forego a 
 slight sensual gratification, rather than countenance so 
 pernicious a practice ? The example of a few, though it 
 might not alter the general custom, might yet be sufficient 
 to shield others from the charge of wilful eccentricity, or 
 absurd superstition. — On this subject I have but one more 
 remark to make. I may be treading on forbidden grouud. 
 But if the regulations of this society require that its mem- 
 bers, at the time of their admission, should possess a good 
 moral character, is it not equally desirable, that such a 
 character should be kept unpolluted ? If so, might we 
 not dispense with the introduction of ardent spirits among 
 our ordinary refreshments ? Is the official use of them 
 (if I may use the expression) strictly consistent w T ith the 
 high and noble objects after which we profess to aspire ? 
 Might not the money, expended in this way, be more pro- 
 fitably expended in enlarging our library ? These ques- 
 tions are submitted, without further comment, to the con- 
 sideration of those, who are better able to answer them. 
 If these sentiments on morality are thought by any to 
 
 i 
 
A GOOD MORAL CHARACTER. 191 
 
 be superstitiously rigid, I must beg leave to say, that if we 
 would aim a blow at the root of vice, it must be by pre- 
 venting the commencement of habits, which lead to it. 
 When those habits are formed, they are generally incura- 
 ble. But in the beginning they may be prevented. I 
 know of no other way, in which such prevention can be 
 so effectually accomplished, as by acting on the princi- 
 ples above stated. The end is important. It may well be 
 accomplished at the expense of some sacrifices. Though 
 the question under discussion concerns morality as distinct 
 from religion, yet by laying the foundation of morality in 
 the heart, I have perhaps identified them. Indeed it is 
 difficult to avoid doing so. No morality can be depended 
 upon, which is not founded upon right motives ; and when 
 we go so far back as to look for the motives, we find reli- 
 gion and morality linked together by the indissoluble bond 
 which unites cause and effect. For genuine religion 
 must be considered as the foundation of morality in the 
 heart; and true and consisteut morality, as the effect of re- 
 ligion upon the external conduct, 
 
192 A DISCOURSE* 
 
 A DISCOURSE 
 
 DELIVERED BEFORE 
 
 THE " ATTLEBOROUGH SOCIETY* FOR THE PROMOTION OF 
 
 AGRICULTURE, ARTS, AND SOCIAL INTERCOURSE," 
 
 FEBRUARY 22, 1827. 
 
 In selecting the subject of our reflections at the pres- 
 ent time, reference may be had, both to the objects, 
 which this society has in view, and to the day, on which 
 we are assembled. The elevation of the standard of in- 
 tellectual improvement among the American people, was 
 a subject, which ever lay near the heart of him, who has 
 so appropriately received the appellation of " the Father 
 of his country." On the other hand, the acquirement of 
 useful information is the most prominent object, to which 
 the efforts of this Society are directed. We can offer no 
 more appropriate tribute to the memory of the illustrious 
 man, the anniversary of whose birth our present meeting 
 \is designed to commemorate, than by using our endeav- 
 ours, humble though they be, to disseminate the knowl- 
 edge, and enforce the truth and importance of the pre- 
 cepts, which he has left us. Shall we then devote a few 
 moments to the consideration of the encouragements and 
 facilities for intellectual improvement, which are afforded 
 to the great mass of the people in this country, and to the 
 manner, in which these opportunities may be best im- 
 proved ? 
 
 * This Society hold? its Anniversary Meeting on the £2d February, 
 in honor of the immortal Founder of our Republic — on which occa- 
 sion, it is customary, to have an Address delivered, appropriate to 
 the day, and the purposes of the Society ,?~Ed. 
 
A DISCOURSE. 193 
 
 If we act under the influence of rational principles, we 
 shall always be incited to attempt the accomplishment of 
 any object, which can be shown to be worthy of our exer- 
 tions and within our reach. In attempting to show, that 
 the great object of mental improvement possesses both 
 these characters, it is not expected to offer any new argu- 
 ments, but merely to recal to the mind, reflections, which 
 cannot fail to have occurred frequently to every one. I 
 am aware, that the proposition, that knowledge is useful 
 to all, may seem to be a mere truism — and that it may 
 appear to be a waste of words, to insist on the truth of 
 what no one in his senses will dispute. But there are 
 truths, which need less to be believed, than to be felt, and 
 duties, the practice of which is neglected, though their 
 importance is undisputed. Among these truths and these 
 duties may be classed those, which it is now attempted to 
 illustrate and enforce. This fact is a sufficient reason, 
 why we should repeatedly and constantly labour to impress 
 upon the minds of those around us, what, from their con- 
 versation, they would appear so universally to perceive — 
 the importance of education. 
 
 In the practice of some of the numerous occupations, 
 in which mankind are engaged, a degree of proficiency in 
 science is essential. With others, no less important, and 
 embracing a far greater portion of the community, litera- 
 ry acquirements are less immediately connected. These 
 last frequently do not admit of much leisure for study, and 
 by keeping the mind intent on different subjects, often 
 prevent the formation of habits of reading and reflection. 
 There are few employments, however, to the practice of 
 which the knowledge obtained from reading and study, 
 may not be made directly or indirectly subservient. Nor 
 17 
 
194 
 
 A DISCCURSE. 
 
 should the cultivation of the mind by any means be 
 thought useless to those, to whose customary vocations 
 the sciences do not admit of direct application. There 
 are essential duties, which belong to us as social beings, 
 and which hence devolve equally on all, whatever their 
 occupation may be. In our relations to others as friends, 
 as neighbours, as members of the same body politic, or of 
 the human family, we continually find obligations resting 
 upon us, the faithful fulfilment of which puts in requisi- 
 tion all the natural and acquired talents, we can command. 
 No station, however exalted, or however humble, can so 
 far raise or depress us, no employment, however constant, 
 can so far monopolize our time, as to relieve us from the 
 burden of these obligations. However limited the sphere 
 of our professional usefulness, our relations, as social be- 
 ings, are still the same. He, who assumes to himself the 
 awful responsibility connected with watching over the 
 health and life, or the moral and religious character of his 
 fellow-beings, only imposes upon himself new obligations, 
 ^without abating aught of those, which lay upon him as 
 one of the human family. In the numerous and compli- 
 cated parts, then, which every individual may be called 
 to act in the great drama of life, how essential is it, that 
 his mind should be enriched by the accumulation of fact, 
 and strengthened by the habitual exercise of his reasoning 
 faculties ! 
 
 Though all those forms of knowledge, which assist us in 
 forming an acquaintance with the innumerable varities of 
 human life and character, are of the most evident and 
 universal utility, yet there are other branches of science, 
 which, not being immediately applicable to the common 
 business of life, may seem so far unimportant, that the 
 
v A DISCOURSE. 195 
 
 time devoted to them, might, at first glance, appear to be 
 wholly wasted. But it is to be recollected, that no one 
 moves in so regular and unvarying a circle, as that he is 
 not continually liable to be placed in new and unexpected 
 circumstances, where he will be called to the performance 
 of duties, on which he had never calculated. Life is one 
 continued series of changes. Though a man may not go 
 in quest of adventures, adventures will often come in 
 search of him. Every one must have observed, that the 
 knowledge of facts, from which he did not expect any ben- 
 efit, has been of service to him on occasions, which he 
 could never have anticipated. But there is still another 
 and more powerful motive to prompt us to give our atten- 
 tion to some of the sciences, which do not often admit of 
 direct application to practice. It is, that all knowledge 
 tends to enlarge, enlighten and liberalize the mind — to 
 strengthen its powers by exercise, and to prepare it better 
 for the reception of other useful information. Though 
 most people have probably some idea of this fact, it is 
 doubtful, whether it is in general distinctly understood 
 and justly appreciated. By the habitual exercise of the 
 faculties, by which we gain new ideas and connect them 
 together, the mind acquires a certain penetration, a refine- 
 ment of its power of perception. Its vision is rendered 
 more accurate, as well as enlarged in its sphere. It traces 
 more distinctly and exactly the outline of the image which 
 is presented to it. It comprehends more precisely what 
 was intended to be expressed, and receives the impression 
 intended to be made. As a person, accustomed to exam- 
 ining plans and engravings, is enabled, by observing a 
 plan diawn upon a smooth surface, to form a proper con- 
 ception of the body, it was intended to renresent — so the 
 
196 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 mind, by becoming familiarized to the connexion of lan- 
 guage with thought, improves the powers, by which it 
 learns from language the ideas, it represents. The dead 
 languages, though forming an essential part of a classical 
 education, have been generally looked upon as useless, or 
 nearly so, to persons engaged in more mechanical pursuits, 
 that is, to the great majority of mankind. In fact, it is of 
 very trivial importance to thern to know, what word in a 
 foreign or dead language corresponds to another word in 
 ours. Even the advantage of reading the valuable pro- 
 ductions of ancient and foreign languages, would be light- 
 ly estimated by those, who have not time to read as much 
 as they wish in their own. But it has been observed, that 
 during the developement of the faculties of the mind, 
 there is a certain period, in which the study of the dead 
 languages is remarkably adapted to their improvement. 
 There is such a variety in the idioms or peculiarities of 
 different languages, that the words in one do not corres- 
 pond, precisely in signification with those in another. It 
 must necessarily follow, that in order to be able to trans- 
 late an expression in a foreign language by a correspond- 
 ing one in our own, we must ascertain the meaning of the 
 words in both languages with more precision, than w T ould 
 otherwise be necessary. The connexion between lan- 
 guage, and the thoughts, which it is designed to repre- 
 sent, is thus studied with more exactness, than it would 
 otherwise be. The scholar is compelled to conquer the 
 natural indolence, which is apt to lead one to content 
 himself with reading or hearing words, without penetrat- 
 ing through them to the ideas, on which their whole value 
 depends. This is the more important, as nearly all our 
 knowledge is acquired by being communicated from oth- 
 
A DISCOURSE. 197 
 
 ers, and as language is the principal medium of this com- 
 munication. For frequent error and embarrassment aris- 
 es from a want of perspicuity in the language of the writ- 
 er, or of acuteness in the perceptions of the reader. As 
 objects appear dim and indistinct, or deformed and dis- 
 torted, when the medium, through which they are view- 
 ed, is not perfectly or uniformly transparent, so ideas will 
 not be correctly understood, when the language through 
 w r hich they are conveyed, is obscure. It is not intended 
 here to advocate the propriety of making the dead lan- 
 guages a part of common education, since much time 
 would be required for this purpose, and since there are 
 other studies, which might perhaps combine the advanta- 
 ges of equal general utility, of easier attainment, and of 
 more frequent and direct application to the common con- 
 cerns of life. It is only intended to illustrate the proposi- 
 tion above laid down, that the various branches of learning 
 have other and important advantages, beside those, which 
 arise immediately from a knowledge of the facts, which 
 they teach. 
 
 In pointing out the encouragement to literary pursuits, 
 which is afforded to those, whose employments are more 
 mechanical than literary, we should not forget to notice, 
 that this class of people form the great majority of man- 
 kind. For their use, all arts and sciences are chiefly in- 
 tended. To them it belongs to carry into operation in ac- 
 tual practice those principles, which are the fruit of the 
 speculations of literary men. " That science" says Camp- 
 bell, " is of little value, which has not given rise to some 
 useful art." Men of learning too often confine themselves 
 to the discovery of truth, leaving it to others to apply it to 
 useful purposes. They are too busily engaged in specu- 
 17* 
 
198 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 iation, to have any opportunity themselves to make the 
 proper application of the truths, they bring to light. Such, 
 on the other hand, as are engaged in active business, fre- 
 quently think, that they cannot find leisure for attending 
 to those principles of science, which would be useful 
 guides to them. Here is then a line of separation drawn, 
 partly dividing mankind into two great classes — those, 
 who think, and those, who act. Now, that a man may 
 best answer the purposes of his existence, he should com- 
 bine in himself the characteristics of both these classes- 
 thought and action. This belongs especially to those, who 
 are engaged in active employments. For, from their occu- 
 pations, their opportunities are greater for making princi- 
 ples subservient to practice, and they are better able to do 
 it. It is one thing to be endowed with the learning and 
 penetration of the philosopher for the discovery of general 
 truths — it is quite another thing to be endowed with that 
 sagacity and readiness, which is necessary, to apply them, 
 as it were, in detail to the particular circumstances, in 
 which we are placed. The accomplishment of this last 
 purpose, the ultimate end, for which all discoveries are 
 designed, belongs more to the plainness of common sense, 
 than to the loftiness of philosophy. Pursuits strictly scien- 
 tific are, in fact, the very reverse of this. The man of 
 study, from the combination of numberless facts, forms 
 general doctrines — the man of practice applies general 
 doctrines in the performance of particular actions. If 
 then, these two characters act independently of each oth- 
 er (and they must do so, unless the same person unites 
 both in himself) the intentions of nature will be thwarted 
 in the human race, as much as they would in the individu- 
 al man, if the mind, on the one hand, pursued its reflec- 
 
A DISCOURSE. 199 
 
 tions, without stooping to govern the actions of the body, 
 and the body, on the other, continued its functions, with- 
 out being subjected to the control of the mind. He, who 
 is at once a man of reading and of business, supplies a link 
 to the chain otherwise disconnected. He seizes the valu- 
 able truth, which would otherwise have remained useless 
 and forgotten among the speculations of the scholar, and 
 bringing it down from the lofty track of philosophical in- 
 quiry to the humble walks of daily life, makes it subservi- 
 ent to the happiness of mankind. To whom can this 
 character more peculiarly belong, than to a member of a 
 community like this, who makes a proper improvement of 
 the means that are put into his hands to acquire knowl- 
 edge ? 
 
 The necessity, in a political point of view, of an en- 
 lightened state of the public mind among the American 
 people, while it is too obvious to require particular discuss- 
 ion, is too important a topic to be passed over without re- 
 mark. Upon the enlightened views of the people, the 
 prosperity, nay, the very existence of our nation de- 
 pends. A republic, whose citizens are not educated, 
 cannot long exist. The people of such a nation 
 have no mind of their own. They are driven about at 
 pleasure by the violence of factious politicians, like the 
 weeds, that are tossed by the surf on the shore, the sport 
 of waves and winds. But an educated people have more 
 constancy, more permanency of character and opinion. 
 With their eye steadily fixed on the great objects of their 
 national existence, they move only at the bidding of their 
 own reason, regardless alike of the threats of foreign foes 
 from abroad, or the mad ravings of political partizans at 
 home. A nation formed of such imperishable materials, 
 
200 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 stands unharmed bv the revolutions, which convulse the 
 world, like the rock, that has braved for ages the storms of 
 the ocean. Winds may roar — waves may dash — tempests 
 may howl around it. But " amidst the war of elements," 
 it stands, unmoved and unshaken, where it was fixed by 
 the hand of the Almighty. 
 
 Let us now turn our attention to the means, which eve- 
 ry one can command, for adding to the stock of intellectu- 
 al treasure. For it were idle to declaim on the advanta- 
 ges of learning, if the means of gaining it were not with- 
 in our reach. Among the most valuable means, which 
 are presented in this country for the acquisition of knowl- 
 edge, are the opportunities for early instruction, which are 
 offered in every part of the country, and especially the 
 public schools, which are established in many sections of 
 it. The great value of these institutions consists in their 
 being accessible to all. They constitute a mighty engine, 
 by which the vast weight of public intellect is raised to 
 its proper level. Their value is not to be estimated solely 
 by the opportunities, they furnish, of obtaining such in- 
 struction, as shall prepare a person for the duties of the 
 farmer, the manufacturer or the merchant. They give to 
 the mind an impulse, which excites its aspirations after 
 higher degrees of improvement. They raise the man of 
 the humblest station to feel his importance and necessity 
 in society. It is these institutions, which produce the dif- 
 ference between the people of an enlightened republic, 
 and the rabble of a despotic monarchy. Let the torpor of 
 ignorance be added to the chains of tyranny, and the 
 mind slumbers, unconscious of its strength and almost of 
 its existence. Unless the goads of oppression become ab- 
 solutely intolerable, no effort of resistance is made. Man, 
 
A DISCOURSE. 201 
 
 contented to drudge and toil, like the brute creation — to 
 stand, or to move, at the will of his masters, forgets, that 
 he is made for any thing but a slave, and drags out a kind 
 of inanimate existence, saved from complete wretchedness 
 only by the dulness of his sensibility. The mere support 
 of life, and the gratification of the propensities, which he 
 has in common with the beasts of the field, constitute his 
 only fund of enjoyment. Nobler pleasures are unknown 
 to him. The elasticity, which should shake off his load, 
 and restore him to his proper rank, is destroyed. If the 
 flame, which slumbers within him, bursts out now and 
 then in its native splendour, its light is as transient, and 
 often as destructive as the blaze of the midnight tempest, 
 which shines for a moment with a terrible brightness, only 
 to be followed by a gloom still more terrible. But let the 
 mind of the people be enlightened, and they both see the 
 chains, which bind them, and feel their own energy ; like 
 Samson, who, when awakened from his slumbers, shook 
 from his limbs the cords, which bound them. The light 
 of knowledge, bursting on such a' people, is like a spark 
 introduced into a magazine, calling into action the fire, 
 which had hitherto lain dormant, and which now blazes 
 out, resistless and uncontrollable, while the force, with 
 which it is confined, only adds tenfold to the desolation, 
 which it spreads around it. Such was the origin of the 
 energy, with which our fathers rose and shook off their 
 chains, an energy, which all the might of a powerful na- 
 tion strove in vain to repress. Such, more particularly, is 
 the cause of the success, hitherto unprecedented, which 
 has attended our country in her rapid progress, ever since 
 she earned her independence. These facts may in part 
 teach us, with what views, we should contemplate the 
 
202 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 characters of those venerable men ? who first planted in 
 this wilderness the seeds, which have since sprung up 
 and become a mighty nation. Deeply impressed with the 
 importance of education, they began to make provision 
 for it, long before they had secured themselves against 
 the tomahawk and the scalping-knife. To them belongs 
 the credit of laying, in a system of public instruction, the 
 only sure foundation of a republican form of government. 
 
 The literary and political advantages of the people of 
 this country reciprocally increase each other. As the 
 enlightened state of the people secures the permanency 
 of the government, so the equality, which our form of 
 government occasions among the different classes of its 
 citizens, diffuses more widely the benefits of education. 
 Besides the public instructions, which are accessible alike 
 to the rich and to the poor, nearly all our fellow citizens 
 are enabled in some way, so far to obtain the means of 
 reading, as to furnish themselves with fruitful sources of 
 information, and ample funds for reflection. Without 
 attending particularly to this subject, we cannot be suffi- 
 ciently sensible of the privileges, we enjoy in this respect, 
 compared with those, who lived before the invention of 
 printing, when not a single copy of any book could be 
 procured, without the laborious task of transcribing it. 
 But we may descend to later periods, and still we find the 
 imperfections of the art, or the restraints of superstition 
 and tyranny presenting to the common people an insur- 
 mountable barrier to the attainment of knowledge. We 
 may see the first translators of the Bible, threatened with 
 martyrdom for presuming to publish the scripture in a 
 language intelligible to the laity. From this we may de- 
 scend to a later and happier period, when the civil and 
 
A DISCOURSE- 203 
 
 ecclesiastical powers were so liberal as to ordain, that a 
 copy of the scriptures should be placed in every church, 
 from which some person, learned enough for the purpose, 
 should read for the instruction of all such, as should choose 
 to attend, few if any other opportunities being afforded to 
 the common people of learning the words of inspiration. 
 From this last and more enlightened age, let us turn to 
 the present time, when among ourselves a person can 
 scarcely be found, who cannot supply himself with the 
 scriptures, and has not education enough to read them. 
 We may then form some faint idea of the value, which we 
 should attach to the privileges, with which we are favour- 
 ed. The expense of books, compared with what it once 
 was, is nothing. The facilities of reading, compared with 
 what they once were, are every thing. 
 
 The very universality, with which learning is diffused 
 among us, makes the advantages of each individual great- 
 er than they would be, were they limited to himself. 
 Those, who have properly used their privileges, will, by 
 frequently enjoying each other's society, be mutually in- 
 structed and improved. By a mutual interchange of sen- 
 timents, the useful knowledge, and the liberal and enlight- 
 ened views of one are necessarily imparted to others. 
 Most people have observed the greater proficiency, which 
 a scholar makes, when he has the company of others, en- 
 gaged in the same pursuits with himself, above what he 
 does, when prosecuting his task alone. A similar advan- 
 tage is enjoyed by every person among us, from the socie- 
 ty of people of cultivated minds. Even those, who, from 
 some accident, have neglected or been deprived of their 
 usual privileges, must acquire in some degree the charac- 
 ter and cultivation of those, by whom they are surround- 
 
204 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 ed, literature, like liquids, tending every where to come 
 to the same level. 
 
 But whatever privileges w r e may possess, we shall reap 
 little or no advantage from them, unless proper care is ta- 
 ken on our part, to turn them to the best account. It 
 will avail us little, that instructions are public, that books 
 are accessible, that the state of society is refined, if we 
 take no care to make these circumstances subservient to 
 our own interests. As the numerous and interesting class 
 of people, to whom these remarks chiefly relate, are, for 
 the most part, occupied with engagements very different 
 from literary pursuits, there is so much the more an impe- 
 rious necessity, that all their means of acquiring informa- 
 tion, should be used to the best possible advantage. Since 
 most of their time is otherwise disposed of, they should be 
 the more diligent in the regular improvement of those 
 hours, which they can devote to the cultivation of the 
 mind. There is no person, however " careful and cum- 
 bered about many things," who has not some leisure mo- 
 ments ; and there are few, who, for want of employment, 
 do not sometimes experience what the poet has so ex- 
 pressively called "the irksome restlessness of rest." In 
 seizing upon such moments, more perhaps than in any 
 other case, is felt the necessity of habits of study, previ- 
 ously formed. For without such habits, it is with ex- 
 treme difficulty, that we can suddenly abstract our 
 thoughts from the cares and anxieties of life, or from 
 those pursuits, which interest us most, and fix our atten- 
 tion at pleasure on any subject of reading or reflection. 
 When, however, the mind is disciplined, and we accus- 
 tom ourselves to appropriating every vacant hour to some 
 useful purpose, it will become more easy and pleasant to 
 
A DISCOURSE. 205 
 
 us 5 and far from appearing like an irksome task, will be 
 an agreeable recreation. Many, even during their en- 
 gagement in their accustomed occupations, have their 
 thinking faculties so little called upon, that while they con- 
 tinue such of their labour, as is merely mechanical, they 
 may at the same time be engaged in fixing in their memo- 
 ries facts, which they have recently learned, or in reflect- 
 ing, how the knowledge, they possess, may be made the 
 foundation of inferences, or subservient to practical pur- 
 poses. Indeed, it appears, that when we are engaged in 
 some bodily exercise, which requires little or no reflection, 
 the mind often fixes steadily and intensely on the subjects 
 of its contemplation with less difficulty, than when we are 
 entirely at rest. There is sympathy in these circumstan- 
 ces between the mind and the body, in consequence of 
 which the mind is less disposed to wander from one sub- 
 ject to another, and confines itself to one train of thought 
 as the body does to one succession of motions. 
 
 Where the time, that is devoted-to reading, is necessa- 
 rily limited, it is of some consequence, that the reading 
 should be select. It is not sufficient, that we are occa- 
 sionally seen poring over something, that has the name 
 and external appearance of a book. It should contain 
 reading, which may be of use, and not merely which may 
 be of use, but of the greatest use. There is a class, or 
 rather there are several classes of productions, included 
 under the general name of light reading, which, from 
 their power of pleasing the imagination and interesting 
 the feelings, are peculiarly fascinating, and from this 
 cause, are much read. Waving all consideration of their 
 general effects upon the mind and the morals, which would 
 be foreign to the subject of the present remarks, it ap- 
 18 
 
206 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 pears, that where they engross a large share of the atten- 
 tion, their effect on the improvement of the mind is on 
 the whole unfavorable, for two reasons. For first, though 
 they may not be entirely useless, they occupy much time, 
 which should be devoted to reading of more real and solid 
 utility — and again, when the mind has become fascinated 
 with the highly-wrought pictures, and intensely interesting 
 events of works of fiction, it becomes too fastidious to 
 have any relish for the plain and comparatively insipid re- 
 pasts of real knowledge, like the epicure, whose appetite 
 is so palled and whose taste so depraved, that he rejects 
 the plain and wholesome fare, which contains the most 
 nutriment, to feast on the high-seasoned luxuries, whose 
 only virtue consists in their gratifying the palate. Accus- 
 tomed to being forcibly drawn along by the interesting 
 character of the narrative, it loses the habit of fixing its 
 attention by its own voluntary exertions. This state of 
 the mind is an unfortunate one ; for we should habituate 
 ourselves always to taking an interest in all studies, which 
 may be productive of advantage. We should be ready to 
 travel in search for truth,through thorny paths and gloomy 
 ^forests, as well as among verdant vales and flowery 
 fields. It may be added, that as the portraitures of men 
 and manners, contained in works of fiction, are not always 
 faithfully drawn, the reader, unless previously conversant 
 with the ways of the world, may not only fail of being in- 
 structed, but may imbibe erroneous ideas. The celebrat- 
 ed fiction of Don Quixote is said to give a correct repre- 
 sentation of the species of insanity, in which these errone- 
 ous views frequently terminated in days of ancient chival- 
 ry. We should be far, however, from wholly condemning 
 this class of writings. Much useful instruction is convey- 
 
A DISCOURSE. 207 
 
 ed in many of them, and it has the advantage of being 
 clothed in so pleasing a dress, that it finds its way to the 
 minds of many, who would take no pains to search for it, 
 were they not captivated by the garb, in which it is pre- 
 sented to them. By this means, a taste for reading is pro- 
 duced, the understanding in some degree enlightened, the 
 taste, and perhaps the moral sense refined, in some, whose 
 indolence would have prevented them from seeking for 
 knowledge, were the pursuit less pleasing. 
 
