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The New-England magazine. / Volume 9, Note on Digital Production 0009 000
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The New-England magazine. / Volume 9, Issue 7 New England magazine American monthly review American monthly magazine J. T. and E. Buckingham Boston July 1835 0009 007
The New-England magazine. / Volume 9, Issue 7, miscellaneous front pages i-iv

THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. VOLUME IX. ~KOM JULY TO DECEMBER INCLUSIVE. 1835. BOSTON: R. BROADERS 147 WASHINGTON STREET. EASTBURNS PRESS. N$3 1. 1 6, A \4* V INDEX. ORIGINAL PAPERS. PAGE. A Boll-Fight at Madrid, - - - 252 A Modern Pilgrimage, - - 31 A Peep at Cadiz, - - - - 313 A Plea for the Laboring Classes, - - 429 An Apology, - - - . 135 An Execution in Spain, - - - 410 An Extract from the Ms. of Edmund Al- lerton, 327 Are Great Minds prone to Skepticism, - 87 A Real Scene, - 262 Association, - 50 Church Reminiscences, . 123 Dark Thoughts, 5 Daybreak in June, - 366 Elia, 233 English Gramsnar, - - 335 Excerpts from Victor Hugo, - 360 Frieisdship, - - 393 flailing a Portuguese Man-of-War, - 417 horsemanship, - - 160 Impromptu, - - 32(1 I Will Remember Thee, - 105 Letter from Arkanzas, - 263 Literary Humbug, - - 129 Letters from Chili and Peru. No. I. - 210 No.16. - 346 Mary, 358 Misconceptions of Shakapeare upon the Sta~e - - - - - 435 Murat, Lines suggested by a Picture of taken a few moments after his Execu- tion, - - 65 My Journal, - 174 - 274 Nahant, - . - 279 Napoleons Epitaph, - 97 Ocean Scenery, - 238 Ohio and Michigan, - 368 Parting, 122 Philosophy and Criticism, Scraps of, - 201 Rain. A Colloquial Lecture, - - 247 Reflections on Thanksgiving Eve, - 419 Reminiscen~es, - - - 332 Remnants, - - - - 456 Retrospections, - - - - 39 Rome; Michelangelo; the Last Judgment, 280 Scenes in Europe. Lago Maggiore; Mi lan; Tour in Lombardy, - - 42 Scenes in Europe. Ancient Portraits in the Gallery of Florence, - 239 Scenee in Europe. Rome. No. I. - 352 No. It. - 447 Shells ud Sea-Weeds, - - 1 Sketch~s fro~ Memory. No. I. - 321 No. hi. - 398 Smoking, 112 FAOE. Song, 16 of the Dying Minstrel, 440 Sonnet, 125 By one departing for Italy, - 461 Dawn, - - - - 200 To a Friend in Italy, - - 273 Written during the warm days in October 1835, - - - 374 Spring-Notes of the Humming-Bird, - 180 Summer Philosophy. A Colloquial Lec ture, - - - - - 117 The Devil in Manuscript, - - - 340 The Drama, - - - . 229 The Extent of our Country, - - 268 The Fight of the Falls, - - - 161 The Garden, - - - - 01 The luconveniences of being Lynched, 270 The Madmans Mournful Madri ~al, - 428 The Old-Maid in the Winding-Sheet, - S The Opera. Mr. and Mrs. Wood, - 476 The Origin and Progress of Music, No. I. 58 No.11. 106 The Pigs. A Poem, - 153 The Player on the Heart, - 396 The Possessed of itDevil, - 441 The Rose-Colored Paquet, - 195 The Sea-Breeze at Matauzas, . 409 The Sky, 350 The Spider, - - - - 286 The Star of Night, - - - 243 The Vision of the Fountain, - - 99 To - - . - 216 To K. D. - - - - 435 United States Senate. Joseph Kent, - 169 - Samuel L. Southard 17 Ezekiel F. Chambers, 172 Verbiage and Egotism a Complaint against, 189 Verses for die Eye of a Splendid Young Friend, 445 Visit to the Hunting Islands, - . 4 CRITICAL NOTICES. Blackbeard. A Page from the Colonial History of Philadelph 77 Boston Academy of Mu~c, third Annual Report of the. Read at the Anniver- sary Meeting, May 27 kId 307 Bugard, Mona. B. F. 1 he New Practcal Iranslator; or, an Easy Method to learn how to translate French into Englsh, 137 Butler, 1-Irs. Francis Anne a Journal 66 Crayon Miscellany, No 74 Durivage, F. A. Popular Cyclopedma of history, - - 138 Edmund Allertoi,, - 8 Iv. ENDEX. PAGa. Eliot, Samuel A. Address before the Bos- ton Academy of Music, on the opening of the Odeon, August 5, 1835, - 307 Everett, Edward. An Address, delivered before the Literary Societies of Am- herst College, August 25, 1835, - - 462 Everett, Edward. An Address delivered at Bloody-Brook, in South Deerfield, September 30, 1835, in Commemoration of the Full of the Flower of Essex, at that spot, in King Philips War, Sep tember 18, (0. S.) 1676, - - - 462 Fellows, John, A. H. An Exposition of the Mysteries or Religious Dogmas and Customs of the Ancient E~yptians, Py- thagoreans, and Druids. Also, An In- quiry into the Origin, Histor5~, and Poe rtof Freemasonry, - - - 471 Gallagher, William D. Errato, - 138 Ilarvardiana. Vol. 2, No. 1, - - 381 Helons Pilgrimage to Jerusalem; a Fir ture of Judaism in the century which preceded the Advent of our Saviour. From the German of Frederick Strauss, 75 Hemans, Mrs. Felicia, Ihe Poetical Works of, completein one vol.; with a Critical Preface, 468 Billard, Geo. S. An Oration, pronounred before time tolmabitants of Boston, July 4, 1535, Li Commemoration of American Independence, 142 Horse-Shoe Robinson; a Tale of the Tory Ascendaiscy, 390 Horticultural Register and Gardeners Magazine, 350 Indian Nullification, - - - 79 Italian Sketch-Book, - - - 141 Irvin Washington, Beauties of, - 379 Knapp, Samuel L. Life of Aaron Burr, 143 Legends of a Log-Cabin, - - 472 Moore, N. F., L. L. D. Lectures on the Greek Language and Literature, - 311 Old Maids; their Varieties, Characters, and Conditions, 375 Outre-Mer; a Pilgrimage beyond time Sea, 68 Parsons, Theophilus. An Address, deliv- ered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard Ummiversity, Angust 27, 1835, on the Duties of Educated Men in a Re- public 303 Pike, Albe . Prose Sketches and Poems, written in the Western Country, . . 52 Plan of Boston,,.... 391 PAnE. Practical Phrenology 475, Record of a School; exemplifying the gen- eral principles of Spiritual Culture, . 226 Ship and Shore; or, Leases from the Jour- nat of a Cruise to the Levant. . . 386 Six Months in a House of Correction, . 140 Specimens of the Table-Talk of the late Samuel Taylor Colermdge, . . . 217 Tesoretto dcl Stadente della Lingmma Ital- tuna, o Raccoita di brevi e dilettevoli annedotti da L. fiforzosi; con note ex- plicative in In,lese da Francesco H. G. S~* etc 382 The Boatna Book, . . . . . 305 The Brothers; a Tale of time Fronde, . 388 Ihe Gipsey; a Tale 220 The hawks of llawk-Ilellow; a Tradi- tion of Pennsylvania, . . - 468 The Infidel; or the Fall of Mexico, 69 The Linwoods; or, Sixty Years Since in America 380 The Magnolia, 1836 . 469 The Miseries of Ilmiman Life; or, the Groans of Samuel Sensitive and Timo- thy Testy, with a few Supplementary Sighs from Mrs. Testy, . 298 The MonWins . 136 The Musical Library 302 The Students Manual 224 The Token and Atlantic Souvestir, . 294 The Wife and Womans Reward, . . 7 Waterston, R. C. An Address, delivered before the Sunday School Society of Newburyport, at their third Anniver sary - . . 385 Willard. and Phelps, Mesdames. Progres- sive Education. Translated from time French of Stud me Neckar de Saussure, 223 LITERARY ANNoTAsOA 144 - 232 mm 312 92 MorexucYREcoRo 80 OBITUARY. Benjamin Lincoln H D 145 Chief Justice Marshall, . - . . 150 To the Readers and Correspondents of the New-England Magazine, , - . 479

Shells and Sea-Weeds Original Papers 1-5

r u NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. JULY, 1835. ORIGINAL PAPERS. SHELLS AND SEA-WEEDS. I, TIlE DEPARTURE. AGATN thy winds are pealing in mine ear Again thy waves are flashing in my sight! Thy memnry-hannting tnnes again I hear, As, throngh the spray, our vessel wings her flight! On thy cerulean hreast, now swelling high, Again, thou hroad Atlantic, am I cast! Six years, with noiseless tread, have glided hy, Since the unsounded deep I traversed last. The sea-hirds oer me wheel, as if to greet An old companion; on my naked brow, The sparkling foam-drops not unkindly heat; Flows through my hair the freshning hreeze and now Th horizons ring enclasps me; and I stand, Gazing where fades from view, cloud-like, my father-land II. TEE GALE. The night came down in terror. Through the air, Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits rolled; The lightning kindling with its vivid glare Their outlines as they rose, heaped fold on fold. The wind, in fitful sughs, swept oer the sea; And then a sudden lull, gentle as sleep, Soft as an infants hreathing, seemed to he Lain, like enchantment, on the throhhing deep. But, false the calm! for soon the strengthened gale Burst, in one loud explosion, far and wide, VOL. IX. 1 ~lltells artcl kSea-weedS~ Drowning the thunders voice With every sail Close-reefed, our groaning ship heeled on her side The torn waves combed the deck ; while, oer the ma t, The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast V an. MORNING AFTER TII GALE Bravely our trim ship rode the tempest through And, when the exhausted gale had ceased to rave I-Tow hroke the day-star oii the gazers view I-low flushed the Orient every crested wave The sun threw down his shield of golden light, In fierce defiance on the oceans bed Whereat, the clouds hetook themselves to flight. Like routed hosts, with banners soiled and red. The sky was soon all brilliance, east and west All traces of the gale had passed away The chiming hillows, by the breeze caressed, Tossed lightly from their heads the feathery spray. Ah! thus may Hopes auspicious star anain Rise oer the troubled soul, where gloom and grief have be~i xv. TO A LAND BIRD. Thou wanderer from green fields and leafy nooks Where blooms the flower and toils the honey-hee Where odorous blossoms drift along the brooks, And woods and hills are very fair to see Why hast thou left thy native bough to roam, With drooping wing, far oer the hriny billow? Thou canst not, like the petrel, cleave the foam, Nor, like the osprey, make the wave thy pillow. Thou rt like those fine-toned spirits, gentle hird Which, from some better laud, to this rude life Seem home they struggle, mid the common herd, With powers unfitted for the selfish strifb! Haply, at length, some zephyr wafts them hack To their own home of peace, across the worlds dull track. A THOUGHT OF THE PAST. I woke from slumber at the dead of night, Stirred hy a dream which was too sweet to last A dream of boyhoods season of delight; It flashed along the dim shapes of the past! And, as I mused upon its strange appeal, Thrilling my heart with feelings undefined, Old memories, bursting from Times icy s al. Shells and Sea- Weeds. 3 Rushed, like sun-stricken fountains, on my mind. Scenes, among which was cast my early home, My favorite haunts, the shores, the ancient woods, XVhere, with my schoolmates, I was wont to roam, Green, sloping lawns, majestic solitudes All rose before me, till, by thought beguiled, Freely I could have wept, as if once more a child. VI. TROPICAL WEATHER. We are within the tropics, where the days Are an eternal summer to the eye; The sea sends back the noontides fervent blaze, And, in its lucent depths, reflects the sky. Full in our wake, the smooth, warm trade-winds blowing, To their unvarying goal still faithful run; And as we steer, with sails before them flowing, Nearer the zenith daily climbs the sun. The flying-fish in shoals about us skim, Glossed, like the humming-bird, with rainbow dyes; And, as they dip into the waters brim, Swift in pursuit the preying dolphin hies. All, all is fair; and, gazing round, we feel The Souths soft languor gently oer our senses steal. VII. NIGHT. But, oh! the night the cool, luxurious night, Which closes round us when the day grows dim, And the sun sinks from his meridian height, Behind the oceans occidental rim Clouds, in their streaks of purple, green and red, Gather around his setting, and absorb The last rich rays of glory, that are shed, In wide profusion, from his failing orb. And now the moon, her lids unclosing, deigns To smile serenely on the charmed sea, That shines as if inlaid with lightning chains, From which it hardly struggled to be free. Swan-like, with motion unperceived, we glide, Touched by the downy breeze, and favored by the tide. VIII. TIlE PLANET JUPITER. Ever, at night, have I looked first for thee, Oer all thy astral sisterhood supreme! Ever, at night, have I looked up to see The diamond-lustre of thy quivering beam Shelts and Sea- Weed Shining sometimes through pillowy clouds serene.. As they part from thee, like a loosened scroll Semetimes unveiled, in all thy native sheen, When no dark vapors underneath thee roll. Bright planet! ever let thy welcome ray, As now, like joy, illuminate my soul: The worlds attrition changes us, they say, And turns the strong-eyed eagle to a mole: Ah, ,t is not so! bright things are aye the same To him, who keeps undimmed his own heaven-kindled flame. Ix. TO Leagues of blue ocean are hetween us spread; And I cannot hehold thee, save in dreams! I cannot hear the music round thee shed, I do not see the light that from thee gleams. Fairest and best! mid summer joys, ah, say, Dost thou eer think of one, who thinks of thee Th Atlantic-wanderer who, day by day, Looks for thy image in the deep, deep sea? Long months, and years perchance, may pass away, Ero he shall gaze upon thy face again; He cannot know what rocks and quicksands lay Before him, on the Futures shipless main But, thanked be Memory! there are treasures still, Which the triumphant mind holds subject to its will. x. POESLIi~ If ever I have wronged thy art suhlime, Sweet Poesie! (full many do such wrong) Disguising, in gilt words and harren rhyme, Trite thoughts, which never could to thee belong humbly I ask thee to absolve me now, For all my wanton deficits of sense: Prostrate, before thy veiled shrine I bow; This is my last, if not my least offence But ifO nymph divine ! I eer have strayed Beside the margin of thy fair domain If I have loved to loiter in the shade, And watched for thy bright presence, not in vain The time has come, when I no more may dwell Mid thy bewildering scenes. Accept my last farewell! At Sea, May 5, 1835. 4 5 DARK THOUGHTS. IF any ask why roses please the sight? Because their leaves upon thy cheeks do bower: If any ask why lilies are so white? Because their blossoms in thy hand do flower: Or why sweet plants so grateful odors shower? It is because thy breath so like they be: Or why the orient sun so bright we see? What reason can we give, but from thine eyes and thee? Fletchers Christs Victory. Canto I. Stanza xlv. THE necessity of faith, or a deep conviction of the truths of Christianity, has been insisted on, by all theological writers, as the foundation of a holy and consistent life. But, I believe, every one has felt, in some skeptical hour, the wish that his faith might be strengthened by some ocular. proof of the Christian religion. We have always seen the laws of nature glide with undeviating uniformity ; the sun arises and sets ; the spring and the winter return ; man is born and dies, with a regularity so constant, and at periods so generally expected, that the course of nature seems like the decree of fate ; and a species of naturalism is silently resting even on some sober and believing minds. St. Peter has touched one of the sources of infidelity when he says, Since the fathers fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the beginning of the creation. The regularity of the laws of nature, though designed as light to reveal, becomes a cloud, to hide the interposition of God. I should be a very imperfect puritan, if I did not confess myself to be a firm Christian ; and yet, I must confess, I have often felt my mind exercised on the obscurity of the proofs of revelation. I have longed to see the Deity step out from his hiding-place, and give some visible tokens of his power. I have hungered and thirsted after a miracle. I have tried to imagine the emotions of surprise and adoration, which would shake my heart, could I once see the laws of nature suspended. But no; she rolls on, in the same rigid uniformity. No spiritual voice meets my spirit, to attest the presence of anything in nature but the plas- tic power, which executes her silent laws. I have walked on the sea-shore, and heard the roaring of its waves; I have sat amidst the tombs, at midnight; I have listened, with the intensest inter- est, amidst the deep solitudes of the woods; I have fled from the living, and implored the dead for some supernatural voice to break on the abstracted ear of faith and meditation. Tell us, ye dead will none of you, in pity? 0, that some courteous ghost would blab it out!

Dark Thoughts Original Papers 5-8

5 DARK THOUGHTS. IF any ask why roses please the sight? Because their leaves upon thy cheeks do bower: If any ask why lilies are so white? Because their blossoms in thy hand do flower: Or why sweet plants so grateful odors shower? It is because thy breath so like they be: Or why the orient sun so bright we see? What reason can we give, but from thine eyes and thee? Fletchers Christs Victory. Canto I. Stanza xlv. THE necessity of faith, or a deep conviction of the truths of Christianity, has been insisted on, by all theological writers, as the foundation of a holy and consistent life. But, I believe, every one has felt, in some skeptical hour, the wish that his faith might be strengthened by some ocular. proof of the Christian religion. We have always seen the laws of nature glide with undeviating uniformity ; the sun arises and sets ; the spring and the winter return ; man is born and dies, with a regularity so constant, and at periods so generally expected, that the course of nature seems like the decree of fate ; and a species of naturalism is silently resting even on some sober and believing minds. St. Peter has touched one of the sources of infidelity when he says, Since the fathers fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the beginning of the creation. The regularity of the laws of nature, though designed as light to reveal, becomes a cloud, to hide the interposition of God. I should be a very imperfect puritan, if I did not confess myself to be a firm Christian ; and yet, I must confess, I have often felt my mind exercised on the obscurity of the proofs of revelation. I have longed to see the Deity step out from his hiding-place, and give some visible tokens of his power. I have hungered and thirsted after a miracle. I have tried to imagine the emotions of surprise and adoration, which would shake my heart, could I once see the laws of nature suspended. But no; she rolls on, in the same rigid uniformity. No spiritual voice meets my spirit, to attest the presence of anything in nature but the plas- tic power, which executes her silent laws. I have walked on the sea-shore, and heard the roaring of its waves; I have sat amidst the tombs, at midnight; I have listened, with the intensest inter- est, amidst the deep solitudes of the woods; I have fled from the living, and implored the dead for some supernatural voice to break on the abstracted ear of faith and meditation. Tell us, ye dead will none of you, in pity? 0, that some courteous ghost would blab it out! 43 Dark Thoughts. But all has been in vain. Nature, rigid, silent, unconscious na~ ture, is always interposing her material usages between me and my God. I have sometimes been led to envy the privileges of the first Christians ; and to wish that I had been born in those happier days. I should then have heard the gospel as it was delivered from the lips of infinite wisdom, and seen the proofs, which might silence skepticism and awaken a conquering faith in the most sluggish heart. I might have caught some notes of the heavenly hosts, as they sung over the quiet innocence of the shepherds, at midnight, and have stood at the tomb of Lazarus, when the voice of his Redeemer called him from the dead. There is an impression resting on my heart, that I should have conquered my sins with more facility ; and have lived more devoted to that celestial power, which was everywhere manifested around. Hail, ye happy spirits ! Why have ye not transmitted to later ages your wonderful works ? and thou, bright morn of Christianity, why were thy dews so transient, and thy reign so short ? I have but little faith; I own it. But no angel has ever visited me from the skies; no saint has spoken to my midnight dreams ; no mir- acle has ever met my eye. I have but little faith; but my heart longs to find an excuse and a cause in the little proof. Full of these reflections, I lately retired to sleep ; and, the impressions of the day following me, I was favored with a dream. I seemed to be walking beneath a steep precipice, on the east- ern shores of the lake Gennesaret. The xvaters seemed to be hushed in the profoundest tranquility, and their color was tinged with the purple rays of the setting sun. The day was declining; the shadows of the mountains were stretched upon the waters and a secret sanctity seemed to pervade the scene, which wit- nessed the wonders once wrought in it by the Redeemer of men. I felt an increase of faith, as my eye stole over the objects around me, and I could almost fancy I could see the lake agitated by a storm; the bark of the disciples laboring amid the waves. I could almost fancy I heard his voice speaking to the tempest, and say- ing, Peace, be still But still, the laws of nature seemed to regain their invisible hold on every object around me. The waves laved the shores, as other xvaves do; and the rocks re- flected their gigantic shadows, in the bosom of the lake, like other rocks. I still felt the chilling influence of unbelief. While I was xvalking, I noticed, at a little distance from me, a pale old man, dressed in the habits of antiquity, with a remark- able, incredulous aspect. He appeared to be counting his fingers, walking with an irregular step, until at last he fixed his eyes with a look of compassion on me. I immediately knew him to be Thomas Didymus, the apostle so famous for his unbelief. I approached him, with low reverence, and thus began: 0 thou once frail Dark Thoughts. 7 mortal on earth, now certainly a saint in glory, have compassion on my xveakness, and hear me tell my wo. Thou hast been the prey of doubt; thy mind xvas once the region of darkness, as mine is now ; thou didst say, when on earth Except I shall see in his hands the print of his nails, and put my fingers in the print of the nails, (here the vision shook his head, and dropped a tear) and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe. Such is exactly my condition. I long for ocular proof. Tell me, where shall I find it? The saint fixed his eyes upon me, and, with his long white finger, kept pointing at my breast. But, though his countenance was full of meaning, he spoke not a word, and continued pointing to my heart, while he fixed his eye con- stantly and fearfully upon me. I felt an irresistible disposition to look away to the lake I expected to see it ruffled by storms and stilled by some word of miraculous power; I called for signs from Heaven; I gazed, to see if the wing of some angel would not cleave the clouds, and, from its silver feathers, dart some su- pernatural light into my mind. Still, the apostle continued point- ing his finger at my breast; and, with a deliberate step, he ap- proached nearer and nearer to the spot on xvhich I stood. There was something inexpressibly awful in his long-continued silence. My heart beat with apprehension. Speak! said I; speak, thou dumb vision, and tell how I may be satisfied. He still approached me, and pulling a little pocket Bible from my pocket, began, with a melancholy air, to turn over the leaves. I noticed, however, as he was turning, that certain letters, blazed with suns, so that, though the print was fine, I could read particular passa- ges at a great distance. The apostle began to wave his hand and step backwards. Why, said I, has the impartial one de- nied to me that ocular demonstration, which he afforded to the first disciples ? He held up the Bible, and I saw, blazing in lines of fire, these words: If they hear not .Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded, though one arose from the dead. Alas! said I, is there no way for me to obtain a firmer faith? He held up the book, and I saw, shining as before If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine whether it be of God. The apostle still kept receding, though the letters were as large and as intelligible as before. He was now almost beyond my sight, retiring behind a rock, which was about to in- tercept him from my view. Stay, said I, stay, and do not leave me so unsatisfied ; speak once, and let me hear. Why has not the same evidence been vouchsafed to me, as to the earlier Christians ? Why has not my sight increased my faith ? The apostle then opened my book, and I read, on a blank leaf, these words, which vanished as I read them, and were never seen in the faintest trace afterwards: Idle doubter, why do you com- plain? You have your peculiar difficulties; we had ours. We 8 The Old Maid in the Winding- Sheet. saw the miracles, but we saw not the brighter proofs of the influ- ence of Christianity, through a series of ages, on the heart. We had the prejudices of education to encounter, and to tear the most cherished opinions from the centre of the soul. The best mira- cle is a renovated heart. So, doubter, purge thine eyes, and there is light enough. I looked up, and the apostle was gone; and the evening winds, through the shades of midnight, were sighing over the sea of Gennesaret. THE OLD MAID IN THE WINDING-SHEET. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE GRAY cHAMPION. THE moonbeams came through two deep and narrow windows, and showed a spacious chamber, richly furnished in an antique fashion. From one lattice, the shadow of the diamond panes was thrown upon the floor; the ghostly light, through the other, slept upon a bed, falling between the heavy silken curtains, and illumi- nating the face of a young man. But, how quietly the slumberer lay ! how pale his features ! and how like a shroud the sheet was wound about his frame ! Yes ; it was a corpse, in its burial- clothes. Suddenly, the fixed features seemed to move, with dark emo- tion. Strange fantasy! It was but the shadow of the fringed curtain, waving betwixt the dead face and the moonlight, as the door of the chamber opened, and a girl stole softly to the bed- side. Was there delusion in the moonbeams, or did her gesture and her eye betray a gleam of triumph, as she bent over the pale corpse pale as itself and pressed her living lips to the cold ones of the dead? As she drew back from that long kiss, her features writhed, as if a proud heart were fighting with its anguish. Again it seemed that the features of the corpse had moved, re- sponsive to her own. Still an illusion ! The silken curtain had waved, a second time, betwixt the dead face and the moonlight, as another fair young girl unclosed the door, and glided, ghost- like, to the bedside. There the two maidens stood, both beau- tiful, with the pale beauty of the dead between them. But she, who had first entered, was proud and stately; and the other, a soft and fragile thing. Away! cried the lofty one. Thou hadst him living! The dead is mine!

The Author of 'The Gray Champion' The Author of 'The Gray Champion' The Old Maid in the Winding-Street Original Papers 8-16

8 The Old Maid in the Winding- Sheet. saw the miracles, but we saw not the brighter proofs of the influ- ence of Christianity, through a series of ages, on the heart. We had the prejudices of education to encounter, and to tear the most cherished opinions from the centre of the soul. The best mira- cle is a renovated heart. So, doubter, purge thine eyes, and there is light enough. I looked up, and the apostle was gone; and the evening winds, through the shades of midnight, were sighing over the sea of Gennesaret. THE OLD MAID IN THE WINDING-SHEET. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE GRAY cHAMPION. THE moonbeams came through two deep and narrow windows, and showed a spacious chamber, richly furnished in an antique fashion. From one lattice, the shadow of the diamond panes was thrown upon the floor; the ghostly light, through the other, slept upon a bed, falling between the heavy silken curtains, and illumi- nating the face of a young man. But, how quietly the slumberer lay ! how pale his features ! and how like a shroud the sheet was wound about his frame ! Yes ; it was a corpse, in its burial- clothes. Suddenly, the fixed features seemed to move, with dark emo- tion. Strange fantasy! It was but the shadow of the fringed curtain, waving betwixt the dead face and the moonlight, as the door of the chamber opened, and a girl stole softly to the bed- side. Was there delusion in the moonbeams, or did her gesture and her eye betray a gleam of triumph, as she bent over the pale corpse pale as itself and pressed her living lips to the cold ones of the dead? As she drew back from that long kiss, her features writhed, as if a proud heart were fighting with its anguish. Again it seemed that the features of the corpse had moved, re- sponsive to her own. Still an illusion ! The silken curtain had waved, a second time, betwixt the dead face and the moonlight, as another fair young girl unclosed the door, and glided, ghost- like, to the bedside. There the two maidens stood, both beau- tiful, with the pale beauty of the dead between them. But she, who had first entered, was proud and stately; and the other, a soft and fragile thing. Away! cried the lofty one. Thou hadst him living! The dead is mine! The Old Maid in the Winding- iSheet. 9 Thine ! returned the other, shuddering. Well hast thou spoken ! The dead is thine ! The proud girl started, and stared into her face, with a ghastly look. But a wild and mournful expression passed across the features of the gentle one ; and, weak and helpless, she sank down on the bed, her head pillowed heside that of the corpse, and her hair mingling with his dark locks. A creature of hope and joy, the first draught of sorrow had bewildered her. Patience ! cried her rival. Patience groaned, as with a sudden compression of the heart; and removing her cheek from the dead youths pillow, she stood upright, fearfully encountering the eyes of the lofty girl. Wilt thou betray me ? said the latter, calmly. Till the dead bid me speak, I will be silent, answered Pa~ tience. Leave us alone together Go, and live many years, and then return, and tell me of thy life. He, too, will be here Then, if thou tellest of sufferings more than death, we will both forgive thee. And what shall be the token? asked the proud girl, as if her heart acknowledged a meaning in these wild words. This lock of hair, said Patience, lifting one of the dark, clus- tering curls, that lay heavily on the dead mans brow. The two maidens joined their hands over the bosom of the corpse, and appointed a day and hour, far, far in time to come, for their next meeting in that chamber. The statelier girl gave one deep look at the motionless countenance, and departed yet turned again and trembled, ere she closed the door, almost believing that her dead lover frowned upon her. And Patience, too ! Was not her white form fading into the moonlight? Scorn- ing her own weakness, she went forth, and perceived that a negro slave was waiting in the passage, with a wax-light, which he held between her face and his own, and regarded her, as she thought, with an ugly expression of merriment. Lifting his torch on high, the slave lighted her down the staircase, and undid the portal of the mansion. The young clergyman of the town had just as- cended the steps, and howing to the lady, passed in without a word. Years, many years rolled on; the world seemed new again, so much older was it grown, since the night xvhen those pale girls had clasped their hands ilcross the bosom of the corpse. In the interval, a lonely woman had passed from youth to extreme age, and was known by all the town, as the Old Maid in the Winding- Sheet. A taint of insanity had affected her whole life, but so quiet, sad, and gentle, so utterly free from violence, that she was suffered to pursue her harmless fantasies, unmolested by the world, with whose business or pleasures she had nought to do. She dwelt alone, and never came into the daylight, except to follow VOL. ix. 2 10 The Old Maid in the Winding- Sheet. funerals. Whenever a corpse was borne along the street, in sun- shine, rain, or snow, whether a pompous train, of the rich and proud, thronged after it, or few and humble were the mourners, behind them came the lonely woman, in a long, white garment, which the people called her shroud. She took no place among the kindred or the friends, hut stood at the door to hear the fu- neral prayer, and walked in the rear of the procession, as one whose earthly charge it was to haunt the house of mourning, and be the shadow of affliction, and see that the dead were duly buried. So long had this been her custom, that the inhabitants of the town deemed her a part of every funeral, as much as the coffin-pall, or the very corpse itself, and augured ill of the sin- ner s destiny, unless the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet came gliding, like a ghost, behind. Once, it is said, she aifrighted a bridal party, with her pale presence, appearing suddenly in the illuminated hall, just as the priest was uniting a false maid to a wealthy man, before her lover had been dead a year. Evil was the omen to that marriage ! Sometimes she stole forth by moon- light, and visited the graves of venerable integrity, and wedded love, and virgin innocence, and every spot where the ashes of a kind and faithful heart were mouldering. Over the hillocks of those favored dead, would she stretch out her arms, with a ges- ture, as if she were scattering seeds ; and many believed that she brought them from the garden of Paradise; for the graves, which she had visited, were green beneath the snow, and covered with sweet flowers from April to November. her blessing was better than a holy verse upon the tomb-stone. Thus wore away her long, sad, peaceful, and fantastic life, till few were so old as she, and the people of later generations wondered how the dead had ever been buried, or mourners had endured their grief, without the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. Still, years went on, and still she followed funerals, and was not yet summoned to her own festival of death. One afternoon, the great street of the town was all alive with business and bustle, though the sun now gilded only the upper half of the church-spire, having left the house-tops and loftiest trees in shadow. The scene was cheerful and animated, in spite of the sombre shade between the high brick buildings. Here were pompous mer- chants, in white wigs and laced velvet; the bronzed faces of sea- captains; the foreign garb and air of Spanish creoles; and the disdainful port of natives of Old England; all contrasted with the rough aspect of one or two back-settlers, negociating sales of timber, from forests where axe had never sounded. Sometimes a lady passed, swelling roLindly forth in an embroidered petticoat, balancing her steps in high-heeled shoes, and courtesying, with lofty grace, to the punctilious obeisances of the gentlemen. The life of the town seemed to have its very centre not far from an The Old Maid in the Winding- Sheet. 11 old mansion, that stood somewhat back from the pavement, sur- rounded by neglected grass, with a strange air of loneliness, rather deepened than dispelled by the throng so near it. Its site would have been suitably occupied by a magnificent Exchange, or a brick-block, lettered all over with various signs ; or the large house itself might have made a noble tavern, with the Kings Arms swinging before it, and guests in every chamber, instead of the present solitude. But, owing to some dispute about the right of inheritance, the mansion had been long without a tenant, decaying from year to year, and throwing the stately gloom of its shadow over the busiest part of the town. Such was the scene, and such the time, when a figure, unlike any that have been de- scribed, was observed at a distance down the street. I espy a strange sail, yonder, remarked a Liverpool captain; that woman, in the long white garment! The sailor seemed much struck by the object, as were several others, who, at the same moment, caught a glimpse of the figure, that had attracted his notice. Almost immediately, the various topics of conversation gave place to speculations, in an under tone, on this unwonted occurrence. Can there be a funeral, so late this afternoon? inquired some. They looked for the signs of death at every doorthe sex- ton, the hearse, the assemblage of black-clad relatives all that makes up the ~voeful pomp of funerals. They raised their eyes, also, to the sun-gilt spire of the church, and wondered that no clang proceeded from its bell, which had always tolled till now, when this figure appeared in the light of day. But none had beard, that a corpse was to be borne to its home that afternoon, nor was there any token of a funeral, except the apparition of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. What may this portend? asked each man of his neighbor. All smiled as they put the question, yet with a certain trouble in their eyes, as if pestilence, or some other wide calamity, were prognosticated by the untimely intrusion, among the living, of one whose presence had always been associated with death and woe. What a comet is to the earth, was that sad woman to the town. Still she moved on, while the hum of surprise was hushed at her approach, and the proud and the humble stood aside, that her white garment might not wave against them. It was a long, loose robe, of spotless purity. Its wearer appeared very old, pale, emaciated, and feeble, yet glided onward, without the un- steady pace of extreme age. At one point of her course, a little rosy boy burst forth from a door, and ran, with open arms, to- wards the ghostly woman, seeming to expect a kiss from her bloodless lips. She made a slight pause, fixing her eye upon him with an expression of no earthly sweetness, so that the child 12 The Old .11/laid in the Winding- Sheet. shivered and stood awe-struck, rather than aifrighted, while the Old Maid passed on. Perhaps her garment might have been polluted, even hy an infants touch ; perhaps her kiss would have been death to the sweet boy, within the year. She is but a shadow ! whispered the superstitious. The child put forth his arms, and could not grasp her rohe ! The wonder xvas increased, when the Old Maid passed beneath the porch of the deserted mansion, ascended the moss-covered steps, lifted the iron knocker, and gave three raps. The people could only conjecture, that some old remembrance, troubling her bewildered brain, had impelled the poor woman hither to visit the friends of her youth; all gone from their home, long since and forever, unless their ghosts still haunted it fit company for the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. A.n elderly man approached the steps, and reverently uncovering his gray locks, essayed to explain the matter. None, Madam, said he, have dwelt in this house these fifteen years agone no, not since the death of old Colonel Fen- wicke, whose funeral you may remember to have followed. His heirs, being ill-agreed among themselves, have let the mansion- house go to ruin. The Old Maid looked slowly round, with a slight gesture of one hand, and a finger of the other upon her lip, appeared more shadow-like than ever, in the obscurity of the porch. But, again she lifted the hammer, and gave, this time, a single rap. Could it he, that a footstep was now heard, coming down the staircase of the old mansion, which all conceived to have been so long untenanted? Slowly, feebly, yet heavily, like the pace of an aged and infirm person, the step approached, more distinct on every downward stair, till it reached the portal. The bar fell on the inside; the door was opened. One upward glance, towards the church-spire, whence the sunshine had just faded, was the last that the people saw of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. Who undid the door? asked many. This question, owing to the depth of shadow beneath the porch, no one could satisfactorily answer~. Two or three aged men, while protesting against an inference, which might be drawn, affirmed that the person within was a negro, and bore a singular resemblance to old C~sar, formerly a slave in the house, but freed by death some thirty years before. Her summons has waked up a servant of the old family, said one, half seriously. Let us wait here, replied another. More guests will knock at the door, anon. But, the gate of the grave-yard should be thrown open! Twilight had overspread the town, before the crowd began to separate, or the comments on this incident were exhausted. One The Old Maid in the Winding- Sheet. 13 after another was wending his way homeward, when a coach ~ no common spectacle in those days drove slowly into the street. It was an old-fashioned equipage, hanging close to the ground, with arms on the pannels, a footman behind, and a grave, corpulent coachman seated high in front the whole giving an idea of solemn state and dignity. There was something awful, in the heavy rumbling of the wheels. The coach rolled down the street, till, coming to the gateway of the deserted mansion, it drew up, and the footman sprang to the groun(l. Whose grand coach is this ? asked a very inquisitive body. The footman made no reply, but ascended the steps of the old house, gave three raps, with the iron hammer, and returned to open the coach-door. An old man, possessed of the heraldic lore so common in that day, examined the shield of arms on the pannel. Azure, lions head erased, between three flower de luces, said he ; then whispered the name of the family to whom these bearings belonged. The last inheritor of its honors was recently dead, after a long residence amid the splendor of the British court, where his birth and wealth had given him no mean station. He left no child, continued the herald, and these arms, being in a lozenge, betoken that the coach appertains to his widow. Further disclosures, perhaps, might have been made, had not the speaker suddenly been struck dumb, by the stern eye of an ancient lady, who thrust forth her head from the coach, preparing to descend. As she emerged, the people saw that her dress was magnificent, and her figure dignified, in spite of age and infir- mity a stately ruin, but with a look, at once, of pride and wretchedness. Her strong and rigid features had an awe about them, unlike that of the white Old Maid, but as of something evil. She passed up the steps, leaning on a gold-headed cane ; the door swung open, as she ascended and the light of a torch glittered on the embroidery of her dress, and gleamed on the pillars of the porch. After a momentary pause a glance backwards and then a desperate effort she went in. The decypherer of the coat of arms had ventured up the lowest step, and shrinking back immediately, pale and tremulous, affirmed that the torch was held by the very image of old Caesar. But, such a hideous grin, added he, was never seen on the face of mortal man, black or white ! It will haunt me till my dying day. Meantime, the coach had wheeled round, with a prodigious clatter on the pavement, and rumbled up the street, disappearing in the twilight, while the ear still tracked its course. Scarcely was it gone, when the people began to question, whether the coach and attendants, the ancient lady, the spectre of old Cmesar, and the Old Maid herself, were not all a strangely combined 14 The Old Maid in the Winding- Sheet. delusion, with some dark purport in its mystery. The whole toxvn was astir, so that, instead of dispersing, the crowd contin- ually increased, and stood gazing up at the windows of the man- sion, now silvered by the brightening moon. The elders, glad to indulge the narrative propensity of age, told of the long faded splendor of the family, the entertainments they bad given, and the guests, the greatest of the land, and even titled and noble ones from abroad, who had passed beneath that portal. These graphic reminiscences seemed to call up the ghosts of those to whom they referred. So strong was the impression, on some of the more imaginative hearers, that two or three were seized with trembling fits, at one and the same moment, protesting that they had distinctly heard three other raps of the iron knocker. Impossible ! exclaimed others. See ! Trhe moon shines beneath the porch, and shows every part of it, except in the nar- row shade of that pillar. There is no one there V Did not the door open? whispered one of these fanciful persons. Didst thou see it, too? said his companion, in a startled tone. But the general sentiment was opposed to the idea, that a third visitant had made application at the door of the deserted house. A few, however, adhered to this new marvel, and even declared that a red gleam, like that of a torch, had shone through the great front window, as if the negro were lighting a guest up the stair- case. This, too, was pronounced a mere fantasy. But, at once, the whole multitude started, and each man beheld his own terror painted in the faces of all the rest. ~XXThat an awful thing is this ! cried they. A shriek, too fearfully distinct for doubt, had been heard within the mansion, breaking forth suddenly, and succeeded by a deep stillness, as if a heart had burst in giving it utterance. The peo- ple knew not whether to fly from the very sight of the house, or to rush trembling in, and search out the strange mystery. Amid their confusion and affright, they were somewhat reassured by the appearance of their clergyman, a venerable patriarch, and equally a saint, who had taught them and their fathers the way to Heaven, for more than the space of an ordinary life-time. He was a rev- erend figure, with long, white hair upon his shoulders, a white beard upon his breast, and a back so bent over his staff, that he seemed to be looking downward, continually, as if to choose a proper grave for his weary frame. It was some time, before the good old man, being deaf, and of impaired intellect, could be made to comprehend such portions of the affair, as were com- prehensible at all. But, when possessed of the facts, his ener- gies assumed unexpected vigor. Verily, said the old gentleman, it will be fitting that I enter The Old Maid in the Winding- Sheet. 15 the mansion-house of the worthy Colonel Fenwicke, lest any harm should have befallen that true Christian woman, whom ye call the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. Behold, then, the venerable clergyman ascending the steps of the mansion, with a torch-bearer hehind him. It was the elderly man, who had spoken to the Old Maid, and the same who had afterwards explained the shield of arms, and recognized the fea- tures of the negro. Like their predecessors, they gave three raps, with the iron hammer. Old Caesar corneth not, observed the priest. Well I wot, he no longer doth service in this mansion. Assuredly, then, it was something worse, in old C~sars like- ness ! said the other adventurer. Be it as God wills, answered the clergyman. See! my strength, though it be much decayed, hath sufficient to open this heavy door. Let us enter, and pass up the staircase. Here occurred a singular exemplification of the dreamy state of a very old mans mind. As they ascended the wide flight of stairs, the aged clergyman appeared to move with caution, occa- sionally standing aside, and oftener bending his head, as it were in salutation, thus practicing all the gestures of one who makes his way through a throng. Reaching the head of the staircase, he looked around, with sad and solemn benignity, laid aside his staff, bared his hoary locks, and was evidently on the point of commencing a prayer. Reverend Sir, said his attendant, who conceived this a very suitable prelude to their further search, would it not be well, that the people join with us in prayer? Well-a-day! cried the old clergyman, staring strangely around him. Art thou here with me, and none other? Verily, past times were present to me, and I deemed that I was to make a funeral prayer, as many a time heretofore, from the head of this staircase. Of a truth, I saw the shades of many that are gone. Yea, I have prayed at their burials, one after another, and the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet hath seen them to to their graves ! Being now more thoroughly awake to their present purpose, he took his staff, and struck forcibly on the floor, till there came an echo from each deserted chamber, but no menial, to answer their summons. They therefore walked along the passage, and again paused, opposite to the great front window, through which was seen the crowd, in the shadow and partial moonlight of the street beneath. On their right hand, was the open door of a chamber, and a closed one on their left. The clergyman pointed his cane to the carved oak pannel of the latter. Within that chamber, observed he, a whole life-time since, 16 Song. did I sit by the death-bed of a goodly young man, who, being now at the last gasp Apparently, there was some powerful excitement in the ideas which had now flashed across his mind. He snatched the torch from his companions hand, and threw open the door with such sudden violence, that the flame was extinguished, leaving them no other light than the moonbeams, which fell through two win- dows into the spacious chamber. It was sufficient to discover all that could be known. In a high-backed, oaken arm-chair, up- right, with her hands clasped across her breast, and her head thrown back, sat the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. The stately dame had fallen on her knees, with her forehead on the holy knees of the Old Maid, one hand upon the floor, and the other pressed convulsively against her heart. It clutched a lock of hair, once sable, now discolored with a greenish mould. As the priest and layman advanced into the chamber, the Old Maids features assumed such a semblance of shifLing expression, that they trusted to hear the whole mystery explained, by a single word. But it was only the shadow of a tattered curtain, waving betwixt the dead face and the moonlight. Both dead! said the venerable man. Then who shall di- vulge the secret? Methinks it glimmers to-and-fro in my mind, like the light and shadow across the Old Maids face. And now, t is gone SONG. BLOW, GENTLE GALE V Blow, gentle gale! my pinnace sleeps Upon the sea, In yonder tower, my Ella keeps Her watch for me! Ah, lift my snow-white sail, Thou gentle gale! Breeze, pleasant breeze! where dallyest thou? On beds of flowers? Come, with their odors ~ronnd thee now, Come from their bowers! And fill my drooping sail, Thou gentle gale!

P. B. B., P. Song. 'Blow, Gentle Gale!' Original Papers 16-17

16 Song. did I sit by the death-bed of a goodly young man, who, being now at the last gasp Apparently, there was some powerful excitement in the ideas which had now flashed across his mind. He snatched the torch from his companions hand, and threw open the door with such sudden violence, that the flame was extinguished, leaving them no other light than the moonbeams, which fell through two win- dows into the spacious chamber. It was sufficient to discover all that could be known. In a high-backed, oaken arm-chair, up- right, with her hands clasped across her breast, and her head thrown back, sat the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. The stately dame had fallen on her knees, with her forehead on the holy knees of the Old Maid, one hand upon the floor, and the other pressed convulsively against her heart. It clutched a lock of hair, once sable, now discolored with a greenish mould. As the priest and layman advanced into the chamber, the Old Maids features assumed such a semblance of shifLing expression, that they trusted to hear the whole mystery explained, by a single word. But it was only the shadow of a tattered curtain, waving betwixt the dead face and the moonlight. Both dead! said the venerable man. Then who shall di- vulge the secret? Methinks it glimmers to-and-fro in my mind, like the light and shadow across the Old Maids face. And now, t is gone SONG. BLOW, GENTLE GALE V Blow, gentle gale! my pinnace sleeps Upon the sea, In yonder tower, my Ella keeps Her watch for me! Ah, lift my snow-white sail, Thou gentle gale! Breeze, pleasant breeze! where dallyest thou? On beds of flowers? Come, with their odors ~ronnd thee now, Come from their bowers! And fill my drooping sail, Thou gentle gale! United States Senate~ 17 Come! lovely wind a fairer rose Awaits thy kiss On Ellas cheek thou mayst repose, And faint with bliss, So thou wilt stir my sail, Thou gentle gale! Ab, joy! the waters, crimson-dyed, Far, far away, Touched by thy unseen pinions, glide In merry play; Fill, fill my shivering sail, Thou gentle gale! Thanks, gentle gale! my pinnace rocks My streamers fly The mists float on, like soaring flocks, Along the sky; Press, press my willing sail, Thou gentle gale! Blow on, sweet breeze ! a moment more, And I shall see Her signal, waving from the shore, To welcome me; Rend, if thou wilt, my sail.! Blow, gentle gale! P. B. UNITED STATES SENATE. SAMUEL L. SOUTHARD. SAMUEL LEWIS SOUTHARD was born, June, 1787, at Basking Ridge, Somerset County, New-Jersey. His father, Henry South- ard, is now living, in his eighty-seventh year. For sixteen years, he was a member of the State Legislature of New-Jersey; and in the year 1800, he was elected a member of Congress, which office he uninterruptedly sustained, with credit to himself and his con- stituents, for the term of twenty-one years, with the brief excep- tion of two Congressesfrom the year 1811 to 1815. Samuel L. Southard was educated at Basking Ridge, and Princeton, where Dr. Finley commenced his celebrated acad- emy, by the advice of Mr. Southard, the father, who was de- sirous of educating his son at home. Among his classmates, at school and college, were Dr. Lindsley, President of Nashville University, Theodore Frelinghuysen, his colleague in the United States Senate, and Mr. Kirkpatrick, a clergyman of high repu- tation. VOL. IX. 3

Samuel L. Southard Southard, Samuel L. United States Senate Original Papers 17-31

United States Senate~ 17 Come! lovely wind a fairer rose Awaits thy kiss On Ellas cheek thou mayst repose, And faint with bliss, So thou wilt stir my sail, Thou gentle gale! Ab, joy! the waters, crimson-dyed, Far, far away, Touched by thy unseen pinions, glide In merry play; Fill, fill my shivering sail, Thou gentle gale! Thanks, gentle gale! my pinnace rocks My streamers fly The mists float on, like soaring flocks, Along the sky; Press, press my willing sail, Thou gentle gale! Blow on, sweet breeze ! a moment more, And I shall see Her signal, waving from the shore, To welcome me; Rend, if thou wilt, my sail.! Blow, gentle gale! P. B. UNITED STATES SENATE. SAMUEL L. SOUTHARD. SAMUEL LEWIS SOUTHARD was born, June, 1787, at Basking Ridge, Somerset County, New-Jersey. His father, Henry South- ard, is now living, in his eighty-seventh year. For sixteen years, he was a member of the State Legislature of New-Jersey; and in the year 1800, he was elected a member of Congress, which office he uninterruptedly sustained, with credit to himself and his con- stituents, for the term of twenty-one years, with the brief excep- tion of two Congressesfrom the year 1811 to 1815. Samuel L. Southard was educated at Basking Ridge, and Princeton, where Dr. Finley commenced his celebrated acad- emy, by the advice of Mr. Southard, the father, who was de- sirous of educating his son at home. Among his classmates, at school and college, were Dr. Lindsley, President of Nashville University, Theodore Frelinghuysen, his colleague in the United States Senate, and Mr. Kirkpatrick, a clergyman of high repu- tation. VOL. IX. 3 Is United Stat~s Senate. Mr. Southard was the youngest son of a numerous family, who were all horn in the same part of the State with himself. In the fall of 1802, having finished his preparatory studies, he entered college, and graduated in the September of 1804, then hut sev- enteen years of age, and with the first collegiate honors. On the fourth of March, 1801, at the inauguration of President Jefferson, he delivered an address, which was puhlished in many of the newspapers of the day. immediately upon leaving college, he took upon himself the ushership of an academy, in Menham, New-Jersey, under the direction of Rev. Dr. C. Armstrong, and then in a flourishing condition. His reasons for doing this, were two-fold: first, that he might review his studies and improve his classical education and secondly, that he might support himself, until he had selected his profession ; although his father expressed his entire willing- ness to support him, in the pursuit of his profession; yet he de- clined the generous offer choosing rather to depend upon his own industry, than to make farther demands upon a parent, whose means were small, as xvell as encumbered hy the expenses of a numerous family. From the time of his taking his first degree at college, he~ supported himself entirely. Ahout six months after he went to the Meudham Academy, Dr. Armstrong, with the consent of the trustees, gave him the entire charge of the institution, thus throwing upon him the instruction of ahout fifty scholars, of all ages, many older than himself, and others prepar- ing for the junior class, at college some of whom are now hold- ing distinguished stations. While occupying this station, he sus- tained and increased the reputation of the academy, and received the thanks of the trustees. His health (in his youth, always feeble) now failed him; and, at the close of eighteen months, he was compelled to resign his charge. IHis success in govermag, was good; and when leaving, he ohtained the kind regards and good wishes of hoth parents and children. In April, 1806, he left Nexv-Jersey, for Virginia, and resided in the neighborhood of Frederickshurg between four and five years. There, his time was spent in giving instructions to three or four children, in a private family, and in a diligent course of reading. He commenced the study of the law, though with no intention of practising it; hut, that he might obtain a knowledge of its principles. The study of Blackstone, to whom he gave many diligent perusals, inflamed him with a desire of prosecuting the inquiry farther, and of reading the authors, to whom references were made. He therefore studied many of the leading and most valuahle works on national and municipal law. He was not in the office of any practitioner, hut often conversed with Judge Brooke, Chancellor Green, and others, whose friendship he had acquired. In 1808, he was persuaded to take a license, though still without Samuel L. Southard. 19 the intention to pursue that profession. Advancing yet farther, he was also induced to argue a few causes, for some of his ac- quaintances, but without meaning to obtain business, or to set~ tie in that part of the country, even if he pursued the practice. His first effort was at Stafford Court-house, before the ven& rable Judge Parker, who held the District Court. He proposed to his associate counsel to take a point in the construction of a statute of the State, which purported and was intended to be a copy of a British statute, the construction of which had uniformly been the same in all the courts. His associate declined, but Mr. Southard persisted and argued the point, and was answered by Mr. Botts, one of Burrs counsel, who was afterwards burned up, in the theatre, at Richmond; Mr. Southard replied; and, after advisement, the Judge decided in his favor, which decision was subsequently confirmed. The Judge declared that, when the point was first taken, he considered it altogether untenable, and would not have heard an argument from any one but a young stranger. When Mr. Southard arose, to argue the case, he re- mained motionless, and without recollection or apparent con- sciousness, for several minutes, until every one was agonized at his condition. At length, he unconsciously moved his hand and touched a book, which he intended to use; this book fell on a table, some inches lower, and opened to a page he meant to quote. The noise aroused him; his eye caught the passage; his recollection returned, and he made his argument. The fall of that book probably decided his profession for, had he taken his seat, without making the argument, he would not afterwards have made an attempt. He argued a few other causes, and had the offer of business, but declined it. Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Monroe, Judge Brooke, and others, advised him to settle at Charlottes- ville, near the seat of the Virginia University but circumstan- ces prevented; and, in the winter of 1810, he left Virginia, and in January, 1811, he settled at Hemington, Huntendon County, New-Jersey. His residence was selected under the solicitation of the Governor and others, and with promises of aid, in which, however, he was altogether disappointed. But, notwithstanding he was thrown wholly upon his own resources, he almost imme- diatly obtained as much business as his health and experience would enable him to attend to more, perhaps, than any oth- er young practitioner in the State, in so short a period after his commencement. In May, 1811, he obtained his license. In October, 1811, he was appointed Deputy Attorney-General, in the large counties of Sussex and Morris, which office he held from two Attorney-Generals, of different politics, until he was appointed Judge of the Supreme Court. In June, 1812, he mar- ried, in Virginia. 20 United States Senate. In the winter of 1811, the democratic party, to which he was attached, had resolved to change the Attorney-General. A part of them were dissatisfied with the candidates selected to take his place, and applied to him to consent to he run as a candi- date. The federal party, despairing of the election of the old Attorney-General, stated to him that they would vote for him, which would have ensured his election. This offer he refused, thinking himself too young and inexperienced for such an office, and desired the election of the then incumbent, who was a wor- thy man, and a faithful officer. About this time, he was appointed Master and Examiner in Chancery an office which he holds up to this day, and in which he has performed much service: this office does not interfere with practice, and may be held by any practitioner or other citi- zen, by Judges and other officers. While he held this situation, his practice was extensive. In the winter of 1814, 15, the great steamboat controversy, between New-Jersey and New-York and their citizens, assumed an interesting character; and, upon the application of the assign- ees of Fulton, a hearing, by counsel, of the parties, took place before the Legislature he was employed as counsel, and the cause was argued by him and Judge Hopkinson, on one side, and by Mr. Emmett, on the other. It attracted great crowds. A report of the case has been printed, in which he is represented as being eminently successful in the competition. Mr. Emmett spoke of his efforts and success, in strong terms. By the active part he took in this case, and the ability with which he managed it, his reputation rapidly spread throughout the State. In October, 1811, he was elected to the Legislature, by what is believed to he the largest vote ever given in the county of Huntendon. He was of the democratic or republican party. His father was one of the first individuals who espoused that party, in his part of the State, and was always an active and ar- dent supporter of its principles. His son was of the same school ardent, zealous, and active. The leading members of the bar were generally federalists ; and, while they were attached to him, treated him with personal kindness ; they pressed him with severity, and constantly required from him, in conversation, an active defence of his opinions, which he never avoided. In 1812, the peace party prevailed in the State; he was incessantly engaged, tongue and pen; and the change, that was effected in the following year, was, in a great measure, attributed to his ex- ertions. During this year, he probably wrote more than any two men in the State. When he took his seat, as a member of the Legislature, the office of Judge of the Supreme Court be- came vacant, and he was looked to as candidate for the office. Samuel L. Southard. 21 His health had declined ; and it was thought necessary, by his physician, that he should, for a time at least, quit the labors of the bar. He desired to have the office, but his youth and the short time he had been at the bar, made him unwilling to request it. It was the pleasure of the Legislature to select him, and it is believed, that he would have had no opposition, if he had not advocated the re-appointment of one or two officers, in the joint meeting, who were among the best in the State, but who xvere federalists. He insisted, that a faithful officer, who had skil- fully discharged his duty, who did not abuse office for party pur- poses, should not be abused, for opinions sake. He was suc- cessiTul in saving them, although the party was in a large majority; but some of them were offended, and therefore changed their purpose of making him Judge. He was not ignorant of the effect, which his course would produce, and that it might be a sacrifice of his wishes, which, though not spoken of at the time, were strong, on account of his health. His opponent was an eminent laxvyer, of his own party; but, notwithstanding this, Mr. Southard was chosen, by a large majority. Although his offence had been his refusal to displace a federalist, yet the federal party divided equally between him and his opponent. Mr. Southard was twenty-eight years old, when he took his seat as a Judge of the Supreme Court, and he had been but a little more than four years at the bar. He was on the bench just five years, during a part of which time, he reported the decisions of the court, under a law of the State, requiring such decisions, as affected the court for the trial of small causes, to be printed. He was confined by the terms of the act, but extended the re- ports beyond what was done by others. His reports are in two volumes. In 1816, he was appointed, by the Chancellor, a Master to decide upon injunctions, in the absence of the Chancel- lor from the city of Trenton an office, rendered important by the fact, that the Chancellor, who is also Governor, does not usually live at the seat of government. He still holds this ap- pointment, and is often called to perform its duties when he is in Trenton. His youth and short service at the bar made his political oppo- nents question the propriety of his appointment as Judge; but, in a very short time, he was found to be an efficient member of the bench. The jurisdiction of the court is extensive, and the Judges hold, twice a year in each county, a Circuit Court, for the trial of issues joined at the bar. The duties of this office, it is well known, are laborious. So much satisfaction did he give, and such a reputation, for probity, consistency, and ability, did he acquire, that, when he left the bench, the bar gave him a very unusual testimony of their esteem. They all united in a public 22 Uuiled States Senate. dinner, under circumstances which manifested respect and affec~ tion. His character as a Judge, is unspotted; and, though al- ways a politician, he xvas never even suspected of being influ- enced, hy his feelings or partialities, in any cause. In October, 1820, he was chosen Senator to Congress. He had previously been much urged, by his political friends, to take this office ; but he had refused. Two days, however, before the election, circumstances occurred, which induced him to consent, .and he was elected. It was said, that no other than himself could have been successful against Mr. Wilson, who then held the seat. Although he did not expect to take his seat until December, 1821, yet the incumbent resigned, and he was appointed to sup- ply the balance of the term. He took his seat in the Senate, Fehruary, 1821, while the Missouri question was yet not fully settled. The great question had been decided in the preceding session ; and the only point remaining, was the acceptance of the Constitution. Against this, but one objection was urged, which was ~to the provision excluding free blacks from the State. Mr. South- ard thought that, under the laws of the last session, the question was decided, as to slavery in Missouri and that, the law and faith of the government required the admission, if the Constitution was republican. He voted against the admission, until some provis- ion was made for altering the provision referred to, as against the Constitution of the United States. But he voted for the admission, upon the condition that that provision should be altered. His colleague voted against it on any terms. Some of the members of New-Jersey, in the House, changed their votes, and the State was admitted upon that condition. This change was attributed to Mr. Southard, and he was strongly censured for it. But it is not, perhaps, known what would have been his vote on the main question, if he had been there at the former session. He con- sidered, that that question was settled by solemn law, and that the faith of the Union was pledged to the admission, on the sole condition that the Constitution of Missouri was republican. He opposed the violation of the law of the former session; and upon the Constitution of that State being altered, in the particu- lar mentioned, he gave his assent. The joint committee, that prepared the resolutions for the admission which passed, con- sisted of twenty from the House~ and seven from the Senate, all elected by ballot. His father was a member of Congress, of the House, and he of the Senate, and they met in that character on this joint committee. At the close of that session, his father left Congress, declining re-election, having served his constitu- ents, as acceptably as any man ever did for so long a period of time. Mr. Southard was in the Senate sixteen days, at the end of the session of 1820, and his period of six years then corn- Samuel L. Southard. 23 menced. He continued in the Senate the two succeeding ses- sions, and belonged to the republican party, then in the majority; and of that party he was always found an active, attentive, and industrious member. In August, 1823, Mr. Monroe offered Mr. Southard the ap- pointment of Secretary of the Navy, which office he would have de- clined, if he had not been strongly urged by friends, to whose wishes he yielded. One of his reasons for hesitation, stated at the time, was, that a violent electioneering presidential contest was approaching; that he was young but little known to the nation and it was probable, in the short period of Mr. Mon- roes term, that he should not be able to give to the administra- tion of the department such character and weight, as to make it the xvish or interest of the successor to retain him ; and thus his discharge might operate injuriously to his character. It was thought, at the time of this appointment, that the election was in some degree influenced hy Mr. Calhoun; and on this account, some of the friends of Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Adams felt un- friendly to him. But they were in error, and the election was unsolicited and purely the act of Mr. Monroe. The members of the cabinet, in its then state, were not consulted ; nor did any of them know of it, until Mr. Monroe announced to them his de- termination, provided he was not personally unacceptable to any of them. Thus the selection was made, purely from Mr. Monroes own knowledge and estimate of his character and ability. They became acquainted when Mr. Southard was but nine years of age, and from that time they had been upon the most friendly and intimate terms, and were even confidential correspondents. Upon the duties of this office, Mr. Southard entered the sixteenth of September, 1823. The registers, therefore, are wrong, in stat- ing it to have been in December of that year. When Mr. Southard became a member of the cabinet, three of the memhers of it were spoken of as candidates for the presi- dency. Their friends were anxious and zealous ; and it was scarcely possible for Mr. Monroe to make an appointment, or to recommend a measure, to which some partizan would not give a character of partiality to one or the other of the candidates. Though holding a position of perfect neutrality, his situation was still very painful, and his acts often misconstrued; and much hos- tility of feeling arose against him, from this cause. But, all this was without foundation, only illustrating the evils of having can- didates for the presidency in the cabinet, and thus creating dis- satisfaction, and rendering the President himself unpopular. Mr. Southard saw the difficulties by which he was surrounded, and at once decided, that it was his duty to refrain from being a parti- zan of either candidate; that his first duty was to his country and Mr. Monroe, and to aid in furthering the administration of the 24 United States Senate. government, upon the principles which he had approved, He was aware, that this xvas dangerous ground for himself, as he could have no personal claims on any successor, and would prob- ably be discarded, to make room for some more active partizan. But this could not change his course. He did not express his preference to any ; but, as he was, at the time, very intimate with the most poxverful friends of one of the candidates General Jackson whenever they spoke to him, as they often did, on the subject, he apprised them distinctly, that ~he was not in favor of their candidate. Until after Mr. Adamss election, no con- versation, even alluding to his election, or the formation of his cabinet, took place between him and Mr. Southard. When Mr. Monroe retired from the presidency, he expressed, in the most affectionate and strong terms, his feeling, in regard to the manner in which, unsolicited, he had performed his duties, and the aid he afforded him on all subjects; and he added, that he had never associated with one, from whom he had received more faithful and efficient aid. Their intercourse was of the most intimate and friendly character, and continued until the death of Mr. Monroe. After Mr. Monroe had been given over by his physi- cians, Mr. S& nthard made him a visit; and when he entered the room, Mr. M. raised his head, and taking his hand, said, with great emotion, My friend, I am glad to see you; I love better to see you and Mr. ~ than any other men in the world. It is impracticable to embrace, in a sketch so short as this must necessarily be, all the points of Mr. Southards administra- tion of the Navy Department. A few days after he had assumed the duties of the office, information was received of the illness of Commodore Porter, and the distressed situation of the squad- ron under his command, at Key-West. Mr. Southard promptly dispatched medical and other aid, and sent Commodore Rogers out to relieve, as necessity might require. Such relief was very beneficial. In the Navy, previous to Mr. Southards administra- tion of the department, there had been an entire cessation of pro- motions, and the Navy was dispirited, He urged a change, and more promotions were made than have before or since been made. The Navy registers, for the different years, will show that, in this respect, he regarded the just claims of the officers, and the interests of the service. And, in recommending to the President for promotion, he uniformly refused to recommend those whom he thought unfit for the higher office. His example, in this re- spect, has been useful to the service, though it has not been al- ways followed by his successors. For some time, it had been customary to make appointments in the Navy, without much re- gard to age, or the States from which the persons came ; and thus, great irregularity existed. Mere children were sometimes appointed. Mr. Southard endeavored to produce equality, as amue I L. ,S~outhavd. Qr) far as practicable, and thus exerted an equal interest in all sec~ tions of the country; and therefore a rule was made, that no one~ under fourteen and over twenty, should be appointed a rule that is still followed. It had also been customary to make appointments of the med- ical officers, xvhen recommended, without much knowledge of the qualifications of the applicant ; and hence, there were sur- geons very unfit to trust with the health and lives of the officers and men. Mr. Southard established a board of examination of competent surgeons required every applicant to submit to an examination, and be recommended by it, as fit and competent, before he could be appointed. The result was most salutary. Several incompetent officers were disposed of, and the medical corps was made equal, if not superior, to any in the world. It had its origin with Mr. Southard. The hospital fund had been much neglected. It had been de- ducted from the pay of the officers and men, and left iii the pay; and in that mode, about one hundred and twenty thousand dollars had been used for other purposes. Mr. Southard devoted great attention to it; recovered what had been thus taken, required it to be transferred, every three months, to the commissioners, and thus increased it to such an extent, that he purchased hospital- grounds at New-York, Philadelphia, Norfolk, and Pensacola, for which he paid between thirty and forty thousand dollars, and com- menced a hospital at Norfolk, and an asylum at Philadelphia. The intention being to erect, at each place, a hospital, and place an asylum in Philadelphia. These were, for a time, neglected by his successor. Mr. Southard was also engaged, before he left, in preparing to put into operation a system of hospital discipline. The building at Norfolk is admirably located, and fitted for the object. The asylum, at Philadelphia, is the best building, for the object, in the world, and the cheapest, for its extent and ma- terials, in this country. His object, in all cases, was to build large and permanent edifices, which would nQt require alterations and repairs; and when, in future years, additions should be re- quired, their construction was such as to be extended without altering or affecting that which was already done. Shortly after coming into office, he perceived that a safe, economical, and efficient administration of the department, required that he should not be obliged to rely on others, for his knowledge of the various yards and stations; but should make personal observations upon them. In May, June, July, and August, he visited them all, except that at Pensacola; made a minute examination, and formed his own opinions of their character and qualities. This practice has been, to some extent, followed by others. Some very im- portant alterations and additions were made, in consequence of this visit. He also examined the stations on the lakes, at Erie, VOL. IX. 4 20 United States Senate. Sacketts Harbor, and Whiteh~ill; and, becoming satisfied that the public, interest required it, he recommended, at the next ses- sion of Congress, that the materials and vessels should be re- moved and sold except the two large ships, Chippewa and New-Orleans, on the stocks at Sacketts Harbor and the sta- tions broken up; thus creating an annual revenue of about thirty- thousand dollars. And during the last session, a law was re- ported by him, giving up to the owners the ground, which had been occupied for naval purposes, at Sacketts Harbor. Many of the recommendations, which Mr. Southard made to the executive and to Congress, were not then adopted ; but some of them have recently met more favor. Among those not adopted, was the recommendation to establish a line of packets, to start every fifteen or twenty days, to be composed of schooners in the service, and then the establishment of a passage across the isth- mus, connecting some point in the United States with Lima or Valparaiso; tbus giving a communication with our squadron, and with our merchant vessels, in the Pacific, in less than one third of the time now consumed a project immensely important to the navy, and to our growing commerce in the Pacific ; but it was defeated, through party motives. Mr. Southard also com- menced a system of sending some of our vessels to the islands in the Pacific, and thence, by the Cape of Good-Hope, homexvard. The first vessel the Vincennes which made this circumfer- ence of the globe, was under his orders. He also urged the es- tablishment of a naval school, and pressed it without ceasing. A bill, for the purpose, passed the Senate, and was lost in the House, by a few votes, in consequence of the accidental absence of a number of friends when the vote was taken. He has again reported a bill for the purpose. He also appointed skilful officers, and provided plans for the future improvements of the navy-yards, which were approved, and by which all additions and other alter- ations should be made ; thus saving great expense in changes and alterations. These plans are now the guide in all improve- ments; and when they are filled up, they will form navy and dock-yards, equal to any in the world. The plans for those at Norfolk, Washington, Philadelphia, Charlestown and Portsmouth, were completed. That at New-York, was not entirely finished. It consisted of the present yard at Brooklyn and Governors Island ; the transfer of which, from the war to the navy depart- ment, had been procured by him. It has since been returned to the war department, and much to the injury of the naval service. It would have afforded an admirable site for dry-docks, and other important objects. T he dry-docks, at Charlestown and Norfolk, were recommended, the appropriations made, and the works com- menced, under his auspices. Mr. Southard also recommended ~n exploring expedition to the South Seas, and made arrange- Samuel L. Southard. 27 meats of vessels, scientific officers, and instruments, for its exe- cution which were to depend upon the approbation of Congress and competent appropriations. These, however, were not ob- tained, and the plan was of course defeated. On the third of March, 1829, Mr. Southard sent his resigna- tion of the office to Mr. Adams, and received a letter from him, written in strong terms of affectionate regard, and of approbation of his official conduct. Mr. Adams, also, in a letter addressed to some of the citizens of Rahway, New-Jersey, expressed his regard for him, in language, which any individual might be grati- fled to have applied to himself by such a man. His health had been very feeble during the last session of that administration so feeble, that he was unable to go to his office for some months; but, sick in his room, he not only attended to all its duties, but, for a short time, performed the duties of Secretary of the Treas- ury, during an indisposition of Mr. Rush. On several occasions, while he was in the department, he performed the duties of the other departments, in the absence of the other secretaries, or when the offices were vacant. At one time he held an appointment of acting commissioner, as Secretary of the Treasury, for more than five months discharging the duties of both offices; and, at another time, he also held an acting appointment, as Sec- retary of War, for two or three months. No man ever devoted himself more diligently to his duties. The friends of Mr. Adamss administration xvere in a majority, of four or five, in the New-Jersey Legislature, in the winter of 1828, 29; and they desired to send Mr. Southard to the Sen- ate ; but, by the contrivance of an aspirant for the place, a reso- lution was passed, declaring him ineligible, because he was not, at the time, an inhabitant of the State a resolution, for which every Jackson man voted, with a small number of those who were pledged to the individual referred to ; and it was carried by a majority of one or two. The dissatisfaction of his friends, at the passage of this resolution, was so great, that they would not vote for the member of the party, who alone remained on nomination and they cast their votes for Mr. Dickerson, who was thus, against all hope, re-elected. A few days afterwards, the election of Attorney-General of the State came on; and, although he had written to his friends not to permit his name to be used, he was elected to that office, xvhich, however, he con- cluded to accept, and which he held for four years, until he was chosen Governor of the State. His practice, as a lawyer, was extensive; but no practice in that State is very profitable. His return to the bar was more successful than is common. After being on the bench five years, and in the Navy Department five years and a half, he was fortu- nate enough, on both occasions, to find his position at the bar very United States Senate. favorable, and his practice full, without the usual delay in such cases. He is engaged in almost all the leading cases, and has been fortunate enough to receive higher verdicts in several cases, than were ever before rendered in the State. In October, 1832, he was chosen Governor, aud very reluc- tantly accepted it a sacrifice to the wishes of his friends. He held the office for four or five months, during which time the nullification question was the subject of agitation. He communi- cated the documents from South Carolina to the Legislature; and, in a message, which was generally published, conveyed his sense of the doctrines which were then agitated. In the winter session of the Legislature, he was transferred from the govern- ment of the State to the Senate of the United States the Legislature fully supposing, that the times called for him rather in the latter than in the former station. Mr. Soutbard was originally of the democratic party, and took an early and a conspicuous part in the expression of his opin- ions. With his tongue and pen, lie engaged in the discussions which agitated the country from 1804 to his appointment as Judge, in 1815 ; and since he left the bench, he has always been ranked among the republicans of his native State, unless we ex- cept the Jackson party, who lay claim to all democracy and re- publicanism, as peculiarly their oxvn a claim, which is pre- eminently ridiculous in New-Jersey, where once-prominent fed- eralists have seized the name of de.mocracy, and turned over to an imaginary federal party the men most prominent, during the war, in the democratic ranks. In addition to the active part Mr. Southard has taken in the political discussions of the day, and his professional career, he has written, on various occasions, many speeches and addresses, which, if collected, would make a volume of no ordinary size. The sketch of his argument, (but the sketch is quite imperfect) in the great steamboat controversy, before the Legislature of New-Jersey, in the winter of 1813, 14 in which, the right of the State to pass acts countervailing the exclusive privileges grant- ed by New-York to Fulton and Livingston, xvas discussed has been published ; and although, in this litigation, he was engaged with Ogden, Hopkinson, and Emmett, yet he won in it distin- guished reputation. An oration of his, on the fourth of July, 1811, has been published, in a pamphlet form; also, a speech be- fore the Columbian Institute, at Washington, in 1827 ; an ad- dress before the Mechanics Society, at Newark, New-Jersey, fourth of July, 1830; an eulogy on Chief Justice Ewing, deliv- ered at the request of the court and bar of New-Jersey, and of the corporate authorities at Trenton ; an address on the centen- nial birth-day of Washington, at the request of the corporate au- thorities of Trenton, and of the Legislature of the State, then in & tmuel L. Southctrd. 29 session; an address before the Alumni of Princeton College ; atid also, an address, in the hall of the House of Representatives, on the professional character and virtues of William Wirt, at the request of the bar of the Supreme Court of the United States. This last address was delivered before as intelligent and as select an audience as can he assemhled in the United States. The venerable Marshall, with the whole Supreme Court, almost all the members of the United States Senate, and of the House of Representatives, with the taste and beauty from all sections of the Union, that usually crowd the saloons in Washington during the winter, were present, and all were highly gratified with the eloquence and fervor of the speaker. Of the many speeches of Mr. Southard, in Congress and at the bar, we have room to say but little. A report of his argument, before the Court of Ap- peals of New-Jersey, in the Quaker controversy, has been pub- lished. His speeches, also, in the Senate, during the late ses- sion of Congress, have appeared in a pamphlet form. His great speech upon the deposite question attracted unusual attention, and has circulated far and wide. Indeed, it is not only powerful in argument, but bold, heroic, and chivalrous, in its thrusts at arbi- trary power, and at that violation of the laws, which reduced so many to ruin and heggary. In this eloquent defence of the laws and the Constitution, in this assault upon usurpation, Mr. Southard appeared in a character in which his eloquence pecu- liarly enabled him to shine. Never fearing the frowns of power, he struck at it with the strength of the Roman soldier, who defended Rome with his single battle-axe; and wherever he struck, power trembled and quivered at the shock. Enthusiasti- cally attached to liberty, and gifted with an ardent temperament, he was admirably fitted for such a combat as that in which the Senate was involved. ID enunciation but awakened his eloquence. Abuse only stimulated his industry. Threats but aroused and invigorated all that was manly and heroic in him; and his high moral courage, thus enkindled, often rolled forth thunders of re- buke, that not only muttered around the cars, but shook the powers behind the throne. During the last winter, but few men were more abused than Mr. Southard. True, Webster was violently attacked; Clay, as usual, was assailed ; Calhoun was not spared; but, upon Southards devoted head, the weight of that power, unknown to the Constitution, but known and fearfully felt in its administration, was constantly directed. If rumor be true, the fulminator of this wrath, he xvho presides over the orgies of the kitchen-cabinet, was stimulated to this attack by an expos- ure, which Mr. Southard made, of his perfidy, at the trial of Watkins, when called as a xvitness in that case. But, all this wrath was but noisemere noisethe sound of the thunder, but 30 United ,States ~e ate. without the bolt or the flash ; and certain it is, that it fell pow~ erless upon the man against whom it was directed. Mr. Southard has not only received many political honors from his countrymen, but science and literature have awarded him their gifts ; and of them, to the extent of his ability, he has been a friend, and a patronizer. For fifteen years past, he has been an active trustee of the college of New-Jersey, in xvhich he gradua- ted. For some years, he has been a member of the American Philosophical Society ; and of the Society of National Statistics of France. He is also an honorary member of several of the literary societies of the United States. In 1830, he received the degree of L. L. D. from the University of Pennsylvania. The reader, who but glances over this, but a sketch of the life of Mr. Southard, must see that it has been a life of activity, full of no common incidents instructive and interesting, too, to every young American, who traces it out, from the early begin- flings of the schoolmaster, in all the various mutations, which the lawyer and statesman went through. It is hardly necessary to add, that the man who has been in so many posts, with honor to himself and profit to his country, must be a man of undaunted perseverance, of pure and elevated ambition, animated by the high and patriotic impulses which never forget ones duty to his felloxv-rnen, or that fame which follows and abides by actions truly great and good. Mr. Southard has aimed high, and reached high; and on that pinnacle of elevation he stands, guilty of no mean action, or groveling attempt to perpetrate one. The whole round of honor his State could give him, he has run. Offices have been fled from, rather than solicited. They clustered, as it were, upon him; and there they ripened into glorious fruit. Enemies he undoubtedly has and who has not, that ever lets loose the tongue, in the unbridled independence of a freeman ? That warmth of feeling, which defies power, and thus terrifying it, makes it his enemy, also makes friends. In debate, Mr. Southard uses no doubtful words. If an act is niean, mean is the word used to designate its character. If a charge is false, false it is pronounced to be. And yet, he is ever kind and courteous towards asso- ciates in debate. Whatever he says, comes from the heart, and, therefore, with all the life and soul of a sentiment springing di- rectly from the heart. An energetic, ardent manner, may often give it more force than, of itself, it really claims. Lively action, a blazing eye, impassioned sentences, rolled along in impetuous strains, awaken and often startle. These are, perhaps, the ex- aggerations of eloquence ; but such exaggerations as ever make the eloquent man. When Mr. Southard speaks, he is all alive. If excited, if flushed, if assailed, he bursts forth, in fearless lan- guage. The best of words are at his command, and them he d .Modern Pilgrimage. 31 uses with the best effect. An audience catches his enthusiasm. The crowd go away, instructed and warmed, not so much by the sudden flash, which glitters but to darken darkness yet the more, but by one broad blaze, one continuous light, ever burning and ever streaming over all around it. Others may now and then launch heavier bolts. The lightning of some mans wrath may blast a victim with a deadlier blow ; but his is a constant peal a loud~ long voice of eloquence, as of the cloud, charged to the full with electric matter, that breaks and flashes on every side. In person, Mr. Southard is small. His action, in speak- ing, is energetic, rather than graceful. His style of oratory is vehement, rather than beautiful. His voice is clear, strong, and rapid. His eye is keen and penetrating, and, when excited, com- manding. In social intercourse, he is one of the most agreeable men in the world, ever accessible, always polite with a fund of information, and an abundance of good humor, which ever make his company desirable. No extra dignity, no encumbering pomp, no parade and show, distinguish him; but, there is a sim- plicity of manner, and freedom from ostentation, which, almost always, mark the strong mind, and the strong man. No Sec.- retary of the Navy has been more popular, we had almost said so popular. The officers of the navy, almost to a man, will bear witness to the liberality, kindness, and yet economy, with which he presided over that department. In him, we may add, New- Jersey has an accomplished and able son; and, while a Southard and a Frelinghuysen defend her interests, in the great council of the nation, she need never fear that they will be poxverfully and eloquently advocated. A MODERN PILGRIMAGE. IN the autumn of 1827, I was induced to make my first visit to the renowned city of New-Amsterdam. This was, in fact, a literary pilgrimage ; for I blush not to confess that I was actuated by an inexpressible desire of beholding those time-honored spots, which have been immortalized by the pen of IDiedrich Knicker- bocker, and by a hope of benefiting my intellectual and moral sense, in many an hour of tranquil meditation over the pages of the venerable and veracious historian, in the very scenes which were once trodden by his doughty heroes, in the golden era of the province. The sort of enthusiasm which thus leads us to dis- tinguished places, is, in my opinion, highly commendable, and as