 There are seasons, in which we are not engaged in the 
 duties of our occupations, but which are not entirely va- 
 cant, some part of which might profitably be appropriated 
 to reading and reflection. I refer to the time spent in 
 amusement. I know, there is such a thing as too great 
 severity in laying sentence of prohibition on amusements 
 of every kind. To censure indiscriminately all kinds of 
 innocent recreations, is to display but little knowledge of 
 the human system, which requires occasional relaxation 
 from the fatigues of business, and the intenseness of stu- 
 dy. But it should be recollected, especially among those, 
 whose occupations prevent them from enjoying the full 
 advantages of school education, and other opportunities 
 for instruction, that the time, which is devoted to amuse- 
 ment, is taken from pursuits of the most incalculable im- 
 portance. Under such circumstances, therefore, it would 
 seem proper, that all unnecessary and useless recreations 
 should be dispensed with. Many useful literary pursuits 
 deserve the name of recreation, and are fitted to unbend 
 the mind, as much as some of our most common amuse- 
 ments. A person might indeed expose himself to ridi- 
 cule, who should propose any kind of literary exercises, 
 as forming an essential part of the amusements of the so- 
 
208 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 cial circle.* It would be said to him, " People meet to- 
 gether on these occasions to throw aside for a time all the 
 fatigue of serious employments, and indulge themselves 
 in mirth and festivity. This is surely a very unseasona- 
 ble time to perplex them with the dry and tedious pursuits 
 of learning." But remove the influence, which fashion 
 has over our minds, and we should think it rather a sin- 
 gular kind of festivity to sit for hours together, watching 
 over and calculating upon the operations of chance. The 
 truth is, that any moderate exercise of the powers of the 
 mind is pleasant, and it is perhaps on this principle only, 
 that any rational pleasure can be derived from some of 
 our most common amusements. If then, we are willing 
 to devote the hours of recreation to any exercise of the 
 mind, where would be the impropriety of selecting such 
 exercises, as are profitable, as well as pleasant ? It is not 
 improbable, that if the potent influence of fashion were 
 only put in requisition to effect it, many literary pursuits 
 might become as pleasant and popular sources of amuse* 
 ment, and might be connected with as many interesting 
 --associations, as those, which now more commonly engross 
 our attention. Probably the most devoted gamester nev- 
 er felt or manifested more exultation, at his greatest victo- 
 ries at the card-table, than Archimedes, the Syracusan 
 once did, at discovering the solution of a mathematical 
 problem. 
 
 Where, however, thje common and popular amusements 
 are only moderately indulged in, they may not be subject 
 to serious objection, excepting as moderate is always lia- 
 ble to lead to intemperate indulgence. But where they 
 are carried so far as to lead into dissipation, where the 
 time in early life, which should be spent in laying the 
 
 * See note h 
 
A DISCOURSE. 209 
 
 foundation of a good education, is wasted in pursuits, 
 which are fatal to the health and the morals, such mis- 
 improvement is truly lamentable. It is not unfrequently the 
 case, that among people connected with manufacturing 
 establishments, the standard both of education and of 
 morals, is rather below the general level. One cause of 
 this may be, that the time, which should be devoted to 
 learning, is spent in amusement. As the opportunity of 
 this class of people for acquiring their education, is often 
 rather limited, it seems to be peculiarly important, that 
 whatever time they have at their disposal, should not be 
 too much wasted in amusement. For whatever time is 
 devoted to recreation, must be done at the expense of 
 their education ; and again, the more the mind is stored 
 with useful information, the less need is felt of resorting to 
 dissipation for enjoyment. He, who is accustomed to 
 reading and reflection, always carries about and within 
 himself an unfailing source of happiness, and is never un- 
 der the necessity of killing himself, for the sake of killing 
 time. 
 
 To maintain, that any one ought to give himself up to 
 study, to the neglect of the occupation, on which depends 
 his own support, and his usefulness to others, would ar- 
 gue an enthusiastic attachment to learning. But here, 
 as in other cases, we may err on either extreme, and be- 
 tween these extremes lies the truth. There are those, 
 whose attention, whose whole soul is so exclusively en- 
 grossed by their pecuniary affairs, that they pay little or 
 no attention to the cultivation of those powers, which 
 form the noblest and distinguishing characteristic of the 
 human species. It is improper for those, who have secur- 
 ed a competency in point of fortune, to suffer slight pecu- 
 18* 
 
210 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 niary considerations to be placed in competition with mat» 
 ters of such weighty moment. While then we would not 
 inculcate neglect of personal duties, for the purpose of 
 gaining time for study, it may not be amiss to remark, 
 that trifling expenditures of property, or of time, which 
 might otherwise have been spent in the accumulation of 
 wealth, will be amply recompensed, if any considerable 
 degree of intellectual improvement shall result from it. 
 
 The proper improvement of the opportunities afforded 
 by the public and other schools, belongs most immediate- 
 ly to the rising generation. But it is left in a great de- 
 gree with their elders to decide, whether these advanta^ 
 ges shall be properly realized and improved. For it is 
 those, that have passed the period of childhood, who have 
 the control over the manner, in which these institutions 
 are regulated. Furthermore, it is principally by means of 
 their elders, that the subjects of school education in the 
 tender years of childhood, are taught to set a just value on 
 the instructions, they receive, and to attend to them faith- 
 fully. It is a duty, therefore, devolving on every individu^ 
 ^al, who has any influence over the rising generation, to 
 second the efforts of instructors, by attempting to inspire 
 their pupils with a sense of the necessity of applying them- 
 selves earnestly and diligently. To parents in particular, 
 a conviction of the vast influence, which they can have 
 over their children in encouraging and stimulating them 
 to ardent and persevering exertions, ought to come home 
 with all its weight. They should recollect, that they can- 
 not rid themselves of their responsibility by leaving their 
 children to the care of their instructors. It is a common 
 observation, that most of the difficulties attending the 
 management of children at school, are to be imputed, in 
 
A DISCOURSE. 211 
 
 part, at least, to the fault of the parents. The impress- 
 ions, which are made at this early age on the understand- 
 ing and the moral character, are intimately connected. 
 If they are taught to look on instructions of one kind, as 
 important, the other will also appear in the same light. 
 The impressions will be deep and abiding. They will be 
 felt throughout their subsequent life. If they are partly 
 obliterated, and their unhappy subject surrendering him- 
 self to the impulse of his passions, is borne along upon 
 the torrent of dissipation, the recollection of those impress- 
 ions will often recal his imagination to the days of youthful 
 innocence, when they were made. He will compare the 
 unsullied pleasures of his early life with his present state 
 of wretchedness — wretchedness in reality, though con- 
 cealed under the feigned pleasure of riot and dissipation. 
 These reflections will often excite him to a vigorous and 
 successful effort to escape from the impending ruin, at a 
 moment, when it seems inevitable. 
 
 It is no less the duty of parents to provide suitable 
 means of instruction for their children, than to direct their 
 attention to such, as they are provided with. Public 
 schools must necessarily derive some imperfections from 
 the very circumstance, which constitutes their greatest 
 value — that of their being accessible to all. The value of 
 public schools is much diminished by the mixture in them 
 of scholars of every age and character, and by the frer 
 quent change of instructors. These institutions, though 
 on the whole of vast utility, are partially even injurious in 
 their operation. For many, who, if these institutions had 
 not existed, would have received a better education than 
 can there be obtained, are now limited to the scantv adr 
 vantages, which they afford — advantages, great indeed, 
 
212 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 when compared with no education at all, but trifling com- 
 pared with the progress, which might be made under 
 proper superintendence. The acquirements obtained in 
 these schools, are necessarily for the most part superficial, 
 and the reason and understanding are not so disciplined, 
 and strengthened, as they should be. The education, 
 excepting the primary branches of reading and waiting, 
 is in a great measure confined to taxing the memory with 
 a mass of facts, generally ill understood and often imper- 
 fectly retained. In most of our academies higher grades 
 of learning are taught, greater precision in the regula- 
 tions is maintained, and the efforts of the scholar, being 
 guided in the direction, become more effective. It is 
 therefore to be regretted, that the value of these semina- 
 ries of learning is not so justly estimated, as to occasion a 
 more general extension of their advantages to the rising 
 generation. 
 
 Let us notice in conclusion, that the formation of so- 
 cieties may be made a valuable instrument for promoting 
 the great object of mental improvement. " Moral, politi- 
 eal.and intellectual improvement' 5 says President Adams, 
 in one of his messages to the general legislature, " are 
 duties, assigned by the author of our existence no less to 
 social, than to individual man/' Associations of a litera- 
 ry and scientific character are beneficial, not merely by 
 giving rise to researches, which lead to new discoveries, 
 but by the information, which their members may mutual- 
 ly give and receive, by keeping alive their taste for learn- 
 ing, and maintaining fresh and ready for use the knowl- 
 edge, they may possess. If the ideas gained by reading, 
 pass from the mind, as soon as we lay by the books, from 
 which we imbibe them ; and if they are not occasionally 
 
A DISCOURSE. 213 
 
 recalled, they are comparatively of little value. They are 
 like the articles, thrown confusedly into a waste-room, 
 which might be required in various emergencies. But 
 when needed, they may be forgotten — or if thought of, it 
 may be impossible to find them among a confused mass of 
 rubbish — or if found, they may have become decayed and 
 unfit for use. When, on the other hand, our thoughts are 
 frequently made the subjects of discussion, and our atten- 
 tion is thus directed to them, they lie more within our 
 reach, and are more readily suggested, when they are 
 wanted ; like the tools of the artist, which being always 
 properly arranged, and often used, are always found in 
 their proper places, and fit for use, whenever there is oc- 
 casion for them. 
 
 If these views, Gentlemen, are correct, we need go no 
 further to prove, that this society, while its members have 
 a proper understanding of the purposes, which it is intend- 
 ed to subserve, and are sufficiently active in promoting its 
 interests, may be made a useful instrument for the attain- 
 ment of the objects, which we have been considering. 
 From its situation, indeed, it cannot be made so effective 
 as similar associations in more populous places. But 
 where greater obstacles present, we have only to increase 
 our diligence, and we shall find them not to be insupera- 
 ble. From the increasing attention, which is manifested 
 on the part of its members to the concerns of the society, 
 there is reason to hope, that the intentions of its founders 
 will not be entirely frustrated. It is not, however, to be 
 expected, that without the most unwavering assiduity, we 
 can reap all the advantages, which the society promises, 
 It is here as in agriculture. The ground must be prepare 
 ed — the seed must be planted — the plant must be watch* 
 
214 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 ed and attended in its growth, before we can enjoy the 
 harvest. And here too, as in agriculture, if our efforts 
 are well directed, we shall find ourselves amply rewarded 
 for our labours. We know, that the intellectual and mor- 
 al improvement, after which we profess to aspire, is so 
 often the theme of empty and unmeaning declamation — 
 that extravagant professions are so often combined with 
 spiritless and ineffectual actions, that one might be 
 tempted to think the whole pursuit a farce, and the end, 
 cither altogether beyond our reach, or wholly unworthy 
 our care. Such, however, it is hoped, are not the feelings 
 of the members of this society. Where only sudden fits 
 of enthusiasm are felt, and only temporary exertions are 
 used, much tumult may be made, but little permanent 
 good is obtained. Let there on the other hand be a deep 
 and settled impression, that there are certain duties, 
 which the members of this society are bound to perform, 
 and that their performance will lead to the happiest results 
 — and let them be prompted, not to sudden and transient, 
 but to cool and persevering exertions, and the opportuni- 
 ties, which this society presents for improvement by read- 
 ing, writing and discussion, are not to be lightly estimat- 
 ed. That the members of this society do in some degree 
 feel themselves obligated to conform to the spirit of its 
 constitution, is evinced by the unanimity and harmony of 
 feeling, which presides over their debates — a harmony as 
 complete as is compatible with free inquiry. 
 
 In thus identifying the annual meeting of this society 
 with the birth-day of one, venerated by every American, 
 we are bound to recollect, that it belongs to the present 
 age to continue in that brilliant career, on which he and 
 his contemporary heroes commenced ; to fulfil the duties, 
 
A DISCOURSE. 215 
 
 which he so earnestly and repeatedly urged upon us. 
 The influence, which the conduct of this society, or of 
 its individual members, may have upon the interests of so 
 mighty a nation as ours, may perhaps appear unimportant. 
 But if every part of this mighty whole should adopt such 
 views, and act conformably to them, the consequences to 
 the nation must be alarming — they must be fatal. The 
 events of our revolution were guided principally by a few 
 daring and superior spirits, which, concentrating in them- 
 selves all the energies of the nation, rushed onward to the 
 object of their pursuit with a force and rapidity, which 
 filled the beholders with astonishment. The nation is 
 still going on in the same course. But as that course is 
 not impeded, as the movements are more equally divided 
 among the whole nation, the progress, we are making, 
 becomes less evident. The torrent, when confined in a 
 narrow channel, rushing and foaming along over rocks 
 and precipices, threatens destruction to every thing, that 
 opposes it ; but when it is expanded below into the wide 
 and calm surface of the lake, the eye does not discern it 
 to be still moving in the same direction. Yet it is still 
 flowing toward the ocean ; and though any one part of it 
 is easily interrupted, the weight of the whole is still urged 
 forward by the same mighty impulse, as where it exhibited 
 its power in the terrifying din of the cataract. 
 
 We live at a time, when the events, that are taking 
 place around us, bear more resemblance to the high col- 
 ouring of romance, than to the sober occurrences of real 
 life. " Nations, that sat in darkness, have seen the great 
 light,' ' which burst upon them from the American revolu- 
 tion, and with a noble emulation, are urging forward in 
 the same career of liberty and of glory. Our own land, 
 
A 
 
 H6 A DISCOURSE. 
 
 through the whole course of its separate existence, has 
 been distinguished by peculiar and unexampled success. 
 We can but own, that the hand of Heaven is seen in the 
 prompt and rich reward, which has repaid the toils and 
 struggles and sufferings of our fathers. Yet, as if these 
 were not sufficiently marked evidences of divine interfer- 
 ence, that same Providence, which can alike manifest it- 
 self by miraculous interposition, or through the common 
 succession of cause and effect, has by the wonderful event, 
 which is still fresh in the recollection of all, set the seal 
 of its favour and approbation upon us, in a maimer calcula- 
 ted to excite at once our awe and our admiration. The 
 day, hailed by the acclamations of millions, as completing 
 half a century since the first declaration of our indepen- 
 dence, passed from time to eternity, bearing on its wings 
 two of the coadjutors and successors of Washington, at- 
 tended by the unanimous benedictions of a nation, which 
 held them in veneration. It would be out of place, here to 
 amplify on the occurrence of numerous and remarkable 
 circumstances, which distinguished the lives and deaths 
 of these men. But let us imagine with what emotions 
 ryture ages will look upon the narrative, when it is trans- 
 mitted to them, consecrated by the veneration, which an- 
 tiquity will give it. The most unquestionable authority 
 of history will scarcely be able to silence the doubts of 
 the sceptical. Let us, however, look on this event, not 
 only for the air of mystery and romance, which will sur- 
 round it in the view of future generations, but for the 
 manner, in which it will lead them to look upon ourselves. 
 Let us see them inquiring, whether the people, before 
 whose eyes these occurrences transpired, were led by 
 them to think seriously on the duties, which devolved on 
 
A DISCOURSE. 217 
 
 them from the high and responsible stations, which they 
 held in their relations to other nations, and to succeeding 
 ages. Reflections like these should sink deep into the 
 heart of every one. The impressions, they make, should 
 be deep and lasting. They will then stamp upon the pres- 
 ent generation a character worthy of the extraordinary 
 events, which have preceded, and which are attending it 
 — a character, worthy of an age, which succeeds immedi- 
 ately to the eventful era, which numbers among its wor- 
 thies the names of Adams, of Jefferson and of Washing- 
 ton. 
 
 19 
 
218 
 
 A DISSERTATION 
 
 A DISSERTATION ON ANIMAL HEAT, 
 
 READ BEFORE THE EOYLSTON MEDICAL SOCIETY, DECEM- 
 BER 12, 1823.* 
 
 The operation of Heat, like that of other chemical 
 agents, is peculiarly modified by the living body. A mass 
 of inorganic matter, when placed in a medium either 
 warmer or colder than itself, has its temperature increas- 
 ed or diminished, till it is precisely the same with that of 
 the medium. But in animals, and in some degree, in all 
 organic bodies, while in the regular exercise of their 
 proper functions, the temperature does not so much vary 
 with that of the substances, which surround them. This 
 is particularly true of the more perfect animals. It is 
 maintained by some, that both heat and cold are resisted 
 by the same power in animals ; and this power is denomi- 
 nated by Sir Gilbert Blane, " The Temperative Princi- 
 ple. " Whatever may be the cause, two opposite effects 
 are produced; and in stating facts, and examining opin- 
 ions, with relation to these, it will be more convenient to 
 speak of them separately. The standard temperature of 
 the human body is usually stated to be about 98°. That 
 of many animals is somewhat greater, and that of birds, 
 is from five to ten degrees higher. This temperature in 
 man and the more perfect animals, is not materially vari- 
 ed by any degree of heat or cold, not sufficient to destroy 
 life. 
 
 The production of Animal Heat is styled by Mr Brande, 
 (perhaps correctly) " the most recondite of all the func- 
 tions." It is one, which, in the variations of temperature, 
 to which we are exposed, is obviously of essential impor- 
 tance to our preservation. For we are continually expos- 
 * Written at the age of 17. 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 
 
 219 
 
 ed to variations of temperature, which, if not in some way 
 resisted, would quickly destroy that delicate organization, 
 on which the life of our bodies depends. For how could 
 we survive the most moderate of our winters, if the vital 
 fluid were exposed to the same degree of cold, which it 
 must sustain, if it received no supply of heat ? The same 
 Intelligence, which has so wisely ordained all the func- 
 tions and operations of our bodies, has therefore provided, 
 that they should be continually supplied with a quantity 
 of heat, independently of that, which enters them in a 
 sensible form from surrounding bodies. 
 
 The origin of Animal Heat is not understood — at least 
 not universally agreed on. If we consider caloric as a 
 material substance, we must look for some supply exter- 
 nal to the body. For the same heat does not always ex- 
 ist in the body, since it is continually radiating heat into 
 the medium, in which it is placed. It would therefore 
 soon exhaust itself, unless it received a supply from with- 
 out. As the function of respiration .has been thought by 
 many to furnish this supply, it may not be entirely out of 
 place, here to give some short account of this process. 
 
 The object of this function is, by bringing the venous 
 blood under the influence of the air in the capillary sys- 
 tem of the lungs, to restore to it the Arterial character , 
 which it had lost in the course of the circulation, and thus 
 to render it the proper stimulus of the parts, to which it is 
 to be conveyed. After having been subjected to this 
 process, the blood from a dark colour becomes florid, ac- 
 quires the property of coagulating more readily, and on 
 coagulation, separates a smaller proportion of serum. 
 The air also, by means of which these changes are induc- 
 ed, has its chemical composition altered. But the corres- 
 
220 A DISSERTATION 
 
 ponding changes, produced in the composition of the 
 blood are so slight, that the most delicate analysis cannot 
 detect them. The most important change in the air is 
 the disappearance of a portion of its oxygen, and the 
 presence of an equal bulk of carbonic acid. Other chan- 
 ges have been supposed to take place ; which have not, 
 however, been so distinctly ascertained. In the experi- 
 ments of Messrs. Allen and Pepys, it was found that 
 where respiration was carried on in the same air, till it 
 became very laborious, a quantity of oxygen disappeared, 
 more than entered into the formation of the carbonic acid 
 produced. This they supposed to have been absorbed. 
 But in natural respiration, the carbonic acid formed, con- 
 tained a quantity of oxygen equal to that, which had dis- 
 appeared. In some of these experiments, particularly the 
 second series, it appeared, that azote was added to the 
 air taken into tbe^ungs. 
 
 On this circumstance, different experiments disagree, 
 and some have even thought that there is an absorption 
 of part of the azote of the inspired air into the system. 
 Sir H. Davy found in his experiments, that in air which 
 had been respired once there was a diminution of 1.4 in 
 an hundred parts, owing to the disappearance of azote. It 
 has been found that a mixture of oxygen and hydrogen 
 has been respired without any inconvenience. Azote 
 does not therefore seem to be, in ordinary circumstances, 
 of essential importance. The air expelled from the lungs 
 is saturated with aqueous vapour. That this is partly de- 
 rived from the blood, that is passing from the pulmonary 
 arteries to the pulmonary veins, is probable from the cir- 
 cumstance, that the blood of the pulmonary veins contains 
 less serum than the blood of the pulmonary arteries. Mr. 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 221 
 
 Brande thinks, that " it is secreted by the exhalations, dis- 
 tributed over the surface of the air-vessels of the lungs, 
 and can scarcely be considered as a product of Respira- 
 tion." It was believed by Lavoisier, that hydrogen was 
 thrown off from the lungs, which united with the oxygen 
 of the atmosphere, and formed the aqueous vapour con- 
 tained in the respired air. But if we can depend on the 
 experiments of Messrs. Allen and Pepys no more oxygen 
 generally disappears, than what enters into the constitu- 
 tion of the carbonic acid formed, and none therefore 
 unites with the hydrogen of the blood. The most impor- 
 tant alterations in the chemical characters of the air, and 
 the sensible properties of the blood, take place, when the 
 blood is exposed to the air out of the body. The blood if 
 dark, becomes florid, and in the air, oxygen disappears 
 and carbonic acid is produced. This takes place though 
 a membranous substance, as a bladder, be interposed be- 
 tween the blood and the air. It cannot be doubted, then, 
 that the carbon of the carbonic acid, found in air which 
 has been respired, is derived from the blood. A consid- 
 erable quantity of carbon is in this way emitted from the 
 lungs in twenty-four hours. According to the estimate of 
 Sir H. Davy, nearly ten and a half ounces of carbon are 
 given off in twenty-four hours. According to the eleventh 
 experiment of Messrs. Allen and Pepys, over eleven oun- 
 ces are given off in that time ; and air which has been re- 
 spired once, contains according to the same experiment 
 8.5 per cent of carbonic acid. This estimate has been 
 thought too large, and Mr. Brande thinks that the air ex- 
 pired may be regarded as containing on an average 3.5 
 per cent of carbonic acid, which, if the air were respired 
 as fast as in the experiment just mentioned, would give a 
 19* 
 
222 A DISSERTATION 
 
 little over four ounces of carbon emitted from the blood in 
 twenty four hours. A greater quantity of carbon must 
 therefore exist in venous, than in arterial blood. This 
 has been thought by some to be because the blood, in giv- 
 ing off the materials of secretion, excretion, exhalation 
 and nutrition, gave off a smaller proportion of carbon, 
 than of its other elements, and that this last substance 
 must consequently predominate in the blood returned by 
 the veins. It is to be recollected, however, that most of 
 the solids and fluids separated from the blood, resemble 
 very nearly or exactly in their composition the albuminous 
 contents of the blood. If there be any difference, it must 
 be so slight, that the quantity of carbon remaining to be 
 thrown out by the lungs must bear but a very minute pro- 
 portion to that taken into the body. But so far is this 
 from being the case, that it is objected by Dr. Gorham to 
 the very accurate experiments of Messrs. Allen and Pepys, 
 that according to them, a greater quantity of carbon is 
 thrown off from the lungs in twenty-four hours, than what 
 is probably taken into the system in that time. Dr. 
 "Crawford maintained, that the carbon expelled from the 
 lungs, was what had formed part of the body, and having 
 remained as long as it was fit for the purpose, was again 
 taken into the circulation, and thrown out of the system. 
 If this hypothesis were true, we might anticipate, that the 
 quantity of carbon, thrown from the lungs would be near- 
 ly equal to that taken into the system. It has been object- 
 ed to this opinion, that all the veins contain a surplus of 
 carbon, whereas the effete materials of nutrition do not 
 enter the venous system, till the blood has nearly arrived 
 at the heart. This objection is grounded on the doctrine, 
 that the Lymphatics are the only absorbing vessels. Bu 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 223 
 
 the experiments of Magendie shew that the veins either 
 absorb, or else communicate with the absorbing vessels 
 near their origin. Hence the composition of the blood in 
 the veins may be affected by the substances absorbed. It 
 is plain, however, that the substances absorbed must have 
 an exit from some part of the body. A quantity of car- 
 bon must every day be thrown out of the body, equal to 
 what is taken in. It would perhaps be difficult to ac- 
 count for the escape of such a quantity of carbon, if none 
 of it were supposed to pass orT from the lungs. Arterial 
 blood, when excluded from the contact of the air, or ex- 
 posed to gases, which contain no uncombined oxygen, as- 
 sumes the colour of venous blood. Hence it has been in- 
 ferred, that the change from arterial to venous blood was 
 owing to some alteration in the arrangement of its ele- 
 ments. It was supposed, that oxygen was absorbed by 
 the blood in the lungs, and there being only losely combin- 
 ed, gave it its florid colour ; that in the course of the cir- 
 culation, it entered into more intimate union with the hy- 
 drogen and carbon of the blood, producing the venous 
 colour ; and was finally discharged with the hydrogen and 
 carbon in the lungs, in the form of aqueous vapour and 
 carbonic acid. It is not, however, certain, that the change 
 of colour in arterial blood out of the body, is precisely 
 the same with what takes place in the body. Till this is 
 proved, we shall not be under the necessity of believing, 
 that a substance is taken into the blood, for no purpose, 
 but to be again discharged. 
 
 In the experiments of Lavoisier and Seguin it was 
 found, that a considerably greater quantity of oxygen was 
 consumed by a person in a given time, soon after he had 
 taken food, than when his stomach was empty, other cir- 
 
224 A DISSERTATION 
 
 Gumstanoes being the same. More oxygen was also 
 found to be consumed, while the body was in violent ex- 
 ercise, than when it was at rest, and more was consumed 
 at the temperature of 57 degrees, than at that of 82. In 
 the twelfth experiment of Messrs. Allen and Pepys, by 
 respiring a greater quantity of air than usual, a greater 
 quantity of carbonic acid was formed in five and a half 
 minutes, than when a somewhat less quantity of air was 
 respired in ten minutes. These men also found, that a 
 greater quantity of carbonic acid was produced from the 
 respiration of pure oxygen gas than from atmospheric 
 air. Hence they conclude, that one use of azote is to 
 regulate the quantity of oxygen, which shall be taken up 
 in the act of respiration. 
 
 If the heat of animals is derived from any external 
 source, I know of no one so well calculated for 
 this effect as the air received into the lungs. This exists 
 in the form, in which it contains the greatest quantity of 
 latent heat. Fresh portions of it are continually received 
 into the body. It acts on every part of the blood. It is 
 continually combining with one of the elements of the 
 blood in such a manner, that we should by no means be 
 surprised to find a considerable quantity of caloric evolv- 
 ed. Those animals in whom the function of respiration 
 is most perfectly carried on, have the highest tempera- 
 ture. It may be added, that heat is evolved in other 
 processes, in which carbonic acid is formed in a similar 
 manner ; such as the germination of seeds and vegetation 
 of plants, in both of which Mr. Ellis has demonstrated, 
 that carbonic acid is formed by the union of carbon with 
 atmospheric oxygen. But in investigating the causes of 
 animal heat, some have too much lost sight of the influ- 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 225 
 
 ence, which vitality has on this function. The ingenious 
 theory of Dr. Crawford is founded on the relative capaci- 
 ties of arterial and venous blood for heat. He supposed 
 the capacity of venous blood to be to that of arterial blood 
 as ten to eleven and a half. From his comparison of the 
 capacities of carbon, oxygen gas, and carbonic acid gas, 
 the oxygen, during its conversion into carbonic acid, 
 gives out 4653 degrees of heat. Part of this he believes 
 to enter into the latent form in the aqueous vapour, which 
 is exhaled from the lungs, and part to be absorbed by the 
 arterial blood, in consequence of its increased capacity. 
 The arterial blood in its change into venous blood, of 
 course gives out the caloric, which it had absorbed in the 
 lungs. Dr. Davy found arterial blood to have a less ca- 
 pacity than venous, and Berzelius could find no difference 
 between them. But what can we know from experiments 
 made out of the body, of the capacity of the blood circu- 
 lating in the vessels ? Is it philosophical, by an examina- 
 tion of the blood, when removed from all its connections 
 with the living body, to limit the powers, which it possess- 
 es, when it* the body an<5 entrusted with one of its most 
 important functions 1 The peculiar influence of life 
 seems indeed to be as necessary to the production of ani- 
 mal heat as to the formation of the animal solids. Nei- 
 ther does it seem to be more correct to take the usual ca- 
 pacity of carbon as the standard of its capacity, when it 
 forms a part of the blood. If it be admitted, that the reg- 
 ular heat of the body is supplied by the respired air, it 
 will still, I think, be impossible to calculate from chemi- 
 cal experiment, in what manner, or in what quantity, ca- 
 loric is separated from the oxygen. All that we can say 
 is, that the blood has the power to absorb, or else merely 
 
226 A DISSERTATION 
 
 to separate from the air a quantity of caloric, sufficient 
 for the wants of the system. It may be absorbed by the 
 blood in the lungs, and again given out in the general ca- 
 pillary system, or it may enter into the blood in a sensible 
 form, and thus be distributed throughout the body. It 
 appears that the sensible heat of the blood is increased in 
 the lungs, for it is stated by Richerand, that the blood of 
 the pulmonary vein is two degrees, Reaumur, warmer 
 than that of the pulmonary artery. This fact is a strong 
 evidence, that respiration is in some way connected with 
 the supply of animal heat. It has been thought by some- 
 that if animal heat were owing to the free caloric, which 
 the blood receives in the lungs, these organs must be con- 
 siderably warmer than the rest of the body. This might 
 perhaps be the case, but before we consider it as proved, 
 we should recollect, that the blood is but a short time in 
 passing from the heart to the capillaries, that in its course 
 it is in vessels, which lie deep and remote from the influ- 
 ence of the air, and surrounded by parts of the same tem- 
 perature with themselves ; and that consequently, the 
 blood will not, in passing to the Capillaries, cool as much 
 ---as we should at first expect. Besides, those parts, which 
 are most remote from the heart and most exposed to the 
 air, do actually cool much easier than others. The ex- 
 periments of Mr. Brodie seem to prove, that animal heat 
 is not connected with the effects produced on the blood in 
 respiration. He kept up artificial respiration in animals, 
 which had been decapitated, and remarked, that though 
 the circulation continued, and the usual changes took 
 place in the blood in both the capillary systems, yet the 
 animal, in which artificial respiration was kept up, cooled 
 faster than an animal, which was killed at the same time, 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 227 
 
 and that the lungs cooled faster than the rest of the body. 
 Both these circumstances were thought to be owing to 
 the influx of cold air into the lungs. Mr. Brodie's exper- 
 iments, however, have been repeated in this country with 
 very different, and even opposite results. In one of these 
 experiments, as repeated here, after artificial respiration 
 had been kept up an hour and twenty minutes, the lungs 
 of the animal, notwithstanding the continual influx of air 
 twenty degrees below their natural temperature, were one 
 degree warmer than the abdomen, which was also two 
 &, a half degrees warmer than the abdomen of another an- 
 imal in precisely the same circumstances, except the want 
 of artificial respiration. The experiments of Legallois 
 are said to agree with these last in their results. In all 
 the experiments of the kind, that I have seen mentioned, 
 where artificial respiration was kept up, the temperature 
 generally sunk, even while the pulsations of the heart 
 were as frequent, and the changes in the blood apparently 
 as complete as usual. Hence the supply of animal heat, 
 if it has its source in the lujigs, does not appear to depend 
 on chemical action, since it is diminished, when the influ- 
 ence of the brain is removed, which was always done in 
 these experiments. For though it may not depend di- 
 rectly on the influence of the brain, yet as the functions 
 cannot be regularly carried on, while one of the most im- 
 portant organs of the body is lost, the destruction of the 
 influence of the brain, though its action on the respirato- 
 ry muscles was artificially supplied, might have been ex- 
 pected to produce great derangement in all the important 
 functions of the body. I do not know that it has ever 
 been determined, whether any caloric is given out, when 
 venous blood becomes florid on exposure to the air out of 
 
228 A DISSERTATION 
 
 the body. If the respired air be the source of animal 
 heat, its production is influenced by the powers peculiar 
 to the living body, and is not exclusively under the con- 
 trol of chemical action. This is proved by the remarka- 
 ble fact, that an unusual quantity of oxygen may be con- 
 sumed in respiration, and yet the temperature of the body 
 be scarcely at all affected. In the experiments of Lavoi- 
 sier and Seguin, a man using violent exercise after tak- 
 ing food, consumed nearly three times as much oxygen, 
 in an hour, as he did when at rest, with the stomach emp- 
 ty. Yet we are told, that the temperature was scarcely 
 affected. In some of the experiments of Messrs. Allen 
 and Pepys, persons were made, either by respiring more 
 rapidly than they naturally did, or by respiring purer ox- 
 ygen, to consume considerably more than the usual quan- 
 tity of oxygen. In one of these experiments, the heat 
 under the tongue was 99 degrees. In another, in which 
 twice the usual quantity of oxygen was consumed, no no- 
 tice is taken of the temperature, though it must have at- 
 tracted their attention, if it had been proportional to the 
 oxygen, which disappeared. 
 
 \ It is observed by Sir Gilbert Blane, that " the heat 
 given out by oxygen, during its combination with carbon, 
 is quite inadequate to account for the quantity, necessary 
 for steadily maintaining, and equally distributing it 
 through the body." We have reason, in fact, to doubt, 
 whether the heat given out by the combustion often oun- 
 ces of carbon would be sufficient to maintain a mass of 
 matter as large as the human body, at the temperature of 
 98 degrees, for twenty-four hours. Hence it is not im- 
 probable, that the living body may separate from the at- 
 mosphere, a part of its latent caloric, independently of 
 any chemical process. 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 
 
 
 From the observations of Sir G. Blane on " the Tem- 
 perative Principle," it appears that he does not think the 
 air taken into the lungs the only source of animal heat. 
 " Though", says he "oxygen may contribute somewhat to 
 the generation of heat, its chief action is that of serving 
 as a stimulus to the living power in generating it." Sev- 
 eral of his observations are intended to prove, that the 
 heat of living animals is not derived from the respired air. 
 The first remark of this kind is, that " a degree of heat 
 above the external medium remains in torpid animals dur- 
 ing their hybernation, though they do not breathe." This 
 fact, it must be admitted, proves that there may exist in 
 the living animal a power of generating heat without the 
 aid of respiration ; and therefore, if we have no positive 
 evidence, that the uniform temperature of the more per- 
 fect animals is connected with respiration, we may have 
 reason to suspect, that this pow r er exists in them. But 
 does this fact with regard to hybernating animals prove, 
 that the heat of the more perfect animals is not derived 
 from the air, which they respire? The mode of existence 
 in hybernating animals is in some respects materially dif- 
 ferent from that of most others. There is especially a dif- 
 ference in this circumstance, that in most animals, respi- 
 ration is necessary to the preservation of life, whereas 
 these can live without it. Now no one would infer, that 
 because respiration is not necessary to the maintenance 
 of life in hybernating animals, it is not necessary to the 
 maintenance of life in man. Why then is the inference 
 more warrantable, that because respiration is not necessa- 
 ry to the production of heat in hybernating animals, it is 
 not necessary to this process in man ? 
 
 His next argument is drawn from the fact, that after 
 20 
 
m 
 
 £30 A DISSERTATION 
 
 certain sudden deaths, as from apoplexy and insolation, 
 "the temperature of the body is maintained, even above 
 the natural standard, to a period, beyond that, in which it 
 would be totally abstracted from the like mass of inani- 
 mate matter." If from these operations, which go on in 
 the dead body, any inferences are to be drawn with re- 
 gard to living animals, such inferences, I apprehend, 
 would militate strongly with the very position, which Sir 
 Gilbert Blane so strongly insists on, viz. that animal heat 
 is generated by a vital process. For if any operation is 
 carried on more actively in the dead body, than in the liv- 
 ing, how can we believe, that this operation is a vital 
 one? The only method, I see, of avoiding this difficulty, 
 is by supposing, that the heat given out in these cases, is 
 evolved by a process different from what takes place dur- 
 ing life. If this be admitted, these facts are by no means 
 inconsistent with the idea, that the heat of the living ani- 
 mal is dependent on respiration. These instances of 
 heat retained after death, are very singular and difficult 
 to be accounted for. They occur in death from various 
 causes. " Animal heat" says Bichat " is retained in 
 ost sudden deaths much longer than the term necessary 
 for dead bodies to lose that, which ceases to be given out 
 at the instant, that general life ceases." It is stated, that 
 in putrid fevers, the heat has been increased at the mo- 
 ment of death, that it even rose after death to 104 degrees. 
 Whether these circumstances are owing to the extrica- 
 tion of caloric, which, being retained in the latent state 
 in the blood of the living body, is given out, when vitality 
 ceases, or whether there is some more satisfactory mode 
 of explaining them, I do not know. But if they take place, 
 where the loss of vitality is most complete, as after death 
 
Otf ANIMAL HEAT. 231 
 
 from putrid fevers, I think they cannot be referred to the 
 same process, which generates heat during life. 
 
 Sir G. Blane's third argument is this. " If the heat of 
 the body," says he, " depended on respiration alone, any 
 one might by a voluntary effort of quick, deep and pro- 
 longed inspiration, increase the temperature of his body 
 at will." I think, however, this would not necessarily 
 follow, if the production of heat from the respired air is 
 regulated by a living power — any more than an enormous 
 quantity of food taken into the stomach would produce a 
 proportionally excessive formation and absorption of 
 chyle. 
 
 It is remarked by Dr. Bree, that if the bulb of a ther- 
 mometer be put into the mouth of an asthmatic at the ap- 
 proach of a fit, the temperature will be found lower than 
 in the intervals. It is believed by this writer, that the se- 
 rum effused into the Bronchiae in asthma, interferes with 
 the changes commonly produced in the blood. Can we 
 account for the diminution of temperature at the access- 
 ion of the fit more satisfactorily than by supposing, that 
 the effused serum, by preventing the influence of the air 
 on the blood, also prevents the production of a quantity 
 of heat sufficient to maintain the common temperature of 
 the body ? 
 
 If the respired air be the source of animal heat, the 
 general capillary system has some part in its distribution. 
 It is a fact familiar to every one, that in low temperatures , 
 the heat of the body is always greatest, where the capilla- 
 ry circulation is most vigorous. But does the blood in 
 the general capillary system merely give off the sensible 
 caloric, which it received in the lungs, or does it extricate 
 a quantity, which it before contained in the latent form ? 
 
232 A DISSERTATION 
 
 Inflamed parts generally have a sensation of heat, but do 
 iiot indicate to the thermometer a temperature above the 
 common standard. It is asserted by Thompson, that the 
 heat of an inflamed part never exceeds that of the heart. 
 Magendie, however, remarks, that " it has been observed 
 by persons worthy of belief, that in certain local diseases, 
 the temperature of the part diseased, becomes greater 
 than that of the blood taken from the left auricle by sev- 
 eral degrees." If this be correct, it would seem probable, 
 that the capillary circulation influences the production of 
 animal heat, otherwise than by merely transmitting it in a 
 sensible form from the lungs. In the patient in the hos- 
 pital, in whom the external Iliac artery was tied, the 
 limb, which was deprived of its blood, was in two days, 
 two degrees warmer than the other. It is said by Mr. 
 John Bell, that shortly after the operation for aneurism, 
 the heat rises many degrees above the standard heat of 
 the limb, and above the general heat of the system, to 
 which it belongs. If Mr. Bell's statement be correct, we 
 cannot easily avoid the conclusion, that the capillaries do 
 disengage at times a quantity of heat,separately from what 
 ^exists in them in a sensible form. In whatever manner the 
 general capillary system is subservient to the function, of 
 which we are treating, it is very certain, that it is in some 
 way or other subservient to it. We know, that when 
 any part of the body is exposed to a cold atmosphere, the 
 first effect is to excite the capillaries of the skin to more 
 vigorous action, by which means, if the cold be not in- 
 tense, its noxious effects are prevented. It is well known 
 also, that by keeping the body in active exercise, and 
 thus increasing the vigour of the circulation, the temper- 
 ature of the body is maintained in a colder atmosphere 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 233 
 
 than it could otherwise support. It is very probable, that 
 in this case, more heat may be produced in the lungs. 
 For since the function is under the control of a vital prin- 
 ciple, we should expect, that the heat would be furnished 
 in proportion to the wants of the system ; and if it is de- 
 rived from the air in the lungs, a more active circulation 
 in that part would better enable it to furnish the increas- 
 ed supply, which the system demands. This is not at all 
 inconsistent with the results of the experiments of Lavoi- 
 sier and Seguin, just now stated, in which the tempera- 
 ture was not increased by active exercise. For we are 
 not informed, that the temperature was lower, when the 
 exercise was used, than when the person was at rest. 
 There was, therefore, no call for an increased supply of 
 heat, and of consequence, the temperature of the body 
 was not raised by exercise. It is stated, that in one ex- 
 periment, a man in the temperature of 82 degrees, con- 
 sumed in an hour 1210 cubic inches of oxygen, and that 
 at the temperature of 57 degrees, other circumstances be- 
 ing the same as before, 1340 cubic inches of oxygen were 
 consumed. Yet here the temperature was scarcely affect- 
 ed. This, at first sight, might seem to shew, that the in- 
 creased activity of the pulmonary capillaries, evinced by 
 the consumption of a greater quantity of oxygen, did not 
 occasion an additional quantity of heat to be evolved, 
 since the temperature was not changed. But it is to be 
 recollected, that at the temperature of 57 degrees, a great- 
 er quantity of caloric will be necessary to maintain the 
 temperature of the body, than would be required at 82 
 degrees-. Hence the uniformity of temperature in the 
 two experiments demonstrates, that more heat was actual- 
 ly produced in the second experiment, where the greatest 
 20* 
 
^34 
 
 A DISSERTATION 
 
 quantity of oxygen was consumed. The result of this 
 experiment, then, is a confirmation of the conjecture, 
 that the vital power adapts the quantity of heat produced 
 to the wants of the system. Notwithstanding these re- 
 marks, part of the influence of active exercise in preserv- 
 ing the temperature of the body in a cold atmosphere, evi- 
 dently arises from the increased action in the capillaries of 
 the part exposed, by which the part is kept of the same 
 temperature with the rest of the body. As the skin cov- 
 ers the whole body, this organ must be the one principally 
 exposed to the influence of cold ; and hence the great 
 vascularity of this part, is perhaps partly intended for pre- 
 serving the heat of the animal body. By this vascularity, 
 and the great activity of its capillary vessels, it is better en- 
 abled to preserve its vital warmth, and thus to protect the 
 organs, which it covers, many of which, without its protec- 
 tion, would not be able to withstand any considerable de- 
 gree of cold. But as long as the skin retains its warmth, 
 they cannot be in any danger. For if you take a heated 
 body and place it in a tight vessel, whose walls could be in 
 any way kept of the same temperature with the heated 
 body, it is obvious, that as long as they were kept so, the 
 body could not cool, whatever might be the temperature 
 of the surrounding atmosphere, and though the cause,, 
 which heated the vessel, did not exert any immediate in- 
 fluence on the contained body. On the same principle,, 
 if the skin and the mucous membrane of the air-passages 
 be kept uniformly of the same temperature, the deep- 
 seated organs would also retain their heat, though they 
 received scarcely any by means of their own vitality. 
 Now the skin, by its vascuality, has a considerable pow- 
 er ofpre^rvmg its warmth, and though in parts, which 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 235 
 
 are much exposed, it frequently sinks below the standard 
 heat of the body, yet, as it continually receives fresh 
 quantities of blood, it derives its heat in a great measure 
 from that, and consequently does not take much from the 
 organs, which it covers. The large vessels, which con- 
 vey the blood, all lie very deep, and the blood must there- 
 fore arrive at the skin, without being deprived of either 
 its sensible, or its latent heat. Most of the internal parts, 
 however, have in some degree the power of preserving 
 their temperature, and therefore of assisting the skin, 
 when it is overcome by the intensity of cold, to which it 
 is subjected. 
 
 According to the experiments of some philosophers, 
 heat is disengaged from the blood during its coagulation. 
 This result was obtained by Fourcroy, Gordon, and the 
 writer of the article Blood in Rces' Cyclopaedia. Mr. 
 Hunter and Dr. Davy did not find any heat to be given 
 out by the coagulation of blood. If the coagulation of 
 blood does ever occasion the extrication of caloric, it 
 might be interesting to inquire whether the circumstance 
 is in any way connected with the production of heat in 
 the living body. The blood, when separated from the 
 body, has a power of preserving its temperature, some- 
 what similar to that, which the body itself has. In an ex- 
 periment of Dr. Caldwell of Philadelphia, blood was found 
 not to cool near as fast as other fluids of the same consis- 
 tence, and having sunk to 65 degrees, (the medium in 
 which it was placed being about 40) it remained station- 
 ary at that point, till it coagulated. 
 
 The power of the animal body, in retaining its temper- 
 ature, is not confined to the preservation of its vital heat, 
 when it is exposed to cold. It also resists to an astonish- 
 
236 A DISSERTATION 
 
 ing degree, and with almost no increased heat, a much 
 higher temperature than its own. In the tropical, and 
 even in the temperate climates, the atmosphere is frequent • 
 ly warmer than the body,and yet the body continues near- 
 ly the same. It was found, however, by Dr. John Davy, 
 that in latitude 12 degrees South, the temperature of 
 those on board the vessel he was in, was nearly 100 de- 
 grees, though while out of the tropic, it was not more than 
 98 degrees. The power of our bodies to resist high tem- 
 peratures was remarkably evinced in the celebrated ex- 
 periments of Dr. Fordyce, Sir Joseph Banks, and Sir 
 Charles Blagden. In some of these experiments, the body 
 was exposed to the temperature of 260 degrees, forty-eight 
 degrees above that of boiling water, without having its 
 temperature at all increased, though the velocity of the 
 pulse was in one instance more than doubled. Females 
 accustomed to attend an oven, have been found to bear 
 for ten minutes a degree of heat, equal to 280 degrees. 
 
 Dr. Crawford explained this power of resisting heat, 
 on chemical principles, somewhat similar to those, by 
 which he explained the generation of heat. He thought, 
 :hat a high temperature occasioned an increased aqueous 
 exhalation from the lungs, and that this, in evaporating, 
 required all the heat that was given out by the atmospher- 
 ic oxygen in respiration, thus preventing the absorption of 
 any caloric into the blood, and on the contrary, absorbing 
 heat from that fluid. He found in some of his experi- 
 ments, that Guinea-pigs produce in respiration more car- 
 bonic acid in a cold, than in a warm medium. This would 
 also tend to increase the quantity of heat, absorbed by the 
 aqueous vapour from the blood, at a high temperature, 
 since it could not then receive so large a supply from the 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 23? 
 
 fonhation of carbonic acid. He also found, that blood, 
 taken from the vein of a dog, kept for a sufficient time in 
 a warm medium, was nearly as florid and red as arterial 
 blood. This fact would lead to the conjecture, that un- 
 der these circumstances, no heat was given out from the 
 blood in the capillary circulation, where he supposed the 
 principal evolution of heat to take place. In explaining 
 the power of animals to resist heat, some have laid great 
 stress on the cutaneous exhalation. It has been thought 
 that the evaporation of this kept up a continual absorp- 
 tion, so that the temperature of the skin and consequently 
 of the parts beneath it must remain unchanged. If this 
 be correct, the aqueous exhalation from the lungs proba- 
 bly assists in producing the same effect. It is well 
 known, that a great degree of cold is produced by the for- 
 mation of vapour. A hemal tumour has been known to 
 be frozen by the application of ether. In the great heat 
 to which Dr. Fordyce and his associates were exposed, 
 above the boiling point of water, " pure water in an 
 earthen vessel, during an hour and an half, acquired only 
 a heat of 140 degrees, and afterwards continued stationa- 
 ry above an hour at a degree much below the boiling 
 point. But when its power of evaporating was checked 
 by dropping a small quantity of oil on its surface, it boil- 
 ed very briskly.'' Dr. Fordyce found, that he was much 
 better able to bear the heat of a dry atmosphere, than of 
 a moist one, and from this he infers, that the evaporation 
 from the living body, which takes place when the air is 
 dry, assists its living powers in producing cold. In one 
 of the lectures, an experiment was lately mentioned, in 
 which a dog, placed in water above his natural tempera- 
 ture, (I think at about 120 degrees) was so violently afi. 
 