A Modern Pilgrimage Original Papers 31-39

d .Modern Pilgrimage. 31 uses with the best effect. An audience catches his enthusiasm. The crowd go away, instructed and warmed, not so much by the sudden flash, which glitters but to darken darkness yet the more, but by one broad blaze, one continuous light, ever burning and ever streaming over all around it. Others may now and then launch heavier bolts. The lightning of some mans wrath may blast a victim with a deadlier blow ; but his is a constant peal a loud~ long voice of eloquence, as of the cloud, charged to the full with electric matter, that breaks and flashes on every side. In person, Mr. Southard is small. His action, in speak- ing, is energetic, rather than graceful. His style of oratory is vehement, rather than beautiful. His voice is clear, strong, and rapid. His eye is keen and penetrating, and, when excited, com- manding. In social intercourse, he is one of the most agreeable men in the world, ever accessible, always polite with a fund of information, and an abundance of good humor, which ever make his company desirable. No extra dignity, no encumbering pomp, no parade and show, distinguish him; but, there is a sim- plicity of manner, and freedom from ostentation, which, almost always, mark the strong mind, and the strong man. No Sec.- retary of the Navy has been more popular, we had almost said so popular. The officers of the navy, almost to a man, will bear witness to the liberality, kindness, and yet economy, with which he presided over that department. In him, we may add, New- Jersey has an accomplished and able son; and, while a Southard and a Frelinghuysen defend her interests, in the great council of the nation, she need never fear that they will be poxverfully and eloquently advocated. A MODERN PILGRIMAGE. IN the autumn of 1827, I was induced to make my first visit to the renowned city of New-Amsterdam. This was, in fact, a literary pilgrimage ; for I blush not to confess that I was actuated by an inexpressible desire of beholding those time-honored spots, which have been immortalized by the pen of IDiedrich Knicker- bocker, and by a hope of benefiting my intellectual and moral sense, in many an hour of tranquil meditation over the pages of the venerable and veracious historian, in the very scenes which were once trodden by his doughty heroes, in the golden era of the province. The sort of enthusiasm which thus leads us to dis- tinguished places, is, in my opinion, highly commendable, and as 32 J~ Modern Pilgrimage. distinct as possible from the ordinary lion-hunting spirit, which appears to be the law of modern times. To have visited the birth-place of some of the worlds best and brigb test spirits, poets and historians, xvho have enriched the language and philoso- phy of their country ; warriors, who have freely poured forth their blood in its defence ; statesmen, who have devoted their lives to the task of ennobling its institutions, seems to give us a better conception of their characters, and a clearer understand- ing of the grandeur of their works. Thus, taking for my guide a philosophic and inquiring spirit, on a bright, sunny, autumnal morning having taken leave of my family, with a certain dignity which seemed to me appropriate to the greatness of my under- taking, and which enabled me to look farewell with tearless eyes I committed my person and portmanteau to the care of a coachman, and was soon on the way to Providence, whence, I was assured, that a boat, propelled by steam, would take me to my place of destination. Wrapt up in an enthusiastic reverie, I took but little note of the conversation of my fellow-travelers, which, however, seemed to savor of the littleness of trade, and proved that, while I was beholding, in fancy, the ancient glories of the seventeenth century, they xvere regarding the aspect of the present. On the ensuing morning, I was summoned to the deck of the steamboat, on its approach to New-York, to look upon the beau- tiful scenery of the gently undulating shores of the sound. We entered Hell-gate with a favorable tide. Hell-gate ! What asso- ciations did not that name awaken It is true, that my memory did not repeat the classic delineations of the realm of Pluto, nor even the descriptions of Milton; but I thought of Knickerbocker, of Mud Sam, and the early days of the province. This, then, was that frightful whirlpool, the horrors of which were not encoun- tered, in olden time, until the aspect of the sky had been care- fully noted, until prayers had been offered up to St. Nicholas, and a horse-shoe elevated on the mast, to guard against the evil spirits of the waters. Tempora mutantur. They do it differ- ently now. Gliding like voyagers in a fairy bark, we passed the many villas that gleam among the trees, upon the northern shore, the gray battlements of Blackwells Island, and the shot-tower, rising, tall and white, against the deep-blue sky, like a marble column in a Grecian atmosphere. Rounding in, between the pleasant shores of Brooklyn and the peopled ones of Manhattans Island, we en- tered a deep dock, that indented the city of New-Amsterdam. What a throng of emotions rushed upon my soul! It was the city of the Dutch, but with nothing to mark its origin. I looked in vain for the squat houses, with gable-ends and tiled roofs, built of yellow bricks imported from Europe; these had, long since, .1) slfodern Piloriniage. 33 been displaced, to make room for flaunting edifices, of American material, and marble buildings, that seemed to rival European splendor. Spirit of Knickerbocker! couldst thou arise from the grave, and tread the scene of thy old adventures, how strange would be thy cogitations! Like Rip Van Winkle, thou wouldst find that a change has come upon the face of the old city, and that a modern style of dress has obscured and altered those fine, antiquated features, which formed the ancient charm of the me- tropolis. Accustomed to picture it as described in thy immortal pages, I almost feared that I was laboring under some illusion; and that, during a temporary aberration of my intellect, engen- dered by intense study, and deep meditation over thy chronicles, I had been, all unconsciously, journeying to some strange city of a recent date. As I rambled slowly up the street, gazing listlessly upon the names, borne by the signs and door-plates, I was by them re~ minded of my whereabout. I read, with awe and admiration, names xvhich I had first met with in the ancient story ; and I could not help feeling an enthusiastic pleasure, in being thus assured that I xvas in the midst of those who had earned an honorable reputation in the olden time. The descendants of the great men of the province have not lost the emulation and ambition of their chivalric ancestors, although their enterprising spirit finds a vent in somewhat different channels ; and the fine arts as painting, sculpture, architecture bear witness to their affluence, industry, and taste. But, like a true antiquarian, I re- fused to see the galleries of paintings, the theatres, and gardens of the modern city being extremely unwilling to disturb my ideas of the past. I sought, xvith diligence, for antiquities ; and, having the good fortune to make the acquaintance of that learned and venerable antiquarian, the celebrated Dr. Zoroaster Plumda- mask, my researches were not wholly fruitless. Yet, unwilling to make too great a draught upon the good-nature of this most learned and estimable man, II was often forced to ramble out with- out a cicerone. In one of these excursions, I pushed on, for some distance, beyond the fashionable lounge, and found myself in the upper part of the city. The morning had been lowering. Dark, leaden clouds had been gradually rising from the horizon in the west; and the wind swept fitfully through the trees, whirling away the few withered leaves, and raising eddies of dust along the dry high- way. All at once, the sky grew preternaturally black. Huge, inky clouds rolled over each other, while their occasional collision produced sharp flashes of lightning, instantaneously followed by very heavy thunder. Clouds of dust filled the air; but I could occasionally catch glimpses of cattle, in the distant fields, scud- ding to shelter, or hurrying to-and-fro, in wild dismay. The birds VOL. ix. 5 34 Modern Pilgrimage. wheeled, screamed, fluttered and dived, overhead; and the wind roared among the foliage. The river was covered with short, angry waves, of a dark color, crested with foam, that was shivered and blown off as soon as formed, sparkling like shattered glass over the gray sea. All these sights and sounds heralded the coming rain. I looked anxiously around for shelter. There was no shop or public house in the vicinity; hut I beheld, near at hand, a church, the deeply-indented door-way of which seemed, taking into consideration the direction of the wind, to afford hope of tem- porary shelter. Hither I repaired, and had no sooner entrenched myself in my retreat, than the rain came down in one unbroken sheet, swaying, however, with the wind, and lighted up, inces- santly, hy red flashes of lightning the precursors of tremendous thunder. As I looked around upon the church-yard, I could not help thinking that the time and place were fitting for a spec- tral visitation ; and I almost looked to see the tombs yawn, and the sheeted dead arise before me. These wild fancies fled with the storm, which was, happily, of brief duration. As it cleared away, and the sun came smiling forth from his chamber in the clouds, a beautiful rainbow appeared, spanning the eastern arch of Heaven, filling the air with inconceivable brightness and glory. I turned to the tombstones, and began to read the epitaphs. Passing over the commonplace specimens of elegiac poetry, with the conventional rhymes of love and dove, heart from heart, forced to part, die and sky, I fixed my eyes upon a plain slab of red free-stone, without any armorial bearings or attempt at cherubim, and there read the name of PETER STUYVESANT. My heart bounded in my bosom. The inscription expressed, in simple terms, the rank and age of the deceased modestly re- cording the fact, that he had been one of the Governors of New- York, during the time of its provincial glory. Here, then, I had unconsciously stumbled on the grave of a hero. A mysterious influence had conducted me to the spot perhaps a magnetic attraction; I should have thought so, had not Knickerbocker solemnly assured us that the leg of the immortal Governor was not silver, although adorned with silver-leaf. The grave of Peter Stuyvesant! I could visit Vaucluse with less emotion. I bent over the hallowed stone, which covered the perishing portion of the immortal Governor, and deliberately re-perused the epitaph. I thought of his virtues of his end the spirit of chivalric enterprise, which communicated a fire to his plodding country- men, of romantic valor, which bore him, unblenching, through the horrors of Fort Christina of military enthusiasm, which encir- cled the gubernatorial chair, with all the insignia, the pomp, the pride and circumstance of glorious war. Fancy presented a dis~ tinct image of the golden days. I beheld the waving banners, glittering with embroidery, the long procession of determined and .i1 Modern Pilgrimage. 35 xvell-armed men, each encased in numerous inexpressibles. I lis- tened to the spirit-stirring roll of the deep drum, and the wild, brazen braying of the trumpets. Then this vision passed away, and I looked upon the quiet scene of the heros repose the church-yard, thickly studded xvith grave-stones, full of its quiet population, shadowed by the guardian church, which lifted its tall spire into Heaven; the street, yet thinly settled, but soon to be a thronged resort; and then I thought of the historians undying work. That church, that street, those inspired pages bore the name of Stuyvesant. Millions, yet unborn, shall constantly re- peat that honored name ; and this is glory; glory, pure, warm, and hallowed, to which the fame of such as Wellington is nothing in comparison. I turned from this scene, a more thoughtful and better man. With similar enthusiasm, I gazed upon the Sleepy Hollow, and caught the first glimpse of the Katskill Mountains, whose blue summits soared away into the autumnal Heaven, almost as brilliant, in hue, as the firmament they seemed to pierce. A change has come upon the dwellers at their base ; but, still they soar, unaltered, into the blue vault ; still, still tbeir rocky ribs pierce through their outward covering, and the forests are yet green, and the waters are yet musical the former waving down their rocky sides, and the latter, bubbling up within their stony channels. Still rolls the majestic river, broad and bright, as when the renowned Hendrick Hudson, with his crew of the Half-Moon, first ascended it. And even yet, in times of stormy peril, the thunder rattles, and the live lightning leaps among the rough crags of the Donder Berg. Had I space and inclination, I would describe, at length, all the scenes I visited, and recount, with marvelous accuracy, all the adventures which befell me among the descendants of the Dutch settlers of New-York. I passed several weeks upon Long- Island, and pleased myself with tracing the resemblance existing between the modern tillers of the soil and their celebrated ances- try. They have the same pertinacious adhesiveness to old cus- toms, the same narrow prejudices, the same contempt for the la- bors of the dominie, the same thrift and industry, and, in many instances, the same language. I know many a good wife, to whom English is utterly unintelligible. My worthy old host, at the Narrows, was a Dutchman, of the old leaven. He folloxved, in every particular, the customs of his progenitor; and, as his farm was well-managed and produc- tive, I could hardly find fault with him for smiling at the agricul- tural improvements, of a recent date, which I attempted to ex- plain. On his part, he could never make me understand the ne- cessity of keeping meat and other articles, in the garret, because his ancestors had no cellars in their houses at old Amsterdam. 36 .11 Modern Pilgrimage. The old gentleman was never without his pipe, the constant use of which, had worn an aperture in his teeth, corresponding in size to that of the stem, and invariably receiving it. When he went abroad, a spare pipe was placed in his hat-band a piece of forethought, which, like virtue, found its own reward. He was really a fine specimen of a class, which, I am happy to say, embraces many individuals. Temperate, pious, cheerful, and industrious, he enjoyed the various blessings of this life, and blessed the Giver of them, with a fervency of gratitude and en- ergy of language I have rarely found equalled in one of his class of life. He never sat down to a meal, without bowing his silver hairs, and uttering a supplication; nor did he ever rise from the table, without returning thanks. He possessed a strong, though uncultivated, mind, and a taste which appeared to me surprising. He would often sit) at the close of a summer afternoon, upon his stoop, or piazza, and point out the beauties of that surpassing landscape, which was spread out, like a vast picture, before him. His house stood upon the ver be of a bank, which shelved ab- ruptly down to the xvaters edge. Directly opposite, was Staten Island, xvith its green, undulating outline its fringed woods, its white houses, its picturesque lazaretto, and its telegraph. In the mysteries of the latter, my old gentleman xvas an adept. For there he learned the news some minutes sooner Than others could ; and to distinguish well The different signals, whether ship or schooner, Hoisted at Staten Island. * ~ * FANNY. Away to the left, were the faint, blue shores of Amboy ; and, near the Long-Island shore, connected with it by a bridge, Coney Island, with its long beach, of xvhite, shining sand, and many a fashionable watering-place in the vicinity. The waters, which swept around these respective points, were laden with innumerable vessels, passing to and from New-York, some beating up against a head xvind, dashing the spray from their bows, and rising and falling among the fresh, bold, blue waves; while others ran down, before the same breeze, with every stitch of canvass set, and their bellying sails gleaming in the sun, till they shimmered away in the hazy distance, looking like white sea-birds, hovering in the horizon. My good old Dutch- man was the happy proprietor of a dwelling so situated, xvith taste enough to enjoy its beauties. His son was his antipodes. In fact, your young Dutchman is fast losing the characteristics of his ancestry. It is probable, that fashions, which have descended, like heir-looms, for many gener- tions, will be lost in the present. Your young country-buck, of to-day, so said my ancient oracle, must have a tailor in the city, must relinquish Hollands for claret, (an auspicious change!) and patronize a French dancing-master. Some go to the length of .~1 Modern Pilgrimage. 37 Macassar oil and a barber, instead of sitting with baif a pumpkin- shell upon their beads, and suffering their sisters to trim the hair that projected from beneath, as in the good old time. Your modern Dutchman sometimes takes a newspaper. He some- times, if the seeds are in the ground, goes to the May meeting, on the Union course, and backs his favorite with some of the old mans money. Nay, now and then, a youth, takiag advan- tage of the present rage for speculation in real estate, sells his farm at a prodigious price, and, by that achievement, becomes a gentleman at once. I cannot conceive anything more unfortu- nate for himself. Young Cobus Donderberg (1 suppose a case) has sold his farm. He has neither education nor taste ; nor, per- haps, much principle. Constant employment alone will keep the lad from harm. He engages lodgings at a hotel upon Brooklyn Heights. You may often see him lounging on the piazza, with a cigar in his mouth, and a glass of brandy by his side. When the afternoon is fair, and he feels rather enterprising, he orders his horse and buggy the animal a thorough-bred trotter, with the wind and speed of an Eclipse colt. Behold our hero on the road ! His equipments are superb, and his oxvn dress elegant, although it sits but awkwardly upon him. His hat is placed rather knowingly upon one side of his head, and his curls and whiskers have been classically arranged by a Parisian. From his lips, issues, at intervals, the perfume of a real Havana. The horse takes a strong pull, as he ascends Flatbush Hill. Cobus looks to the right, and sees a sturdy youth gallantly following his plough, and drawing a straight furrow over the sloping hill-side. Perhaps our hero sighs ; but, if he does, he is ashamed of it, and pours forth fresh volumes of smoke, as if that would drown the regret. Arrived at the summit of Flatbush Hill, he stops at a well-known public house, from which he soon issues, with a fresh cigar, and a rosy blush upon his cheeks, which, gradually extend- ing to a prominent feature, betrays the nature of his call. He tosses a shilling to the hostler, re-enters his buggy, and bends over its side more limpsey than he was before. A second stop at Flatbush village. Cobus meets with comrades; plays a rubber at bowls, pays for the liquor, re-enters his vehicle, and, in the full flush of a summer sunset, returns to Brooklyn limpsey, glo- rious,~ infatuated ; boasting that he can drive near enough to a rivals buggy to file off the fly-dirt from the hub of his wheel but failing in his attempt, and, perhaps, dying as the fool dieth. I was happy to find, that some of the Long-Island blacks still preserve the traditions of the olden time. Great is their faith in Obi, men and women; and fully do they believe that, all along the shore, lie buried the inexhaustible treasures of Captain Kidd, each deposite guarded, by the ghost of a murdered man, so effectually, that none of the gold and silver bullion has ever been 33 .f1 Modern Pilgrimage. removed. An old, gray-headed negro, who, on one occasion, drove me from Fort Hamilton to Brooklyn, related a by-gone ad- venture of his, which he assured me xvas true, in every particular and he pointed out the scene of it a dark grove of cedars, which skirts the river-road, that winds along the Narrows. Returning late from a merry-making, whistling, as he xvent, to beguile the tediousness of the road, he had just reached the cedar- grove, when he became axvare of a man, whose face and hands glimmered, pale and ghastly, through the gloom. Pompeys heart, though courageous as that of his great namesake, stood still. The man approached, and, in a strange voice, asked if he wanted money. Pompey was poor as a poet; but, finding it im- possible to articulate, he hurried past the spectre, and hastened home, as fast as possible. He concealed the circumstance from every one ; but was haunted by an irresistible desire to return, by night, to the same place, and seek an interview with the mys- terious stranger. Accordingly, a few nights after the first meet- ing, he repaired to the cedar-grove, and was again accosted by the ghost, who asked if Pompey wanted money. This time, the poor black stammered out Yes! Whereupon, the spectre, pointing to a singular gray stone, cried, Dig! and immediately vanished. Pompey hastened home. It was long, very long, be- fore he dared to impart his secret to his bosom friend Coro- mantee Tom; and many nights elapsed, before the worthy had courage to commence the search for money, in the grove. At length, one starless midnight, they set forth, with mattock and spade and dark lantern, and arrived at the grove. They were horribly frightened, but ~vent to work in silence commencing operations by removing the gray stone, which the spectre had pointed out to Pompey. After the latter had dug for some time, he ascended from the pit, being completely exhausted, and handed his spade to Coromantee Tom, who leaped into the hole, and delved away, most vigorously. Just as the iron instrument rung upon some metallic substance, just as the sable friends were pluming themselves on their success, a wild, discordant sound of laughter rang through that mysterious grove. At once, it was answered from a thousand different points; the echoes caught and gave back the sound ; and it seemed as if a hundred demons had suddenly arisen from the earth, on purpose to frustrate the exertions of the money-diggers. This was too much for Pom- pey and Coromantee Tom. Leaving their implements of labor, they dashed up the steep, tumbled over the fence, and scuttled along the road, with the speed of frightened buffaloes ; nor did they dare to look around them, until they were safely locked up in the garret of the farm-house. The next morning, they visited the scene of their nocturnal labors; but, the pit was closed, and covered with grass, as if the earth had never been opened ; and, Retrospections. 89 what was more surprising, the spade, mattock, and lantern were gone. Many legends did I collect all more or less curious ; but, I shall not recount them at present, seeing that the results of my pilgrimage are to be presentej to the world in an octavo volume, edited by my learned and amiable antiquarian friend, Dr. Zo- roaster Plumdarnask, of whose abilities for the task, it would be superfluous to speak. RETROSPECTIONS. SWEET MARY! many years have flown Since, singing childish songs together, We made earth, wave, and sky, our own Far rambling in the bright spring weather. Since then, sweet cox, how many schemes, In youth projected, have miscarried! No more the luxury of dreams Delights my heart for I am married. Yet, sometimes, when the evening star Is sparkling on the verge of Heaven, With light Sauterne and a cigar, To sentiment I m sadly given. Reviving memory haunts again The long-forgotten world of fairy The past; for youth connected then All magic with the name of Mary. And, by my troth, it is a spell, That makes me half forget the real A Fontaine de .Touvence whose well Exceeds the charm of the ideal. And, thinking of the pleasant past, My spirits wings are growing bolder, Forgetful of the sky oercast, And Emma looking oer my shoulder. What pleasant walks we used to take, Especially when playing truant; When, roving free through copse and brake, You listning kindly, I was fluent,

Retrospections Original Papers 39-42

Retrospections. 89 what was more surprising, the spade, mattock, and lantern were gone. Many legends did I collect all more or less curious ; but, I shall not recount them at present, seeing that the results of my pilgrimage are to be presentej to the world in an octavo volume, edited by my learned and amiable antiquarian friend, Dr. Zo- roaster Plumdarnask, of whose abilities for the task, it would be superfluous to speak. RETROSPECTIONS. SWEET MARY! many years have flown Since, singing childish songs together, We made earth, wave, and sky, our own Far rambling in the bright spring weather. Since then, sweet cox, how many schemes, In youth projected, have miscarried! No more the luxury of dreams Delights my heart for I am married. Yet, sometimes, when the evening star Is sparkling on the verge of Heaven, With light Sauterne and a cigar, To sentiment I m sadly given. Reviving memory haunts again The long-forgotten world of fairy The past; for youth connected then All magic with the name of Mary. And, by my troth, it is a spell, That makes me half forget the real A Fontaine de .Touvence whose well Exceeds the charm of the ideal. And, thinking of the pleasant past, My spirits wings are growing bolder, Forgetful of the sky oercast, And Emma looking oer my shoulder. What pleasant walks we used to take, Especially when playing truant; When, roving free through copse and brake, You listning kindly, I was fluent, 40 Retrospections. And told you tales of old romance, And legends of the Scottish border And couched, in sport, a mimic lance, Against some castles giant warder. And, eager to apply our lor6, Displaying thus our mental progress, It was not very long before We found aunt Grizzy was an ogress. If not, how came she to demand My long confinement in the garret, Because, with fowling-piece in hand, I happened to destroy her parrot? The harp of wild Romance is still No more, in castle hall, t is ringing Cold sweeps the breeze oer wood and bill, Through desolated towers singing; Of buried dead, forgotten deeds, A broken story wildly telling, Waving the melancholy weeds, That cling around the feudal dwelling. Our world has none of these; no keep, Time-shattered, lifts oer summer bowers No~spirit-haunted rivers sweep, Blue, dark, and deep, round ruined towers. Yet, though the eye on Natures face Sees no worn landmark in its glancing, Though here the fairies have no place ~ It cannot hinder our romancing. Had I lived in the good old days, I should have sought and won the laurel Instead of the Parnassian bays, By getting up a famous quarrel, With some oppressive sorcerer; Or clad in armor, bright and pliant, Helmed, gauntleted, with knightly spur, Have run, full tilt, against a giant. These dreams have melted into air T is difficult such shapes to summon; Giants are growing very rare, And broken heads are quite uncommon. A giant came, some years ago, From Canada he was nt savage In Julien Hall a quiet show, With no propensity to ravage. Retrospections. 4! I shook my cane full in his face He only begged tue to be quiet; A fellow of the ancieut race, At such an insult, had run riot. Alas! the world is growing poor In dreams of the imagination; And he, who plays the troubadour, Assumes a profitless vocation. We gaze upon the scarlet bean, That decks the garden of the villa But now no more, alas ! is seen Immortal Jack the Giant-Killer. Who reads of Amadis de Gaul, Or of the lovely Oriana, Who filled his heart, alike in hall And field, where shone his warlike banner? Strike, Huon de Bourdeaux! Thy shield, Angonlafre is fierce assailing Sink not upon the crimson field, While the fair Eselamonde is wailing. How can her prison-woes be borne The pangs of hate, the sneers of malice? But hark! t is Rolands ivory horn, Breathed from the pass of Roncesvalles. Alas! Romance is in the grave And with it sleeps Imagination; Quenched is the light, that once it gave Vainly we seek resuscitatiou. Our modern heroes wear cravats, Our lovers never think of kneeling, And helmets are exchanged for hats, And nonchalance displaces feeling. Once, fairies drove a griffin team, And often met with some disaster; Now, griffins are surpassed by steam, And locomotives go much faster. The imps, that used to sail the air, With pinions furnished them by Satan, Are now (what will not mortals dare?) Eclipsed by Lauriat and Clayton. Farewell, sweet Mary ! we alone Can still enjoy the ancient story, Whose brilliant light once streamed and shone Oer all our paths a flood of glory VOL. IX. 6 42 Scenes in Europe. Of the bright past, I do not shrink To call myself an ardent lover Or sigh, with Edmund Burke, to think The days of chivalry are over.. SCENES IN EUROPE. LAGO MAGGLORE. MILAN. TOUR IN LOMBARDY. WE come suddenly upon the lake, without having any previous view of it. It is beautifully situated among the mountains, which retire gently from its shores, and leave room for numerous vil- lages and towns, along the margin and on the hill-side. At Bare- no, we hired a boat, to make an excursion on the lake, and visit some of the islands. The first we went to, war the Isola Madre. It is a beautiful garden, with a small country-house upon it rich with various plants and fruits, and commanding a fine view of the lake. From this, we went to the Isola Bella, which is occupied by the palace and gardens of the count Borromeo. The palace is a vast edifice, where we wandered through a labyrinth of magnifi- cent saloons, lofty and spacious, opening into each other, adorned with paintings, statues, and rich furniture ; the floors of mosaic, and the ceiling and waIls painted in fresco. On one side, the walls of the edifice rise from the lake, so that the balconies, pro- jecting from the windows, overhang its waters. A delightful freshness prevailed there; and, as I roamed through the halls, I drew happy omens of what I was yet to see in Italy, when so superb a monument of taste and art met me on the very threshold. The garden is rich with various plants, of every clime and country ; hut I was most interested by two laurel trees, of immense size, said to he the largest in Europe. In the shade of these trees, Napoleon dined, the day before the battle of Ma- rengo. While at dinner, the plan of the battle was brought him; and, having examined it, he got up and cut the word battaglia on one of the trees. I saw the place where he had cut the letters, but they have been effaced by British travelers. I gathered a leaf from the tree, as a memorial of the place. Resuming our way, we traveled all the day along the lake, and at night reached the little town of Sesto Calende, on the frontiers of Lombardy. The next morning, having parted from my com- panion, I continued my journey, alone, toward Milan. Crossing th~ river Ticino, by a magnificent bridge, of white stone, I en-

Scenes in Europe. Lago Maggiore. Tour in Lombardy Original Papers 42-50

42 Scenes in Europe. Of the bright past, I do not shrink To call myself an ardent lover Or sigh, with Edmund Burke, to think The days of chivalry are over.. SCENES IN EUROPE. LAGO MAGGLORE. MILAN. TOUR IN LOMBARDY. WE come suddenly upon the lake, without having any previous view of it. It is beautifully situated among the mountains, which retire gently from its shores, and leave room for numerous vil- lages and towns, along the margin and on the hill-side. At Bare- no, we hired a boat, to make an excursion on the lake, and visit some of the islands. The first we went to, war the Isola Madre. It is a beautiful garden, with a small country-house upon it rich with various plants and fruits, and commanding a fine view of the lake. From this, we went to the Isola Bella, which is occupied by the palace and gardens of the count Borromeo. The palace is a vast edifice, where we wandered through a labyrinth of magnifi- cent saloons, lofty and spacious, opening into each other, adorned with paintings, statues, and rich furniture ; the floors of mosaic, and the ceiling and waIls painted in fresco. On one side, the walls of the edifice rise from the lake, so that the balconies, pro- jecting from the windows, overhang its waters. A delightful freshness prevailed there; and, as I roamed through the halls, I drew happy omens of what I was yet to see in Italy, when so superb a monument of taste and art met me on the very threshold. The garden is rich with various plants, of every clime and country ; hut I was most interested by two laurel trees, of immense size, said to he the largest in Europe. In the shade of these trees, Napoleon dined, the day before the battle of Ma- rengo. While at dinner, the plan of the battle was brought him; and, having examined it, he got up and cut the word battaglia on one of the trees. I saw the place where he had cut the letters, but they have been effaced by British travelers. I gathered a leaf from the tree, as a memorial of the place. Resuming our way, we traveled all the day along the lake, and at night reached the little town of Sesto Calende, on the frontiers of Lombardy. The next morning, having parted from my com- panion, I continued my journey, alone, toward Milan. Crossing th~ river Ticino, by a magnificent bridge, of white stone, I en- Scenes in Europe. 4~3 tered the fertile province of Lombardy. Everything appeared verdant and flourishing ; for, although months had passed without rain, still the fields had been preserved green and fresh by turn- ing aside numerous streams, and thus overflowing them a thing easily done, in so level a country. This added much to the beauty of the country: little rivulets were flowing in every di- rection over the meadows, and leaped along the road-side; and the sound was refreshing in this hot weather. Towards night, J arrived at the gate of the city ; and winding through a labyrinth of streets which would have puzzled Dedalus himself and passing many a palace, church, and square, at length rested at the door of my hotel. The first thing was, to take a look at the streets, which are uncommonly clean each one having a subterranean passage for the water. The houses also, in general, are very handsome having a large court in the centre, and their floors of stone; the rooms, also, are lofty and well aired. My attention, however, was soon attracted to the magnificent cathedral, called the eighth wonder of the world, and said to be the finest church in Italy, after St. Peters. It is an immense gothic pile of white marble, in the form of a cross, covered with sculpture and rich ornaments. Imagination can hardly conceive the work, which has been lavished upon this glorious building every part is rich with ornament ; beautiful statues rest on every projection ; its hundred of spires are crowned with them and the idea of the labor and cost of this work of centuries, is truly astounding. The interior is not less magnificent. The eye seems hardly to reach the lofty, fretted ceiling; the rich marble of the shrines, the colossal statues, the carving, the immense organ, the sublime and solemn windows, of stained glass, are all befitting the house of God. Beneath the floor of the cathedral, is the chapel of San Carlo Borromeo, the patron Saint of the city the most magnificent structure of the kind in the world. It is a chamber, whose ceil- ing and walls are composed chiefly of silver and gold. The roof is a richly embossed plate of pure silver, studded with gold. Large pannels, composed of silver and gold, in basso-relievo, of exquisite workmanship representing the various events in the life of the Saint adorn the sides of the chamber. These pan- nels are supported by beautiful pilasters, of pure silver between which, is the richest stuff of cloth of gold. On a marble altar, at one end of this glittering chamber, reposes the body of the Saint, in a sarcophagus of crystal, enclosed within another, of massive silver, richly ornamented with gold. The weight of silver thus used is immense; but the workmanship was even more costly than the materiaL 44 Scenes in Europe. Among the most interesting places Ii have visited in this beau- tiful city, are the palace of Brera, and the Ambrosian library each of which contains some very valuable paintings, by the first masters. I was gratified by finding in the gallery of Brera the original of that beautiful piece, by Raffacile, the marriage of the Virgin, of which I had seen many engravings and copies. But the piece which afforded me most pleasure, in this gallery, was one by Guercino da Cento, representing the dismissal of Hagar and her child by Abraham. The eye turns from the figure of Sarah, scornful as it is, and from the venerable countenance of the patriarch, to contemplate the surpassing beauty of Hagar. There is something superb and almost superhuman in her face. No trace of voluptuousness, or passion unless it be pride is there discoverable ; all is spiritual. She bows to the will of the old man, as to the decree of fate ; deep sorrow rests on her countenance, yet does not conceal the expression of strong sense of wrong received ; perhaps there may be traced the intensity of rage, repressed alone by the majestic presence of the patriarch: but, withal, the beauty of the woman is so perfect, so intellectual, so glorious, that I never can forget it. I saw many other very superb paintings here ; but, were I to attempt describing them, my labor would be too great, and the details tedious. In the Ambrosian library, I saw the famous Cartoon, by Raffaelle; the School of Athens, and several beautiful paint- ings of Titians. Among other curiosities, the librarian showed me the copy of Virgil, owned by Petrarch and on the cover of which, he has xvritten, with his own hand, the story of his love. Another manuscript was showed me, of very early date. It was more than a thousand years old. I spent nearly a week in this magnificent city, during which time I visited many temples and palaces, which mock at descrip- tion. A feeling of wonder constantly comes over my mind, that there is so much wealth and splendor in the world. I cannot attempt to give an account of all I have seen or am seeing. I visited one painting, however, in Milan, so famous that it would be an unpardonable omission not to speak of it. I refer to the painting, by Leonardo da Vinci, of the Last Supper. En- gravings of this, are seen in almost every house in America; and I was well pleased to behold the original. In a long room, be- longing to an ancient convent, now used as a barrack for Austrian troops, I found this famed piece. It is painted in fresco, and extends entirely across one side of the room. Time and the rude hand of man have done much to dim and deface this su- perb work; yet its beauty is still great. The faces are uma- jured, except that the colors are not so bright as at a former period. From Milan I took a carriage for Venice the road passing Scenes in Europe. 45 ever along the rich plain of Lombardy, while the view of the mountains, to the north, gave variety and additional beauty to the scenery. The first town of any size, which I passed on the route, was Brescia originally built by the Gauls, in the early ages of Rome, but since, many times destroyed. The most interesting object in the city, was the ruins of an ancient temple, built by the Romans, in the seventy-second year of our era, and conse- crated to Vespasian. I xvas pre-determined not to like it ; for a foolish xvhim came into my head, at the moment, that this admi- ration for Roman relics was all a piece of affectation, or an anti- quarys dream. With a feeling of proud superiority, I went to the spot; the gate was opened and, for the first time in my life, I gazed on a classic ruin. The lofty and spacious platform, of white marble, with the noble flight of steps, all of which be- longed to the portico of the temple, still remained ; and along the front arose the columns which had anciently supported the roof. These were of white marble, of immense size, and elegantly sculptured: one alone remained entire. Th~ ground around, and the floor of this portico, were thickly strexved with the fallen remnants of this superb edifice. Beautiful Corinthian capitals and entablatures, of white marble, exquisitely carved, lay in wild confusion on every side. I entered the building which has been erected on the floor of the ancient temple, to preserve the more precious relics discovered here. The pavement is of rich mo- saic; the walls covered with inscriptions; altars and tombs stood around me ; and in the centre of the apartment was a statue of Victory, in bronze, found on the spot, and in fine preservation. As I gazed on these relics of the magnificence of the Romans, and read the inscriptions in their noble language, as I contempla- ted, above all, the exquisite form and the superb face of the god- dess, the spirit of the place penetrated my soul, and I felt dis- posed to kneel down and worship this glorious emblem of a na- tion that had conquered the world. The very dust under my feet seemed sacred and I retired, with a feeling even of re- morse, for the absurd idea under which I had entered these pre- cincts. From Brescia, I rode to Desanzano a small village on the borders of the lake, which the ancients called Bernacus, now Lago di garda. This is one of the most beautiful lakes in Italy: the mountains, which surround it, in some places rise boldly from the water, and again receding, leave room for numerous pretty villages, along the shore. The lake is easily troubled by a slight breeze ; and if we may believe Virgil, it was the same in his day. He says Fluctibus et fremitu assurgens Benace marino, 46 & enes in Jiiurope. I bad a little specimen of this uncommon irritability, the night I spent on its shores. The hotel, in which I lodged, arose partly from the water xvhich flowed under my window. The day had been fine, and extremely xvarm; but in the night, clouds came up, with thunder and lightning, and sudden gusts of wind. The little lake was soon chafed into fury ; and the noise of its waves, dashing against the shore, awakened me. I arose and looked out ; the night was intensely dark, but the flashes of lightning, in quick succession, shed a brilliant glare upon the lake, and showed its waters, crested with foam, glittering and sparkling under the intense light. The next morning, when II arose, all was bright and calm. The lake was slumbering, as if wearied with its efforts ; and, as I rode along the shore, the sun was reflected, in dazzling rays, from its glassy surface. A few hours traveling brought me to the city of Verona, which would have been interesting, had it no other claims, as being the scene of that beautiful tragedy, Romeo and Juliet my favorite, among Shakspeares master-pieces. The city is large, and, like all I have yet seen in Italy, sur- rounded by a wall and moat. One of the most interesting build- ings in the city,- is a Roman amphitheatre, supposed to have been constructed in the time of IDomitian or Trajan. What most surprised me, in looking at this work, was its enormous size. lit is in very perfect preservation, with the exception of an outer arcade, which originally surrounded the whole, but which has been nearly destroyed by an earthquake. The interior of the building, the voinitories, the passages and stairways, and the cells, in which the wild beasts were confined, remain precisely as they were when first erected. The very vastness of the place gives it an air of solitude and desolation: the crevices, between the stones, are overgrown with weeds and rank grass ; and lizards and other reptiles are seen creeping about the walls. A small portion has been applied to the purpose of a modern theatre, of which the stage, built in the arena, fronts upon a small section of the seats. The vast entries, on the entire exterior, have been taken up, for stables, shops, and even dwelling-houses ; and thus a whole colony has gathered around these walls, and found a rest- ing place in their nitches. The whole edifice seems, indeed, as if it had heen intended for a larger race of beings than those who now inhabit it. I mu~,t not forget to speak of a beautiful painting, by Titian, which I saw in the cathedral, and which is regarded as one of the finest works of that great master. That I remember it among the many I have seen, is a proof, at least, of the impression it made upon me. Wearied, with gazing on paintings which repre- sent, but too well, the sufferings of our Saviour and of the mar- tyrs, my eyes reposed upon this exquisite piece, with delight. Scenes in flurope. 47 It is the Assumption of the Virgin. A marvelous light bursts forth from Heaven, and beams upon the forms of those surround~. ing the sepulchre, and irradiates their faces, expressive of the deepest wonder and adoration. The Virgin reposes in the clouds above them, looking down upon her friends; and thus it is man- aged that the light, from the sky, rests upon her form, but not upon her face. Her countenance is surpassingly beautiful beaming with an expression of peace, mildness, and immortal happiness ; it is not pleasure which is expressed ; it is seren- ity a consciousness of meriting and a certainty of possessing Heaven. One pilgrimage remained for me, before leaving Verona; and I determined to accomplish it. This was to visit the tomb of Juliet. My conductor assured me it was not worth seeing that it was a long distance, outside the walls ; and, after all, was nothing but a paltry stone. Feeling more capable, however, of judging of these matters myself, I insisted upon going. Accord- ingly, we sallied forth. On the way, the guide showed me the house of the Capulets an ancient and lofty structure, with gothic windows, but much decayed and injured. Passing out of the city gate, we entered a long and solitary lane, which con- ducted to an ancient building, once a Franciscan convent. We entered the part which was once a church, but now, alas ! re- duced to a barn: nothing indicated its ecclesiastic character but a few paintings, in fresco, xvhich still rest on the wall. On one side was a large empty sarcophagus, raised on a platform of stone, just as it had been placed in the church; the lid had been car- ried away or broken to pieces, and the body removed, or had entirely perished. But the pen of Shakspeare has immortalized the spot; and I felt, as I stood there, how true it is, that The beings of the mind are not of clay: Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray, And more beloved existence. I must not forget to mention the mausoleum of the Scaliger family, which is raised in the very centre of the city. There are several monuments, the principal of which is of costly marble, very curiously and elaborately sculptured. I have seen engrav- ings of it in some of our annuals. This family, which numbers in its ranks the great philosopher of that name, was one of the most noble in Verona: on the coat-of-arms is seen the ladder, from which the family name is derived. Vespasian, Titus Do- mitian, Catullus, Cornelius Nepos, were also natives of Verona. I went next to Vicenza - a magnificent city, filled with pala- ces and public edifices, erected after the designs of the great ar- chitect, Palladio, who was born there. Among the most remark- able, was the Olympic theatre, belonging to the Academy of 48 Scenes in Europe. Vicenza. It was erected by Palladjo, whose intention was, to give an idea of an ancient theatre. The part intended for the spectators is arranged in rows, rising like steps above each other, like the Roman theatres, with the exception of not being divided into cunel: a small gallery, similar to those of the ancient thea- tres, rises above the two or three upper rows of benches. In front of the stage,~ which occupies about one half of the building, is the proscenium; then the stage, which is nothing but a con- tinuation of the proscenium, divided from it, however, by a wall, which rises to the whole height, and is only opened by three large arches, displaying the stage, arranged, like the streets of a city, with immovable scenery. The theatre is rich in statuary, and the architecture is very fine. As a model of those of Greece and Rome, it was highly interesting. There are many beautiful situations in the vicinity of Viceaza, as the city is surrounded by hills, which command extensive prospects over the rich plains of Lombardy. I ascended a hill, which is surmounted by the convent of the Madonna del Monte. An arched gallery, or piazza, opening on one side, and said to be a mile in extent, conducts from the foot of the hill up to the convent ; but the view from the summit is so fine, that it is well worth the trouble of the ascent. Under your feet lies the fair city, with its walls and gates and streets of palaces. Every hill- top is crested with some beautiful mansion the country villa of the Vicentian nobility; and the fertile garden of Lombardy en- compasses the whole. At a short distance from the convent, I remarked that master-piece of Paladios, the famous Casa di Ca- pra. I can conceive of nothing more perfect than the proportions of this exquisite building. It is rectangular, surmounted with a dome, somewhat in the style of the middle portion of the new market, in Boston. On each side is a portico, with a pediment resting on fine Corinthian columns; and the roof is adorned with statues. The beauty of the situation which is a slight eleva- tion, commanding a view on all sides adds to the charm of the edifice, upon which the eye seems to repose, and gather strength as it looks. From Vicenza, I proceeded to Padua, where I arrived after a short ride. The city presents a very melancholy, deserted, and forlorn appearance ; grass is growing in many of the streets, and everything indicates decayed grandeur. There are many magnifi- cent palaces and churches, however, which I did not fail to visit. I went first to the palace of Justice, to see the great saloon where justice was administered, in the days of the independence and power of the city. It is one of the largest rooms, unsupported by columns in the world. I think it is exceeded only by the one at Westminster, through which I passed, to enter the House of Commons. The walls are painted in fresco, by Giotto; but the Scenes in Europe. 49 work is much faded and indistinct splendor, perishing and on the wane, is the chief characteristic of the whole apartment. The most interesting object there, was a monument to the mein- ory of Livy, which is surmounted by an antique bust, said to he a likeness of the great historian. In the year 1413, some labor- ers were digging in the garden belonging to the Abbey of St. Justina, and found a coffin, of lead, enclosing another, of cypress wood, which was declared, by antiquarians, to be that of Livy. Among other reasons assigned for this belief, xvas, that Livy bad been a priest of the goddess of Concord; and it is known that the Abbey was built on the spot where the temple once stood. The coffin was finally deposited in the town-hall, and the monu- ment, I have made mention of, raised above it. I did not for~,et the University, so famous in its day. The building which now remains, was commenced in the year 1493, and finished in 1552 a strange-looking edifice, containing a rectangular court, xvith a portico and gallery extending the whole length of each side, profusely, though somewhat quaintly orna- mented. The sciences seem to have heen cultivated here, rather than literature ; and there are excellent collections of scientific books and apparatus. The most splendid churches I visited were those of St. Anto- mo and Santa Justina. The former is very spacious, and sur- mounted hy six domes, or cupolas. The painting, in fresco, by Giotto, is very interesting, as exhibiting the commencement of the revival of the art. It would be impossible for me to describe all the riches of sculpture and painting I saw in these churches it seems as if the world had not been in existence long enough to produce so many: yet, every church has its sepulchral monu- ments, exquisitely carved, and wrought in marble its bass- reliefs, in marble or bronze, or its master-piece of painting, by some great artist. I had now arrived at the last of a most interesting succession of cities, which extend the whole length of the plain of Lom- bardy all rich in edifices, in xvorks of art, and historical legend. The general characteristics of these cities are the same. Each is surrounded by a wall and fosse, and strongly fortified: the walls are bastioned at each angle, and the ditches wide and deep, with scarps and counterscarps of masonry; the gateways gen- erally defended by demilunes: the whole exterior encompassed by covered xvays and glacis, sloping gently toward the plains. These cities are fortified after the old system of the celebrated Vauban, and some of them Capua, Verona, and others places of great strength. Being situated on level plains, and the streets narrow and irregular, it is extremely difficult for a stranger to find his way to any object of interest in them more espe- cially if he is ignorant of the language. An air of desolation and VOL. IX. 7 60 Association. decay reigns throughout them all; and, though many of them appear husy and crowded having actually a considerahie corn- merce there is this appearance of the former glory and splen- dor of hetter days, and of present decay and ahandonment, in them all the splendid palaces, that brace the principal streets, seems to he tenantless and falling to ruin ; everything speaks a silent, but melancholy language that the prosperity and happi- ness of these beautiful cities has passed axvay ; and that a foreign tyrant controls their destinies, xvith an iron grasp. The same appearance of decay is discernible in the country villas, which are very numerous, especially hetween Padua and Venice. ASSOCIATION. WE all have our peculiarities. This is an admirahle truism, wherewith to hegin a maiden article, in the healthiest of maga- zines, and most delightful of monthly apparitions, for the reason that it (the Magazine, kind reader) has a peculiarity, which is, that its life is not as other lives ; it flourishes in perpetual spring. I know not how it may he with the rest of the world; in fact, I do not care very much ; hut I have very distinct and palpable associations with certain authors. Association is so remarkable, that I cannot divest myself from strong prejudice against excel- lent writers, merely from the cut of their coats. One of the Eliza- bethean age, puzzles me extremely with his tight hreeches and magnificent yellow bows, his timepiece formality and injudicious powder, until IL resolve, in an antiquarian spirit, it would he an agreeahle thing to know nothing of antique, unnecessary fashion. Even the old blind schoolmaster comes in, sedate and grave; and, seating himself studiously at my side, introduces his conver- sation, in complimental phrase, judiciously interlarding it with puritanical quotation. His long, auhurn hair floxvs over his shoul- ders ; his dark eyes look full upon me ; his hands are whiter than the hands of this delving generation. I vainly endeavor to get rid of him ; hut he remains, staring at me with his sightless pu- pils, till finally I lay down the hook, in despair, and go out, among carts and dirty cart-drivers, to dispel the apparition of John Milton. It is a sorrowful thing, for one like myself to do; but the shade of the severe schoolmaster is more troublesome than my own thin shadow. Not only does the author of Paradise Lost visit ray poor

Association Original Papers 50-52

60 Association. decay reigns throughout them all; and, though many of them appear husy and crowded having actually a considerahie corn- merce there is this appearance of the former glory and splen- dor of hetter days, and of present decay and ahandonment, in them all the splendid palaces, that brace the principal streets, seems to he tenantless and falling to ruin ; everything speaks a silent, but melancholy language that the prosperity and happi- ness of these beautiful cities has passed axvay ; and that a foreign tyrant controls their destinies, xvith an iron grasp. The same appearance of decay is discernible in the country villas, which are very numerous, especially hetween Padua and Venice. ASSOCIATION. WE all have our peculiarities. This is an admirahle truism, wherewith to hegin a maiden article, in the healthiest of maga- zines, and most delightful of monthly apparitions, for the reason that it (the Magazine, kind reader) has a peculiarity, which is, that its life is not as other lives ; it flourishes in perpetual spring. I know not how it may he with the rest of the world; in fact, I do not care very much ; hut I have very distinct and palpable associations with certain authors. Association is so remarkable, that I cannot divest myself from strong prejudice against excel- lent writers, merely from the cut of their coats. One of the Eliza- bethean age, puzzles me extremely with his tight hreeches and magnificent yellow bows, his timepiece formality and injudicious powder, until IL resolve, in an antiquarian spirit, it would he an agreeahle thing to know nothing of antique, unnecessary fashion. Even the old blind schoolmaster comes in, sedate and grave; and, seating himself studiously at my side, introduces his conver- sation, in complimental phrase, judiciously interlarding it with puritanical quotation. His long, auhurn hair floxvs over his shoul- ders ; his dark eyes look full upon me ; his hands are whiter than the hands of this delving generation. I vainly endeavor to get rid of him ; hut he remains, staring at me with his sightless pu- pils, till finally I lay down the hook, in despair, and go out, among carts and dirty cart-drivers, to dispel the apparition of John Milton. It is a sorrowful thing, for one like myself to do; but the shade of the severe schoolmaster is more troublesome than my own thin shadow. Not only does the author of Paradise Lost visit ray poor ~$1ssocuttion. garret, in spiritual guise, and garb reverend and sombre, but other poets of the olden time. IL esteem it a peculiar blessing, that I have no distinct notion of Shakspeare ; so I read him any- where and everywhere, with fearlessness and a steadfast spirit. Not so is it with his merry cotemporary, Ben Jonson. Honest Ben is with me, Abel Drugger, and a thousand other men. Even his learned characters become corpulent, since I have some- where picked up an idea, that Ben himself was fat, and he alxvays carried in his hand a black, dirty snuff-box, tendering it officiously to me. Once in a while, to freshen my memory, and keep alive his solemn pauses, I look into Pope. Now flits the ghost of the wee poet around me, bent and insolent, with a wig superfluously pow- dered, and a redundancy of wristband. He takes snuff, xvith all the vigor and capacity of humorous Ben ; and his nose twinkles like a star ; verily, the image of Pope is as disagreeable and mel- ancholy, as if, in very person, caine in a former satirical friend. I would that IL could read ye venerable poets without read- ing your prim and starched outer man. My associations with au- thors, are often of a pleasing nature, and particularly those of this day. I love to converse with Coleridge, of a mild afternoon, in the cool forest he is so beautiful and eloquent ; still, he pains me when I am rising heavenward, with his metaphysical specula- tion, by remarking that IL did not quite understand this, or that; and down I come, Vulcan like, from my seventh Heaven, not a little enraged. He should be more considerate in his chiding. Yet, I find it impossible to anger long, so he still lies open upon my table. I have journeyed with Wordsworth a thousand times, by lake and swift-running stream. Never was there so delightful a companionnever one so simple; his Excursion is my Excur- sion his wandering, mine. These are the real friends, who never fail, and never murmur these well-thumbed books, need- ing no food, nor fire, nor new garment; with these, I wander along in the hard journey of life ; with these, I solace the passing hours. It is all made real by association. Who loves not Charles Lamb, with his strange wit, and une- quivocal good-nature ?~ Who does not feel, as he glides over the pleasant passage and quaint avenues where the hedge is still cut in antiquated style, of Elia that he is journeying with a most excellent fellow-passenger? His heart is fairly before the reader, with all its tenderness; his overflowing heart is in his pages, unbounded- I must confess, IL have few friends, of flesh and blood, that I love as this same Charles Lamb. Magical association makes my garret other than a vulgar, rented attic ; it converts it into an abode of the spirits. The clumsily connected walls are not covered with paint nor mortar, but with those wonderful pieces of paper, stitched together by manufac~ 52 Prose Sketches and Poems. tured needle, containing human thoughts; they are, indeed, the production of the distinct man. There are very many of them, both old and new. Thoughts of yesterday, of day before yester- day, of day before that. See how curiously the mind contrasts. I place the thoughts of yesterday by the thoughts of day before yesterday, and it seems like a proof against time. I wish I could introduce you, considerate reader, to my silent comparisons they are so amicable. It is true, here you may see one set of opinions valorously defended, while, in the next neighbor, they are systematically, perchance stubbornly, opposed ; yet, the two stand there, side by side, not even turning up the extreme point of their noses at one another. It would be troublesome, if men were so placable. I often muse, in my leather-bottomed chair, among these thoughts. It would not suit a mechanic, nor a lawyer; for nothing is to be gained by it, neither gold-dust, nor cause ; yet it suits me. I hear the voice of the past, sounding up from these dust-covered books, like the sound of the distant ocean, at midnight; it is a sad harmony telling of human frailty, and human sin, and human variety ; hence is it a warning voice, and may it ever be a warning. The tongue, that uttered those woundrous words, is stilled; the mind, that is here recorded, has gonq from this world; and I what am I, but dust! I shall soon depart, myself. This low garret of mine, is a type of the world made so by association, which connects things humble with things lofty, the boot-cleaner with the king. POETRY OF THE PRAIRIES.* THIS little volume is another of the Curiosities of Literature. It is anomalous; nothing like it has been produced in our country, or in any other, we venture to add. The style, especially, is its own. It reminds one of Shelley, indeed; and, here and there, of Keats. It is melancholy and metaphysical; yet, it is de- cidedly the manner of a person who thinks for himself, and is able to do so ; and of one, also, who reads but little of the thoughts of anybody else. He says, in his preface, that it is some time since he has seen the works of any poet. Things remembered, there- fore, may have become fused in the crucible of an ardent mind like * Prose Sketches and Poems, written in the We*tern Country, by Albert Pike. Boston: Light & Horton.