238 A DISSERTATION 
 
 fected, that death was produced in a short time. But the 
 gentlemen, who performed the experiment just mention- 
 ed, " shut up a bitch in a heated room, when the ther- 
 mometer had risen to 220 degrees. In this situation she 
 was suffered to remain, without being immediately affect- 
 ed, for half an hour, and when she was brought again in- 
 to the cold air, appeared not to have received the least 
 injury." Is it not possible, that the great difference in 
 the results of these two experiments was owing to the cir- 
 cumstance that in the first, the animal being placed in 
 water, the evaporation from the the surface was prevented 
 from taking place, and the heat thus less vigorously resist- 
 ed ? But as in some cases, the production of heat cannot 
 depend on respiration, so in some cases, high tempera- 
 tures are resisted without the aid of evaporation from the 
 skin. In an experiment mentioned by Richerand, frogs 
 placed in water of a higher temperature than their bodies, 
 were not at the end of ten minutes so hot as the liquid, or 
 as pieces of flesh, put into it at the same time with them- 
 selves. Here there could have been no opportunity for 
 evaporation from the surface, and the heat therefore 
 could not have been resisted from this cause. This shews 
 that heat may be resisted by some other means than 
 evaporation from the skin. But as these animals are 
 placed in different situations from the more perfect ones, 
 different provisions were consequently necessary for 
 them. We cannot, therefore, from what is observed in 
 them, draw any certain conclusions on this subject, with 
 regard to the human species. 
 
 It is supposed by some, that there is no necessity of 
 calling in the assistance of evaporation, or any other 
 chemical operation, and that the vital powers are exclu- 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 239 
 
 sively concerned in the resistance to external heat — that 
 in fact, the living body is impermeable to heat derived from 
 external substances. We cannot determine a priori the 
 truth or falsehood of this conjecture. If there is any way 
 of testing its correctness, it must be by an examination of 
 facts. It may perhaps be considered more consistent with 
 the views at present entertained on other physiological sub- 
 jects, to suppose, that vitality alone is a sufficient guard 
 against the entrance of heat from without, than to rest our 
 protection on an action, in which chemical agencies are at 
 all concerned. Dr. Fordyce, in some of his experiments, 
 entered a hot room, the air of which was saturated with 
 moisture, and in a short time, the water ran down in 
 streams over his whole body. This he attributed to the 
 condensation of the vapours, and hence infers, that in 
 this case, there being no evaporation, but constantly a 
 condensation, no cold was generated but by the animal 
 powers. As I have not seen the original history of these 
 experiments, I know not on what circumstance he grounds 
 his opinion, that this quantity of water was owing to the 
 condensation of the vapours ; for, I apprehend, the idea 
 naturally suggested would be, that it was the perspiration, 
 which was prevented from evaporating by the saturation 
 of the air with moisture. Possibly he was led to the opin- 
 ion by the suddenness, with which his skin became thus 
 moist, as it took place in half a minute after he entered 
 a room of the temperature of 119 degrees. We should 
 hardly anticipate, that if the animal body could receive no 
 heat from surrounding bodies, it would have any ten- 
 dency to condense their vapours. There are some ob- 
 jections to the doctrine, that the body of living animals is 
 impervious to external heat, or that this, if it be fact, is 
 
240 A DISSERTATION 
 
 the sole cause of their retaining their proper temperature 
 in a hot atmosphere. The animal body cannot emit a 
 greater proportion of its caloric to a cold atmosphere, 
 than to a warm one. For, in a warm atmosphere, it gives 
 out its caloric, as fast as it is formed, otherwise, it would 
 accumulate. In a cold atmosphere, it can of course give 
 it out no faster, than it is formed. Why then should the 
 surface of the body be, as it actually is, cooled by expo- 
 sure to cold air. If the cold be not intense, I cannot 
 think, that the supply of animal heat is diminished. For 
 a degree of cold may be sufficient to diminish the warmth 
 of the exposed parts of the body, while it increases the 
 force of circulation, or at least does not depress it. Nov/ 
 it does not appear probable, that the production of animal 
 heat should be retarded in those very circumstances in 
 which it is especially necessary ,&, where the degree of cold 
 is not sufficient to depress the other functions. If then the 
 production of heat is no less, and its proportional radia- 
 tion no greater at low than at common temperatures, I 
 cannot explain why the external surface should be cooled 
 by the contact of cold air, unless by supposing, that the 
 animal body, like other matter, commonly receives caloric 
 from the medium, in which it is placed. But if it does 
 so, we can easily see, that unless the internal supply be 
 considerably greater, the external surface may be cooled 
 by a low temperature. 
 
 It is evident, that caloric can pass out of the body, and 
 this might be considered as an evidence, that it can enter 
 the body from without. For though we cannot say, that 
 it is impossible, that the body should be so constituted, as 
 to have the faculty of transmitting heat in one direction 
 and not in another, yet we may justly require some 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 241 
 
 live evidence, before we can give our assent to such a 
 proposition. I do not know that any evidence of it has 
 been offered, except that it forms a more satisfactory ex- 
 planation, than could otherwise be given, of the resistance, 
 which animal bodies make to high temperatures. But 
 there are circumstances, which render it at least doubt- 
 ful, whether it does form a satisfactory explanation of this 
 phenomenon. If the living body were impervious to heat, 
 and if its resistance to that agent were from this cause, 
 a heated body, coming in contact with ours, and not be- 
 ing able to communicate any of its caloric, would retain 
 its temperature. But this is not the case, as may be 
 proved by a number of facts. To recur again to the ex- 
 periments of Dr. Fordyce, and his associates, these gen- 
 tlemen found, that the thermometer, which by the tem- 
 perature of the room was raised much above the boiling 
 point of water, sunk to about 100 degrees, on being plac- 
 ed in contact with their bodies. The mercury of the 
 thermometer must then have parted with much of its ca- 
 loric. It did not indeed enter the body in a sensible 
 form, otherwise, it must have prevented the thermometer 
 from sinking so low. It must, however, have disappeared 
 in some way. If then we know, that heated substances, 
 when placed in contact with our bodies, have their tem- 
 perature reduced, though it were impossible to tell how 
 this is effected, yet the reduction removes the necessity of 
 resorting for an explanation to the conjecture that the 
 free caloric of external substances never enters the animal 
 body. It. was also found in the experiments of Dr. For- 
 dyce, that the temperature of the heated room was very 
 sensibly diminished by their remaining in it, and from 
 this same cause, the air of the room could not, while they 
 21 . 
 
242 A DISSERTATION 
 
 were in it, be raised to the temperature, which the appara- 
 tus was capable of producing. "Whenever they breathed 
 on the thermometer, the mercury sunk several degrees ; 
 every expiration afforded a pleasant cooling impression to 
 their nostrils, and their cold breath cooled their fingers." 
 The respired air, must therefore have lost some of its 
 sensible heat, while in their lungs. These facts seem to 
 warrant the inference, that the external heat was prevent- 
 ed from entering their bodies by some diverticulum, 
 which carried it another way, rather than by any direct 
 nower of resisting its influence. It is well known, that 
 we often take into the stomach food and drink, w T hich is 
 of a higher temperature than the body. We have a very 
 memorable instance of this in the hot thanksgiving pie of 
 illustrious memory, which made such a salutary impress- 
 ion on Count Rumford's mouth, and by a heat of argu- 
 ment, which he was unable to withstand, stimulated him 
 to the most interesting researches, and greatly promoted 
 the advancement of science. In these cases, where hot 
 substances are taken into the stomach, I know not, that 
 we have any thing to authorize the belief, that they retain 
 their heat, and yet it w ? ould not perhaps be easy to ac- 
 count for its disappearance. 
 
 If you take a small metallic body, as for example, a 
 piece of copper or silver coin, as hot as can conveniently 
 be borne, and include it between the palms of the hands, 
 in which situation it may be nearly or quite excluded 
 from the air, it will cool as soon, and even sooner, than 
 when placed in the open air at 60 or 70 degrees. In 
 this case, some of the heat appears to be communicated 
 to the hand, since that, if immediately applied to some 
 other part of the body, evidently feels warmer than the 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 243 
 
 common temperature of the body. Every one must have 
 observed, that on holding the hand near a fire or on a hot 
 body, its temperature might be so raised, that when ap- 
 plied to a sensible part, as the lips, it would give even a 
 painful sensation of heat. In general, the local applica- 
 tion of heat cannot be borne, so well, as when it is appli- 
 ed to the whole body by a hot atmosphere. This remark 
 is not limited to the action of solid bodies ; for a blast 
 from a pair of bellows, of the heated air, which Dr. For- 
 dyce and others bore with scarcely any inconvenience, 
 was not to be endured. This was supposed to be, because 
 the hot air from the bellows was kept continually in con- 
 tact with the body, while the air of the room being at rest 
 was cooled in the parts nearest their bodies. But if the 
 evaporation from the skin be considered as the source of 
 the cold generated, the effect of a blast of hot air may be 
 explained on another principle. It may be, that the local 
 action does not, like an action on the whole surface of 
 the body, increase the perspiration, and we thus lose the 
 principal defence against external heat, which therefore 
 penetrates the body and raises its temperature. 
 
 It is thought by some, that living bodies resist heat by 
 destroying it. If this expression be any other than figur- 
 ative — if it imply the annihilation of this agent, or the 
 destruction of its properties, the opinion is one, which it 
 will be difficult to admit, unless we suppose the opinions 
 of philosophers, with regard to the materiality of caloric, 
 to be incorrect. 
 
 Such are a few of the many and interesting facts in 
 
 relation to what is known of the faculty or faculties, by 
 
 I means of which, living animals sustain, without change of 
 
 temperature, the greatest vicissitudes of heat and cold, to 
 
244 A DISSERTATION 
 
 which we are commonly exposed. It must be acknowl- 
 edged, nor is it to be wondered at, that we yet lack much 
 of a satisfactory explanation of all the phenomena apper- 
 taining to this power. The functions of [living bodies 
 have in all cases a veil of obscurity cast over them, which 
 we in vain attempt to remove. When, therefore, to the 
 mystery which envelopes every thing relating to life, we 
 add the peculiarities of so subtle an agent as caloric — 
 when we find the inexplicable operations of the one, ex- 
 ercised on the invisible and intangible substance of the 
 other, we may look for phenomena, the explanation of 
 which is alike inaccessible to the ingenuity of theory and 
 the accuracy of experiment. Accordingly we shall find, 
 that if we attempt to be wise above what is written in the 
 book of nature, we shall learn but little from either experi- 
 ment or hypothesis, and that while one often leaves us 
 much to learn, the other will too often leave us much to 
 unlearn. Still, the facts that have been accumulated are 
 of great interest and considerable importance ; and there 
 is perhaps no way, in which facts will be more assiduous- 
 ly sought after or better arranged and remembered, than 
 by examining or supporting an hypothesis intended to 
 explain them. Though we fail in finding the cause, we 
 shall in this way learn much of the effect, like the sons, 
 who dug over their father's vineyard, and who, though 
 disappointed in not meeting with the money, which they 
 expected to find buried, were plentifully rewarded for 
 their labour by a rich burden of fruit. The power of an- 
 imals to generate and resist heat, is interesting in regard 
 to the facts we learn concerning it, and the intelligence 
 
ON ANIMAL HEAT. 
 
 24S 
 
 displayed in placing it in the living body. The facts we 
 may study — the design we may admire — but concerning 
 the cause, we can do little but conjecture. 
 
 S. B. PARRIS. 
 
 $1 
 
246 A DISSERTATION 
 
 A DISSERTATION ON SyMPTOMS, 
 Written for a Medical Degree, Aug. 31, 1825, Mt. 19. 
 
 Symptoms are to diseases, what extension, impenetra- 
 bility, and the other properties are to matter. For as 
 these properties are the only evidence of the existence of 
 matter, and form the medium of its most interesting rela- 
 tions with ourselves — so symptoms are, during life, the 
 only means, by which we become acquainted with diseas- 
 es, the source of all their distress, and we may add, of all 
 their danger. For the extinction of all the phenomena of 
 life, may be regarded as a symptom, since, like pain, fre- 
 quency of the pulse, and other symptoms, it is an effect of 
 disease. 
 
 As long as we limit our speculations by the extent of 
 the knowledge founded on the phenomena of diseases, we 
 tread in a safe and plain road, as when we investigate the 
 properties of matter, and the laws, by which it is govern* 
 ed. But when we advance farther, and attempt to pene- 
 trate the arcana of proximate causes, we often become be- 
 wildered in the mazes of hypothesis, like those, who would 
 ^extend their researches beyond the properties, to the very 
 essence of matter or of mind. However a person may be 
 versed in the science of medicine, however deeply erudite 
 ih its theories, and however extensively in its collateral 
 sciences — though these acquirements may constitute him 
 a learned writer, or even an instructive lecturer, yet they 
 cannot make him a skilful practitioner, unless he also has 
 discernment to note the external appearances, which a 
 disease presents, and sagacity to apply them in such a 
 manner as to obtain a knowledge of the nature of the 
 disease, and of the treatment required. It is this, in fact, 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 247 
 
 which constitutes the art, which is founded on medicai 
 science ; and if, as Campbell has observed, " that science 
 is of little value, which has not given rise to some useful 
 art" — so, neither is medical science of much value to that 
 practitioner, who has not these necessary qualifications to 
 enable him to apply its rules to practice. 
 
 Though the extinction of life, and the morbid changes, 
 which remain after death, might be considered as symp- 
 toms, since like them, they are the effects of disease, yet 
 the term symptoms, is generally used in a more restricted 
 signification. By symptoms, is generally understood^ 
 those appearances, presented by a person, labouring un- 
 der disease, which are the effects of that disease, and by 
 means of which we endeavour to learn its cause, its dan- 
 ger, its duration, its consequences, and the treatment, 
 which will be most likely to remove, or diminish the dis- 
 ease, avert ill consequences, protract life, or alleviate suf- 
 fering. 
 
 Symptoms have been divided into three kinds, viz. — 
 Prognostic, by which we predict the~ future course and re- 
 sult of the disease ; Diagnostic, by which we ascertain its 
 present state, define it, and distinguish it from others ; 
 and Anamnestic, which teach us by what form of disease 
 the patient has previously been affected. The Diagnostic 
 symptoms in the above division, would include the Diag- 
 nostic, commonly so called, which assist us in distinguish- 
 ing diseases from each other, though not peculiar and es- 
 sential to any one disease, and the pathognomonic, or 
 those which distinguish a disease by being invariably 
 present in that disease and never in any other. We very 
 rarely find single symptoms, that are pathognomonic, but 
 we more frequently find combinations or successions of 
 symptoms, that are so, As the definition of symptoms 
 
248 A DISSERTATION 
 
 is founded principally on their use, the term may include 
 both symptoms, properly so called, viz. those, whose exis- 
 tence is ascertained immediately by the observation of the 
 patient, attendants, or physician, and symptomatic diseas- 
 es, the presence of which is inferred, not observed, but 
 which may be as useful as any others in determining the 
 nature, estimating the violence, predicting the termination 
 and directing the treatment of the disease. Thus, As- 
 cites is a disease, and like other diseases, is indicated by 
 its symptoms, such as equal intumescence of the abdo- 
 men with fluctuation. But Ascites may be a symptom of 
 organic disease, and may have the use of a symptom in 
 exciting a suspicion, or confirming a belief of such dis- 
 ease. Affections of this kind have, therefore, a claim to 
 be ranked among symptoms, though it is proper to distin- 
 guish them from those which are the immediate subjects 
 of observation, as frequent pulse, and hot skin. 
 
 The great ultimate objects in the examination of symp- 
 toms are, to ascertain the dangers, to which the patient is 
 exposed, but principally, to obviate, remove, or palliate 
 disease and its consequences, and where a fatal termina- 
 tion is inevitable, to protract life to the latest possible peri- 
 od. These, however, are not commonly the immediate 
 objects of research in the examination of symptoms. The 
 principal immediate uses of symptoms are, to point out 
 the nature, situation, extent, violence, state and stage of 
 the disease, to furnish indications for the statement, and 
 to assist in the investigation of those primary morbid 
 changes, on which the disease depends. 
 
 The symptoms, by which we learn the nature, situation 
 &/C of the disease, may arise immediately from the part 
 diseased, or mediately from a secondary affection of 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 249 
 
 other parts. The symptoms in the diseased parts may be 
 referred principally to changes in its structure, particular- 
 ly affecting its size, form, consistence, position, and where 
 it is visible, its appearance to the sight — and to changes 
 in its functions. In many affections, particularly of the 
 viscera of the pelvis and abdomen, the tumor or hardness, 
 produced by change in structure, constitutes one of the 
 principal means, by which we are able to detect the or- 
 gan affected. Enlargements or indurations of various 
 parts of the alimentary canal, of the liver, spleen, pan- 
 creas, &c. may in this way become very obvious. The 
 change in the functions of a part will be evident, when 
 those functions are in any way the subjects of observation, 
 or when they are so connected with any of the great pro- 
 cesses, carried on in the body, that a disturbance of them 
 shall produce some peculiar alteration in these processes. 
 Thus the function of the liver, viz. that of supplying bile 
 to the contents of the intestines, is a subject of observa- 
 tion from its commuicating their colour to the feces. 
 Hence if the bile in the feces is greater or less than usual 
 in quantity, or differs from its usual colour, we know that 
 the liver is disordered. Again, if the food passes the in- 
 testines unchanged, we know, that the stomach fails to 
 perform its office ; for the formation of chyle could not 
 be prevented by failure in any other part of the digestive 
 apparatus, provided the stomach continued to perform its 
 duty. Other parts may suffer in consequence of the pri- 
 mary affection. This may happen — first, from mechani- 
 cal causes, as where one part, by its pressure, displaces 
 another from its situation, excites in it an irritation, or 
 obstructs its functions — second, from connection of func- 
 tions. Thus, if the stomach fails to digest food, the sub- 
 
250 A DISSERTATION 
 
 sequent parts of the assimulative functions must also fail. 
 If a nerve be wounded, compressed, or divided, the mus- 
 cles, to which it is distributed, will be convulsed, or par- 
 alysed. Third, from sympathy, as in vomiting from in- 
 flammation in the kidneys. But in vomiting from inflam- 
 mation of the stomach, the symptom is in the organ affect- 
 ed. What are called constitutional affections may mostly 
 be considered as instances of sympathy. These affections 
 are commonly sympathies of the system in general, or 
 more properly of some subordinate system with a topical 
 affection. In some cases, however, particularly in what 
 are called idiopathic fevers, it is difficult, or impossible to 
 discover any such topical affection, and the whole system 
 seems to be primarily disordered. The local symptoms 
 are generally the most relied on in determining the seat 
 of the disease. Yet the constitutional affection may be 
 considerably modified, according to the organ or texture 
 diseased, and may, therefore, assist us in this particular. 
 The nature of the malady is learnt, sometimes from the 
 local, sometimes from the constitutional symptoms — most 
 frequently, perhaps, from both. Thus there are certain 
 Constitutional symptoms, which are evidences of topical 
 inflammation. Yet these symptoms, at least in the acute 
 form, would not often justify us in deciding, that any par- 
 ticular part was actually inflamed, unless there were local 
 symptoms to justify such conclusion. Again, should we 
 find considerable pain in the region of the liver, we might 
 suspect that part to be inflamed. But if on further inqui- 
 ry, we found none of the common constitutional symptoms 
 of inflammation, we should be led to look for some other 
 cause for the local symptoms, such as Biiiany Calculus. 
 In many complaints, particularly such as fall under the 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 251 
 
 care of the surgeon, the local symptoms, especially the ap- 
 pearance of the parts to the sight and touch, are of them- 
 selves sufficient to indicate the nature of the disease. In 
 many diseases nearly allied together, and required similar 
 treatment, the difficulty in the diagnosis does not occasion 
 much embarrassment. But where diseases, similar in 
 their external countenance, require different, or opposite 
 remedies, ' and where the disease may be one, in which a 
 sort of specific remedy is indicated, instead of an attention 
 to the symptoms as they arise, a close and cautious inves- 
 tigation is frequently requisite. The ways, in which the 
 symptoms of a disease shew its extent, are various. The 
 violence or duration of the symptoms, the extent of the 
 local symptoms, as soreness, swelling and discolouration, 
 and the variety of symptoms peculiar to each organ and 
 texture, may point out the extent occupied by the disease, 
 and the number of organs and textures affected. The 
 violence of the disease is frequently, but not always, 
 measured by the violence of the symptoms. The entire 
 cessation of pain may arise from mortification, and there 
 is frequently a disappearance of all violent symptoms, a 
 short time before death. The termination of a disease 
 often depends on its violence. The violence has, there- 
 fore, an important bearing on our prognosis. It may 
 here be noticed, that one use of symptoms is to enable us 
 to estimate the danger of diseases. In many cases, in- 
 deed, we do this by previously learning their violence. 
 But, on the other hand, it frequently happens, that where 
 the symptoms point out the analogy of any particular case 
 to those, which have previously occurred, we estimate the 
 danger of this case by knowing the frequency, with which 
 they proved fatal, and by thus learning its danger, we 
 measure its violence. 
 
252 A DISSERTATION 
 
 The state and stage of a disease are no less important, 
 than its nature and situation. The state of inflammation 
 in particular is of great importance to be known. The 
 treatment will be essentially modified, according as it 
 tends to resolution, suppuration or gangrene. Those 
 symptoms, which mark the state of the disease, as modifi- 
 ed by the constitution of the patient, the coexistence of 
 other diseases, or- the operation of external causes, are 
 frequently of the first importance. That practice would 
 not perhaps be called rational in any disease whatever, 
 which should blindly follow any specific treatment with- 
 out regard to these circumstances. The want of discrimi- 
 nation between the different stages of a disease, would fre- 
 quently lead to as capital errors as the confounding of 
 different diseases. This is especially true in acute dis- 
 eases, where it is often a matter of nice discrimination to 
 detect the time, when free depletion, from being the best 
 preserver of life, becomes the surest instrument of death. 
 The prognosis is also not unfrequently influenced by the 
 stage. The diseases are not numerous, which may not 
 be arrested at the moment of their accession. But in ma- 
 Tiy, if this moment be suffered to pass without proper 
 treatment, or " if such treatment be unsuccessful, the 
 case becomes hopeless, and we shall hardly feel justified 
 in tormenting the patient with vigorous remedies. 
 
 Another use of symptoms is to direct us in our treat- 
 ment. This is indeed the principal ultimate object in 
 the study of symptoms. But in our common national 
 practice, where the symptoms influence our treatment by 
 pointing out the nature, stage &c. of the affection, and 
 where our remedial course is founded on scientific princi- 
 ples — and in our common empirical practice, where from 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 258 
 
 the combination of symptoms we learn the name of the 
 disease, and use a remedy, simply because it has before 
 been found efficacious in similar cases — in neither of 
 these modes of treatment are the remedies directed, as 
 they sometimes are, immediately to the symptoms. By 
 directing the treatment immediately to the symptoms is 
 meant the use of remedies, with the intention of quieting 
 certain symptoms independently of the removal of their 
 excitinor cause. In the use of cathartics for the cure of 
 costiveness, we draw our indication directly from the 
 symptom ; for the immediate effect of the cathartic is to 
 overcome the constipation by exciting the action of the 
 intestines. But in the use of cathartics for the cure of 
 diarrhoea, the indication is not taken directly from the 
 symptom. For the primary effect of the cathartic is to 
 coincide with the diarrhoea, but it ultimately cures the 
 disorder by removing the irritation, which excites it. The 
 
 treatment is directed immediately to the symptoms 
 
 where their cause is not known or cannot be removed — 
 where the primary affection is of no consequence, and 
 though remaining, may not prevent the removal of the 
 symptoms- — where the symptoms will not be removed by 
 the removal of the primary affection — where the symp- 
 toms are at the present moment so urgent, that they must 
 be removed, even if it be at the risk of aggravating the 
 primary affection, whether such symptoms arise from the 
 primary disease, from complications, or from other causes 
 and where the occurrence of certain symptoms aggravates 
 the original complaint by their irritation, or in some other 
 way. It is an object to relieve symptoms of the last de- 
 scription, though in this way we only act indirectly on 
 the disease, which occasions them. In most acute dis- 
 22 
 
254 A DISSERTATION 
 
 eases an important part of the treatment is aimed directly 
 at the symptoms, by diminishing which we at once admin- 
 ister to the comfort of the patient, and moderate the vio- 
 lence of the disorder. Of this kind is the use of cold wa- 
 ter externally and internally in fevers. When the prima- 
 ry disease cannot be removed the indication of course is 
 to make the situation of the patient as comfortable as pos- 
 sible. It is also clear, that in all circumstances, we 
 should remove any unpleasant symptom, which may arise, 
 when this can be done without subjecting the patient to 
 any other inconvenience or danger. The principal part of 
 our Therapeutic course, &, its changes from day to day, are 
 influenced by the symptoms. But they are generally in- 
 fluenced by them as they point out the state of the system, 
 or of some of its parts. A full, strong and hard pulse 
 may induce us to take blood. But it would be improper 
 to subject the patient to this operation, merely to remove 
 the fulness &c. of the pulse, did not this manifest the ex- 
 istence of further disease. 
 
 So far the uses of symptoms have been spoken of as ap- 
 plied to the individual case, in which they occur. They 
 have also a more general utility, in the assistance they 
 give us in the prosecution of pathology. In this respect 
 they are of great service, since, in whatever degree our 
 pathological knowledge advances, in the same degree is 
 our practice changed from empirical to rational. It is 
 principally on Morbid Anatomy, and the observation of 
 symptoms, that our correct knowledge of pathology is 
 founded. In connexion with these, an acquaintance with 
 physiology is undoubtedly essential. The imperfection of 
 our physiological knowledge is the cause of much of our 
 deficiency in pathology. The inferences drawn from the 
 
ON SYTVirTOMS- 255 
 
 phenomena of disease akme are, therefore, inadequate to 
 the perfection of this branch of medical science. But 
 probably many incorrect and unfounded pathological doc- 
 trines have arisen from a too earnest desire to apply the 
 laws, which govern the body in health to the explanation 
 of the phenomena of disease, as mistakes in physiology 
 have arisen from the application of the laws of inanimate 
 matter to the explanation of the phenomena of living bo- 
 dies. The dismission of many ancient hypotheses from 
 modern medical writings, may be attributed in a great 
 degree to an unwillingness to assert more than will be 
 warranted by the symptoms exhibited by the patient, while 
 suffering under disease, and by the body, when submitted 
 to post mortem examination. In substituting these more 
 philosophical modes of reasoning for the wild speculations, 
 which misled the ancients, medicine has followed, though 
 at rather an humble distance, the progress of the other 
 sciences in the march of improvement. Moderns have in 
 many cases rather displayed their own ingenuity, than 
 contributed to the advancement of science, by attempting 
 to rear new structures on the ruins of obsolete doctrines. 
 But the cautious spirit of modern philosophy has generally 
 prevented such theories from prevailing extensively for a 
 long time. In many instances, the symptoms of diseases 
 govern our treatment by giving us some knowledge of the 
 pathology of the individual case, in which they occur. 
 The variety of shapes, which diseases assume, is so im- 
 mense, that we frequently meet with combinations of 
 symptoms entirely new to us, and we should be utterly at 
 | a loss how to combat them,, could we not discover to what 
 ; morbid state of the system, or some of its parts they were 
 | to be referred ; in other words, to obtain some insight in- 
 j to the pathology of the case before us. 
 
256 A DISSERTATION 
 
 The knowledge, which we gain from symptoms relating 
 to diseases and their treatment, is of such incalculable 
 value, and at the same time of such difficult acquirement, 
 that every physician must feel it his duty to devote a large 
 share of attention to the means, by which the presence of 
 symptoms can be best ascertained, and best applied to 
 the acquisition of practical knowledge. A full considera- 
 tion of this subject would lead too much into detail, com- 
 prising among other things, all the rules for the interpre- 
 tation of symptoms. A consideration of a few of the 
 means, by which symptoms can be made most serviceable, 
 will suffice for the present. 
 
 The uses of Anatomy and Physiology in assisting us to 
 apply the knowledge, which we derive from symptoms, 
 must be too evident to require much illustration. The 
 distinction of the species of many diseases depends on the 
 parts affected. Hence the names of Pneumonitis, Hepa- 
 titis &c. Though the treatment of diseases does not 
 perhaps vary so much according to the organ and texture 
 affected, as might a priori have been supposed, still it is 
 ften modified by these circumstances. Thus opiates are 
 more useful in inflammations of the bowels, than in those 
 of the lungs, and especially the brain. Cathartics are 
 less useful in pulmonary than in cerebral and abdominal 
 inflammation. Digitalis is more benenciaj in inflamma- 
 tions in the chest, especially phthisis, than in either of 
 the other cavities. It is in catarrhal phthisis, however, 
 that digitalis is most useful, and, in some varieties of 
 phthisis, it is useless at least, if not positively injurious. 
 Balsam Copaiva is thought to be more useful in diseases 
 of mucous membranes, than in those of other textures. 
 li There are always," says Bichat, " two orders of symp* 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 257 
 
 toms in inflammations, first, those that belong to the na- 
 ture of the diseased textures ; second, those that depend 
 on the affected organ, in which the inflammation exists." 
 Affections of different organs and textures in the vicinity 
 of each other, may be attended with very different degrees 
 of danger, and it may on this account be very important 
 to discriminate them from each other. The same dis- 
 ease may have forms so different, in different parts, that 
 if we are not aware of this circumstance, we are contin- 
 ually liable to error. It is hardly necessary to add, that 
 if we understand what various textures, organs and func- 
 tions are concerned in this variety in diseases, our ideas 
 will be much more definite and distinct, than if we learn 
 empirically, that certain combinations of symptoms indi- 
 cate certain degrees of danger, and require certain modes 
 of treatment, without knowing the reason, why this dif- 
 ference exists. An acquaintance with the healthy func- 
 tions enables us the better to explain their irregularities 
 under all circumstances. The scientific practitioner, if 
 he sees the feces light-coloured, always knows that the 
 secretion of the bile is impeded or its passage obstructed. 
 An acquaintance with whatever is known of pathology 
 will render more valuable the knowledge derived from 
 symptoms. By knowing the morbid changes on which 
 diseases depend, we shall be the better able to appreciate 
 the evidence afforded by any symptom, of the presence or 
 absence of such diseases, and to discover the variations in 
 the treatment, which changes in the symptoms require. 
 By learning the manner in which the symptoms are pro- 
 duced by the primary affection, we shall learn the eas:er 
 how to obviate them. We should understand, if possible, 
 whether the affection, which is the immediate cause of a 
 £2* 
 
2&S A DISSERTATION 
 
 symptom, is the original malady, or whether it depends on 
 another still more primary. We shall find in the begin- 
 ning of fevers, that food, taken into the stomach will pro- 
 duce distress, and not be readily digested, owing to a 
 failure in the powers of the stomach. But this is not the 
 original difficulty, and we do not, therefore, treat it by 
 tonics, as in dyspepsia. So various are the appearances, 
 which the body presents in its numerous aberrations from 
 the state of health, that we can never expect, in the most 
 full and careful description of any disease, that mention 
 will be made of every symptom, which can possibly occur. 
 Nor if this were the case, would it be possible for the most 
 capacious memory to retain the multitude of facts, which 
 would be stated. We are, therefore, continually meeting 
 with combinations of symptoms, differing in some impor- 
 tant respects from any, that we have known before. Now, 
 the more we are acquainted with the morbid changes, to 
 which the body is liable, with the laws, which regulate 
 it in disease, and with the numerous sympathies, which 
 bind together the most distant and dissimilar parts, the 
 better we shall be able to understand, on what organic 
 disease or functional disorder new combinations of symp- 
 toms depend, to calculate their danger, and to meet them 
 with the appropriate treatment. An acquaintance with 
 pathological doctrines, as far as they are founded on care- 
 ful observation alone, tends in some degree to disburden 
 the memory of that vast accumulation of facts, an acquain- 
 tance wkh which is absolutely necessary to a tolerable 
 share of familiarity with medical science. If an acquain- 
 tance with pathology is necessary, physiology and morbid 
 anatomy must always be so, since it is to the former of 
 these that pathology is in a great measure indebted for its 
 d©ctrines, and to the latter for its facts. 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 259 
 
 It is necessary to be aware, that the appearances, 
 which take place in sickness may be produced, removed, 
 suspended or modified, or have their order of succession 
 changed by a variety of causes, separate from the princi- 
 pal disease. At scarcely any two successive visits, does 
 the physician find his patient exhibiting precisely the 
 same symptoms ; and his own reputation, and still more 
 the welfare of his patient imperiously require that he 
 should be able to inform himself, whether the variations 
 in the symptoms depend on the disease, or on other caus- 
 es. It is to these causes, that we are to refer a large prcH 
 portion of those accidental occurrences, which will often 
 mislead us, if they are not distinguished from the essen- 
 tial characters of the disease. " In describing any dis- 
 ease," says Sydenham, " it is necessary to enumerate the 
 peculiar and constant phenomena or symptoms, and the 
 accidental ones separately. " " In estimating," says Dr. 
 Armstrong, " the character and seat of chronic diseases 
 in general of the vital parts, it is of great consequence to 
 ascertain, what symptoms are stationary, and what tempo- 
 rary ; for the temporary symptoms only mark a tendency 
 to disordered action from some sympathetic or incidental 
 cause ; whereas, the stationary symptoms indicate posi- 
 tive and progressive disease, and on this account, ought 
 to claim the special care of the medical attendant." In 
 making this distinction, the experienced physician (to 
 borrow a figure from Campbell) would be like the botan- 
 ist, who on seeing a flower entirely new to him, could 
 point out some particulars, in which all of its species 
 would certainly resemble it, and others in which many 
 might differ from it. If we think the presence of any 
 symptom essential to a disease, when it is not so, the ab- 
 
260 A DISSERTATION 
 
 sence of this symptom might lead us to suppose errone- 
 ously, that the disease did not exist. If on the other 
 hand, we believe s symptom is peculiar to a disease, 
 when it is not so, the presence of this symptom might lead 
 us to infer incorrectly the existence of the disease. The 
 buffy coat of the blood may be adduced, as an illustration 
 of these remarks. This symptom is spoken of by many 
 medical men, as manifesting the existence of an affection, 
 for which bleeding is required. It is said, however, to be 
 a general attendant on the state of pregnancy. John 
 Hunter informs us, that the same appearance will be pro- 
 duced, simply by the stagnation of the blood in the veins, 
 when the arm is kept long corded before the orifice is 
 made ; from which cause, more of the buff appears on 
 the blood first drawn, than on that, which flows after- 
 wards. " This," he adds, " is supposed by the ignorant 
 to indicate more inflammation, while the next quantity 
 taken, suspends its red parts in the lymph, and gives the 
 idea, that the first small quantity had been of such ser- 
 vice at the time of flowing, as to have altered for the bet- 
 ter, the whole mass of blood.'' Armstrong states, that 
 the buffy coat may be both occasioned, and maintained by 
 repeated abstractions of blood, and that even the blood of 
 persons in health may be made buffy by repeated bleeding. 
 Dr. Tully asserts, that blood drawn rapidly and left to co- 
 agulate in a cool place, will generally exhibit the inflam* 
 matory crust, even when taken from persons in health. 
 On the other hand, Armstrong observes, that this appear- 
 ance is wanting in what he calls the congestive form of 
 fever, which according to him, imperiously requires the 
 lancet. Dr. Rush found the blood in most cases wanting 
 the buffy ©oat in the fever of 1793, in which J>« found 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 261 
 
 bleeding so essential a remedy. If these statements be 
 correct, it is evident, that a physician, who should believe 
 this symptom to be present in every case, which required 
 bloodletting, and never in any other, would be constantly 
 liable to commit serious errors. A proper distinction of 
 the causes, by which symptoms may be produced and al- 
 tered, will in a great measure enable a physician to single 
 out the most essential and important symptoms, as the 
 principal objects of interest, just as one, who reads with 
 the greatest benefit, does not indiscriminately commit to 
 memory all that he reads, but fixes his attention on the 
 most important ideas, to the neglect of the rest. 
 
 The restorative efforts of nature, among other causes, 
 are to be distinguished from disease in the production of 
 symptoms. Sydenham, in his history of the fever of the 
 years, 1667, 8 and 9, gives as a reason, why he did not 
 encourage " the profuse sweats at the beginning," that 
 they were " symptomatical, not critical. " It is frequent- 
 ly very necessary, though not always very easy, to distin- 
 guish, whether certain symptoms, especially evacuations, 
 are to be ascribed to the remedial efforts of nature, or to 
 the ravages of disease. In the former case, they may be 
 working the natural cure of the disease, and it is improper 
 to check them too soon : in the latter case, they are aggra- 
 vating the difficulty, and it is unsafe to permit their con- 
 tinuance. The ancients committed a practical error in 
 regard to the treatment of fevers, by believing the hot 
 stacre to' result so far from the vis medicatrix natures, as 
 Cullen calls it, that the more violent the hot stage was, 
 and the more it was encouraged, the better was the pa- 
 tient's chance of recovery. 
 
 Confined air, currents of air, improper or irregular 
 
262 A DISSERTATION 
 
 temperature, want of cleanliness, improper diet, careless 
 or unskilful attendants, and various similar causes, and es- 
 pecially mental disquiet, frequently aggravate, or render 
 more obstinate the symptoms of diseases, and to the no 
 small perplexity of the physician, when they are un- 
 known. 
 
 The age, the sex, and the peculiarity of constitution in 
 the patient, may each give a character to the symptoms, 
 which, if not rightly understood, may lead to serious er- 
 rors. The great irritability of infants will frequently cre- 
 ate an unnecessary alarm in one, who assumes the con- 
 stitutional disturbance as the measure of disease, without 
 making allowance for age ; and the extensive train of 
 sympathies, of which the uterine system is the centre, 
 may add in females to the confusion, which disguises ma- 
 ny diseases. Peculiarity of constitution is a no less fre- 
 quent source of error and confusion. Extreme nervous 
 excitability may occasion slight affections to put on the 
 appearance of those of a more serious character, thus cre- 
 ating unnecessary anxiety. On the other hand, symp- 
 toms of this kind, having frequently deceived the patient, 
 his friends and his physician, may at length appear, the 
 unsuspected attendants of a grave disease, and prove 
 through neglect, the harbingers of a fatal termination. 
 " The pulse alone," observes Mr. Hunter, " is not always 
 a certain guide ; for where there are oeculiarities of con- 
 stitution, we find the pulse corresponds to these peculiari- 
 ties, and perhaps in direct contradiction to the accustomed 
 state of the local affection. " The appearance of the 
 tongue requires perhaps as much allowance to be made 
 for peculiarities in the patient, as the pulse. Some have 
 the tongue habitually coated in health ; some rarely have 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 26S 
 
 it coated in disease. We may in a degree secure ourselves 
 against mistakes from such peculiarities, by noting care- 
 fully the symptoms (if this use of the term is admissible) 
 which are observed in health. Some knowledge of this 
 kind is necessary to the physician > in the same way that 
 a familiarity with the healthy conformation of the joints 
 is to the surgeon to enable him to detect displacements* 
 It is probable, that a physician would be well recompens- 
 ed for studying with some care, the usual state of those 
 appearances, properties and functions in health, the mor- 
 bid changes of which constitute what are called symptoms 
 in disease, and also the varieties of these different appear- 
 ances &/C. in different persons. It would also be well to 
 ascertain how far we may learn from those peculiarities 
 of constitution, which are the objects of inspection, what 
 kind and degree of susceptibility to the influence of dis- 
 eases, and the operation of medicines are indicated. Ma- 
 ny writers point out to us certain habits, which will bear 
 very bold and copious depletion in the onset of febrile dis- 
 eases, and certain others, in which great caution is requir- 
 ed in the application of such treatment. Various appear- 
 ances of form, colour &C. are mentioned as indicating 
 predisposition to particular diseases, especially some, that 
 are supposed to be of a scrofulous character. Since then 
 we find, that some observations of this kind have actually 
 been of great utility, and since it is abundantly evident, 
 that the operation of many agents on the animal body, is 
 remarkably modified by the constitution of the individual, 
 might not physicians profitably devote more attention than 
 has generally been devoted to the examination of the ef- 
 fects, which peculiarities of constitution, as indicated by 
 external signs, may have — on the readiness, with which 
 
264 A DISSERTATION 
 
 the body submits to the action of causes of disease— on 
 the progress and violence of diseases themselves- — on the 
 symptoms, by which we become acquainted with these 
 diseases — and on the influence of the remedies, which 
 are" administered to relieve them 1 The knowledge, we 
 could obtain on this subject, would of course be somewhat 
 indefinite, and not of universal application. But the 
 same is equally true of our knowledge of diseases by their 
 symptoms, and the power, which we have over them by 
 medicines. Yet it is universally allowed, that these merit 
 close investigation, for the sake of gaming even the im- 
 perfect knowledge, which we have obtained ; and our ac- 
 quaintance with these subjects might be rendered some- 
 what more precise, by observing the effects of these varie- 
 ties in the healthy constitution. For these varieties are 
 among the causes, which concur to render the course of 
 diseases, and the action of remedies irregular, and thus to 
 confuse the science of medicine. 
 
 But of all the causes, which affect the course of diseas- 
 es, there are none more important, than those, which are 
 ^applied by the physician, with the intention of palliating 
 or removing the malady. A familiarity, therefore, with 
 the manner, in which the various agents of this class act 
 on the human body, and with the changes, which different 
 diseases produce in their action, is necessary, not only 
 for the immediate purpose of guiding the physician in his 
 practice, but also to explain to him the different forms, 
 under which the disease presents itself. Comparatively few 
 cases, which fall under our notice, pursue their course 
 uninterrupted, or uninfluenced by the operation of reme- 
 dies. Now, it is highly desirable in every case to know, 
 what symptoms, or what changes in the symptoms are 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. '205 
 
 occasioned by the remedies administered, and what by 
 the natural progress of the disease, or by other causes. 
 " The difficulty," observes Dr. Heberden, " of ascertain- 
 ing the powers of medicines, and of distinguishing their 
 real effects from the changes wrought in the body by oth- 
 er causes, must have been felt by every physician." " Of 
 the latter kind/' (viz. accidental symptoms) says Syden- 
 ham, " are those f which differ occasionally by reason of 
 the age and constitution of the patient, and the different 
 method of cure, some symptoms being rather occasioned 
 by the physician, than the disorder itself; so that persons 
 labouring under the same illness, being differently treat- 
 ed, have different symptoms. And hence, unless great 
 caution be used on this point, our notions of the symptoms 
 of diseases must necessarily be very loose and uncertain." 
 If a disease be pursuing an unfavourable course, it is of 
 the utmost importance to determine, whether it is because 
 the medicines administered produce a change for the 
 worse, because they have no influence at all, and suffer 
 the disease to pursue, unimpeded, its original course, or 
 because, though rightly adapted, they are not pushed with 
 sufficient vigour. If the first supposition be correct, the 
 obvious indication would be to discontinue the remedy 
 immediately — and if the last, it would be necessary to 
 pursue its use more assiduously, so as to insure its full ef- 
 fect. The first effect produced by a remedy may be ap- 
 parently unfavourable, when it is really beneficial. Dr. 
 Rush notices, that bleeding sometimes increased pain iit 
 the fever of 1793, till it had been repeated a number of 
 times. In such cases, however, this apparently unfavour- 
 able effect, instead of inducing him to abandon the reme- 
 dy, encouraged him in a more vigorous use of it. In that 
 33 
 
266 A DISSERTATION 
 
 form of fever, which has been called congestive, the ef- 
 fect of moderate bleeding is (to use a common express- 
 ion) to create a fever, that is, to bring on the hot stage, 
 the symptoms of which may appear more violent than 
 those, which have been relieved. Yet this effect is to be 
 considered as favourable, and the further prosecution of 
 the same remedy may remove the same symptoms, which 
 it has just produced, Dr. Rush mentions a case of ma- 
 lignant fever with pleuritic symptoms, in which acute pain 
 in the head followed six successive bleedings, but after the 
 seventh, there was no pain, and the fever soon ceased. He 
 also mentions a case of malignant fevei, in which after a 
 fourth bleeding, the pulse became almost imperceptible, 
 the countenance ghastly, and the hands and feet cold. 
 The bleeding was repeated three more times, in which 
 thirty ounces of blood were taken, and in a few days, the 
 vigour of the pulse was so great, that it required seven suc- 
 cessive bleedings to subdue it. Had the distinction be- 
 tween the effects of disease, of the efforts of nature, and 
 of medicines been always made, the medical world would 
 have been spared much of the labour of retracing the foot- 
 steps, which have led them from the way of improvement 
 into the paths of error. But in truth, it is no easy matter 
 in every case to make this distinction, Else, why so 
 much dependence placed by many on medicines, which 
 are obviously inert? And why the great difference of 
 opinion as to the use or injury of certain efficacious reme- 
 dies, such as depletion or stimulation in the early stage of 
 acute disorders ? It is considered, and that correctly, so 
 unjustifiable to venture on untried ground, in making ex- 
 periments on the lives of our fellow-beings, that most prac- 
 titioners rather follow the practice, for which they find 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 
 
 267 
 
 the best authority, than run the risk, they must incur, by 
 adopting practices, the merits of which they do not know. 
 Hence, when any mode of practice comes to be universal- 
 ly adopted in any grave disease, it is extremely difficult to 
 test its utility, as we do not often see any cases, in which 
 such practice is not adopted. On this account, one 
 would suppose, that much advantage might be derived 
 from watching the course of diseases, in patients under 
 the care of empirics, and of those, who, from any cause, 
 make use either of no remedies, or of such only as are 
 known to be inert. No one, but the most rash and heed- 
 less, would feel satisfied in any important case with the 
 administration of an active remedy, without knowing, 
 what sensible effects might be expected to ensue from it? 
 operation, what changes would indicate, that its effect 
 was favourable, and what, that it was inexpedient to per- 
 sist farther in its use. This difficulty of distinguishing' 
 the effects of remedies, is frequently made use of by em- 
 pirics, (to say nothing of regular physicians) for the pm- 
 pose of explaining the results of their own practice, and 
 of that of their opponents. The favourable results in 
 their own practice are attributed to t ( he remedies, and the 
 fata! ones to the violence or obstinacy of the disease, while 
 the recoveries in the practice of their opponents are as- 
 cribed to the triumph of the restorative energies of nature 
 over ill usage, and the fatal terminations to the remedies 
 employed. 
 
 The effects, which the complication of other diseases 
 may have on that, which is the principal object of atten- 
 tion, deserve to be well understood. For the principal 
 disease may in this way be so far obscured and rendered 
 irregular, that if the influence of the complications be not 
 
288 A DISSERTATION 
 
 duly appreciated, it may subject the practitioner to great 
 embarrassment. 
 
 But however we may be able to distinguish the causes 
 of symptoms, still the same symptom may be produced by 
 so many causes, that it is rarely safe to rely on any one 
 symptom alone in forming our opinion concerning diseas- 
 es. The impropriety of depending on one symptom alone, 
 is exemplified in the attempts of medical men to discover 
 a pathognomonic symptom of fever, It is shown by For- 
 dyce, that heat, frequency of the pulse &c. are neither 
 peculiar nor essential to fever. He speaks indeed of a 
 peculiarity of the pulse, which he calls obstruction, and 
 which he considers as essential to fever, but, I believe, he 
 does not intimate, that it is peculiar to that disease, and 
 does not therefore consider it as a pathognomonic symp- 
 tom. It is a remark of Heberden, that " the pulse, though 
 in many cases, a useful index of the state of the health, 
 yet is no certain one in all ; and without a due regard to 
 other signs, may mislead us." There was a patient in 
 the Massachusetts General Hospital in the winter of 
 §24-5; who had suffered some acute attack, and in whom 
 pulse continued to range at from 130 to 140 during 
 convalescence ; though he appeared otherwise so well, 
 that he was discharged from the hospital, it not being 
 considered proper to retain him on account of the frequen- 
 cy of his pulse, when he had no other symptom of disease. 
 On the other hand, the pulse is sometimes but little affect- 
 ed in verv serious diseases. It seems to be this state of 
 the pulse which Dr. Miner designates by the epithet mor- 
 bidly natural. The state of the tongue, though often an 
 important symptom, yet is frequently influenced by pe- 
 culiarity of constitution, as has been before observed, and 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 269 
 
 by other causes. Strong and, especially, unpleasant emo- 
 tions will sometimes, in a few moments, occasion a dry- 
 ness, and bitter taste in the mouth, precisely as when the 
 alimentary canal is deranged. Whether much alteration 
 is produced in the appearance of the tongue in so short a 
 time, I do not know. But if thereUs, it shews, that the 
 appearance of the tongue may be affected by other causes, 
 than any permanent affection of the alimentary canal, or 
 of other parts. Most other symptoms, which, like the 
 states of the pulse and tongue, furnish us with a useful 
 guide in the diagnosis of those diseases, which fall most 
 commonly under our notice, are also subject to great ir- 
 regularities. It is, therefore, necessary, that all the symp- 
 toms of a case should be taken into consideration, before 
 we make up our opinion. 
 