T. T. Poetry of the Prairies Original Papers 52-58

52 Prose Sketches and Poems. tured needle, containing human thoughts; they are, indeed, the production of the distinct man. There are very many of them, both old and new. Thoughts of yesterday, of day before yester- day, of day before that. See how curiously the mind contrasts. I place the thoughts of yesterday by the thoughts of day before yesterday, and it seems like a proof against time. I wish I could introduce you, considerate reader, to my silent comparisons they are so amicable. It is true, here you may see one set of opinions valorously defended, while, in the next neighbor, they are systematically, perchance stubbornly, opposed ; yet, the two stand there, side by side, not even turning up the extreme point of their noses at one another. It would be troublesome, if men were so placable. I often muse, in my leather-bottomed chair, among these thoughts. It would not suit a mechanic, nor a lawyer; for nothing is to be gained by it, neither gold-dust, nor cause ; yet it suits me. I hear the voice of the past, sounding up from these dust-covered books, like the sound of the distant ocean, at midnight; it is a sad harmony telling of human frailty, and human sin, and human variety ; hence is it a warning voice, and may it ever be a warning. The tongue, that uttered those woundrous words, is stilled; the mind, that is here recorded, has gonq from this world; and I what am I, but dust! I shall soon depart, myself. This low garret of mine, is a type of the world made so by association, which connects things humble with things lofty, the boot-cleaner with the king. POETRY OF THE PRAIRIES.* THIS little volume is another of the Curiosities of Literature. It is anomalous; nothing like it has been produced in our country, or in any other, we venture to add. The style, especially, is its own. It reminds one of Shelley, indeed; and, here and there, of Keats. It is melancholy and metaphysical; yet, it is de- cidedly the manner of a person who thinks for himself, and is able to do so ; and of one, also, who reads but little of the thoughts of anybody else. He says, in his preface, that it is some time since he has seen the works of any poet. Things remembered, there- fore, may have become fused in the crucible of an ardent mind like * Prose Sketches and Poems, written in the We*tern Country, by Albert Pike. Boston: Light & Horton. Prose Sketches and Poems. 53 his, always glowin6, with tbin6s imagined and things dreamed of; but there is no wilful plajarism in his poems, he says and we believe him. Th are a transcript of his own feelings. If any- body else ever felt as he does which is not impossible why, that is no husiness of his, nor theirs, nor of the publics. Be- sides, for a mans metal to he run into my mixture, through ac- cident, by being left upon my premises, and inin~led with my ore, is one thing; and for me to invade his, and ransack his lumber-room, deliberately, like a thief in th~ daylight, and carry off his lines, bodily, as if they were pig-lead that is another thing, altogether. Pike has not done this. His materials and his tools are his own. His furnace and his fuel are his own, too ; and the only difficulty with the former is, that it is so hot as to xvork up every other material, worth working up, which happens to be left within the reach of its fervor. He says I am, at times, when an idea flashes upon me, uncertain xvhether it be my own, or whether it has clung to my mind from the works of the poets, till it has seemed to become my own pe- culiar property. This is all we intended to say ; and it is honest- ly stated. It were well, if half as much honesty prevailed among the brotherhood of regular horrowers. From the stealers, it is not expected, of course ; neither is it from the paupers. The former run the risk, at least, of being set in the stocks of common contempt, for their petit larceny; and the latter are maintained with a comparative cheerfulness setting aside ones compassion for their destitute and pitiful circumstanceswhich arises, partly from the plain necessity of the case, and partly from the general distrihution of the tax which gives them a living. We incline to the opinion rather, that our poet, so far as he bas calculated the effects of his composition at all, has aimed too proudly at a reputation for the reverse of this a reputation for singularity and originality both; and for a perfect independence, besides, in the display of them. Some of his pieces look as if he had reviewed them with this feeling, and stricken ont every- thing which resembled or reminded of what xvas ever written be- fore leaving the residuum of his own daring and defying bit- terness the pikery, if you please, (we beg his pardon for turnhling over a poor pun) alone in its glory. There is, at all events, a great proportion of originality in his poems; a tincfore of thought; a raciness, ill-disguised, and hardly attempted to be disguised at all, with the slow distillment of sappy proprieties, or the sugar of sweet quotations. Hence, an air of the fantastical, sometimes. He disclaims affectation, but we think not with such justice as he disclaims plagiarism. In one sense only he is right. His writing is, as he alleges, a communing with bis own soul. There is no insincerity in his style; no lack of true feeling his own feeling; but, whether that feeling itself be 54 Prose Sketches and Poems. natural altogether, or the result, in some measure, of what we call affectation, may he a matter of dehate. Some people, and especially some poets, may he said to he naturally affected. They are constitutionally disposed to he influenced as other peo- ple are not; and to retain, indulge, and display these influences. Habits are thus superinduced, which hecome a second-nature, in time ; and such, in no small degree, has been Mr. Pikes case. His sensibility, and his susceptibility, of every sort, were of the keenest kind. His discipline, his powers of self-denial and self- defence, were less so. He was assailed by circumstances, and they drove him from his balance. He yielded to what he con- sidered his destiny, and took refuge though we trust not permanently in the solitude of his own feelings. To these, he has given the only vent he could have. Society was no more for him, but its memory haunted him. He laid himself, like the Hebrexv exiles, on the banks of the strangers stream, and poured forth the anguish of a lonely sorroxv in his lays. After all, it is not exactly affectation. It is the sincerity of a mind in a forced condition. It is true feeling upon false premises ; fancy, wrought into frenzy ; amorbid mind, walking in its sleep, and al~vays seeing, as it walks and talks, the dagger of the dream. VIVTe need not remark, that all this is with us matter, not of information, but of inference. The poetry is, for the most part, of the morbid school though pot unfrequently redeemed, even in this department, by an outbreaking of natural strong sense, as well as almost invariably set off respectably by a flourish of what may he called the fire-xvorks of imagination, and the melody of ingenious verse. He says to the robin, for example, in the val- ley of Tisuqni, Go back On thy track; It were wiser and better for thee and me, Than to moan Alone, So far from the waves of onr own bright sea: And the eyes that we left, To grow dim months ago, Will greet us again With their idolized glow. Let us go let us go and revisit our home, Where the oak-leaves are green and the sea-waters foam. One would hardly expect, on turning over the next leaf, (we wish our author would turn over a new one, as readily as we do) to find the fellow thus down at the heel again: Well, I bave chosen my long path, And I will walk it to the death, Though Loves lone grief, or hatreds wrath, My way and purpose hindereth. Prose ~Sketches amd Poems. 55 It may be, when this heart is cold And it were vain to love or hate When all that malice knows is told, Some better name may on me wait ; & c. And then he has something to say about a womans being Too full of soul to live amid the world; And how * ~ all the richer feelings of the soul Are but its torment; ~ And what a curse poetry is, (which, of some poor stuff we wot of, is certainly true, so far as the reader is concerned;) and all about the fiends asleep within the breast, that * * * wander in their wild unrest Throughout the heart, which is their nest, And, worse than this, the wasting food Of these, the vulture-eyed, and alt their ravening brood; And a great deal more of well-expressed nonsense, of the same sort. And then he pretends to hate and despise all the world, excepting those who like him, of course. He says I ask the world a boon I cannot, will not, Ann, demand of thee: Henceforth, I pray the world that it forget That I have lived. All that I now have left, Is death, and my own woe; and I will die, Unknown, unnamed. & c. And yet, it is near by this that he thinks, When all that malice knows is told, Some better name may on me wait, & c. Perhaps it may; we hope so. But, why affect to contradict this natural and most commendable aspiration? And, if it were not natural and commendable, if the real disposition were to be for- gotten of the world, why publish a book, like this, to force the memory of the man and his poetry on the minds of all who can be induced to read it? This is a poor way to he forgotten, if there be anything in the volume worth remembering ; and if there is not, what is the purpose of publication ? It ought to be for- gotten damned, utterly like any other stupid thing ; and it will be. But the truth is, we hope better of the author of these poems. As we have already intimated, there is not only genius in them sterling and shining genius bright jewels of the mine, but a strong substratum of sound soil the soil of common sense; and, in addition to this, ambition, taste, harmony, natural feeling, and a fancy, of amazing fertility. Witness the folloxving, from the Lines to the planet Jupiter : 56 Prose Sketches and Poems. * ~ * The dove, with patient eyes, Earnestly did his artful nest devise, And was most busy under sheltering leaves The thrush, that loves to sit upon gray eaves Amid old ivy, she too sang, and built; And mock-bird songs rang out, like hail-showers spilt Among the leaves, or on the velvet grass; The hees did all around their store amass, Or down depended from a swinging bough, In tangled swarms. Above her dazzling brow The lustrous bumming-bird was whirling ; and, So near, that she might reach it with her hand, Lay a gray lizardsuch do notice give When a foul serpent comes, and they do live By the permission of the roughest bind Just at her feet, with mild eyes up-inclined, A snowy antelope cropped off the buds From hanging limbs ; and in the solitudes No noise disturbed the birds, except the dim Voice of afount, that,from the grassy brim, Rained upon violets its liquid light, .flnd visible love; also, the murmur slight Of waves, that softly sang their anthe in, and Trode gently on the soft and noiseless sand, ./Is gentle children in sick chambers grieve, ~1nd go on tiptoe. These stanzas exhibit a rare poxver over language, adequate to the teeming richness of the thought. And so he speaks of a widow Wasting her mournful lsfe out at her eyes; And of heavenly eyes, dim with the dew which wastes away the heart ; and the song of the robin, in a far land, ~ 5 assweet As afairys feet Stepping on silver sand. The book is full of happy little touches of this sort not laboriously, (as Dryden says of Shakspeare) but luckily ex- pressed. Mr. Pike does not appear to work much, nor to cor- rect at all. He never finished anything in his life but his hook; and if he writes many more such, they will finish him only for the lack of a modicum of application, such as a sensible man com- monly devotes to a matter which he wishes as our author plainly wishes his poetry to live. To make amends for this lecture, we quote once more from the Planet Jupiter. The mother, watching by her sleeping child, Blesses thee, when thy light, so still and mild, Falls through the casenent on her babes pale face,. And tinges it with a benignant grace, Like the white shadow of an angels wing. The sick man, who has lain for many a day, And wasted like a lightless flower away, 1-Je blesses thee, 0 Jove! when thou dust shine Upon his face, with infleence divine, Prose Sketches and Poems. 57 Soothing his thin, blue eyelids into sleep. The child its constant murmuring will keep, Within the nurses arms, till thou dost glad ~iis eyes, and then he sleeps. The thin, and sad, And patient student, closes up his books A space or so, to gain from thy kind looks Refreshment. Men, in dungeons pent, Climh to the window, and, with head uphent, Gaze they at thee. The timid deer awake, And, neath thine eye, their nightly rambles make, Whistling their joy to thee. The speckled trout From underneath his rock comes shooting out, And turns his eye to thee, and loves thy light, And sleeps within it. The gray water-plant Looks up to thee beseechingly aslant, And tho dost feed it there, beneath the wave. Even the tortoise crawls from out his cave, And feeds wherever, on the dewy grass, Thy light hath lingered. Thou caust even pass To water-depths, and make the coral-fly Work happier, when flattered by thine eye. This last idea furnishes an instance of the apparent appropria- tion of foreign thought, alluded to above. Everybody must reinem- ber, in one of Shakspeares sonnets, the splendid notion of the sun flattering the mountain-top. Perhaps Pike never heard of it; hut more probably he had melted it down in his memory, till it was no longer distinguishable from the coin of his own imag- ining. But enough of quotations and criticism. We have no space to speak of the prose parts of this volume the narratives of journies through the prairies, & c. great curiosities though they be, highly interesting, and entirely free from the faults of the poems. Nor can we but allude to the extraordinary circumstan- ces, under which the whole of this composition was written. Think of the subjects: IDirge over a companion buried in the prairie, & c. written in the bosom of the desolate wilderness, which, to the dwellers even on the Mississippi, is still the far-off West ; written by one who has abandoned society a buffalo- hunter alone. In fine, what we have to advise our author is this. Let him travel and trap, if he pleases, till he gets rich ; let him suffer, if he will, the stern hardships of the life he now leads, or has led, till his minor and his imaginary evils shall be, as they soon will be, forgotten, and the pilgrim shall have grown weary for a sight of the land of sunny eyes ; but, whenever it may be and he is yet in the prime of his life, learning many things which will do him great good then Ere death shall close his quenched eyes, let him turn homeward to the dear region, whose son he is so proud to be, and whose glories he pores upon, while yet his von. IX. S The Origin and Progress of .Music. feet sound sadly in the western wild. Let him scout as we know he xviii the miserable notion of drifting henceforth, eye- less, as he says, on the stormy waves of life; and of leaving the wind of the desert to rattle his graveless hones. He will come to his better self again, we doubt not, and will be merry, if it were only to thwart those, if any there be, who wish him otherwise; and if, perchance as he himself declared, in a gleam of his natural humor Some one or two are left, Sire, mother, sisters, take them to his heart, Shield them, defend them, that, when he shall die, Some one above the wanderers grave may sigh. There is sense, as well as sensibility, in this ; and it will bear examination. And so will the noble spirit of true Nexv-England- ism, in which he addresses his father-land, and promises to be true to its memory forever. Let him, then, like his robin, come back on his track. If the eyes that he left, to grow dim months ago, will not S S ~ greet him again, S with their idolized glow, as we wage our life they will we know of one good fellow, at least, who will take him by the right hand, and give him (with a bit of tender advice) a breakfast, as much better than the meat of the buffalo-cow, as the nectar of the immortal gods is superior to the puddle, drunk up, on his knees, from a hedge-hogs hole in the prairies. T. THE ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF MUSiC. NO. I. VARIOUS theories have been formed respecting the origin of music ; and, indeed, in attempting to account for it, we meet with difficulty which does not occur in the other fine arts. Ar- chitecture, for instance, originated in the earliest wants of man the first houses were only more convenient than the dens of wild beasts ; afterwards, from a principle inherent in our nature, at- tempts were made to beautify what at first was only useful. The objects of nature suggested the ornaments employed in architec- ture. The trunk of some tall and graceful tree was the model of the Grecian column; a few saplings, bound together, form the Gothic. A basket of votive offerings, left on the tomb of a

The Origin and Progress of Music. No. I. Original Papers 58-65

The Origin and Progress of .Music. feet sound sadly in the western wild. Let him scout as we know he xviii the miserable notion of drifting henceforth, eye- less, as he says, on the stormy waves of life; and of leaving the wind of the desert to rattle his graveless hones. He will come to his better self again, we doubt not, and will be merry, if it were only to thwart those, if any there be, who wish him otherwise; and if, perchance as he himself declared, in a gleam of his natural humor Some one or two are left, Sire, mother, sisters, take them to his heart, Shield them, defend them, that, when he shall die, Some one above the wanderers grave may sigh. There is sense, as well as sensibility, in this ; and it will bear examination. And so will the noble spirit of true Nexv-England- ism, in which he addresses his father-land, and promises to be true to its memory forever. Let him, then, like his robin, come back on his track. If the eyes that he left, to grow dim months ago, will not S S ~ greet him again, S with their idolized glow, as we wage our life they will we know of one good fellow, at least, who will take him by the right hand, and give him (with a bit of tender advice) a breakfast, as much better than the meat of the buffalo-cow, as the nectar of the immortal gods is superior to the puddle, drunk up, on his knees, from a hedge-hogs hole in the prairies. T. THE ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF MUSiC. NO. I. VARIOUS theories have been formed respecting the origin of music ; and, indeed, in attempting to account for it, we meet with difficulty which does not occur in the other fine arts. Ar- chitecture, for instance, originated in the earliest wants of man the first houses were only more convenient than the dens of wild beasts ; afterwards, from a principle inherent in our nature, at- tempts were made to beautify what at first was only useful. The objects of nature suggested the ornaments employed in architec- ture. The trunk of some tall and graceful tree was the model of the Grecian column; a few saplings, bound together, form the Gothic. A basket of votive offerings, left on the tomb of a The Origin and Progress of Music. Greek girl, round which the Acanthus had gracefully spread its leaves, is said to have given the idea of the Corinthian capital; and the interweaving of the hranches of a forest, which is clear of brushwood, seen in winter xvith a sunset sky for the back- ground, presents the most exquisite specimens of the Gothic arch. Painting and sculpture are also strictly imitative arts. This is not the case with music: no imperious physical want first called it into existence ; no models constantly prompted its cultivators to improvement. We might almost say, there is no type of it in nature ; for what, compared with mpsic as we now possess it, is the roar of the ocean, the sighing of the forest, or the warbling of birds, which form the music of nature ? If we examine music as a science, we find it involving some of the deep- est mathematical calculations, proceeding upon principles as inva- riable and goverened hy laws as intricate as those by which the planets move on in their orbits. If xve view it as an art, we are astonished at its variety and power; we observe that genius alone, aided by years of patience and toil, can excel in it. We find it a universal language, written and uttered alike by all civilized nations: no translations are needed for it: the distant Russian, of the north-west coast, and the inhabitant of sunny Italy, read it with ease. It cannot perish with length of time ; it can never become a dead language, for there is no mystery about its pro- nunciation ; it is written in characters which suggest tones as well as thoughts, and which will never cease to do so, until the very nature of the art shall be changed. This sublime and perfect art, therefore, seems to have grown up out of nothing a soli- tary monument of unaided genius. A common thing respecting its origin is, that it was first pro- duced by the imitative propensities of men. Hearing the notes of birds, the rushing of streams, or the whistling of the wind, they endeavored to produce the same sound with the voice, or upon some rude instrument, and, gradually improving upon these be- ginnings, brought music to its present perfection. This theory is ingenious, but not probable. We might as well account for language in the same manner, and infer, that speech was suggested to man by the growl of the bear, the barking of the dog, or the more homely sounds of more homely animals. I much prefer to suppose, that music is born within us; that it is indissolubly allied to our nature, and belongs to us as peculiarly as language itself. Instead of being merely imitative, and addressed to the senses alone, I prefer to invest it with a high intellectual character. The cry of horror, at sudden and fearful events, the loud shout of thanksgiving and jubilee, the soft, sweet tone that lulls the cradled infant, are more than imitative sounds; they address themselves directly to the understanding and feelings. Music 60 The Origin and Progress of lusic. begins where language ends; it expresses thoughts and emotions, to which speech can give no utterance ; it clothes words with a power which language cannot impart. Our favorite songs are set to mnsic, because we are not satisfied with hearing them recited we want to express more vividly the emotions which these words excite within us ; and music alone will do it. Hence it is, that after hearing them sung, the words appear powerless if read in the common tone of voice. Though it is probable, that vocal music preceded all other kinds, we still know that instruments for producing sound were very early invented. We are told, in Genesis, that Jubal was the father of all such as handle the harp and the organ. Other references were also made to the cultivation of music in the first ages of the world. The first grand musical festival on record, however, occurred immediately after the passage of the Israelites across the Red Sea; nor can we conceive of a more sublime celebration. Standing on the shores of that wreck-strewed sea, whose waves rolled over the lifeless bodies of their enemies, and beholding in the distance the land of their bondage, they thought of the miracles which had been wrought for their deliverance; they remembered that, for them, the rivers had been changed into blood ; for them, the country had been desolated, the people tortured with baleful reptiles, and thick darkness had rested on the land ; for them, the waters of the sea had been piled up as a wall, on their right hand and on their left; they remembered, that they were free, and the desert rang with their triumphant anthems. The account is given with that simple grandeur which character- izes the writings of Moses. Then sang Moses and the children of Israel this song unto the Lord, and spake, saying I xviii sing unto the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider bath he thrown into the sea. Thy right hand, 0 Lord, hath dashed in pieces the enemy. With the blast of thy nostrils the waters were gathered together, the floods stood upright, as an heap, and the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea. The enemy said I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; my lust shall be satisfied on them ; I will draw my sword, my hand shall destroy them. Thoudidst blow with thy wind; the sea covered them; they sank as lead in the mighty waters. And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her, with timbrels and with dances. And Miriam answered them Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider bath he thrown into the sea. The Jews were a highly musical people; they added this charm to all their celebrations, domestic, civil, and religious; they sang at their nuptial feasts, at the inauguration of their kings, The On0 in and Progress of .Music. 61 and on birth-day festivals. The returning conqueror was wel- comed with songs, and the wearisomeness of the long march was relieved by this pleasing recreation. In the temple, the music was performed by the Levites ; they were four thousand in num- ber, and were divided, by king David, into twenty-four classes, each of which performed the music of the temple for one week at a time. They accompanied their songs by the different in- struments xvhich were then in use, excepting the silver trumpets, which were employed by the priests alone, and were used to summon the people, to make known the festal days, to direct the order of march, and to sound the alarm. The most ancient musical instrument appears to have been the harp. Among the Hebrews, it had four, eight, or ten strings- With this number, it is not probable that very complicated music was produced; but the instrument was undoubtedly used chiefly as an accompauiment to the voice. They also used another stringed instrument, of a triangular form. It was covered with parchment, draxvn tight over both sides,. so as to produce rever- beration, like the guitar or violin. Over this, were drawn the strings, six, nine, or ten in number. This instrument is supposed to be alluded in the Scriptures as the psaltery. The wind instru- ments were pipes either single, or several joined together trumpets and horns: the organ, as understood in the Bible, was nothing more than a simple pipe, perhaps pierced, like our cia- rionet, to produce different notes. We find that, till very re- cently, the word retained the same signification in English the instrument which now bears the name, being always men- tioned in the plural number, so that we spoke of playing the organs, not the organ. The timbrel appears to have been much such an instrument as our tambourine being composed of a circular frame, of wood or brass, hung round with small bells, and a piece of parchment stretched over it. This instrument was used by the dancers to accompany their steps. Finally, the Jews made use of cymbals, much like our own, and another kind not unlike the Spanish castanets, four in numbers which were worn on the thumb and middle finger of each hand, to beat time in dancing. The Greeks were great lovers of music. Their instruments were not unlike those of the Jews. Their principal and most ancient one, was the harp ; besides xvhich, they used the pipe, trumpet, and flute; and xve may reasonably suppose, that music was carried to a high degree of perfection among a people re- markable for their exquisite taste, and speaking a language which, for melodiousness, has never been matched. I suppos,e their ordinary singing to have been somewhat like that of the Italian peasants of the present day ; and there certainly is no popular 62 The Origin and Progress of Music. music so delighful as this. Returning home in crowds from their labors, or wandering by midnight through the streets of their cities, they invariably join in the full chorus they are untaught, but their taste is so correct, and their voices so fine, that they are able to sing in perfect time, and produce rich harmony : and the traveler, from some less genial climate, aroused from his slumbers by this midnight chorus, which, in the pure, still nights of Italy, seems to fill the air, almost fancies that he has listened to tones from a better world. The Greeks possessed even greater natural advantages that the modern Italians. Their taste for the fine arts is without any rival ; and the clear and mild atmosphere of their country tin- doubtedly rendered their voices superior to those of any modern civilized nation. They began very early, however, to reduce music to a regular science. In 546, B. C., Casus wrote a trea- tise on the theory of music; and Pythagoras investigated the mathematical relations of tones. The division of the scale, as explained by Vitruvius,. is somewhat intricate ; it consisted of two octaves and a half; but these octaves, however, contained only half the compass of our own as the Greeks appear to have used half-notes and quarter-tones, where we employ the whole and sernitones. As there is much unc~rtainty still, re- specting the signification of their terms, it is not worth our while to go into the detail upon this point. It is worthy of remark, however, that the Greeks had so cultivated music, that their lan- guage was employed in the science exclusively, and seems to have been as intimately connected with it, as Italian is at the present day. Vitruvius remarks, that, harmony is a difficult mu- sical science, but most difficult to those who are unacquainted with the Greek language, because it is necessary to use many Greek words, to which there are no corresponding ones in the Latin. The Greeks evinced considerable knowledge of harmony, in an expedient to which they resorted for aiding the voices of their actors. Their theatres were very large, and open above, so that it was almost impossible for the voice, unaided, to fill them: nu- merous musical instruments, somexvhat resembling a bell in shape and tone, were therefore suspended around the interior of the theatre, at regular intervals, in such a manner that their focus was in the middle of the stage: they were made to chord with each other; and the actors voice, falling equally on all, reverberated in clear and unbroken tones. Another use made of musical tones, by the Greeks, was in their military engines. The Catapulta was a machine for throwing arrows and stones. A thick plank, of some elastic wood, having one end firmly fixed, was bent back by means of numerous cords, which being suddenly loosed, the The Origin and Progress of .lllusic. 63 plank returned violently to its original position, and discharged the missile with great force. The accuracy of the aim depended upon drawing with equal force each cord by which the plank was bent back; and, in order to be certain of this, they struck the cords when in a state of tension, and determined, by the musical tone it returned, whether it were drawn tight enough or not. In closing our remarks upon Greek music, we cannot forbear citing a very pleasant writer, in the Edinburgh Review, upon the subject: Greece, says he, was, without exaggeration, the land of minstrelsy. It is not to a few great names and splendid exhibitions, to temples and theatres and national assemblies, that we need appeal for the proof of this assertion. View her people in their domestic occupations, their hours of labor and refresh- ment ; peep into their houses, their work-shops, their taverns survey their farms, their vineyards, their gardens: from all, arises an universal sound of melody. The Greek weaver sang at his loom, the reapers sang in the field, the water-drawers at the well; the women, grinding at the mill, beguiled their toils with song. On board ship, xvas heard one kind of strains; around the wine- press, peeled another. The shepherd had his own peculiar stave the oxherd, rejoicing in ballads more suited to horned bestial the godlike swineherd disdained to be outdone. Greek nurses, like other nurses, soothed fretful infancy with lullabies Greek bathing-men were given to be musical. At bed and board, in grief, in love, in battle, in festivity, walking, running, swinging, sitting or recumbent, still they sang. Young men and maidens, old women and children, woke the untiring echoes. Beggars asked for alms, in verse. No occasion, great or small, of a mor- tal career, was without its appropriate harmony. Marriage had its epithalamia, its soporific strains at midnight, its rousing strains in the morning; parturition had its hymns to Diana; death itself was forced to drop the curtain to soft music. In Italy, music had made some advances before the time of the Romans. On this subject, an American xvriter makes the following remarks. We cannot doubt of the existence of music in Italy antecedently to the time of the Romans; although no treatise has been handed down to us, on the subject, written in the Oscan or Etruscan langaage. When we bear in mind the number and splendor of the cities, possessed by the latter of these nations, the luxury of their inhabitants, the skill of the ar- tists, particularly in the plastic art, and in the fabrication of those vases denominated Etruscan, which equal, in point of beauty, the famous Murrhine vaseswhen we cast our eyes on Capua, which was called Caput Urbium, from the circumstance of its being the first of the Etruscan colonies on Pozzuoli, whose immense amphitheatre has survived the ravages of time, and served as a 64 The Origin and Progress of .Jlfiiusic. model of the famous Coliseum of Flavianus on Naples and Cumae, the most ancient of all their citiescan we for a moment believe, that in such a country, in other words, in all the south- west districts of Italy, the musical art alone should not have been carried to the highest degree of perfection? The Romans bor- rowed songs and musical instruments from this nation and from Greece; and they employed music on the same occasions as these txvo ; but especially for religious ceremonies and in war. The flute was used on the stage to sustain the voice of the actor; and it is supposed that the great orators employed a musician for the same purpose, when they addressed the people in the forum. Jt was not until the time of the emperors, however, that music reached its perfection among them. In the age of Augustus, (as we are told) the magnificent hymn, written by Horace, in honor of Apollo and Diana, which has been preserved to our day, was set to music and sung by two choirs, alternately one com- posed of females, the other of young men from the best families in Rome. Under the succeeding Emperors, the art was culti- vated with great care ; the instruments used were nearly the same as those of Greece, and it is probable that they xvere extremely good. One of them has been preserved uninjPred, to our own time. This instrument, which is the origin of the trombone, one of the most important pieces in modern bands, was dug up re- cently in Pompeii, where it had been buried for nearly two thous- and years, and was presented by the King of Naples to the Em- peror of Austria the loxver part is of bronze, and the upper half, with the mouth-piece, of pure gold. The tones of this in- strument are so fine, that modern art has never been able to equal them. The Emperor Nero excelled in playing on the harp; and his reign may be considered the golden age of classic music. But, the art was solemnly proscribed at Rome after his deatb, for it was too painfully associated with his crimes ; it reminded the people of a tyrant, who delighted in blood the murderer of his venerable preceptor, of his brother and his mother and both his wives ; it reminded them of the monster, who set fire to the city, and, during the nine days conflagration, sang to his harp of the burning of Troy. This epoch may be regarded as the close of Ancient Music. It was received into the Christian church atter this, and there developed with a power which was unknown to antiquity. Two buildings, on distant and opposite hills, in Rome, seem to record these facts: on one hand, is seen a bleak, weather- worn tower, rising in lonely grandeur amid the ruins of the past. On this tower, Nero is said to have stood, enjoying the awful fire he had occasioned, and exulting, with harp and song, over Lines. 65~ the scene of destruction and woe which was passing beneath. On the opposite side of the city, and beyond the Tiber, stands the magnificent temple of St Peters the most sublime and glo- rious monument ever reared the xvork of ages the wonder of earth. There, are heard those marvelous tones, never equaled and inimitable the perfection of Christian music. These edi- fices may be regarded as the monuments of ancient and modern~ music; each tells its own tale. LINES Suggested by a p1cc are of Jlfeerat, taken afew moments after his ezeeutioa~ FAREWELL! for the light of thy speaking eye Is dim with the shade of death; And the ringlets around thy pale cheek lie IJnstirred by the faintest breath. Ah! who, that gazes upon thee now, As thou liest so stilly there, With thy chiseld lip, and thy marble brow,. And thy stirless folds of hair, Can recall the light of thy~ snowy plume, And the wave of thy red right hand, Or thy chargers rush, through the sulphury gloomy At the head of thy stern, wild band? Didst thou seek for death in the battle-field, And perish ignobly here? Yet thy prayer was heard, and the muskets pealed~ And thine was a soldiers bier. Thy faithful bosom her portrait bore Thy queens it was true to the last; And thy face a smile of affection wore A look of the happy past: The past! when no royal name was thine, No diadem girt thy brow; But the fealty was thine of the battled line, And thy splendor the red fields glow. Thou hast gone to a sleep that s long and deep, And dim is thy starlike eye; The hand of a slave may rob thy grave Not of fame that can. never die. VOL. I~. 9

Lines Original Papers 65-66

Lines. 65~ the scene of destruction and woe which was passing beneath. On the opposite side of the city, and beyond the Tiber, stands the magnificent temple of St Peters the most sublime and glo- rious monument ever reared the xvork of ages the wonder of earth. There, are heard those marvelous tones, never equaled and inimitable the perfection of Christian music. These edi- fices may be regarded as the monuments of ancient and modern~ music; each tells its own tale. LINES Suggested by a p1cc are of Jlfeerat, taken afew moments after his ezeeutioa~ FAREWELL! for the light of thy speaking eye Is dim with the shade of death; And the ringlets around thy pale cheek lie IJnstirred by the faintest breath. Ah! who, that gazes upon thee now, As thou liest so stilly there, With thy chiseld lip, and thy marble brow,. And thy stirless folds of hair, Can recall the light of thy~ snowy plume, And the wave of thy red right hand, Or thy chargers rush, through the sulphury gloomy At the head of thy stern, wild band? Didst thou seek for death in the battle-field, And perish ignobly here? Yet thy prayer was heard, and the muskets pealed~ And thine was a soldiers bier. Thy faithful bosom her portrait bore Thy queens it was true to the last; And thy face a smile of affection wore A look of the happy past: The past! when no royal name was thine, No diadem girt thy brow; But the fealty was thine of the battled line, And thy splendor the red fields glow. Thou hast gone to a sleep that s long and deep, And dim is thy starlike eye; The hand of a slave may rob thy grave Not of fame that can. never die. VOL. I~. 9 L~RITICAL NOTICES. Airs. Frances .Inne Butler1s Journal. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea ~ Blanchard. AMONG the recent publications of the day, this is one of the most attractive. It is, in some respects, rather an extraordinary book, but, withal, a very amusing one the production of a writer of no mediocre talent. As it is easily abused, it has received from the press the most severe comments, while the anthor has been held up to public ridicule in a series of gross caricatures, in some of which the mauvaise plaisanterie of the artist (?) is pushed beyond the limits of decorum. An attempt to annihilate Mrs. B. has been made in a published review, declared to be from the pen of an English lady; but which, in fact, is, to say the least, a most deplorable specimen of bad taste, and a practical satire upon the American public, far more severe than anything to be fonnd in the book. That there are very many things in the Journal, which are gross and inexcu- sable, it is impossible to deny. Some of its language is, to say the least, very ex- traordinary, as coming from a lady; and the publication of so many trivial details, is in bad taste. But, in our estimation, it is quite as puerile to harp incessantly upon a peculiar phrase, and to hunt through the book, as some editors have done, to ascertain how many times dawdled~ and pottered occur; or how often Miss Kenible indulged in the luxury of a siestapassing over whole pages of glowing, descriptive sketches, the tribute of a talented mind to the surpassing beauties of our country. How much of the singular conduct complained of in Miss Kemble is the conse- quence of the treatment she experienced, remains to be eeen. At a very early age, she entered upon the duties of an arduous profession, from the very best of mo- tives. Her father had become involved in pecuniary difficulties, from which it seemed almost impossible to rescue him quite impossible to all but his daughter. As she had a strong dislike to the profession, (as she avers and we have no right to disbelieve her) she resolutely determined to sacrifice her inclinations, and make a bold attempt to save her family from ruin. Her reception by the London public was most enthusiastic. Young and inexperienced, she was, all at once, exposed to the intoxication of success and flattery. She received, not merely the vulgar, noisy applause of crowded theatres, but the homage of the most enlightened men of the age men who had toiled years to obtain the laurel with which she was in- stantly crowned. Through the fiery ordeal of so general an enthusiasm, she can hardly be said to have passed unscathed. Yet she was not negligent of duties but, in the study of parts, their rehearsal and performance, she went through an amount of mental and physical labor, during her first season, which may be justly called unparalleled. Nor did she confine herself to what may be termed, com

Mrs. Frances Anne Butler's Journal Critical Notices 66-68

L~RITICAL NOTICES. Airs. Frances .Inne Butler1s Journal. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea ~ Blanchard. AMONG the recent publications of the day, this is one of the most attractive. It is, in some respects, rather an extraordinary book, but, withal, a very amusing one the production of a writer of no mediocre talent. As it is easily abused, it has received from the press the most severe comments, while the anthor has been held up to public ridicule in a series of gross caricatures, in some of which the mauvaise plaisanterie of the artist (?) is pushed beyond the limits of decorum. An attempt to annihilate Mrs. B. has been made in a published review, declared to be from the pen of an English lady; but which, in fact, is, to say the least, a most deplorable specimen of bad taste, and a practical satire upon the American public, far more severe than anything to be fonnd in the book. That there are very many things in the Journal, which are gross and inexcu- sable, it is impossible to deny. Some of its language is, to say the least, very ex- traordinary, as coming from a lady; and the publication of so many trivial details, is in bad taste. But, in our estimation, it is quite as puerile to harp incessantly upon a peculiar phrase, and to hunt through the book, as some editors have done, to ascertain how many times dawdled~ and pottered occur; or how often Miss Kenible indulged in the luxury of a siestapassing over whole pages of glowing, descriptive sketches, the tribute of a talented mind to the surpassing beauties of our country. How much of the singular conduct complained of in Miss Kemble is the conse- quence of the treatment she experienced, remains to be eeen. At a very early age, she entered upon the duties of an arduous profession, from the very best of mo- tives. Her father had become involved in pecuniary difficulties, from which it seemed almost impossible to rescue him quite impossible to all but his daughter. As she had a strong dislike to the profession, (as she avers and we have no right to disbelieve her) she resolutely determined to sacrifice her inclinations, and make a bold attempt to save her family from ruin. Her reception by the London public was most enthusiastic. Young and inexperienced, she was, all at once, exposed to the intoxication of success and flattery. She received, not merely the vulgar, noisy applause of crowded theatres, but the homage of the most enlightened men of the age men who had toiled years to obtain the laurel with which she was in- stantly crowned. Through the fiery ordeal of so general an enthusiasm, she can hardly be said to have passed unscathed. Yet she was not negligent of duties but, in the study of parts, their rehearsal and performance, she went through an amount of mental and physical labor, during her first season, which may be justly called unparalleled. Nor did she confine herself to what may be termed, com Critical ,7Votic~s. paratively, the merely mechanical part of her profession; for she produced a trag- edy, (Francis the First) which is highly creditable to the youthful talent of the author. It must not be supposed, that she was totally exempt from the influence of those jealousies, and breakings forth of envy, which are found in every profession) and particularly in the histrionic. She was assailed in a London paper, and invidious reports were daily circulated. These petty annoyances may have had a favorable effect, as contrasting with the overweening flattery of her admirers. On the whole, the reception of Miss Kemble, in England, contributed to strengthen all her early prejudices, to fix forever her love for the land of her birth, and for those institu- tions her ideas of which were inseparably connected with the members of the brilliant and aristocratic circles which had done her honor. With high tory princi- ples, she came to this country, necessarily prepared to look upon it through a me- dium which would somewhat disguise the natural colors of the objects she be- held. In America, her public reception was warm and welcome ; but, admira- tion was not confined within its proper limits. There was a Kemble mania. The young lady could not appear, without having her dress, her every action noted. When she entered an evening-party, all eyes were at once riveted upon her. Caps and curls, a la Kemble, were immediately adopted. When she was found to ride our horses, notwithstanding their shuffling, rollicking, mongrel pace, half-trot, half-canter, the multitude of female equestrians, that immediately took the road, is quite inconceivable. It is rather humiliating to be made a lioness ; certainly, there is nothing very flattering in it. Nine persons out of ten will revenge them- selves by attempting something very singular, for the mere pleasure of observing the gaping astonishment, and half-hesitating admiration it excites. To rebuke a folly by committing a similar one, is certainly weak ; but Miss Kembio., like other persons of genius, has her little weaknesses. .TVemo omnibus horis, 4~c. Qui vive sans folie nest pas si sage quil croit. Miss Keruble recorded in her Journal her First Impressions. Mrs. Butler acknowledges many of their errors in the notes. Whatever struck her, at first sight, as new, was hastily condemned as faulty; but a second examination has led her, in many instances, to correct her mistakes. It may be said, that there still remain many unfounded charges, and many misrepresentations; but the writer may frequently have been misinformed herself. In some cases her prejudices mis- led her; but, in none has she betrayed any personal malignity, or deep-seated aversion to the country which has given her so warm a welcome. It is true, that the weak desire of criticism frequently betrays her into a little fault-finding ; and this reminds us of our own vocation, which cannot permit us to notice even a fa- vorite author, without giving him a little advice, and pointing out a few defects, But, after all, the fair critic has been no more severe upon us than many of our our own writers, of whose license, in this respect, a thousand instances might be given. The truth is, we are aware that we have not attained that perfectibility which is incompatible with mortality, and are willing to hear .a little good-humored raillery from compatriots; but, wo to the foreigner who dares to show us up If Mrs. Butler were as grossly abusive as the Ilamiltons, the Trollopes, the Fiddlers, the Schmidts, et id genus omne, we could cry amen! to the denunciations of the press; but we cannot class her with them, nor rebuke her in terms which are ap- propriate to them. We have too high an opinion of our country and our noble *38 Critical JVotices. selves, to fly into a passion with her because she finds or fancies blemishes among us; and, above all, we cannot forget that she is a member of the beau sexe, young, ?talented, and fresh from the most intoxicating flattery and bewildering admiration. For the literary reputation of the author, it would have been well if some severe critic had separated the wheat from the chaff, which is now so liberally sprinkled Throughout the pages of the Journal. But, as it stands, it is amusing, and abounds with striking passages. There is occasionally a flow of easy and graceful writing, which proves the author to possess great command of language. Take, for in- stance, the following passage, selected at random I like to linger around the sweet hourly and daily fulfilment of hope, which the slow progress of vegetation, in my own dear country, allows one full enjoyment of; to watch the leaf from the bark, the blossom from the bud ; and the delicate, pale-white, peeping heads of the hawthorn, to the fragrant, snowy, delicious flush of flowering; the downy ~green clusters of small round buds on the apple-trees, to the exquisite, rose-tinted clouds of soft blossoms, waving against an evening sky. By a few well-chosen words, a whole scene is placed distinctly before us, as in The following description of a view from the Battery, New-York : The wind blew tempestuously; the waters, all tumbled and rough, were of a yellow-green color, breaking into short, strong, angry waves, whose glittering white crests the wind carried away, as they sank to the level surface again. The shores were all cold, distinct, sharp-cut, and wintry-looking; the sky was black and gloomy, with now and then a watery, wan sunlight running through it. The poetry, interspersed throughout the volumes, is far above mediocrity in- deed, it bears the stamp of genius. If the author, as she hints, be indeed engaged upon a novel, we may expect a production of talent, and, as such, shall freely wel- ~come it, provided the scene be not in America, nor the heroine Fanny Kemble. ~Outre-.Mier; a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea. it is unnecessary to state to our readers, that the author of these pleasing vol- ames is H. W. Longfellow, recently appointed Professor of Modern Languages and :BelIes-Lettres, in Harvard University, and now abroad for the purpose of gathering materials to illustrate the department of learning covered by his professorship. rphe wrWsngs of this gentlemen show a rare union of the scholar and the poet. To a minute and laborious research, a well-arranged and copious fund of erudition, he adds a lively sense of the harmony of language, an artist-like power of delinea- tion, and a ready humor, that peeps out, ever and anon, and is always greeted with .a hearty welcome. These volumes contain a series of sketches and tales, illustrative of the pecu- liarities of the European nations among whom Mr. L. was a sojourner. There is a vein of quiet and sober reflection running through the sketch of the village of Au- teuil, that takes stroog hold on the heart: the Valley of the Loire is full of beau- tiful description: and the Trouveres contains much agreeable information on a curious portion of the poetry of the middle ages. But the best thing in the first volume is the Baptism of Fire a story of martyrdom, told in a strain of high end moving eloquence. The second volume begins with an essay on Spanish ballads. This is intrinsi- cally one of the most interesting subjects within the range of modern literature.

Outre-Mer; a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea Critical Notices 68-69

*38 Critical JVotices. selves, to fly into a passion with her because she finds or fancies blemishes among us; and, above all, we cannot forget that she is a member of the beau sexe, young, ?talented, and fresh from the most intoxicating flattery and bewildering admiration. For the literary reputation of the author, it would have been well if some severe critic had separated the wheat from the chaff, which is now so liberally sprinkled Throughout the pages of the Journal. But, as it stands, it is amusing, and abounds with striking passages. There is occasionally a flow of easy and graceful writing, which proves the author to possess great command of language. Take, for in- stance, the following passage, selected at random I like to linger around the sweet hourly and daily fulfilment of hope, which the slow progress of vegetation, in my own dear country, allows one full enjoyment of; to watch the leaf from the bark, the blossom from the bud ; and the delicate, pale-white, peeping heads of the hawthorn, to the fragrant, snowy, delicious flush of flowering; the downy ~green clusters of small round buds on the apple-trees, to the exquisite, rose-tinted clouds of soft blossoms, waving against an evening sky. By a few well-chosen words, a whole scene is placed distinctly before us, as in The following description of a view from the Battery, New-York : The wind blew tempestuously; the waters, all tumbled and rough, were of a yellow-green color, breaking into short, strong, angry waves, whose glittering white crests the wind carried away, as they sank to the level surface again. The shores were all cold, distinct, sharp-cut, and wintry-looking; the sky was black and gloomy, with now and then a watery, wan sunlight running through it. The poetry, interspersed throughout the volumes, is far above mediocrity in- deed, it bears the stamp of genius. If the author, as she hints, be indeed engaged upon a novel, we may expect a production of talent, and, as such, shall freely wel- ~come it, provided the scene be not in America, nor the heroine Fanny Kemble. ~Outre-.Mier; a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea. it is unnecessary to state to our readers, that the author of these pleasing vol- ames is H. W. Longfellow, recently appointed Professor of Modern Languages and :BelIes-Lettres, in Harvard University, and now abroad for the purpose of gathering materials to illustrate the department of learning covered by his professorship. rphe wrWsngs of this gentlemen show a rare union of the scholar and the poet. To a minute and laborious research, a well-arranged and copious fund of erudition, he adds a lively sense of the harmony of language, an artist-like power of delinea- tion, and a ready humor, that peeps out, ever and anon, and is always greeted with .a hearty welcome. These volumes contain a series of sketches and tales, illustrative of the pecu- liarities of the European nations among whom Mr. L. was a sojourner. There is a vein of quiet and sober reflection running through the sketch of the village of Au- teuil, that takes stroog hold on the heart: the Valley of the Loire is full of beau- tiful description: and the Trouveres contains much agreeable information on a curious portion of the poetry of the middle ages. But the best thing in the first volume is the Baptism of Fire a story of martyrdom, told in a strain of high end moving eloquence. The second volume begins with an essay on Spanish ballads. This is intrinsi- cally one of the most interesting subjects within the range of modern literature. Critical .JVotices. 69 Mr. Longfellow is deeply read in these, and enters, with the enthusiasm of n poet, into their marvelous grace, simplicity, and pathos. The translations he has given us, are done with singular heauty and truth to the originals. TheCoplnsde Don Jorge Manrique is an extraordinary poem, and Mr. Longfellows English version is wrought with remarkahle felicity. Passages might he selected from the essay on the moral and devotional poetry of Spain, marked with the finest spirit of criticism, and a most delicate perception of the ancient shades in the coloring of national po- etry. There are, also, exquisite passa~ es in the Italian sketches, that hreathe the very inspiration of Italian skies, and the niyrkid associations that clustre around every spot of that classic land. The I efence of Poetry~ is, we helieve, the suh- stance of an article puhlished some time since in the North American Review, and contains an ahle statement of the claims of poetry on our respect and love. We think the readers of this work will welcome it as an agreenhle and valuable addition to our literature. The style is pure and polished ; the language flows with fullness, beauty and harmony. 1~1any of the humorous sketches are drawn with a true and discriminating hand ; while the serious portions are written in a noble spirit, adorned by well-sustained eloquence. But there are some points, of small importance, in which the work is open to criticism. A few pet words and phrases have crept into our authors style, and estahlished themselves without his knowing it, such as merry, merrimake, holiday finery. Mr. L. writes, too, sometimes in the character of an idler, who goes ahont with his eyes half shut, indulging in all sorts of day-dreams and vagaries ; now, everyhody knows that Mr. L. is the most wide-awake of mortal men that he never idled away an hour in his life; and that, instead of wandering listlessly over the storied scenes of Eu- rope, he contrived to gather an astonishing amount of information on all matters pertaining to literature, down to the provincial dialects of the various languages, of of which he made himself thoroughly master. We should have been better pleased, had our author written more in his own character, though, it is true, he has Mr. Irvings authority for falling into reveries, whenever the humor takes him. Mr. L. has a way of picking up some odd, tatterdemalion neer do wed, and makinu a picture of him. He does this with a good degree of skill and graphic power; nevertheless, people will he reminded of Mr. Irving again. But, our author is no imitator; only these coincidences in manner, once in a while, bring up the author of the Sketch-Book and Bracebridge-Hall. A very few changes would have removed these traces of resemhlance ; for they are traces, and nothing more. But this picking flaws, in beautiful works of poetry and imagination, is an ungracious task, ~tnd we gladly hid it adieu. The Infidel; or, the Fall of .ililiexico. By the ~1uthor of Gala- var. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea ~ Blanchard. Dr. Bird has not abandoned the ground which he assumed in his first novel; neither does the present give any evidence of diminishing power, or a dearth of materials. Everything in the Infidel is new, striking, and interesting. The opening of the tale finds the army of Don Hernan Cortes making preparations for an attack on the city of Mexico, hy conveying to the shores of the lake, which sur. rounds it, the materials for building a fleet of brigantines. While Cortes, now holding a royal commission, and strengthened by the accession of a vast host of

The Infidel; or, the Fall of Mexico. By the Author of "Calavar" Critical Notices 69-74

Critical .JVotices. 69 Mr. Longfellow is deeply read in these, and enters, with the enthusiasm of n poet, into their marvelous grace, simplicity, and pathos. The translations he has given us, are done with singular heauty and truth to the originals. TheCoplnsde Don Jorge Manrique is an extraordinary poem, and Mr. Longfellows English version is wrought with remarkahle felicity. Passages might he selected from the essay on the moral and devotional poetry of Spain, marked with the finest spirit of criticism, and a most delicate perception of the ancient shades in the coloring of national po- etry. There are, also, exquisite passa~ es in the Italian sketches, that hreathe the very inspiration of Italian skies, and the niyrkid associations that clustre around every spot of that classic land. The I efence of Poetry~ is, we helieve, the suh- stance of an article puhlished some time since in the North American Review, and contains an ahle statement of the claims of poetry on our respect and love. We think the readers of this work will welcome it as an agreenhle and valuable addition to our literature. The style is pure and polished ; the language flows with fullness, beauty and harmony. 1~1any of the humorous sketches are drawn with a true and discriminating hand ; while the serious portions are written in a noble spirit, adorned by well-sustained eloquence. But there are some points, of small importance, in which the work is open to criticism. A few pet words and phrases have crept into our authors style, and estahlished themselves without his knowing it, such as merry, merrimake, holiday finery. Mr. L. writes, too, sometimes in the character of an idler, who goes ahont with his eyes half shut, indulging in all sorts of day-dreams and vagaries ; now, everyhody knows that Mr. L. is the most wide-awake of mortal men that he never idled away an hour in his life; and that, instead of wandering listlessly over the storied scenes of Eu- rope, he contrived to gather an astonishing amount of information on all matters pertaining to literature, down to the provincial dialects of the various languages, of of which he made himself thoroughly master. We should have been better pleased, had our author written more in his own character, though, it is true, he has Mr. Irvings authority for falling into reveries, whenever the humor takes him. Mr. L. has a way of picking up some odd, tatterdemalion neer do wed, and makinu a picture of him. He does this with a good degree of skill and graphic power; nevertheless, people will he reminded of Mr. Irving again. But, our author is no imitator; only these coincidences in manner, once in a while, bring up the author of the Sketch-Book and Bracebridge-Hall. A very few changes would have removed these traces of resemhlance ; for they are traces, and nothing more. But this picking flaws, in beautiful works of poetry and imagination, is an ungracious task, ~tnd we gladly hid it adieu. The Infidel; or, the Fall of .ililiexico. By the ~1uthor of Gala- var. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea ~ Blanchard. Dr. Bird has not abandoned the ground which he assumed in his first novel; neither does the present give any evidence of diminishing power, or a dearth of materials. Everything in the Infidel is new, striking, and interesting. The opening of the tale finds the army of Don Hernan Cortes making preparations for an attack on the city of Mexico, hy conveying to the shores of the lake, which sur. rounds it, the materials for building a fleet of brigantines. While Cortes, now holding a royal commission, and strengthened by the accession of a vast host of 70 Critical JVotices. Indian auxiliaries, is preparing to push the siege with vigor, the talents of the young emperor, Guatimozin, inspire the Mexicans with the hope of successful resistance. This is matter of history; but, on the fortunes of Juan Lerma, a young cava- lier, the main interest of the tale depends. Juan, after having basked in the smiles of Cortes, has incurred his deadly hatred, and been sent on an exploring and gold-hunting expedition, as to certain destruction. At the opening of the tale, he returns with two companions. He has survived all the perils which Cortes antici- pated the defection of his mutinous forces, the horrors of battle and captivity, and has accomplished the object of his mission, and discovered fertile lands, and wealthy provinces, washed by the waters of the Southern Sea. Cortes receives him with marked displeasure, but dares not proceed openly against so gallant and honorable a youth, who, meanwhile, does not suspect the cause of his former patrons an- ger. He resolves to remain with the Spaniards, although repeatedly warned to fly by La .Monjouaza, or the Nun a mysterious personage, young, beautifnl, and tal- ented, whose history is unknown. It is rumored, that she came to Isabella with a sisterhood, who were to establish a convent in the new world; the vessel was wrecked, and all perished but herself. Still, she is believed to love Juan Lerma, notwithstanding her vows. Over Cortes, she exerts a powerful influence; yet, it would seem, not powerful enough, to save the object of his hate. Magdalena (for this is her real name) is watched by Camarga another mysterious character, who, though a soldier, occasionally wandurs about in the garb of a Dominican friar. During a nocturnal commotion, the emperor, Guatimozin, lands at Tezcuco in disguise, and meets, in the garden of Cortes, with Ju~in, who has been his friend, and who loves Zelahualla, the sister of the king. Finding that the Mexi- can monarch has come to Tezcuco with no hostile intent, Juan resolves~ to con- ceal him, and effect his escape. In this, he fails is attacked by the Spaniards, draws his sword upon Cortes, without knowing him, is overpowered and thrown into a dungeon. Guatimozin, whose person is unknown, assumes the character of a Mexican orator, and is dismissed by Cortes on an embassy to the emperor. On the day before that which is fixed for the execution of Lerma, an embassy from the emperor arrives, and the members of it are detained, until the next day, in the prison, although treated with lenity. Juan, although conscious of innocence, is informed that he must prepare for death on the ensuing day. He refuses to es- cape, although Villafana, his gaoler, promises him liberty, on condition of his join- ing in a conspiracy against the general ; although Guatimozin, who, disguised as one of the ambassadors, has entered the prison, volunteers to save his Castilian friend, and although Magdalena urges his escape with all the impetuosity of pas- sion. Juan is deeply grateful for the kindness of Magdalena, hut does not requite her love. At length, the friends of Lerma are compelled to leave him resolved to meet his fate, unless some way of honorable rescue offers. In the course of the night, the Spaniards are attacked by the Indians, the prison is burned, and Juan borne off senseless by his infidel friend, the Emperor of Mexico. Shortly after- wards, the mysterious Camarga reveals to Magdalena a dreadful secret namely, that Juan is her brother. He learns, with wild joy, that the terrible passion of the Spanish maid has been unrequited; hut, while preparing an escape from the laby- rinth of difficulties, in which circumstances have involved them, he is struck down by the hand of an Indian, and Magdalena hurried on board of a piragna, which bears her to the city of Mexico, where she meets Juan and confesses their consan Critical .IVotices. 7 1 guinity. Immediately after these events, the Indian city is attacked, and soon ex~ periences all the horrors of drought and famine. Juan, resolutely refusing to fight against his countrymen, draws upon himself the hatred of the Mexicans, and th~ re- proaches of Guatimozin. He is not permitted to see his sister, and the lovely Ze-. lahualla, whom he has converted to Christianity; and his attempts at escape are frustrated. Meanwhile, Cortes begins to appreciate the character of Lerma. His hatred sprang from jealousy, caused by the friendly attentions which his wife, Dona Catalina, bestowed upon Juan. The Conquistador finds that his credulity has been abused by Velasquez and others, and longs for an opportunity to repair the injuries he has done. The various mysteries are at length unraveled by the confessions of Camaraga, or rather Gregorio. The sister of Cortes, a Spanish nun, proves the mother of Juan and Magdalena, by the brother of Gregorio. The in- trigue has long been known, but Cortes now learns with joy that his sister was married to her lover, after obtaining a private dispensation of her vows. Notwith- standing this, Gregorio Castillejo (for he belonged to that noble family) procured, by diabolical means, the death of his brother thus securing his estate. Juan was sent to Isabella, in the care of a ruffian; and Magdalena was placed in a con- vent. In due time, she came to the new world was wrecked, rescued by her brother, sought to avoid the fulfilment of her vows, and thus laid the foun- dation of her misfortunes. Many of Gregorios crimes were divulged after the death of his brother; and he sought the new world with the intention of restoring Juan and Magdalena their rightful inheritance. The city of Mexico is taken Magdalena dies and Juan, united to Zelahualla, the descendant of a thousand queens, bears his bride across the Atlantic, to his princely domain in Old Castile. This is a brief and unsatisfactory outline of a tale abounding with striking descriptions and thrilling incidents. The execution of the traitor, Villafana, is de- scribed with fearful fidelity. There is a fine scene between Guatimozin and Juan Lerma, when the latter has resolved to leave his infidel friend by stratagem, and throw himself upon the mercy of Cortes. Juan is alone in his chamber: A heavy step rang in the passage~ and the next moment the Indian monarch stood before the captive He was singularly and sumptuously armed. From head to foot, his body was covered with a garment, perhaps of escaupil, fitting so tightly as to display his limbs to advantage; and over all was a coat of mail, consisting of copper spangles or scales, richly gilded, and stitched upon a shirt of dressed leather. His head was defended by a morion of the same metal, shaped not unlike to those of the Spaniards, and equally strong; and its ability to resist a violent blow was in- creased by the folds of a stout serpent, painted green, wreathing over its whole surface. A shield of tapir-skin, studded with copper nails, hung from his neck; and he bore a macann, which was stained with blood. He wore none of the em- blems of royalty ; and his appearance was only that of some highly-distinguished noble. His eye was bright and fiery; his step firm and proud; hut his aspect was thin and haggard. Has my brother heard the shouts of men near him, and does he yet say, Let me sleep; were the words with which he saluted the captive. Prince, said Juan, eyeing him anxiously and interrogatively, though speaking with positive emphasis, as I told you before, so has it happened. The cannon were ready on the dike, the falconets were charged in the ships, and the men of Sandoval slept with swords and matches in their bands, and with their eyes open. Guatimozin does not come back a victor! He comes back with a prisoner, said the prince, proudly; and, to-morrow, the lord with the red hair (Sandoval) will count the dead and weep; and Malint~. zin shall see the flames of sacrifice rising from the pyramid. 72 Critical Xotices. Alas! exclaimed Juan; in condemning captives to this horrible death, against your will, for I know your heart is not cruel, you harden the soul of Cortes against you ; and he will remember each sacrifice, when the day of surrender comes at last. Let it be harder than it is, what cares the Mexican who dies? replied the king. Does my brother think that I am weary, or that Malintzin can fight longer than I? Think not to deceive me, prince; I know that already your altars and palaces are within reach of the cannon-shot nay, of the musket-ball ; you are hemmed in, like a wild-cat on a tree; your enemies are all round you, and they look into your eyes. Are not the water-suburbs already taken?~ Why should I lie? replied Guatimozin. If you go to Tacuba, you will see the banks of the island the city of the water is not there. If you look from Ixta- palatan, the surges go rushing up towards the great temple the houses are under the lake. If you look from the door of my dwelling, yon will see the quarter of Tepejacac falling also into the lake. When i~Ialintzin calls aloud in the morning, the lord of the~red hair answers him, and Malintzin hears. Thus it is with Mexico; yet my brother sleeps, while I die, saying to his soul, It is all very just, for I sleep and see not. If I see not and help not, yet is my heart torn by your distresses, replied Juan, earnestly. But why should I help? It would be a great sin upon my soul, and could do you no good. Listen to my counsel, Guatimozin: it is not yet too late. Cease to protract an unavailing resistance ; send to Cortes with offers of submission, and be assured of reigning still, a king, though not a vassal. Does Guatimozin fight to be a king? said the infidel, with dignity. He struck the Spaniard before he thought of a crown. He thinks not of palaces and fine garments, but says, Why should the people of Mexico be made slaves? The king fights for Mexico. He will fight best for Mexico with peace. The kings of Tezcuco and Iztapala- tan pay tribute to Mexico are their people slaves? Thus shall it be with Mex- ico: the king shall give gold, as the tributary of Spain, and Mexicans shall remain in freedom. Will my brother prattle like Malintzin? demanded the monarch, sternly. Where is the freedom of Zempoala, of Tlascala, of Cholula? The people talk of it, while a Spaniard strikes them with a lash. Where is the freedom of Tezcuco? The young king, who is a boy, sits on the throne; but the Spaniard, whom my brother struck in the face with a sword, when he chased Olin-pili, is there with him, and he robs and abuses the people, so that they hai~e sent their tears to Malintzin. What was the fate of Montezuma? He sat in the Spaniards house in chains, and the soldiers murdered his nobles, who danced in peace in the court-yard. What was the fate of Montezuma? The Spaniard, who is lord of the king of Tezcnco, would have done violence to the captive maiden. Does my brother remember? Ay! replied Juan, with the gleam of passion that visited his eyes only when he spoke of Guzman: I remember, and I hope yet to avenge. Sinner that I am, I cannot think it a crime, to covet the blood of this man. But, prince, let me know my captivity is very hard why should I not be allowed to speak with the princess? Why should my sister be hidden from me? The countenance of Guatimozin darkened. When my brother will fight for them, he shall be at liberty. My brother thinks again of the canoe at the bottom of the garden? Juan colored, and said, You keep me a prisoner I strove to escape. The king mocks me, to call me his brother. The warriors are very angry, yet the Great Eagle is alive. He cannot go among them in safety, unless as their friend. And who, said Juan, shall warrant me of safety, if I go even as a friend? He deemed it now the period to commence acting upon his scheme of escape, yet hesitated, stung with shame at the thought of the duplicity to which he was. descending. It is better to die on the dikes than to pine in the dungeon. Critical Notices. 73 Guatirnozins eye gleamed with sudden fire. Does my brother jest with me? he said. If my brother think it wrong to strike a Spaniard, he shall not be called upon to fight. lie can teach me the things it is needful to know; and be in no fear. When did Guatirnozin see rue afraid? cried Juan, stifling as well as he could the sense of humiliation and disgust, with which he began the office of a deceiver. To give you counsel how to resist or attack, will make me as much a renegade as to draw sword at once. If I do become an apostate, it shall be boldly, and with the sword. Prince, I have thought over this thing: my heart is grieved with your distress ; and for my sister, and for Zelahualla, I will do what my conscience con- demns. Does the king know what shall be y fate, if I am found fighting by the Spaniards? Twenty chosen warriors shall circle my brother round about, and he shall keep aloof from the van of battle. If I fight, it sh~ II be in the van, said Juan, his self-condemnation giving a character of sullenness to his tones. But what, if I fall what shall become of my sister? She shall be the sister of Guatimozin and of Zelahualla, said (juatimozin, with energy, yet with doubt ; for he could hardly believe that Juan was speaking seriously. Let the king say this, and I will go out with him to battle: If I die, he will cause my sister and the princess to be delivered into the hands of Cortes. The Spanish lady shall be sent to Malintzin; but the Centzontli shall remain with her brother the king. It is better she should die with him than dwell with the Spaniards. Why shonldst thou think it? Are there not more Guzrnans than one?~ Juan muttered painfully to himself. Perhaps it is better. heaven will protect her, for she has acknowledged her Redeemer. Will the king swear, then, if his brother falls, that lVlagdalena shall be sent to the Spaniards? He will swear, said Guatimozin, ardently. It is better for the Spanish lady for she knows not our speech, and she pines away. And if the king prevails over his enemies, the king will remember what Juan says of her. Now, then, let the king tell me the truth, and mislead me not. Ilow much longer can he maintain the city? Till he is dead! But he may soon die, he added, confidingly, for now he doubted no longer that he had gained his purpose. My brother shall first teach me how to get food. The ships move about at night, and no canoe can reach the shore. The king sits down to eat with the warriors, and he eats no more ; hut the warriors cry all night for food. Good Heaven! said Juan, surveying the wasted cheeks of the monarch; are you already so straightened? your garners already exhausted? Who can reckon for so many mouths? cried Guatimozin. I dreamed not of this. Sure, I have never been denied abundance! My brother is a prisoner; and the women and children are feeble. Why should they want, when the warriors can endure hunger better? The communication of this painful intelligence nerved Juan more strongly in his purpose. He perceived the necessity of acting without delay, if he wished to pro- tect the young infidel from the consequence of his own despairing fury, and the maiden of his love, and his sister, from a fate too dreadful to be imagined. I-Irs eagerness the more fully deluded the young monarch, not prone to suspicion where he loved, and he was soon made acquainted with the whole condition of the be- leaguered city, and the situation of the Spaniards. He was also instructed in the particulars of a design of Guatimozin, to be practised upon the ensuing day, the boldness of which, as well as its strong probabilities of success, both astonished and dismayed him. He perceived that perhaps the fate of the entire Spanish army de- pended upon the course he might pursue, and his honor and feelings seemed all to call upon him for some exertion to arrest the impending destruction. When he had been made acquainted with all that G untimozin thought fit to di- vulge, and had again and again repeated his resolution to take arms and accompany the Mexicans against his countrymen, the king embraced him with great warmth, VOL. IX. 10 74 Critical ~Noticeg. promising to provide him with a good Spanish sword and helmet from among the spoils; but recommending that, in all respects, he should assume the guise of a Mexican. When these arrangements were completed, he turned to depart, and yet seemed loath to go. Finally, he took Juan hy the arm, and said, To-night, the king will sleep by the side of his brother: we will wake in the morning and go out together. Why will not the king speak kind things to the queen? It will rejoice her to look upon the king. Has she not a little sick babe by her side? and are they not very wretched? said Guatimozin, exposing, without rescrve, the miseries preying upon his own bosom, and abandoning himself to a grief that seemed to mock the greatness of his station. When I look upon them, he said, I am no longer the king who thinks of Mexico and the people, but a man with a base heart, who cries, Why am I not a prisoner and a slave, that my little child may be saved, and his mother protected from the famine that is coming?~ rhe king should not think these things ; he should not look upon his household, but his country. Go, notwithstanding, said Juan, touched still further by the distresses of the infidel. Comfort them with your presence, and let their sufferings admonish you of the only way to end them. It is not too late to submit. Is this the way my brother begins the duties of a Mexican? said Guatimozin. The gods tell me to die, not yield. I fight for Mexico not for the wife and child of Guatimozin. With these words, and having banished all traces of weakness and repining, he left Juan to slumber, or to weigh, in painful anticipation, the risks and uncertainties of his projected enterprise.~ The above extract contains passages of impassioned eloquence, and simple yet touching pathos. Of such, the work is fell ; and looking at the fidelity of the his- torical portraits, the highly poetical descriptions of natural objects, the interest of the story, and the keeping observed in the delineation of character, we cannot help feeling that American literature is to derive a new lustre from the exertions of an author, gifted with talent adequate to the production of such works as Calavar and the Infidel. And it is pleasant to perceive, that there is no flagging, no dimi- nution of power. Calavar was excellent, but the Infidel is still better ; and we have no reason to doubt that the author will improve upon us as he continues to write. A wide field is before him. He stands, moreover, upon a vantage-ground, and we know of no writer able to compete with him in the unexplored regions to which he has retired. We understand that he is now engaged upon a work, in which the characters and scenes are of our own country and, in this new undertaking, we may look for the like eminent success. The Crayort Jlliscellany, .No. IL We venture to say that this volume will be more eagerly read than anything sent from the press during the past year. The first number of the Miscellany was fresh and fascinating. It depicted the pleasures of wandering over the prairies, the charms of buffalo-hunting, in such colors that we should gladly have joined an ex- pedition to the far West, in full faith of enjoying the magnificent spectacle of prairie scenery, and of shooting a buffalo, could we have broken away from the Lilliputian ties of civilized life, and especially from the toils of reviewing. But, when we took up the present volume, our longings for savage scenes, half-broiled venison, and sleeping in the open air, went away, one by one, before the over-

The Crayon Miscellany, No. II Critical Notices 74-75

74 Critical ~Noticeg. promising to provide him with a good Spanish sword and helmet from among the spoils; but recommending that, in all respects, he should assume the guise of a Mexican. When these arrangements were completed, he turned to depart, and yet seemed loath to go. Finally, he took Juan hy the arm, and said, To-night, the king will sleep by the side of his brother: we will wake in the morning and go out together. Why will not the king speak kind things to the queen? It will rejoice her to look upon the king. Has she not a little sick babe by her side? and are they not very wretched? said Guatimozin, exposing, without rescrve, the miseries preying upon his own bosom, and abandoning himself to a grief that seemed to mock the greatness of his station. When I look upon them, he said, I am no longer the king who thinks of Mexico and the people, but a man with a base heart, who cries, Why am I not a prisoner and a slave, that my little child may be saved, and his mother protected from the famine that is coming?~ rhe king should not think these things ; he should not look upon his household, but his country. Go, notwithstanding, said Juan, touched still further by the distresses of the infidel. Comfort them with your presence, and let their sufferings admonish you of the only way to end them. It is not too late to submit. Is this the way my brother begins the duties of a Mexican? said Guatimozin. The gods tell me to die, not yield. I fight for Mexico not for the wife and child of Guatimozin. With these words, and having banished all traces of weakness and repining, he left Juan to slumber, or to weigh, in painful anticipation, the risks and uncertainties of his projected enterprise.~ The above extract contains passages of impassioned eloquence, and simple yet touching pathos. Of such, the work is fell ; and looking at the fidelity of the his- torical portraits, the highly poetical descriptions of natural objects, the interest of the story, and the keeping observed in the delineation of character, we cannot help feeling that American literature is to derive a new lustre from the exertions of an author, gifted with talent adequate to the production of such works as Calavar and the Infidel. And it is pleasant to perceive, that there is no flagging, no dimi- nution of power. Calavar was excellent, but the Infidel is still better ; and we have no reason to doubt that the author will improve upon us as he continues to write. A wide field is before him. He stands, moreover, upon a vantage-ground, and we know of no writer able to compete with him in the unexplored regions to which he has retired. We understand that he is now engaged upon a work, in which the characters and scenes are of our own country and, in this new undertaking, we may look for the like eminent success. The Crayort Jlliscellany, .No. IL We venture to say that this volume will be more eagerly read than anything sent from the press during the past year. The first number of the Miscellany was fresh and fascinating. It depicted the pleasures of wandering over the prairies, the charms of buffalo-hunting, in such colors that we should gladly have joined an ex- pedition to the far West, in full faith of enjoying the magnificent spectacle of prairie scenery, and of shooting a buffalo, could we have broken away from the Lilliputian ties of civilized life, and especially from the toils of reviewing. But, when we took up the present volume, our longings for savage scenes, half-broiled venison, and sleeping in the open air, went away, one by one, before the over- Critical .Notices. 75 whelming interest excited by these exquisite pictures of the greatest poet, and the greatest novelist of this age. Washington Irving visited Abbotsford many years before the death of its illustrious owner. He was received with Scotts characteristic kindness, and with the cordial greeting which his own genius richly merited. The incidents and impressions of a few days residence under the same roof with Walter Scott, are related with singular beauty and grace. The family of the great author, and all the persons that surrounded him, appear in Irvings pages in the most graphic colors. The impression of Scotts character, which our coun- trymans description leaves on the mind, is in harmony with all that has been pre- viously known from other sources. Its rare beauty comes out the brighter, the more it is scrutinized. With what eager impatience will the Life and Corres- pondence of Walter Scott be hailed by the world. The visit to Newstead Abbey was after Lord Byron had sold, the seat of his an- cestors to Colonel Wildman. The anecdotes of Byron, and the sketches of scenes which possess a melancholy interest from their connection with the early but abid- ing feelings of the poet, are given in Mr. Irvings happiest style. It is interesting, to know that Colonel Wildman has repaired the old abbey, with a most judicious regard to its former character and the memory of his predecessor. The story of The White Lady is singularly interesting, and wild enough to belong to the ver- iest romance. It is told with the eloquence of a lively sympathy, and the narrative is varied with extracts from the writings of that strange being, both in prose and verse, which shed a mournful but interesting light on her unhappy character. What a rich glow of imagination and poetry does Irving throw over all the produc- tions of his pen! How humane and gentle the spirit that breathes from every page! How pure, graphic, and musical, the flow of his superb language ! How delicate the turn of his thoughts! How magical the effect of his fitly-chosen epithets! It is honorable to the good taste of our age and country, that the beautiful creations of his genius are hailed with universal enthusiasm, and read with unbounded de- light. Long may he continue to hold the high place assigned him in the world of letters, and to sway his mighty influence for the beneficent purpose of exalting the taste, enlivening the imagination, and awakening all the kindly sympathies of his countrymen. Helons Pilgrimage to Jerusalem: a Picture of Judaism in the century which preceded the .~1dvent of our Saviour. From the German of Frederick Strauss. Boston: W. D. Ticknor. pp. 293. l2mo. The edition of this work now before us has been issued under the editorial care of the Rev. Baron Stow, of this city. It seems that the work appeared ten years since, in two volumes, and then enjoyed considerable popularity. The present editor has judiciously omitted many uninteresting portions of the work and the body of notes, which swells the bulk of the English copy, published in 1S24, to an incon- venient size. The story is interesting, although perfectly artless being, in fact, little more than a thread of narrative, whereon hang a series of descriptive sketches, many of which are uncommonly excellent, and all valuable for their accuracy. The view of Judaism, its imposing rites and ceremonies, its solemnity and splendor, is

Helon's Pilgrimage to Jerusalem: a Picture of Judaism in the century which preceded the Advent of our Saviour. From the German of Frederick Strauss Critical Notices 75-77