 Nor is it sufficient to know all the symptoms, which oc- 
 cur at the same time ; we must also learn the order, in 
 which they occur. The same disease does not at differ- 
 ent periods present the same concourse of symptoms. 
 Hence, if we merely understand the symptoms of a dis- 
 ease at one stage, we shall not be able to distinguish it at 
 another. The order, in which symptoms succeed each 
 other, frequently has an important influence on the diag- 
 nosis, and the prognosis, and of course on the treatment. 
 The same symptom appearing in the progress of the dis- 
 ease, may not lead to the same inference, as *if it took 
 place at the commencement. Convulsions at the begin- 
 ning of fever, are said not to be very alarming, but at a 
 late period, extremely dangerous. Rigors at the com- 
 mencement of inflammation, would be regarded only as 
 one of the usual constitutional symptoms ; but at a late 
 period, they might induce us to suspect suppuration. 
 23* 
 
~70 A DISSERTATION 
 
 Opportunities of observing symptoms at the bedside of 
 patients, and an habitual improvement of those opportuni- 
 ties, are indispensable requisites for discriminating symp- 
 toms accurately, and learning all that is to be known 
 from them. Various causes conspire to render imperfect 
 the knowledge, which we gain of diseases from descrip- 
 tions of them, and to confuse and embarrass us in attempt- 
 ing to apply such knowledge in actual practice. Few 
 symptoms, excepting the frequency of the pulse, admit of 
 being so measured, or numbered, that their degrees of vi- 
 olence can be expressed with any considerable degree of 
 exactness. It is, therefore, only by a careful comparison 
 of different cases for himself that one can learn to estimate 
 properly the violence of symptoms ; a thing of vast impor- 
 tance, as it is in a great measure by this, that we measure 
 the violence of the disease, and learn what degree of vig- 
 our in the treatment is required. It is probable, that a 
 want of sufficiently extensive, or sufficiently careful ob- 
 servation frequently leaves the practitioner in doubt, 
 whether the violence of the disease is such as to justify 
 powerful remedies, and occasions a hesitating, undecided 
 ^-^course, in the beginning of acute diseases, at the very mo- 
 ment, when the greatest energy is required. In this way, 
 the only time of successful practice having passed in the 
 use of inefficient remedies, the disease at length reveals 
 itself in characters too plain to be mistaken, and often too 
 powerful to be successfully opposed. 
 
 Many symptoms of importance require for their detec- 
 tion an accuracy of sensation, not to be acquired without 
 much practice. Hence another reason, why descriptions 
 fail in furnishing us with a complete acquaintance with 
 diseases. The opportunities are not good for conveying 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 271 
 
 from one to another a knowledge of symptoms. Should 
 a person wish to describe to others any particular colour, 
 such as red, he would only need to direct their attention 
 to some substance, such as blood, which afforded a fair 
 specimen of this colour, and which all might have an op- 
 portunity of noticing. But such a method could not with 
 the same advantage be pursued in the description of 
 symptoms. Most of them have not much similitude to 
 any common objects of observation. Hardness of the 
 pulse, for instance, however plain it may appear in an 
 enumeration of symptoms, is not always easily distinguish- 
 ed in practice. It will hardly suffice to name any partic- 
 ular disease, and to say, that the pulse in this disease is 
 hard. For first, the same disease differs so much in dif- 
 ferent cases, and in different stages of the same case, 
 that it will hardly present any invariable symptom. Anoth- 
 er difficulty will arise from our being unable to present in 
 an insulated form, the modification, which we wish to 
 describe. For on examination, we may find it so com- 
 plicated with other symptoms or modifications of symp- 
 toms, that we shall be unable to distinguish the one, 
 which we are seeking. Suppose the student is directed 
 to the commencement of a violent pleurisy, as affording 
 the best instance of a hard pulse. On examination, he 
 distinguishes in the pulse, obvious variations from its nat- 
 ural state, and variations, which he will afterwards readily 
 recognize. But if he takes the pulse in pleurisy as the 
 standard of hardness, he will scarcely detect a hard pulse 
 in the late stages of phthisis, in which, however, the pulse 
 is said to be hard, though it presents characters in some 
 respects the most opposite to those of the pleuritic pulse. 
 In pleurisy, the hardness is complicated with fulness and 
 
272 A DISSERTATION 
 
 strength, from which it is not at first distinguished. It is 
 only by a considerable exercise of the faculty of abstrac- 
 tion, that the hardness is to be distinguished from other 
 qualities of the pulse. It is not impossible, that a much 
 more minute analysis of the modifications of the pulse 
 might be profitably made, were it possible for one to ex- 
 plain to others all the variations, which he was himself 
 capable of perceiving. That the difficulties of actually 
 distinguishing the modifications of the pulse are not im- 
 aginary, will be credited, when we recollect, that Dr. 
 William Hunter denied, that he could feel any such dis- 
 tinction as hardness of the pulse," and was even ready to 
 suspect, that others pretended to more nicety of discrimi- 
 nation than could really be found. "I have more than 
 once," says Dr. Heberden, " observed old and eminent 
 practitioners make such different judgments of hard and 
 full, and weak and small pulses, that I was sure they did 
 not call the same sensations by the same names." It is 
 a remark of John Hunter, whose faculty of distinguishing 
 the states of the pulse appears to have been very accurate, 
 that " the knowledge of the soft, hard and thrilling pulse 
 ^is not to be attained by many, for simple sensation in the 
 minds of any two men is seldom alike." Some placing 
 comparatively little reliance on other modifications of the 
 pulse, think its frequency its most important character, 
 because it can be most accurately estimated. Dr. Rush, 
 however, in a syllabus of his lectures, notices a great vari- 
 ety of modifications of the pulse. " The pulse," says he, 
 " communicates more knowledge of the state of the sys- 
 tem, than any other sign of disease. Its frequency — 
 being under the influence of diet, motion, and the pass- 
 ions of the mind, is of the least consequence." It is not 
 
Ox\ SYMPTOMS. 273 
 
 improbable, that independently of the different degrees of 
 attention, which some persons give to the various kinds 
 of pulse, some have the natural faculty of distinguishing 
 more accurately than others between difTerent impressions 
 made upon the sense of touch. This opinion is express- 
 ed by Mr. Hunter, in the sentence quoted above. Dr. 
 Fordyce compares this difference to the difference in the 
 powers of various persons to distinguish between the notes 
 on the musical scale. 
 
 Another failure, in the descriptions of diseases, arises 
 from the regularity of these descriptions, compared with 
 the variability of diseases themselves. To make descrip- 
 tions intelligible, it is essential, that some regular method 
 should be pursued. Diseases must be arranged under 
 various classes, and a definite boundary must be drawn 
 between these. Some degree of this is necessary, even 
 in the most exclusively practical works. Affections of 
 different organs, and different textures are pointed out, as 
 being marked by very distinct sets of symptoms. Many 
 carry this regularity and distinctness in their descriptions, 
 too far. It seems to be no easy matter for a medical man, 
 while writing, to bear in mind that want of regularity in 
 diseases, which he cannot fail to have observed in prac- 
 tice. " It is easy in the closet," observes Dr. Armstrong, 
 " to draw minute lines of distinction between inflamma- 
 tions, situated in various organs and textures of the same 
 cavity ; but at the bedside such distinctions will often be 
 found embarrassing, or useless." It is very aptly remark- 
 ed by Dr. Rush, that " diseases, like vices, with a few 
 exceptions, are necessarily undisciplined and irregular." 
 From the chaos of symptoms, which confuses a disease, 
 the writer, if he would make himself intelligible, must 
 
274 A DISSERTATION 
 
 produce some order. In making out therefore, a com- 
 plete description of any particular form of disease, he does 
 not mention every symptom, that has ever occurred in 
 any case, for that would be an endless and unprofitable 
 labour. Nor does he give all the symptoms of any one 
 case merely, for that would be imperfect. But from a 
 great variety of cases, he singles out those symptoms on- 
 ly, which are the most prominent, important and distin- 
 guishing, and embodies them into his description ; as the 
 Grecian sculptor collected together all the beautiful fe- 
 males within his reach, and sketching from each the pe- 
 culiarity of form or feature, for which she was most agree- 
 able, and combining the whole into one model, thus com- 
 pleted his statue of a perfect beauty. If now the student 
 fixes a description of this kind in his memory, and ex- 
 pects to find its archetype in the sick room, he will be 
 disappointed. Instead of hearing a regular history of the 
 most important symptoms, and those, on which the treat- 
 ment is to be founded, he is perhaps compelled to listen 
 to a long and fatiguing story from the patient, interspers- 
 ed with circumstances entirely irrelevent to the subject, 
 nd interrupted by frequent corroborations or contradic- 
 tions from officious attendants. Or, on the other hand, 
 from the moroseness or stupidity of the patient, he gives 
 no account of his feelings, and the observer is surprised 
 to find, that as plain as the symptoms appeared in the 
 description, it is impossible to learn from the patient, 
 when they exist. Add to this, that the symptoms, which 
 were expected to be the most prominent, are only obscure- 
 ly or not at all perceived ; while on the other hand, acci- 
 dental complications, peculiarity of constitution, sympa- 
 thetic disturbances, the operation of remedies, and a vari- 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 275 
 
 ety of other causes, may present numerous appearances, 
 which were not anticipated, and such as may serve to 
 mask the disease, which requires the most immediate at- 
 tention. The difference between the appearance of dis- 
 eases in description and in practice, resembles that be- 
 tween the organs of the body, when dissected for demon- 
 stration, and the same parts, as presented in an opera- 
 tion, where muscles, nerves, vessels and cellular mem- 
 brane lie confusedly together, and the whole is further 
 obscured by the ravages of disease, and the constant flow 
 of blood. There are modifications of symptoms, and 
 states of the system, which they indicate, that require 
 more nicety of discrimination than the looseness of lan- 
 guage will admit of expressing. Hence, there are many 
 results of the observation of an experienced physician, 
 which he cannot easily communicate to others, though he 
 finds them valuable in assisting him in his own practice. 
 " Much," says Armstrong, " must at all times be left to 
 the discretion of practitioners, since it is impossible to 
 embody in books, all that can be observed at the bedside, 
 respecting those nice distinctions of symptoms, on which 
 a good or bad practice may be founded." Such things 
 each one must learn by his own observation, if at all. 
 Every physician, therefore, has before him the Herculean 
 task of tracing out the paths of medical science, in the 
 same way, that others have done before him, without 
 reaping, in many respects, any advantage from their la- 
 bours. 
 
 An important advantage of an habitual observation of 
 symptoms is, that it teaches us the various modes of de- 
 tecting symptoms, what expressions patients use to denote 
 various kinds of suffering, how to detect it when they do 
 
276 A DISSERTATION 
 
 not express it, and thus to depend less on the candor, ao 
 curacy, and intelligence of patients and their attendants, 
 than we otherwise must do. There are various obstacles 
 f" to the discovery of symptoms, which render some assis- 
 tance of this kind necessary. Accurate observation on 
 the part of the attendants is often wanting, though highly 
 important, inasmuch as it is desirable, not only to observe 
 the state of the symptoms, at the moment, when we are 
 examining the patient, but also to learn, what changes 
 may be at other times taking place. We may fail in learn- 
 ing what we wish from the patient, on account of his nat- 
 ural stupidity, or from the cloud, which disease throws 
 over his faculties, making him unable either to think, or to 
 express himself clearly. The patient may also be wholly 
 insensible, and hence incapable of giving any account of 
 himself, or the age of infancy or early childhood may 
 prevent our learning as much as we could from an adult 
 subject. The irritability of the patient may greatly em- 
 barrass our examination, especially when he is so critical- 
 ly situated, that a slight disturbance is liable to be follow- 
 ed by serious consequences. In many instances of this 
 kind, the physician is in need of what is so captivating 
 with many people, viz. the faculty of determining the na- 
 ture and circumstances of the case by such an examina- 
 tion, as can be made without asking any questions. It is 
 probable, that with sufficient attention, this power might 
 be acquired in a much greater degree, than it usually is, 
 and might often be made use of with great advantage. 
 Much might be learnt from the state of the pulse, tongue 
 and skin, from the evacuations, from the expression of 
 the countenance, from the tone of the voice, from the re- 
 spiration and its different affections, as dyspnoea, cough 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 
 
 277 
 
 &/C. from the appearance of the eyes, from the motions 
 and positions of the patient, and from such kinds of local 
 examinations, as are appropriate to particular parts of the 
 body, such as percussion, or the stethoscope on the tho- 
 rax, pressure on the abdomen, and the usual examinations 
 with the ringers for detecting the fluctuation of fluids. 
 It is probable, that many empirics, and unenlightened 
 practitioners acquire a greater facility in this kind of ex- 
 amination, or even a more cursory one, than is usually 
 acquired by regularly educated physicians. For the em- 
 piric, being ignorant of the laws, which govern the hu- 
 man body in health and disease, and ignorant of what the 
 experience of others has shown with regard to the discrim- 
 ination and treatment of diseases, has a smaller variety of 
 subjects, claiming his attention, than the enlightened 
 practitioner. From this cause, and from the want of re- 
 flection, which must usually characterize this class of 
 practitioners, all the powers of his mind, whatever they 
 may be, are concentrated upon his own experience, and 
 in a great degree, upon the sensations, he receives in ex- 
 amining the symptoms of his patient. His perceptions, 
 therefore, become more accurate, and he learns to distin- 
 guish varieties of sensation, which would not be obvious, 
 if his attention were partly called off by any regular train 
 of reflections on the nature of the disease, and the ration- 
 al mode of treatment. This sort of mechanical dexterity 
 may often be of great service to the physician. But we 
 rarely find a great degree of it, combined with extensive 
 reading, sound reasoning, and the habitual exercise of 
 close reflection. Without these attendants, it would be 
 comparatively useless, though it would be a valuable ad- 
 juvant to them. The empiric, who has obtained this dex- 
 24 
 
278 A DISSERTATION 
 
 terity, will not be able by its assistance to point out the 
 nature of the complaint or its appropriate treatment. For 
 the most part, he merely learns by experience, that cer- 
 tain appearances, presented by the patient, indicate, that 
 he has certain sensations, or that certain symptoms, 
 which are discovered by examination alone, indicate the 
 presence of certain other symptoms, which could not oth- 
 erwise have been learnt without inquiry. These two 
 things may perhaps be connected in his mind by such in- 
 distinct associations, that though he may sometimes be 
 able by looking on a patient, to tell, with tolerable accura- 
 cy, what painful sensations that patient has ; yet he may 
 be unable to tell, what it is in the appearance of the pa- 
 tient, which induces him to believe, that he has such sen- 
 sations. Now, if the treatment could be managed in the 
 same way with the detection of the symptoms, if certain 
 appearances in the patient led by the same indistinct asso- 
 ciations to the performance of certain manoeuvres for his 
 relief, this mechanical sleight might in a good measure 
 supply the place of science in the practice of medicine. 
 Possibly the success of that class of empirics, called boiie- 
 etters, may in part depend on something like this. The 
 sensations, which they receive in their examination of a 
 dislocated bone, may lead by some indistinct association 
 to that direction of their efforts at extension and counter- 
 extension, which they have before found successful in a 
 similar case. But this method will not be successful in 
 the common practice of medicine and surgery. Before 
 we can safely proceed in the treatment, we must under- 
 stand more distinctly, what morbid state of the system, 
 or of any particular part of the system exists, and what 
 remedies theory or experience point out to obviate such 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 279 
 
 states. Besides, the numberless forms, under which 
 the same disease presents itself, and the resemblance, 
 which the symptoms of different diseases bear to each 
 other, render any other method of proceeding than this 
 extremely hazardous. It is important then, for every 
 physician to obtain as much dexterity in the detection of 
 symptoms, as is consistent with maintaining a proper ex- 
 ercise of his rational powers. But it is better to be slight- 
 ly deficient in dexterity, than to lack that general knowl- 
 edge, which will often supply its place, but without which, 
 it can be of but little service. 
 
 A comprehensive, accurate and simple classification of 
 symptoms would be of great utility, particularly if, as has 
 been proposed, a table of this kind were constructed, 
 having reference to another, which should contain a class- 
 ification of diseases. The arrangement of symptoms 
 would be attended with some of the same difficulties, 
 which render nosology imperfect Symptoms and diseas- 
 es are not, like the objects of natural history, distinct be- 
 ings, but modifications of the composition, structure, prop- 
 erties and functions of living bodies. As far as we are 
 able to observe, they consist for the most part in actions, 
 using that term in its most extensive and somewhat inde- 
 finite sense. But actions, if they were regular and dis- 
 tinct, might be classified with accuracy, as well as plants 
 and animals. Hence we find various classifications of the 
 healthy functions. The objects of Natural History have 
 certain characters, which are well-marked and distinct, 
 and an individual can never change from one species to 
 another. At least all the changes, of which it is suscep- 
 tible, as that of the chrysalis into the butterfly, are limit- 
 ed, and may be accurately defined. The processes of the 
 
280 A DISSERTATION 
 
 animal body are different in this respect. They are sus- 
 ceptible of an infinite number of irregularities, may be in- 
 creased, diminished, suspended or altered, may be mixed 
 and blended with each other, and all these changes take 
 place without the least order. Now it is these very irreg- 
 ularities, which it is wished to reduce to order in the clas- 
 sification of diseases and of symptoms. We can tell the 
 courses and distances, which a traveller has gone, if he 
 has kept the main road, for it is but one. But we cannot 
 trace him, if he has not kept the main road, for he may 
 have left it at any point and diverged at any angle. In 
 the same way, we may enumerate all the regular process- 
 es, that are carried on in the living body, but cannot 
 enumerate all the aberrations from the healthy standard, 
 for they are infinite in number. We may carry the simile 
 farther, Though the functions may be changed and dis- 
 eased in every form and every degree, yet there are cer- 
 tain kinds and degrees of changes, which are most fre- 
 quently observed, and which may be made the subjects of 
 a sort of arrangement, just as the principal cross-roads 
 and bye-paths, by which the traveller would most proba- 
 bly leave the main road can be enumerated, though every 
 possible deviation cannot. It is in this way, that symp- 
 toms and diseases can be classified, though not with ex- 
 actness. A classification of symptoms would probably 
 present another difficulty, which constitutes one of the 
 imperfections of nosology. I refer to the difficulty of dis- 
 tinguishing between symptoms and primary diseases. 
 Should two tables be constructed^ one consisting of dis- 
 eases, and the other of symptoms, and referring to each 
 other, some affections would be found, which, to answer 
 the best practical purposes, would require a place in both 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 281 
 
 tables. These affections are, such as are symptomatic of 
 other more primary diseases, but are not immediately pre- 
 sented to our view, their existence being discovered by 
 the presence of other symptoms, while at the same time, 
 it is of importance, that they should be known. Many of 
 these affections would be such as are sometimes primary, 
 and would, therefore, be placed in the table of diseases. 
 But if the object of the tables be to assist us in our diag- 
 nosis, all affections, that are ever symptomatic, though 
 sometimes primary, should be arranged among the symp- 
 toms ; for a symptomatic disease may sometimes be of as 
 much importance in the diagnosis, as what may be called 
 the elementary symptoms, such as frequency of the pulse. 
 On the other hand, though an affection is never consider- 
 ed as primary, yet, if it is not obvious to inspection, but 
 is discovered by other more external appearances, it should 
 so far be considered as a disease, inasmuch as it may be 
 as important to know its symptoms, as to know those of a 
 primary disease. Ascites as a symptom of organic dis- 
 ease has been mentioned as an example. An affection is 
 most purely a symptom, when it is directly exposed to ob- 
 servation, is the effect of some primary affection, is in it- 
 self productive of no inconvenience or danger, and is of no 
 importance, except as it points out the affection, which 
 produced it. Frequency, hardness &,c. of the pulse are 
 fair examples of this. But cases may occur, intermediate 
 between these and primary diseases, which cases, though 
 having somewhat of the character of symptoms, may not 
 be purely • so. These affections may be secondary, and 
 may be important, only as far as they point out the origin- 
 al disease, which produced them ; and in this light they 
 appear as symptoms. But on the other hand, though sec- 
 24* 
 
282 A DISSERTATION 
 
 ondary, the}' may require a careful attention to other 
 symptoms for their detection, and may in themselves be 
 of great importance, or lead to serious consequences, or 
 our treatment may be directed to them exclusively. It 
 would appear proper, that most affections, to which the 
 treatment is principally directed, should be practically 
 considered as diseases, though this may not be consistent 
 with scientific correctness. If tetanus and convulsions 
 could be proved to be always owing to local irritations, 
 still they consist as much in a morbid change of the ac- 
 tions of the voluntary muscles, as inflammation does in a 
 change in the action of the capillaries. Why may they 
 not as much be considered as diseases, if their exciting 
 cause be some morbid change within the body, as if it 
 had been wholly external ? Some diseases, which are 
 sometimes produced by external causes, are at other times 
 produced by other diseases. Why may not these latter 
 be considered as remote causes like external agents? 
 And why may not tetanus and convulsions be considered as 
 diseases, excited by certain other maladies, which are 
 their only remote causes ? We do not perhaps understand 
 precisely enough the relation between cause and effect, 
 to determine whether a wounded nerve and cutting teeth 
 stand in the same relation to tetanus and convulsions, 
 that what are commonly called remote causes do to the 
 diseases, which they produce. It does not establish any 
 difference to say, that tetanus and convulsions are in these 
 cases produced by sympathy. It has been justly remark- 
 ed by various writers, that sympathy is only a term, under 
 which we conceal our ignorance. When we are told, 
 that a part suffers from sympathy with another, we do not 
 have the connexion between the cause and effect in the 
 
i ON SYMPTOMS. 283 
 
 least degree explained. An inflammation may be produc- 
 ed in the eye, and occasion an opacity of the lens. When 
 the inflammation has subsided, and left only the opacity, 
 this requires an appropriate treatment, totally different 
 from the usual treatment of inflammation, and is to all 
 practical purposes an entirely distinct disease, and not a 
 symptom of inflammation. It is only in the early periods, 
 when by moderating inflammation, we can diminish the 
 danger of opacity, that the proper remedies of inflamma- 
 tion are to be used. When the cataract is produced, it re- 
 quires the same treatment, whether spontaneous, or a se- 
 quel of inflammation. It appears most convenient, that 
 all those collections of symptoms, which are frequently 
 presented to us, even though secondary, should be consid- 
 ered as diseases, particularly if they may arise from other 
 affections, various in their kind, seat, extent and violence, 
 and if they have certain modes of treatment appropriated 
 to them, from whatever cause they may arise. The pri- 
 mary affections may here be practically considered as re- 
 mote causes, which it may be necessary or unnecessary, 
 possible or impossible to remove, as the case may be. 
 These secondary complaints would probably take their 
 places in treatises on diseases, as appearing in certain 
 forms of their primary affections. But on some accounts, 
 it would be more convenient to locate them in the places, 
 in which they would belong, if arranged according to 
 their most prominent symptoms, especially, when they 
 may be excited by various other affections, as it would be 
 impossible to determine, to which of these they should be 
 attached, or rather they should be attached to neither ex- 
 clusively. After what has been said of tetanus, convul- 
 sions and cataract, it may not perhaps be necessary to ih 
 lustrate farther by particular examples. 
 
284 A DISSERTATION 
 
 Various methods might be proposed for the classifica- 
 tion of symptoms. A classification of the functions might 
 be assumed as a basis, and the various deviations from the 
 healthy state of the functions be taken up in order, some- 
 what like the arrangement of diseases by Dr ? Good. 
 Some of the same difficulties would be found appertaining 
 to both from the various functions being so closely con- 
 nected with and mutually dependent upon each other. 
 Thus the production of the bile, which is a secretion, 
 constitutes a part of the digestive function, and the san- 
 guineous function is intimately connected with most of 
 the others. The difficulty from this source would not be 
 so great in the arrangement of symptoms as of diseases, 
 for we find a derangement of several distinct, and, in a 
 certain sense, independent functions in the same disease, 
 but not in the same symptom. Having assumed the de- 
 rangement of any function as constituting a class, order, 
 or genus of symptoms, the particular symptoms, which 
 constitute the species or varieties, should be stated as we 
 observe them, and not as being the effect of certain kinds 
 of derangement ; for this would be leading us too far from 
 the phenomena. For example, if disturbance of the ac- 
 tion of the heart and arteries be a division, under which 
 the varieties of the pulse are to be arranged, we should 
 not consider these varieties as depending upon laxity, 
 firmness, rigidity, or spasmodic contraction of the arteries, 
 as these are the subjects of inference, not of observation. 
 They should be considered simply as hardness, strength, 
 fulness, weakness, softness &x. of the pulse, which terms 
 denote impressions made upon the sense of touch. As 
 some sets of symptoms would require more minute subdi- 
 vision than others, the genera and species of one class 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 285 
 
 would not precisely correspond to those of another. On 
 this account some symptoms might be best arranged by 
 means of arbitrary divisions, in which they might be made 
 to take their stand more according to their importance. 
 In this plan, the states of the pulse, tongue, skin, alvine 
 evacuations, sensations, mental functions &,c. might be 
 made the heads of different divisions. The different 
 modes, in which the symptoms become known to the phy- 
 sician, viz. by inquiry — by inspection — by the sensation 
 of touch — by percussion — by pressure &c. would in some 
 respects form a convenient foundation for arrangement. 
 The division of symptoms into constitutional and local 
 might also be introduced, and of the latter into those, 
 which arise immediately from the affected part, and from 
 the mechanical, functional and sympathetic relations of 
 parts with each other. Some symptoms, in fact, might be 
 most conveniently arranged on one of these plans, and 
 some on another. Since it would be difficult or impossi- 
 ble, to form a classification, which should be at once the 
 most scientifically correct, and most useful in application, 
 would it be improper to arrange some classes on one plan, 
 and some on another — provided it should be found, that 
 different classes of symptoms could not be conveniently 
 arranged on the same method, and especially if any 
 quoddam commune vinculum, and any peculiar characters 
 could be found, by which the symptoms arranged accor- 
 ding to one method could be connected together, and dis- 
 tinguished from those arranged in other methods ? For 
 where the. immediate object is practical utility, regularity 
 of method must be made to yield, if it cannot be preserv- 
 ed consistently with this principal object. In the classi- 
 fication of symptoms, as in the description of diseases, it 
 
286 A DISSERTATION 
 
 is necessary, that the changes of symptoms, and the order, 
 in which they succeed each other, should find a place. 
 For the description of a disease, in one stage will not ena- 
 ble us to recognize it at every period. Hence one diffi- 
 culty in describing a disease by a short definition. Yet 
 the order of succession is sometimes so essential, that it 
 enters even into concise definitions of some diseases, par- 
 ticularly the exanthematica. In making the changes of 
 symptoms a part of definitions, however, it should be con- 
 sidered, what end there is any hope of attaining in noso- 
 logical systems. If the object be to enable the practition- 
 er to recognize the disease in every case, by means of a 
 short definition, the case is a hopeless one, for it can be 
 effected only by means of a full and lengthy description. 
 But if the object of the writer in his definition be merely 
 to make his reader understand what disease he means, 
 and to enable him to recognize it in what may be called 
 its most perfect state, and if the object of nosology be to 
 prevent the confusion of treating of diseases without any 
 order, the end could be more easily and perfectly attain- 
 ed. And this is as much as is effected by the classifica- 
 tion of plants and animals. Nor should we declaim too 
 loudly against nosology, becasse it effects no more than 
 this. Does nosology fail in enabling us to recognize a 
 disease in every stage 1 and does it sometimes fail in ena- 
 bling us to recognize it at any period, when it is modified 
 by age, sex and constitution ? Neither does the Linnean 
 arrangement enable us to distinguish to what class a plant 
 belongs at every moment from the first of its germination 
 to the last of decay. It is only during a short period of 
 its existence, that a plant .possesses those parts, upon the 
 number, situation and proportion of which its class de- 
 
ON SYMPTOMS. 287 
 
 pends. The changes produced in it by cultivation may 
 even render it impossible for us to determine its class at 
 any period. Does nosology fail to inform us of those va- 
 rieties of disease, those slight shades of difference, on 
 which our treatment in a great measure depends, and 
 how diseases are modified by climate and other similar 
 causes ? Neither does the gardener learn from the Lin- 
 nean classification the different characters of a plant, and 
 its different decrees of fitness for furnishing him with ar- 
 tides of necessity, convenience or luxury, at different pe- 
 riods of its growth, and under different circumstances of 
 soil and culture, warmth, wind and moisture. When we 
 consider these circumstances in regard to the classifi- 
 cation of plants, we need not be surprised, that nosologi- 
 cal systems have failed in being of much use in the diag- 
 nosis of diseases. When we add the embarrassments 
 produced by the irregularity of disease, we shall hardly 
 expect that the classification of diseases will ever answer 
 this end, unless it be accompanied, as has been proposed, 
 by a table of symptoms. 
 
288 Johnson's lives 
 
 COGITATIONS 02* BOOKS. 
 
 It was the practice of the author, during several of the last years 
 of his life, to write criticisms on the books which he perused in the 
 course of his miscellaneous or medical reading — containing the reflec- 
 tions suggested by the subject, and, when his own opinions differed 
 from those of the author, the reasons of that difference. 
 
 These u Cogitations" were found among his manuscripts after his 
 death, and appear to have been written, not for the public eye, but 
 merely for the purpose of preserving the thoughts suggested at the 
 moment, and aiding his own mind in its search after truth. They 
 show the valuable method of reading which he pursued. They ap- 
 pear to have been written at the moment of perusal and never revised. 
 
 Most of these criticisms are on the medical works which he read 
 during his professional studies. In his remarks on these books, he 
 fearlessly, though modestly, combats the practices, which he deems 
 pernicious, though established by long custom, and the opinions, 
 which he deems erroneous, though sanctioned by the highest authori- 
 ty. But these are too voluminous to be published in a work of this 
 kind. The following miscellaneous criticisms are selected, which are 
 deemed the most interesting t« the general reader. 
 
 JOHNSON'S L.IVES OF THE POETS. 
 
 The poetical writers, whose memoirs are related, and 
 whose writings are criticised in this work, flourished from 
 the early part of the seventeenth to the middle of the 
 eighteenth century. Biographical sketches of different 
 classes of men are useful, as they show us what charac- 
 ters, habits and feelings are the result and the cause of 
 the various tastes and occupations. Most of the subjects 
 of this work have been engaged in political life, some in 
 the clerical profession, and two or three in the medical. 
 Of the last are Blackmore, Garth and Akenside. Ths 
 fortunes of a large proportion of the poets seem to bar* 
 been as variable as their poetic flights. This was a nee* 
 essary consequence of their being, for the most part, des- 
 titute of estates, or of any regular employment, which 
 might afford them a support — and dependent for their 
 
OF THE POET 
 
 maintenance on the generosity of patrons or the caprice 
 of readers and hearers. To this it may be added, that 
 the modes of life, to which their circumstances led them, 
 were very ill calculated to qualify them for the improve- 
 ment and preservation of property. It is not improbable 
 from these circumstances, that poets have become prover- 
 bial for their poverty. The moral characters of the poets 
 were not of that kind, which one would expect, as the 
 offspring of those fine feeliugs and delicate sensibilities, 
 which their works display, and by which they are enabled 
 to touch the sympathies of almost every heart. But the 
 truth is — it is one thing for a poet to create a world to his 
 own liking — fill it with the most beautiful sorrow and ro- 
 mantic distress — and delight himself with the luxury of 
 weeping over the fancied miseries of imaginary beings — 
 and it is another thing to go forward in the world, in 
 which we are placed — in the fortitude of real benevolence 
 — unmoved by the calumnies of enemies — the ingratitude 
 of those Ave would serve — to seek the abode of squalid 
 want — or the filthy recesses of vice, and there administer 
 to the necessities of the needy. It is one thing to exer- 
 cise one's ingenuity to invest a fictitious hero with an un- 
 shaken morality, which costs the writer no self-denial — 
 it is another thing to exercise one's fortitude, in resisting 
 the allurements of vice, when clothed in its most fascinat- 
 ing garb — incessantly and unweariedly impelling to giati- 
 fications, which the frailty o{ human nature could hardly 
 resist. It is somewhat humiliating to see one. whom we 
 consider so amiable as Addison, driving off his natural 
 diffidence by the excessive use of artificial stimuli — or 
 looking with jealousy and indignation on the rising repu- 
 tation of those, whom he dreads as rivals. 
 25 
 
290 Johnson's lives of the poets, 
 
 The task of criticising poetry must be a somewhat dif- 
 ficult one. The immediate object of poetry .is to excite 
 certain feelings in the mind, and that, which is best adapt- 
 ed to excite such feelings, is the best. But in this, much 
 depends on the reader, as well as the writer. A person, 
 whose imagination or whose passions are excited, finds 
 every where some chord to vibrate in unison with that, 
 which is attuned in himself — while the most beautiful 
 description — the most tender pathos may be wasted on 
 one, who is not in a state to receive impressions of this 
 nature. There must then be a great difficulty in judging 
 of poetry by the effect it is found to produce. If we at- 
 tempt to anticipate the effect by the application of rules 
 previously formed, the labor will not always be much 
 lightened. For the imagination or the passions are not 
 very easily subjected to the rules of criticism. For though 
 the authority of a critic will make a poem produce on ma- 
 ny readers, as animal magnetism did upon many patients, 
 the expected effects, merely because it was expected — yet, 
 the effects on all will not be the same — and many will no 
 more be affected by being told that a passage must not 
 excite the feelings, because it offends the laws of criticism, 
 than a nauseated patient would be prevented from vomit- 
 ing a medicine, because the books did not give it the 
 name of an emetic. 
 
 The " Lives of the Poets" is interspersed with many 
 useful and pertinent remarks, which are worthy of the 
 great name by which they are promulgated. The style is 
 for the most part simple, as plain narration should be. 
 Observations, which are meant to convey any sentiments, 
 are made with great force and aptness. 
 
 Dr. Johnson does not, for the most part, seem to be un- 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S REMAINS. 291 
 
 der the dominion of powerful prejudices, with relation to 
 the principal subjects of the work, and hence seems to 
 point out candidly both faults and beauties, without be- 
 stowing either unlimited praise or unlimited censure. 
 
 Jan. 1825. 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S REMAINS. 
 
 In White we find one of the most striking instances of 
 sarly developement of talents, and that in an extraordina- 
 ry degree. His early productions are by no means confin- 
 ed to descriptive writings — nor do they depend upon epi- 
 thets for their beauty. On the contrary, they abound in 
 the finest sentiment, and his diction, instead of being dec- 
 orated with clumsy clusters of epithets, presents a force of 
 expression — a nervous conciseness, which at his age is un- 
 paralleled, at least as far as my reading enables me to 
 judge. His own style is a good example of what he often 
 in his letters recommends to others* For he never hides 
 his meaning under a useless load of words. Though he 
 knows well enough how to make use of classical terms, 
 and epithets, and high sounding phrases, yet his principal 
 forte, as it regards style, consists in expressing his mean- 
 ing clearly — concisely — and energetically. He exempli- 
 fies the facility which an accurate acquaintance with lan- 
 guage gives one of communicating (I might perhaps say 
 of understanding) his thoughts. His thoughts tend 
 strongly to a melancholy cast. This, I am inclined to 
 think, depends at least as much on his situation in life, as 
 on the natural tendency of his mind. For his composi- 
 tion is of a firmer and closer texture, than we usually find 
 in writings of that description ; and his frequent soarings 
 
292 HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S REMAINS. 
 
 into the sublime — his vagaries into the original — his plung- 
 ings into the terrible — mark a genius, which, in similar 
 circumstances, might have given rise to productions not 
 altogether unlike the gloomy — the powerful — the splendid 
 effusions of a Byron. From the appearance of his pieces, 
 and the few opportunities 'he had for writing them, he 
 must have had a remarkable facility in composition, both 
 prosaic and poetical. His general literary attainments 
 appear to have been of the greatest extent, and the highest 
 order. 
 
 In common with many others, he had a veneration for 
 the ancients, perhaps full as great as they deserve — not 
 that many of their writings possess not the first degree of 
 merit — but I am apt to think that distance of time and 
 difference of language bestow an air of classical romance 
 on the literature of the ancients, which gives it an appa- 
 rent importance, that does not belong to it in reality. 
 White was fully aware of the immoral tendency of the 
 writings of Moore and Streingford, but overlooked the 
 lewdness of Horace and Ovid, both of whom he occasion- 
 ally quoted, and whose era was probably included in the 
 "period, when " the muse dipped her hardy wing in the 
 chastest dews of Castalia, and spoke nothing, but what 
 had a tendency to confirm and invigorate the manly ar- 
 dor of a virtuous mind."* The Deities of the ancient 
 poets, who should have appeared with the most unblem- 
 ished majesty of character, are uniformly tainted with the 
 grossest vices. In the Iliad, we are the most interested 
 in favour of the party which fights for the adulterer ;' and 
 "Pius /Eneas," with all the purity of character which 
 Virgil could throw about him, must be found guilty of the 
 name sin. 
 
 *H. K. White's Remains, vol i. page 193. 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE* S REMAINS. 293 
 
 With ancient philosophy Henry appears to have been 
 somewhat captivated. Hence we find, that in " Melan- 
 choly Hours" No. 3, he casts a sort of sneer on experi- 
 mental philosophy. Speaking in the person of Melan- 
 choly he says — " I was the bosom friend of Plato, and 
 other illustrious sages of antiquity, and was then often 
 known by the name of philosophy, though in present 
 times, when that title is usurped by mere makers of exper- 
 iments, and inventors of blacking-cakes, &c." I say 
 speaking in the person of Melancholy, for it is evident, 
 that he approves the sentiments, which he puts into her 
 mouth — and what he meant by the words just quoted, un- 
 less it was to speak highly of the comparative merit of an- 
 cient philosophy, I am at a loss to determine. It is not 
 improbable, that his ambition for literary eminence, which 
 he occasionally laments, gave him an undue partiality to 
 those studies, which were most likely to gain for him a 
 classical reputation. 
 
 His reading, both ancient and modern, must have been 
 very extensive. It is said that he left behind him essays 
 on various scientific subjects. It is a pity, they were not 
 given to the world. Every thing, which could help to 
 fill out the map of such a mind, would be interesting ; 
 and where there is a failure, it should be known, as well 
 as his excellencies. 
 
 I do not perceive, that any of his " Remains" discover 
 any peculiar accuracy in his reasoning powers. He has 
 indeed the faculty (a happy one truly) of placing his ideas 
 in their clearest light, and giving them the most advan- 
 tageous representation. 
 
 The circumstances, in which he was placed, liad un- 
 doubtedly an influence on his literary attainments, which 
 25* 
 
294 burns' life and writings*. 
 
 was rather favourable to them than otherwise. With that 
 constitution of mind which he possessed, he could not be 
 contented, unless engaged in literary pursuits — and to en- 
 able him to prosecute them, the assistance of others was 
 necessary. Had he not given evidence of extraordinary 
 talents, this assistance would have been withholden. 
 From this, joined to an ambition, which no circumstances 
 could repress, resulted those habits of indefatigable indus- 
 try, those mightiest exertions of his mighty genius, which 
 bought for him the high standing which he possessed in 
 the literary world. By the assistance, which he thus ob- 
 tained, he was placed in a situation, where he had great 
 opportunities of cultivating his mind. 
 
 His feelings appear to have been occasionally subjected 
 to higher degrees of excitement, than human nature could 
 endure, with impunity. He lived much in a short time, 
 and hence perhaps one reason, why the resources of life 
 were so soon exhausted. In him were united genius and 
 application. Both contributed to give him an early niche 
 in the temple of fame — both contributed to give him an 
 early shroud in the mansions of the tomb. 
 
 Boston, Dec. 16, 1824. 
 
 BURNS' LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 Few modern poets merit the title of Poet of Nature, 
 better than Burns. Most of the beauties of his writings 
 are the reflections immediately suggested to him by his 
 own views of the scenes of creation, of the occurrences of 
 life, and of Human Nature. His genius was quite of an 
 erratic character. He does not appear to have disciplined 
 
BURNS 5 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 295 
 
 his mind in any great degree to habits of regular reflec- 
 tion. Whatever of truth, and of nature, there is in his 
 writings, he owes to the boldness and originality of his 
 conceptive powers, to an uncommon depth of penetration, 
 to a mind always on the alert in observing men and things, 
 and to an acquaintance with the human heart thence re- 
 sulting, which taught him what views of his paintings 
 would strike the " mind's eye" most vividly. His imagi- 
 nation was ardent. He had a warm, open, and generous 
 heart. In appearance, he was always ready to lay all his 
 feelings and sentiments open to inspection. But I should 
 feel a suspicion, that he frequently saw fit to follow the 
 advice he gives his friend. Vol. 3d, p. 116. 
 
 u Ay free, aff nan' your story tell, 
 When wP a bosom cronny ; 
 But still keep something to yourself 
 Ye'll scarcely tell to ony." 
 
 We certainly find him frequently expressing an unwav- 
 ering confidence in the Christian religion, and a deep 
 sense of its importance. Yet, on the other hand, the ten- 
 or of his life ran in a great degree counter to its injunc- 
 tions. He often treats what he himself considers to be its 
 truths, with the greatest levity and irreverence ; in some 
 of his letters expresses great doubts of the truth of the re- 
 ligion, and even on some occasions expresses himself in 
 such a manner, as would lead us to infer, that he was a 
 downright infidel. Some of these inconsistencies indeed 
 are to be explained from the variable state of his feelings. 
 He seems to have generally spoken, written and acted too 
 much under momentary influence. That he saw, in what 
 points his conduct was erroneous, appears from various 
 parti of his writings. 
 
'296 burns' lm and writings. 
 
 The character of Burns, notwithstanding all that Peter- 
 kin has said of him, was in many points, highly reprehen- 
 sible. Yet there was in him so much of good feeling and 
 even of punctilious honesty, (a trait very uncommon in 
 characters otherwise resembling his) that there is no one 
 but must wish to draw a veil over his vices. The tenden- 
 cy of his writings must in some cases be rather immoral. 
 Unfortunate is it for the inexperienced, or those of strong 
 passions, when such fascinating writers as Burns, present 
 vice in forms so alluring, and conceal its disgusting feat- 
 ures under the dress of pleasure. 
 
 The writer, to whom morality appears as important as 
 it ought, will never present vice to his reader's view, with- 
 out showing in their most vivid colouring, its most odious 
 characters and most appalling consequences. It adds 
 much to the boldness of many of Burns' conceptions and 
 expressions, that he never feared to use the words which 
 expressed his meaning most forcibly. A greater reverence 
 for decorum, morality and religion might have detracted 
 in some cases from his merits of this kind. The Scottish 
 dialect is peculiarly adapted to the expression of some 
 ^characters, for which Burns was remarkable, especially 
 simplicity — and sometimes pathos. To the sublime it is 
 not so appropriate. It adds often to the force of wit. 
 There appears to me, however, an incongruity, in the 
 mixture of Scottish with pure English, in the same piece. 
 It appears to me that either the whole piece should be 
 pure English, or else every word should be Scottish, 
 where the same words are not common to both. But in 
 some pieces the language consists mostly of English, with 
 an occasional wha, na, ken, ilka, &,c, just by way of re- 
 minding us, that the author is writing in the Scottish dia- 
 
burns' life and writings. 297 
 
 lect. We see occasionally the same fault in pieces at- 
 tempted to be written in antiquated style. The writers, 
 having introduced hight, yclept, ne, and a few such words 
 in the beginning, at length find their patience exhausted, 
 and go on in plain English ; or if there are a few antiqua- 
 ted phrases, they are scattered as thinly as the raisins in a 
 stingy landlady's pudding. This remark applies, if* I re-' 
 collect right, to Byron's Childe Harold, and Thompson's 
 Castle of Indolence. It appears tome a great fault in 
 Burns, that he is too much inclined to mix the ludicrous 
 with the sublime, the pathetic, and other more serious 
 characters. Who, for instance, in readincr " Tarn 
 O'Shanter" after being either amused or shocked by his 
 description of auld Nick fiddling, is prepared for the hor- 
 ribly sublime description which follows ? 
 
 The talents of Burns were not confined to any one des- 
 cription of poetic writing. The pathetic and the simple, 
 were, however, the qualities for which he was most re- 
 markable. He is, however, far from wanting sublimity, 
 and if he had written in a more stately dialect than the 
 Scottish, his writings would probably have afforded more 
 frequent and more remarkable instances of sublimity. 
 
 In the ludicrous he was often very happy ; but he made 
 too much use of religion to set off his wit. It is not with- 
 out some truth that Johnson says of this kind of wit, that 
 " the good man dreads it for its profanity, and the man of 
 wit despises it for its vulgarity/' He seems to have want- 
 ed stability sufficient to enable him to plan and execute his 
 work on a large scale. Hence he has spent (I had almost 
 said wasted) his genius on the short and often trivial pro* 
 ductions, which constitute his works.* 
 
 Attleborough, Nov. 23, 1825. 
 *See note 2. 
 
298 byron's works. 
 
 BYRON'S WORKS. 
 
 Among the good and bad, which is so strangely mixed 
 together in the writings of Lord Byron, I think the bad 
 decidedly predominates. They exhibit, undoubtedly, 
 great strength of talent, great penetration, an ardent im- 
 agination, and an acute observation of mankind. His 
 talents considered abstractly as poetical, are undoubtedly 
 of the first order. But there is an unpleasant misanthrop- 
 ic gloom pervading most of his writings, which is revolt- 
 ing to a benevolent mind. Almost all his characters are 
 a strange compound of virtue and vice. So far very well, 
 for this corresponds very well with human character. But 
 then he uses every method to interest us in their welfare, 
 as much as if they were perfectly upright. He delights 
 in trifling with the feelings — in leaving us in doubt wheth- 
 er to detest or pity — and in challenging both compassion 
 and admiration, at the same time that he excites our ab- 
 horrence. But this is not all. Not contented with tortur- 
 ing the sympathies by such uncouth mixture of serious 
 feelings, he must needs add the most wanton levity. The 
 nost singular instances of this kind are found in the poem 
 of " The Island." In one place having excited our inter- 
 est in the mutineers, where they were in a desperate situ- 
 ation or nearly so, he suddenly breaks into some ludicrous 
 remarks on a profane exclamation, which escaped from 
 one of them. The death of Christian is, if possible, still 
 worse. He dies in the very act of committing a deed of 
 the most fiend-like malice — a deed, at which he smiles 
 with savage delight at the moment, he is about to be dash- 
 ed to pieces — then comes a horrible description of his 
 death and the appearance of his corpse. Horror, abhorr- 
 
byron's works. 299 
 
 ence, and compassion seem to be struggling for predomi- 
 nance during this barbarous sport of the writer with the 
 feelings of the reader, and when he has said, " 'tis ours 
 to bear, not judge the dead," we wish to drop the subject. 
 But we are not allowed to do this. The ill-natured re- 
 mark, which follows, completes the whole of this more 
 than barbarous description. 
 
 The peculiar talent of Byron seems to be that of por- 
 traying and exciting the feelings in their greatest possible 
 intensity. In this perhaps he is unrivalled. There is no 
 tameness about him. The feelings are wound up to the 
 highest pitch ; and when thus wound up, he keeps them 
 there, or sports with them in mockery, as may best suit 
 his fancy. 
 
 His dramatic are inferior to his other poems. In his 
 Sardanapalus the character of the king is admirably exe- 
 cuted. He has contrived, without representing any thing 
 inconsistent, to excite our interest for that disgusting and 
 effeminate nothing, for whom no one could believe, that 
 he should ever feel any concern. Some of the scenes in 
 Cain are very touching. The cool blasphemy of Cain, 
 when offering his sacrifice, is horrible, but done with tal- 
 ent. Manfred, The Deformed Transformed, and Heaven 
 and Earth are (a great part of them at least) an unnatu- 
 ral, heterogeneous, chaotic, unintelligible, unmeaning 
 rant, resembling more the ravings of a madman, or the in- 
 consistent imagery of dreams, than any thing else. The 
 measure in his plays is very faulty. The number of the 
 syllables is often incorrect, and the alternation of long and 
 short still more frequently violated. 
 
 But while he is guilty of all this carelessness in the 
 measure of his lines, he generally takes care (what 
 
300 rollin's ancient history. 
 
 seems perfectly useless) that where the speeches consist of 
 only two or three words apiece, they shall follow each oth- 
 er, so as to make regular lines, and even if a scene leaves 
 off in the middle of a line, the beginning of the next scene 
 takes up the line at the same place and finishes it, though 
 the place and speakers be changed, as in Werner, Act 3d, 
 beginning of scene 3d. Perhaps other dramatists follow 
 the same custom as well as Byron, but to me it looks ab- 
 surd. Feb. 1827. 
 
 KOXiLJN'S ANCIENT HISTORY. 
 
 In writing his Ancient History Rollin appears to have 
 followed, in many respects, the style of ancient historians. 
 His book abounds with various, often prolix reflections on 
 the events of which he is treating. I think he cannot be 
 exposed to the charge of plagiarism, for he is constantly 
 reminding us, that his remarks are not his own, but bor- 
 rowed from Polybius, Plutarch, 6lc. Few, in fact, of his 
 reflections appear to be original, and for all his most apt 
 and striking ones, he confesses himself indebted to the 
 ncients, notwithstanding the mean idea, he entertains of 
 pagan morality. It is unquestionably a praise worthy-act 
 in him to give credit for what he borrows from others, but 
 this might be sufficiently done by references to the bot- 
 tom of the page ; whereas, he is incessantly reminding us 
 of it in the text, till what first seems like a laudable can- 
 dour, at last becomes tiresome, and almost degenerates 
 into disgusting affectation. Some rhetorician, I have for- 
 gotten who, has said, that no moralizing remarks should 
 be introduced into an historical narrative, except as pa- 
 rentheses, or included in the same sentence with some 
 
rollin's ancient history. 301 
 
 statement essential to the narrative. This rule Rollin has 
 certainly violated in numberless instances — so much so, 
 that Henry Kirke White complains, that the reader forgets 
 the subject of the history, while the poor man is prosing 
 about it. It may be a disputed point, how far the histori- 
 an should be indulged in liberties of this kind. On the 
 one hand, the events recorded in history afford ample op- 
 portunities for the exemplification of the most important 
 truths and duties of morality and religion ; and, at what 
 time, it may be asked, can the attention be more effectual- 
 ly turned to these truths and these duties, than when we 
 are interested in a narrative, with which they are inti- 
 mately connected ? Whenever the mind is in a proper 
 state to receive such impressions, it is proper to make 
 them, without being too fastidious as to the occasion, 
 which may or may not require them. Though the reader 
 may not open a history to look for a moral lecture, yet, 
 if he there meets with any reflections, which may lead him 
 to think more seriously, or act more cautiously, he is more 
 benefitted, than he would be by merely learning historical 
 facts. 
 