Critical .Notices. 75 whelming interest excited by these exquisite pictures of the greatest poet, and the greatest novelist of this age. Washington Irving visited Abbotsford many years before the death of its illustrious owner. He was received with Scotts characteristic kindness, and with the cordial greeting which his own genius richly merited. The incidents and impressions of a few days residence under the same roof with Walter Scott, are related with singular beauty and grace. The family of the great author, and all the persons that surrounded him, appear in Irvings pages in the most graphic colors. The impression of Scotts character, which our coun- trymans description leaves on the mind, is in harmony with all that has been pre- viously known from other sources. Its rare beauty comes out the brighter, the more it is scrutinized. With what eager impatience will the Life and Corres- pondence of Walter Scott be hailed by the world. The visit to Newstead Abbey was after Lord Byron had sold, the seat of his an- cestors to Colonel Wildman. The anecdotes of Byron, and the sketches of scenes which possess a melancholy interest from their connection with the early but abid- ing feelings of the poet, are given in Mr. Irvings happiest style. It is interesting, to know that Colonel Wildman has repaired the old abbey, with a most judicious regard to its former character and the memory of his predecessor. The story of The White Lady is singularly interesting, and wild enough to belong to the ver- iest romance. It is told with the eloquence of a lively sympathy, and the narrative is varied with extracts from the writings of that strange being, both in prose and verse, which shed a mournful but interesting light on her unhappy character. What a rich glow of imagination and poetry does Irving throw over all the produc- tions of his pen! How humane and gentle the spirit that breathes from every page! How pure, graphic, and musical, the flow of his superb language ! How delicate the turn of his thoughts! How magical the effect of his fitly-chosen epithets! It is honorable to the good taste of our age and country, that the beautiful creations of his genius are hailed with universal enthusiasm, and read with unbounded de- light. Long may he continue to hold the high place assigned him in the world of letters, and to sway his mighty influence for the beneficent purpose of exalting the taste, enlivening the imagination, and awakening all the kindly sympathies of his countrymen. Helons Pilgrimage to Jerusalem: a Picture of Judaism in the century which preceded the .~1dvent of our Saviour. From the German of Frederick Strauss. Boston: W. D. Ticknor. pp. 293. l2mo. The edition of this work now before us has been issued under the editorial care of the Rev. Baron Stow, of this city. It seems that the work appeared ten years since, in two volumes, and then enjoyed considerable popularity. The present editor has judiciously omitted many uninteresting portions of the work and the body of notes, which swells the bulk of the English copy, published in 1S24, to an incon- venient size. The story is interesting, although perfectly artless being, in fact, little more than a thread of narrative, whereon hang a series of descriptive sketches, many of which are uncommonly excellent, and all valuable for their accuracy. The view of Judaism, its imposing rites and ceremonies, its solemnity and splendor, is 76 Critical ~otices at once comprehensive and impressive. The manner in which the various scenes are introdnced, is very ingenious. Helen, a young Jew of Alexandria, whose opin- ions have been for a long time fluctuating, turns at length from the unsatisfactory study of other creeds, and from the Platonism of the Greek, to the observance of the law of his own nation. 1-le resolves to accompany his uncle Elisama on a pil- grimage to the Holy City, and to visit, in his course, the tomb of his father, who, having died upon a similar journey, has been buried in the valley of Jehosaphat. The pilgrims set forth with a caravan, and on the way are joined by Myron, a young Greek, in whose company Helen had formerly pursued his theological re- searches. At the request of the Greek, Elisama relates the history of the Jewish nation, in a clear and interesting manner. The journey into the Holy Land is full of interest. The pilgrims arrive at Jerusalem. I-felon is admitted into the priest- hood, and marries Sulamith, the beautiful daughter of Selumiel. The description of the latter is a good specimen of the style of the translation: The mother, though advanced in years, was active, and still handsome: but Sulamith, her daughter, who stood by her side, was glowing in all the freshness of youthful beauty, and united in herself every charm by which a daughter of Israel could fix the attention of the beholder. From beneath the large eyebrows, colored of a brilliant black, dark eyes, like those of a gazelle, sent forth their quiet brilliance, through the transparent veil which descended from the turban. Her tall and stately form was clad in a robe of fine cotton, which flowed down in folds, like a wide mantle; the sleeves hung loose, except where they were fastened with costly bracelets ; the ears and the nose were adorned with rings of gold, in which rubies, emeralds, and topazes were set. This alliance gives the author an opportunity to describe at length the ceremonies of the betrothment and the nuptials. Helon is happy, until, one fatal day, returning after a brief absence, he finds Myron at the door of his Armon, or house of the women. The indiscreet Greek, unused to the customs of the Jews, had sought the apartment of Sulamith, who, with horror in her countenance, had compelled him instantly to withdraw. But i-felon arrived in time to meet him, and to become inflamed with a wild jealousy. Myron is driven forth with blows, and Sulamith shunned as a shameless adultress, when she sol- emnly proclaimed her innocence. She is brought to the ordeal of the water of jealousy. The scene in which this is administered, Sulamiths innocence proved, and Helon made to experience all the horrors of remorse, is absolutely thrilling, because there is no attempt at fine writing, but a chaste simplicity, throughout, which seems to bear the impress of truth. Then follow the Day of Atonement~ and the Feast of the Tabernacles ; after which, I-felon, his wife and family, with Myron, who has espoused the true religion, embark in a Phcenician vessel, to re- turn for a season to Alexandria. They encounter a terrific storm, against which they vainly struggle. After an hour, the storm ceased. And the storms of this world, too, had ceased for those who had found death in the wave, and life in the bosom of their God. The editor recommends readers to peruse this work with the Bible before them, turning to the Scripture passages which are referred to in almost every page. Of the utility of this production, there can be no doubt. The author concludes a few modest remarks upon it, in the following words, which may throw some light upon his design It is well known, that the want of a lively and distind picture of those local and national peculiarities which are presented in the Bible, revolts many Critical ,JVotices. 77 from a perusal of it, and exposes others to very erroneous conceptions. It is the nuthors prayer to him, from whom these precious records have proceeded, that the present work may serve, under his blessing, to make the perusal of the Scrip- tures more attractive and edifying ; and he hopes those who shall drink with pleas- ure from his humble nil, will not be satisfied without going to the fountain of living waters. Blackbeard. .1 Page from the Colonial History of Philadelphia. JVew- York: Harper ~ Brothers. 2 vols. l2mo. This is one of those unfortunate hooks which make the duty of the critic a se- vere one. Here and there we find in it a dash of purity and brightness, Which speaks the man of taste and of politeness. But, alas! these occasional gleams of light only serve to reveal the obscurity and darkness with which they are surrounded, and make us regret sincerely, for the authors sake, that the work was given to the world or rather, to that small por- tion of it which will be likely to peruse his pages. We ourselves labored through it, with a desperate benevolence, in the forlorn hope of finding an excuse for a tol- erably favorable notice of the volumes. The author is doubtless a very clever fellow, and we have no doubt could write much better; and for this reason, we have no hesitation in condemning his present production, which is, in fact, rather the worst of the last batch of bad novels. In the first chapter, we are introduced to the passengers on board the ship San- taclaus, a Dutch ressel, which left the port of Amsterdam July 4, 1732, bound for Philadelphia. Major Scheveling and his niece, Barbara, the heroine of the tale, are thus brought upon the scene, together with one Jeptha Dobbs, a nondescript, whom the author appears to have intended for a Yankee, although we find nothing in his phraseology or conduct, to warrant the supposition. As a specimen of the wit of this character, take the following: This here calm is not so remarkable agreeable, though I should nt like to bet that, as beina a female, you might nt naterally prefer squally weather. Nay, Mr. Dobbs, I am well nigh tired of this part of the ocean: pray, when do you expect to see land?~ Some time before we touch it, answered Mr. Dobbs, breaking into a low chuckle, partly repressed through respect for the lady, yet sufficiently indicative of the delight he experienced from his own quaint jest. * All snug, Mr. Dobbs? inquired the captain, as a matter of course. Mr. Dobbs leisurely inserted a long, slim portion of pigtail into his nether jaw, ere he answered, in his usual shrill and monotonous manner. Everything but the little brown pig, that Flemish Peter has been catching all the morning. At length, the Santaclaus approaches land, to the delight of Barbara. Her uncle stood near her, regarding the new world with a melancholy gaze. Years had passed since his only son, a youth of twelve years, had fled the paternal home; certain particulars were gathered, which, added to the knowledge of his roving disposition, left no doubt that he had embarked for some distant country, and every inquiry had been set on foot, but in vain. Long abandoned as lost, and by others long forgotten, intrusive memory would oft times sadden the fath

Blackbeard. A Page from the Colonial History of Philadelphia Critical Notices 77-79

Critical ,JVotices. 77 from a perusal of it, and exposes others to very erroneous conceptions. It is the nuthors prayer to him, from whom these precious records have proceeded, that the present work may serve, under his blessing, to make the perusal of the Scrip- tures more attractive and edifying ; and he hopes those who shall drink with pleas- ure from his humble nil, will not be satisfied without going to the fountain of living waters. Blackbeard. .1 Page from the Colonial History of Philadelphia. JVew- York: Harper ~ Brothers. 2 vols. l2mo. This is one of those unfortunate hooks which make the duty of the critic a se- vere one. Here and there we find in it a dash of purity and brightness, Which speaks the man of taste and of politeness. But, alas! these occasional gleams of light only serve to reveal the obscurity and darkness with which they are surrounded, and make us regret sincerely, for the authors sake, that the work was given to the world or rather, to that small por- tion of it which will be likely to peruse his pages. We ourselves labored through it, with a desperate benevolence, in the forlorn hope of finding an excuse for a tol- erably favorable notice of the volumes. The author is doubtless a very clever fellow, and we have no doubt could write much better; and for this reason, we have no hesitation in condemning his present production, which is, in fact, rather the worst of the last batch of bad novels. In the first chapter, we are introduced to the passengers on board the ship San- taclaus, a Dutch ressel, which left the port of Amsterdam July 4, 1732, bound for Philadelphia. Major Scheveling and his niece, Barbara, the heroine of the tale, are thus brought upon the scene, together with one Jeptha Dobbs, a nondescript, whom the author appears to have intended for a Yankee, although we find nothing in his phraseology or conduct, to warrant the supposition. As a specimen of the wit of this character, take the following: This here calm is not so remarkable agreeable, though I should nt like to bet that, as beina a female, you might nt naterally prefer squally weather. Nay, Mr. Dobbs, I am well nigh tired of this part of the ocean: pray, when do you expect to see land?~ Some time before we touch it, answered Mr. Dobbs, breaking into a low chuckle, partly repressed through respect for the lady, yet sufficiently indicative of the delight he experienced from his own quaint jest. * All snug, Mr. Dobbs? inquired the captain, as a matter of course. Mr. Dobbs leisurely inserted a long, slim portion of pigtail into his nether jaw, ere he answered, in his usual shrill and monotonous manner. Everything but the little brown pig, that Flemish Peter has been catching all the morning. At length, the Santaclaus approaches land, to the delight of Barbara. Her uncle stood near her, regarding the new world with a melancholy gaze. Years had passed since his only son, a youth of twelve years, had fled the paternal home; certain particulars were gathered, which, added to the knowledge of his roving disposition, left no doubt that he had embarked for some distant country, and every inquiry had been set on foot, but in vain. Long abandoned as lost, and by others long forgotten, intrusive memory would oft times sadden the fath 78 Critical JVoiiccs. ers heart; and still lingered that faint hope, that, year after year, yet awaited tidings from his long-lost child. The Major and Barhara establish themselves at Philadelphia, where, among other characters, they hecome acquainted with one Oxensteirn, a gentleman given to al- chemy, who is reputed to he several centuries old, and is considered a magician, because he shows a magic lanthorn and a skeleton. Next we are told all about Blackbeard, or Teach, the pirate, who has committed such depredations, that cap- tain Solgard, of his Britanic majestys man-of-war Greyhound, has been sent with orders to take him, dead or alive. The gallant captain, wi a drappie in his ee, stumbles upon Blackbeard and his crew one evening, at a house in the suburbs. He was drunk when he came among them, and found lying intoxicated after he had left them, having received no ill-treatment from the myers. One of the pirates, Bill Jones, sings a song, in the carousing scene, which, to any admirer of Dibdin, or of common sense, will seem stupid enough: I am none of your fresh-water sailors, But I am a real sea-dog; And all that I ask of my betters, Is plenty of hacco and grog. If it comes to a fight, why, I m ready To handle a pike or a gun; For, whether they re cruisers or quakers, To old Billy Jones it s all one. So pass on the bottle, my hearties Dick Jenkins has got it, I spy; For, as for you flummux of poetry, That ere thing is all in my eye. Marx Scheveling, the long-lost son of major Scheveling, appears upon the scene in the person of a hunter, and is introduced to Barbara and her uncle, as Mr. Sylvan. In a scuffle with the buccaniers, this allant gentleman gets wounded, and is affectionately nursed by Barbara, who falls in love with him of course. lie relates a tissue of improbabilities, called his adventures, to Oxensteirn. Having run away from his father, he finds himself, at eighteen, masters mate, on board the Spanish brig Lealdad, but leaves her for a lientenancy, offered by captain Teach, then commander of the Spitfire, an armed brig, with a royal commission, cruising against the West-Indian pirates. After cruising for some time, Teach pro- poses to hoist the black flag, and Marx consents, provided the lives of all captives shall be spared. They had a very pleasant time, as Marx seriously observes plundering vessels of all nations on the high seas, until Teach gets sanguinary, and Marx, refusing to obey orders, is cast adrift in an open boat, and carried upon the shores of Yucatan. Here he surprises one Senora Serafine, and her attendant Spanish maidens, much after the fashion that Actuon surprised Diana; and he has the effrontery to dwell upon the accident with great complacency. Marx is hos- pitably received by the old gentleman, Don Raymon Vieyra, and the daughter falls in love with himof course. But she is so proud, that she will not show her love not she ~ she would sooner die first; and, in fact, she does die: but, in her last hour, confesses that she has bestowed her heart on Marx. The old gen- tleman soon followed his daughter to the grave, and left the whole of his property to young Scheveling. The monied youth now returns to Europe, over which he travels hastily, admiring all the lions, until he arrives in London, where he loses every sous to a certain lord George. Critical ~Notices. 79 Much to the surprise of the party, I believe, I politely congratulated lord George on his good fortune, took a parting glass of wine with him, requested a pinch of snuff, aud set out for my own lodgings. Here I dressed myself in a most superb suit, perfumed and curled my locks, until my glass assured me that I never looked so irresistible ; and getting into a sedan-chair, was briefly conveyed to the presence of lord a mistress. More fnvured by fortune than by love, his lordship had despoiled me of my estate ; but, as if to compensate for my late dis- aster, the charming maid of honor~ looked upon me with a kinder and more ten- der gaze than she had ever done before. Before morning, lord George and I were quits. There s a fine moral youth for a hero But he has not finished exhibiting him- self yet. After recovering frum his wound, he takes an extra bottle of Madeira, insults his pretty little cousin, and then marches off with Oxensteirn, and takes Blackbeard. In the end, he discovers himself to his father, and marries the pretty Barbara a reward for his manifold rascalities. The tale is not without underplot there are the loves of Madam Markham, Dr. Eastlake, and Bob Asterly ; the villainies of Blackbeard murder moonlight burglaryand a variety of other queer things, too numerous to mention. Some of the subordinate personages exhibit a little spirit, and there are a few detached scenes in the book really worth reading; but, for the authors sake, we are very sorry that he was ever betrayed into print. Indian JVullif cation. Two years ago, the Rev. William Apes paid a visit to the Marshpee tribe of In- dians, in Barustable county, and preached to them. He is himself a full-blooded Indian, one of the last of the Peqnots, and makes his direct descent from one of the daughters of the heroic Metacom, a matter of boast. He had, consequently, a natural claim on the sympathies of the people he addressed, and they invited him to settle among and preach to them, which he has since done, with great effect receiving nothing for his clerical services, but supporting himself by the labor of his hands, and by vending books. Shortly after Mr. Apes settled at Marshpee, discontents prevailed among the tribe, which were attributed, by the newspapers, to the influence of Mr. Apes. It was also published concerning him, that he was a knave, and a gambler in lottery tickets. About this time, the Indians thought fit to throw off the authority of their white overseers, by public proclamation, and to prevent them from currying wood off the Marshpee plantation, by direct force. Whereupon, a criminal process was instituted against Mr. Apes, and a commis- sioner was sent to investi~ ate the affairs of the tribe by the executive, who also in- timated that, if necessary, a military force would be sent to quell the alleged se- dition. But the Marshpees agreed to rescind their proclamation, and contented themselves with a petition for redress of grievances to the General Court, which, at its next session, granted all their demands. The hook before us contains a full though concise history of all these matters, All the statements, therein made, are supported by documentary evidence. There is much interesting matter, which we have not room to notice. It is written far better than could have been expected from an Indian, and is well worth reading. The only fault we find is, that the author has suffered himself to be exasperated by the persecution he has endured.

Indian Nullification Critical Notices 79-80

Critical ~Notices. 79 Much to the surprise of the party, I believe, I politely congratulated lord George on his good fortune, took a parting glass of wine with him, requested a pinch of snuff, aud set out for my own lodgings. Here I dressed myself in a most superb suit, perfumed and curled my locks, until my glass assured me that I never looked so irresistible ; and getting into a sedan-chair, was briefly conveyed to the presence of lord a mistress. More fnvured by fortune than by love, his lordship had despoiled me of my estate ; but, as if to compensate for my late dis- aster, the charming maid of honor~ looked upon me with a kinder and more ten- der gaze than she had ever done before. Before morning, lord George and I were quits. There s a fine moral youth for a hero But he has not finished exhibiting him- self yet. After recovering frum his wound, he takes an extra bottle of Madeira, insults his pretty little cousin, and then marches off with Oxensteirn, and takes Blackbeard. In the end, he discovers himself to his father, and marries the pretty Barbara a reward for his manifold rascalities. The tale is not without underplot there are the loves of Madam Markham, Dr. Eastlake, and Bob Asterly ; the villainies of Blackbeard murder moonlight burglaryand a variety of other queer things, too numerous to mention. Some of the subordinate personages exhibit a little spirit, and there are a few detached scenes in the book really worth reading; but, for the authors sake, we are very sorry that he was ever betrayed into print. Indian JVullif cation. Two years ago, the Rev. William Apes paid a visit to the Marshpee tribe of In- dians, in Barustable county, and preached to them. He is himself a full-blooded Indian, one of the last of the Peqnots, and makes his direct descent from one of the daughters of the heroic Metacom, a matter of boast. He had, consequently, a natural claim on the sympathies of the people he addressed, and they invited him to settle among and preach to them, which he has since done, with great effect receiving nothing for his clerical services, but supporting himself by the labor of his hands, and by vending books. Shortly after Mr. Apes settled at Marshpee, discontents prevailed among the tribe, which were attributed, by the newspapers, to the influence of Mr. Apes. It was also published concerning him, that he was a knave, and a gambler in lottery tickets. About this time, the Indians thought fit to throw off the authority of their white overseers, by public proclamation, and to prevent them from currying wood off the Marshpee plantation, by direct force. Whereupon, a criminal process was instituted against Mr. Apes, and a commis- sioner was sent to investi~ ate the affairs of the tribe by the executive, who also in- timated that, if necessary, a military force would be sent to quell the alleged se- dition. But the Marshpees agreed to rescind their proclamation, and contented themselves with a petition for redress of grievances to the General Court, which, at its next session, granted all their demands. The hook before us contains a full though concise history of all these matters, All the statements, therein made, are supported by documentary evidence. There is much interesting matter, which we have not room to notice. It is written far better than could have been expected from an Indian, and is well worth reading. The only fault we find is, that the author has suffered himself to be exasperated by the persecution he has endured. MONTHLY RECORD. Officers of the .2lfassachusetts ..Ttledical Society, for the present year. John C. Warren, M. D., President; Nathaniel Miller, M. D., Vice-President; Enoch hale, jr., M. D., Corresponding Secre- tary; John Ilomans, M. D., Recording Secretary; Walter Channing, hi. D., Treasurer; David Osgood, M. D., Li- brarian. Censors, for the first medical district, and for the Society at large, William J. Walker, John Homans, Abel L. Pierson, John Ware, Edward Rey- nolds ; for the second medical district John Green, Benjamin F. 1-leywood, Ed- ward Flint, Charles Wilder, Benjamin Pond; for the third medical district, Stephen W/. Williams, Elisha Mather, Atherton Clark, David Bemis, Bela B. Jones ; for the fourth medical district, William H. Tyler, Grin Wright, Al- fred Perry, Robert Wotthington, Asa G. Welsh. Counsellors: first department, James Jackson, John C. Warren, Geo. C. Shattuck, Walter Channing, Jacob Bigelow, George Hayward, Enoch Hale, jr., John Ware, Zabdiel B. Adams, Da- vid Osgood, Edward Reynolds, John Ho- mans, Woodbridge Strong, John Jeifries, Jerome V. C. Smith, George W. Otis, jr. J. Greely Stevenson, Joseph XV. MeKean. Second department, Joseph Kittredge, Jeremiah Spofford, Abel L. Pierson, An- drew Nichols, Edward L. Coffin, Samuel Johnson, Thomas Manning, Richard S. Spofford, Calvin Briggs, Rufus Longsley, Dean Robinson ; third department, Rufus Wyman, Thomas Bucklin, John Walton, Abraham R. Thompson, Timo- thy Wellington, Zadoc Howe, William J. Walker, John C. Dalton, Ephraim Buck, Josiah Bartlett, Daniel Swan, John 0. Green; fonrth department Stephen Bachelder, John Green, Edward Flint, Benj. F. Heywood, Charles W. Wilder, Amos Parker, G enree Willard, Gnstavns D. Peck; fifth department Joseph H. Flint, Alpheus F. Stone, Stephen W. Williams, Levi W. Humphries, Elisha Mather, Bela B. Jones; sixth depart- ment William H. Tyler, Henry H. Childs, Asa G. Welch, Royal Fowler, Robert Worthington, Alfred Perry, Rob- ert Bartlett; seventh department, Nathl Miller, John Bartlett, Lemuel Bughee, Robert Thaxter, Jeremy Stimson, Eben- ezer Alden, Noah Fifield; eighth de- partment Hector Orr, Nathan Hay- ward, Ezekiel Thaxter, Paul L. Nich- ols, Noah Whitman, Charles Macomber; ninth departmentAlexr Reed, Wil- liam C. Whittredge, Andrew Machie, Caleb Swan, Menriel Randall ; ninth department Joseph Sampson, Anson Cornish, Paul Swift, Jona. Leonard, jr. Officers of the .Miassachusetts Bible So- ciety, for the present year. Rev. John Pierce, D. D., President; Rev. Henry Ware, D. D., Vice-President; Rev. Francis Parkman, D. D., Corresponding Secretary ; Rev. William Jenks, D. D., Recording Secretary. Trustees Rev. Drs. Holmes, Jenks, Lowell, Codman, and Sharp; Rev. Messrs. Frothingham, Greenwood, and Hague ; Messrs. Joseph May, Heman Lincoln, Samuel Hubbard, N. P. Russell, Jonathan Phillips, Samuel May, E. Tuckerman, William Worthing- ton, Pliny Cutler, Robert Lash. Exec- utive Committee for the distribution of BiblesRev. Dr. Parkman, Rev. Mr. Blagden, and Charles Tappan, Esq. Officers of the Pilgri Society, 1835. Alden Bradford, President; Z. Bartlett, Esq., Vice-President ; B. M. Watson, Esq., Recording Secry: John B. Thom- as, Esq., Corresponding Secretary ; Israel L. Hedge, Esq., Treasr; Jas. Thacher, Esq., Librarian and Cabinet Keeper; B. Hedge, N. M. Davis, William Sturgis, Isaac Winslow, Jadah Alden, John B. Thomas, Nathaniel Russell, E. G. Par- ker, William M. Jackson, Charles Brain- hall and John Seaver, Esqrs, Trustees.

Monthly Record Monthly Record 80

MONTHLY RECORD. Officers of the .2lfassachusetts ..Ttledical Society, for the present year. John C. Warren, M. D., President; Nathaniel Miller, M. D., Vice-President; Enoch hale, jr., M. D., Corresponding Secre- tary; John Ilomans, M. D., Recording Secretary; Walter Channing, hi. D., Treasurer; David Osgood, M. D., Li- brarian. Censors, for the first medical district, and for the Society at large, William J. Walker, John Homans, Abel L. Pierson, John Ware, Edward Rey- nolds ; for the second medical district John Green, Benjamin F. 1-leywood, Ed- ward Flint, Charles Wilder, Benjamin Pond; for the third medical district, Stephen W/. Williams, Elisha Mather, Atherton Clark, David Bemis, Bela B. Jones ; for the fourth medical district, William H. Tyler, Grin Wright, Al- fred Perry, Robert Wotthington, Asa G. Welsh. Counsellors: first department, James Jackson, John C. Warren, Geo. C. Shattuck, Walter Channing, Jacob Bigelow, George Hayward, Enoch Hale, jr., John Ware, Zabdiel B. Adams, Da- vid Osgood, Edward Reynolds, John Ho- mans, Woodbridge Strong, John Jeifries, Jerome V. C. Smith, George W. Otis, jr. J. Greely Stevenson, Joseph XV. MeKean. Second department, Joseph Kittredge, Jeremiah Spofford, Abel L. Pierson, An- drew Nichols, Edward L. Coffin, Samuel Johnson, Thomas Manning, Richard S. Spofford, Calvin Briggs, Rufus Longsley, Dean Robinson ; third department, Rufus Wyman, Thomas Bucklin, John Walton, Abraham R. Thompson, Timo- thy Wellington, Zadoc Howe, William J. Walker, John C. Dalton, Ephraim Buck, Josiah Bartlett, Daniel Swan, John 0. Green; fonrth department Stephen Bachelder, John Green, Edward Flint, Benj. F. Heywood, Charles W. Wilder, Amos Parker, G enree Willard, Gnstavns D. Peck; fifth department Joseph H. Flint, Alpheus F. Stone, Stephen W. Williams, Levi W. Humphries, Elisha Mather, Bela B. Jones; sixth depart- ment William H. Tyler, Henry H. Childs, Asa G. Welch, Royal Fowler, Robert Worthington, Alfred Perry, Rob- ert Bartlett; seventh department, Nathl Miller, John Bartlett, Lemuel Bughee, Robert Thaxter, Jeremy Stimson, Eben- ezer Alden, Noah Fifield; eighth de- partment Hector Orr, Nathan Hay- ward, Ezekiel Thaxter, Paul L. Nich- ols, Noah Whitman, Charles Macomber; ninth departmentAlexr Reed, Wil- liam C. Whittredge, Andrew Machie, Caleb Swan, Menriel Randall ; ninth department Joseph Sampson, Anson Cornish, Paul Swift, Jona. Leonard, jr. Officers of the .Miassachusetts Bible So- ciety, for the present year. Rev. John Pierce, D. D., President; Rev. Henry Ware, D. D., Vice-President; Rev. Francis Parkman, D. D., Corresponding Secretary ; Rev. William Jenks, D. D., Recording Secretary. Trustees Rev. Drs. Holmes, Jenks, Lowell, Codman, and Sharp; Rev. Messrs. Frothingham, Greenwood, and Hague ; Messrs. Joseph May, Heman Lincoln, Samuel Hubbard, N. P. Russell, Jonathan Phillips, Samuel May, E. Tuckerman, William Worthing- ton, Pliny Cutler, Robert Lash. Exec- utive Committee for the distribution of BiblesRev. Dr. Parkman, Rev. Mr. Blagden, and Charles Tappan, Esq. Officers of the Pilgri Society, 1835. Alden Bradford, President; Z. Bartlett, Esq., Vice-President ; B. M. Watson, Esq., Recording Secry: John B. Thom- as, Esq., Corresponding Secretary ; Israel L. Hedge, Esq., Treasr; Jas. Thacher, Esq., Librarian and Cabinet Keeper; B. Hedge, N. M. Davis, William Sturgis, Isaac Winslow, Jadah Alden, John B. Thomas, Nathaniel Russell, E. G. Par- ker, William M. Jackson, Charles Brain- hall and John Seaver, Esqrs, Trustees.

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The New-England magazine. / Volume 9, Issue 8 New England magazine American monthly review American monthly magazine J. T. and E. Buckingham Boston August 1835 0009 008
The Garden Original Papers 81-87

THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. AUGUST, 1835. ORIGINAL PAPERS. THE GARDEN. And then becometh the gronnd so proude That it woi have a newe shronde, And make so queint his robe and fayre, That it had news an hundred payre, Of grape and flouris lode and Pers, And many newis fell divers, That is the robe I mene iwis Through which the gronnd to praisin is. CHAUCER Romaunt of the Rose. THERE iS no pursuit requiring corporeal labour unremittingly employed, which, for quiet amusement, and satisfactory results, can be compared with agriculture. The term is here used in its widest sense, and includes horticulture and arboriculture. .1 Vi hil est agricultura melius, nihil uberius, nihil libero dignius. The first employment of man, it was intended to occupy a large pro- portion of the species, and accordingly, we find the agricultural interest becoming daily more important and engrossing. It is not, however, agriculture, used in its widest sense, that is about to occupy our attention, for I wish rather to speak of the orna- mental portion of the art. From the very earliest ages, mankind have shown a fondness for forming places of repose and recreation, and storing them with trees and flowers. Mans first residence was a garden, and a garden seems the fitting spot for his last slumber. The luxu- rious nations of the east were adepts in the art of gardening, and among the refined and elegant ancients, flowers had a meaning and a use. The philosophy that flowed from the lips of Epicu- rus found at least as many auditors as that of his opponent, for the luxurious youth of Greece loved better to ramble in the Gar- den than to linger in the Portico. Without seeking to trace, VOL. IX. 11 82 The. Garden. step by step, the struggles of the art, it is sufficient to observe that it progressed rapidly, and was successfully cultivated, as well by the inhabitants of Europe as by those of Africa and Asia the severe climates of northern regions were set at defi- ance by human skill, and artificial means rendered the soil of Russia, in certain seasons, as prolific as the more favored dis- tricts of the south. Gardening excited, at quite an early period, considerable inter- est in England, and, in the age of Queen Anne, was quite a fash- ionable amusement. Earlier than that, Lord Bacon had spoken in its favor, and his eulogy is still preserved and quoted by the lovers of the peaceful labors of the garden. God Almighty first planted a garden ; and, indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to the spirit of man, without which, buildings and palaces are but gross handiworks. Sir Philip Sidney gives us the following account of an old En- glish garden The back side of the house was neither field, nor garden, nor orchard ; or rather, it was both field, garden, and orchard, for as soone as the descending of the staires had deliv- ered them downe, they came into a place cunningly set with trees of the most taste-pleasing fruits ; but scarcely had they taken that into their consideration, but they were sodainely stept into a delicate greene ; of each side of the greene a thicket, and behind the thickets againe new beds of flowers, which being under, the trees were to them a pavillion, and they to the trees a mosaicall floore, so that it seemed that arte therein must needs be delightfull, by counterfeiting his enemie errour, and making order in confusion. In the middest of all the place was a faire pond, whose shaking chrystall was a perfect mirror to all the other beauties, so that it bear show of two gardensone in deed, the other in shadows. The last idea would seem, par paren- th~se, to be the germ of Wordsworths The swan on sweet St. Marys lake, Floats double swan and shadow. Bolinghroke, Pope, and the victorious Earl of Peterborough were enthusiastic gardeners, practically proving what Cicero says, .flgricultura proxima sapientice. Do you wish, dear reader, for other authorities ? Here they are Shenstone, John Eve- lyn, Cowper. Shakspeare must have been very fond of garden- ing, else would he have written that fine passage about the sweet south, or have placed Romeo in a garden to make love to Juliet? I am not much of a botanist, but I love flowers, and, although an old man, seem to renew my youth, while treading the alleys of my little garden, and inquiring into the state of my pretty pro- tege~es. And because the breath of flowers is farre sweeter in The Garden. 8s the aire, (where it comes and goes like the warbling of music ke) than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight, than to know what be the flowers and plants, which doe best per- fume the aire. ~ The flowers greet me, as I stoop to water them, like familiar beings, and each speaks an intelligent language, fromthe yellow cowslip and pale primrose, to the dark, rich red rose of mid- summer. And foremost in the fragrant train comes the yellow violet. Of all her train, the hands of spring First plant thee in the watery mould And I have seen thee blossoming, Beside the snow-banks edges cold. But of all the beauties of the seasons, commend me to the rose, the flower that, according to Juliet, by any other name would smell as sweet. Within the parterres of the fortunate possessors of gardens, in the flower-pots of more humble individuals, and in wreaths, twined around the heads of youth and beauty, it now ap- pears profusely. The snug, Sunday-clad citizen, bears a rose in his button hole, and his comely dame, a more generous bouquet at her waist, while their worthy offspring, if they have any, bring up the rear, some with tremendous bunches of flowers, which seem to give evidence of their having taken by storm and devas- tated some delicious garden, as did the Visigoths fair Italy, the garden of all Europe. There are some indeed, circumstanced like Robert Faulcoubridge, of whom the bastard says In his ear he dare not stick a rose, Lest men should say look where three farthings goes. Roses have been used from time immemorial, by poets and lovers as the representatives of female beauty, and as among the most wortby objects in nature to which fair ladies might be justly compared: and it is fortunate for the credit of the complimentary system, that there is so great a variety. The dark African may, without falsehood, compare his dusky mate to the rose, since the coal black rose is a noted as well as curious species of the flower. Old maids, in the last stages of a green and yellow melancholy, may be likened to the yellow Chinese rose, the fad- ing beauty to the white, and the buxom country damsel to the damask. Ladies themselves, however, after wavering in their predilections between the York and the Lancaster, are generally found to be in favour of the Union to a man. Our early ideas of beauty and pleasure seem to be connected, in some degree, with roses; the frequent mention made of them by the poets, the manner in which ladies use them in ornament- Bacon. 84 The Garden. ing their persons, impressing this association on the mind. Moore, who, by the way, introduces a rose into almost every one of his lyrics, makes one of the victims of the veiled Prophet of Khorassan express, with a sad and sweet earnestness, her kindred love for the flowers and the home of her childhood, in the beautiful song, beginning, Theres a bower of roses by Bendemeers stream. I was charmed with the sentiments of a young Frenchman, who, having lost his mistress, carved with his oxvn hands a rose upon her tombstone, beneath which be inscribed Cest ainsi quelle fut! Ovid, in some beautiful verses, thus figuratively describes the day-breaking. Dumque ea magnanimus Phaethon miratur opusque Perspicit ecce vigil nitido patefacit ab ortu Purpureas Aurora feres, et plena rosarum Atria While the proud Phaeton admires the work, Aurora, watchful in the glooming east, Unfolds the purple doors and gives to view Halls full of RosEs. Among the poets who have celebrated the rose, and made it a moral teacher, Goethe, in modern times, has been the most suc- cessful. What can be more exquisite than his ROSE-BUD? A Rose, that bloomd the road-side by, Caught a young vagrants wanton eye; The child was gay, the morn was clear, The child would see the rose bad near: He saw the blooming flower. My little rose, my rose bud dear My rose that blooms the road-side near The child exclaimed, my hands shall dare, Thee, rose, from off thy stem to tear; The rose replied, If I have need, My thorns shall make thy fingers bleed Thy rash design give oer.~ My little rose, my rose bud dear! My rose that blooms the road-side near! Regardless of its thorny spray, The child would tear the rose away; The rose bewailed with sob and sigh, But all in vain, no help was nigh To quell the urchins power. My little rose, my rose bud dear My rose that bloomd the road-side near! When roses were first introduced into England, they were ex, ceedingly rare, and used principally in the decoration of churches; The Garden. and hence originated the phrase sub rosa, confession being made literally under the rose. The general estimation in which this flower is held, has led us to bestow its name upon beauties, pointers, houses, race- horses and boats. Hardly a stage-chambermaid but bears the nanie of Rose; hardly a hero or heroine, in a fashionable play or novel, without the euphonious monysyllable forming some portion of his or her appellation. Thus we have Lady Rose- wood, Captain Roseville, Rosamond, Lieut. Rosemore, and Lord Rosefield; and these worthies invariably reside at Rose Villa, Rose Bank, or Rosedale Hermitage. Indeed, the world is something sick of roses upon paper, which article itself is frequently rose-colored, perfumed with otto of rose, and laid upon a rose-wood desk. We have done with the sweets come we to the thorns, with- out which, neither pleasures nor flowers are to be expected in this world ; and this brings us to the moral of our essay. The thoruless rose is a worthless thing. Caution is requisite in hand- ling the true flower since, surrounded by the bristling safe- guards of its beauty, it seems to say, with the proud motto of Scotias arms, .N~emo me impune lacessit. There is yet another drawback to my favorites. In some del- icate constitutions, their fragrance, during the height of their reign, induces a disease very generally known by the name of the rose- cold. Persons afflicted with this malady, on the first appearance of the fatal flowers, fly to the rough rocks of the sea-shore, until this (to me) delightful season is over. Lord Byron, in the opening canto of the Bride of the Abydos, speaks of the east as a clime Where the wings of the zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint oer the gardens of Gui in their hloom. I would advise the victims of the rose-cold not to waste any time in complaining to the rose, as the nightingale is said to do, but to escape, with all possible speed, to some sea-side retreat, unless, with the fortitude of martyrs, they have made up their minds to Die of a rose in aromatic pain. I have lingered too long, discoursing of my favorite flower, and it is time to bring this paper to a close. But, before quitting my pen, I would fain record my approbation of the taste which is rapidly banishing all the horrors of derith from the external ap- pearance of our grave-yards, and making the last resting-places of our race in the midst of flower-gardens. Looking for the mo- ment of my dissolution with calmness, I would fain be assured that, when I have yielded up my spirit, this poor body shall re- pose in the scenes which I now haunt with an enthusiastic love 86 The Garden. of nature. I would have the sweet, familiar flowers, that I love, planted on the turf that covers me, that I may not be separated, even in death, from the fair and fragile things I have reared. Mine be the breezy hill, that skirts the down, Where a green grassy turf is all I crave With here and there a violet bestrown, Fast by a brook, or foantains murmuring wave, And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave. How finely does Sir Walter Scott make Macgregor exclaim: The heather, that I tread upon while living, shall bloom over me when dead! Alas! what are we, even in the pride of manhood, that we should dare to call the flowers frail, standing, as xve ever do, upon the brink of that dread passage to the ever-during dark. Battle and pestilence come upon the face of the earth, and we fall by tens of thousands Thick as autumnal leaves, that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa. The flower, that we rear to deck the grave, is but an emblem of ourselves: All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades, Like the fair flower disheveld in the wind; Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. To the moralist, the labors of the garden are full of instruc- tion ; and, since Nature is the best teacher, surely he who holds daily communion with her, is best prepared for the journey to that land from which no traveler returns. My own experience speaks strongly in favor of rural employments ; and if you, fair reader, would listen to my urging, I would address you in tbe language of a poet, who is greatly honored by the followers of Flora: Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori, Hic nernus, hic toto tecum consumerer mvo. ~ Come, see what pleasures in our plains abound The woods, the fountains, and the flowery ground, Here could I live and love and die with only you. t ~ Virg. Ed. x. 42. t Drydens Translation. Si ARE GREAT MINDS PRONE TO SKEPTICISM? The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will. IF a man were to have eyes sensitive to some of the object in the prospect, but partially or totally blind to others, we should at once pronounce the organs of his vision to be defective ; be- cause a good eye implies equal sensibility to whatever is revealed by the light of Heaven. Such a defect is known in those cu- rious cases, in which some people are incapable of distinguishing some colors. Now, in all languages, knowledge has been ex- pressed by a metaphor, or half-metaphor, borrowed from seeing; which shews there is an analogy (perhaps the closest in nature) between the perception of the mind and the function of the eye. In some cases, they act together; and it is impossible to sepa- rate them, though we may he able to distinguish. We may say, then, that a good mind should resemble a good eye, and he awake to all the proofs or arguments in the intellectual prospect, which God, the source of knowledge, has spread around it. It is natu- ral to consider our perceptive faculties, intuition, reason, or whatever we choose to call it, as a kind of mental eye. All the possible arguments or proofs, which can be adduced on any side of any question, are a kind of complex landscape, lying around the investigating mind; and, as a good eye discerns all the bright spots and dark corners in the literal horizon, and especially discerns what is the limit of its vision, and where are the boun- daries between the clear and obscure ; so, I suppose, it is the office of a well-balanced mind, to take all considerations into view to weigh the force of all proofs, and make its inward be- lief an exact picture of the external world. The field and the forest, the mountain and the meadow, are not more exactly pic- tured on the retina of the pleased spectator, than the parts of external truth are reflected in the cautious conclusions of a wise and impartial man. But this exact balance, this clearness to discern all that is true, and willingness to be impressed by it, certainly implies that we know the weakness of our powers as well as their strength. A good eye discerns not the light alone; it distinguishes the faintest shadow that passes beneath the sun. To see, implies that we clearly know when we do not see. If a man is walking around mountains and comes to a cave, if he have good eyes, he as clearly knows that the cave is dark, as he knows that the at- mosphere above it is light. Hence, one of the first articles of knowledge, in a well-regulated mind, is to know its own igno- rance. On this, Socrates valued himself; and thi~ part of

Are Great Minds Prone to Skepticism? Original Papers 87-97

Si ARE GREAT MINDS PRONE TO SKEPTICISM? The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will. IF a man were to have eyes sensitive to some of the object in the prospect, but partially or totally blind to others, we should at once pronounce the organs of his vision to be defective ; be- cause a good eye implies equal sensibility to whatever is revealed by the light of Heaven. Such a defect is known in those cu- rious cases, in which some people are incapable of distinguishing some colors. Now, in all languages, knowledge has been ex- pressed by a metaphor, or half-metaphor, borrowed from seeing; which shews there is an analogy (perhaps the closest in nature) between the perception of the mind and the function of the eye. In some cases, they act together; and it is impossible to sepa- rate them, though we may he able to distinguish. We may say, then, that a good mind should resemble a good eye, and he awake to all the proofs or arguments in the intellectual prospect, which God, the source of knowledge, has spread around it. It is natu- ral to consider our perceptive faculties, intuition, reason, or whatever we choose to call it, as a kind of mental eye. All the possible arguments or proofs, which can be adduced on any side of any question, are a kind of complex landscape, lying around the investigating mind; and, as a good eye discerns all the bright spots and dark corners in the literal horizon, and especially discerns what is the limit of its vision, and where are the boun- daries between the clear and obscure ; so, I suppose, it is the office of a well-balanced mind, to take all considerations into view to weigh the force of all proofs, and make its inward be- lief an exact picture of the external world. The field and the forest, the mountain and the meadow, are not more exactly pic- tured on the retina of the pleased spectator, than the parts of external truth are reflected in the cautious conclusions of a wise and impartial man. But this exact balance, this clearness to discern all that is true, and willingness to be impressed by it, certainly implies that we know the weakness of our powers as well as their strength. A good eye discerns not the light alone; it distinguishes the faintest shadow that passes beneath the sun. To see, implies that we clearly know when we do not see. If a man is walking around mountains and comes to a cave, if he have good eyes, he as clearly knows that the cave is dark, as he knows that the at- mosphere above it is light. Hence, one of the first articles of knowledge, in a well-regulated mind, is to know its own igno- rance. On this, Socrates valued himself; and thi~ part of 88 ./lre Great Minds prone to Skepticism ~? knowledge he carefully taught. The wisest and best men have always delighted to dwell on this theme. They have considered a conscious sense of our ignorance as the best motive to awaken that curiosity which leads to improvement. The man that never makes the negative discovery, will never make the positive. Creation, says bishop Butler, is absolutely and entirely out of our depth, and beyond the extent of our utmost reach. * * * It is, indeed, in general, no more than effects, that the most knowing are acquainted with; for, as to causes, they are as en- tirely in the dark as the most ignorant. What are the laws by which matter acts upon matter, but certain effects; which some, having observed to be frequently repeated, have reduced to gen- eral rules ? The real nature and essence of beings, likewise, is what we are altogether ignorant of. All these things are so en- tirely out of our reach, that we have not the least glimpse of them. * Such is the condition of man, with all his boasted poxv- ers; the best penetration only leads him to discover their weak- ness. Our knowledge, however, of the fallacy of any instrument we use, naturally leads us to distrust that instrument; and all the objects it may assist us to accomplish. The mind is an instru- ment as well as an agent. It is the instrument by which we in- vestigate and discover the truth. As the telescope is the instru- ment by which we look at the stars, and as the magic tool has converted their glittering points into worlds and systems, so rea- sonwhich is but the mind reasoningis the instrument by which we have discovered the truths which lie in the remotest circle of our intellectual vision. But, if the instrument be so very falla- cious, how can we help distrusting its results? or, in other words, must not the known ignorance of man produce and justify a very large degree of skepticism ? It has always been pretended by infidels, that their doubts in religion were but the result of their superior discernment; their skepticism was but the effect of self- knowledge. All men teach that man has very limited powers that he reasons to be deceived, and asserts to be confuted. The best men have made it a motive of humility that we know so little. The ignorance of man is the universal theme ; even revelation itself tells us that we see through a glass darkly. Now, if man be ignorant, he ought to know his ignorance; he ought to knoxv it to the utmost extent. Self-knowledge, then, leads to a dis- trust of his powers; and distrust of our own powers is but an- other name for skepticism. It is obvious, too, that some of the finest minds have been re- markable for this suspending of the balance; for this dubious, rather than settled, state of the intellect. Socrates made it his Butlers Sermons. Sermon xv. .lre Great ./1~finds prone to Skepticism? glory. Cicero considered it the foundation of philosophy. We trace the fragments of it in the writings of Pascal, warm as he was in the cause of religion. Dryden tells us that, being inclined to skepticism in philosophy, he had no reason to impose his opin- ions on a subject which was ahove it namely, religion. Frank- lin was inclined to the same state of mind ; and the most learned men, who have been without this latent skepticism namely: sense of their own ignorance, sensibility to the force of an ob- jection have in this age lost much of their power over the hu- man mind. I will adduce two examples, of men embracing op- posite principles Calvin and Hobbs. It is xvell known, that Hobbs has lost his power, as a philosopher, chiefly by his dog- matism. He is a very peculiar instance of a man, opposed to implicit faith, and yet demanding an implicit faith of his own. Of Calvin, I am free to say, that the chief impediment to profit in perusing his writings, is the want of sensibility to human igno- rance. He seldom feels the force of an objection. Now, such a man we distrust. We feel as little inclined to allow the force of his conclusions, as we should be to weigh guineas in a pair of scales, which could only turn from an equilibrium on one side. Such, then, is one of the essential elements of human nature. So is man constituted by God. His powers are weak and falla- cious; and it is his duty to know it; knowing it, he becomes in.~ dined to skepticism. The ignorant never doubt; the intelligent must. And this broad propensity must be met some how by the claims of religion. When we turn to the Bible, at first view it may seem to be very little calculated to meet this state of mind. It requires a confident belief in all its doctrines ; it even suspends.salvation on the condition of that belief, lit seems to be addressed to our fears more than to our reason. When we read the history of some notorious impostor such, for example, as Matthias, in Luthers day, and Matthias, recently in New-York we always find two ingredients in his delusion: one is implicit belief in what he says, and the other is, terror used as the chief argument to enforce that belief. In such cas~s, confidence is the great virtue, and incredulity is the only crime. Now, I apprehend, one of the greatest impediments to the general reception of the gospel, is an apprehended resemblance between its claims and the claims of all other impostors. This apprehension operates far wider than on avowed infidels. Many have felt it secretly checking their confidence in the gospel, who are far from the concltision deliberately to reject it. They seem to half suspect, at least, that faith is the abandonrtient of reason ; that it is some~ thing which sets aside all the ordinary operations of the human powers; something which mistakes the nature of man, and puts confidence and credulity in the place of those very arguments on VOL. mx. 12 fire Great Minds prone to Skepticism? which confidence and credit can alone justly be built. Hell-fire, it may be said, is a powerful motive when proved, but a very weak argument when it stands nakedly in place of a proof. My design shall be to prove, that the Bible does shew this very knowledge of human nature which is denied to it; and that this natural skepticism, in well-regulated minds~ is the very thing ~ hich makes it meet the wants of man. In the first place, then, this skepticism is not nniversal; or, in other words, knowledge is as much an element of human nature as ignorance. To decide in certain cases is as much a law of a well-regulated mind as to doubt in certain cases. The fallacy of the skeptic consists in this: that he concludes from the partial to the universal ; we are ignorant of some things, therefore we are ignorant of all. But this is exactly contrary to the spirit of induction, which requires us to bring in all the items which bear on the case. If I were to enter an orchard, in which there were an hundred trees, and, after examining ninety-nine of them, and finding no fruit, were to conclude, without examination, the same of the hundredTh, it would be hasty reasoning; for that may be the only fruitful tree. Yet, this is what we are strongly tempted to do. Nay, we stop short of this, and jump to general conclusions, from a very inadequate number of observations. Sometimes, under strong prejudices and passions, the mind will sweep to the most general result from one excepted case. Shakspeare intro- duces one of his characters, saying when be found, or thought he found his wife to be unfaithful to him We are bastards, all And that most venerable man, which I Did call my father, was, I know not where, When I was stamped; some coiner with his tools, Made me a counterfeit. Yet my mother seemed The Dian of that time; so doth my wife The nonpareil of this. So Mrs. Page says, in the .Mierry I{~ives of Windsor, after having heard Falstaff talk morality and tempt her virtue Well, she says, I will find you twenty lascivious Turks ere one chaste man. All this is beautiful, considered as picturing our propen- sity to general conclusions ; but it shews how general conclusions, from inadequate premises, mislead us. When Sir Walter Ra- leigh burnt a part of his history because he was deceived as to a scuffle, which he saw through the window of his prison, he rea- soned like a blockhead; and I hope, for his credits sake, the story is not true. Human life is a compound scene ; if there is darkness in which we wander, there is daylight in which we can see; and both these belong to human nature. To confound these distinctions, does not prove that skepticism is necessary, but that the skeptic has made a bad use of his eyes. There is no ./lre Great .11/finds prone to Skepticism ? 91 universal midnight, Oh thou universal doubter, hut in thine own soul But, secondly, I will go farther, and say that the darkness illustrates the light ; as, without a metaphor, our ignorance proves our knowledge. In order to shew this, let us suppose a case. Suppose some metaphysician should come and endeavor to perplex my notions of perception. He sheuld say it is no proof, because you see a tree, that that tree exists ; for there is such a thing as dreaming ; and life may be but little else than a protracted dream. This, you know, is the philosophy of the Hindus ; and the great Berkley came very near to similar conclusions. Now, what should I say to such a man ? I should say to him, Sir, I have dreamed; and my own experience informs, as clearly as I can conceive hu- man information to speak, that a tree seen in a dream is a very dif- ferent thing from a tree seen xvhen awake. The error reflects light on that knowledge which stands in contrast with the error. If all perceptions were alike; if I had never seen the dream in contrast with the reality; I might suppose that seeing was dreaming. Or, to state the case stronger, (for this comparison hardly comes up to the point) if, xvhen I turn my eyes on vacancy, 1 discern no tree, and when I turn my eyes to one point in the orchard, or forest, I perceive one, the negative perception strengthens the positive one, and rescues a comparing mind from all the sophis- try of the skeptic. When we have completed the catalogue of the objects unknown, hy a kind of intellectual subtraction, we find that the remaining objects are known. The truth is, in the infancy of our reason, the objects of crea- tion lie before us in a kind of magical chaos ; and we have not yet had leisure to separate the confusion into its elements. A par- tial discrimination may lead to a very general skepticism ; hut, as we proceed to discriminate, we know better when we ought to doubt and when to believe. So that skepticism, on some subjects, is so far from justifying skepticism on all, that it is the very thing that brings the mind to an intelligent conclusion. Perhaps the best illustration of these remarks might be bor- rowed from a department deeply connected with religion. It is well known that the genius of skepticism has attempted to pour her shadows over the page of history. There can be no doubt, that there are great uncertainties as to the origin of nations. In- vention has supplied the place of investigation; and imagination has spread her colors over the canvass which should have been filled with the images of truth. The first history of Greece is uncertain; the whole story of Pisistratus has been disputed; the imposition of Lycurguss laws, on the Lacedemonians, appears more like the work of some rhetorician than the wisdom of a real statesman. And the early history of Rome is considered by many as very doubtful. Now, from all this, some hasty minds 92 .Ire Great Minds prone to kSkepticism? would conclude that history is false. So with regard to characters and motives, how little can he known! how much painting is mixed with the best authenticated narratives ! I have noticed that some of the most experienced statesmen, who live to a pe- riod just after the important events in which they have been ac- tive, are extremely apt to represent the history of their own times as uncertain. 0, tell not me of history, said Sir Robert Walpole, for that I know to be false. The late President Adams considered, in one of his letters to Mr. Niles, of Balti- more, the real cause and character of things in our revolu- tionary war, as buried in oblivion; and Aaron Burr, according to Mr. Knapps representation, has made a similar remark. Now, what a strong case ! Here are living witnesses, sagacious men, the very agents of the events, who represent history as uncertain. But a little reflection will shew us that even the wisest men, the Walpoles and Adamses, are deceived by their partial views. They stand in the very spot to generate doubt. Truth is the daughter of time ; and the agitated water must settle a little be- fore it can become so clear as to allow us to see to the bottom. The first historians are always mistaken ; they are not only mis- led by their prejudices, but they have not the full amount of ma- terials ; for history is a hemisphere, where star after star rises to complete the fullness of the sky. I regard the proofs of history like the dead bodies, after some great naval battle ; at first, they seem to be buried forever in the secrets of the ocean; but they arise continually, one after another, and it becomes possible almost to count the number and estimate the loss. Besides, the great events of history are as clear as the minuter ones are obscure. There appear to be general laws of probability a level of evi- dence, into which all things settle. These laws are just as cer- tain as any other laws of nature; and produce as deep a convic- tion in the mind of him who knows them. Skepticism in history has run through the same round it has in most other subjects. There are three states through which the mind commonly passes: first, we begin with a general confi- dence in all that is told a blind credulity, often the parent of an equally blind uncertainty : secondly, comes the first pe- riod of discrimination, when the vision, knowing some things to be false, begins to doubt of all : then thirdly, follows the period of a more careful discrimination, when the mind, knowing what to receive and what to reject, settles into a rational doubt of some things, and equally rational confidence in others. This is the process of most inquiring minds. It has been the process, too, with regard to public opinion; for public opinion, as well as individuals, has its childhood, its adolescence, and its maturity. There was a time when all writers, in Latin or Greek, were be- lieved; then, almost all were doubted; an& now, the current is ~re Great Minds prone to Skepticism? 93 manifestly turning applying severe laws of evidence to the wit- nesses of time. There can be no question, that the latter state is more clear from the proofs through which it has passed. No doubt that Niebuhr had a deeper conviction of the luminous points of Roman history from the dark spots he had detected, and the skill with which he had discriminated them ; and thus our position is true, that a rational doubt leads to a firmer belief. But, in the third place, skepticism that is, the doubts of minds which doubt because they are discerning; that healthful skepticism, which springs from knowledge, and leads to know- ledges increase must be regarded as the antithesis, not of rev- elation, but of reason ; it is opposed, not to what God has said, but to what man can discover by the legitimate use of his own faculties. I have already remarked, that man is ignorant, and that the wisest men have known this ; and, knowing this, they must feel a degree of skepticism. This was the foundation of Socrates doubts ; this made Cicero an academician. But, if this be the origin of skepticism, where does it terminate ? Cer- tainly not in weakening the dictates of revelation, but in weakening the conclusions of that human reason which is so often opposed to revelation. Respecting revelation, there are two questions: what proves it a revelation? and next, what does the revelation prove? Now, supposing our faculties competent to answer the first ques- tion, notwithstanding their weakness, skepticism is scarcely at all opposed to the second; because a revelation is given, on the supposition that man is too weak, in any other way, to find out its truth. In other words, our distrust, in the fallacy of our own reason, does not touch upon a truth that we know comes from the reason of God. If I could prove that all the lamps in the world shed a feeble and fallacious light, it would be no evidence against the clearness of those beams which come from the sun. Perhaps, however, it will be asked, will not the alleged fee- bleness of our powers affect the first question ? Have we power to see the evidence of revelation ? Now, be it remarked, that all that is said of the mysteries of religion, the incomprehensi- bleness of its doctrines, the deep abyss of the divine essence, the whole subject being above reason, & c. does not affect this question in the slightest degree. Religion may be compared to the pa- triarchs ladder : if the height is lost in the clouds, the foot is on the ground. Only once allow that the evidences are on the level of human reason, and you have a succession of rounds to climb up to the other mysteries, which are settled on the authority of God. These two questions ought not to be confounded. The evidences of religion are of three kinds : first, the adaptation of its truths to our wants and consciences; secondly, the prophecies and their fulfillment ; and thirdly, the miracles. The first of 94 ./Ire Great Minds prone to Skepticism? these questions is certainly level to our faculties ; the word is nigh thee in thy mouth and in thy heart. The two second re- solve themselves into the laws of historical probability ; and of these, we have already discovered that a sound and passing skep- ticism only leads to a closer result. Skepticism here means no more than that you should suspend your judgment until you have fully examined the cause. Of the miracles, perhaps something more might be said. Two questions may he asked concerning the miracles first, what proves the miracle; and secondly, what does the miracle prove. The whole difficulty in proving Christianity, lies, I apprehend, in the first of these questions ; for I cannot think that any skep- tic, if he had heard a preacher delivering such precepts as Jesus Christ delivered, would have doubted his divine authority, if he had actually seen him raise Lazarus from the dead. Metaphysical diffi- culties, perhaps, might be raised to the proof afforded by a mir- acle ; but practically there could be none. It is the first question, then, what proves the miracle? at which modern skepticism la- bors. I would then say, if there be any certainty in the laws of historical probability if the human mind be adequate to ex- amine this subject if impositions sink, and truth generally pre- vail if what is false, as South says, is always in danger of being known if supernatural events are not improbable, and, should they happen, are not necessitated to lie wrapt up in eter- nal darkness, why, then I say that no skepticism, grounded on the inscrutable weakness of the human powers, (and this is the only just ground) need invalidate the proof of a miracle. For his- tory has its laws; and if the mind be adequate to anything, it is adequate to a knowledge of these laws. Or, in other words, the questionis not peculiarly mysterious ; it lies within the circle of our intellectual vision ; and no darkness, which lies out of that circle, can pour the least uncertainty on an object which lies within it. The truth is, we have more reason to adduce the uncertain- ties of skepticism to overthrow the philosophy of Newton, than we have to weaken or overthrow any article of Christian faith. For skepticism stands naturally opposed to philosophy, but not to religion. Philosophy is grounded on the free and independent use of the human poxvers; and skepticism is grounded on the weakness of those powers; and thus, the weakness of an instru- ment proves its inadequacy to accomplish its objects. But, the weakness of one instrument proves not the weakness of another. Certainly the mind is more competent to see the evidences of religion, than to follow the reasoning of a Newton. Yet, we sel- dom hear of skepticism as opposed to natural philosophy. Thus far we have considered the operations of principles in Ire G~ eat .Minds prone to tSkepticisrn? 95 the abstract ; but if we look on them as actually incorporated with the human mind, we shall find they exhibit and justify the same conclusions. I scarcely know of two men, who resembled each other, in the intellectual structure of their minds, more than Joseph But- ler and David Hume. Both of them men of genius, fond of ab- stract discussion ; not very imaginative ; sagacious, acute, dis- crimninating, and deeply impressed with the fallacy of human rea- son, and of course inclined to skepticism. Take their minds, as furnished by nature, and they are almost exactly alike. I hard- ly know which is the greatest doubter. But, to what different results did they come. Hume shewed the negative side, and stopped there. He shewed the weakness of reason; he had no wish to proceed and shew its strength. He pointed out clearly that we must doubt; he had no desire to shew when we must believe. Butler proved, as clearly as flume could, the weak- ness of our reason; but be went on and completed the whole circle, flume, when he performed the process of skeptical sub- traction, had no purpose of shewing that any quantity remained. Butler shewed that, after large subtractions, there xvas much remain- ing. flume, in tracing his circle of philosophy, shewed us there was a hemisphere of darkness and night. Butler shewed as wide a circle, perhaps, of darkness as he; but he shewed us, also, a hemisphere of day. The one gave us the half-truths of sophis- try, and the other the integrity, or wholeness of true wisdom. There is a beautiful example of Butlers philosopy, in a single paragraph of his sermon on HUMAN IGNORANCE: Creation, says he, is absolutely and entirely out of our depth, and beyond the extent of our utmost reach. And yet, it is as certain, that God made the world, as it is certain that effects must have a cause. What a beautiful specimen of comprehensive truth! Stop at the first paragraph, and you would suppose that the au- thor was about to throw darkness over the creation, and blot out all proofs of the divine existence. But read the second, and you discover that the author fixes one of the fundamental truths of religion on its surest foundation. In short, as some generals be- gin the battle by a retreat, only to break the ranks of the enemy, and to prepare for a more terrible onset, so such doubters as Butler, state their objections only more firmly to establish their cause. In such pages, we pass through the night to enjoy the day. One point more remains to be noticed; and that is, how the Bible corresponds with these laws of the human mind. It is certain, the Bible requires a strong faith in its truths; and the question is, how such a requisition is consistent with the natural skepticism which all the reflecting must feel5 and all, who are ingenuous as well as reflecting, must own. Are Great AIinds prone to Skepticism? Strong faith may mean, either the unhesitating assent we give to a presented propositon, or the strong effects or emotions which that proposition awakens in the heart. In the second sense, I apprehend there can be no difficulty. For, only once admit that the existence of God is proved, and no language can express the depths of conviction, the sense of his presence, the reverence, love, and humility, which ought to occupy our hearts. So, once admit that the Bible is the word of God, and the most implicit trust in its doctrines is the most natural result. In other words, the truths of the Bible are calculated to produce deep impres- sions ; and, in this sense, strong faith is as much a legitimate re- sult of revelation as deep grief at the sight of a pathetic tragedy. This is the philosophy of the sacred writer, when he said I believe; therefore have I spoken. But, as to the first sense of strong faith: it seems to me, that if scrutiny, after subtracting doubtful points, leaves the remaining more certain, and if the proofs of revelation do remain after scrutiny, why, then it is natural that this skepticism should lead to a stronger faith. Accordingly, we iind that no men have had a deeper conviction of religion than those who have at first questioned or denied its truths. It is ex- actly the process we should expect. It is as natural as sun-rising. A RESOLVED DOUBT IS THE STRONGEST PROOF. Paul began by opposing religion, and ended one of its strongest advocates and Ii think, if we could have looked into the mind of Butler, we should have found an amount of faith then which a less scrutinizing mind could hardly comprehend.* A blown-away fog leaves the ocean sparkling with the purest light. All this is exactly laid down in the Bible. It completely meets the known laws of the mind. WE SEE THROUGH A GLASS DARK- LY. There is a principle of skepticism in every man. The greatest dogmatists sometimes feel it. Some confident conclu- sions have been overthrown; and the boldest doubt. The Bible justifies this ; we see through a glass darkly. But, in all minds there is a principle of belief. The most skeptical sometimes feel it. It is so unnatural for a man always to hesitate, that he must sometimes conclude. Though the glass is dark, yet through it we SEE. And so, both arcs join, and the circle is complete. * I speak of faith, here, in the first sense; how strong Butlers emotions were, ss another question. 97 NAPOLEONS EPITAPH. BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. THz moon of St. Ilelena shone out, and there we saw the face of Napoleon~s sepu[ chre characterless, uninscribed. AND who shall write thine epitaph? thou man Of mystery and might. Shall orphan-hands Inscribe it with their fathers broken swords? Or the warm trickling of the widows tear Channel it slowly in the rugged rock, As the keen torture of the water-drop Doth wear the sentenced brain? Shall countless ghosts Glide forth from Hades, and in lurid flame, With shadowy finger, trace thine effigy, Who sent them to their audit, unanneald, And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer Given at the cannons mouth? Thou, who didst sit, Like eagle on the apex of the globe, And hear the murmuring of its conquerd tribes, As chirp the weak-voiced nations of the grass, lAThy art thou sepulchred in yon far isle, Yon misty speck, which scarce the mariner Descries, mid oceans foam ? Thou, who didst heW A pathway, for thy host, above the cloud, Guiding their footsteps oer the frost-work crown Of the thrond Alps, why dost thou sleep unmarkd, Even by such slight memorial as the hind Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone? Bid the throng~ Who poerd thee incense, as Olympian Jove, And breathd thy thunders on the battle-field, Return and rear thy monument. Those forms5 Oer the wide vallies of red slaughter spread~ From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone, Heed not thy clarion-call. But should they rise, As in the vision that the prophet saw, And each dry bone its severd fellow find, Piling their pillard dust, as erst they gave Their souls to thee, the wondering stars might deem9 A second time, the puny pride of man VOL. IX. 13

Mrs. Sigourney Sigourney, Mrs. Napoleon's Epitaph Original Papers 97-99

97 NAPOLEONS EPITAPH. BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. THz moon of St. Ilelena shone out, and there we saw the face of Napoleon~s sepu[ chre characterless, uninscribed. AND who shall write thine epitaph? thou man Of mystery and might. Shall orphan-hands Inscribe it with their fathers broken swords? Or the warm trickling of the widows tear Channel it slowly in the rugged rock, As the keen torture of the water-drop Doth wear the sentenced brain? Shall countless ghosts Glide forth from Hades, and in lurid flame, With shadowy finger, trace thine effigy, Who sent them to their audit, unanneald, And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer Given at the cannons mouth? Thou, who didst sit, Like eagle on the apex of the globe, And hear the murmuring of its conquerd tribes, As chirp the weak-voiced nations of the grass, lAThy art thou sepulchred in yon far isle, Yon misty speck, which scarce the mariner Descries, mid oceans foam ? Thou, who didst heW A pathway, for thy host, above the cloud, Guiding their footsteps oer the frost-work crown Of the thrond Alps, why dost thou sleep unmarkd, Even by such slight memorial as the hind Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone? Bid the throng~ Who poerd thee incense, as Olympian Jove, And breathd thy thunders on the battle-field, Return and rear thy monument. Those forms5 Oer the wide vallies of red slaughter spread~ From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone, Heed not thy clarion-call. But should they rise, As in the vision that the prophet saw, And each dry bone its severd fellow find, Piling their pillard dust, as erst they gave Their souls to thee, the wondering stars might deem9 A second time, the puny pride of man VOL. IX. 13 98 JVhpoleor& s Jkpitaph. Did creep by stealth upon it Babel-stairs, To dwell with them. But here, unwept thou art, Like a dead lion in his thicket-lair, With neither living man, nor spirit condemnd To write thine epitaph. Invoke the climes Who served as playthings in thy desperate game Of mad ambition, or their treasures strewed, Till meagre famine on their vitals preyd To pay thy reckoning. France I who gave so free Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw The purple vintage shed oer half the earth Write the first line, ~f thou hast blood to spare. Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead C~sars tomb, And pour high requiem oer the tyrant band, Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts Of sculpture and of classic eloquence, To grace his relics, at whose warrior-frown Thine ancient spirit quaild; and, to the list Of mutilated kings, who gleand their meat Neath Agags table, add the name of Rome. Turn, Austria I iron-browd and hard of heart And, on his monument, to whom thou gavst, In anger, battle, and, in craft, a bride, Grave .6lusterlitz! and fiercely turn away. As the ruind war-horse snuffs the trumpet-blast, Rouse Prussia from her trance, with Jenas name, And take her witness to that fame which soars Oer him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt Of Scandinavias madman. From the shades Of letterd ease, oh Germany come forth, With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll, Such as thou spreadst at Leipsic, gather tints Of deeper character than bold Romance Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream, Or History trusted to her sybil leaves. Hail, lotus-crownd in thy green childhood fed By stiff-aeckd Pharoah and the shepherd-kings; Hast thou no tale of him, who drenched thy sands At Jaffa and Aboukir, when the flight Of rushing souls went up so fearfully To the accusing Spirit? Glorious Isle I Whose thrice-enwreathed chain, Promethean-like, Did bind him to the fatal rockwe ask Thy deep memento for this marble scroll. Ho, fur-clad Russia ! with thy spear of frost The Vision if the Fountain. 99 Or with the winter-mocking Cossacks lance Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain, And give the last line of our epitaph. But, there was silence; for no sceptred hand Received the challenge. From the misty deep, Rise, Island Spirits like those sisters three, Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life: Rise, on your coral pedestals, and write That eulogy, which haughtier climes deny. Come, for ye lulld him in your matron arms, And cheerd his exile with a princely name, And spread that curtaiud couch which none disturbs Come twine some trait of household tenderness, Some slender leaflet, nursd with Natures tears, Around this urn. But Corsica, who rockd His cradle at Ajacia, turned away; And tiny Elba, in the Tuscan wave, I-lid her slight anual with the haste of fear; And rude Helena, sickening still, and grey Neath the Pacifics smiting, bade the moon, With silent finger, point the travelers gaze To an uuhonord tomb. Then Earth arose That blind, old Empress on her crumbling throue; And, to the echoed question, Who shall write .N~apoleoas epitaph ~ as one who broods On unforgiven injuries, answered NONE ! THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE GRAY cHAMFION. DEAR ladies, could I but look into your eyes, like a star-gazer, II might read secret intelligences. Will you read what I have written? You love music and the dance, and are passionate for flowers; you sometimes cherish singing-birds, and sometimes young kittens. You sigh by moonlight. Once or twice you have wept over a love-story in the annuals. Sleep falls upon you, like a lace veil, rich with gold-embroidered dreams, and is withdrawn as lightly, that you may see brighter dreams than them.