 On the other hand, it may be observed, that there are 
 opportunities enough for moralizing on other occasions — 
 that we read histories, to gain historical knowledge, not to 
 read a moral discourse from the historian. Whatever is 
 irrelevant, and breaks in upon the regular train of the 
 narrative, may rather tend to disgust, than to instruct us. 
 Those, who are very punctilious on points of this kind, 
 will be so offended, to find the writer continually teazing 
 them with moral lessons, that they will not be in the 
 right frame of mind to profit by them. Even those, who 
 wish to improve at once in knowledge and morality, will 
 26 
 
302 rollin's ancient history. 
 
 choose to make their own moral reflections, rather than to 
 have them urged upon them by another. 
 
 It must be confessed, that Roll in has rather overstep- 
 ped all reasonable bounds He both introduces his sermons 
 awkwardly, and spins them out to a tedious length. They 
 should be so interwoven with the narration, as scarcely to 
 be distinguished from the essential parts of it, like soluble 
 bodies, which dissolve in water, and give to it their own 
 colour, without impairing its transparency, or showing 
 that it contains any foreign body. Whereas many of 
 Rollin's reflections are like insoluble bodies, which by 
 main force can be mixed with water, but which render it 
 turbid, and have no affinity for it. 
 
 Much of the early part of Rollin's History is involved in 
 great doubt and uncertainty. The latter part of it includes 
 some of the most interesting eras, and some of the most 
 brilliant, as well as \.he blackest character. In those ages, 
 human character, less subjected to restraint than in later 
 times, appeared more in its true colours. Virtue and 
 crime appeared in stronger and bolder relief. The imag- 
 ination was not subdued ; and hence the sages and heroes 
 \indulged in flights of enthusiasm, which the tameness of 
 modern times would have restrained. These flights al- 
 though they sometimes led to the most praise-worthy and 
 heroic deeds, yet, on the other hand, often carried them 
 to the wildest extravagance. Much depravity is seen 
 throughout. But there is one period, the latter part of 
 the history of Syria and Egypt — which is almost too hor- 
 rible to think of. The whole history of that period pre- 
 sents but one continued series of murder, incest, cruelty, 
 oppression, and every form and colour of vice in its most 
 hideous aspects. The sanctity of oaths was no barrier to 
 
EXTRACTS. 
 
 303 
 
 those, who were ready to wade to their thrones through 
 the blood of their parents, their brothers, and even of 
 their children. A terrible instance is here shown of the 
 horrible excess, to which human depravity will sometimes 
 rise, when all restraints are taken off. 
 Feb. 1827. 
 
 The following extracts are from a manuscript volume, en- 
 titled 
 AN ASYLUM FOR VAGRANT THOUGHTS, 
 
 AND REFUGE FOR REFUSE IDEAS. 
 
 These are among his last productions. Only a few of the pages 
 are filled. It appears from his introductory remarks, that lie intend- 
 ed to make it a depository for his "desultory reflections" on various 
 subjects. It was intended to introduce more of his miscellaneous 
 prose productions, but the limits prescribed to the work will not per- 
 mit.— Ed. 
 
 11 The storm that wrecks the wintry sky 
 
 u No more disturbs their deep repose, 
 
 u Than summer evening's latest si^h, 
 
 1 That shuts the rose.'' 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 I have often thought, that there were but few verses to 
 be found which at once contain such beautiful and sub- 
 lime imagery, and would stand the test of criticism so well 
 as this. In the first place the subject, viz. the rest of 
 the dead in the grave, is one well calculated to strike the 
 imagination forcibly. How beautifully that " deep re- 
 pose" is here represented, as unaffected by any commo- 
 tions of the elements. Again, one of the images here in- 
 troduced is very sublime — the other very beautiful. A 
 storm, which is here well described, is one of the most 
 awfully grand scenes, that can be witnessed ; while the 
 beautiful stillness of " summer evening" aided by the po- 
 etical decoration of the rose, is one of the most eloquent. 
 
304 EXTRACTS. 
 
 But let us mark with what exquisite delicacy these two 
 images, the one sublime, the other beautiful, are contrast- 
 ed. First, in expression — a storm — the mightiest com- 
 motion, that the winds are capable of producing — on the 
 other hand, a sigh, the gentlest breathing, the slightest 
 motion of the breeze. Next, as to their effects. The 
 one — " wrecks the wintry sky" — sets the elements in an 
 uproar — throws nature into confusion — rendered more ter- 
 rible by the chill blast of winter — the other expends all its 
 faint and feeble power to " shut the rose" in a calm sum- 
 mer evening. Both of these images contain something 
 solemn and melancholy, and therefore well adapted to the 
 subject. Yet how forcibly their most prominent charac- 
 ters are opposed to each other. Let any one recollect 
 the deep and awful gloom, which the storm of winter 
 throws over the feelings, the damp it gives to the airy 
 rovings of fancy and sprightly sallies of wit. Think also 
 of the pleasing and poetical melancholy, connected with 
 the thoughts of a calm and delightful summer's eve. It 
 adds to the merit of the above lines, that they are perfect- 
 ly simple in expression, and contain few or no useless 
 words. No high-sounding epithets are added to give them 
 a fashionable jingle. But so accurately do the modest sim- 
 plicity of the expression, the beauty and contrast of the 
 imagery — and the soft and gentle seriousness and pathos 
 of the subject all coincide, as to give the stanza, in my 
 humble estimation, claims to verv superior poetical merit. 
 Nov. 1826. 
 
 We are often told upon how safe a foundation our re- 
 publican institutions stand — that half a century's experi- 
 ment has proved their permanency. But if a coutinuance 
 for five hundred years would not ensure the perpetuity of 
 the laws of the Spartan commonwealth as instituted by 
 Lycurgus — if a continuance for nine hundred years would 
 not ensure any longer duration to the Cretan government. 
 
EXTRACTS. 
 
 305 
 
 Established by Minos — how can we depend with confi- 
 dence on a fifty years' experiment merely, that our nation- 
 al government will be of much longer existence ? That 
 this will be the case, there is every reason to hope. But 
 the principal, I may say the only evidence of this, is in 
 the nature of our constitution, and the character of our 
 citizens. Of this the people of this country should be 
 aware. We are not to imagine, that our fathers have so 
 purchased our liberties, that we have nothing to do but to 
 enjoy them, without any exertion on our part. As they 
 laboured to obtain, we also must labour to preserve them. 
 We may not be called to defend them on the field with 
 our lives — to resist the irruption of hostile fleets and ar- 
 mies. But it is the duty of every individual citizen to 
 contribute his might of influence to the preservation and 
 improvement of those traits of our national character, by 
 which our liberties and our rights are secured. Every 
 exertion should be used to prevent the sectional prejudices, 
 that are springing up between different parts of the union 
 — to check the gradual but insensible change of senti- 
 ments, which the introduction of foreign customs and 
 foreign luxuries, and our open and liberal communication 
 with all parts of the world, have a tendency to produce — 
 and above all, to oppose the progress of vicious habits, and 
 the depravation of moral feeling &, carelessness of individ- 
 ual or national welfare necessarily attendant thereon. Let 
 every one be sensible of his obligation to assist in the 
 performance of these duties, and let him act conforma- 
 bly, and then ask the patriotic American — " When will 
 your countrymen sell the liberties, which they now prize 
 so highly ? With his hand resting on the tombs of his 
 fathers, whose example he venerates — his eye raised in 
 ♦onfidence to the God, in whom he trusts — he will answer 
 —"Never." 
 
 Nov. 1826. 
 
 26* 
 
NOTES TO ANTICIPATIONS AND RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 Note A, page 71, line 373. 
 
 u And like the Grecian Sculptor, to combine 
 Their mingled lustre in one grand design," &c. 
 This celebrated Grecian Sculptor, with the design of creating a 
 matchless form of beauty, selected from a great number of individu- 
 als those traits in the person of each, which were acknowledged the 
 most beautiful, and moulded them all into one form, upon which he 
 concentrated all his powers. This constituted the master-piece of 
 human genius — the perfection of human art. 
 
 Note £, page 79, line 617. 
 
 " By his example led in later years, 
 The great, th' immortal Sydenham appears ;" &c. 
 Sydenham was distinguished for the innovations he made in the 
 practices which prevailed during his day. Great improvements were 
 the result of his investigations. He is properly entitled to the name 
 of Medical Reformer. The poet has paid a just tribute to the genius 
 and virtues of this great and worthy man. He was born in 1624, in 
 Winford-Eagle, Dorsetshire. He received his education at Oxford. 
 He settled as a physician in Westminster, and soon rose to the first 
 eminence in his profession. His medical works are numerous, and 
 possess high authority. u He appears to have paid little attention to 
 the prevailing medical doctrines. His writings are not altogether 
 free from hypothesis ; but he appears to have been little influenced by 
 hem in his practice ; and by closely observing the operations of na- 
 ture, and the effects of remedies, he was enabled to introduce very 
 •ssential improvements. Sydenham ever maintained the character of 
 a generous and public-spirited man ; he conducted himself without 
 that arrogance which too often accompanies original talent ; and he 
 has been universally acknowledged the first physician of his age." 
 Freeing himself from those chains of authority which bound his pro- 
 fession, he was guided by the clear light of his own powerful genius. 
 He died, after a long life of eminent usefulness, A. D. 1689, JEt. 65. 
 
 Note C, pagel% line 630. 
 
 u Among the worthies on that list enrolled, 
 The name cf Rush a noble rank must hold." 
 Dr. Benjamin Rush, whose character is here eulogised, was bora 
 December 24, 1745, O. S. near Philadelphia. He received his de« 
 gree at Nassau Hall, in 1*60. In 1766, he went to Edinburgh to pur- 
 
 ^ 
 
NOTES. 307 
 
 sue his medical studies at (hat celebrated institution. Whilst he resi- 
 ded here he acquired great reputation as a scholar. From this col- 
 lege he obtained his medical degree in 1768. After travelling in sev- 
 eral countries of Europe, he relurned to his native country, and imme- 
 diate^' commenced practice in Philadelphia. He was soon appoint- 
 ed a Professor in the University of Pennsylvania. He rose to the 
 highest reputation by his skill as a practitioner, and his eloquence as 
 a lecturer and vvriter. His medical writings are very voluminous, as 
 well as valuable. He Was a member of the Congress which declar- 
 ed our independence. He was a philanthropist in its widest sense. 
 This eminent physician, scholar and philosopher died in April, Hi 13, 
 Mt. 68. He held the first rank among American scholars. He has 
 been a distinguished honour to his country in the eyes of foreign nations. 
 The Life and Character of Rush are too well known to require any 
 further notice. He is eulogized here principally on account of his be- 
 nevolent exertions in the cause of humanity during the prevalence of 
 the yellow fever in Philadelphia. Among the actors in this scene Dr. 
 Rush was conspicuous for his intrepidity and philanthropy. He mer- 
 its the warm tribute which the poet bestows upon him. He was dis- 
 tinguished not only for his philanthropy, but for his talents and learn- 
 ing. For an account of his important services at this distressing peri- 
 od, see his Life in Am. Medical Biography. 
 
 Note Dupage 80, line 658. 
 41 They hurry to the tomb the last remains 
 Of those they mourn for." 
 
 This is not a fictitious description — it is almost a literal account of 
 what took place at this time. In 1793, Philadelphia was visited 
 with the yellow fever. It continued for about one hundred days — 
 from July to November. The whole number of deaths during this 
 period, was 4044 — making 38 each day, on an average. 
 
 u A cheerful countenance was scarcely to be seen for six weeks. 
 The streets every where exhibited marks of the distress which pervad- 
 ed the city. In walking for many hundred yards, few persons ware 
 seen, except such as were in quest of a physician, a nurse, a bleeder, 
 or the men who buiied the dead. The hearse alone kept up the re- 
 membrance of the noise of carriages or carts in the streets. A black 
 man leading or driving a horse with a corpse on a pair of chair wheels, 
 met the eye in most of the streets at every hour of the day, while the 
 noise of the same wheels, passing slowly over the pavements, kept 
 alive anguish and fear in the sick and well, at every hour of the night. 11 
 Rushes Life, A m+ Medical Biography. For the particulars of this 
 dreadful calamity, see Dr. Rush's Account of it. See also Brown's 
 Ormonde page 48 — 51, and Arthur Mervyn, where the scene is por- 
 trayed with all the graphic delineation of his powerful pen — where it 
 is exhibited to the imagination in almost living reality — every picture 
 and image of it glowing with the deepest colours. 
 
308 NOTES. 
 
 Note £, page 82, line 697. 
 
 u Ob ! for some genius, Jenner, great as thine, 
 To quench the venom of that power malign." 
 
 Jenner was distinguished principally for the discovery of the kine 
 pox, and the introduction of vaccination among those afflicted with 
 the small pox. This description refer?- to the prevalence of this disease 
 in England and on the continent, and to the labours and services of 
 Jenner. He deserves the everlasting gratitude. of mankind. 
 
 In comparing the fate of this useful man witrrthat of others, we 
 cannot but reflect on the injustice of mankind in the distribution of 
 fame. While the rid tries of many, whose whole powers were spent 
 in destroying the human race, are dwtllin? on the tongues of an ad- 
 miring world, and their achievements are lauded to the skies — others, 
 who have been the humble means of alleviating a vast amount of hu- 
 man suffering, and preserving the lives of thousands, are left without 
 a tongue to speak their praise, or a pen to record their virtues. Such 
 has been the fate of Jenner. He merited the gratitude of posterity, 
 and has received its cold neglect and even forget fulness. But virtue 
 does not depend upon the opinion of the world for its reward. He is 
 so little known that no record or even notice of his life can be found 
 in the common Biographical Dictionaries. He is known only to the 
 searching eye of the antiquarian. What is the merit of this man (the 
 instrument of so much real good) compared with that of an Alexan- 
 der, a Caesar, or a Buonaparte ? The one employed his talents in 
 saving human life, the others employed theirs in destroying it. 
 
 Note F, page 88 line 111. 
 
 " Yet let another win the wished for prize," 
 This generous sentiment was more than once exemplified in his owa 
 conduct, while he attended school. Several pleasing instances of it 
 are preserved in the recollections of his friends. He describes in these 
 pages the happy sports, the innocent enjoyments and the blissftri 
 scenes of childhood. Perhaps the description is adorned with some 
 poetic embellishment. The child is but the miniature of the man — 
 endued with like feelings and propensities — and a school often exhibit* 
 a true specimen of the world — a scene in which are displayed both 
 the generous and selfish qualities of human nature. The poet describes 
 rather the feelings of his own heart — what he himself experienced 
 under those circumstances, than what is found universally existing in 
 childhood. From his own generous nature, he believed all others t» 
 partake of the same feelings ; he charitably imputed to thecn the 
 worthy motives which actuated himself. 
 
NOTES, 309 
 
 Note G, page 89, line 133. 
 
 "Along the sheltered, solitary grove," &c. 
 The walk which the Poet here mentions leads from the Parsonage 
 to the ancient grave yard described in the following note. It is retir- 
 ed and lonely, darkened by the thick shades of the pines which filled 
 the air with their solemn music. It was his frequent resort in the 
 beautiful moonlight evenings of Summer and Autumn, when he could 
 freely indulge his poetic fancy in the bright visions which the pictur- 
 esque heauty of the scene was fitted to excite, and the romantic sen- 
 timents which this wild, uncultivated path was fitted to inspire. Here 
 too he sometimes wandered in the gloom of an obscured eve, when 
 the objects which met his eye were congenial with his feelings — with 
 the ever varying moods of a poet's fancy— and with the errand on 
 which he was bent — a visit to the sanctuary of the dead, to which his 
 footsteps were directed. 
 
 Note if, page 9 1 , line 196. 
 
 u Here let us tread with awe, nor vainly mock 
 
 The faithful pastor, and his pious flock," &c. 
 This grave yard is situated on a gentle elevation, at a distance from 
 any public road. A scene better suited to the musings of a pensive 
 mind cannot be conceived. Here stood the first rude and humble, 
 church that was erected in the town, and devoted to the worship of 
 heaven, amid the desolations of the wilderness. The general appear- 
 ance of the place and surrounding objects — the crumbling stones — the 
 decayed inscriptions — the wild shrubbery springing up around these 
 ancient graves---the rude and almost illegible remnants of the engrav- 
 ings—all are calculated to excite the feelings and fancy of the poet. 
 Patriotic recollections are associated with the objects around him. 
 All tend to recal the scenes of the past. In the centre of this burial 
 ground is the tomb of the Winslows ; and here slumber in undisturbed 
 repose their venerated forms. Here too are the bones of the "pious 
 pastor," with his flock sleeping around him. At a distance he heard, 
 in the otherwise unbroken silence, the solemn and incessant roar of 
 the ocean. Wood, and hill and plain are confusedly mixed in the 
 prospect. If the scene were enlivened by the moon, he beheld in the 
 interval its bright flashes of light radiated from the sheets of water 
 which varied the scene. While standing here at such an hour and 
 contemplating, under the influence of such associations, the striking 
 mementoes of the shortness of human life, and musing on the long 
 vanished scenes of the past, well might the enthusiastic poet fancy he 
 saw the forms of the dead. 
 
 "Amid the sheeted spectres there methought 
 
 My eyes the honored form of Window caught, 
 
 Leaning upon the tomb which still retains 
 
 In undisturbed repose his last remains. *\ 
 
310 NOTES. 
 
 Here he often wandered in the solemn calmness of a summer's even- 
 ing ; here, without one object to remind him of present existence, he 
 stood and gazed and muted, 
 
 "Until there was a feeling o'er him thrown, 
 As if he stood upon this world alone. 1 ' 
 In the tomh mentioned above repose the remains of Governor Josi- 
 ah, (the son of Edward the first Governor,) his son Isaac, his grand- 
 son John, his great grandson Isaac Window. 
 
 "And blossom like the rose around their tomb."— line 16g. 
 At the time this description was written a wild rose bush was 
 growing beside their tomb. A part of it is still living. 
 
 "Whose frail mementoes crumble o'er their graves, — line 197. 
 "With every blast that from the ocean raves." 
 The grave stones in this place decay rapidly in consequence of their 
 exposure to the influence of the sea-breezes. 
 
 The virtues of the ^pioiie pastor," the Rev. Edward Thompson, 
 (a man, at that time, esleemed of high repute, and uncommon ac- 
 quirements) are recorded in the following quaint and perhaps ludicrous 
 style of our fathers. 
 
 "Here in a tyrant's hand doth captive lye 
 A rare synopsis of Divinity. 
 Old patriarchs, prophets, gospel bishops meet, 
 Under deep silence in their winding sheet; 
 Here rest awhile in hopes and full intent, 
 When their king calls, lo meet in parliament." 
 
 Note /, page 92, line 251. 
 " Such is the place, which from the honored name," &c. 
 In the neighborhood of this grave yard, is the venerable seat of the 
 Winslows, inherited from sire to son for many generations. The ap- 
 "^pearance of the mansion house is ancient, and venerable. With it is 
 connected a large and valuable farm. The prospect is extensive — 
 the scenery, beautiful. It has been the residence of this family from 
 the first settlement of the town. This noble seat of their ancestors 
 has now passed from their bunds, and the family itself is almost ex- 
 tinct. On each side of the road leading to the mansion house former- 
 ly stood a beautiful row of locusts, forming, in summer, a veidant 
 and fragrant avenue. 
 
 Note J, page 93, line 261. 
 
 "But yet some relics are remaining still," See. 
 There were till lately many remnants of past ages remaining at 
 this house, the furniture and ornaments used at the earliest period — 
 "the unwieldy workmanship of ancient skill." Some of them may 
 yet be seen in the neighborhood. Anions these relics are a large and 
 heavy dining table and chair, said to have belonged to the first Gov- 
 
NOTES. 311 
 
 ernor, Edward — a sword of General Winslow, and portraits of most 
 of the family. There is also a Commission from Cromwell to Gov. 
 W. engrossed on parchment, with the signature in his own hand 
 writing, but this, part is nearly obliterated. The portraits are now 
 at the Athenaeum in Boston. The scenes of this place and the reflec- 
 tions to which they invite, are invested with something of that feeling 
 of grandeur, and that romantic interest which belong to antiquity, and 
 which are connected with the history of older countries. 
 
 jYote K, page 94, line 292. 
 
 11 Where ocean pours his ever-restless flood 
 
 Upon the sounding beach ." 
 
 Marshjield Beach, the frequent resort of the author, to admire the 
 majesty of ocean scenery. Every one who has witnessed the same 
 scene must admire the beauty of his description of the waves, "sur- 
 mounted with their while and snowy wreath." This is a dangerous 
 coast; many shipwrecks have happened here. The remnants of sev- 
 eral may yet be seen scattered along the shore. Some of these cir- 
 cumstances probably suggested to him his description of the ship- 
 wreck, page 99. 
 
 Note L, page 95, line 327. 
 
 u In those vast caverns doth the Kraken sleep, 1 ' &c. 
 The Kraken is a sen animal supposed to exist in the depths of the 
 oceau. Its existence is denied by many, and supposed to be the 
 mere invention of the fertile imagination of man. The accounts which 
 some toyagers have uiven are incredible. Itjs said to appear some- 
 times on the surface, and to float there for weeks together ; in that 
 situation it resembles an island in size and appearance ; and when it 
 sinks, causes a whirlpool sufficient to swallow the largest vessels. Its 
 dimensions have doubtless been exagerated, as all extraordinary ob- 
 jects are, which excite our wonder. There can be but little doubt, 
 however, that fetich an animal exists; but few opportunities have 
 been afforded for obtaining a correct account, and gratifying curiosity. 
 
 Note JW, page 97, line 396. 
 
 u Alas ! alas ! thy face again to see 
 
 Is not permitted by our destiny. 
 
 Take now &c." 
 This is not a fictitious scene — it occurred in real life, and that to* 
 in the instance of his elder brother. He refers in the passage quoted 
 to his only surviving brother, Martin Luther Parris, commander of 
 the schooner Rainbow, belonging to Elizabeth City, N. C. which 
 was, at the time alluded to, on its voyage to the West Indies. In con- 
 sequence of the great fatigue in the discharge of the laborious duties 
 which devolved upon him at that place, lie took the fever commoi to 
 
312 NOTES. 
 
 the climate. He died on board during his return, in the prime of life ; 
 and his body was committed to the bosom of the deep. To this cir- 
 cumstance he again alludes in the passage beginning u Thou all rapa- 
 cious deep," &c. 
 
 Note JV, page 99, line 455. 
 
 "Drifting upon the floods, a wreck is borne," 
 There have been several wrecks near the principal scene of this 
 poem, within the recollection of the poet. He had many objects to 
 remind him of these calamities. His vicinity to the shore, the death 
 of his brother at sea, and the impressive mementoes scattered around 
 him often attracted his imagination to such subjects. He probably 
 had in his view, in this description, a richly laden India merchant 
 ship which was lost near this place. 
 
 NoteO^wge 128. 
 
 The Peruvian Damsel. This is a fictitious scene, intended to illus- 
 trate the patriotic devotion and the bold spirit of the once mild Peruvi- 
 ans, who were at last driven to desperation by the cruel oppression! 
 of Spannish tyranny and cupidity. The conduct of the Spaniards 
 during their conquest of the rich and splendid country of Peru, and, 
 in particular, the perfidy practised upon its innocent inhabitants, are 
 a foul blot upon humanity. 
 
 Note l,pagc 203. 
 
 The suggestions of the author, with regard to the amusement* of 
 tociety, are worthy of attention. The prevailing taste of the age is 
 happily changing those employments, which, without the influence of 
 fashion, would be thought dull and tedious. The numerous literary 
 \publications— Ladies' Magazines, the Souvenirs, or annuals, reading 
 societies and conversation clubs, are all exerting a refined influence 
 on taste, and rendering social intercourse more amusing and instruct- 
 ive, and even gayer than under the heavy burdens which fashion ha§ 
 hitherto imposed. 
 
 Note 2 1 page 297. 
 
 I cannot regret with the Author that Burns * l wasted" his exquisile 
 talents on those little poems which constitute the greater part of hi* 
 poetical works. His genius was suited to such productious. Had he 
 forced his mind to engage coolly and deliberately in a formal poem, 
 he might have produced something of greater length, but probably of 
 far less value. Those apparently trivial productions of Burns contaU 
 the very essence of poetry. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 31*77-6 
 
The following Letter, from Charles Macomb^r, M. D. 
 would have been inserted at the close of the Biographical Sketch, 
 had it not been mislaid or overlooked. This may also account for 
 its not appearing in some of the volumes* 
 
 North Marshfjeld, Feb, 28, 1828. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I have perused the medical writings of your Son, 
 which you were pleased to put into my hands ; — and. 
 while I mourn with you and Mrs. Parris the early decease 
 of a youth of such eminent moral worth and suavity of 
 manners, I cannot but lament with a bereaved public 
 the loss of a youthful physician of such extensive medical 
 research, such distinguished powers of discrimination 
 nd such great promise. 
 
 With sentiments of respect 
 and affection, yours, 
 
 CHARLES MACOMBER, 
 Rev. M. Parris, 
 
 South Marshfield. 
 
 O 
 
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