The Author of 'The Gray Champion' The Author of 'The Gray Champion' The Vision of the Fountain Original Papers 99-105

The Vision if the Fountain. 99 Or with the winter-mocking Cossacks lance Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain, And give the last line of our epitaph. But, there was silence; for no sceptred hand Received the challenge. From the misty deep, Rise, Island Spirits like those sisters three, Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life: Rise, on your coral pedestals, and write That eulogy, which haughtier climes deny. Come, for ye lulld him in your matron arms, And cheerd his exile with a princely name, And spread that curtaiud couch which none disturbs Come twine some trait of household tenderness, Some slender leaflet, nursd with Natures tears, Around this urn. But Corsica, who rockd His cradle at Ajacia, turned away; And tiny Elba, in the Tuscan wave, I-lid her slight anual with the haste of fear; And rude Helena, sickening still, and grey Neath the Pacifics smiting, bade the moon, With silent finger, point the travelers gaze To an uuhonord tomb. Then Earth arose That blind, old Empress on her crumbling throue; And, to the echoed question, Who shall write .N~apoleoas epitaph ~ as one who broods On unforgiven injuries, answered NONE ! THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE GRAY cHAMFION. DEAR ladies, could I but look into your eyes, like a star-gazer, II might read secret intelligences. Will you read what I have written? You love music and the dance, and are passionate for flowers; you sometimes cherish singing-birds, and sometimes young kittens. You sigh by moonlight. Once or twice you have wept over a love-story in the annuals. Sleep falls upon you, like a lace veil, rich with gold-embroidered dreams, and is withdrawn as lightly, that you may see brighter dreams than them. 100 The Vision of the Fountain. Maiden pursuits, and gentle meditations, the sunshine of maiden glee, and the summer-cloud of maiden sadness these make up the tale of your happy years. You are in your spring, fair read- er are you not ? I am scarce in my summer-time. Yet, I have wandered through the world, till its xveary dust has settled on me ; and when I meet a bright, young girl, a girl of sixteen, with her untouched heart, so sweetly proud, so softly glorious, so fresh among faded things, I fancy that the gate of Paradise has heen left ajar, and she has stolen out. Then I give a sigh to the memory of Rachel. Oh, Rachel! How pleasant is the sound to me thy sweet, old scriptural name. As I repeat it, thoughts and feelings grow vivid again, which I deemed long ago forgotten. There they are, yet in my heart, like the initials and devices engraved by virgin fingers in the woo(l of a young tree, remaining deep and permanent, though concealed hy the furrowed hark of after years. The hoy of fifteen was handsome ; though you would shake your heads, could you glance at the altered features of the man. And the hoy had lofty, sweet, and tender thoughts, and dim, hut glo- rious visions ; he was a child of poetry. Well ; at fifteen, I hecame a resident in a country village, more than a hundred miles from my home. The morning after my arrival a Septemher morning, hut warm and hright as any in July I ramhled into a wood of oaks, with a few wal- nut trees intermixed, forming the closest shade above our heads. The ground was rocky, uneven, overgrown with hushes and clumps of young saplings, and traversed only hy cattle-paths. The track, which I chanced to follow, led me to a crystal spring, with a border of grass, as freshly green as on May morn- ing, and overshado~ved hy the limb of a great oak. One solitary sunbeam found its way down, and played like a gold-fish in the water. Prom my childhood, I have loved to gaze into a spring. The water filled a circular basin, small, but deep, and set round with stones, some of which were covered with slimy moss, the others naked, and of variegated hue, reddish, white, and brown. The bottom was covered with coarse sand, which sparkled in the lovely sunbeam, and seemed to illuminate the spring with an nn- borrowed light. In one spot, the gush of the water violently agitated the sand, hut without obscuring the fountain, or breaking the glassiness of its surface. It appeared as if some living crea- ture were about to emerge, the Naiad of the spring, perhaps, in the shape of a beautiful young woman, with a gown of filmy water-moss, a belt of rainbow drops, and a cold, pure, passion- less countenance. How would the beholder shiver, pleasantly, yet fearfully, to see her sitting on one of the stones, paddling her white feet in the ripples, and throwing up water, to sparkle in The Vision of the Fountain. 101 th es un ! Wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers, they would immediately he moist, as with morning dew. Then would she set about her labors, like a careful housewife, to clear the fountain of withered leaves, and hits of slimy wood, and old acorns from the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle in drinking, till the bri ht sand, in the bright water, were like a treasury of diamonds. But, should the intruder approach too near, he would find only the drops of a summer shower, glisten- ing about the spot where he had seen her. Reclining on the border of grass, xvhere the dewy goddess should have been, I bent forward, and a pair of eyes met mine within the watery mirror. They were the reflection of my own. Ii looked again, and lo another face, deeper in the fountain than my own image, more distinct in all the features, yet faint as thought. The vision had the aspect of a fair young girl, with locks of paly gold. A mirthful expression laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy countenance, till it seemed just what a fountain would be, if, while dancing merrily into the sunshine, it should assume the shape of woman. Through the dim rosiness of the cheeks, J could see the brown leaves, the the slimy twigs, the acorhs, and the sparkling sand. The soli- tary sunheani xvas diffused among the golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness, and became a glory round that head so beautiful My description can give no idea how suddenly the fountain was thus tenanted, and how soon it was left desolate. I breathed; and there was the face ! I held my breath ; and it was gone Had it passed away, or faded into nothing ? I doubted whether it had ever been. My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hour did I spend, where that vision found and left me For a long time, I sat perfectly still, waiting till it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest motion, or even the flutter of my breath, might frighten it away. Thus have I often started from a pleasant dream, and then kept quiet, in hopes to wile it back. Deep were my musings, as to the race and attributes of that etherial being. Had I created her? Was she the daughter of my fancy, akin to those strange shapes which peep under the lids of chil- drens eyes ? And did her beauty gladden me, for that one mo- ment, and then die ? Or was she a water-nymph within the fountain, or fairy, or woodland goddess peeping over my shoul- der, or the ghost of some forsaken maid, who had drowned her- self for love ? Or, in good-truth, had a lovely girl, with a warm heart, and lips that would bear pressure, stolen softly behind me, and thrown her image into the spring? I watched and waited, but no vision came again. I departed, but with a spell upon me, which drew me back, that same after 102 The Vision of the Fountain. noon, to the haunted spring. There was the water gushing, the sand sparkling, and the sunheam glimmering. There the vision was not, but only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made himself invisible, all except a pair of long legs, beneath a stone. Me- thought he had a devilish look! I could have slain him as an enchanter, who kept tbe mysterious beauty imprisoned in the fountain. Sad and heavy, I was returning to the village. Between me and the church-spire, rose a little hill, and on its summit a group of trees, insulated from all the rest of the wood, with their own share of radiance hovering on them from the west, and their own solitary shadow falling to the east. The afternoon being far de- clined, the sunshine was almost pensive, and the shade almost cheerful; glory and gloom were mingled in the placid light; as if the spirits of the day and evening had met in friendship under those trees, and found themselves akin. I was admiring the pic- ture, when the shape of a young girl emerged from behind the clump of oaks. My heart knew her; it was the Vision; but, so distant and etherial did she seem, so unmixed with earth, so imbued with the pensive glory of the spot where she was stand- ing, that my spirit sunk within me, sadder than before. How could I ever reach her! While I gazed, a sudden shower came pattering down upon the leaves. In a moment the air was full of brightness, each rain-drop catching a portion of sunlight as it fell, and the whole gentle shower appearing like a mist, just substantial enough to bear the hurthen of radiance. A rainbow, vivid as Niagaras, was painted in the air. Its southern limb came down before the group of trees, and enveloped the fair Vision, as if the hues of Heaven were the only garment for her beauty. When the rain- bow vanished, she, who had seemed a part of it, xvas no longer there. Was her existence absorbed in natures loveliest phe- nomenon, and did her pure frame dissolve away in the varied light? Yet, I would not despair of her return; for, robed in the rainbow, she was the emblem of Hope. Thus did the Vision leave me; and many a doleful day suc- ceeded to the parting moment. By the spring, and in the wood, and on the hill, and through the village; at dewy sunrise, burn- ing noon, and at that magic hour of sunset, when she had van- ished from my sight, I sought her, but in vain. Weeks came and went, months rolled away, and she appeared not in them. I imparted my mystery to none, but wandered to-and-fro, or sat in solitude, like one that had caught a glimpse of Heaven, and could take no more joy on earth. I withdrew into an inner world, where my thoughts lived and breathed, and the Vision in the midst of them. Without intending it, I became at once the The Vision of the Fountain. 103 author and hero of a romance, conjuring up rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my own, and experiencing ev- ery change of passion, till jealousy and despair had their end in bliss. Oh, had I the burning fancy of my early youth, with man- hoods colder gift, the power of expression, your hearts, sweet ladies, should flutter at my tale In the middle of January, I was summoned home. The day before my departure, visiting the spots which had been hallowed by the Vision, I found that the spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow, and a glare of winter sunshine on the hill of the rainbow. Let me hope, thought I, or my heart will be as icy as the fountain, and the whole world as desolate as this snowy hill. Most of the day was spent in preparing for the jour- ney, which was to commence at four oclock the next morning. About an hour after supper, when all was in readiness, I de- scended from my chamber to the sitting-room, to take leave of the old clergyman and his family, with whom I had been an in- mate. A gust of wind blew out my lamp as I passed through the entry. According to their invariable custom, so pleasant a one when the fire blazes cheerfully, the family were sitting in the parlor, with no other light than what came from the hearth. As the good clergymans stipend compelled him to use all sorts of econ- omy, the foundation of his fires was a large heap of tan, or ground bark, which would smoulder away, from morning till night, with a dull warmth and no flame. This evening, the heap of tan was newly put on, and surmounted with three sticks of red oak, full of moisture, and a few pieces of dry pine, that had not yet kin- dled. There was no light, except the little that came sullenly from two half-burnt brands, without even glimmering on the and- irons. But I knew the position of the old ministers arm-chair, and also where his wife sat, with her knitting-work, and how to avoid his two daughters, one a stout country lass, and the other a consumptive girl. Groping through the gloom, I found my own place next to that of the son, a learned collegian, who had come home to keep school in the village, during the winter va- cation. I noticed that there was less room than usual, to-night, between the collegians chair and mine. As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a word was said for some time after my entrance. Nothing broke the stillness but the regular click of the matrons knitting-needles. At times, the fire threw out a brief and dusky gleam, which twinkled on the old mans glasses, and hovered doubtfully round our circle, but was far too faint to portray~ the individuals who composed it. Were we not like ghosts ? Dreamy as the scene was, might it not be a type of the mode in which departed people, who had known and loved each other here, would hold communion in 104 The Vision of the Pounta~n. eternity ? We were aware of each others presence, not by sight, nor sound, nor touch, but by an inward consciousness. Would it not be so among the dead ? The silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter, ad- dressing a remark to some one in the circle, whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous and decayed accents were answered by a single word, but in a voice that made me start, and bend towards the spot whence it had proceeded. Had I ever heard that sweet, low tone? If not, why did it rouse up so many old re- collections, or mockeries of sucb, the shadows of things familiar, yet unknown, and fill my mind with confused images of ber fea- tures who had spoken, though buried in the gloom of the parlor ? Whom had my heart recognized, that it throbhed so ? I lis- tened, to catch her gentle breathing, and strove, by the intensity of my gaze, to picture forth a shape where none was visible. Suddenly, the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up with a ruddy glow; and where the darkness had been, there was she the Vision of the Fountain! A spirit of radiance only, she had van- ished with the rainboxv, and appeared again in the fire-light, per- haps to flicker with the blaze, and be gone. Yet, her cheek was rosy and life-like, and her features, in the bright warmth of the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my recollection of them. She knew me! The mirthful expression, that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her countenance, when I beheld her faint beauty in the fountain, was laughing and dimpling there now. One moment, our glance mingled . the next, down rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood and darkness snatched away that daughter of the light, and gave her back to me no more! That is all, fair ladies. There is nothing more to tell. For, why must the simple mystery be revealed, that Rachel was the daughter of the village Squire, and had left home for a boarding- school, the morning after I arrived, and returned the day before my departure ? If I transformed her to an angel, it is what ev- ery youthful lover does for his mistress. Therein consists the essence of my story. But, slight the change, sweet maids, to make angels of yourselves 105 I WILL REMEMBER THEE. I WILL remember thee ; thy form xviii be Mingled with lingering images of all That gave those lost hours wings of bliss to me When, arm in arm, we wandered where the fall Of this thy rivers radiant fountains made The sunset-silence musical, under its fringing shade. I will remember thee, with loveliest bloom Of early roses, such as these thy hand Culled for me in the grave-yards flowery gloom, (Where rest thy sisters ashes, in the land Of dark and long oblivion;) likest thee, Their bursting, blushing charms, and therefore dear to me. I will remember thee, when woods, as noxv, Oershadow me at noontide; and the sweet Breathings of virgin violets, as pure as thou, Nor purer, from dun moss-banks of the hill-sides greet Me in my weary wanderings, mid the trees Of mine own father-clime to mind me but of these. I 11 think of thee with streamlets; and green leaves Shall murmur of thee ; and the fairest star That shines above me, as mild Evening weaves Her round pavilion in its splendor far, But not forgotten will I sadly choose To link with thoughts of thee, when most I love to muse I will remember thee, in coming days, When I may tread the strangers lonely shore, And ponder upon old temples in the haze Of twilight where the mighty are no more (Though still the soil teems richly with the pride Of buried greatness, and the skies are dyed With hues of gone-down glory:) even then, And there, the memory of the loveliness That cheered this solitude, may cheer again The echo of past pleasure and thy grace Bless me in all things; lady, on the sea Or land, in joy or anguish, I 11 remember thee B. B. T. Georgia, .4fay, 1835. VOL. IX. 14

B. B. T. T., B. B. I Will Remember Thee Original Papers 105-106

105 I WILL REMEMBER THEE. I WILL remember thee ; thy form xviii be Mingled with lingering images of all That gave those lost hours wings of bliss to me When, arm in arm, we wandered where the fall Of this thy rivers radiant fountains made The sunset-silence musical, under its fringing shade. I will remember thee, with loveliest bloom Of early roses, such as these thy hand Culled for me in the grave-yards flowery gloom, (Where rest thy sisters ashes, in the land Of dark and long oblivion;) likest thee, Their bursting, blushing charms, and therefore dear to me. I will remember thee, when woods, as noxv, Oershadow me at noontide; and the sweet Breathings of virgin violets, as pure as thou, Nor purer, from dun moss-banks of the hill-sides greet Me in my weary wanderings, mid the trees Of mine own father-clime to mind me but of these. I 11 think of thee with streamlets; and green leaves Shall murmur of thee ; and the fairest star That shines above me, as mild Evening weaves Her round pavilion in its splendor far, But not forgotten will I sadly choose To link with thoughts of thee, when most I love to muse I will remember thee, in coming days, When I may tread the strangers lonely shore, And ponder upon old temples in the haze Of twilight where the mighty are no more (Though still the soil teems richly with the pride Of buried greatness, and the skies are dyed With hues of gone-down glory:) even then, And there, the memory of the loveliness That cheered this solitude, may cheer again The echo of past pleasure and thy grace Bless me in all things; lady, on the sea Or land, in joy or anguish, I 11 remember thee B. B. T. Georgia, .4fay, 1835. VOL. IX. 14 106 THE ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF MUSIC. NO. II. Music was now banished to the church; and, proscribed like the Christians, it ~vas heard, at the still hour of midnight, in the caverns and tombs, where they concealed themselves. It is probable that their hymns were much the same as the Roman songs; and we may form a tolerably correct idea of the ancient vocal music, from some of the Catholic chants. As the Chris- tians gave up the use of musical instruments, however, the art soon fell into great confusion, and was well-nigh lost, when St. Ambrose, of Milan, appeared. He reviewed it, and made great improvement in the science, by the introduction of rhythm, or equal division of time, instead of the irregular chant of the Ro- mans. Pope Gregory, however, who lived in the fifth century, seems to have established the foundation of church music, as it now exists. He began by improving the manner of writing it; the Romans had employed fifteen letters, to express the notes; be reduced the number to seven, as they now stand: but, as the notes were not placed on lines, as at present, he used capital letters for the first octave, small ones for the second, and double letters for the third. He introduced the kind of music which is now common among us, and is called, from him, the Gregorian chant: it was borrowed from the ancient music. This pope also established singing-schools in Rome, in which orphan children were supported and instructed for his chapel. With the spread vf Christianity, music was extended to Germany, France, and England; and Gregory supplied performers for all these coun- tries. In the ninth century, great improvement was made in the art, by placing marks over the letters to indicate whether they were to be sung loud or soft: the five lines were also introduced about this time, to mark more distinctly the intervals of sound, though the letters still continued to be used. Guido Aretinc~ now appeared, and did much to improve the art. He was the f]rst to make use of semitones; he adopted the written notes, nearly as we have them, instead of letters ; he invented several instruments, and is thought to have discovered counter-point, or harmonic chords. From this time, music was written much as it is at the present day; that is, with the parallel lines, the divis- ions of bars or measures, and the characters which represent let~ ters. Notwithstanding the efforts of numerous composers, how- ever, the art seems to have made little progress from the time of Guido down to the sixteenth century. A French writer ob- serves, that, until the middle of the sixteenth century, music

Henry R. Cleveland Cleveland, Henry R. The Origin and Progress of Music. No. II. Original Papers 106-117

106 THE ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF MUSIC. NO. II. Music was now banished to the church; and, proscribed like the Christians, it ~vas heard, at the still hour of midnight, in the caverns and tombs, where they concealed themselves. It is probable that their hymns were much the same as the Roman songs; and we may form a tolerably correct idea of the ancient vocal music, from some of the Catholic chants. As the Chris- tians gave up the use of musical instruments, however, the art soon fell into great confusion, and was well-nigh lost, when St. Ambrose, of Milan, appeared. He reviewed it, and made great improvement in the science, by the introduction of rhythm, or equal division of time, instead of the irregular chant of the Ro- mans. Pope Gregory, however, who lived in the fifth century, seems to have established the foundation of church music, as it now exists. He began by improving the manner of writing it; the Romans had employed fifteen letters, to express the notes; be reduced the number to seven, as they now stand: but, as the notes were not placed on lines, as at present, he used capital letters for the first octave, small ones for the second, and double letters for the third. He introduced the kind of music which is now common among us, and is called, from him, the Gregorian chant: it was borrowed from the ancient music. This pope also established singing-schools in Rome, in which orphan children were supported and instructed for his chapel. With the spread vf Christianity, music was extended to Germany, France, and England; and Gregory supplied performers for all these coun- tries. In the ninth century, great improvement was made in the art, by placing marks over the letters to indicate whether they were to be sung loud or soft: the five lines were also introduced about this time, to mark more distinctly the intervals of sound, though the letters still continued to be used. Guido Aretinc~ now appeared, and did much to improve the art. He was the f]rst to make use of semitones; he adopted the written notes, nearly as we have them, instead of letters ; he invented several instruments, and is thought to have discovered counter-point, or harmonic chords. From this time, music was written much as it is at the present day; that is, with the parallel lines, the divis- ions of bars or measures, and the characters which represent let~ ters. Notwithstanding the efforts of numerous composers, how- ever, the art seems to have made little progress from the time of Guido down to the sixteenth century. A French writer ob- serves, that, until the middle of the sixteenth century, music The Qrigin and Progress of Music. 107 was only a tissue of harmonious sounds, almost destitute of any perceptible melody. In the fifteenth, and the earlier part of the following century, the professors, in order to render their masses more agreeable, composed them upon the air of some popular song ; (a practice not altogether abandoned in our day.) The studied singularity of the middle age, (says the same writer) led other masters to write their sacred music according to the cast of dice ; each number thus obtained had musical passages which corresponded to it. At length, Palestrina appeared. This immortal genius, to whom we owe modern melody, shook off the fetters of barbarism; he introduced into his composition an air, grave indeed, but con- tinued and perceptible ; and his music is still performed in St. Peters, at Rome. About the middle of the sixteenth century, the composers had taken such a fancy to fugues and canons, and collected these figures in such a singular manner, in their works for the church, that, during the greater part of that period, this pious music was extremely ridiculous. This abuse, after a length of time, excited the complaints of the devout; and it was often pro~ posed to banish music from the churches. In short, Marcellus II., who occupied the papal chair, in 1555, was on the point of issuing the decree of suppression, when Palestrina entreated his holiness to hear a mass which he had composed. The pope having consented, the young musician caused to be performed before him a mass for six voices, which appeared so beautiful and so full of dignity, that the pontiff, instead of putting his project into execution, ordered Palestrina to compose some works of the same kind for his chapel. The mass in question is still extant, and is known by the name of Pope Marcellos Mass. The composers of church music in Italy, since the days of Palestrina, have followed nearly in his footsteps; of all these, Gregorio Allegri is the most remarkable, having composed the celebrated .Miserere, which is sung once every year in the popes chapel, at Rome. This is, undoubtedly, the most powerful mu- sic ever composed. It is intended to commemorate the awful period which elapsed between the death and the resurrection of our Saviour the earth wrapt in gloom, and man bereft of hope! The Miserere is an agonized cry for mercy from a despairing world. It is sung at night; and the chapel is dimly lighted by a few xvax candIes, which throw their glare upon the painting of the Last Judgement, (by Michael Angelo) above the altar. As the service proceeds, the tapers are extinguished, one after the other; and the impression produced by the figures of the damned, painted with terrific power, by Michael Angelo, is increased in awfulness, when they are dimly seen by the pale light of the last taper. After a deep and most impressive pause of silence, los The Origin and Progress of .Iliiusic. (says a recent traveler) the solemn Jlliserere commenced; and never, by mortal ear, was heard a strain of such poxverful, such heart-moving pathos. The accordant tones of an hundred human voices and one that seemed more than human ascended to- gether to Heaven, for mercy to mankind, for pardon to a guilty and sinning world. It had nothing in it of this earth nothing that breathed the ordinary feelings of our nature. It seemed as if every sense and power had been concentrated into that plaint- ive expression of lamentation, of deep suffering and supplication, which possessed the soul. It was the strain that disembodied spirits might have used, who had just passed the boundaries of death, and sought relief from the mysterious weight of wo, and the tremblings of mortal agony, that they had suffered in the pas- sage of the grave. It was the music of another state of being. It lasted till the shadows of evening fell deeper; and the red, dusky glare, as it issued stronger . from the concealed recess whence the singing proceeded, shed a partial but strong light upon the figures near it. It ceased. A priest, with a light, moved across the chapel, and carried a book to the officiating cardinal, who read a few words in an awful and impressive tone. Then again the light disappeared; and the last, the most entrancing harmony arose, in a strain that might have moved Heaven it- selfa deeper, more pathetic sound of lamentation than mortal voices ever breathed. Its effects, upon the minds of those that beard it, were almost too powerful to be borne; and never never can be forgotten. In speaking of sacred music, we must not omit to give some account of the oratorio, or spiritual drama. Its origin may be be traced to the Christian pilgrims, who, returning from the holy land, used to celebrate, in songs and choruses, the life and suf- ferings of the Saviour. As early as the year 1243, a piece, of this nature, was performed at Padua. St. Philip, of Neri, how- ever, is considered the founder of the oratorio, He was born in Florence, in the year 1515, and first established regular orato- rios in 1540, with the design of directing the public taste to re- ligious subjects. They were, at first, little more than a succes- sion of hymns, unaccompanied by instruments. The recitative was invented some time afterwards; but, at first, the actor rela- ted the story to the audience, singing only detached portions. In 1590, the recitative was first used in oratorios. Choruses were next introduced; and the words and music continued to improve gradually, down to the eighteenth century, when Handel appeared, and, devoting all his powers to this branch of music, carried it to a degree of perfection which has hardly been sur- passed. The great characteristic of Handels style, is sublimity; he is the Pindar of musicians; and his lyric flights are unequaled. The Origin and Progress of .Music. 109 His choruses, to borrow the language of Milton, are like the sound, Symphonious of ten thousand harps, that tuned Angelic harmonies. All things considered, however, Haydns Creation is probably the most remarkable and perfect oratorio, that was ever com- posed. In this wonderful piece, the composer has attempted to represent, by music, the creation of the world and its inhabitants, as described in Genesis. The overture portrays the wildness of chaos. The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. The music is perfectly wild and mournful, and destitute of harmony or melody; and expresses, by its strange discords, the painfulness of chaotic confusion. It falls upon the ear, a dull, frightful mass, which we in vain endea- vor to throxv off. The tones seem lifeless, but vast and terrific. At length, the whole mighty mass seems to heave from the very bottom; the spirit is moving upon the face of the deep. Rapid passages dart, like flashes of lightning, through the scale, and oc- casional gleams of harmony are caught, but quickly overpowered by the prevailing confusion. The soun~s picture to us, most forcibly, the vast immeasurable abyss, Outrageous as a seadark, wasteful, wild. Up from the bottom turned, by furious winds And surging waves, as mountains to assault Heavens height, and with the centre mix the poles. The closing notes are in the same wild strain as the commence- ment. The author of a life of Haydn analyzes the piece in these words: Music reappears, in all her charms, when the angels be- oin to relate the great work of creation. We soon come to the b passage which describes the creation of light. And God said let there be light, and there was ligbt. It must be confessed, that nothing can have a grander effect. Before this fiat of the Creator, the musician has gradually diminished the chords ; he introduces the unison, and the piano still growing softer, as the suspended cadence approaches ; at last, this cadence bursts forth in the most sonorous manner, at the words, and there ~vtts light. This burst of the whole orchestra, in the resounding key of c, accompanied with all the harmony possible, and prepared by the gradual fading of the sounds, actually produces upon us, at a first representation, the effect of a thousand torches suddenly flashing light into a dark cavern. The faithful angels afterwards describe, in a fugued passage, the rage of Satan and his accomplices, pre- cipitated into an abyss of torments, by the hand of him whom 110 The Origin and Progress of Music. they hate. Here, Milton has a rival. Haydn employs profusely all that is disagreeable in the enharmonic genus ; horrible dis- cords, strange modulations, and chords of the diminished seventh. The harshness of the words further increases the horrors of this chorus. We shudder; but the music begins to describe the beauties of the new-created earth, the celestial freshness of the first verdure which adorned the world ; and our minds are at length tranquillized. You next pass to the rising of the sun, which appears, for the first time, in all the pomp of the most mag- nificent spectacle which the eye of man can contemplate. It is followed by the rising of the moon, which silently advances through the clouds, and illumines the night with her silver ra- diance. The second part opens, with an air, majestic in the beginning, afterwards gay, and tender towards the conclusion, describing the creation of the birds. The different characters of this air xvell represent the audacious eagle, which, just created, seems to spurn the earth and dart towards the sun ; the gaiety of the lark, the amorous doves, and lastly, the plaintive nightingale. The accents of the songstress of night are imitated as near to nature as possible. A beautiful trio represents the effect produced by the immense whale, as he agitates the waves. A well-executed recitative shows us the generous courser, proudly neighing amidst vast meadows; the active and ferocious tiger, rapidly traversing the forests and gliding between the trees ; the fierce lion roars at a distance, while the gentle sheep, fearless of danger, are peace- fully feeding. An air, full of power and dignity, announces the creation of man. The movement of the harmony corresponds with the words Behold! a man he standsthe king and lord of all. The music increases, in force and elevation, at each of these last words, and makes a superb cadence on the king and lord of all. It is impossible not to be struck with it. The second part of this air describes the creation of the charming Eve, and gives us an idea of Adams happiness. It is universally esteemed the finest part of the Creation. The third part of the Creation is the shortest. It is a beau~ tiful translation of the most pleasing part of Miltons poem. Haydn paints the transports of the first and most innocent at- tachments, the tender converse of the first pair, and their pure and dreadless gratitude towards the infinite goodness which crea- ted them, and which seems to have created for them all nature. The most ardent joy breathes in every line of the allegro. There is also apparent, in this part, a devotion, of a more than ordinary kind, mingled with terror. Lastly, a chorus (partly fugued and The Origin and Progress of Jiusic. 111 partly ideal) terminates this astonishing production, with the same fire and majesty with which it commenced. We shall now proceed to give some account of the opera. The literal signification of the word is, a work; and the name is not ill-chosen to express the combination of arts, which ap- pears in the musical drama. It is a perfect work, and ad- dresses itself to the entire capacities of our nature. It is founded upon the principle, that there is an harmony between the fine arts ; that painting, sculpture, music and poetry, address them- selves, with a kindred power, to the better feelings, and though each takes a different path, all arrive at the same result, all pro- duce the same effect on the mind. The opera is the union of all these ; combining music, poetry, acting, and scenic decora- tion ; and offers more, to delight the senses and interest the mind, than any other representation. The origin of the opera, like that of the oratorio, may be found in the religious feeling prevalent in the time of the crusades. The passion of Christ, the adoration of the Virgin and the angels, and sometimes of the martyrs, were the subjects of these representations. We learn from Tiraboschi, that the monks of the city of Treves were re- quired to furnish, annually, two clergymen, well-skilled in music, to represent the annunciation, by personating the angel and the Virgin; and we have already seen that a religious drama was performed at Padua, in the thirteenth century. From religious suhjects, others, of a less spiritual nature, were undertaken. In 1475, Politian produced a sort of musical drama, upon the story of Orpheus; and, in 1555, Alonzo Viola composed a pastoral play; called the Sacrifice, which was performed, with great applause, before king Henry III., of France, when he visited Venice, in 1574. Thus far, however, the music consisted entirely of sacred songs, or the common ballads of the country. No composer had as yet written expressly for the opera. In the year 1594, three young noblemen, of Florence, made the attempt to revive the chanting declamation of the Greek dra- ma, and employed Rinuccini, the poet, to write a piece on the story of Daphne, which was set to music by Pen, the most dis- tinguished composer of the day, and performed by the three young men, and one or two friends, in the Corsi palace. The orchestra consisted only of a lute, harpsichord, viol de Gamba, and harp; no airs were introduced, but the piece consisted en- tirely of the recitative. Though such a play, at this day, would be considered intolerably dull, it nevertheless produced a great sensation at the time, and was very much admired. The same poet composed, four years afterwards, a drama for music, called Euridice, which was represented in the theatre of Florence, in honor of the marriage of Henry IV., of France, with Mary de Medici. In 1606, the first musical drama was acted at 112 The Origin and Progress of .Music. Rome, by Quagliatie, who, with four or five companions, per- formed, during the carnival, in a wagon, draxvn about the streets. About nine years afterwards, the opera first appeared in Naples. For the next half century, little attention was paid to the mu- sic of the opera, which degenerated, rather than improved; the scenery, however, was made very magnificent. The opera was now carried into other countries. Cardinal Mazarin established it in France, in the year 1646 ; yet, it is probable that the French paid more attention to the decoration of the stage than to the mu- sic, down to a late period; for Goldoni, who visited Paris, in 1761, declares that the French opera, though a paradise for the eyes, is hell for the ears. In Germany, carnival-plays had been chanted as early as 1567 ; but the first regular opera, in that country, was performed in ~t678; the subject was Adam and Eve. The Italian opera was introduced into England in the seventeenth century, and greatly improved by Handel. The birth of this distinguished man forms an era in the history of mu- sic. Haydn said of him, he is the father of us all; and indeed, succeeding composers, though they may have improved the art, have not made any material changes. We have said that an opera is an entire work, combining more attractions than any other kind of representation. To illustrate this, we shall give an analysis of one of the most perfect operas ever composed, as performed in Paris. It is called Robert le IDiable, or, Robert the Devil; and the story is as follows. Robert is the son of a princess of Burgundy, who, being knighted, sets off in quest of adventures, accompanied by Bertram, who appears as his friend and brother in arms. Bertram is, in reality, a friend, and the father of Robert he is permitted to wander on the earth for a certain number of years, at the expiration of which, if he cannot persuade some mortal to covenant his soul to the in- fernal powers, he is doomed to return to his torment. Robert, his own son, is the individual whom he has fixed upon to substi- tute instead of himself in his infernal abode; and the play turns upon his attempts to induce Robert to make a covenant with the devil. The music of the overture is majestic, wild, and mournful and the drop-scene, which covers a stage large enough to contain almost any other theatre, represents a confused and frightful mass of precipitous rocks; a vast and impenetrable abyss yawns open in the midst, over which a dusky fiend hovers, with outspread wings. All seems to announce the sublime and awful scenes which are to ensue. Robert has fallen desperately in love with the princess Isabella, of Sicily, who is to be the prize of the conqueror, in a tourna- ment about to be held at Palermo. The first scene represents a large number of knights, carousing in front of their tents, near The Origin and Progress of .Music. 113 the city, among whom are Robert and Bertram. A young girl is presently brought iu by their pages, and is rescued from vio- lence by Robert, who recognizes her as his adopted sister. She has come to announce to him the death of his mother, and brings him a letter containing her last advice. He is overcome with affliction at the news, and cannot bear to read the letter, which he entreats his sister, Alice, to preserve for him. Bertram tries to console him, and, under pretence of diverting his mind, en- gages him in gaming, with the other knights. Robert loses, and Bertram advises him to double the stake ; still he loses, and again doubles ; the fiend is at his elbow, and governs the chances, so that they are constantly against him. Still encouraged to go on, he continues to lose his hags of money, his ingots of gold, his jewels, the diamond chain about his neck, and finally, his horse and armor, and his golden-hilted sword, with the rich sheath. He is thus left destitute, and, instead of the wealthy knight, is an insi6nificant beggar. The fiend now expects to seduce him by the promise of wealth ; but the princess, who is in love with him, provides him with a horse and armor, that he may fight for her. Meantime, a different scene takes place. The stage repre- sents a wild and mountainous country ; on the right hand are seen the ruins of a classic temple ; all appears desolate and lonely; and a rude cross, erected among the rocks, indicates that some hapless traveler has been murdered on the spot. The lover of Alice appears, having promised to meet her here ; but Bertram presently comes in, and, wishing to be alone, persaades the young man to go to a distant part of the mountain, in the hope of finding a treasure. Bertram comes to meet the spirits, with whom he is associated, and to do homage to the infernal king. He hears their shouts in the caverns nnder the earth, and they call upon him to descend. Trembling, he obeys, and disappears amidst the ruins of the temple. In the meantime, Alice arrives, and is greatly disappointed at not finding her lover. All is still- ness ; she calls him by name, hut no answer is returned ; nothing is heard but her own voice, long echoed among the mountains. The sky now becomes overcast; the distant roar of the storm, and the low mutter of thunder are heard from mountain to .moun- tam. Alice listens in dismay; she is distressed at the absence of her lover, and frightened at the loneliness and gloom of the place. While she stands thus perplexed, the silence is broken by a shout from under the earth, so loud and terrific, that it seems as if all the spirits of darkness had been let loose. It i~ the riot- ing of the fiends, to whom Bertram has descended. No words can adequately describe this infernal music; it is a strange mix~ ture of utter remorse and agony with wild and reckless joy~ VOL. IX. 15 114 The Origin and Progress of Music. A thousand voices appear to join in the frightful chorus, that they may dim the sense of xvo, in the uncouth riot. The awful sound is heard but a moment, and again-all is silent. Alice is horror-struck, but can hardly believe her senses. Again the ter- rible chorus bursts forth from the earth, and she, all trembling, approaches the mouth of a cavern, in the ruins, whence the sound issues. At that moment, flames blaze forth, and Bertram rushes out, pale and terrified by the fury of his kindred spirits. Alice screams at the sight of him, and swoons at the foot of the cross. Bertram rouses her; he is noxv betrayed ; she knows his true character. By threatening to destroy her lover, he obliges her to take an oath, not to reveal to Robert what she has seen. Meantime, Robert approaches; he has been defeated in the tour- nament by a friend, whom Bertram sent in the place of his rival, and is now in utter despair ; he believes that his mistress is lost to him forever. Bertram confronts him, and still promises him aid. He wishes to strengthen his power over him, by involving him in crime ; for he has been told that, if he cannot induce Robert to sign the covenant before midnight, he must himself re- turn to his sufferings. The scene now changes, and the theatre represents the ruins of a convent. On one side is a long cloister, the arches of which open in a roofless and ruinous church, which is filled with graves. Various tombs are seen in the cloister. Their form, according to the fashion of the times, is square ; and on a slab, raised two or three feet from the ground, reposes a marble statue of the per- son buried, shrouded in the grave-clothes, the hands folded in prayer ; on one of these, is the statue of St. Rosalia, bearing in the hand a magic branch. It is night, and the soft light of the moon is poured on the broken walls and columns of the church, and streams through the arches of the cloister. Heavy denuncia- tions are pronounced against the sacrilegious person who shall pluck the branch from the hand of the saint. Bertram, therefore, wishes to make Robert to do it. He has already told him, that the possession of the branch will ensure him success ; and he is now going to summon the spirits of the nuns from purgatory, that they may persuade Robert to commit the crime. Bertram ap- pears at the extreme end of the cloister ; the music is slow, soft, and very solemn, and the trumpet is heard summoning the spir- its from their graves. The enchanter commands them to appear. Slowly, the marble slabs, on which the statues repose, rise up, and the forms, shrouded in their winding-sheets, step from their resting-place at first, almost inanimate, as awaking from the slumber of ages, then becoming more instinct with life, and finally advancing, with slow and measured step, towards the master- spirit who has awakened them. Still the trumpet pours forth its The Origin and Progress of .AIusic. 115 solemn notes, and hosts of spirits come flitting through the arches; every grave yields up its tenant, and all bow before the enchan~ ter and receive his commands. The slow and solemn music is now changed to a livelier strain the nuns fling off their shrouds and appear as beautiful girls. Some of them set up an altar to their master, and offer incense to him others, in reckless mirth, throw dice, and gamble in their own tombs. Robert appears in the midst, and a bevy of them dance round him, lead him to the tomb of St. Rosalia, and endeavor to persuade him to pluck the branch. He starts for the statue reminds him of his mother ; he is horror-struck, and retires from the tomb ; but the false spirits again gather round him, and lead him towards it, till at length, overcome by their blandishments, and blinded by passion, he plucks the branch. At that moment, the wild shout of the demons is heard, with the clanking of chains~ and the nuns sink lifeless into their graves, ahove which the most hideous monsters hover, and seem to exult over their victims. Robert has now possession of the branch, and bears it into the court of Sicily, where the king, with all his nobles, and the rival of Robert, are assembled. He xvavcs the branch over them, and all, save the princess, fall into a magic sleep, from which they can only be awakened by his breaking the branch. The prin- cess persuades him to do this, for she will never be won by such arts ; in despair he breaks it, and the sleepers are roused from their lethargy. The next scene represents the vestibule of the cathedral of Palermo. Bertram meets Robert there. The hour of midnight is approaching, and he knows, that if the league is not signed before that, his doom is sealed. He promises xvealth, power, honor, everything, if he will but comply. Robert is almost per- suaded, when a strain of soft and delicious music comes stealing on his ear, and seems to recall him to virtue. It is the organ of the cathedral, and the vesper-chant. Again Bertram renews his agonized entreaties ; he reveals the sacred name of father ; he kneels, he weeps, he drags his victim away from the influence of the holy music. At this moment, Alice rushes in ; she implores Robert to read his mothers letter before he yields ; he is hardly willing, but at length complies with her entreaties. He there reads, that Bertram is a fiend, who had ruined her, and who is plotting his own destruction, He is saved ; the cathedral bell is heard slowly tolling twelve, and Bertram sinks into the yawning earth in a shroud of fire. At the close of this act, the drop-scene indicates that the frightful passages are terminated. It represents the Holy City, in all its gorgeous magnificence, with palace and tower, church and square, and lengthened colonades, stretching away as far as the eye can reach. A rainbow spans it, from the right hand to~ 116 The Origin and Progress of Music. the left, with its glittering arch, on whose summit stands the an- gel of mercy, crowned with a diadem of stars. The closing- scene represents the wedding procession. The story of Rob- erts temptation and dangers has reached the king, and he has be- trothed his daughter to him. The gorgeous train is seen entering the cathedral; a thousand wax-lights shed their glare upon the scene ; boys, in robes of white, are swinging their censers, from which rises the smoke of incense ; and the loud organ is heard, with the full choir chanting hymns of praise for victory over the wiles of the enemy. We have thus endeavored to give a sketch, imperfect though it be, of the developement of this art. There is one considera- tion, which appears to invest the subject with additional interest for us ; it is, that music has probably arrived at its perfection in our day. The barrenness and commonplace reality of the present age are proverbial. We are constantly reminded of the great poets and artists of by-gone times ; and their works are contrasted with the degenerate efforts of modern days. True, poetry, ar- chitecture, painting, and sculpture, reached their zenith ages since; but it has been reserved to our time to witness the per- fection of one of the fine arts, which ranks with the highest. We live in the golden age of music ; it xvill probably never be ad- vanced farther; and even now, perhaps, the symptoms of decline in the art, may be discerned. Handel ~ind Mozart and Haydn and Beethoven are gone; and, though their halo still hovers round us, we know that it must finally depart. In another cen- tury, their works will be held up as inimitable models. But, while we are yet lingering within the verge of the magic circle, from which the irresistible sweep of time is hurrying us, we may be pardoned if we occasionally turn back, With wandering step and slow, and contemplate the scene of glory we are leaving. HENRY R. CLEVELAND. 117 SUMMER PHILOSOPHY. A C0LLO~UIAL LECTURE. LIVE pleasant! Such was Edmund Burkes exhortation to an anxious and repining gentleman, who resorted to him for com- fort and advice. It should he every ones summer motto. James, be it yours. Live pleasant. Tis an art. Learn it. We speak of the fine arts and the useful ones. This combines their claims. .dristom inert udor, says Pindar; no doubt, as a lotion, if not as a potion. Let Amphitrite, or some nymph of hers, fold you daily in her chaste and renovating embrace. Be sure there is sovereign good in it. Intimacy with the salt bosom of the bracing element is the all-compensating, magnificent luxury of the season. What were summer-life without it ? And, James, look to it, that you be not one of the busy block- heads, who do away, in half an hour, the kind influences of a bath, by insane activity and self-exposure. Never hurry, nor be hurried. Walk slow, talk sloxv, think slow, feed, read, write, dress, undress in short, live with studied and exquisite de- liberation. Let nothing tempt you to fuss, or bustle, or lose your temper, or make a noise. Keep your watch in perfect or- der; and never fail to set out so long before an appointed hour, that youmay proceed purely at your ease, with full leisure to make fastidious selection of shaded sidewalks ever and anon, stopping, without scruple, to adjust your cravat, or uncover your head, or whisk a handkerchief about it, and smile gently, and in your sleeve, at casual ridicules, or make languid salutations, or put up (inwardly, or, peradventure, in a murmur) small petitions and thanksgivings to the powers above, and, after all, be punc- tually (or, perchance, a few minutes better than punctually) on the spot then, shortly afterwards, while an irrepressible smile softens your composed and complacent features, to salute the un- fortunates who arrive hot and belated panting, it may be, and just too late ! Oh, tis a virtuous triumph! But to ensure it, one must be resolutely unimitative. Hurry is contagious. It is not because they have mtich to do, but merely perforce of a foolish, fidgety habit, that many people in our streets heat and tire themselves; and the others, for the most part, do the like, from unconscious sympathy and mechanical im- itation. Be on your guard, James, against the infection of ex- ample. Let bad company never fool your wise, young feet into a bootless race against time. Look out of the window, James. Observe the two gentle- men, in beaver hats and suits of broadcloth, passing at the rate of

Cosmo Cosmo Summer Philosophy. A Colloquial Lecture Original Papers 117-122

117 SUMMER PHILOSOPHY. A C0LLO~UIAL LECTURE. LIVE pleasant! Such was Edmund Burkes exhortation to an anxious and repining gentleman, who resorted to him for com- fort and advice. It should he every ones summer motto. James, be it yours. Live pleasant. Tis an art. Learn it. We speak of the fine arts and the useful ones. This combines their claims. .dristom inert udor, says Pindar; no doubt, as a lotion, if not as a potion. Let Amphitrite, or some nymph of hers, fold you daily in her chaste and renovating embrace. Be sure there is sovereign good in it. Intimacy with the salt bosom of the bracing element is the all-compensating, magnificent luxury of the season. What were summer-life without it ? And, James, look to it, that you be not one of the busy block- heads, who do away, in half an hour, the kind influences of a bath, by insane activity and self-exposure. Never hurry, nor be hurried. Walk slow, talk sloxv, think slow, feed, read, write, dress, undress in short, live with studied and exquisite de- liberation. Let nothing tempt you to fuss, or bustle, or lose your temper, or make a noise. Keep your watch in perfect or- der; and never fail to set out so long before an appointed hour, that youmay proceed purely at your ease, with full leisure to make fastidious selection of shaded sidewalks ever and anon, stopping, without scruple, to adjust your cravat, or uncover your head, or whisk a handkerchief about it, and smile gently, and in your sleeve, at casual ridicules, or make languid salutations, or put up (inwardly, or, peradventure, in a murmur) small petitions and thanksgivings to the powers above, and, after all, be punc- tually (or, perchance, a few minutes better than punctually) on the spot then, shortly afterwards, while an irrepressible smile softens your composed and complacent features, to salute the un- fortunates who arrive hot and belated panting, it may be, and just too late ! Oh, tis a virtuous triumph! But to ensure it, one must be resolutely unimitative. Hurry is contagious. It is not because they have mtich to do, but merely perforce of a foolish, fidgety habit, that many people in our streets heat and tire themselves; and the others, for the most part, do the like, from unconscious sympathy and mechanical im- itation. Be on your guard, James, against the infection of ex- ample. Let bad company never fool your wise, young feet into a bootless race against time. Look out of the window, James. Observe the two gentle- men, in beaver hats and suits of broadcloth, passing at the rate of 118 kSummer Philosophy. four miles an hour. Mark their dripping brows and burning cheeks! how unwise, to be so pinched for time; how absurd, if they be not! But, their costume ! James, be it known to you, that, in these little matters (so called) of personal comfort and taste, we are a servile people servile comformists to fash- ion, and an arbitrary system of stupid uniformity. But, be not you conformed ! Bow not your neck ! Exercise, personally and hourly, that independence, which our good people commonly re- serve to quarrel about, at elections, and glorify on anniversaries. Dress after your own heart. If you be so odd as not to real- ize that a coat, which was comfortable when mercury froze, must be equally so (and the only proper coat) under these tropical fer- vors fear not to array yourself, cap-a-pie, in nankin, linen or silk ! Why be uncomfortable, because other people choose to be ? Live pleasant. Gratefully careful, as I know you to be, James, of the pre- cious organ cinctured by the nether part of your waistcoat, you will, of course, eschew the mean absurdities of Grahamisrn, equally with the sottishness and excess, to which you never were given. Ripe fruit, James, in the morning; seldom after. The old dogma, you know, makes it gold in the morning, silver at noon, and lead at night. With your dinner, of a single excel- ling viand, let me recommend a good deal of good bread; and, for the most part, nothing thereafter, until the next morning. Prize him, or her, that can furnish you a pure decoctid~n of the sober berry; and, if you affect not Pochon and Peccho, make its acquaintance ; a daintier and more etherial spirit, even than Hyson, informs it. You are seasonable in addicting yourself to the thin potations of Bourdeaux and the Rhine : me judice, your temperate glass will never anticipate dinner. Here, indeed, cosmopolites differ; and I would not rashly proscribe a tumbler of claret, au d~jefiner. But, be all spirituous concentrations ab- jured. They irritate. So does much speaking: be chary of your words. Take time to select them, lazily, yet well. Let tbem be few, simple, and significant. Study (so far as may be, without too much men- tal application) a terse and elegant plainness of speech. Ampli- fication is the spinning-wheel of the Bathos, saith the immortal Scribblerus; and verily, in summer, it consumeth patience and comfort with its hot hum. T is a cruelly stupid practice. Study monosyllables; and be not timid in respect of long pauses. None, but a silly chatterbox, thinks them crusty, or finds tbem dull. A select few of them, well disposed, go farther, with a discreet man, (or woman either?) of a hot day, than a troop of polysyllables. Indeed, James, when, on such a day, you see two or three friends lounging quietly in the shadiest and airiest Summer Philosophy. 119 place within reach, amusing themselves, perhaps, with a glass or cigar, hardly moving a finger unnecessarily, and exchanging curt colloquy at capricious intervals the cool syllables dropping, one by one, from thin lips every pregnant word or two con- veying the hint of a speech, fructifying, during an after-pause, in the ear, and acknowledged, happily, or commented upon, by the slightest of nods, or smiles, set them down, James, for gen- tlemen and philosophers. Without fatigue of tongues or ears, there is more real communion, often, in such quiet intercourse, than in the wordiest and hottest conversations. But, if tbe loquacious take you by the button, or imprison you in a carriage, and you cannot escape, submit, James, with a good grace ; and study your precious art of attending with looks, while your suffering soul takes leave of absence. Do not fret, on any account ; for impatience and ill-humor are very heating. What livelier image of ridiculous discomfort, than a fussy, choleric gen- tleman, in dog-days, drenched with perspiration, or scorc-hed with sunshine, hearing ill-news, or being bored or affronted, or repenting, or persecuted of mosquitos, and impotently thumping his face and breaking his nails or barked at by puppies, and soilino~ his hand with throwing stones at them, and hitting a lady, and having his voice drowned, while attempting an apology, by the stunning passage of a load of iron or, at an evening lec- ture, grinning horrible a ghastly smile of gallantry, as he re- signs his seat to a robustious serving-wench, and takes his stand in the aisle. Oh misery ! What damned minutes tells he oer! James, fail you not to maintain, till October at least, a sweet, imperturbable serenity entertain your senses and your soul with harmonious, patient, minute attentions. Dear, perspiring sum- mer ! She is the alma mater, and the tender nurse, of the gen- tlest virtues ; she makes goodness its own exceeding great re- ward. Pure sentiments, gentle sympathies, and little exercises of forbearance, modesty and good nature, are the moral zephyrs, shower-baths, ice-creams, and scented white handkerchiefs of the soul! Therefore, James, keep an eye and heart open to all the beau- tiful and good that is abroad in the body or soul of the world, within your ken. Dress your thoughts in a habit of wise, indul- gent charity, and let them wear it, till it cleaves to its mould, with the aid of use. Have a kind word ready for the abashed maiden; and, for the grandsire, manly deference. If a child stumble, in your walk, pick it (deliberately) up if a lady stoop to tie her shoe-string, help her, or look away. Practice the soft answer that turneth away wrath. If one dispute you has- tily, smile and forgive him; if he talk nonsense, or pompous tru 120 Summer Philosophy. isms, listen with mute civility: in either case, take no note of him, but let him go and thank God you are rid of a fool. Beware of talking politics with a radical; or, longer than five minutes with any man. You will almost certainly strike fire by concussion, if you differ, or kindle, by smooth attrition, if you agree. Read no more than half a column, at once, in any politi- cal newspaper ; and xvax not indignant, over the capitals and notes of exclamation, either at the writer, or at those he abuses. They probably are used to it; and tis for bread that he (poor fellow) sours his heart and dips his daily pen in acids and gall. Read such books as you like, James so they be good of their kind. If you find a volume full of twaddle and egotism, or tainted with malignity or meanness, let it go at once ; and speak of it, if need he, with brief contempt. But, why grow splenetic over a book, merely because it does not hit your personal fancy or taste ? Go to. Was it written for you ? . and may it not edify another ? Pass on. The paper world is all before you; and a world, thank Heaven, it is though deformed with bar- rens and mire yet boasting its skyey heights, its mystic deeps, and thousand living fountains, and Elysian vales. Then, be not impatient with Mr. Van Artevelde Taylors preface or poem, or the critiques thereon : and if still, haply, you linger, with admiring gratitude, over the volumes of Byron, deeming him neither shallow nor trite, but a very pretty poet, who often weaves into one rainbow-stanza the gorgeous expres- sion of more newly-combined thought, than is spread over any blank verse page of the said poem. Yet, will you allow the au- thor to have his own opinion; nor, though you find his book pretty hard reading, will you dispute its being very clever for a young clerk ? a little heavy but no less divine. If you have not read Charles Lambs Elia two or three times5 (why does not somebody here print a decent edition of those es- sayst) nay, if you have it not by heari, let me commend you to it, as a perfect pink of summer reading. Tis soda; tis a glass of hock ; tis a customary after-dinner nap, with visions, in the gar- den ; tis a dewy jessamine, and chat with good girls under it. The last image seduces me to a very oblique transition. * We disagree with the Summer-Philosopher, entirely, in his opinion of Van Artevelde. Do nt believe him, James! Mr. Taylors dramatic poem is most placid reading, of a warm summer-afternoon, by yourself, recumbent on a sofa if you have not been made stupid by a two-oclock dinner or, beneath the soft light of a shaded lamp, in the evening, to one dear enough to be interesting, and intelligent enough to exclaim, beautiful! as she will, at six passages in a page, if she knows how to appreciate high-souled thought and poetical sentiment. En. t A very neat edition of Elias essays has lately appeared in that best of all cheap re-publications, The Republic of Letters; and the philosopher, or James, can ~et them for a York shilling of J. Hancock, 127, Washington street, Boston. ummer Philosophj. 121 James, beware bad women. Nay, blush not, boy, but under- stand me. She, who, of a sultry afternoon, exercises you with discussion of fossil-remains, and comparison of German and Ital- ian tragedies ; or, in the evening, sultrier still, tempts you to walk on a Turkey carpet, and play the battle of Prague, (you might as well fight it, and have done) on an untuned piano ; or makes you go to church with her, and sit in a crowded pew, and then and there filches your handkerchief, and for a ~vhile wont lend you her fan ; or whispers scandal in your ear, during all the long, nasal, damnatory sermon, and the ear-piercing harmonies of a choir of fifty-three singing-school children, accompanied by violins and clarionets ; a woman capable of these enormities, or any of them, is too dangerous and cruel to be encountered at this season. If you can mollify her, at any cost, but that of heat- ing yourself, do it. Sketch for her, all the morning; submit to carry her billet-doux to your rival, (if be live in the same square;) let her feed your spaniel with cake ; even go with her on a water- party, and catch her fish, she holding the end of the rod ; but, if not all your submission and service will bring her to reason, or soften her to compassion; if she persist in enticing and compell- ing you to violate the first principles of summer philosophy abandon her! She is a naughty woman, James; and were sum- mer long enough, would be the death of you. But, with the fair sex proper, pass as many of your summer hours as Heaven pleases. I am sure, James, you need not be urged. There is no season when we could spare the precious creatures so ill. How refreshing, how cool, their company How select their influences! A girl, that loves out-doors, and an ambling palfrey at dawn, and the salt waves ; who is so bent on drawing a natural breath, that she wears a girdle almost loose and unfashionable enough to clasp the waist of the Medicean Venus ; a girl, who never combines blue and green in a dress, or pink and purple; who walks as well as she dances ; who hears you out, says what she means, and then stops; putting fit words in fit places, and speaking them in a voice gentle and low an excellent thing in woman; who likes her mother-tongue better than all others ; sings nothing that she cant sing right, and does that without urging; lets you hear every word; plays piano more than forte, and likes good old tunes better than silly new ones never screams or faints, and is too proud and loving, to be, for a moment, vain, envious or insincere ; find such a girl, James, and make her the tutelary, fresh-winged angel of your summer life! With a sentiment, delicately cool, however transporting, you may love and worship her, like the crescent-moon, or a Pleiad, or a virgin fountain. Her presence., her voice, her foot- fall, the thought or dream of her, will come upon you, amid the VOL. IX. 16 122 Parting. fervid noon, like breath of vernal air from snowy Alp ; and, at night, Like the gentle South That steals along a hank of violets, Stealing and giving odors ! Thus, James, may your chaste love fan and freshen you bidding defiance to the dog-star ; while every entertainer of wanton and violent passions, pants, glows, and sw elters in their heat the mutual inflammation of body and soul. CosMo. PARTING. A MYSTIC sadness oft I feel Oer my rapt spirit steal, When tints Elysian fade from evening skies, Or an Orphean note, in lingering sweetness dies. 0, tis a mournful thing, In a world of sorrowing, To part with beauty, wheresoeer it be, Or break one bond of congeniality But deeper, holier is the grief Known only to the heart Of the lone one, who, after commune brief, Is forced to part With beings knit to him by spirit-ties Whose presence is delight, Shedding a soothing light, Before whose radiance pure, each phantom sorrow flies! Methinks there must a deep aim be in this mysterious destiny, That, when we seem the gate of Heaven to gain, And hear the echo of the seraph strain, The golden chord is riven, And baffled love back to its yearnings driven! Not thus, for aye, shall we aspire; This human love, Instinct with celestial fire, Borne to its pristine home above, Shall, in the freedom of the spirit be, Give and be given through eternity! H. T. T.

H. T. T. T., H. T. Parting Original Papers 122-123

122 Parting. fervid noon, like breath of vernal air from snowy Alp ; and, at night, Like the gentle South That steals along a hank of violets, Stealing and giving odors ! Thus, James, may your chaste love fan and freshen you bidding defiance to the dog-star ; while every entertainer of wanton and violent passions, pants, glows, and sw elters in their heat the mutual inflammation of body and soul. CosMo. PARTING. A MYSTIC sadness oft I feel Oer my rapt spirit steal, When tints Elysian fade from evening skies, Or an Orphean note, in lingering sweetness dies. 0, tis a mournful thing, In a world of sorrowing, To part with beauty, wheresoeer it be, Or break one bond of congeniality But deeper, holier is the grief Known only to the heart Of the lone one, who, after commune brief, Is forced to part With beings knit to him by spirit-ties Whose presence is delight, Shedding a soothing light, Before whose radiance pure, each phantom sorrow flies! Methinks there must a deep aim be in this mysterious destiny, That, when we seem the gate of Heaven to gain, And hear the echo of the seraph strain, The golden chord is riven, And baffled love back to its yearnings driven! Not thus, for aye, shall we aspire; This human love, Instinct with celestial fire, Borne to its pristine home above, Shall, in the freedom of the spirit be, Give and be given through eternity! H. T. T. 123 CHURCH REMINISCENCES~ IN former numbers of this Magazine, (vol. vi. p. 25 and 105; there are two articles, embracing some account of the first intro- duction of the organ into our Congregational churches, and of those individuals who commenced the building of organs in this part of the country. The perusal of those sketches induced a highly respectable gentleman, possessing a very extensive per- sonal knowledge of the subject, and of the ecclesiastical occur- rences, for nearly half a century past, connected with Boston and its vicinity, to commit to paper a few hasty notes, which he af- terwards communicated to the writer of those articles, for his fur- ther information. Such corrections, facts, and anecdotes, as are deemed suitable for publication, have been selected, and will be found in the following pages. They will not only be interesting to the antiquary, but some of them may, perhaps, afford amuse- ment to the general reader. In the Magazine, (vol. vi. p. 36) it is intimated, that the Ro- man Catholics had no church in New-England till the present Catholic church in Franklin street was built. The writer was well aware, that a few Catholics had previously occupied an old meeting-house in School street, which they hired for some time; but he did not consider this as really having a church. The remark, however, has given occasion for the relation of an anec- dote connected with the old church, and for some account of the early history of the Catholics in Boston, which are here given, in the following extract from the notes that have been mentioned. There stood formerly, on the spot now occupied, in School street, Boston, by the Universalist church, (Mr. Balions) a small chapel, with one gallery in front, and another on the left side of the pulpit, which was semicircular, built by some of the Hugo- nots, who fled from France at the time of the repeal of the edict of Nantz, with their minister, Mr. La Massa ; and by them it was occupied for many years. With some of their descendants, I am personally intimate. One after another died ; and their children gave up their worship, and mixed with other societies. The doors xvere, of course, closed for a long time. At length, Mr. William Croswell, a blind man, (whom I well recollect, and who has, at this moment, a son bearing the same name, and a daughter, likewise, residing in the same house with him, some- where at the south part of the city) who was called, in those days, a Xew-light preacher, was there for a long time within my remembrance. At length, there came along the late Mr. John Murray, the Universalist, (Croswell being dead) and he preached there, for a time, to any audience he could collect~ He wa~

Church Reminiscences Original Papers 123-128

123 CHURCH REMINISCENCES~ IN former numbers of this Magazine, (vol. vi. p. 25 and 105; there are two articles, embracing some account of the first intro- duction of the organ into our Congregational churches, and of those individuals who commenced the building of organs in this part of the country. The perusal of those sketches induced a highly respectable gentleman, possessing a very extensive per- sonal knowledge of the subject, and of the ecclesiastical occur- rences, for nearly half a century past, connected with Boston and its vicinity, to commit to paper a few hasty notes, which he af- terwards communicated to the writer of those articles, for his fur- ther information. Such corrections, facts, and anecdotes, as are deemed suitable for publication, have been selected, and will be found in the following pages. They will not only be interesting to the antiquary, but some of them may, perhaps, afford amuse- ment to the general reader. In the Magazine, (vol. vi. p. 36) it is intimated, that the Ro- man Catholics had no church in New-England till the present Catholic church in Franklin street was built. The writer was well aware, that a few Catholics had previously occupied an old meeting-house in School street, which they hired for some time; but he did not consider this as really having a church. The remark, however, has given occasion for the relation of an anec- dote connected with the old church, and for some account of the early history of the Catholics in Boston, which are here given, in the following extract from the notes that have been mentioned. There stood formerly, on the spot now occupied, in School street, Boston, by the Universalist church, (Mr. Balions) a small chapel, with one gallery in front, and another on the left side of the pulpit, which was semicircular, built by some of the Hugo- nots, who fled from France at the time of the repeal of the edict of Nantz, with their minister, Mr. La Massa ; and by them it was occupied for many years. With some of their descendants, I am personally intimate. One after another died ; and their children gave up their worship, and mixed with other societies. The doors xvere, of course, closed for a long time. At length, Mr. William Croswell, a blind man, (whom I well recollect, and who has, at this moment, a son bearing the same name, and a daughter, likewise, residing in the same house with him, some- where at the south part of the city) who was called, in those days, a Xew-light preacher, was there for a long time within my remembrance. At length, there came along the late Mr. John Murray, the Universalist, (Croswell being dead) and he preached there, for a time, to any audience he could collect~ He wa~ 124 Church Reminiscences. earnestly opposed by all the ministers in and about Boston, amongst whom, the Rev. Mr. Bacon, then minister of the Old South church, distinguished himselt~ It having been given out, that Murray was to preach one evening, in Father Croswells meeting-house, INIr. Bacon, in his zeal, xvent to hear him, in or- der to answer him after his sermon. As soon as Murray had finished, Bacon stept up two or three stairs of the pulpit, and called out All that Mr. Murray has said is a delusion. I beg the people to stop, and I will prove it to them. Among the audience, there were several of Mr. Bacons parish, who attend- ed in order to hear him put down Murray. Murray instantly stept to the pulpit-door, opened it, and begged him to walk in, which he peremptorily declined ; not xvilling even to stand in the same desk with him. Murray, however, earnestly repeated his request, saying The people can hear yoti much better, Mr. Bacon, from the pulpit, than they can from that stair. Bacon, however, still declined. After he had finished, Murray rejoined, and excited great laughter, (for he was a great wit) at Mr. Ba- con s expense, who grew angry, and attempted a second reply; to which, Murray instantly rejoined, producing increased laughter at Bacon. Bacons friends were irritated, and ran to an old wo- man s huxter-shop who occupied the next building bought all her eggs, carried them into the church, and threw them at Murray, as he stood in the pulpit. He humorously replied Well, my dear friends, these are moving arguments; but, 1 must own, at the same time, II have never been so fully treated with Bacon and eggs before, in all my life .. at the same time, retiring from the pulpit. This brought a roar of laughter on Mr. Bacon, who left the church, and never afterwards interfered with Mr. Murray. So went the story in my youthful days. Soon after this, there came along the Rev. Mr. Rausselett, a chaplain on board a French vessel, who commenced, for the first time, the Catholic worship, in that church. His character, I remember, was not respected. Soon afterwards succeeded to him the Abb~ Patterie, another French Catholic; then John Thayer, who was, or pretended to have been, converted~ to the Catholic faith in Rome. He was formerly a Congregational preacher, but never ordained as such. He has relations now liv- ing in Boston. I knew him well; considered a very eccentric man. He was ordained in Rome. After continuing a while in that church, he left it, and went south, where he died. After him, came IDr. Matignon; and in 1794, I think, or 1795, came Mr. (afterwards bishop) Chevereux. Whilst they officiated in the old church, in School street, the Doctor applied to the wri- ter of these notes to sell them a small organ, for their church, which he then had itt his possession, and had advertised for sale; and the church were prevented from having it, merely by the Church Reminiscences. 125 sudden death of the man who was to have played, whose name I cannot at this moment recall, though I knew him well ; and having no other person among them, who could play it as that man had proposed, gratuitously, and being too small in numbers, and too poor in pence, to hire an organist, the matter was alto- gether relinquished. Ahout the year 1805, the present Catholic church was built, where it now stands, and the old one was sold to the Universalists, who built upon the ground the present hrick church, that is now there. It is said, in the Magazine, (vol. vi. p. 37) speaking of the organ in Brattle street church This was the first organ erected in any Congregational church in Boston, and was undoubtedly the only one then contained in any church, not Episcopal, in New-Eng- land. This, it appears, is not strictly correct. A small organ bad previously been used in the Old Brick church, that is now there. An account of the circumstances, attending its introduc- tion, is thus related in the notes The first introduction of organs into our Congregational church- es, though the Catholics and Episcopalians have used them so long, is of recent date, and perfectly within my recollection. Our fathers thought they savored of Popery and Episcopacy, and therefore excluded them from their places of worship. They thought the same, likewise, of wearing the black gown and cas- sock; and they were never worn, in any of our New-England churches, until they came into use, and were worn, for the first time, on the very same day, and in the very same house of wor- ship, where the first organ had ever sounded in an American Congregational church. That church has long since been re- moved to Chauncy place, in Boston ; and the spot it occupied is converted into stores and offices. After the Old Brick meet- ing-house, as it was then called, had undergone very extensive alterations, internally, as well as repairs without, in the year 1785 forty-nine years since, two of its most influential mem- bers, (the late Dr. John Joy, and Joseph Woodward, who is still living at South Boston one of whom is gone, we trust, to worship in a higher church) feeling a deep interest in the wel- fare, respect, ahility, and success of the society, and desiring to render it more attractive, proposed an organ, and contributed generally to its purchase. They first placed a very small one, of two stops only, in the loft. This was, ten years since, in the possession of Mr. John Mycall, at Camhridgeport. It was a miserable instrument, and was removed the day or two after it was tried, but was never used there on any Sunday. The soci- ety then purchased, of Nathan IPrazer, senior, a large, Eng- lish chamher-organ, which he had imported for his own use. This instrument remained in that church till the house was taken down, when it was sold to the Rev. Dr. Codmans society, in 126 Church Reminiscences. Dorchester, whence it has recently been transferred to the IDed- barn Episcopal church, where it now is. It has one row of keys, and contains eight stops, including sesquialter and hauthoy. The same persons, who were leading men in procuring the organ, pre- sented both Dr. Chauncy and Mr. Clarke, from subscriptions of various persons, xvhich they set on foot, a black gown and cas- sock each, with a request that they might be worn, on the day of their return to their newly-repaired church, xvhen the organ would, also, for the first time, be played. The senior pastor, Dr. Chauncy, who had recently been engaged in a theological controversy xvith the late Bishop of Landoff, and some other dis- tinguished clergymen of the Episcopal church in England, ob- jected, saying It looked too Episcopal. They replied All your people, sir, would be gratified by your doing so. What! black gown and organ both? said the old gentleman. Yes, sir, they rejoined. Well, he replied, I suppose, then, it will be well enough to let them have their own way. Chil- dren are always pleased with fine clothes and baubles and whis- tles, and so they shall have them all at once, and they will be soon tired of them. The black gowns were worn accordingly, both by Dr. Chauncy and Mr. Clarke; and the organ was played, for the first time, in the first Congregational society that was established in the town of Boston. This was seven years previous to the introduction of the organ into Brattle street church, in 1792, at which church I was present on the Sunday immediately preceding the one on which it was first played. It was then putting up, but the work was not entirely finished. I was, (continues the writer) from my earliest recollection, extravagantly fond of music, particularly of sacred music; and of the solemn, deep tones of the organ, above every other instru- ment. This led me to take a peculiar interest in such things, to notice, more particularly, the introduction and building of church organs, and to impress more strongly upon my memory the time and circumstances connected with their history in this part of the country. I always feared to indulge my taste to its full extent this way, lest it might interfere with my duties, and with more important pursuits. But, to this hour, I hear no organ, without being immediately arrested in my walks ; and I find it difficult to quit the all-absorbing melody it emits. The order of time, in xvhich organs were introduced into our Congregational churches, in Boston and the vicinity, was, as the writer of these notes well recollects, as follows. 1. The Con- gregational church, in which an organ was first placed, was the Old Brick .Meeting-house, so called, then situated where Joys buildings now stand. This was in 1785. The organ has been already described. 2. An organ was next placed in the first Universalist church, at the north-end, about the year 1791 or Church Reminiscences. 127 1792, where the Rev. John Murray was then, or soon after- wards, the settled minister. It was built by Dr. Leavitt, of Boston. 3. The third organ was the fine English instrument, which was put up in Brattle street church, in 1792. It was played by Hans Gram, a German, of some celebrity in his day. 4. The fourth organ was placed in the Rev. Dr. Kirklands church, in Summer street, (Church Green.) It xvas stated in the Magazine, (vol. vi. p. 38) on the authority of Monsieur Mallet, who was the first organist, that it was a very large chamber-organ, with two rows of keys. This is a mistake. It had but one row of keys, and only five stops, namely: stopt diapason, dulciana, principal, fifteenth, and flute. It was afterwards in the Episco- pal church at South Boston. 5. The fifth organ was introduced into the first congregational church in Charlestown, of which, the Rev. Dr. Morse was the minister. This xvas an English chain- her-organ, imported by James Cutler, Esq. (brother of the wid- ow of the late Bishop Parker) for his own use. It has recently been taken down, and disposed of to Mr. Appleton, organ builder, in part payment for a larger one; and it has since been purchased of him for the mariners church, on Fort hill. Its tone is excellent. It has one row of keys, and six stops, namely: stopt diapason, dulciana, principal, fifteenth, flute, and hauthoy; the latter in a swell. 6. A small organ, of four stops, built by Dr. Leavitt, in 1799, then living in Portland, was next intro- duced at the Rev. Dr. Grays church, Jamaica Plain, Roxhury. It was played by barrels, on which was set a large number of the psalm tunes then in use. Manual keys were afterwards added, and the bass extended. It was subsequently sold to an Episcopal church in Connecticut, where the proceeds of two concerts upon it paid its cost. 7. An organ, built by Dr. Leavitt, was next placed in the old Congregational church, in Newburyport, of which, the Rev. Messrs. Carey and Andrews were then minis- ters. 8. An English organ was next put up in the church of the Rev. Dr. John Prince, of Salem. 9. A large organ, built by Geib, of New-York, was soon after erected in the late Dr. Bar- nards church, in Salem. Not long afterwards, organs were grad- ually introduced into a great number of our principal churches, of all denominations. The late James Swan, Esq., who died in France some time since, offered, many years ago, an organ to the first Congrega- tional church, in Dorchester, (now Dr. Harriss) of which, the Rev. Moses Everett was then minister. The offer was refused. Either the present Nicholas Brown, Esq., of Providence, or his father or uncle, (I am uncertain which) offered, likewise, an or- gan to the Baptist church, in Providence, which was also refused. The circumstances and incidents, which have been stated in these notes, are not mere heresay; they are entirely within my 128 Sonnet. own personal knowledge. And hQxv soon are facts forgotten I will relate a remarkable case of forgetfulness. Immediately after the Cadets, from West-Point, had visited Boston, and en- camped a day or two on the common, it was purposed to adopt a uniform dress for the students at the University at Cambridge. A gentleman, now living, (one of the Overseers) attended a meet- ing of the board, when a student was introduced, dressed in the uniform proposed. He alluded to the fact, of a former uniform worn at the college. Not a person present, except himself, had the least recollection of such a circumstance. It was doubted, even by the president himself, who was one of the earliest that wore it. The gentleman insisted on the fact, and described the uniform, in every particular. He was still doubted ; for, strange to tell, no one could recall the memory of a uniform, which he must have worn if it were true. Reference xvas made to the college laws, and in them was found a full confirmation of all that had been stated. The gentleman, when a student, had worn the dress himself, and recollected it perfectly well; yet, he could never meet one of his college mates, who remembered the exist- ence of this uniform. So soon pass away the recollections of our youthful scenes and days! SONNET. DEAR love, I think of thee, with deep delight The husy moments of the day fleet on, And slowly roll the solemn hours of night: To me, scarce conscious how they all are gone, A spell of pleasant thought is woven hright, And, in the changeful pictures of my dream, Thy sweet form rises to my charmed sight; With gentle tenderness, thy blue eyes gleam And, like faint music, through the woods at eve, Or the melodious murmur of a stream, Thy seraph voice floats to me; and I grieve That this is all unreal and that thou Art never constant with me save in thought as now!

Sonnet Original Papers 128-129

128 Sonnet. own personal knowledge. And hQxv soon are facts forgotten I will relate a remarkable case of forgetfulness. Immediately after the Cadets, from West-Point, had visited Boston, and en- camped a day or two on the common, it was purposed to adopt a uniform dress for the students at the University at Cambridge. A gentleman, now living, (one of the Overseers) attended a meet- ing of the board, when a student was introduced, dressed in the uniform proposed. He alluded to the fact, of a former uniform worn at the college. Not a person present, except himself, had the least recollection of such a circumstance. It was doubted, even by the president himself, who was one of the earliest that wore it. The gentleman insisted on the fact, and described the uniform, in every particular. He was still doubted ; for, strange to tell, no one could recall the memory of a uniform, which he must have worn if it were true. Reference xvas made to the college laws, and in them was found a full confirmation of all that had been stated. The gentleman, when a student, had worn the dress himself, and recollected it perfectly well; yet, he could never meet one of his college mates, who remembered the exist- ence of this uniform. So soon pass away the recollections of our youthful scenes and days! SONNET. DEAR love, I think of thee, with deep delight The husy moments of the day fleet on, And slowly roll the solemn hours of night: To me, scarce conscious how they all are gone, A spell of pleasant thought is woven hright, And, in the changeful pictures of my dream, Thy sweet form rises to my charmed sight; With gentle tenderness, thy blue eyes gleam And, like faint music, through the woods at eve, Or the melodious murmur of a stream, Thy seraph voice floats to me; and I grieve That this is all unreal and that thou Art never constant with me save in thought as now! 129 LI1ERARY IIUMBUG.* READER, are you acquainted with the system of humbug (to use a vulgar, though expressive, term) and imposition used, to palm works, not American, though written by American authors, upon an American .public ? If not, we will strive to enlighten you, without meaning any especial reference to the volumes upon our table. In the first place, the author has, of course, a great many personal friends, who do their utmost to force the nauseous pill, he is about to compound, down the general throat. Then, also of course, he has written sundry communications, it may be, editorials, for some of the popular news-prints, which are there- fore bound, in gratitude, to do their best to make his volumes yield him a solid return. Caw me, caw thee, is a proverb, all the world over. Then comes a tremendous flourish of penny trumpets. American literature has been too long neglected at home, and abused abroad. Foreign works have been too much en- couraged and patronized. It is our duty to fling our oxvn pearls be- fore our own swine. The spirit of national vanity, or national pa- triotism, is fooled to the top of its bent. Our distinguished coun- tryman is about to publish a work, of which we have been hon- ored with a perusal of the proof-sheets, and which, we are of opinion, will stand forth a proud trophy of our countrys genius, and will put the writings of such inferior xvitlings as Scott, Byron, and Bulwer, to shame. We have read it, and know that it is strictly national strikingly describes American manners and American scenery ; it is graphic in its descriptions, correct in its details, powerful in its incidents; and it is the bounden duty of every true lover of his country, to ornament his shelves with a copy. Thus the eagles are gathered to the prey, and all the cog- noscenti are eager to purchase. In the meanwhile, some great publisher has stereotyped the books. This publisher sends a copy of each of his seventy thousand volumes a year to some ten thousand editors of news- papers and periodicals, and advertises with at least half of them. They are, in duty, obliged to praise, or they lose his patronage and they do so. Puff! puff! puff! The deceived public buy, stare, yawn, and admire. Here are, certainly, beauties, though they cannot be seen by the unassisted eye. Enough copies are sold, by retail, to secure the publisher; the world yawns, and the book is neglected and forgotten. The stereotype plates, *PAULDINGS WoRKs, Vols. 1 and 2. Salmagundi: or, the Whim-whams and Opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, Esq., and others. New-York: Harper and Brothers. VOL. IX. 17

Literary Humbug Original Papers 129-132

129 LI1ERARY IIUMBUG.* READER, are you acquainted with the system of humbug (to use a vulgar, though expressive, term) and imposition used, to palm works, not American, though written by American authors, upon an American .public ? If not, we will strive to enlighten you, without meaning any especial reference to the volumes upon our table. In the first place, the author has, of course, a great many personal friends, who do their utmost to force the nauseous pill, he is about to compound, down the general throat. Then, also of course, he has written sundry communications, it may be, editorials, for some of the popular news-prints, which are there- fore bound, in gratitude, to do their best to make his volumes yield him a solid return. Caw me, caw thee, is a proverb, all the world over. Then comes a tremendous flourish of penny trumpets. American literature has been too long neglected at home, and abused abroad. Foreign works have been too much en- couraged and patronized. It is our duty to fling our oxvn pearls be- fore our own swine. The spirit of national vanity, or national pa- triotism, is fooled to the top of its bent. Our distinguished coun- tryman is about to publish a work, of which we have been hon- ored with a perusal of the proof-sheets, and which, we are of opinion, will stand forth a proud trophy of our countrys genius, and will put the writings of such inferior xvitlings as Scott, Byron, and Bulwer, to shame. We have read it, and know that it is strictly national strikingly describes American manners and American scenery ; it is graphic in its descriptions, correct in its details, powerful in its incidents; and it is the bounden duty of every true lover of his country, to ornament his shelves with a copy. Thus the eagles are gathered to the prey, and all the cog- noscenti are eager to purchase. In the meanwhile, some great publisher has stereotyped the books. This publisher sends a copy of each of his seventy thousand volumes a year to some ten thousand editors of news- papers and periodicals, and advertises with at least half of them. They are, in duty, obliged to praise, or they lose his patronage and they do so. Puff! puff! puff! The deceived public buy, stare, yawn, and admire. Here are, certainly, beauties, though they cannot be seen by the unassisted eye. Enough copies are sold, by retail, to secure the publisher; the world yawns, and the book is neglected and forgotten. The stereotype plates, *PAULDINGS WoRKs, Vols. 1 and 2. Salmagundi: or, the Whim-whams and Opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, Esq., and others. New-York: Harper and Brothers. VOL. IX. 17 130 Literary Humbug. however, remain. New copies can be struck off, and sold at auction at twenty-five cents per tome, while the cost of them is but twelve and a half. Five hundred thousand are sent among the principal cities and towns, distributed in this xvay, and dis- posed of for the benefit of the publisher and author gener- ally of the former, who literally lives by eating and drinking out of the sculls of his bond-slaves ; that is to say, his hackney scrib- blers. In this way, the vilest English re-puhlications, and the most stupid miscreations of American stupidity, are puffed and forced upon the American people. Is the hook utterly worth- less ? no matter; the plates will strike off five hundred thous- and copies before they are worn out, and that number must and xvill be sold. Is the book good, or bad ? 110 matter. Unless it be fortunate enough to reach a second edition, the result is precisely the same. Funds, sufficient to stereotype, and a book- selling correspondence, sufficiently extensive to force a sale, are all that are necessary. If the author have an established, though factitious, reputation, it is well; if he bath managed to fall in with a temporary current of popular prejudice, it is also well. Horse- shoe Robinson and the Monikins are likely to have the same fate; though one is as good and the other as bad a book, of its kind, as can well be written. Stereotype, stereotype, and your book is sure to sell. Witness the latter absurdities of that con- ceit-monopolized, idea-exhausted Cooper, who imagines that the Holy Alliance are in a conspiracy against him, and that his advice is of consequence to his country-folk. Whose books sell better than his ? T bus is the whole country flooded with a worthless literature, a disgrace to the land we live in, and likely to ex- ercise a permanent evil influence upon after-generations. No matter ; stereotype stereotype He does best who writes most, though worst; at least, he gets most money. We are led to these remarks by the fact, that a new stereo- type edition of the works of that literary incubus, Paulding, is being published in New-York, in the style of the Waverly and Pelbam novels. The first two volumes are already out; and a more barefaced imposition was never practiced in any commu- nity. They contain Salmagundi, which is really an excellent work. How the author has dared to present it as a specimen of his savoir faire, is more than we can conceive, since only a part of it is his, and that, we believe, is a very small part. Look into it, and if you find a good paper, be sure it is Washington Irvings; if you find a dull one, do not fail to ascribe it to Paulding. We are warranted in this assertion, by all his subsequent works. As a whole, Salmagundi is an admirable production; as a part of the writings of Paulding, it is a downright cheat. We advise our readers to buy it, not as a part of a series, but as a separate work. As for the rest of the series, be will be wisest who has Pauldings Works. 131 least to do with it. We have not room to follow out the entire catalogue of Pauldings demerits, in detail ; hut we intend to do him more ample justice hereafter. We shall analyze his trash, piece by piece, as it comes out. A hack scribbler, whose abom- inations have been tolerated, puffed, and suffered to die, one after the other, for these twenty years, unwept, unhonored, and unsung, and whose corpses have only been preserved in existence by the stereotype system, has not the claim due to the first efforts of modest merit, or to the brotherhood of nationality. We say nothing against the man ; we suppose he thinks he must eat; though, for our part, we see no necessity for it. But really,~ to encourage, or even to tolerate such nuisances as his poems and novels, would, it appears to us, be high-treason against our coun- trys fame, and an injury to our truly meritorious ~vriters, whose efforts he impedes, and whose market he injures. What signifies it, that a writer is personally a clever fellow ? Must we there- fore buy a had hook from him? Let him sharpen saws, or saw wood, for which his intellect qualifies him. It were the more honorable calling. Shall we subscribe to a periodical because the editress has children to support V Let her betake herself to the washing-tub, or take in sewing ; or let her ask that as an alms, which, as such, shall be freely bestowed, but which will be witheld as an encouragement to false pretensions, or as a salvo to vain pride, and an injury to the lawful claims of others. We are weary of the pitiful cant of the day this writer is an American, a good fellow, an unfortunate man, and therefore you ought to buy his book. Let the American the good fellow, and the unfortunate person produce a really good work, and we will buy it, and pay for it twice over. He who avails himself of such pretences is, in our opinions precisely on a footing with the gen- teel beggar, who seeks charity on the score of the respectability of his family, rather than betake himself to honest labor, or go to the almshouse. The value of a thing, says keen-witted, honest Butler, is just the money it will bring. So it is. A thing is worth just its market value, provided the article is well-known, and there is no fraud or force practiced in the sale. How stands the case with Paulding? His works are known and read by not one in twenty no, not one in a hundred who has bought them. They are imposed on the credulity of the ignorant, by the bought suf- frage of a venal press. Just so are the copper shop-bills forced into currency, as cents, by those who manufacture them by whole- sale, while they are not worth half a cent. Rahab Marchael might just as well attempt to make the dead resume their vitality and exercise their functions, in good earnest, as any printer to * Vide John Neals gentle comments, in the New-England Galaxy, headed Somner Lincoln Fairfield. 132 Smoking. give Paulding a permanent rank among American authors. One might as well go into a church-yard, and cry Arise ! ye dry bones ! The dry bones might, indeed, be disinterred, and knife-handles might be made of them; but the vital current would never reinvigorate them and just so may Pauldings defunct works be resuscitated, to serve the temporary purposes of himself and booksellers ; but live they never can. Let us try to remem- ber as many of them as we can. The first we can think of was, the Lay of the Scotch Fiddle, which cannot be said to be forgotten, be cause it was never known. It was a vulgar, stupid parody upon one of Scotts early lyrical poems, and perished, we believe, by the agency of mildew, on the booksellers shelves. The next was the Backwoodsman, a prose poem, which was read and praised by Major Noah, and by fexv, if any, else. Then caine John Bull in America, an extravaganza, a burlesque upon certain English travelers in Amer- ica, much in the manner of the popular ballad, Jim Crow, and of about the same merit. The Dutchmans Fireside bad noth- ing Dutch in it but the name ; xvas tame in incident, weak in con- ception, and anything but pleasing in style. The Lion of the West was a play, particularly acceptable to the galleries of the minor theatres, which is making its eulogium in a word. A viler farce was never tolerated on any boards. Add to these, some stories and essays, in magazines and newspapers, and what else our author hath done or suffered, at present we wot not. We shall give due notice thereof, as the re-publication refresheth our memory. Whom want, hunger, or the devil driveth, must needs go on; and if our hero bath no other means of filling his stomach, and covering his back, let him continue to publish. But, if the care of his fame, and the dread of reproach, be of paramount impor- tance, in his estimation, we implore him to give over for his own sake. SMOKING. I HAVE an affection for a habit not the piece of raiment so called, but a veritable custom, worn like a garment, indeed, from time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the con- trary, and becoming so assimilated to the wearer, that, without it, he seems not himself. I have seen men, who were as free from habits as a comet. They are no friends for me. Give me

J. D. D., J. Smoking Original Papers 132-135

132 Smoking. give Paulding a permanent rank among American authors. One might as well go into a church-yard, and cry Arise ! ye dry bones ! The dry bones might, indeed, be disinterred, and knife-handles might be made of them; but the vital current would never reinvigorate them and just so may Pauldings defunct works be resuscitated, to serve the temporary purposes of himself and booksellers ; but live they never can. Let us try to remem- ber as many of them as we can. The first we can think of was, the Lay of the Scotch Fiddle, which cannot be said to be forgotten, be cause it was never known. It was a vulgar, stupid parody upon one of Scotts early lyrical poems, and perished, we believe, by the agency of mildew, on the booksellers shelves. The next was the Backwoodsman, a prose poem, which was read and praised by Major Noah, and by fexv, if any, else. Then caine John Bull in America, an extravaganza, a burlesque upon certain English travelers in Amer- ica, much in the manner of the popular ballad, Jim Crow, and of about the same merit. The Dutchmans Fireside bad noth- ing Dutch in it but the name ; xvas tame in incident, weak in con- ception, and anything but pleasing in style. The Lion of the West was a play, particularly acceptable to the galleries of the minor theatres, which is making its eulogium in a word. A viler farce was never tolerated on any boards. Add to these, some stories and essays, in magazines and newspapers, and what else our author hath done or suffered, at present we wot not. We shall give due notice thereof, as the re-publication refresheth our memory. Whom want, hunger, or the devil driveth, must needs go on; and if our hero bath no other means of filling his stomach, and covering his back, let him continue to publish. But, if the care of his fame, and the dread of reproach, be of paramount impor- tance, in his estimation, we implore him to give over for his own sake. SMOKING. I HAVE an affection for a habit not the piece of raiment so called, but a veritable custom, worn like a garment, indeed, from time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the con- trary, and becoming so assimilated to the wearer, that, without it, he seems not himself. I have seen men, who were as free from habits as a comet. They are no friends for me. Give me ~Srnoking~ 133 a man on whom I can depend one who will feel to-morrow as he feels to-day who does everything by habit, and nothing by impulse, and I can take him to my heart. But, your innovators I shun, as I would a viper. When I contracted my most inveterate habit smoking I cannot determine. The earliest event of my life, of which I have any distinct recollection, is stealing my grandfathers segars. I was scarcely older than Mercury when he stole Appollos cat- tle ; and from that moment, I have been a consistent smoker. I am a devotee of no particular sect I smoke a pipe or a segar, indiscriminately; though, with regard to my tobacco, I confess I belong to the anti-American party. Speaking of the anties, since the formation of the anti tobacco society, they are my utter detestation, from anti-christ to antimasonry. What a wreck have they made of ancient customs! Many an old friend of mine, whose integrity I thought never could be shaken, has apostatized since the commencement of the unholy crusade against the intel- lectual luxury of smoking. Has it indeed come to this ? Be- cause we are virtuous, and have joined the temperance society, are we to have no more cakes and ale? Must we throw away our segars, and betake ourselves to chamomile-flowers ? No, by Saint George What a pity, that the old poets xvere unacquainted with tobac- co. What an ode might we not have had, from Horace, or An- acreon, To my Pipe! What a delightful smoker would have been Virgil! Not in vain would he then have sung Incipe Menalios mecum, mea tibia, versus. Or as old Davidson, with unaccustomed elegance, has transla- ted it Begin with me, my pipe, Menalian strains. Plato, too, and Socrates! What accomplished and intellectual smokers had they been, sitting at their ease, inter sylvas .Icademi, looking even more profoundly wise, amid the dim cloud of en- veloping smoke. And Cicero ! how gracefully and slowly would he have exhaled the fragrant incense, in clouds as full and swel- ling as his own magnificent periods ! Not so, Tacitus and Sal- lust. They could never have attained the skill of an artist. They would have consumed you a dozen Havanas, in as many fitful whiffs. It was ever their fault to strive to say too much in a sentence; and they would have smoked as they wrote briefly and sentimentally. But, the luxury of tobacco was reserved for a happier age. I can find no trace of anything like a segar, in the writings of the ancients. Horace, it is true, does say Rectius Albanamfumo duravens rivam; 134 Smoking. but, the smoke, with which his wine was seasoned, was quite an- other affair; and Virgils oaten pipe would have stood fire but poorly. Of all systems of idolatry supposing, xvhat is impossible, that I could renounce my own religion I should prefer the Persian. My segar should be my altar; and if its fire ever went out, my Promethean sun-glass should hring me down a fresh sup- ply, from the fire-fountain in the sky. I fancy, sometimes, that a segar is more fragrant and delicious when lighted from the sun. It is a whim of mine, perhaps; but I procure my fire, as much as possihle, from above. There is an art in smoking, as in everything else ; hut it can never be acquired. The snuffer and chewer is made, but the smoker is born. I have never seen hut one, beside myself. He was a raw mountaineer, who had had no advantages, and whose wildest visions of happiness never extended beyond an American segar. He was a wonderful illustration of the power of native genius. I met him in the woods of Vermont, where I chanced to be wandering, on a trouting excursion, and the grace and ease, with which he managed his dingy, oak-leaf segar, quite won my heart. I gave him a dozen of my best, for his skill. I shall never forget his raptures, as the wreathing smoke curled, like an incense, around his head. He would have followed me forever, as Caliban did Stephano. I have not heard from him since ; but a genius like his can never be repressed. I have not a doubt, that he will become distinguished. There is a foppery, too, in smoking; indeed, what depart- ment of art or science is free from it ? My heart bleeds, daily, at sight of the thousand apish tricks of the thousand would-be- smokers, who infest our public places of resort. I can bear fop- pery in dress foppery in manners foppery in conversation or writing; but foppery, in smoking, is too much. Besides, smoking is a habit which should never he indulged in, at all, in public. Delightful amusement as it is, for a leisure hour, there are some, undoubtingly, who most unaffectedly detest it, in all its shapes. Common decency should deter us from outraging the feelings of such, by an unnecessary and wanton display of our independence, and contempt of public opinion. A gentleman should as soon be seen eating his dinner in the public streets, as smoking a segar. Both are proper in their places; and both may become, in some situations, xvorse than ridiculous. The true place for smoking, is in your own private apartment - alone, if such is your mood ; or, if you please, with a bosom friend but, never with one to whom you are indifferent. Like the bread and salt of the Mahometan, a segar should be the emblem and the assurance of friendship. Sitting thus, half reclining, in what de- lightful reveries may you indulge ; if alone, reading, perhaps, ~fIu ~LIpology. 135 with half-closed eyes, some pleasing book Wordsworth, it may be, or the Sketch-Book, or that sweetest of all earthly books, the Elia of Charles Lamb ! Byron may not thus be read, nor Shel- ley. They agree not with the quiet mood which your segar in- duces. They will awake you, in spite of yourself, from your dreamy, half-sleeping reverie. I can fancy, at such a time, that a beautiful and benevolent is b spirit concealed within that blue cloud of wreathing smoke too heavenly to linger long on earth, yet moving slowly on its upward course; at first, as if it would dwell longer with tbe mor- tals it has blessed, and then darting away, by a fresh impulse, to the very highest Heaven of glory. But, my segar is out. J. p. AN APOLOGY. Too OFT I cametoo late I staid These were offences, dearest maid was very wrong, I own; But, who could gaze on thy blue eye And feel its tender witchery, And mark how time had flown? When other scenes no pleasure gave, When earlier hopes were in the grave, And earlier friends had flown, Oh, then twas sweet to fly to thee Sweet the delusive dream, to me, Of one friend still my own. T was hut a dream alas, how soon The vision fled again the gloom, That dimmd my soul erewhile, Returns to its deserted shrine And misery alone is mine, Whose wealth was in thy smile. Oh, then, this first, last sin, forgive And let thine early friendship live Oh, smile away my fears: Nor dream I may intrude again. By word or look, to give thee pain Fear notthere s truth in tears! N.

N. N. An Apology Original Papers 135-136

~fIu ~LIpology. 135 with half-closed eyes, some pleasing book Wordsworth, it may be, or the Sketch-Book, or that sweetest of all earthly books, the Elia of Charles Lamb ! Byron may not thus be read, nor Shel- ley. They agree not with the quiet mood which your segar in- duces. They will awake you, in spite of yourself, from your dreamy, half-sleeping reverie. I can fancy, at such a time, that a beautiful and benevolent is b spirit concealed within that blue cloud of wreathing smoke too heavenly to linger long on earth, yet moving slowly on its upward course; at first, as if it would dwell longer with tbe mor- tals it has blessed, and then darting away, by a fresh impulse, to the very highest Heaven of glory. But, my segar is out. J. p. AN APOLOGY. Too OFT I cametoo late I staid These were offences, dearest maid was very wrong, I own; But, who could gaze on thy blue eye And feel its tender witchery, And mark how time had flown? When other scenes no pleasure gave, When earlier hopes were in the grave, And earlier friends had flown, Oh, then twas sweet to fly to thee Sweet the delusive dream, to me, Of one friend still my own. T was hut a dream alas, how soon The vision fled again the gloom, That dimmd my soul erewhile, Returns to its deserted shrine And misery alone is mine, Whose wealth was in thy smile. Oh, then, this first, last sin, forgive And let thine early friendship live Oh, smile away my fears: Nor dream I may intrude again. By word or look, to give thee pain Fear notthere s truth in tears! N. CRITICAL NOTICES. The .illortikirts. Edited by the duthor of The ASpy. 2 vols. l2rno. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea ~ Blartchard. THERE is no living author who has been treated uniformly with more kindness and forbearance, than J. Fenimore Cooper, the author of the Spy. For his grand and original conceptions for the Spy, Pilot, Pioneers, Red Rover, Water-Witch, & c., although deformed by various unsightly defects, he has re- ceived ample praise, from critics and the public. They have generously over- looked a clumsy and forced style, a disregard of probability in the construction of plots, and a vast quantity of colloquial stupidity and twaddle, in consideration of certain beauties which serve to diversify the pages of these works. But, of late, the powers of our author appear to have been rapidly declining. The Bravo was worse than any of its predecessors ; and the Heidenmaner, and Heads- man, baffled the exertions of many a professed novel-reader. Now comes the Monikins. It is worse, incredible as this may seem, than Coopers Letter to his Countrymen. The story, if it can be called such, is briefly this. The son of a vulgar English- man, John Goldencalf, inherits an immense property, without a particle of common sense to enable him to enjoy it. He thinks it will be idolatry to wed the girl he loves, and therefore avoids her, while he purchases estates, and embarks in specu- lations in various parts of the world, that he may enlarge his views, and multiply the ties which connect his interests with those of his fellow-creatures. In Paris, where he makes the acquaintance of Captain Noah Poke, of Stonington, (Conn.) he rescues four monkeys from the hands of a Savoyard, and discovers that they can speak French, and are a learned doctor, an old duenna, lord Chatterino and lady Chaterrissa, (two noble lovers) belonging to the kingdom of Leaphigh. Thither, the Englishman, now Sir John Goldencalf, departs with the Monikins, and with Captain Noah Poke arrives safely at the monkey kingdom, after encountering a multitude of dangers. Some hundreds of pages are taken up with describing the men, manners, and institutions of the kingdom of Leaphigh, and the adjacent re- public of Leaplow or, in other words, with satirizing, or attempting to satirize mankind. The author, in following the trait of Swift, probably forgot that, al- though he possessed an abundance of dull malignity, he had neither the sparkling wit, the keen sarcasm, nor the polished style of the English satirist. But, having once embarked in his hazardous speculation, our author blunders on, pell-mell, striking prodigious blows to the right and left, but, unfortunately, never hitting any- thing but himself Although his piece never carries to the mark, it wounds him with the recoil.

The Monikins. Edited by the Author of "The Spy" Critical Notices 136-137

CRITICAL NOTICES. The .illortikirts. Edited by the duthor of The ASpy. 2 vols. l2rno. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea ~ Blartchard. THERE is no living author who has been treated uniformly with more kindness and forbearance, than J. Fenimore Cooper, the author of the Spy. For his grand and original conceptions for the Spy, Pilot, Pioneers, Red Rover, Water-Witch, & c., although deformed by various unsightly defects, he has re- ceived ample praise, from critics and the public. They have generously over- looked a clumsy and forced style, a disregard of probability in the construction of plots, and a vast quantity of colloquial stupidity and twaddle, in consideration of certain beauties which serve to diversify the pages of these works. But, of late, the powers of our author appear to have been rapidly declining. The Bravo was worse than any of its predecessors ; and the Heidenmaner, and Heads- man, baffled the exertions of many a professed novel-reader. Now comes the Monikins. It is worse, incredible as this may seem, than Coopers Letter to his Countrymen. The story, if it can be called such, is briefly this. The son of a vulgar English- man, John Goldencalf, inherits an immense property, without a particle of common sense to enable him to enjoy it. He thinks it will be idolatry to wed the girl he loves, and therefore avoids her, while he purchases estates, and embarks in specu- lations in various parts of the world, that he may enlarge his views, and multiply the ties which connect his interests with those of his fellow-creatures. In Paris, where he makes the acquaintance of Captain Noah Poke, of Stonington, (Conn.) he rescues four monkeys from the hands of a Savoyard, and discovers that they can speak French, and are a learned doctor, an old duenna, lord Chatterino and lady Chaterrissa, (two noble lovers) belonging to the kingdom of Leaphigh. Thither, the Englishman, now Sir John Goldencalf, departs with the Monikins, and with Captain Noah Poke arrives safely at the monkey kingdom, after encountering a multitude of dangers. Some hundreds of pages are taken up with describing the men, manners, and institutions of the kingdom of Leaphigh, and the adjacent re- public of Leaplow or, in other words, with satirizing, or attempting to satirize mankind. The author, in following the trait of Swift, probably forgot that, al- though he possessed an abundance of dull malignity, he had neither the sparkling wit, the keen sarcasm, nor the polished style of the English satirist. But, having once embarked in his hazardous speculation, our author blunders on, pell-mell, striking prodigious blows to the right and left, but, unfortunately, never hitting any- thing but himself Although his piece never carries to the mark, it wounds him with the recoil. Critical ,JYotices. 137 But, we forget that we are endeavoring to trace an outline of the story. After various adventures, Sir John Goldencaif returns to Paris or rather, he has never left Leaphigh and Leaplow, with their inhabitants, being the creations of a de- lirious brain. Sir John gets a glimpse of the truth, namely that he was crazy when he wrote his account of the monkey-land. And truly, it is just such an affair as any Bedlamite might produce, except that it lacks the vivacity and excite- ment of the mad-house. In conclusion, we cannot help expressing the opinion, that no one who has, like ourselves, read the five hundred pages of the Moni- kins, struggling throughout with the drowsiness and disgust, which cannot fail to influence the reader will ever be tempted to take up any future work bearing the author of the Spy on the title-page that misguided nud mistaken personage (we understand that he is not old enough to be superannuated) having made a complete wreck of what reputation he possessed in the two volumes which our duty compelled us to peruse. The JVew Practical Translator; or, an Easy .ililiethod to learn how to translate French into English. By .Mons. B. F. Ru- gard. Boston: Jliunroe ~ Francis. 1835. Books of instruction are growing rapidly upon our hands; the world is full of books ; indeed, they crowd so fast upon us, that we almost despair, at tunes, of our ability to pay that attention to. them, which is necessary, in order to discrimi- nate between the good and the bad. The above work is one that we most cor- dially recommend, not only to pupils in the French language, but to scholars who are desirous of keepiug up the knowledge which they have already acquired upon the subject. Its design is to facilitate students in translating French into English, and is, we understand, to be followed by another work, upon the same plan, de- signed to familiarize the scholar in translating English into French ; or, in other words, to give a correct habit of speaking the latter tongue. Its principal merits may he thus briefly enumerated. Those who have but a common knowledge of the English grammar, may, without the aid of an instructer, learn to translate French into English with ease. It supplies the use of three books to the student, being divided into three parts, namely: the grammar, the exercises, and a vocabu- lary, or dictionary, of the words used. The grammar being especially framed for the purpose of teaching translation, all the rules, necessary to the learner in speak- ing with facility, are discarded making the steps of the learner more easy and intelligible to him. The excellent arrangement of the exercises, and their interest- ing and moral character united, are of great advantage, to the younger classes of pupils especially. The notes, attached to the exercises, are exceedingly well adapted to explain difficulties, which meet every student of this language; and the means taken to render the student familiar with the variations and different mean- ings of the parts of speech, and especially with the verbs, are particularly deserving of notice. And lastly: the lively comedy of Moliere Le Bourgeois Gentil- homme at the end of the book, carefully expurgated and refined, is worth, of itself, the price of the whole work. VOL. IX. 18

The New Practical Translator; or, an Easy Method to learn how to translate French into English. By Mons. B. F. Bugard Critical Notices 137-138

Critical ,JYotices. 137 But, we forget that we are endeavoring to trace an outline of the story. After various adventures, Sir John Goldencaif returns to Paris or rather, he has never left Leaphigh and Leaplow, with their inhabitants, being the creations of a de- lirious brain. Sir John gets a glimpse of the truth, namely that he was crazy when he wrote his account of the monkey-land. And truly, it is just such an affair as any Bedlamite might produce, except that it lacks the vivacity and excite- ment of the mad-house. In conclusion, we cannot help expressing the opinion, that no one who has, like ourselves, read the five hundred pages of the Moni- kins, struggling throughout with the drowsiness and disgust, which cannot fail to influence the reader will ever be tempted to take up any future work bearing the author of the Spy on the title-page that misguided nud mistaken personage (we understand that he is not old enough to be superannuated) having made a complete wreck of what reputation he possessed in the two volumes which our duty compelled us to peruse. The JVew Practical Translator; or, an Easy .ililiethod to learn how to translate French into English. By .Mons. B. F. Ru- gard. Boston: Jliunroe ~ Francis. 1835. Books of instruction are growing rapidly upon our hands; the world is full of books ; indeed, they crowd so fast upon us, that we almost despair, at tunes, of our ability to pay that attention to. them, which is necessary, in order to discrimi- nate between the good and the bad. The above work is one that we most cor- dially recommend, not only to pupils in the French language, but to scholars who are desirous of keepiug up the knowledge which they have already acquired upon the subject. Its design is to facilitate students in translating French into English, and is, we understand, to be followed by another work, upon the same plan, de- signed to familiarize the scholar in translating English into French ; or, in other words, to give a correct habit of speaking the latter tongue. Its principal merits may he thus briefly enumerated. Those who have but a common knowledge of the English grammar, may, without the aid of an instructer, learn to translate French into English with ease. It supplies the use of three books to the student, being divided into three parts, namely: the grammar, the exercises, and a vocabu- lary, or dictionary, of the words used. The grammar being especially framed for the purpose of teaching translation, all the rules, necessary to the learner in speak- ing with facility, are discarded making the steps of the learner more easy and intelligible to him. The excellent arrangement of the exercises, and their interest- ing and moral character united, are of great advantage, to the younger classes of pupils especially. The notes, attached to the exercises, are exceedingly well adapted to explain difficulties, which meet every student of this language; and the means taken to render the student familiar with the variations and different mean- ings of the parts of speech, and especially with the verbs, are particularly deserving of notice. And lastly: the lively comedy of Moliere Le Bourgeois Gentil- homme at the end of the book, carefully expurgated and refined, is worth, of itself, the price of the whole work. VOL. IX. 18 133 Critical otices. Popular Cyclopedia of History. By F. d. Durivage. This valuable work, which was announced as being in the press some months since, has at length appeared. It is a quarto volume, containing more than seven hundred pages, printed in a fine type, and embracing an immense amount of mat- ter. It is, what it professes to be, a copious 1-listorical Dictionary of celebrated institutions, persons, places, and thin ~s ; with notices of the present state of the principal cities, countries, and kingdoms of the world, and a chronological view of memorable events. Althou~h intended particularly for young persons, it may safely he consulted by readers of any class, for ocasional reference, as it is distinguished by a scrupulous and scholar-like accuracy. The opening words of the preface give some insight into the editors design. Every general reader, he says, has frequent occasion to consult some authority for historical and biographical dates and facts. The only works suitable for such a purpose are the Encyclopedia of Lieber, Rees, Brewster, and others of a similar kind. These are costly and extensive works, and are there- fore in the hands of comparatively few persons ; besides, they are too cumbrous for easy and frequent reference. The importance, then, of a volume like the pres- ent, that may lie familiarly upon the table, or the shelf, ready at call to answer the thousand questions that arise on historical points, is too plain to require discussion. Its utility, at all events, its convenience, even to those who possess ample libraries, and whose mindsare stored with historical data, appears to the writer to be great. But, it is more especially designed for family use, and for the young. The compilation appears to have been made with great judgement and care, while the numerous orininal articles are written in an easy and engaging style. The relation of facts is enlivened by the introduction of characteristic anecdotes and the biographies, particularly of those personages who are ever objects of inter- est to young readers, are hi~hly interesting. The work is printed on fine paper, and illustrated with numerous engravings, some of which, in point of execution, vie with those splendid specimens of the xyl- ographic art, which have adorned the London publications, of late years. Mr. E. R. Broaders, of this city, receives subscriptions for the work. Erato. By William D. Gallagher. This is a duodecimo pamphlet, of thirty-six pages, purporting to be the first of a series, which will be published should the author meet with due encouragement. It is a collection of the authors fugitive pieces, many of which we have seen in the corners of newspapers before, and some of them we have liked. Mr. Galla- gher tells us, in his preface, that his works may be likened to gold, silver, and brass, and that, though this first number may be found to contain nothing but brass, still, he has gold on hand, and will produce it in good time. Now we think he has shewn some gold already, but so mixed with base metal, that we doubt if it is worth our while to separate it. Without a metaphor, it does appear to us that Mr. Gallagher is a man of decided talent, lively fancy, and ardent temperament; one, in short, who, with proper care and cultivation, may one day do honor to American literature. At the same time, it is plain to us, that few, who have hitherto ventured into print, have had more need of care and study. Judging solely from his lines, we will venture to affirm

Popular Cyclopedia of History. By F A Durivage Critical Notices 138

133 Critical otices. Popular Cyclopedia of History. By F. d. Durivage. This valuable work, which was announced as being in the press some months since, has at length appeared. It is a quarto volume, containing more than seven hundred pages, printed in a fine type, and embracing an immense amount of mat- ter. It is, what it professes to be, a copious 1-listorical Dictionary of celebrated institutions, persons, places, and thin ~s ; with notices of the present state of the principal cities, countries, and kingdoms of the world, and a chronological view of memorable events. Althou~h intended particularly for young persons, it may safely he consulted by readers of any class, for ocasional reference, as it is distinguished by a scrupulous and scholar-like accuracy. The opening words of the preface give some insight into the editors design. Every general reader, he says, has frequent occasion to consult some authority for historical and biographical dates and facts. The only works suitable for such a purpose are the Encyclopedia of Lieber, Rees, Brewster, and others of a similar kind. These are costly and extensive works, and are there- fore in the hands of comparatively few persons ; besides, they are too cumbrous for easy and frequent reference. The importance, then, of a volume like the pres- ent, that may lie familiarly upon the table, or the shelf, ready at call to answer the thousand questions that arise on historical points, is too plain to require discussion. Its utility, at all events, its convenience, even to those who possess ample libraries, and whose mindsare stored with historical data, appears to the writer to be great. But, it is more especially designed for family use, and for the young. The compilation appears to have been made with great judgement and care, while the numerous orininal articles are written in an easy and engaging style. The relation of facts is enlivened by the introduction of characteristic anecdotes and the biographies, particularly of those personages who are ever objects of inter- est to young readers, are hi~hly interesting. The work is printed on fine paper, and illustrated with numerous engravings, some of which, in point of execution, vie with those splendid specimens of the xyl- ographic art, which have adorned the London publications, of late years. Mr. E. R. Broaders, of this city, receives subscriptions for the work. Erato. By William D. Gallagher. This is a duodecimo pamphlet, of thirty-six pages, purporting to be the first of a series, which will be published should the author meet with due encouragement. It is a collection of the authors fugitive pieces, many of which we have seen in the corners of newspapers before, and some of them we have liked. Mr. Galla- gher tells us, in his preface, that his works may be likened to gold, silver, and brass, and that, though this first number may be found to contain nothing but brass, still, he has gold on hand, and will produce it in good time. Now we think he has shewn some gold already, but so mixed with base metal, that we doubt if it is worth our while to separate it. Without a metaphor, it does appear to us that Mr. Gallagher is a man of decided talent, lively fancy, and ardent temperament; one, in short, who, with proper care and cultivation, may one day do honor to American literature. At the same time, it is plain to us, that few, who have hitherto ventured into print, have had more need of care and study. Judging solely from his lines, we will venture to affirm

Erato. By William D. Gallagher Critical Notices 138-139

133 Critical otices. Popular Cyclopedia of History. By F. d. Durivage. This valuable work, which was announced as being in the press some months since, has at length appeared. It is a quarto volume, containing more than seven hundred pages, printed in a fine type, and embracing an immense amount of mat- ter. It is, what it professes to be, a copious 1-listorical Dictionary of celebrated institutions, persons, places, and thin ~s ; with notices of the present state of the principal cities, countries, and kingdoms of the world, and a chronological view of memorable events. Althou~h intended particularly for young persons, it may safely he consulted by readers of any class, for ocasional reference, as it is distinguished by a scrupulous and scholar-like accuracy. The opening words of the preface give some insight into the editors design. Every general reader, he says, has frequent occasion to consult some authority for historical and biographical dates and facts. The only works suitable for such a purpose are the Encyclopedia of Lieber, Rees, Brewster, and others of a similar kind. These are costly and extensive works, and are there- fore in the hands of comparatively few persons ; besides, they are too cumbrous for easy and frequent reference. The importance, then, of a volume like the pres- ent, that may lie familiarly upon the table, or the shelf, ready at call to answer the thousand questions that arise on historical points, is too plain to require discussion. Its utility, at all events, its convenience, even to those who possess ample libraries, and whose mindsare stored with historical data, appears to the writer to be great. But, it is more especially designed for family use, and for the young. The compilation appears to have been made with great judgement and care, while the numerous orininal articles are written in an easy and engaging style. The relation of facts is enlivened by the introduction of characteristic anecdotes and the biographies, particularly of those personages who are ever objects of inter- est to young readers, are hi~hly interesting. The work is printed on fine paper, and illustrated with numerous engravings, some of which, in point of execution, vie with those splendid specimens of the xyl- ographic art, which have adorned the London publications, of late years. Mr. E. R. Broaders, of this city, receives subscriptions for the work. Erato. By William D. Gallagher. This is a duodecimo pamphlet, of thirty-six pages, purporting to be the first of a series, which will be published should the author meet with due encouragement. It is a collection of the authors fugitive pieces, many of which we have seen in the corners of newspapers before, and some of them we have liked. Mr. Galla- gher tells us, in his preface, that his works may be likened to gold, silver, and brass, and that, though this first number may be found to contain nothing but brass, still, he has gold on hand, and will produce it in good time. Now we think he has shewn some gold already, but so mixed with base metal, that we doubt if it is worth our while to separate it. Without a metaphor, it does appear to us that Mr. Gallagher is a man of decided talent, lively fancy, and ardent temperament; one, in short, who, with proper care and cultivation, may one day do honor to American literature. At the same time, it is plain to us, that few, who have hitherto ventured into print, have had more need of care and study. Judging solely from his lines, we will venture to affirm CriUcal ,Aoiiccs. 139 that he has not had the advantaaes of education, or of any instructer, to direct his studies or form his taste. What he is, he has made himself, lie has read, but he has not read wisely ; he has written, and he has produced some good lines, but they are seen in bad company. He has no knowledge of the rules of rhythm, and his taste is wretched. His metre is, at times, abominable. Still, there is that in him, which, if it passeth not shew, at least exempts him from an unqualified sen- tence of condemnation. XVe hope he will continue to publish his poems ; and we also hope that, before he resolves upon letting any one of them pass to the public, he will take the file in both hands, and do his very best to polish it ; not only that, but that he will submit his MSS. to the inspection of some candid and competent critic, and follow his advice implicitly. Especially do we recommend to him, when he undertakes a poem of some length, on a serious subject, not to break it into five or six different measures pentameters, trochees, iambics, and the hop-skip-and- jump versification of Sir Walter Scott. Such is the case with The Penitent, a work which we could praise, with a safe conscience, were it only purged of its prose, and arranged in good taste. We do not despair of Mr. Gallagher. We have another rhymer in our eye, who began in the same way writing from im- pulse, producing trash and beauty in much-to-be-admired confusion, and betraying his ignorance in every second line. By degrees, he educated himself, and has since produced some of the most beautiful things in the English language. We say to Mr. G., Go thou and do likewise; and he must take this advice in good part for, if we did not see great charity in him, we would not take the trouble to give it. Who shall say, that one capable of such lines as the following, cannot write well, if he will? And there she stood unshrinking grand A being of a moments birth: The stars were bright, the air was bland A silvery glory robed the earth; And silence, deep as that which dwells In hermit caves and sainted cells, Or, deeper still, like that which reigns In chambers where the hand of Death Is icing the last stirring veins The dying body still retains, And the suppressed and struggling breath Of those who stand around the bed, With swollen eye and drooping head, Alone is heard such silence dwelt Around us in that lo~ ely wood Where, powerless still, on earth I knelt, And where, all withering still, she stood. The Horticultural Register and Gardeners Magazine. Con- ducted by T. G. Fessenden and T. F. Teschemacher. Bos- ton: George C. Barrett. A strong impulse has been recently given to the elegant art of horticulture; and one of its effects is the establishment of periodicals designed to convey the latest botanical intelligence, and embodying information highly important to the culti- vator of fruits and flowers. Of American works of this nature, we have no hesita- tion in pronouncing the Horticultural Register the best. The reputation of the editors is well-earned ; and we are happy to hear that their periodical has received

The Horticultural Register and Gardener's Magazine. Conducted by T G Fessenden and T E Teschemacher Critical Notices 139-140

CriUcal ,Aoiiccs. 139 that he has not had the advantaaes of education, or of any instructer, to direct his studies or form his taste. What he is, he has made himself, lie has read, but he has not read wisely ; he has written, and he has produced some good lines, but they are seen in bad company. He has no knowledge of the rules of rhythm, and his taste is wretched. His metre is, at times, abominable. Still, there is that in him, which, if it passeth not shew, at least exempts him from an unqualified sen- tence of condemnation. XVe hope he will continue to publish his poems ; and we also hope that, before he resolves upon letting any one of them pass to the public, he will take the file in both hands, and do his very best to polish it ; not only that, but that he will submit his MSS. to the inspection of some candid and competent critic, and follow his advice implicitly. Especially do we recommend to him, when he undertakes a poem of some length, on a serious subject, not to break it into five or six different measures pentameters, trochees, iambics, and the hop-skip-and- jump versification of Sir Walter Scott. Such is the case with The Penitent, a work which we could praise, with a safe conscience, were it only purged of its prose, and arranged in good taste. We do not despair of Mr. Gallagher. We have another rhymer in our eye, who began in the same way writing from im- pulse, producing trash and beauty in much-to-be-admired confusion, and betraying his ignorance in every second line. By degrees, he educated himself, and has since produced some of the most beautiful things in the English language. We say to Mr. G., Go thou and do likewise; and he must take this advice in good part for, if we did not see great charity in him, we would not take the trouble to give it. Who shall say, that one capable of such lines as the following, cannot write well, if he will? And there she stood unshrinking grand A being of a moments birth: The stars were bright, the air was bland A silvery glory robed the earth; And silence, deep as that which dwells In hermit caves and sainted cells, Or, deeper still, like that which reigns In chambers where the hand of Death Is icing the last stirring veins The dying body still retains, And the suppressed and struggling breath Of those who stand around the bed, With swollen eye and drooping head, Alone is heard such silence dwelt Around us in that lo~ ely wood Where, powerless still, on earth I knelt, And where, all withering still, she stood. The Horticultural Register and Gardeners Magazine. Con- ducted by T. G. Fessenden and T. F. Teschemacher. Bos- ton: George C. Barrett. A strong impulse has been recently given to the elegant art of horticulture; and one of its effects is the establishment of periodicals designed to convey the latest botanical intelligence, and embodying information highly important to the culti- vator of fruits and flowers. Of American works of this nature, we have no hesita- tion in pronouncing the Horticultural Register the best. The reputation of the editors is well-earned ; and we are happy to hear that their periodical has received 140 (9riHcal )V~1ices. a sufficient support to ensure its continuance. We have before us the numbers for June and July. The former contains a beautiful colored lithograph, representing a splendid seedling Camellia Japonica, of a new variety, raised by Mr. Edward Kurtz, a member of the Maryland Horticultural Society. By a vote of the Society, the plant has been named Cernellicr Japonica wezscttah Kurtzi~. There are excel- lent original articles, on various departments of horticulture, and interesting extracts from foreign publications. Regarding the rearing of flowers as an elegant and in- teresting occupation, we would willingly encourage all well-directed efforts to fa- cilitate the art, and render its results certain. The Horticultural Register is a work that we can conscientiously recommend. Six .Mionths in a Iliouse of Correction. This is the title of an excellent, unpretending little book, lately published in this city. It has excited no small degree of curiosity, and has been abused and com- mended, by the gentlemen of the press, according to the particular taste and politi- cal or religious prejudices of each. Some have ascribed it to Mr. XV. J. Snelling, well known as a fabricator of satires and lampoons ; others have given the credit of it to Mr. Benjamin F. Hallet; and others have charged it to the pen of George Pep- per, Esq., editor of the Catholic Sentinel. We do not pretend to settle the claims of authorship among these gentlemen. The book purports to be the narrative of Mrs. Dorothy Mahoney, a native of the Emerald Isle, who was committed to the House of Correction on the testimony of ~alse witnesses, and is a plain, unaffected narrative of the facts in the case. When she arrived in this country, she fell in love with a Protestant Irishman, and, through his influence, or rather that of her passion, fell into the company of the reverend and celebrated Ephraim K. Avery, and other clergymen of various Protestant de- nominations, by whom she was nigh being dissuaded from the Catholic faith. Coming to Boston, to marry her heretical lover, she had the misfortune to be ap- prehended by the police, through whose instrumentality she was thrown into prison, where she remained four months and three days. She apologixes for calling her hook Six Months, by pleading the example of Miss Reed, and, we think, with great propriety, as that lady does the same. The rest of the book is the narrative of Miss Mahoneys sufferings in the House of Correction, and her escape from it related with a minuteness of detail and a simplicity of style, which are, in them- selves, conclusive evidence of its authenticity. Tears involuntarily roll down our cheeks, as we peruse the account of Miss Mahoneys sufferings. The skeptical may scoff, and the bigoted may scold; but we are firm in the opinion, that a poor Catholic girl, perverted from the principles of her religion, by hypocrites, and aban- doned by them when their aid was most needed, is as worthy of our compassion and sympathy as any inmate of a nunnery. Miss Reed never suffered half so much, in the convent at Mount Benedict, as Miss Mahoney did in the House of Correction. We think her book just as much entitled to regard as Miss Reeds. Respecting the authorship, a word or two. Mr. Snelling is entirely out of the question. He is, indeed, known to he a hack writer; but it is equally sure, that he knows nothing of religious creeds, of which this volume shews a profound knowledge. Therefore, whatever might have been his love of gain, he could not have written this book. Of the editor of the Boston Advocate, we have our doubts.

Six Months in a House of Correction Critical Notices 140-141

140 (9riHcal )V~1ices. a sufficient support to ensure its continuance. We have before us the numbers for June and July. The former contains a beautiful colored lithograph, representing a splendid seedling Camellia Japonica, of a new variety, raised by Mr. Edward Kurtz, a member of the Maryland Horticultural Society. By a vote of the Society, the plant has been named Cernellicr Japonica wezscttah Kurtzi~. There are excel- lent original articles, on various departments of horticulture, and interesting extracts from foreign publications. Regarding the rearing of flowers as an elegant and in- teresting occupation, we would willingly encourage all well-directed efforts to fa- cilitate the art, and render its results certain. The Horticultural Register is a work that we can conscientiously recommend. Six .Mionths in a Iliouse of Correction. This is the title of an excellent, unpretending little book, lately published in this city. It has excited no small degree of curiosity, and has been abused and com- mended, by the gentlemen of the press, according to the particular taste and politi- cal or religious prejudices of each. Some have ascribed it to Mr. XV. J. Snelling, well known as a fabricator of satires and lampoons ; others have given the credit of it to Mr. Benjamin F. Hallet; and others have charged it to the pen of George Pep- per, Esq., editor of the Catholic Sentinel. We do not pretend to settle the claims of authorship among these gentlemen. The book purports to be the narrative of Mrs. Dorothy Mahoney, a native of the Emerald Isle, who was committed to the House of Correction on the testimony of ~alse witnesses, and is a plain, unaffected narrative of the facts in the case. When she arrived in this country, she fell in love with a Protestant Irishman, and, through his influence, or rather that of her passion, fell into the company of the reverend and celebrated Ephraim K. Avery, and other clergymen of various Protestant de- nominations, by whom she was nigh being dissuaded from the Catholic faith. Coming to Boston, to marry her heretical lover, she had the misfortune to be ap- prehended by the police, through whose instrumentality she was thrown into prison, where she remained four months and three days. She apologixes for calling her hook Six Months, by pleading the example of Miss Reed, and, we think, with great propriety, as that lady does the same. The rest of the book is the narrative of Miss Mahoneys sufferings in the House of Correction, and her escape from it related with a minuteness of detail and a simplicity of style, which are, in them- selves, conclusive evidence of its authenticity. Tears involuntarily roll down our cheeks, as we peruse the account of Miss Mahoneys sufferings. The skeptical may scoff, and the bigoted may scold; but we are firm in the opinion, that a poor Catholic girl, perverted from the principles of her religion, by hypocrites, and aban- doned by them when their aid was most needed, is as worthy of our compassion and sympathy as any inmate of a nunnery. Miss Reed never suffered half so much, in the convent at Mount Benedict, as Miss Mahoney did in the House of Correction. We think her book just as much entitled to regard as Miss Reeds. Respecting the authorship, a word or two. Mr. Snelling is entirely out of the question. He is, indeed, known to he a hack writer; but it is equally sure, that he knows nothing of religious creeds, of which this volume shews a profound knowledge. Therefore, whatever might have been his love of gain, he could not have written this book. Of the editor of the Boston Advocate, we have our doubts. Critical ~Motices. 141 lie may have put forth such a work in order to attract attention to his other pro- duction Six Months in a Convent. Such a proceeding is possible and proba- ble; hut it is mere supposition. There are sundry sly hits at Catholicism, in the body of the work, which seem to favor the belief. Among others, is a cut at himself, which look~s more like evidence than anything it contains. But, Mr. Pep- per seems the prominent candidate for the honor of the authorship, by which we do not mean that the book is a work of mere invention, hut that he had the task of jointin~ and dovetailing the materials, just as Mr. 1-lallet did those of Miss Reed. The style is evidently peppery; the preliminary remarks and the apoligetic Letter to Irish Catholics, purport to come from him. The arguments are in his manner, as much as that of Mr. Hallet. Add to this, it is rumored abroad that he enter- tains a Platonic friendship for Miss Mahoney, such as he charges the Advocate with cherishing for Miss Reed. We do not, however, believe a word of these stories, and feel oursclves authorized, hy what we have heard of the characters of both the gentlemen, to deny, in the most positive terms, that the Advocate ever professed any regard for Miss Reed, or the Sentinel for Miss Mahoney, beyond what propri- ety would justify. But, there is another and more serious charge against them, which we would fain have them contradict. If they were not the authors of the book in question, why do they array themselves in borrowed plumes? Why do they not give Miss Mahoney credit for her own, and let her amanuensis have the honor of his work? There are several Hibernicisms in the volume, which have slipped the notice of the editor, but which shew, conclusively, that it must have been dictated, or written by an Irishman. It is unworthy of gentlemen, so distin- guished in the world of letters as the editors of the Advocate and Sentinel, to glo- rify themselves with laurels which ought to be on the crest of another. Six Months in a House of Correction contains many lessons of morality and policy. It shews, that it is dangerous to offer witnesses a premium for perjury. It proves that it is dangerous to quit old paths for new ones, though they may seem more fair and pleasant. It demonstrates the impropriety of delegating irresponsible authority to dignitaries, such as sheriffs and jailors. We hope that the author, whoever he may be, will give us something further and more conclusive on this last head, for we look upon this little book as his coup d essai merely, in the world of municipal politics. Above all, we do hope that the publisher of Six Months in a House of Correction has set apart a four-pence-ha-penny, for every copy that he sells, for the benefit of the unfortunate Miss Mahoney, as those of Six Months in a Convent have done for that of Miss Reed. Whether we have been correct, or not, in our conjecture, as to the author of it, we do insist upon knowing the names of the Committee of Publication; and the rather, as our inquiries brought out the publication committee of Six Months in a Convent. The Italian Sketch-Book. A most charming little work, to be read of a summer afternoon written in a gentle, gentlemanly and scholar-like style; a work that will make you think and think and dream and dream of Italy Dear Italy! when shall we behold thee, and thy many places of beauty, so pleasantly described by the author of this volume who can be no other than our friend and correspondent, H. T. Tuckerman, Esq.~ just returned to the clouded sky of his native land, with his heart running over with the love of the beautiful and the grand.

The Italian Sketch-Book Critical Notices 141-142

Critical ~Motices. 141 lie may have put forth such a work in order to attract attention to his other pro- duction Six Months in a Convent. Such a proceeding is possible and proba- ble; hut it is mere supposition. There are sundry sly hits at Catholicism, in the body of the work, which seem to favor the belief. Among others, is a cut at himself, which look~s more like evidence than anything it contains. But, Mr. Pep- per seems the prominent candidate for the honor of the authorship, by which we do not mean that the book is a work of mere invention, hut that he had the task of jointin~ and dovetailing the materials, just as Mr. 1-lallet did those of Miss Reed. The style is evidently peppery; the preliminary remarks and the apoligetic Letter to Irish Catholics, purport to come from him. The arguments are in his manner, as much as that of Mr. Hallet. Add to this, it is rumored abroad that he enter- tains a Platonic friendship for Miss Mahoney, such as he charges the Advocate with cherishing for Miss Reed. We do not, however, believe a word of these stories, and feel oursclves authorized, hy what we have heard of the characters of both the gentlemen, to deny, in the most positive terms, that the Advocate ever professed any regard for Miss Reed, or the Sentinel for Miss Mahoney, beyond what propri- ety would justify. But, there is another and more serious charge against them, which we would fain have them contradict. If they were not the authors of the book in question, why do they array themselves in borrowed plumes? Why do they not give Miss Mahoney credit for her own, and let her amanuensis have the honor of his work? There are several Hibernicisms in the volume, which have slipped the notice of the editor, but which shew, conclusively, that it must have been dictated, or written by an Irishman. It is unworthy of gentlemen, so distin- guished in the world of letters as the editors of the Advocate and Sentinel, to glo- rify themselves with laurels which ought to be on the crest of another. Six Months in a House of Correction contains many lessons of morality and policy. It shews, that it is dangerous to offer witnesses a premium for perjury. It proves that it is dangerous to quit old paths for new ones, though they may seem more fair and pleasant. It demonstrates the impropriety of delegating irresponsible authority to dignitaries, such as sheriffs and jailors. We hope that the author, whoever he may be, will give us something further and more conclusive on this last head, for we look upon this little book as his coup d essai merely, in the world of municipal politics. Above all, we do hope that the publisher of Six Months in a House of Correction has set apart a four-pence-ha-penny, for every copy that he sells, for the benefit of the unfortunate Miss Mahoney, as those of Six Months in a Convent have done for that of Miss Reed. Whether we have been correct, or not, in our conjecture, as to the author of it, we do insist upon knowing the names of the Committee of Publication; and the rather, as our inquiries brought out the publication committee of Six Months in a Convent. The Italian Sketch-Book. A most charming little work, to be read of a summer afternoon written in a gentle, gentlemanly and scholar-like style; a work that will make you think and think and dream and dream of Italy Dear Italy! when shall we behold thee, and thy many places of beauty, so pleasantly described by the author of this volume who can be no other than our friend and correspondent, H. T. Tuckerman, Esq.~ just returned to the clouded sky of his native land, with his heart running over with the love of the beautiful and the grand. 142 Critical IVotices. Reader, if you would pass a quiet and cool day if you are a little unwell and dispirited send instantly for the Italian Sketch-Book. Your head-ache will he gone ; and when you sink to sleep, (not till you have read the book) you will dream of those distant and fairy climes, where A wind, ever soft, from the blue heaven blows, And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose. We have no patience with a critic who has the heart to sit down and delibe- rately analyze such an unpretending volume as this when the whole has given him much pleasure. This work is happily named. It is composed of sketches like those which an amateur-artist may collect together, during a solitary tour, in his portfolio not pretending to any studied excellence, or exactitude in the draw- ing or perfection of finish; but easy, free and striking; reviving many agreeable recollections in the ududs of those who have visited the scenes, and conveying, to those who have not, a very happy idea of their picturesqueness and beauty. The Florentine strikes us as a harmonious and admirable picture. .fln Oration, pronounced before the Inhabitants of Boston, July the fourth, 1835, in Commemoration of dmerican Independ- ence. By George ~S. Hillard. Boston: J. H. East burn. This is a beautiful production. The thoughts are appropriate, instructive and pointed ; the language is finished, imaainative, and rich with all the graces of the accomplished writer; the spirit of the oration is of the highest and purest order breathing the strongest devotion to the cause of religion, morals, and our country. We most heartily commend it to the perusal of all our readers, not omitting those who were of the numerous audience that listened, with such unprecedented rap- ture, to the young man eloquent, on the occasion of its delivery, and who, we doubt not, like ourself, will read it with an additional pleasure. We feel a satis- faction, which we hardly know how to express, that the great day of commemora- tion in our country was devoted, in Boston, to sentiments like those uttered by Mr. Hillard, adorned with all the attractions of scholarship and literature. The duties of patriotism are never so holy, in our view, as when the graces of composition, like the richest ointment, are employed to hallow them. Mr. Hillards oration is truly national. Let not rivers and mountains and geographical divisions, he elo- quently says, bound our sympathies. In all domestic institutions and family jars, we must cherish that feeling, which, in a foreign land, thrills the frame and suf- fuses the eyes of the American citizen, as he sees the well-known stars and stripes floating upon the breeze not the symbol of a State not the badge of a sec- tion but with the dignity and honor and power of the whole country reposing in its ample folds. Admirably said! We almost see, in palpable presence, the en- sign of the republic (Our country Mexico has gone to the fainting ranks of mon- archy) playing and dallying with the foreign winds, and inviting the absorbed and affectionate gaze of every true American. The oration is full of passages of the highest eloquence, couched in language of a Tyrian die, which we should be pleased to extract ; but we must forbear.

An Oration, pronounced before the Inhabitants of Boston, July the fourth, 1835, in Commemoration of American Independence. By George S Hillard Critical Notices 142-143

142 Critical IVotices. Reader, if you would pass a quiet and cool day if you are a little unwell and dispirited send instantly for the Italian Sketch-Book. Your head-ache will he gone ; and when you sink to sleep, (not till you have read the book) you will dream of those distant and fairy climes, where A wind, ever soft, from the blue heaven blows, And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose. We have no patience with a critic who has the heart to sit down and delibe- rately analyze such an unpretending volume as this when the whole has given him much pleasure. This work is happily named. It is composed of sketches like those which an amateur-artist may collect together, during a solitary tour, in his portfolio not pretending to any studied excellence, or exactitude in the draw- ing or perfection of finish; but easy, free and striking; reviving many agreeable recollections in the ududs of those who have visited the scenes, and conveying, to those who have not, a very happy idea of their picturesqueness and beauty. The Florentine strikes us as a harmonious and admirable picture. .fln Oration, pronounced before the Inhabitants of Boston, July the fourth, 1835, in Commemoration of dmerican Independ- ence. By George ~S. Hillard. Boston: J. H. East burn. This is a beautiful production. The thoughts are appropriate, instructive and pointed ; the language is finished, imaainative, and rich with all the graces of the accomplished writer; the spirit of the oration is of the highest and purest order breathing the strongest devotion to the cause of religion, morals, and our country. We most heartily commend it to the perusal of all our readers, not omitting those who were of the numerous audience that listened, with such unprecedented rap- ture, to the young man eloquent, on the occasion of its delivery, and who, we doubt not, like ourself, will read it with an additional pleasure. We feel a satis- faction, which we hardly know how to express, that the great day of commemora- tion in our country was devoted, in Boston, to sentiments like those uttered by Mr. Hillard, adorned with all the attractions of scholarship and literature. The duties of patriotism are never so holy, in our view, as when the graces of composition, like the richest ointment, are employed to hallow them. Mr. Hillards oration is truly national. Let not rivers and mountains and geographical divisions, he elo- quently says, bound our sympathies. In all domestic institutions and family jars, we must cherish that feeling, which, in a foreign land, thrills the frame and suf- fuses the eyes of the American citizen, as he sees the well-known stars and stripes floating upon the breeze not the symbol of a State not the badge of a sec- tion but with the dignity and honor and power of the whole country reposing in its ample folds. Admirably said! We almost see, in palpable presence, the en- sign of the republic (Our country Mexico has gone to the fainting ranks of mon- archy) playing and dallying with the foreign winds, and inviting the absorbed and affectionate gaze of every true American. The oration is full of passages of the highest eloquence, couched in language of a Tyrian die, which we should be pleased to extract ; but we must forbear. 143 The Life of .Jlaron Burr. By Samuel L. Knapp. JVew- York: Wiley ~ Long. So long a time has elapsed, since the publication of this hook, as almost to take it out of our critical co,, nizance. We, however, have thought it best to do what we deem our duty, even thou h it he out of season fearing lest our silence, ac- a cording to the construction of consent which is sometimes put upon that equivocal conduct, should he accounted an admission of merit, or, at least, freedom from de- fect, in the present book an implication, which, by this notice, we intend utterly to extinguish. Col. Knapp is a literary hack, ever ready to run before the public, whether for the sake of literary notoriety surely, ant for an honorable fame or as a means of earning his bread, we cannot tell. All his works, from his volume of New- England Biography as empty a hook as was ever printed down to the Life of Col. Burr, are written in the style of the worst kind of fourth of July orations, besmeared with a showy coloring and false lustre, in which a Sophomore, of the better sort, would hardly indulge. Classical allusions are thrown out as freely as the peltings of a Roman Carnival. The introduction of the present volume opens with a long alle~orical allusion to Osapho, a Lybian king, the point of which we have not heen able readily to divine. With Col. Knapp, imagination is all-in-all. Such common, every-day matters as facts, he passes by, to reach after some gaudy butterfly, whose wings have brushed over his mind. His life of Burr contains only those incidents in the life of that extraordinary man, which were most accessible, and with which, indeed, the whole public were already familiar. We hardly looked for anything new, when we turned over its pages, and, little as we expected, we must confess our disappointment. The duel with 1-Jamilton occupies ant a little space ; the correspondence is given, with the addition of a letter never before puhlished, written by Burr, after the mournful issue of the meeting, to Dr. Hosack, inquiring with regard to the hopes which were entertained of the recovery of his victim. This fact, and letter, Col. Knapp has paraded as lately discovered. The volume is stuffed with a tedious account, taken from the published trial of Burr, of all the long drawn out proceedings of that occasion. Biographical no- tices are introduced, mostly at random, of many of the distinguished men, who flourished contemporaneous with the principal hero. The volume should be enti- tled, The life of Aaron Burr end others. One object of the author seems to have been, to obtain a re-hearing, from the public, on the character and conduct of the great condenened and, if possible, a reversal of that calm judgment against him, which has been pronounced by no common tribunal of justice, but by the unbroken voice of a whole people. One of the most noble objects in our history, and most striking illustrations of the operation of our institutions which gives us promise of their security is the fate of this man: untouched by any formal bill of pains and penalties, and unattainted by any course of law, yet, by the operation of the moral feelings of his fellow-countrymen, degraded from the lofty station his talents had acquired, and excluded, by no other ostracism than public opinion, from the honors and offices, which his intellectual abilities would have adorned.

The Life of Aaron Burr. By Samuel L Knapp Critical Notices 143-144

143 The Life of .Jlaron Burr. By Samuel L. Knapp. JVew- York: Wiley ~ Long. So long a time has elapsed, since the publication of this hook, as almost to take it out of our critical co,, nizance. We, however, have thought it best to do what we deem our duty, even thou h it he out of season fearing lest our silence, ac- a cording to the construction of consent which is sometimes put upon that equivocal conduct, should he accounted an admission of merit, or, at least, freedom from de- fect, in the present book an implication, which, by this notice, we intend utterly to extinguish. Col. Knapp is a literary hack, ever ready to run before the public, whether for the sake of literary notoriety surely, ant for an honorable fame or as a means of earning his bread, we cannot tell. All his works, from his volume of New- England Biography as empty a hook as was ever printed down to the Life of Col. Burr, are written in the style of the worst kind of fourth of July orations, besmeared with a showy coloring and false lustre, in which a Sophomore, of the better sort, would hardly indulge. Classical allusions are thrown out as freely as the peltings of a Roman Carnival. The introduction of the present volume opens with a long alle~orical allusion to Osapho, a Lybian king, the point of which we have not heen able readily to divine. With Col. Knapp, imagination is all-in-all. Such common, every-day matters as facts, he passes by, to reach after some gaudy butterfly, whose wings have brushed over his mind. His life of Burr contains only those incidents in the life of that extraordinary man, which were most accessible, and with which, indeed, the whole public were already familiar. We hardly looked for anything new, when we turned over its pages, and, little as we expected, we must confess our disappointment. The duel with 1-Jamilton occupies ant a little space ; the correspondence is given, with the addition of a letter never before puhlished, written by Burr, after the mournful issue of the meeting, to Dr. Hosack, inquiring with regard to the hopes which were entertained of the recovery of his victim. This fact, and letter, Col. Knapp has paraded as lately discovered. The volume is stuffed with a tedious account, taken from the published trial of Burr, of all the long drawn out proceedings of that occasion. Biographical no- tices are introduced, mostly at random, of many of the distinguished men, who flourished contemporaneous with the principal hero. The volume should be enti- tled, The life of Aaron Burr end others. One object of the author seems to have been, to obtain a re-hearing, from the public, on the character and conduct of the great condenened and, if possible, a reversal of that calm judgment against him, which has been pronounced by no common tribunal of justice, but by the unbroken voice of a whole people. One of the most noble objects in our history, and most striking illustrations of the operation of our institutions which gives us promise of their security is the fate of this man: untouched by any formal bill of pains and penalties, and unattainted by any course of law, yet, by the operation of the moral feelings of his fellow-countrymen, degraded from the lofty station his talents had acquired, and excluded, by no other ostracism than public opinion, from the honors and offices, which his intellectual abilities would have adorned. LITERARY ANNOTANDA. THE REPUBLIC OF LETTERSThe form of this highly valuable re-publica- ion of the most approved works in the English language, has been judiciously changed from quarto to octavo. The number before us, very handsomely printed on fair paper, presents the celebrated essays of Elia, by Charles Lamb. We shall attempt no criticism upon this charming production; but simply wish to tnrn the attention of the lovers of good literature to the happy selection made for the pub- lication, by the lady to whose taste the choice has been committed. She is to be guided hereafter by the valuable suggestions of Washington Irving, Gulian C. Ver- planck, E. Everett, and Charles F. I-Ioffman; and The Republic of Letters will undouhtedly present a series of valuable and highly interesting works. We are, in general, no favorers of cheap copies of those productions of the first masters, which have been, of late days, so profusely multiplied ; but, when a book, even though it appear periodically, claims the public favor, so truly deserving it as this, we do not hesitate to pronounce upon its true merits. Several works lie upon our table, for future notice; among which are HORSE- SHOE ROBINSON ; a novel worthy of the school of its immortal founder. PRO- GRESSIvE EDUcATION; a useful treatise, ably translated from the French, by Mesdames Willard and Phelps, from the French of Madam de Saussure. The RECORD OF A SCHOOL; the original little work of a philosophical mind, and calculated to effect much good. Its author is Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody a lady already known, in the most favorable manner, by her works on history, and as the translator of Degerando on Self-Education. It seems written in a perspicuous style, and should be highly recommended to parents, teachers, and all who feel an inter- est in the mental improvement of children. Tonns STUDENTS MANUAL, is the title of a third work on education, which lies before us; but we have only space, this month, to present to the publishers and authors of these, as well as of the other books sent to the l~Iagazine, our acknowledgements. James Munroe & Co., of this city, and booksellers to the University in Cam- bridge, have in press, and will shortly publish, THE MISCELLANEOUS WRI- TINGS, LITERARY, CRITICAL AND JURIDICAL, OF THE HON. JOSEPH STORT, L. L. D. now first collected. This collection will include several articles which have never as yet appeared in print. The whole to constitute an octavo volume of five hundred pages. An admirable work, by Mrs. Child, entitled THE HISTORT AND CONDITION OF WOMEN, to be published by John Allen & Co., we shall take occasion shortly to notice, in an extended review of that ladys works.

Literary Annotanda Critical Notices 144-145

LITERARY ANNOTANDA. THE REPUBLIC OF LETTERSThe form of this highly valuable re-publica- ion of the most approved works in the English language, has been judiciously changed from quarto to octavo. The number before us, very handsomely printed on fair paper, presents the celebrated essays of Elia, by Charles Lamb. We shall attempt no criticism upon this charming production; but simply wish to tnrn the attention of the lovers of good literature to the happy selection made for the pub- lication, by the lady to whose taste the choice has been committed. She is to be guided hereafter by the valuable suggestions of Washington Irving, Gulian C. Ver- planck, E. Everett, and Charles F. I-Ioffman; and The Republic of Letters will undouhtedly present a series of valuable and highly interesting works. We are, in general, no favorers of cheap copies of those productions of the first masters, which have been, of late days, so profusely multiplied ; but, when a book, even though it appear periodically, claims the public favor, so truly deserving it as this, we do not hesitate to pronounce upon its true merits. Several works lie upon our table, for future notice; among which are HORSE- SHOE ROBINSON ; a novel worthy of the school of its immortal founder. PRO- GRESSIvE EDUcATION; a useful treatise, ably translated from the French, by Mesdames Willard and Phelps, from the French of Madam de Saussure. The RECORD OF A SCHOOL; the original little work of a philosophical mind, and calculated to effect much good. Its author is Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody a lady already known, in the most favorable manner, by her works on history, and as the translator of Degerando on Self-Education. It seems written in a perspicuous style, and should be highly recommended to parents, teachers, and all who feel an inter- est in the mental improvement of children. Tonns STUDENTS MANUAL, is the title of a third work on education, which lies before us; but we have only space, this month, to present to the publishers and authors of these, as well as of the other books sent to the l~Iagazine, our acknowledgements. James Munroe & Co., of this city, and booksellers to the University in Cam- bridge, have in press, and will shortly publish, THE MISCELLANEOUS WRI- TINGS, LITERARY, CRITICAL AND JURIDICAL, OF THE HON. JOSEPH STORT, L. L. D. now first collected. This collection will include several articles which have never as yet appeared in print. The whole to constitute an octavo volume of five hundred pages. An admirable work, by Mrs. Child, entitled THE HISTORT AND CONDITION OF WOMEN, to be published by John Allen & Co., we shall take occasion shortly to notice, in an extended review of that ladys works. ittI~12, DIED, at Dennysville, (Me.) twenty-sixth of February, 1835, BEN3AMIN LINCOLN, M. D., aged thirty-two years. When a man dies, whose character was ennobled by great virtues, and whose attainments were all that industry and talents of a high order could accomplish, but whose career, though an honorable one, was too short to extend his fame beyond a coruparltively narrow circle, we feel an interest in his life very different, and in its moral effects far better, from that with which we regard those who have made a place for themselves in the pages of history ; and the example comes home to us with peculiar force and efficacy. Need we offer any farther reason for dwelling a few moments on the mimemory of one who presented a rare combination of moral and intellectual excellence, and created in the minds of his acquaintance some new conceptions of the worth and dignity of oar nature. Dr. Lincoln was born at 1)ennysville, (Me.) in October, 1802, and was the son of the lion. Theodore Lincoln, of that place, and grandson of Major-General Benja- min Lincoln, of the Revolution. He was graduated respectably, at Bowdoin College, in 1822, and soon afterwards commenced the study of medicine. Having studied the requisite time with Dr. Shattuck, and received his medical degree at Bruns- wick, be entered upon the practice of his profession in this city, in the autumn of 1827. During the summer of the ensuing year, he was invited to deliver the course on astronomy and physiolo~y, in the College at Burlington, (Vt.) The manner in which he succeeded in this duty, for which he had probably as little special preparation as any man who ever undertook it, may be inferred from the fact, that the next year he was elected to the professorship an office which he coatinued to hold, with increasing satisfaction, until the last year of his life. At Burlington, which he immediately made his place of residence, he again, about three years since, entered into practice, and was rapidly advancing in business and reputation. The failing health of the late Dr. Wells, in 1830, compelling him to abandon his duties as lecturer on anatomy, at Bowdoin College, Dr. Lincoln con- sented to supply his place for the season, and also succeeded this gentleman the next year, in the same office in the University of Maryland, at Baltimore. Though strongly urged to stand as candidate for the professorship, to which he would un- doubtedly have been elected, considerations, not necessary to mention here, led him to decline, and he returned to Burlington, to pursue his studies with renewed spirit, and to mature plans for future action. In the spring of last year, ho took a violent cold, which rapidly reduced a constitution, already enfeebled by disease and over-exertion, to a state of debility, from which he never recovered, and it was soon followed by the too evident symptoms of pulmonary consumption. He succeeded, however, in reaching the residence of his family ; and there, amid the attentions of his friends, with the cares and promises of life behind, and the haven of eternal rest before him, he spent some of the happiest moments of his existence. The events of his life were few indeed, and of no extraordinary kind ; but what they especially impress upon our notice, is the ardor of disposition and severity of industry, seldom if ever equaled, that enabled him to triumph over every obstacle in his course, and carried him through, with credit to himself and satisfaction to all with whom he was connected. Until a few months before his first course of lectures, anatomy was far from having been a prominent object of his attention, and he was by no means a skilful dissector; (chemistry and music were his familiar pursuits,) yet, within six years, he became second to few men in the country in the accuracy and extent of his anatomical attainments. He found the college destitute of prepar- ations and other means of illustrating lectures ; and with a little assistance from his VOL. ix. 19

Obituary Obituary 145-152

ittI~12, DIED, at Dennysville, (Me.) twenty-sixth of February, 1835, BEN3AMIN LINCOLN, M. D., aged thirty-two years. When a man dies, whose character was ennobled by great virtues, and whose attainments were all that industry and talents of a high order could accomplish, but whose career, though an honorable one, was too short to extend his fame beyond a coruparltively narrow circle, we feel an interest in his life very different, and in its moral effects far better, from that with which we regard those who have made a place for themselves in the pages of history ; and the example comes home to us with peculiar force and efficacy. Need we offer any farther reason for dwelling a few moments on the mimemory of one who presented a rare combination of moral and intellectual excellence, and created in the minds of his acquaintance some new conceptions of the worth and dignity of oar nature. Dr. Lincoln was born at 1)ennysville, (Me.) in October, 1802, and was the son of the lion. Theodore Lincoln, of that place, and grandson of Major-General Benja- min Lincoln, of the Revolution. He was graduated respectably, at Bowdoin College, in 1822, and soon afterwards commenced the study of medicine. Having studied the requisite time with Dr. Shattuck, and received his medical degree at Bruns- wick, be entered upon the practice of his profession in this city, in the autumn of 1827. During the summer of the ensuing year, he was invited to deliver the course on astronomy and physiolo~y, in the College at Burlington, (Vt.) The manner in which he succeeded in this duty, for which he had probably as little special preparation as any man who ever undertook it, may be inferred from the fact, that the next year he was elected to the professorship an office which he coatinued to hold, with increasing satisfaction, until the last year of his life. At Burlington, which he immediately made his place of residence, he again, about three years since, entered into practice, and was rapidly advancing in business and reputation. The failing health of the late Dr. Wells, in 1830, compelling him to abandon his duties as lecturer on anatomy, at Bowdoin College, Dr. Lincoln con- sented to supply his place for the season, and also succeeded this gentleman the next year, in the same office in the University of Maryland, at Baltimore. Though strongly urged to stand as candidate for the professorship, to which he would un- doubtedly have been elected, considerations, not necessary to mention here, led him to decline, and he returned to Burlington, to pursue his studies with renewed spirit, and to mature plans for future action. In the spring of last year, ho took a violent cold, which rapidly reduced a constitution, already enfeebled by disease and over-exertion, to a state of debility, from which he never recovered, and it was soon followed by the too evident symptoms of pulmonary consumption. He succeeded, however, in reaching the residence of his family ; and there, amid the attentions of his friends, with the cares and promises of life behind, and the haven of eternal rest before him, he spent some of the happiest moments of his existence. The events of his life were few indeed, and of no extraordinary kind ; but what they especially impress upon our notice, is the ardor of disposition and severity of industry, seldom if ever equaled, that enabled him to triumph over every obstacle in his course, and carried him through, with credit to himself and satisfaction to all with whom he was connected. Until a few months before his first course of lectures, anatomy was far from having been a prominent object of his attention, and he was by no means a skilful dissector; (chemistry and music were his familiar pursuits,) yet, within six years, he became second to few men in the country in the accuracy and extent of his anatomical attainments. He found the college destitute of prepar- ations and other means of illustrating lectures ; and with a little assistance from his VOL. ix. 19 Obituary. 146 pupils, he enriched it with an anatomical cabinet of more than one hundred pie- ces, many of which, in the accuracy and minuteness of dissection, have not been often surpassed, besides a great number of moulds and drawings, chiefly the work of his own bands. All this was done to while away his time, much of which was occupied in the business of private instruction, private practice, in lecturing at other institutions, and in visits to his friends at a distance. An idle moment was a thing unknown to the last eight years of his life ; every min- ute had its duties, and he was never happier than while he was engaged in the se- verest labor of body and mind. Even while visiting his friends, which was osten- sibly for the purpose of relaxation, his industry never ceased ; and no sooner wern the greetings of his acquaintances over, than his head and hands found something to do. During one of these visits, of a few weeks, he delivered two courses of lectures, on anatomy and physiology, to popular audiences the preparation for each of which, in making drawings, models, & c., occupied one or more hours, be- sides engaging in some anatomical labors, and expending considerable time in read- ing and writing. If such industry constrains our admiration, what shall we think of it, when told that he, of whom we are speaking, was a martyr to rheumatism and neuralgia ? that, from his twentieth year, he scarcely knew what it was to be an hour without pain? and very often it was excruciating. From the time we mention, his back became so bent that he never afterwards was able to assume the erect position ; and frequently, for weeks together, it was two or three min- utes works for him to rise from his bed in the morning. The distinguishing trait in Dr. Lincolns character that which endeared him to as large a circle of warm, personal friends as a man of his age could leave behind him was active benevolence. Its spirit was manifested in every thought and ac- tion ; it pervaded and animated his whole being. It was witnessed in all his opin- ions ; for, whatever measures or principles were presented to his attention, they were viewed through the medium of an all-embracing philanthropy. In his rela- tions with his friends, this disposition, of course, was particularly active. For them, it is incredible how much he was in the habit of doing. rheir concerns were, to a certain extent, bis concerns; their happiness was identical with his own ; and no exertions, on his part, were too great to promote their interests. With a sacrifice of time and convenience, no one but himself could adequately appreciate, we once saw him quitting his studies, duriub his pupilage, to accorn- pany a friend on a voyage to a distant part of the country, for the purpose of afford- ing him counsel and aid, through a long and harrassing sickness. lie was no more attached to this person than to many others ; but he saw him about to depart into a land of strangers, unable to help himself and poorly provided with the attendance his condition required, and it was enough for him to know, that his presence would be materially conducive to his comfort. Even in his last sickness, when, if at any time, a man will be engrossed with his own concerns, it was impossible to dis- cover any diminution of his usual solicitude for the happiness of those around him. But his philanthropy was by no means of that narrow kind, which finds its ob- jects exclusively at home ; it embraced the whole range of human affairs, and was the strong and abiding incentive to action. When satisfied that a measure was cal- culated to do good, his best efforts were always ready to further its success ; for it was not a habit with him to wish well to a cause without giving it the benefit of his own assistance. No man ever lived more for others and less for himself; had it been otherwise, we should not now be mourning his loss. To this disposition, must be attributed the fatal error of overtasking his powers the only error, of any consequence, he ever committed. Selfishness, in the ordinary meaning of the word, was foreign to his nature ; the sight of others happiness kindled a warmer glow of delight in his bosom than any mere personal considerations ever could. Like other men, he was sensible to the favor of the world ; but his ambition was a lofty and an honorable one, and completely subjected to the supremacy of the higher sentiments. The essential condition of every measure that engaged his ser- vice. was its tendency to do good ; and just in proportion to this tendency did he estimate its importance, and the degree of consideration it deserved. In the practice of his profession, his benevolent spirit found ample scope for its exercise; and here it was displayed in some of its noblest and most engaging forms. His time and counsel were at the service of whoever chose to ask for Obituary. 147 them ; while the idea of remuneration was, of all others, the most remote from his thoughts. The poor and friendless found in him an unfailing friend, who not only applied his skill to the cure of their diseases, hut relieved their wants to the utmost extent of his means, and cheered their spirits with words of consolation and en- couragement. The more destitute and helpless they were, the more strongly did they seem entitled to his personal attentions and to all the resources of his art. Many a time, when he found such an one suffering from the want of suitable attend- ance, has he hid adieu to professional dignity for a while, and cheerfully employed himself in the humbler duties of nursing. On one occasion, after riding several miles to visit a patient of this description, and with whom he had passed the whole previous night, we saw him spend an hour in repairing the windows, putting fast- enings on the doors, and performing other little services, in order to make him warm and comfortable. The relations between physician and patient, were al- ways on his part of the highest and most interesting kind. His intercourse with those who came under his care, was characterized hy the utmost urbanity and kindness of manner, which was prompted by no view to popularity, hut because he really sympathised in their sufferings, and felt an interest in all that concerned their welfare. From that besetting disposition, which long-continued practice en- genders in the mind of almost every physician, to view his patients as furnishing cases of physiological investigation merely, he was remarkably free. In him, the philanthropist and physician were beautifully combined ; he never forgot that his patient was also a member of the human family ; and after he had prescribed for the former, he always found occasion for the exercise of the best feelings of his heart upon the latter. Little as he had of that repulsive hauteur, which seems to grudge an extra word or look in the sick room, he had still less, if possible, of that silly or swaggering affectation of good-humor assumed by vulgar minds; but ever preserved his native dignity of manner, gracefully tempered by an air of ease and mildness, which won the affections as well as the respect of his patients. Though benevolence was a prominent, it was by no means the sole characteristic of a nature in which all the moral sentiments were manifested with extraordinary strength and activity. Every one, much acquainted with Dr. Lincoln, must have been struck with a certain purity and elevation of character, and a strict, unwav- ering conscientiousness displayed in all his dealings with mankind. Perfectly up- right and honorable himself, he was little inclined to look with indulgence on the absence of these qualities in others. With him, right and wrong were positive terms, the force and signification of which never varied with changes of circum- stances or persons. He was unable to gloss over the slightest deviation from the straight forward path of fair and honorable conduct, with any of those palliative excuses and forms of phraseology, that pass current with the possessors of an easier virtue. He called things by their right names, and was determined, wherever he was concerned, that they should go by no other. This integrity of principle and purpose was admirably supported by an unflinching, unaffected independence of character, that added tenfold to the force and prominence of his example. He made no compromise with vice, for, in whatever guise it appeared, it incurred his thorough reprobation, and no human power could deter him from the faithful expression of his opinions. There was a moral atmosphere around him, the salutary effect of which was clearly perceptible on those who came within its influence. Even in his younger days, he was never guilty of that confusion of moral distinctions which looks on the perpetration of mischief for the sake of amusement, as a species mere- ly of innocent amusement. Yet no one was more beloved by his associates, and no one was freer from the suspicion of meanness and duplicity. With the indul- gence of a warm-hearted philanthropist, towards the follies and weaknesses of his fellow-men, no scruple of delicacy ever induced him to spare the voice of censure and admonition, whenever it was likely to do good. True, his plainness of speech sometimes gave offence, and made him the only enemies he had ; but, accom- panied as it was by his peculiar ingenuousness of manner, and an irresistible air of sincerity, it generally left an impression, both salutary and durable. In the dis- charge of his public duties, he was guided by the same spirit of conscientiousness ever acting with the utmost fidelity to his trust, and coming up to the very spirit and letter of his engagements. Whatever might be his duties, he devoted all the powers of his mind and body to their performance, till the superabundance of his 148 Obituary. zeal and exertion became a matter of astonishment and admiration. To spend and be spent, ja the most literal si~nification of the terms, seemed to be the principle on which he always acted. Another very important trait in his character, which, as we are writing for the living, it wonid he unpardonable not to notice here, was a fixedness of resolution and an indomitable perseverance, under every form of difficulty and discourage- ment. Whatever he undertook, he accomplished ; and obstacles which would have effectually deterred most other men, served only to increase his energies and stren~then his resolution. Animated by high hopes and noble purposes, with his object distinctly in view, and confident in his ample resources, he proceeded stead- ily and cheerfully on his course ; and neither difficulty nor disaster could make him swerve from his path. Charged with a trust of the hi~hest responsibility, for which he had received the slightest possible preparation, and suffering constantly from a harrassing disease, nothing, indeed, but the most remarkable firmness, could have carried him through to the successful and brilliant result of his exer- tions. No task seamed too great fur his powers, no object too distant for his com- prehension, when the voice of duty called, or the prospect of doing good was be- fore him. All who were intimately acquainted with Dr. Lincoln, must have observed the buoyancy of his spirits, the unclouded happiness he seemed to enjoy, and that con- tent of disposition, which neither pain nor disappointment could disturb. The goods of life he enjoyed with a keen relish ; its ills he considered as matters of course, and bore them without fretfulness or repining, as if, apparently, they were unwor- thy of a thon~ht. Nothing, in short, seemed to render him conscious of their pres- sence, but the check they sometimes imposed on his labors in the cause to which he was devoted. While suffering an attack of his disease, which affected his neck and back with unusual severity, though it appeared to be scarcely noticed by him; engrossed in comparative anatomy, he replied to the commiserations of friends, that, so long as it left him hands to work and eyes to see, he should have no rea- son to complain. His mind was seldom clouded by disquietude and anxiety; and the numerous annoyances of life, which seriously affect the temper of most men, and, for the time, incapacitate them from exertion, were never permitted by him to diminish, in the slightest degree, his accustomed activity and cheerfulness. Cal- umny even, while it excited a momentary indignation, could not plant a thorn in his bosom, or scarcely ruffle the ordinary tranquillity of his character. How essential this equanimity was to his happiness, he was well aware ; and, unless urged by a sense of duty, was careful to abstain from participating in party conflicts and other matters of temporary interest, in which it would he liable to be sacrificed. Peace and independence of mind, he prized above all earthly treasures. The world had nothing of honor or profit, for \Vhich he would give up one particle of his natural portion. This disposition was particularly manifested during his last sickness ; and dull must he have been to one of the noblest exhibitions of human fortitude, who could observe him then without being filled with emotions of pleasing yet melan- choly interest He was just beginning to reap the fruits of his labors, when he was snatched at once and forever from their fruition. He had attained an elevation, from which he could perceive as bright a prospect before him as his most sanguine wishes could desire ; his attainments in science, great as they were, served chiefly to acquaint him with the still greater that remained for him to make ; the vigor of his mind, once so fresh and elastic, was decaying ; pain was harrassing many of his hours, and the extinction of his earthly career, he well knew, was near at hand yet no word of repining or discontent was ever heard to escape his lips. Every- thing relative to his profession interested him to the last, and his conversation was as animated and intellectual as ever. You have no idea, he said repeatedly to the writer, how many happy hours I enjoy. Dr. LincQlns talents were naturally of the highest order, and their power was greatly increased by a rigid system of mental discipline. His reading was compara- tively limited though no man made more of what he did read, for he never finished a book without making himself master of its ideas ; but, to his penetrating intellect and keen observation, he was indebted for the most valuable part of his knowledge. The most striking characteristic of his mind, was the strength and clearness of his conceptions, accompanied with remarkable precision of language in conveying his Obituary. 149 ideas to others. Hence, there was nothing vague or indefinite in his notions ; what he knew, he knew thorou~hly; it was always distinctly in view, and ready to be appropriated at a moments warning. His knowledge was positive in its nature~ and such was the caution with which it was received, and the admirable arrange- ment giveii to it, that seldom were any reductions to be made from it, on the score of mistake or misapprehension. Not only was his intellect clear, but it had a strong and comprehensive grasp, which could rise from the study of the minutest detail, till it reached and embraced the highest and most important relations. Though exceed- ingly minute and faithful in his inquiries, he never forgot that their results were al- most valueless without those enlar~ed general views, which mark the investigations of the philosophical mind. He was a deep thinker, and his mind was one of that far- reaching kind that shuns the beaten routes, and find their proper element only when contemplatin~ the most profound and original truths. His observation was uncom- monly acute and extensive ; everythin,, that came before him, he viewed in all its lights, and carefully marked its bearings upon the various subjects of his inquiries. Facts, apparently of the most trivial nature, and unnoticed by less scrutinizing ob- servers, came to him pre,,nant with important results. The consequence was, that his knowledge was exceedin~ly practical in its nature ; and it is wonderful how much he would make out of the simplest and fewest data, and that, too, by the powers of a sound induction. Indeed, it was rare for him to advance any promi- nent idea which he could not substantiate by facts and observations of his own. No one could see much of Dr. Lincoln, and not he struck with his ardent, un- wavering, scrupulous lovc of truth. It was the animating principle of his intellect- ual nature ; and the end and aim of all his inquiries, was to obtain it unsophistica- ted by the carelessness or additions of men. He was willing to take facts for what they were worth ; but he wanted to receive them pure from the hands of nature and if he once suspected a writer of giving them a false coloring, for the purpose of favoring his peculiar notions, he was apt to withdraw from him his confidence altogether. Nothing incurred his heartiest reprobation so much as that tampering with natures truths, to which some people are addicted, with the design of estab- lishing their own views, or magnifying their importance. He was cautious in the admission of new facts, and it was not till after they had been subjected to repeat- ed examination, that he considered them entitled to belief; and when thus tested, it was his habit to receive them, whatever bearing they might have on his previous notions. lie often declared, that false facts were more to be dreaded than false theories. Like everybody else, he was liable to errors; but no one more cheer- fully abandoned them, on the production of satisfactory evidence. rhe stron~ perception and love of the beautiful, as well as the true, was a no less striking trait in his intellectual character. The contemplation of the for~ is of natural objects, and the operations of their glorious mechanism, always exerted in him feelings of intense delight, and filled his soul with a sense of the majesty and beauty of nature. No lover ever gazed with more rapture on the charms of his mistress, than be did on each new form and structure, that his studies in compar- ative anatomy and natural history, constantly brought to view. To this trait, we may attribute much of his well-known enthusiasm in the pursuit of natural science, and the elevating, purifying influence on his character. As an anatomist, Dr. Lincolns attainments were profound and extensive. From the time of his appointment at Burlington, he devoted his best energies to the vo- cation to which he was called, and a few more years would have given him a rel)u- tation second to that of no other man in the country. The labors of the dissecting- room were always pleasing to him ; and he had the mechanical skill requisite to give his dissections a air of unusual finish and neatness. Ho studied anatomy like a philosopher, not as a surgeon; and never measured the degree of attention to be devoted to a part, by the importance of its surgical relations. Since man is but one link in the immense chain of organized being, he felt convinced, that, to be stud- ied understandingly, human anatomy must be studied in connection with the struc- ture of the inferior animals and that, by itself, and for itself alone, it is entitled to but a low rank in the natural sciences. The study of comparative anatomy, therefore, he considered as essential to the anatomical scholar, without which, all other attainments were of inferior worth ; and he pursued it with an ardor and dili- gence, which showed that his whole soul was in the subject. He introduced much 0 Obituary. of it into his 1ecture~, with the satisfaction of seeing it awaken fresh interest in the minds of his pupils, and impress them with the conviction, that anatomy, instead of bein~ a lifeless collection of insulated facts, is a science of the most comprehen- sive, numerous, and wonderful relations. Natural history, in all its departments, received much of his attention and his love of botany, in the last year or two of his life, had attained all the stren~th of a passion. As a lecturer, he had all the qualities necessary to confer on him great and un- disputed excellence. The clearness and order of his views enabled him to present them clearly to others ; while his fine elocution, and command of simple and pre- cise language, invested them with a degree of interest, that enchained the attention of the most indifferent hearer, and impressed them strongly and deeply on the mind. He had the faculty, so essential to a good lecturer, of knowing exactly how far to presume on the understandinas of his hearers, without rendering himself te- dious by falling helow their range, nor unintelligihle hy rising above it ; and, hay- irig once used the words hest suited to express his meaning, he never sought to simplify by repetition. His style of lecturing was plain and forcible, without being coarse or boisterous, and had the rare merit of being equally satisfactory to the least, as well as the most nuphilosophical minds. He believed that nearly all the difficulties, experienced by medical students in understanding some subjects, par- ticularly in surgical anatomy, result from the practice of over-explanation, to which writers and lecurers are too much addicted. Accordingly, it was always a great point with him to disahuse his pupils of impressions on such suhjects derived from hooks ; and, having unlearned all they had waded through so much obscurity to learn, they came away, surprised and delighted to find how things, before so dark, could be simplified and cleared up by his lucid instructions. In proof of the suc- cess of his manner, it may be mentioned, that, after his lectures on the nervous system, in his course at Baltimore, his class, in full meeting, paid him the unusual compliment of presenting him a vote of thanks, for the clearness and general ability with which he bad treated that subject. In his popular courses, which he was fre- quently in the habit of delivering, he was equally happy; and certainly, no man, within our knowledge, ever discoursed on scientific subjects, to a miscellaneous audience, with more acceptance than did Dr. Lincoln. So well arranged, and en- tirely at command, were his ideas, that he made no use of manuscripts in his lec- tures, for he complained that they embarrassed him. After what has been said, need we add that, as a physician, Dr. Lincoln enjoyed, in a very hi,~h degree, the confidence of his employers ; that he was indefatigable mu the investi,,ation of his cases, and met with a corresponding success in their treatment. He very early began to distrust the efficacy so largely attributed to remedial agents in modern practice, and to rely, with increasing confidence, on the powers of nature. If he erred, in following the expectant method too closely, he avoided the still greater and more fashionable error of lavishing medicines on the sickly, without the authority of rule or reason. He was a judicious and skilful operator; and, guided by the strong liaht of anatomy, he saw his way clearly through a path of which he had, comparatively, small experience. The cause of medical education he had much at heart; and he had pledged to his own sense of duty all the weight of his talents and influence, to effect a reform in the medical schools of our country, which should place it on a higher and firmer basis than it has ever yet possessed. Two years since, he published an able pamph- let on the subject, and was en~aged in preparing another at the time of the attack of his last sickness. His familiar intercourse with pupils, and his habit of convers- ing with them freely on the subject of his instructions, made him intimately ac- quainted with the kind and degree of deficiency under which they labored, and convinced him of the necessity of applying the only remedy of which the case ad- mints. It was idle, to use his own strong expression, to try to teach people a sci- ence, the very language of which they are incapable of understanding, from a want of previous education. It is this preliminary education that he was anxious to raise and the low state of which, be, in common with most intelligent members of the profession, believed to be an inseparable bar to the respectability of the heal- ing art. 1~Iathematics, he was in the habit of studying, as a recreation from his more la- borious duties ; and his attainments in this science were greater than are often met Obituary. 151 with among well-educated men. ~ Of music, Dr. Lincoln was, all his life, a pas- sionate admirer. Until he entered on the active labors of his profession, he studied it more than anything else; and probably no person in the country was better ac- quainted with its principles. t Here we must close this article, which has ~ reatly exceeded the limits we had desi~ ned. But, when one will think of the circumstances of the case, the surprise will be. not that we have occupied so much space, hut, that we could have an- swered our purpose with so little. XVe have endeavored to give no false coloring to what we mean for a plain, unvarnished statement ; but, on the contrary, have been careful to keep far within the limits of strict truth for the whole trutie would have sounded more like the language of overweening, indiscriminate admiration. CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL Turs great and good man expired at Phitadetphia on the thirteenth of July, at six octnck in the evening. We subjoin an obituary notice, from the cotni us of the Boston Daily Ad- vertiser as better than any we could prepare in suds a short space and as expressive of the sentiments which pervade the hearts of all lovers of their country, in contemplating the departure of so illustrious a patriot. THE eminent public services of this great man, the deep and universal confidence reposed in his ability and worth, and the sentiment of veneration entertained for his private virtues, render this loss one of the most afflicting that our country could sustain. His health had been for some time declining, and there was little hope that the term of his existence could be extended for a much longer period; but, no pe- riod could occur, when the loss would not have been felt, thoughout tlse country, as tlsat of one of its greatest benefactors. Chief Justice Marshall was born in Fauquier county, in Virginia, on the twenty- fourth of September, 1755. He was the son of Col. Thomas Marshall, a man of talent and education, but of limited fortune, whose ability was always spoken of with admiration by his son. His early instruction was of a very imperfect charge- ter: he was indebted to his father for that which related to the English language, but principally to his own efforts for his classical attainments. In his opening roan- hood, he engaged, with zeal and ardor, in the patriotic cause: in 1775, he received the appointment of lieutenant, in a company of minute-men, and subsequently rose to the rank of captain. At the beginning of the war, he fought against lord Dunmore, at the battle of the Great Brid5, e, and some time later, in those of Brandy- wine, Germantown, and Monmuouth. In 1781, there being a redundancy of officers in the Virginia line, he resigned his commission, and devoted himself to the prac- tice of the law. 1-le had been admitted to the bar during the previous year, a part of which he had spent in Virginia. It is hardly necessary to add, that, notwith- standin0 his youth, his military career was distinguished by the same intelligence and excellent qualities, that shed such lustre on the course of his fter-life. Immediately after the capitulation of lord Comuwallis, Mr. Marshall began to pur- sue, with assiduity, the practice of the law, and soon arose to eminent distinction. In the spring of 1782, he was elected a mensher of the State Legislature, and, be- fore its close, a member of the Executive Council. He was married, in 1783, to * It is a curious fact, that after his mind had become so enfeebled by disease, that he u-as fa- tigued by reading the simpteot paragraph in the newspaper, and had abandoned all books rela- tive to his profession, he was in the habit of spendin~ hours at a time in studying the most dif ficult parts of Analytic Geometry a fact, which affords another confirmation of the correctness of the phmrenolo~ical division of the intellectual facultie During the year that he was settled in Boston, he wrote a work on the Elements of Mmmsic, but was prevented from entirely fititching it till a short time before his death. Knowing his happy talent for instruction, we doubt not that this much be a most valuable work, and we trust his friends will soon make some arrangements for its publication. Obituary. 152 Miss Ambler, a daughter of the Treas rer of State. This lady, after a long term of sickness and suffering, descended a few years aao to the grave. In 1781, he resigned his place at the executive board, and resumed his professional pursuits but, immediately afterwards, and again in 1787, he was re-elected to the Legisla- ture, and took nn active and efficient part in the momentous controversies of the time. He was also a member of the Convention, called together in Virginia, for the ratification of the Federal Constitution. In this remarkable assembly, in which the most commanding eloquence and talent were displayed, no man exhibited greater power of reasoning, or patriotic ardor, than Mr. Marshall. Mr. Marshall continued in public life, as a member of the Legislature of Virginia, till the close of its session, in 1791. He then retired for three years, hot was re- turned again in 1795, aod tinguished himself by an argument, of remarkable abil- ity, on the power of the Federal Executive to conclude a commercial treaty. This was at the time when the country was agitated by the controversies growing out of the treaty negotiated with Great Britain, by Mr. Jay. In the following year, lie was invited by Washington to accept the office of Attorney-General, but declined it, on the ground, that it would interfere with his extensive practice in Virginia. When Mr. Monroe was recalled from France, Mr. Marshall was urged, by Wash- ington, to accept an appointment as his successor. This, also, he was compelled, by urgent private considerations, to decline. But, when Mr. Adams, who had, in the meantime, sueceeded to the presidency, appointed him an envoy to that coun- try, in connexion with Mr. Gerry and General Pinckney, he accepted the appoint- mont. The envoys were, however, not accredited by the French government; and, in the summer of 1798, Mr. Marshall returned to this country. On his return, he was solicited, by General Washington, to become a candidate for a seat in Congress. He yielded with reluctance ; and being elected, after a severe contest, took his seat in December, 1799. While he was a candidate for this station, he declined a seat on the bench of the Supreme Court of the United States., which became vacant by the death of Judge Iredell, and was offered him by President Adams. The session of Congress, in the winter of 17991800, was a very memorable one. In the debate on the resolutions offered by Mr. Livin~ston, rela- tive to the case of Thomas Nash, alias Jonathan Robbins a case too long to be here detailed, and doubtless fresh in the recollection of many readers Mr. Mar- shall spoke, in opposition to them, with admirable force and talent. His speech on that occasion, is preserved; it is regarded as one of the most remarkable argunients of its author; and a higher estimate of its merit could not easily be made. In May, 1800, Mr. Marshall was nominated, by President Adams, to the office of Secretary of War. lie desired that the nomination moight be withdrawn; but, his request was disregarded, and it was confirmed by the Senate. Shortly after- wards, he was called to succeed Mr. Pickering, as Secretary of State. On the resignation of Chief Justice Ellsworth, the President advised with Mr. Marshall re- specting the appointment of his successor, who at once recommended Judge Pat- terson.. This was an appointment which the President was reluctant to make, from an unwillingness to wound the feelinas of Judge Cushing, who was the senior of Mr. Patterson on the bench. The office was then offered to Mr. Jay, who declined it; and the President irrimediately nominated Mr. Marshall, who, on the thirty-first day of January, 1801, accordingly became Chief Justice of the United States. It were equally vain and needless to attempt to convey an adequate idea of the extent and value of the official labors of Judge Marshall. For a period of nearly thirty-five years, his matchless intellect and admirable virtues have constituted the mnagnetic and beni~nant power, which has bound the orbs of our magnificent sys- tem of government together, while the disturbing forces of party, rivalry, and suf- fering, have often tempted them to rush asunder. The qualities of his mind were such as led him instinctively into the paths of truth; and he illustrated those paths so fully and clearly with the light of profound sagacity and resistless reasoning, that men were led to distrust the judgment, whose conclusions were not in unison with his. No man had ever a stronger influence upon the minds of others. That influ- ence was not founded only on his intellectual superiority; it was sustained and elevated by that perfect purity of purpose, that true simplicity and kindness of heart, that deep reverence for virtue and religion, which will cause his memory to tie honored so long as true patriotism shall be venerated by the sons of men.

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The New-England magazine. / Volume 9, Issue 9 New England magazine American monthly review American monthly magazine J. T. and E. Buckingham Boston September 1835 0009 009
The Pigs - A Poem Original Papers 153-160

THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. SEPTEMBER, 1835. ORIGINAL PAPERS. THE PIGS A POEM. [THIs is a very reprehensible poem, and ought never to have been published; and the only reason why it is suffered to pollute the pages of our Magazine, is to hold it op to our readersr detestation. It was probably written by some discarded Jackson man, turned whig, who spits his venom on the living and the dead. It is full of falsehood, ill-will, maY e, smut, and all uncharitableness; and we commend- the author to the notice of our Grand Jury, and our vigi- lant Attorney-General. We accompany the lines with a few charitable notes, lest the rib- aldry should not be understood; and, in this way, wash our own hands of all consequeure, and make them as white as snow; this being the fashionable expiation.~ WHILE happier bards, whom nobler themes inspire, From lips excited pour the purple fire,C Oer art and nature wave the thoughtful wing, Of chiefs and seas and storms and battles sing5 My wretched fate impels me to decline These strains these higher flights and sing of swine~ Once could my feet each rosy maze explore; But rosy mazes charm my feet no more. From groves and streams, my pcmting muso will fly1 To pause in pity oer a pen a sty. Poor pigs! poor exiles from the world refined Who forms for you the manners or the mind? No parlor waits you, with its sofa clean No maid prepares for you the fire, or screen No cradle rocks to sleep your pretty heads No downy pillow mollifies your beds; On you no hand bestows our rich delights: How do you pass away your winter-nights? The cold, the storm, neglect, the proud mans frown1 A thousand ills conspire to press you down. To roll in mire, your everlasting doom A knife, your end a pork-tub for your tomb. The young, the beautiful, the wise, the brave, Melt for the distant Greek and home-born slave; But who, by pity led that power divine Has dropped one tear oer our neglected swine? [*Pu is fire is modern poetry, being spirted out extemporaneously front purple facee; and the suddenness of its production is commonly thought to increase its beauty.] VOL. IX. 20 154 The Pigs. And yet, the proudest might the pigs survey, And own them brothers, formed of self-same clay - For, what is man? Behold, in herds he goes; Some master-spirit always rings his nose; Does he not in as narro v circle dwell? Does he not root, and love the mud as well? Is he not selfish, filthy, ser ile, proud? Does he nut snarl as much, and squeal as loud? ~ Is he not cursed with as perverse a will? Is he not just as greedy of his swill? Lie takes the dirtiest paths he rolls in hogs; Yeshoe s are nobler men, and MEN ARE HOGS. In gayer hours, when happier planets shone, When the bright world (all joyful) seemed my own, I thought, in every luau, a friend to sea Blossoms and beauties hung from every tree; The proffered kindness seemed to me sincere: And, 0 how precious was compassions tear! Suspicion slept; I knew no latent guile; I gave full credit to each tear and smile. Man seemed increased in years a patriarch wise ~ And woman smiled, an angel from the skies: The sacred vestments always made the saint, And beauty borrowed not a hue from paint; But time, the mask from every visage tears I see the real features that it wears; On the black ruins, filled with snakes, at last, The sun arises, and my dreams are past. t How wide the difference looks, in sorrows view,, Between the bright ideal and the true! We hear a river named, and fondly think, That flowers must bloom and beautify its brink. From Fancys flowing store, we gaily bring The eldest, youngest sisters of the Spring; We arch the shades ; we hear the waters move; In unison with music in the grove; The silver waves like polished glass appear, And, from the bottom, shine the pebbles clear: But, see that river; dews offensive fall, Swamps spread, frogs croak, and alligators crawl;, Restore the sweet resemblance, if you can t It holds in rivers more, alas! than man. Essential beauty! where shall we behold Thy rosy colors and thy perfect mould? 0, dost thou float around some blossomed tree, Picked by the harmless robbery of the bee? Or dost thou dwell where gentle fountains run, Where green vales glitter in the morning sun? Dost thou a palace in the rainbow seek, Or smile enthrone~ upon some virgin cheek? [* This is a most unwarrantable attack on the Jackson party. The author might as well have said, that Mr. Van Beren is a swine-herd, and the whole of his followers no better than a drove of hogs. Where is the majesty of our laws Where is the spirit of 76!] [It Beautiful allusion as if the temple of liberty were no morethan a Hindu bungalow,. gone to rain, and filled with cobra di capdl , & c.] Et The author must have come from the southern States. This is an exact description of a river in Georgia. Indeed, many of the inhabitants there are half hosse, half alligator.] 155 The Pigs. Vain dream ! vain passion of our idle youth! Beauty (whatever fools surmise) is truth. Beauty, in reasons view, doth most prevail In the long snout the curled and slender tail; In ham and sausages is heauty found, When pork sells free at twenty cents per pound.. Why should we laugh at swine ? the race appear, In all their manners, perfectly sincere. They never run where interest leads the way, To fawn on men in power, and then betray: Hogs are no flatterers ; never look polite, While malice prompts them to devour aiad bite; They never wear the mask of holy guile Pray while they cheat, or murder while they smile; To the last hour, from that which gave them birth, They are the plainest creatures on the earth; They pass their narrow round of pleasure o er, Just shew wb nature is., and show no more. And, though they eat too much, and greedily Yet, who on earth fr iii every fault is free? No let the man appear, from pole to line, Without a folly, he shall laugh at swine: Still, then, my muse this useful theme shall teach, That none should scorn the worth he cannot reach. Poor pigs ! exposed, for years, to censures storm, Because unshapely in your outward fon Because, confined in pens and seldom ripe, Your body seems your spirits outward type: But, why on form alone should judgement dwell? Why of the soul take sample from the shell? Should every creature, hy strict truth undressed, Assume the face and form that suit him best; Should Heaven, in justice, delve us to the root, And, by true merit, judge of man and brute; What changes, in all bodies, should we know And, on whose backs would soon the bristles grow? T is said that, founded in these western skies, Thy noble temple, Liberty, shall rise; Man, the last blessing of his lot attain, And burst away from every snare and chain; Columbias glory kindling Europes fire, Slaves catch the sparks of life, and kings admire. But, be my country Paradise or pen, T is not a Paradise for modest men. A modest man! we crush him in the dust; We never honor such; we never trust But, let some rascal, loud in self-applause, Defy the laws of God, and all our laws; Let him wind round, wherever factions he, Like some black serpent winding up a tree ; t * In Boston there was a beautiful hill, rising, like a cone, behind the State-house, cast up, as if on purpose, by the hand of beauty, for the grateful citizens to view the prospect. But, in- terest prevailed; and it was dug away by the genius of dollars arid cents, though Taste and Im- agination wept the while. And see now what they are doing at the head of Court street! I would humbly propose, that the whole Commun should be turned into a hog-pasture. Per- haps it might pay the interest of the city debt, and increase the fragrance of the western breeze. Aurisus. It See how perfectly American this comparison is. To tree a snake, is still a current phrase in New-Hampshire.] 156 The Pigs. We send the wretch to Congress, for his slang, And let him make our laws, whom laws should hang. How are our bargains made ? With accents sweet, Long lies are told we only talk to cheat. Flow are our honors gained ? By blowing loud A brazen trumpet oer a gaping crowd. l)o~h not each ballot-box our shame declare? And is not JAcKsoN in the highest chair? ~ In myrtle shades, where Venus loves to rove, And weaves her bower for happiness and love; Where virgins rest and hear the wild bees hum, There, spirits sing, and hogs can never come: Man may be coarse as earth and vile as s~vine, But woman, lovely woman, is divine. So dreams the novice, smit by some fair eye, When, moved by love, he breathes his first-born sigh; Some shadow of perfection charms his sight, And his waked bosom trembles with delight: The blushing surface, credulous, he views; He speaks she frowns ; she flies him he pursues. lie begs his marble idol to relent He takes her hand she blushes her consent; 0, how young passion animates her charms; A blessing, more than human, greets his arms But, ere one rapid moon its tale has told, He finds his prize a cat a slut a scold. She tries his temper, cheats him, drains his purse Bad, for the present hour, and growing worse. Where is the goddess of perfection now? Is she a woman, or * * ,~ Is man no hog? To yonder tavern run; See the poor victim tempted and undone; See reason buried in the fatal bowl, His body pampered to itabrute his soul See him retire to his alarmed abode, Bedaubed in mire and reeling on the road; No children bless his kind return, or share His love, his soft protection, or his care A tyrant to his wife, to vice a slave, He only lives to eat, drink, swear, and rave; See this and own, instructed by the curse, That man escapes the hog, by being worse. But, guiltier they, and worthy sharper blame, Who feed and fatten on the culprits shame: rhe great, alas are they so little nice? Does wealth grow high, manured and dressed by vice? Is yonder chariot, though adorned so fine, And drawn by horses, propt by stolen swine? Yes; many a mansion, though it towers so high, Stands bordering near and reeking from a sty; And wealth, which draws the curtain close, between Old Vice and Conscience, rests on hands unclean. [* What! is there no virtue extant? no mo~Iesty, no reverence for Roman virtue, and in a republican station! Must the author sptt his venom on a venerable head? The Old Reman is in the highest chair, and may he keep it until he has paid his breath to time aud mortal custom.] The Pigs. 157 Much injured pigs how many tales, untrue, By human malice, have been palmed on you! Men call you selfish; hut, in serious tone, Can they maintain that vice is yours alone? Men call you stupid; I rememher well, How Pinchbeck taught a pig to read and spell; The learned pig confronted many a hrow: A learned pig is no great wonder now. While you dull sluggards fields wild weeds adorn In Egypt, pigs taught men to manage corn. 0 Public Sentiment ! that noise which stuns That headlong stream, still foaming as it runs; Excitement, passion, madness, folly, crime; The pride and the delusion of our time Which sets us on a race, and bids us show Who, in extravagance, can farthest go; Which fills the pulpit caucus parlor press And gives religion even her wildest dress; Whether thy hated voice, excited, screams Its anti-mason anti-slavery dreams; (For, well we know, whatever be thy plan, Thou art the anti-friend of God and man) t When wilt thou cease, mad jade, through life to sweep, And leave the world to wisdom and to sleep? The humble Christian from the world recedes, And proves his piety hy silent deeds; He values not the meed of noisy fame, And little cares if fools applaud or blame; Rebuking vice, the sinner wounds him sore, And hypocrites, when censured, wound him more; With modest light, he shoots his heams afar, Yet shines, scarce noticed, like some midnight star; He gives his suhstance to the poor, and sheds The dews of Mercy over dying heds; And dies himself, in Faiths calm warfare brave, With scarce a tear to wet his unknown grave. Not so the hypocrite, who, day and night, Displays his meekness in some holy fight; For points obscure, he sets the world on flame, Pleading for God, he gets himself a name. What has he done, that thus the clouds are reached? The faith he never followed he has preached. In every cause of real goodness mute, He taught his one-eyed followers to DISPUTE Blow all your trumpets, Fame; let crowds adore; Sound, sound the wranglers name from shore to shore. * See Herodotus, somewhere I hardly know where; for I may truly say~tbat, that author, in his own tongue, is all Orcek ts me. AUTHOR. The word anti is a charming word; I have always admired it; and I would recommend it to the special attention of all chose who wish to establish a newspaper, or to kek up a d t. I intend soon to set up an anti-frog-pond society, whose principles 1 shall explain in sixteen pamphlets and forty-seven handbills, duly posted up wherever I can dod a church or a whip~ ping-post. AuTHos. ~ t may be thought, in this place, to sneer at the Unitarians; for, sue eye means Ummitariaa eye; amid a man who has a Unitarian eye must be a Unitarian; because, as to the heart, every- body knows it has nothing to do with religion nowadays. Mens religion lies wholly in iheir eyes. AUTHOR. 158 The Pigs. T is a strange world t is passing strange; the worst Succeed the best ; the wisest walk the dust. Have you a tender heart? a conscience clear? A generous mind ? expect no market here. But if, in youth, to please your narrow soul, You made a box, and in that box a hole A hole three inches long, but deep and thin, Just wide enough to drop a copper in; Just wide enough, without a single doubt, To let it in but not to let it out If thither all your youthful earnings sped, But never went for books or 0ingerbread; If tears from beggars, rides, and love-knots true, Could never win a sigh or cent from you Then, roll in wealth, and buy the worlds regard, And die as rich and good as old GIRARD. Still, there are bright exceptions: ARMSTRONG rose, In spite of birth and sullen friends and foes ; Should EVERETT be elected, all allow The statesmans wreath will bind the scholars brow ; t And WEBSTER, equal to his great renown, May yet be up, perhaps, and JAcKsoN down. Hark ! on yon battle-field of seeming strife, How the drum rattles, and how squeaks the fife! See how their banners in the breezes play! Our great militia hold a muster-day. It makes my blood run cold, my veins between, To see the amazing grandeur of the scene; See how thick clouds of smoke obstruct the sight T is a pitched battle a downright sham fight! What noise! what tumult! how much dust and dirt! The very powder soils each ruffle-shirt. See some, already, midst the slain are sunk! On the cold ground they lie, as dead dead drunk While the proud Colonel, whom no wads can kill, Marches his conquering band and takes the hill. Huzza! huzza ! t 0, my dear country ! sweeter to my eye Than, to my taste, thy pigs or pumpkin-pie; How zealous for thy glory would I be, Would Jackson give some little post to me! Columbia ! Hail, Columbia! happy land; Hail! all thy heroes an immortal band; Hail! all thy shops, that deal by quart or gill Hail! Washington and Green and Bunker-hill ; Hail, Liberty ! sole queen, whom mobs adore The Patriots fickle bride the moral whore! * By birth, the author means Mr. A.s original poverty: i. e. he is a self-made man. In spite of sullen friends, alludes to an opposition made to his nomination, at Worcester, by some of his own party. Bet then, the opposition came from Salem the city of peace where they hang witches and flog clergymen.] Mr. Everett, I bope, never will be Governor; he has too much lumier in his head; besides, he is something of a gentleman. AUTHOR. ~ So the author wishes our militia all to go to ruin; and that the whole country might knuckle to Francel] [No! the sacred name of Washington is not spared. Though the author may try to creep oil, by saying he only imitates the rant of a fourth of Jaly oration, yet, be it remembered that Washington is put in the same line with Bunker-hill, where there is a half-built monument. There is a meaning in that.] The Pigs. 159 Thy poets, too sublimely dark and good How little are their raptures understood! The mawkish, riddling strain, that charms the herd! .d thing of feathers! ah! they mean a bird. ./l thing of danger! is a pit profound; A modern hard, I own, a thing of sound. How they describe, in all the pomp of dress, (Words piled on words) the ghost of nothingness The groans of Byron though he groaned too long Himself have filled with pathos many a song. Fog follows fog to shadows shades succeed: Do they, who nonsense write, such nonsense read? Yet, there are some, whose brilliant names shall last, XVben all our trash and all our dreams are past. The ivory lyre by gentle bands is ruled, When struck by SIGOURNEY and HANNAH GOULD; BRYANT has borrowed all Apollos aid, And PERCIVAL is Byrons darker shade; And who is he, who wisely strung, I ween, The SHELLS AND SEA-WEEDS, for our Magazine Who sung the Land-Bird, oer the ocean hurled, Like a poor spirit passing through our world Burst from thy cloud, thou nameless one, and claim XVbnt all allow thy right a poets name ! * S S S * 5 5 Then, dost thou nothing love ? Dost smile at all The joys and sorrows of our rolling ball? No I am sober; and I love to see True virtue, wisdom, true consistency. I love the ocean when its billows roar; I love the sun I love the planets more I love the moonlight-walk, from town retired, Where Envy sleeps, and Fancy seems inspired; I love the birds, who build a faithful nest; I love all kinds of cattle hogs the best; I love the fish, that in the sea are hooked, I love a cod and haddock, nicely cooked; I love whatever moves the world around; An honest man I love, whenever found. * Let me say one word of the author of certain quatsrzains, in the July number of the New- England Magazine. They are really beautiful; and if he is not known, (for 5 Suspect he may he some old acquaintance, in disguise) he certainly soon will be. As Pope said of Johnson, he will soon be deterre. AucHee. 160 IIORSEMANSIIIP. BY AN EQIXE5TRIAN. I CONFJ~SS myself an ardent lover of the noblest quadruped that moves upon the face of the earth, and an enthusiastic ad- mirer of the art of riding. Consequently, I regard a jockey with some awe, being, as I premise, Smit with the love of the laconic boot, The cap and wig succinct, the silken suit. And I pride myself upon having carefully separated this enthusi- asm from all mercenary motives. Never did I own a running horse ; and when, yielding to a momentary impulse, I backed a four-footed favorite with a trifling wager, the careless or venal boy, that rode him, suffered himself to be distanced, when all present had relied upon his winning. This was the first and only time that I speculated on the turf; and I have often congratula- ted myself on the results of that first loss. But, I am wandering away from the point in view. If we cast a look back at the history of the early ages, we shall find borses and horsemanship making no inconsiderable figure. The xvar-horse of Scripture, that neigheth among the trumpets, whose neck is clothed with thunder, is described with all the beautiful fullness of language, and copiousness of epithet, which characterize the Hebrew poems. The Greeks were by no means despicable horsemen, although the fragments of their sculpture which have descended to us, seem to prove that their artists were happier in fixing the delicate contours of fleeting fe- male loveliness, than in portraying the beautiful proportions of the horse. If we seek to learn at what period the ancients found the art of taming horses, and reducing them to obedience under the curb, we are lost at once in the obscurity of fiction and tra- dition. The story of the Centaurs is vaguely conjectured to in- volve the origin of riding: a party of Thessalians, mounted on their newly-tamed steeds, and seen from a distance, having as- surned the appearance of those formidable monsters, described as being half charger and half man. It is probable that the Greeks acquired the art of horsemanship at a very early age, as it is allu- ded to in the folloxving passage of the Iliad: High on the decks, with vast, gigantic stride, The god-like hero stalks from side to side. So, when a horseman, from the watery mead, (Skilled in the manage of the bounding steed)

An Equestrian An Equestrian Horsemanship Original Papers 160-169

160 IIORSEMANSIIIP. BY AN EQIXE5TRIAN. I CONFJ~SS myself an ardent lover of the noblest quadruped that moves upon the face of the earth, and an enthusiastic ad- mirer of the art of riding. Consequently, I regard a jockey with some awe, being, as I premise, Smit with the love of the laconic boot, The cap and wig succinct, the silken suit. And I pride myself upon having carefully separated this enthusi- asm from all mercenary motives. Never did I own a running horse ; and when, yielding to a momentary impulse, I backed a four-footed favorite with a trifling wager, the careless or venal boy, that rode him, suffered himself to be distanced, when all present had relied upon his winning. This was the first and only time that I speculated on the turf; and I have often congratula- ted myself on the results of that first loss. But, I am wandering away from the point in view. If we cast a look back at the history of the early ages, we shall find borses and horsemanship making no inconsiderable figure. The xvar-horse of Scripture, that neigheth among the trumpets, whose neck is clothed with thunder, is described with all the beautiful fullness of language, and copiousness of epithet, which characterize the Hebrew poems. The Greeks were by no means despicable horsemen, although the fragments of their sculpture which have descended to us, seem to prove that their artists were happier in fixing the delicate contours of fleeting fe- male loveliness, than in portraying the beautiful proportions of the horse. If we seek to learn at what period the ancients found the art of taming horses, and reducing them to obedience under the curb, we are lost at once in the obscurity of fiction and tra- dition. The story of the Centaurs is vaguely conjectured to in- volve the origin of riding: a party of Thessalians, mounted on their newly-tamed steeds, and seen from a distance, having as- surned the appearance of those formidable monsters, described as being half charger and half man. It is probable that the Greeks acquired the art of horsemanship at a very early age, as it is allu- ded to in the folloxving passage of the Iliad: High on the decks, with vast, gigantic stride, The god-like hero stalks from side to side. So, when a horseman, from the watery mead, (Skilled in the manage of the bounding steed) Horsemanship. 161 Drives four fair coursers, practiced to obey1 To some great city, through the public way Safe in his art, as side by side they run, He shifts his seat, and vaults fr& m one to one, And now to this, and now to that he flies; Admiring numbers follow with their eyes. ~ Racing formed one of the most important and interesting fea- tures of the Olympic games; and the blood horses of antiquity were often ridden by royal jockeys. hero, king of Syracuse, was once the winner of the Olympic wreath, upon a horse named Phrenicus; and the poet Pindar, has celebrated the achievement in immortal verse. Philip, king of Macedon, was a noted gentle- man-jockey; and when we reflect upon Alexanders victory over Bucephalus, we must allow him to have been an adept in the art of breaking. Descending to later times, by regular chronologi- cal steps, we shall find a Roman emperor (Caligula) making a companion of his horse, and preparing, with misanthropical ma- levolence, to elevate him to the consulship. In our days, more ignoble animals often fill the chairs of office, royal, magisterial and literary. Who does not love to look back upon the days of cbivaIry~ and to conjure up pictures of those brilliant and imposing scenes~ upon whose like we shall never, never look again? What throngs of noble cavaliers and gentle ladies! Mark you not yon train of horse winding down a green and wooded declivity a gallant company of fair dames and chivalrous knights! The hoofs of the horses hardly sound upon the springing turr; but the spurs jingle, and the silks ruffle ; and, ever and anon, there comes the tinkling of silver bells, from the hawks that sit hooded on the ladies wrists. She, whose tall plume is fastened by that huge diamond brooch, and who manages her white horse with such dexterous grace, is Elizabeth, queen of England; and the cavalier, upon her left, the earl of Leicester. Yes, fair reader; in that bright age, riding was as fashionable, far more necessary that it is at present; and Elizabeth, Mary, all the sovereigns of Europe, took their airing in the saddle. Ah! happy, happy days Your mem- ory yet lingers with us, like the fragrant dew, distilled from the summer flower, which refresheth our senses long after the leaves that gave it birth are withered and gone, decayed in the brown grave of autumn. Happy age! when the lady started from her couch, at dawn, wakened by the reveilUe of the huntsmen, who sang, beneath her window, Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here, With hawk and horse and hunting spear - Popes lJomer~ VOL. IX. 21 162 Horsemanship. hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily mingle they, Waken, lords and ladies gay. Then, forth poured the eager followers of hound and horn. An old English poet, whose black-letter volume is hefore our minds eye, in some quaint amatory stanzas, promises his ladye-love the enjoyment of rare sport: A leash of grey-hounds, with you to strike, And hart and hind and other like. Ye shall be set at such a tryst, That hart and hind shall come to your fist; Your disease to drive you fro To hear the hugles there y-blow. Homeward, thus shall ye ride On, hawking by the rivers ride, With goss-hawk, and with gentil falcon, With egle-horrt and with merlyon. When you come home, your men among, Ye shall have revel, dances, and song; Little children, great and smale, Shall sing as doth the nightingale. Let us turn to the East. Although the prophet of the Orien- tals rode to Heaven on Al Borak, yet the Arahs of the present day boast of a matchless race of steeds, descended from the black mare of Mohammed. How often, when wearied and broken down in spirit, with the cares of literary life, have I sighed to be- come the companion of these wild rovers of the desert. Sweep- ing over the boundless plains of sand, looking to the east and the west, and to the north and south, and finding no human habitation to break the continuous line of the horizon, I should turn my eyes to the starry firmament above, and luxuriate in those thoughts which solitude and entire freedom never fail to awaken. Give me a fine horse and the free range of these desert plains, or a headlong gallop on the Pampas, or a wild scamper over the green prairies of the west, and I,would amass a store of poetry, against my return, which, when fairly printed, should illuminate the pa- ges of Maga with undying radiance. I have often read, with delight, the Mazeppa of lord Byron, who was a good judge of horses; albeit, he was a timid and un- graceful rider. I could forgive many of his faults for the song of Ca3sars, in the Deformed Transformed. To horse! to horse ! my coal-black steed Paws the ground, and snuffs the air; There s not a foal of Arabs breed More knows whom he must bear. On the hill he will not tire, Swifter as it waxes higher; 163 Horsemanship. In the marsh he will not slacken, On the plain be overtaken At the ford he will not shrink, Nor pause at the brooks side to drink In the race he will not pant, In the combat he 11 not faint; On the stones he will not stumble, Time nor toil shall make him humble In the stall he will not stiffen, But he winged as a griffin, Only flying with his feet: And will not such a voyage he sweet? Merrily, merrily, never unsound, Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground; From the Alps to the Caucasus ride we or fly For we 11 leave them behind, in the glance of an eye. If Shakspeare had written nothing but his description of a horse, in the poem of Venus and Adonis, he would have been immortal. As this, fine poem is, from its nature, excluded from the shelves of many readers, I shall extract nearly the whole.of the passage to which I refer: Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, And now his woven girths he breaks asunder; The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds, Whose hollow womb resounds, like Heavens thunder; The iron bit he crusheth tween his teeth, Controlling that he was controlled with. His ears up-pricked; his braided, hanging mane Upon his compassed crest does stand on end; His nostrils drink the air and forth again, As from a furnace, vapors doth he send; His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shows his hot courage and his high desire. * * * * * * What recketh he his riders angry stir, His flattering hola, or his stand I say? What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur? For rich caparisons, or trapping gay? He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. Look when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportioned steed, His art with natures workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed; So did this horse excell a common one, In shape, in courage, color, pace, and bone. Ronnd-hoofd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong, Thick mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 164 Horsemanship. Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares; Anon he starts, at stirring of a feather; To bid the wind abase he now prepares, And wher he run or fly, they know not whether; For, through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, which wave like feathered wings. Sir Walter Scott was fond of horses and riding, and a most accomplished equestrian keeping the saddle amidst the trying morasses and perilous crags of his native land. Throughout his works, you may find the traces of this passion. What, for in- stance, can he finer than the description of the flight of El Ha- kim with Sir Kenneth, in the desert, mounted on those match- less steeds, in whose veins ran the pure blood of the black mare of the prophet? They spurned the sand beneath them ; they devoured the earth before them, in their rapid progress. Even the melodramic horrors of Rookwood are relieved by the thrilling interest of the hook of the Highwayman. I can sympathize with the delight of Turpin, in the matchless prowess of Black Bess, and can half forgive him for sacrificing the splen- did creature, when I consider the fame of the exploit. Very recently, an impulse has been given to the enterprize of equestrians ; and the roads, in the vicinity of our great cities, are thronged, every afternoon, with riders of both sexes. Some, whom we could mention, having profited by the instructions of our friend Towle, make a very tolerable appearance; but others do not seem to possess the slightest knowledge of horsemanship, not even the mistaken notion of Geoffrey Gambado. Even as I write, a bevy of equestrians are passing beneath my window. There they go the horses all trotting furiously ; and both la- dies and gentlemen thrown from their saddles, at every motion of their steeds. Let me dwell upon yon infatuated wretch, in salmon-colored decencies. Instead of being Incorpsed and demi-natured With the brave beast himself, he appears divorced from the saddle the sport of every motion that is made. See how he keeps his head and shoulders hover- ing over the horses mane, with a look of pale anxiety; and how nervously he grasps the curh-rein. His bended legs form the two sides of an equilateral triangle; and his feet, instead of being parallel, are carefully turned outwards, with a grace which he probably learned from his dancing-master. Mistaken youth, do you not perceive, while endeavoring to mitigate the spirit of your steed, that the unnatural position of your foot brings that ill-fitted brass spur in contact with the animals sides? Poor youth! Your fault carries its punishment along with it. And you, mad- am, his companion in folly, why, in the name of madness, are Horsemanship. 165 you gotten up upon a hard-trotting horse? Is it in imitation of Fanny Butler? I strongly suspect it is. But, nevertheless, I pity you, sincerely ; for, xvhen your horse attempts to throw you, (and I perceive in him the incipient symptoms of such an attempt) your companion xviii he useless. Let us turn to note the grace of the last couple for it is invariahly the very worst riders that take the lead in an equestrian excursion. The gentleman sits firm and erect, and not stiffly ; from the knee, his leg hangs per- pendicularly ; his feet are parallel with each other, and near the horses sides. His steed seems to form a part of himself, so at- tentive is he to every motion of the rider obeying the voice, the hit, the knee, and the heel. And the lady ; with what grace she sits ! xvith what confidence she inspires you ! seeming to place an equal reliance upon her own resources. You feel that she will readily and successfully meet any emergency, and in- stantly reduce her horse to obedience, if he should rebel against restraint. It is pleasant to see such riders, and it is equally de- lightful to possess such skill. A great outcry was raised against Fanny Kemble, because she accused our horses of being ill-broken. In that, she spoke the truth confining her meaning to hack horses. But, is this won- derful? In a country where there are such swarms of bad riders, how can a horse be expected to retain a perfect gait? If a horse comes into the hands of a livery-stable keeper a good trotter, it will not be long before some one who hires him will make him gallop; or, if he canter naturally, some dyspeptic gentleman, who likes rough riding, will reduce him to a trot. The horses owned by private American gentlemen, are quite as correct in their pa- ces as those of England. But, says Mr. \Tigne, author of Six Months in America, there are no good riders in the United States. I never saw a horse take a leap hut once there, and then there was no one on his back. Did Mr. Vigne ever attend the spring or October meeting, on the Union Course, Long-Island? Did he ever hunt with the Jockey Club? Not only are the races ridden with sur- prising dexterity, but the gentlemen, who attend the races, are frequently as well mounted, and ride as well, as the frequenters of Newmarket Gr Ascot. Without venturing a word upon the influence of the thing, I will here observe that, to a casual spectator, there is nothing so exhilirating as the scene presented by a race-course. The ave- nues to the ground are thronged with carriages, omnibuses, horse- men, and pedestrians. The stands are soon occupied, and all ]n a state of breathless excitement. The horses prepare for the start; a few parting instructions are given, and the jockeys look to their racing-trim, and glance to each other ere the signal is heard. The drum sounds, and off they go! Suppose it a fair 166 Horsemanship. start, and all off together. As they sweep around, stretching to the turf like grey-hounds, some are broken by the killing pace. One cautious jockey (dressed in white) lingers in the rear, and holds his horse together with a tight hand, while he glances to the two steeds before him, and waits patiently till they are worn out with striving to rival each other: now, now is the time! The white boy lets out his horse, gives him rein and whip and spur, and encourages him with a peculiar chirrup. The noble animal, proud of the confidence reposed in him, and fired with emulation, with a few tremendous leaps, passes his competitors, takes and keeps the lead. The lad in white, by superior jockeyship, has won the purse. But, the perfection of horsemanship is displayed in hunting riding to hounds requiring, according to Nimrod, coolness, cour- age, judgement, and nerve. Ours is no country to ride in, al- though our foxes are occasionally hunted on horseback. I was once present at a fox-hunt, on Long-Island, (I think the huntsmen were an association of the Jockey Club) against my will. I was returning from a ride, mounted on a high-spirited grey mare, be- longing to a friend, when my ears were suddenly saluted by the baying of hounds and, an instant after, the fox swept by, fol- lowed by the eager pack, and a crowd of horsemen. The sight of so many breathless steeds was too much for the philosophy of my little grey, and, paying no attention to the gentle hints I ad- ministered by means of the curb, she joined the hot pursuit, leap- ing every fence that crossed her path. The first leap almost sent me from my saddle, but I soon became used to it, and, before the fox was killed, relished the excitement of the chase. I can conceive of the enthusiasm with which the English aris- tocracy follow their favorite sport, in defiance of all perils; and, while experience has shown me the invigorating effects of eques- trian exercise, I cannot wonder that so many of my compatriots have taken the field: Contusion hazarding of neck and spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. I cannot conclude this paper without relating an anecdote, con- nected with my subject, and derived from an authentic source. The Corsicans are or were as famous for their horsemanship as for indomitable courage, love of country, hardihood, and a fierce, vindictive spirit. At different periods, different nations may have claimed allegiance obtained by conquest; but, the hardy Corsicans, united by a spirit of clanship, and confiding in the strong-holds of their island, have set at defiance laws promulgated by an usurping power. The occurrence, which I am about to relate, happened in the early part of the sixteenth century. Tonino, a humble member Horsemanship. 167 of the family of Guitera, the head of which was his feudal lord, was betrothed to a young shepherdess, named Maria, whom he treated with more kindness than the Corsicans generally bestowed upon their females, who, having often suffered from the effects of the ferocious jealousy of the males, regarded them with terror, and always approached them with misgivings. One day, Tonino, as he climbed the precipitous sides of the mountains, in search of his beloved, suddenly encountered his kinsman, the lord of Gui- tern. The humble retainer, as he sprang forward to greet the seigneur, was struck with the sinister expression of his counte- nance, in which a malicious smile seemed to he contending with a look of confusion. He hastily inquired for his betrothed. I have not seen her, replied the noble; but I forget not that she is to be thy bride. Hold! I do not offer this purse and this diamond bauble as a dowry, but as a remembrance. No thanks! I wish you a good days sport, and joy of your conquest. As he sprang down the rocks, he cast back a look of such dark ma- lignity at Tonino, that the latter, almost instinctively, unslung the big gun that hung at his back. He hastened, howeVer, with the gifts of the noble, to the presence of his mistress. She was re- clining in her favorite seat ; but, her staff had fallen from her hand, and her little dog was stretched dead at her feet. Her dress was in wild disorder; and, as her lover sought to embrace her, she fled from his arms, with a loud shriek. He laid the purse and the diamond cross on the ground before her. You have seen him, she cried. I have, replied the bewildered Tonino; and these gifts Are the price of my dishonor! she cried, in a voice of horror. As she uttered these words, standing on the edge of a precipice, she touched the gold with her foot, and it rolled into the deep chasm. It is an emblem of my fate I follow it! cried the unhappy girl, and she flung her- self from the rocky parapet, while Tonino stood, rooted to the spot, as immoveable as if he had been hewn from the rock itself. An instant afterwards, he regained his senses ; he rushed forward to the edge of the gulf, and wildly waved his arms, as if prepar- ing to follow Maria, xvhen the glittering cross attrapted his eye, and he stooped to pick it up. Raising it high in the air, he breathed a vow of vengeance. * * * * The next day was the annual festival, at which half-wild horses were caught by the lasso, tamed and ridden by the adventurous Corsicans. The scene of the sports was a green plateau, among the mountains, in the centre of which stood the rustic pavilion of the lord of Guitera, surmounted by a standard emblazoned with his arms. It was the custom of the seigneur to reward the vic- tor in the games, by presenting him with a richly-ornamented gun. While all eyes were fixed upon the horses, dashing round the arena in wild freedom, snorting, throwing the foam from their 168 ho rsemanship. mouths, and tossing their ragged manes in the air, Tonino, pale, haggard, and scowling, suddenly appeared. He held in h~s hand the formidahle lasso a rope, furnished with a noose and, sud- denly dashing into the centre of the plateau, he threw it around the legs of a strong horse, and pulled him to the ground. Ere the animal could recover himself, the victor had bitted and sad- dled him; and when he arose furiously to his legs, he was forced to obedience hy the sharpness of the curb. Dashing around the circle, at full speed, Tonino was hailed with acclamations, as the winner of the prize ; hut, his dusky lips betrayed no smile of tri- umph, as he approached the pavilion to receive the gun. Reining in his steed, with a suddenness that almost threw him upon his haunches, the fierce Corsican awaited the approach of his enemy, who slowly descended from the platform, on which his pavilion stood, and, having gained the level ground, without daring to look the victor in the face, extended the prize gun, a beautiful piece of workmanship, inlaid with silver. Tonino seized the weapon by the muzzle, and cast it from him. The lord of Guitera laid his hand upon his poignard, and bent a furtive glance upon his guards, as if anxious, yet afraid, to bid them advance. But now, the eyes of Tonino almost emitted gleams of fire and, rising in his stirrups, he threw his right arm aloft, and whirled his fatal lasso thrice around his head. At the third revolution of the rope, it descended over the body of the feudal chieftain and, an instant after, he was writhing in the strict embrace of the noose. The attack was so sudden, that the guards were para- lyzed; and the avenger, taking advantage of their panic, plunged his rowels, to the heels, in the flanks of his wild steed, and the tortured animal launched forth, in fleet career, dragging the body of the noble at his heels. The wild horse rushed to the verge of the pJateau, where the hue of the vegetation brightened into a more vivid tint, marking the boundary of the dangerous morasses. Here, as if instinctively aware of peril, the horse recoiled; but a heavy plunge of the spur, sent him into the treacherous waste. Here he floundered for a moment, and the Corsicans beheld their lord, rising, in an agony of fear, and clinging to the stirrup of Tonino. The latter spurned him from his side, and, urging his horse forward, uttered one fierce shout of exultation, ere he sank with his victim and the treacherous morass closed over them forever. 169 UNiTED STATES SENATE. JOSEPH KENT. THE biography of JOSEPH KENT, one of the Senators from the State of Maryland, presents an encouraging and worthy ex- ample to those who are entering on the theatre of life teaching them in what manner they may be elevated to high trusts, by the virtues of honor and diligence, without the aid of those dazzling qualities, which are sometimes regarded as indispensable to suc- cess, if not to the power of being useful. The subject of this brief memoir was born in Calvert county, in the State he now represents, on the fourteenth of January, 1779. His parents, Daniel and Anne Kent, were highly respect- able, possessing an estate which afforded the means of indulging a disposition for hospitality and kindness to their neighbors, in a degree which was remarkable, even where these qualities may be said to characterize a sincere and unsophisticated people. His ed- ucation, we have been told, was limited, like that which is usually acquired at country grammar-schools. From one of these, in his immediate neighborhood, he passed, at the age of fifteen, to the study of medicine, and qualified himself to commence the prac- tice at the age of twenty. In May, 1799, he became profession- ally associated with Dr. Parran, of Lower Marlboro, and con- tinued with him until December, 1801, whena misunderstand- ing taking place between them in consequence of the zealous and efficient part taken by Mr. Kent in favor of the republican party in the great civil revolution of that period the partnership was dissolved. So determined was the younger partner to defend the principles of the Constitution and the rights of the citizens against what he regarded as unwarrantable encroachments upon them, by the alien and sedition laws as well as by other proceedings of that day, that, young as he was, he took a decided stand against his elder associate and another highly-respected friend, who had offered as electors of the State Senate, in September, 1801, and who were supposed to be friendly to the reelection of the then Federal Senate. So indefatigable were his exertions, and so dauntless the spirit with which he sustained the cause he had es- poused, that young Kent was admitted to have been mainly in- strumental in revolutionizing public sentiment in his native county, and thereby essentially contributing to the ascendancy gained in the electoral college by the republican party. During his residence in Calvert county, Mr. Kent continued to take an active part in the political contests of the day, charac- terized as they were by more of manly earnestness and candor and perhaps more of principle than at subsequent periods; yet von. ix. 22

United States Senate. Joseph Kent Original Papers 169-172

169 UNiTED STATES SENATE. JOSEPH KENT. THE biography of JOSEPH KENT, one of the Senators from the State of Maryland, presents an encouraging and worthy ex- ample to those who are entering on the theatre of life teaching them in what manner they may be elevated to high trusts, by the virtues of honor and diligence, without the aid of those dazzling qualities, which are sometimes regarded as indispensable to suc- cess, if not to the power of being useful. The subject of this brief memoir was born in Calvert county, in the State he now represents, on the fourteenth of January, 1779. His parents, Daniel and Anne Kent, were highly respect- able, possessing an estate which afforded the means of indulging a disposition for hospitality and kindness to their neighbors, in a degree which was remarkable, even where these qualities may be said to characterize a sincere and unsophisticated people. His ed- ucation, we have been told, was limited, like that which is usually acquired at country grammar-schools. From one of these, in his immediate neighborhood, he passed, at the age of fifteen, to the study of medicine, and qualified himself to commence the prac- tice at the age of twenty. In May, 1799, he became profession- ally associated with Dr. Parran, of Lower Marlboro, and con- tinued with him until December, 1801, whena misunderstand- ing taking place between them in consequence of the zealous and efficient part taken by Mr. Kent in favor of the republican party in the great civil revolution of that period the partnership was dissolved. So determined was the younger partner to defend the principles of the Constitution and the rights of the citizens against what he regarded as unwarrantable encroachments upon them, by the alien and sedition laws as well as by other proceedings of that day, that, young as he was, he took a decided stand against his elder associate and another highly-respected friend, who had offered as electors of the State Senate, in September, 1801, and who were supposed to be friendly to the reelection of the then Federal Senate. So indefatigable were his exertions, and so dauntless the spirit with which he sustained the cause he had es- poused, that young Kent was admitted to have been mainly in- strumental in revolutionizing public sentiment in his native county, and thereby essentially contributing to the ascendancy gained in the electoral college by the republican party. During his residence in Calvert county, Mr. Kent continued to take an active part in the political contests of the day, charac- terized as they were by more of manly earnestness and candor and perhaps more of principle than at subsequent periods; yet von. ix. 22 170 United States Senate. he did not cease to pursue, with industry and with high reputation, his proper profession resisting the frequent and urgent solici- tations of his fellow-citizens to become a candidate for the Legis- lature. In the year 1802, death deprived him and a numerous family of a father, respected through life for his integrity and manly virtues; and on him, the eldest child, devolved the duty of aiding his excellent mother in the management of the estate, at that time a very good one. He became the sole executor; and, to his honor be it mentioned, not only refused all fees and commissions, hut declined receiving any part of the real or personal property left by his father. In January, 1806, he was induced, principally by the un- healthiness of Lower Marlboro, to remove to his present resi- dence, Rosemount, in Prince Georges county. There he con- tinued to combine, as before, a successful profession xvith his agricultural operations, from which he has accumulated the rich avails of sagacious management and indefatigable industry. It was not long, however, before he was prompted, by a sense of duty and the demands of his fellow-citizens, to take an active part in the political discussions, which had noxv become more ex- cited, in consequence of the repeated insults and injuries heaped upon us by France and England and especially by the latter power; and, in 1810, he was elected a member of the twelfth Congress, which assembled on the first Monday of November, 1811. During this eventful session, war was declared against Great Britain, for which Mr. Kent gave his vote, as well as for all subsequent measures deemed necessary to its successful prose- cution. In that body he spoke but seldom, but always with dis- cretion and effect commanding attention for the soundness of his views, and respect for the obvious candor with which they were avowed. These were freely given, in respect to the war, and the causes which rendered it necessary, as well as in regard to the manner in which it should be prosecuted, especially in a speech delivered in the House of Representatives, eleventh of February, 1813. He was reelected to the thirteenth Congress, and served till the conclusion of the war. To the fourteenth Congress he was not elected though a candidate owing, as it may be said, partly to a change of opin- ion, at that time amongst the people, on the great questions of public policy ; and in a degree, as it was said by his political as- sociates and supporters, to the number of friendly voters absent at the time (1814) on militia duty, at Baltimore. In 1815, 16, he served a session in the Senate of Maryland; and, in Novem- ber of the latter year, was chosen elector of president and vice- president. In 1818, he was again elected, without opposition, to Congress, where he continued, always an attentive and useful Joseph Kent. 171 member, until December, 1S25, when he was chosen governor of his native State. On reaching Annapolis, he undertook to reform the too careless manner in which the executive duties had been sometimes discharged ; and his measures resulted in that order and regularity so essential to the despatch of business. His arrangement to meet for husiness on the first Monday of every month, in the recess of the Legislature, has been found highly useful and acceptable to the people. In what estimation his ser- vices were held in this, to him nexv, and, in itself, important station may be judged by the very favorable manner in which his administration at its close was noticed by the public jour-. nals, as well as by the fact of the members of the Legislature giving, when his term had expired, a public entertainment, in token of their confidence and esteem. For the proceedings of that occasion, and the sentiments elicited by it, reference may be made to Niless Register, (vol. 35, page 314) the Maryland Re- publican, and other public journals of the day. In 1830, to prevent his nomination, Mr. Kent declared, by letter to his friends in convention, that, under no circumstances, could he cousent to be a candidate for Congress. In 1832, he was again elected an elector of president and vice-president ; but severe illness prevented his meeting the electoral college, at An- napolis. At the session of 1832, he was chosen a Senator to represent the State of Maryland in the Senate of the United States, for six years from the third of March, 1833. During the late session, his health was precarious, being in fact ill a part of the time. He delivered his sentiments on the deposite question concisely, but with force, in a speech xvhich was well received, though made under the most disadvantageous circumstances. He introduced a resolution, of importance and one which is probably destined to be revived to amend the Constitution in a manner to curtail the executive power under the veto privilege; but, such was the peculiar character of the late session as to prevent its being called up. From 1808 to 1825, he filled the various appointments, under the State authorities, of surgeons mate and surgeon, of major, lieutenant colonel and colonel of cavalry; and presided at the first canal convention assembled at Washington, serving as a director of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, from its origin until he de- clined a reelection. Those who have best known him have observed that his fa- vorite pursuit, in the midst of his various engagements, has been that of an agriculturist; in which he has been eminently success- ful increasing his estates in fertility and dimensions, notwith- standing the time and devotion given to public concerns and 172 United States Senate. affairs of duty, which no temptation of private interest has ever led him to neglect. One fact may he added, as a remarkable instance of abstinence in not using his political influence for selfish and family purposes; that, ~vhilst with every administration since 1811, except the present, his intercourse has been on the most confidential terms and friendly footing, and with a numerous connexion, yet his blood runs not in the veins of a human being that holds an office! More valuable, even than their particular services, is the exam- pie of men, who thus rise from comparative obscurity to the high- est stations, unsustained by avarice, and owing nothing of their success to stratagems suggested by envy, nor advantages gained by indirectness or falsehood. EZEKIEL F. chAMBERs. GENERAL EZEKIEL F. CHAMBERS is the son of Benjamin Chambers, who was formerly clerk of the County Court of Kent, and was one of the most influential and respectable citizens of the county. He was born on the twenty-eighth of February, 1788, in Chester town, Kent county, and was educated at Washington College, in Chester town, and passed through his collegiate course with much eclat. He immediately commenced the study of the law, under the direction of the late Judge Houston, and was admitted to the bar before he was twenty-one years of age. His talents and attention to business very soon brought him an extensive and profitable practice. In a few years, be arose to such eminence in his profession, as to be considered one of the most distinguished members of the bar, and this justly acquired reputation be has constantly maintained. During the late war with Great Britain, be was the captain of a militia company, attached to the twenty-first regiment, com- manded by Col. Read, and enjoyed his full share of the high reputation acquired by the officers and men of this regiment. He was most generally selected by Col. Read to carry on nego- ciations with the enemy under flags of truce. This selection, among such men as his brother officers, was no small compliment, especially when it is considered by whom the selection was made; for perhaps there were few~ if any, better judges of character than the commander of that regiment. After the close of the war, Mr. Chambers was appointed colonel; and in a few years, he re- ceived a commission as brigadier-general, which he still holds.

United States Senate. Ezekiel F. Chambers Original Papers 172-174

172 United States Senate. affairs of duty, which no temptation of private interest has ever led him to neglect. One fact may he added, as a remarkable instance of abstinence in not using his political influence for selfish and family purposes; that, ~vhilst with every administration since 1811, except the present, his intercourse has been on the most confidential terms and friendly footing, and with a numerous connexion, yet his blood runs not in the veins of a human being that holds an office! More valuable, even than their particular services, is the exam- pie of men, who thus rise from comparative obscurity to the high- est stations, unsustained by avarice, and owing nothing of their success to stratagems suggested by envy, nor advantages gained by indirectness or falsehood. EZEKIEL F. chAMBERs. GENERAL EZEKIEL F. CHAMBERS is the son of Benjamin Chambers, who was formerly clerk of the County Court of Kent, and was one of the most influential and respectable citizens of the county. He was born on the twenty-eighth of February, 1788, in Chester town, Kent county, and was educated at Washington College, in Chester town, and passed through his collegiate course with much eclat. He immediately commenced the study of the law, under the direction of the late Judge Houston, and was admitted to the bar before he was twenty-one years of age. His talents and attention to business very soon brought him an extensive and profitable practice. In a few years, be arose to such eminence in his profession, as to be considered one of the most distinguished members of the bar, and this justly acquired reputation be has constantly maintained. During the late war with Great Britain, be was the captain of a militia company, attached to the twenty-first regiment, com- manded by Col. Read, and enjoyed his full share of the high reputation acquired by the officers and men of this regiment. He was most generally selected by Col. Read to carry on nego- ciations with the enemy under flags of truce. This selection, among such men as his brother officers, was no small compliment, especially when it is considered by whom the selection was made; for perhaps there were few~ if any, better judges of character than the commander of that regiment. After the close of the war, Mr. Chambers was appointed colonel; and in a few years, he re- ceived a commission as brigadier-general, which he still holds. Ezekiel F. Chambers. 173 In 1821 he was elected a member of the Senate of Maryland; and here his talents sustained him in acquiring a reputation as ef- fectually as they had done at the bar and in the field. After his election to the Senate, he was appointed, by the executive of Maryland, a commissioner, in connection with txvo other gentle- men, to negotiate with the authorities of Virginia, in relation to the lines between the txvo States. Before the expiration of his Senatorial term, he was appointed, by the Legislature of Mary- land, a commissioner, together with two of the members of the House of Delegates, to endeavor to arrange and adjust, with the States of Delaware and Pennsylvania, the complaints of the citi- zens of Maryland, in reference to the delicate and difficult subject of runaway slaves. During this mission, he and his associates were highly compli- mented by the citizens of these two States, for their intelligence, and the conciliating and the judicious manner in which they dis- charged their important trust. The success of their efforts was truly gratifying to their constituents. During his visit to Dela- ware and Pennsylvania, he was elected to the Senate of the United States, to supply the vacancy occasioned by the resigna- tion of Col. Edward Lloyd. To that important station, he has been reelected. It is unnecessary to state with what fidelity and ability he has represented the State in the councils of the Union. The public know and justly appreciate his talents and virtues, as a statesman, as has been evinced by his reelection and well-earned popularity and influence. Mr. Chambers has at all times taken an active part in the de- bates of the Senate ; but, during the administration of Mr. Ad- ams, he bore the brunt of the battle in defending him in the Sen- ate. Mr. Chambers seldom makes what is called a set speech; but, in reply, retort, and the tilt of the debate, he is often pecu- liarly happy. His blade, when sharpened by encounter, is a keen one, and cuts close and smooth. Ever active, ever ready in such a conflict, he always comes off with honor, and often makes his adversary quiver at the shock. But, Mr. Chambers is now lost to the Senate, having been appointed, by the executive of the State of Maryland, chief judge of the second judicial district in that State. His political associates will regret his departure from among them, and the country will feel the loss~ 174 MY JOURNAL. I THINk if II were to write a book of travels in the United States, it xvould be more shocking than Captain Halls, or Major Hamiltons, or even Mrs. Trollopes. I know of only one book of the sort written by an Amer- ican The Notions of a Travelling Bachelor; and this was by Cooper, whose bead has been lately proved to be so full of notions, that nobody minds them now-a-days. A book, of a dif- ferent kind from his, written by an American, yet telling his countrymen, in sober earnest, that they actually have faults, that their country is great only in size and prospect, that there is more elegant society in older countries, & c. & c., is yet a desideratum, and might do some good; and I have little doubt that it would be better received too, than the impertinent hints afforded us by foreigners ; for it is always the case with nations as with families, that the members quarrel very contentedly and amica- bly, and cudgel one another in all good understanding; but, if any interloper presumes to appear, they all turn upon him en masse and it is lucky for him if he comes off without a broken head. It has often occurred to me to ask whetherconsidering that numerous travelers, from England and other countries, coin- ing here at different periods, unknown to each other and with different objects, some remaining longer, others less time, and still all speaking with nearly the same voice, and condemning, with equal severity the same things, there may not possibly be some truth in what they say ? or have they all come here with malice prepense, and instigated by the devil to abuse and misrepresent our unhappy land, and gall the feelings of our skin- less people, as Mrs. Troliope calls them ? Having cogitated upon all these things, it came into my bead to write a sort of journal of my own wanderings over this coun- try, a few pages of which I offer here for the edification of any who may honor me with a perusal: .May 10, 133. Arrived this day in New-York. I had vis- ited the city in my childhood, and had some indistinct recollec- tion of the lay of the land so steered for Broadway ; it was but a short distance from the wharf where I had landed, and I felt sure that I could find it. Turning a corner, I was in a street which I knew ought to be Broadway; but the houses appeared so low and small, no two of them alike, that it seemed to me I had found my way into a large encampment rather than the prin- cipal street of New-York; and it was only upon being assured that this was Broadway, that I could bring myself to believe that I was actually in a scene which had made such a strong impres

My Journal Original Papers 174-180

174 MY JOURNAL. I THINk if II were to write a book of travels in the United States, it xvould be more shocking than Captain Halls, or Major Hamiltons, or even Mrs. Trollopes. I know of only one book of the sort written by an Amer- ican The Notions of a Travelling Bachelor; and this was by Cooper, whose bead has been lately proved to be so full of notions, that nobody minds them now-a-days. A book, of a dif- ferent kind from his, written by an American, yet telling his countrymen, in sober earnest, that they actually have faults, that their country is great only in size and prospect, that there is more elegant society in older countries, & c. & c., is yet a desideratum, and might do some good; and I have little doubt that it would be better received too, than the impertinent hints afforded us by foreigners ; for it is always the case with nations as with families, that the members quarrel very contentedly and amica- bly, and cudgel one another in all good understanding; but, if any interloper presumes to appear, they all turn upon him en masse and it is lucky for him if he comes off without a broken head. It has often occurred to me to ask whetherconsidering that numerous travelers, from England and other countries, coin- ing here at different periods, unknown to each other and with different objects, some remaining longer, others less time, and still all speaking with nearly the same voice, and condemning, with equal severity the same things, there may not possibly be some truth in what they say ? or have they all come here with malice prepense, and instigated by the devil to abuse and misrepresent our unhappy land, and gall the feelings of our skin- less people, as Mrs. Troliope calls them ? Having cogitated upon all these things, it came into my bead to write a sort of journal of my own wanderings over this coun- try, a few pages of which I offer here for the edification of any who may honor me with a perusal: .May 10, 133. Arrived this day in New-York. I had vis- ited the city in my childhood, and had some indistinct recollec- tion of the lay of the land so steered for Broadway ; it was but a short distance from the wharf where I had landed, and I felt sure that I could find it. Turning a corner, I was in a street which I knew ought to be Broadway; but the houses appeared so low and small, no two of them alike, that it seemed to me I had found my way into a large encampment rather than the prin- cipal street of New-York; and it was only upon being assured that this was Broadway, that I could bring myself to believe that I was actually in a scene which had made such a strong impres .71Iy Journal 175 sion upon my youthful recollection. Everything appeared dimin- utive to me coming, as iii had, directly from the old world, where I had resided for several years ; and I made some sad blunders. For instance: inquiring the way to a certain place, and receiving the direction, I asked, What, is it near the small chapel, yonder? No, sir near the large church, was the answer, given in all simplicity; we both meant the same building. I found excellent accommodations at the Clinton house; and, being alone, preferred eating at the ordinary. What the throats and stomachs of my countrymen are made of, is a wonder to me; the tremendous rapidity with which they devour their food, is a ceaseless subject of amazement. Many of them finished their breakfast before I had drunk my first cup of coffee; some even be- fore it was brought to me; and as for dinner, it was a fearful thing; a cotton factory is stillness, compared to the horrible clatter which the knives and forks and the plates so rapidly changed, kept up. There was one comfort, hoxvever; the xvhole business was finished in fifteen minutes, and I was left to eat my dinner in peace. Twelfth. Walked up Broadway; it seemed as if a whole gal- lery of beauties had paraded this afternoon. Dear creatures how sweetly they looked! I was proud to be a native of the same land. Yet, Pbmbus ! what dresses! what gaudy mate- rials ! what an absolute dazzle of ribands and laces and muslins! I have no hesitation in saying, that a New-York lady would be robbed if she walked on the Boulevard3 in Paris, in the dress she was accustomed to wear in Broadway. Visited the battery a beautiful walk, but small. Fourteenth. Dined at Mr. ****~~ Am told that his house is one of the most elegant in the city. It is built of brick, which seems to me a pity (no one should attempt to build a brick palace, especially where marble abounds, as at New-York;) the interior is neat and well furnished, but no pictures nor sculpture, except the marble fire-places, which seemed rather strange, as the owner is said to be very wealthy. In the evening, visited Miss *****; met a portion of that society which is to be found in every principal city of America as cultivated, polished, re- fined, and charming, as the best tbat the old world can boast of. Such people, however, are not appreciated in the more exten- sive and self-named fashionable, but in reality vulgar, circles of New-York. Take it all in all, New-York is the most disgusting and abomi- nable place of the size, I was ever in. If we may believe tbe reports of their own statistics, the amount of crime perpetrated there, and the low debauchery of every kind, and the revolting population, with which some parts of the city are crowded, ron- 176 .My Journal. der it, in proportion to the number of inhabitants, the most wicked place in the xvhole civilized world. There is one god in New- York and this is money; there is one absorbing passion the craving for wealth. The whole place is rather like an encamp- ment than a city, where young adventurers, broken-down mer- chants and penniless foreigners come to stay a few years and repair their disastrous affairs. I cannot understand what New-York writers mean, when they talk about the beauty of their city. if they mean the natural beauties of the place, I agree with them: the location is extremely fine and I trust that, one day, there will be a city worthy of its site ; but, in all that constitutes the beauty of a city, fine ar- chitectural monuments, noble churches and public edifices, broad, open squares and promenades, statues and fountains, New-York is utterly deficient. The only building which makes any pre- tence to architecture is the City Hall, which is plain, and of tol- erable proportions, but only remarkable, in American architec- ture, as not being deformed by any very striking absurdity, unless the cupola be considered as such. There are a few open places, or promenades, such as. the Park, the Battery, and Hudson square ; but these are so small, compared with the extent of the city, as to be almost contemptible. If I were going to shew a foreigner the pride of New-York, and indeed of the United States, I should lead him to the wharves, where he would behold a scene, almost without a rival in the world. I would show him there the true palaces of Amer- ica the packet ships; of unequaled beauty, strength and swift- ness; managed with a dexterity and boldness, which claim the admiration of all nations, and furnished with a degree of splendor that might become the saloons of a prince. I would show him the passage to the high seas whitened with a thousand sails ; the magnificent steamboats, ever in motion, waiting like haudmaids on the city of their inventor; the forests of masts and the croxvd- ed shipping, stretching for miles along the quays, and pouring the merchandize of the whole earth into the lap of the Commercial Emporium the everlasting stir and bustle thus accompanying the increasing wealth; and then I would bid him reflect upon the elegancies and refinement to which this accumulation of wealth will finally lead; but, the Lord forbid that I should boast, to an intelligent European, of the elegance or refinement to be found in New-York. So much for what I would say of New-York, from the impres- sions made by a visit there, after an absence of several years. Since the journal, from which I have here extracted a passage, was written, I have been there two or three times, but have never found any cause to change my mind. Perhaps now, New-York may .IIbj Journal. 177 not be pleased to have such remarks made about her. I hope she will not he offended, for my remarks are no more than the fly lighting on the horn of the ox. But if she does take it amiss, I would pat her on the shoulder, and say to her, as I would to a pouting sister Now do nt be offended, dear! you know it is all true but we 11 keep it in the family; and though you know that you are the very devil at home, still we 11 keep up appear- ances, and make you look as amiable to strangers as you can though we must not be surprised if they see through you now and then: and besides this, you are beginning to grow more agreea- ble, in realityand I have no doubt you will be quite decent, some time or other; only you must get rid of your vermin, such as pigs, & c. However, I will continue my journal. .May sixteenth Philadelphia. I could, almost always, dis- tinguish a Philadelphian in Europe, because Philadelphians dress better, speak better English, and look more like gentlemen, than the generality of those whom I met from the other cities of the United States. Philadelphia is vastly superior to New-York, in every respect, unless it be in the facilities for making money. The streets are generally broader and more neat, and the public buildings, which are worthy of notice for their architecture, out- number those of New-York, ten to one. Some of them are really superb not the churches, however: the costliest edifices of the American cities, are the temples to Mammon the banks these, in Philadelphia, are very fine. The United States bank is commonly spoken of as the most deserving of attention, and is, in reality, a most chaste and perfect specimen of architecture. I prefer it, on the whole, to the Bourse, at Paris, which is spoken of as one of the master-pieces of modern times. The white marble, used in its construction, is in fine harmony with the massy Doric, and adds much to the effect. But, for symmetry and delicate proportion, I preferred a small Ionic building, used, I believe, as a bank, also of white marble. I do not remember the name of the bank, nor the street in which it stands ; it is in sight of the Exchange, and at no great distance from it, on the side towards the Delaware. One curious feature of Philadelphia is, that the dwelling-houses have wooden shutters outside the xvin- dows, which makes them all look like shops or stores. Seventeenth. Called on Mr. ~ ; a very agreeable, intelli- gent gentlemenone of the literary lights of America, but might- ily absorbed in politics. Went to ~ to a small party, in the evening; very pleasant; the ladies have more of the manners of Europeans than at the north. I observed many of them talk- ing French, which one would not see in Boston. Still, they are not so well-educated as the Boston ladies. But, what use is there in educating our ladies, if they are to lose their influence in V0L~ IX. 23 178 My Journal. society the moment they are married? This detestable custom of shuffling married ladies out of society prevails everywhere in the United States, and the place which they ought to hold, is usurped by pert young misses, in their teens, who have not half the qualifications of education, maturity and judgement, to render themselves agreeable, which are to be found in those whom they drive from the leading places in society. I think Miss ~ sings better than any amateur I ever heard. There xvas much good music at this party. I believe the art is more cultivated in Phi- ladelphia than in any city in the Union.* July eighth. Went to the book-store of Carey, Lea and Blanchard a set of detestable publishers, who have inundated the country with more ugly editions, wretchedly printed on semi- broxvn paper, than they can atone for, if they devote the rest of their lives to the making of handsome hooks. A publisher who puts out a novel in a cheap form, upon ugly paper, like the hor- rible editions of these men, has a great deal to answer for. If he were tried before the tribunal of literature, he would, undoubt- edly, be found guilty of high-treason, and sentenced to be burnt in a fire made of his own execrable editions; and, if the ghosts of books go to another world, I doubt if his punishment would cease here. Saw a small pamphlet of caricatures of Mrs. Butler, published by Johnston, of Boston the most vile attempts at wit ever made. I have no patience with men who, masking the love of lucre under countenance of patriotism, do foul injustice to the taste of their countrymen, as well as violate the decencies of society. The same may be said of the abusive paragraphs which have appeared in so many of the newspapers. If I were a re- viewer, I would write about them somewhat in this style: It is a misfortune universally attendant upon caricature-makers, that their works are more apt to reflect disgrace upon the authors, than upon those against whom they are directed. At the very best, caricaturing is the lowest species of wit ; and the more one ex- cels in it, the more surely is he to be set down as a man of a low and degraded mind. This species of satire is only to be tolera- ted when directed against those who are deservedly the objects of public odium or contempt. When, on the other hand, it is used as an engine of party malice, or descends to the still lower purpose of flattering the tastes of the most debased portion of a * [The most charming amateur-performer on the piano-forte we ever heard, is a fair PhiladelphianMiss S~ . The grace and ease, the rapidity and brilliancy, with which she executes the most difficult pieces, and her perfect command of the instrument, are unrivaled; and we cannot omit to add, that a seeming unconscious- ness of her extraordinary powers, and a reluctance to anything like display, render her performances vastly more pleasing, and attract the admiration of the listener from the skilful musician to the modest and lovely girl. ED.] Airy Journal. 179 populace, it deserves no consideration nor mercy. Still, if well executed, it may elicit a smile even from those who are the ob- jects of its rancor. We remember hearing Lafayette describe, with great glee, some caricatures of himself, which he had just seen in a shop window. But, when caricatures are made of per- sons who deserve the consideration and respect of all, and when, at the same time, they have not even the poor recommendation of the low wit which they aim at; xvhen they are utterly devoid of interest, wit, or sense, we know not where, in the xvhole circle of the productions of industry, we can find anything so entirely stale, flat and unprofitable, so thoroughly deserving of contempt, so completely disgraceful to its author. Such is the case with regard to the work in question. The newspaper editors have lavished their abuse upon the Journal; and these wretched caricatures have been added to the heap. And yet, the most respectable periodical in the country has joined with the sentiments of the best portion of the community, in rank- ing Mrs. Butlers journal, as it deserves as the work of a high- spirited and talented lady, and as one of the most interesting book of travels in the United States, that has yet appeared. Mean- time, the unhappy author of the caricatures has leisure to chew the hitter cud of reflection upon the sad blunder he has made. There is always a moment of satisfaction succeeding exertion, be- fore it can be ascertained xvhether success is to follow or not and we have no doubt that Johnston has enjoyed this moment; but this has undoubtedly passed away, and the feeling is probably succeeded by that weariness and disgust, which universally ac- company the contemplation of ones own failures. We doubt not, that the unfortunate caricaturist xvould be glad to gather in his whole mistaken edition, and commit it to the flames. But, we cannot allow him to do this; it is proper, rather to hold up the pages before his eyes, and ask him if the ugly faces do not seem to grin maliciously at him, while he laments over his blun- ders. It is a disagreeable, though necessary, office to remove the re- mains of loathsome abortions, which occasionally present them- selves in our path, and xvhich would otherwise infect the atmos- phere but, when the work has to be done, as in the present case, it ought to be faithfully done. Had not this disgusting pro- duction been accompanied by various newspaper paragraphs, constituting a load of ahuse nearly as disgusting as itself, it would probably have appeared too contemptible to notice; but, when so many nuisances present themselves at once, they must be scraped together, and consigned to the scavengers cart. I think I should say something of this kind, if I were a writer of reviews; and I hope somebody will take the hint, and give 180 Spring JVotes of the Humming-Bird. Johnston a handsome lashing, for his very bad caricatures I am sure he deserves it. But my journal is growing quite long, and I close for the pres- ent. I intend, at some future time, to visit the good city of Boston especially if my comments on the other cities are rel- ished. SPRING-NOTES OF THE HUMMING-BIRD. FAR away, and away, through the filmy air, For the North, for the North, away! Oh, sweet are these odorous roses and fair But the wild yellow balsams await us there; And the trumpet-flowers, through the wild vines, flare And the dark forest-edges. array. And we 11 fear not our onward path to take, Far, far, through the trackless sky; Near the verdant earth, our journey we 11 make, And float oer the green and feathery brake, And blossoms, that border the silvery lake, Or, in the savanna-breeze, sigh. Oh, good are our fairy-like wings at need, To wander from zone to zone To glance oer the green and flowery mead, And the broad prairie-lands, with arrowy speed For our rapid flight, not the rays exceed Shot forth from the diamond-stone. We 11 leave the bright South, with its evergreen bowers, And come with the summer and go; Nor the feeblest shall fail, in this host of ours ; For our wings He will nerve, whose sunshine and showers Spread wide, oer the earth, our banquet of flowers, A fair and a glorious, show! L.

L. L. Spring-Notes of a Humming-Bird Original Papers 180-181

180 Spring JVotes of the Humming-Bird. Johnston a handsome lashing, for his very bad caricatures I am sure he deserves it. But my journal is growing quite long, and I close for the pres- ent. I intend, at some future time, to visit the good city of Boston especially if my comments on the other cities are rel- ished. SPRING-NOTES OF THE HUMMING-BIRD. FAR away, and away, through the filmy air, For the North, for the North, away! Oh, sweet are these odorous roses and fair But the wild yellow balsams await us there; And the trumpet-flowers, through the wild vines, flare And the dark forest-edges. array. And we 11 fear not our onward path to take, Far, far, through the trackless sky; Near the verdant earth, our journey we 11 make, And float oer the green and feathery brake, And blossoms, that border the silvery lake, Or, in the savanna-breeze, sigh. Oh, good are our fairy-like wings at need, To wander from zone to zone To glance oer the green and flowery mead, And the broad prairie-lands, with arrowy speed For our rapid flight, not the rays exceed Shot forth from the diamond-stone. We 11 leave the bright South, with its evergreen bowers, And come with the summer and go; Nor the feeblest shall fail, in this host of ours ; For our wings He will nerve, whose sunshine and showers Spread wide, oer the earth, our banquet of flowers, A fair and a glorious, show! L. 181 THE FIGHT OF THE FALLS. THE reader who is familiar with the broad basin of water, where the Connecticut sweeps round in a quarter of a circle, be- fore it tumbles over the cascade at Turners falls, will remember a scene, that is throughout very placid and quiet above the falls, and very wild and turbulent below them. The water, the woods and meadows, on the upper side, present a uniform and unbroken appearance ; and when the sun of a fine day throws into contrast the deep green of the woods and the lighter green of the grass upon the banks of the river, the whole is very serene and soft inviting you to a drowsiness, which is gently encouraged by the sound of the water, dashing on the rocks, far below. Few other noises are heard there, unless it be now and then the quick, flat, clapping sound of a plank, falling on some raft, that is sailing down the river; or the grating of the old ferrymans wire, as he pulls his boat across the basin. Occasionally, however, a shal- low barge, with a large square-sail set low upon its mast, shoots out of the canal, that runs round the falls ; and the boatmen are heard singing a song. There are creeks, too, half a mile above the ferry, which run back among high rocks and overhanging woods, where the water has no motion, and where you may rest all day long in your skiff, forgettingso deep is the stillnessthat there is such a thing as time. But, immediately below the falls, and as far as the eye can reach down the channel of the river, everything is wild, abrupt, and broken. The broad stream takes its course along the base of a high, rocky mountain, that stretches parallel with the water, and looks like a great portion of the earths back-bone, protruding through its surface. The pines, that grow on the sides of this ridge, are irregular and jagged, and many of the larger ones have fallen, from want of soil; overcom- ing their feeble hold on the rocks, by their own weight. The bed of the river is a mass of broken rocks, that keep the waters in a constant boil, long after they have escaped from the tumult just beneath the cascade itself. There is a feeling of insecur- ity enough to make you dismount your horse as you wind around the corner of the abrupt rock, where the road brings you in sight of the falls ; for the precipice, on your right, is several hundred feet perpendicular to the bed of the river, and nothing but certain destruction could be the fate of man or beast, that should go down there. Like the great cataract of the West, Turners falls has an isl- and in the centre. Indeed, it is the Niagara of the neighbor- hood, in more than one of its features ; for it is shaped like a horse-shoe, and you may see a rainbow there any day when the

G. T. C. C., G. T. The Fight of the Falls Original Papers 181-189

181 THE FIGHT OF THE FALLS. THE reader who is familiar with the broad basin of water, where the Connecticut sweeps round in a quarter of a circle, be- fore it tumbles over the cascade at Turners falls, will remember a scene, that is throughout very placid and quiet above the falls, and very wild and turbulent below them. The water, the woods and meadows, on the upper side, present a uniform and unbroken appearance ; and when the sun of a fine day throws into contrast the deep green of the woods and the lighter green of the grass upon the banks of the river, the whole is very serene and soft inviting you to a drowsiness, which is gently encouraged by the sound of the water, dashing on the rocks, far below. Few other noises are heard there, unless it be now and then the quick, flat, clapping sound of a plank, falling on some raft, that is sailing down the river; or the grating of the old ferrymans wire, as he pulls his boat across the basin. Occasionally, however, a shal- low barge, with a large square-sail set low upon its mast, shoots out of the canal, that runs round the falls ; and the boatmen are heard singing a song. There are creeks, too, half a mile above the ferry, which run back among high rocks and overhanging woods, where the water has no motion, and where you may rest all day long in your skiff, forgettingso deep is the stillnessthat there is such a thing as time. But, immediately below the falls, and as far as the eye can reach down the channel of the river, everything is wild, abrupt, and broken. The broad stream takes its course along the base of a high, rocky mountain, that stretches parallel with the water, and looks like a great portion of the earths back-bone, protruding through its surface. The pines, that grow on the sides of this ridge, are irregular and jagged, and many of the larger ones have fallen, from want of soil; overcom- ing their feeble hold on the rocks, by their own weight. The bed of the river is a mass of broken rocks, that keep the waters in a constant boil, long after they have escaped from the tumult just beneath the cascade itself. There is a feeling of insecur- ity enough to make you dismount your horse as you wind around the corner of the abrupt rock, where the road brings you in sight of the falls ; for the precipice, on your right, is several hundred feet perpendicular to the bed of the river, and nothing but certain destruction could be the fate of man or beast, that should go down there. Like the great cataract of the West, Turners falls has an isl- and in the centre. Indeed, it is the Niagara of the neighbor- hood, in more than one of its features ; for it is shaped like a horse-shoe, and you may see a rainbow there any day when the 182 The Fight of the Falls. sun shines. The little island, of a quarter of an acre the ferry- man can row you down to it is the best point from which to see the striking contrast between the scenery ahove and that be- low the falls ; and, if you have ever seen it, you will agree with me, that the whole is singularly in keeping with the contrast be- tween an evening and a morning that once passed over that spot, in the year 1675. Philip, the great sachem of the Pokanokets, had long had in agitation a plan for the union of his own tribe and the Narragan- sets with the Mohawks, against the English. For the purpose of a more ready communication with the latter nation, he had passed the winter of 75, with ahout three hundred of his tribe men, women, and children on the Connecticut, at the place we have described. The spring had almost bloomed into summer, when his spies who kept up a constant intercourse hetween his quar- ters and those of the Mohawks, on the North river brought him word, that that people had finally refused the alliance he had been so long endeavoring to negociate. They had learned that he himself had murdered some of their men, for the sake of exaspe- rating them against the English, insinuating that it had been done by them. All intercourse between the txvo tribes being thus cut short, by the discovery of his treachery, he prepared to proceed southward, on the very day when the battle, or rather the massa- cre, which we are about to relate, took place. It was about noon, on the sixteenth of May, 1675, when a body of one hundred and fifty men rode slowly into the village of Hatfield, commanded by a pale and emaciated young man, who seemed to retain his seat in the saddle only with the greatest difficulty. The men under his command, consisted of a small force, from the militia of Northampton and Springfield, and a larger body of the colony troops, who had accompanied the offi- cer from Boston. They had been despatched for the defence of the towns on the Connecticut; and the orders given to captain Turner, by the governor, were, to destroy the power of the In- dians in that neighborhood to ascertain, and, if possible, to break up the head-quarters of Philip. It was a period of sore trouble and suffering to the colony; when no man went abroad into his field without his rifle, pouch and horn; and when no family lay down at night, without the anticipation of being roused by the yell of the savage. It was, therefore, with no small joy that the inhabitants of these towns saw a force, so nutnerous and well-armed, sent to their protection; and, to the village which they had just entered, their coming was a source of inexpressible relief. Two days before, a large body of Indians had swept into the town, and carried off several women, who had not been able, from the suddenness of the attack, to quit their avocations and seek shelter in the strong-house, or fort, which was then always The Fi;ght of the Falls. 183 found in the frontier towns. Among the persons thus captured, was the only daughter of Mr. Atherton, the clergyman of the vil- lage. The distracted parent had now heen awaiting the arrival of these troops xvhich xvere known to he on their march for forty-eight hours, until his heart grew sick with hope deferred he assembled his parishioners, and besou 0ht them to arm them- selves, and follow him on the track of the natives. Those who had lost sister, wife, or child, were eager to set out ; but the rest, though kind and ready, knew too xvell that the rescue could never he effected by so small a hand as that which they mus- tered ; they would go, if their minister wished it ; but they en- treated him to wait a few hours longer. Their deliberations were interrupted by the joyful news, that the troops were approaching, and Mr. Atherton hastened to receive the officer, and communi- cate with him as to their march. The officer, Captain Turner, it appeared had been very ill and when he left Boston, was scarce able to mount his horse. The journey, however, had recruited him ; and he declared him- self ready to march to the falls a distance of about twenty miles as soon as his troops had taken some refreshment. Mr. Atherton, and several of his people, resolved to accompany the expedition. They had little doubt of the present safety of their kindred, who had been carried off by Philips men; for he could have nothing to gain by their destruction, which must be followed by the severe vengeance of the English. It was therefore confi- dently hoped that, if they could surprise the enemy during the night, the rescue of the captives, and their restoration to their homes, would be effected. The whole of that fine valley, that now stretches from North- ampton to the boundary line of Vermont filled with sweeping meadows, that run to the foot of the numerous ridges, which branch out in all directions from the Green Mountains was then a vast wilderness. On the xvestern side of the Connecticut, two streams crept out from the mountains, and flowed sluggishly through a great swamp, xvhich then spread over the beautiful plains where the villages of IDeerfield and Greenfield now stand. The little army, now on its march for the Great Falls, reached one of these streams, near the seat now called Meadow Banks, an hour after the evening had set in. The first step of the horses of those in the advance, as they plashed across the shallow stream, roused a small party of Indians, who were then lying a few rods below. One of their number, who went out to reconnoitre, re- turned with the report, that the noise was occasioned by the moose crossitig the stream; and thus the whole party of the Eng- lish crossed without discovery. They then pushed on through the woods, and reached the foot of the high ridge, which sepa- rates the view of the Great Falls from the country on the west- 184 The Fight of the Falls. em side of the river, about an hour before the dawn of day. Here they dismounted, and secured their tired horses to the branches of trees and bushes ; and having prepared their firelocks and ammunition, were summoned by the officer to prayer. The light of the moon, as it struggled down through the trees, gave a fine effect to the scene. Above, arose the huge pines, through whose fine foliage the breeze whispered a constant and plaintive sigh; and the deep voice of the fall, in its unbroken and uniform roar, came rising over, the hill, and seemed to take up their sup- plication, and bear it floating over meadow, rock and wood. The voice of man chimed, in a strange and fearful harmony, with these voices of nature ; and, as the various sounds mingled, clear and distinct, in the cold air of the morning, it seemed to the wor- shippers as if the powers of the elements had united in their de- sign. The party then crossed over the steep ridge, and formed around the narrow meadow, where the Indian camp lay before them. A woman, the only person stirring in the camp, discov- ered the Eglishmen lurking among the trees, and shouted, to arouse the warriors, who lay around and in the tents. But they did not hear her cry; for, at the same instant, and drowning ev- ery other sound, a volley of musketry brought the savages upon their feet, and echoed with a deafening roar up and down the val- ley of the river. From out the little wood, two hundred white men poured down the meadow, and surrounded the camp, in a semicircle, each end of which rested upon the stream, and left to the Indians no escape, but by means of their canoes. Terrified, without their arms, and impeded by the women and children who clung to them, they rushed into their boats and launched them upon the river, where they were exposed, without paddles, to the fire of the whites. For a while, they struggled against the stream with pieces of bark torn from the sides of the canoes; but the sure, steady, heavy current bore them slowly on to their fate; and when they saw it was inevitable, they sent up a long, pier- cing shriek, and then sunk down, in sullen despair, to await the awful plunge of the cataract, down which they were hurrying. As each little vessel approached the brink, it seemed to pause for a second, as if to give its wretched passengers a last farewell of the beautiful world, which they were thus quitting, through the agency of one of its most beautiful objects. A single ray of the just rising sun shot through a gulley, in the eastern bank of the river, and glanced across upon the edge of the fall; and as each canoe passed swiftly out of the shade, the still forms of the sava- ges flashed out, for an instant, into bright relief against the dark torrent beneath them, and were then plunged into the boiling depths, to be cast up, mangled and bleeding, upon the rocks be- low. It was a fearful sight this destruction of human life, by The Pig/it of the Falls. 185 the roaring element, which still poured on, unconscious of what. it had done ; and those torn and mutilated limbs, as they came whirling out of the agitated waters, with here and there a trunk, in which a little life remained, crawling up the rocks of the island, where they projected into the stream. Some twenty or thirty, however, went over in safety, and were spared to wreak their own and their comrades vengeance upon those who had thus driven them into the jaws of destruction. In a few moments, and when the English had supposed the enemy were all killed, or driven over the precipice, and when they had begun to think of the women whom they had come to rescue, a light canoe shot suddenly from behind the wood, where it ran down in a point to the waters edge, and came sweeping by the little meadow, directly towards the brink of the fall. A tall, powerful Jadian, with a branching tuft of eagles feathers, rising over his head, guided the little hark, with long, swift strokes of the paddle. It was Philip himself; he had escaped through the wood, to a canoe hid among the rushes that skirted the water. The general shout of surprise among the English was instantly followed by the discharge of five or six muskets at the bold sachem. But he swept by untouched, without turning his eye to the shore, but keeping it steadily fixed on the centre of the passage between the rock of the island and the western hank, where the water leaped in a curve over the precipice. The In- dians had a mode of descending that passage in their canoes; but it was a fearful experiment, and the least error of the eye or shrinking of the arm would dash the vessel from one to the other side of the deep trough, which ran in the centre of the torrent, and plunge the adventurer into the waste of waters he had dared to brave. The sachem rode safely on, past the men who crowd- ed the shore, steadying his canoe, which already began to tremble as if in anticipation of the dangerous leap, when an Englishman suddenly appeared below him, on the rock upon the bank, at the distance of only a few rods. As the boat came rushing down the stream, this man was seen hurriedly preparing the lock of his gun. Fire! Fire! cried his comrades from above. The gun flashed the plume of the chieftain scattered on the wind, and its feathers floated gracefully down, kissing the water on his rapid path, and mocking, by their light and easy motion, the ineffec- tual attempt. Before the Englishman could retreat out of the way, the canoe had received its right direction towards the trough of the cataract. The sachem raised his paddle from the water, poised it for half a second in his hand, and then darted it like a spear into the face of his foe now but a few feet from him and was instantly riding in safety on the waves below the fall. The blunt handle of the oar prostrated the Englishman upon the rock. There he grappled to the sharp points of the ledge for a VOL. IX. 24 186 The Fight of the Falls. moment, slipping loxver and lower as his hold gave way, and at length dropped into the boiling surge, to rise no more. Just as the rush was made towards the fall, in pursuit of the sachem, one of Captain Turners men discovered a female in the English dress upon the island that divides the cataract. Soon the whole party, that had been carried off from the village of Hatfield, appeared upon the rocks that beetle over the stream, and a mutual recog- nition took place between them and their kindred on the bank. The old clergyman again beheld his daughter, and all saw some relation, friend or neighbor ; but the roaring waterfall was be- tween them, and there seemed to be r~o means of rescuing the unhappy women from their present position. They called to each other, from both sides, to catch the sounds of well-known voices ; but the deep sound of the plunging xvaters frustrated ev- ery attempt at communication, except by signs, although each party could distinctly see every feature in the countenances of the other. At length, Turner directed the attention of his men to a passage along the course of the stream, below the falls, where the waters were comparatively smooth, being protected by the island, xvhich divided the force of the waves, and confined their violence to the two channels on each side of it. Here, he proposed to them to ascend to the island, and bring off the cap- tives. The attempt, however, was full of danger, for the current was violent, and several of the Indians, who had escaped destruc- tion under the falls, were still lingering on the rocks, through which the adventurers had to thread their way. With the great- est hazard, they had succeeded in crossing the rough channel, which intervened between the shore and the less turbulent pas- sage in the centre of the stream ; when the Indians rushed upon their boats, heedless of the guns which blew their very brains into the water and endeavored to overturn them. But the well directed aim of the whites soon destroyed or repulsed these assailants ; and after toiling against the stream for a short time, they reached the island and received the xvomen into the boats. When they again landed on the western bank, where the anxious relations of these females had watched the expedition, everything seemed accomplished, and all hearts were given up to the flow of gratitude and joy. But now they were to commence their retreat through a wild and swampy country, filled with the war-parties of the Indians, and after they bad inflicted upon them a blow which must arouse their severest vengeance. When they reached their horses, on the other side of the ridge, they found that the guard, who had been left with them, and the animals also had been murdered. Large puddles of blood stood upon the ground, and had been splashed upon the grass by the dying convulsions of the horses. One animal only had escaped, and came neighing out of the The Fight of the Falls. 187 wood, into which it had fled, and where it could not he taken hy the Indians. It proved to be the horse of Captain Tnr~ ner; and as that officer was now nearly exhausted hy his ef- orts, the escape of this horse seemed providential. The little army formed themselves into a close hody, with the women in the centre, and hegan their march. But they had not proceeded more than two miles, before an attack was made on their rear by a large body of Indians, and nearly half their number was cut oiL A little farther on, the whole forest seemed to swarm with the enemy; and it was finally resolved that their only chance of safety was to disperse and hide themselves. Before this could be accomplished, a fresh attack had driven them down to the brink of a small stream one of the tributaries of the Connecti- cut and Captain Turner, finding it impossible to make any stand against the enemy, ordered the few men who still remained with them to take Miss Atherton the only female of the party now to be seen across the stream; he himself lingered, reclin.~ ing feebly on the neck of his horse, in hopes that her father might appear. But he was nowhere to be seen; the savages were com- ing on again ; he therefore turned his horse into the stream, when what was his surprise and vexation, to see that the whole party were hurrying on into the forest beyond, leaving the young lady behind them. He tried to call after them, but his voice failed; he felt suddenly sick and dizzy; exhausted nature could do no more, and he had just strength enough to spur his horse, when a shot from the wood pierced his side, and he fell across the ani- mals neck, clinging to his mane. The Indians, thinking him dead, and not seeing the lady on the opposite shore, gave up the pursuit. The horse bore his dying rider carefully up the bank, and halted instinctively, when the young lady ran to assist the wound- ed man front his saddle. The wound was found to be mortal, and the young man was slowly sinking under the flow of blood, which they had no means to check. Still no murmur escaped him; and the few thoughts he could give to their present situation, were merely to direct Miss Atherton not to remain by his body ~vhen he had breathed his last, but to follow the course of the stream, which would finally lead her into the white settlements. In a short time his utterance became more rapid, and his eye kindled as he spoke of the manner in which his mission had been performed, and the great confidence and strength it would inspire throughout the colony. Then he directed the poor girl whose tears ran freely for this young stranger, whom that day had first made known to her, amid so much peril to take from his belt the little ammunition which it contained, and not to set out on her lonely way without carrying his pistols, to protect herself from the wild beasts, as well as the Indians whom she might 138 The Fight of the Falls. meet. At last he sunk away, with a few half-audible words of prayer on his lips, and died as he had shown himself the whole of that arduous day brave, generous and forgetful of himself. The colony never lost a better officer; and though his name is but just mentioned in the records of those perilous times, it still lingers around the spot where he struck so signal a blow upon the power of King Philip. It was at mid-day, that the young officer expired in the arms of the stranger girl, who was then left alone in the wilderness, with no other companion than her steed, which had borne the young man to that lonely spot. For hours she sat gazing upon the face of the dead the features of which began to settle into that fixed look of unearthly beauty, that lingers for a time in the human countenance, before decay begins its work. She could not move, she could not reflect; the solitude of the forest, where nature was all hushed into the deep stillness of a summers noon, with the calm, unspeaking presence of the dead, was awful. She forgot herselfher life, her safety, her exposure, far from any aid and there seemed to her no world, no home nothing but the deep presence of the world of nature around her, and the dead body, and the horse that stood quietly gazing on his master, as if he, in his brute sympathy, were conscious of all that had happened. Many hours had passed on, and still she was there, with the faithful beast waiting patiently for service. At length the declining sun aroused her to a sense of her desolation and exposure. She arose and endeavored to fix her mind upon the scene itself, that she might describe it, should she ever reach her home; then taking the horses bridle in her hand, she moved slowly away from the spot, but in a direction opposite to that she ought to have taken. She had not gone many steps, before the animal halted and refused to be urged any farther. This was not unaccountable, but she did not wait to reason; she hurried on, and before she had gone far, he came neighing after her, and placed himself directly in her path, and seemed to wish to pre- vent her progress. This was again and again repeated, until she lost all courage and patience, and sank upon the ground, where she fell asleep, exhausted and in tears. Her dreams at once took their hue from her real situation. She fancied that she was wan- dering in a strange country, by the side of a river; and that, in- stead of following with the current, she had gone against it, and had thus lost her way. The morning dawned in all that fullness of life and beauty which carries its cheering influence into the saddest and most desolate hearts. The lost girl awoke refreshed and encouraged, and there stood the horse, feeding on the short grass of the wood, without the appearance of having deserted her through the night. Her dream was the first thing that presented itself to her mind .11 Complaint against Verbiage and Egotism. 189 and after some moments reflection, the whole was so vividly and strikingly connected with her real situation, that she resolved at once to follow its admonition. She had no sooner set out in the direction taken by the stream itself, than the horse seemed to fol- low her with the greatest alacrity. In a short time they emerged from the thicker part of the forest, and she was enabled to make a more effectual use of him. After a long and weary day of travel, through wood and swamp, she reached in safety her home, from which she had been carried four days before. Her story is still told by the people of that country, among the other inci- dents and sufferings in Philips war. 0. T. C. A COMPLAINT AGAINST VERBIAGE AND EGOTISM. WELL hast thou said, wise and bitter Duke of Rochefoucauld, On sait assez quil ne faut guire parler de sa femme; mais on ne sait pas assez quon devroit encore moms parler de soi. Tis verier gospel, and a more wholesome text, than ever. The itch of egotism is contagious ; in this wordy age and country, it spreads daily and waxes virulent. The monster makes the meat it feeds on. Heaven and the old Saxons be praised, that I, my and me, we, our and us, are monosyllables. Any elongation of them would grievously retard our all-important processes of scribbling and speechifying, in which their recurrence is so indispensable and incessant. They give a local habitation and a name to every- bodys darling topic to the great locus communis of the times. Happy the patriQt even in Iflischlinces whose place gotten or place lost, whose wrong suffered or wrong imputed, whose speech or whose silence, whose vote or whose non-committing slumber, may seem to call for explanation, and to whisper, in the long ear of this profound people, promises of mystery solved, or abuses detected. Whether he have been lashed with invective7 or struck white and cold with a challenge, or kicked from office what sovereign balm doth our injured patriot then apply to his bruises and smarts ! Straight he contracteth with wholesale sta- tioners. He equippeth himself. He layeth in store of the awful implements of scription those modern substitutes for swords, wands, rods, and all the old weapons of offence and mortification Then addresseth he his adversary, his constituents, his country,

Cosmo Cosmo A Complaint. Against Verbiage and Egotism Original Papers 189-195

.11 Complaint against Verbiage and Egotism. 189 and after some moments reflection, the whole was so vividly and strikingly connected with her real situation, that she resolved at once to follow its admonition. She had no sooner set out in the direction taken by the stream itself, than the horse seemed to fol- low her with the greatest alacrity. In a short time they emerged from the thicker part of the forest, and she was enabled to make a more effectual use of him. After a long and weary day of travel, through wood and swamp, she reached in safety her home, from which she had been carried four days before. Her story is still told by the people of that country, among the other inci- dents and sufferings in Philips war. 0. T. C. A COMPLAINT AGAINST VERBIAGE AND EGOTISM. WELL hast thou said, wise and bitter Duke of Rochefoucauld, On sait assez quil ne faut guire parler de sa femme; mais on ne sait pas assez quon devroit encore moms parler de soi. Tis verier gospel, and a more wholesome text, than ever. The itch of egotism is contagious ; in this wordy age and country, it spreads daily and waxes virulent. The monster makes the meat it feeds on. Heaven and the old Saxons be praised, that I, my and me, we, our and us, are monosyllables. Any elongation of them would grievously retard our all-important processes of scribbling and speechifying, in which their recurrence is so indispensable and incessant. They give a local habitation and a name to every- bodys darling topic to the great locus communis of the times. Happy the patriQt even in Iflischlinces whose place gotten or place lost, whose wrong suffered or wrong imputed, whose speech or whose silence, whose vote or whose non-committing slumber, may seem to call for explanation, and to whisper, in the long ear of this profound people, promises of mystery solved, or abuses detected. Whether he have been lashed with invective7 or struck white and cold with a challenge, or kicked from office what sovereign balm doth our injured patriot then apply to his bruises and smarts ! Straight he contracteth with wholesale sta- tioners. He equippeth himself. He layeth in store of the awful implements of scription those modern substitutes for swords, wands, rods, and all the old weapons of offence and mortification Then addresseth he his adversary, his constituents, his country, 190 .11 Conzplaini against Verbiage and Egotism or perchance the world. He floodeth successive pages and num- bers of a daily journal. The moon xvaxeth and waneth over his continuations. He hath more to say for himself in this one mis- sive, than the Christian Apostles said, for their master and them- selves, in all their letters to all the churches: so much greater is the writer, or so much better his cause. And how admirable, how horribly beautiful is the unity of the composition! Not only has it a beginning, middle and end, but its end, its middle and its beginning are absolutely one : it commences, advances and concludes with himself! He reconciles and justifies all that he ever said, did, and was. He professes all his creeds, both positively and negatively ; guards every article with limitations, traces it to its germ, and dates its birth. He writes a minute, moral, political and metaphysical autobiography a great natural history of himself; and illustrates the whole with a running com- mentary from all parts of learning. For, in his regard, crea- tion falls into moieties; the less of which he treats as merely illustrative of himself the greater. Yet is this embodiment of the first person singular most elaborately modest; and while, in the farthest range of his disquisition, self is never out of sight or hear- ing while he utters nothing but as an adjective to that great substantive, a relative to that great absolute while thrusting his inevitable self between you and the very facts and thoughts he would present to you he is most reluctant to intrude heaps columns and pages with stale professions of insignificant humility, and time fails him adequately to proclaim the infallibility and all- wisdom of the public whom, nevertheless, he has volunteered to enlighten Well would it be for us, could the great tide of egotism ex- haust itself through the vent of print. But no ! Our patriot, who thus, by help of newspaper or pamphlet, Upon the wings of mighty winds Comes flying all abroad, is enviously emulated in Senates and the Forum. Not six purely impersonal orations are spoken in as many months at the Capitol. Exordium and peroration, which of late often swell out of all pro- portion to the intermediate matter, seem to be dedicated, by gen-. eral consent, to autobiography, odorous comparisons of honor- able friends with honorable opponents, and the praises of Demos; especially of such portion as has the honor to be represented by the orator. What agricolous person, (to use thy words, rare Jeremy Bentham!) what agricolous person, on benches fo- rensic, lets a session go by, now-a-days, without taking occa- sion, (if he be of any consideration) in some set speech, to treat his audience and the curious world to a proof (seldom an easy, and never a brief task, in these changeful times) of his perfect .11 Complaint against Verbiage and Egotism. 191 consistency of opinion, even from his tender years, and a recog- nition of all the affinities and repugnances of his political creed in fact, its precise relationship to every other, now or lately prevailing ? Heaven shield us, if the speech he maiden! For although, perchance, this circumstance may ahridge the autobiog- raphy, yet doth the debutant take ample satisfaction in the dis- play of his scholastic attainments. He proceeds as if he were still on examination hefore a school-committee. He deduces propositions, by syllogisms, from the very elements of knowledge. He bases himself broadly on a succinct view of universal history. He casts the foundation and heaps the ponderous walls of his ar- gument, as if resolved to realize the maxim of the law Cujus est Solum, ejus est usque ad Coelum. Laconic Justice Marshall ! thou whom the imagination of one who never saw thee, refuses to acknowledge on the canvass, and all incredulous of Hardings handiwork and others tongues, bo& ies thee forth lamented Sage ! in the Miltonic portraiture of one Who in his rising seemed A pillar of state: deep on his front engraven Deliberation sat, and public care And princely counsel in his face yet shone, Majestic though in ruins: sage he stood, With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear The weight of mightiest monarchies: his look Drew audience and attention still as night, Or summers noontide air, Oh that the fear and love of thee, thus imaged father of many counsels and few words might be ever before the eyes of our crude Tullies, on every floor; and that their ears might ever tingle a little with thy gentle rebuke of the ambitious young bar- rister, who, after spending some hours in introductory and very elementary argumentation, at length was thus arrested: The young gentleman, perhaps, may safely take for granted that some general principles are already in the possession of the Court. Could our orators be persuaded to make such a complimentary supposition with regard to their auditors, and be shamed out of all impertinences, to what a shrunken residuum would almost any of our Capitoline addresses be reduced, though measuring, in the delivery, a day longer than the Parisian revolution! What a lively little inns of meaning (not ridiculus, perhaps, but by con- trast) would run out of the vanishing mountain of words! How easily, in any leisure hour, might we read aye, and ponder the small and pertinent relic! Nay, selfish public, but may not our orator, (the breath of whose nostrils is your notice and favor) may he not reasonably fear, should he consent to publish a speech no longer than De~ 192 ~J Complaint against Verbiage and Egotism. mosthenes longest, that, in attending to his subject and argument, you might for a moment forget himself? The most to be dep- recated of all results What interest has the public in dry facts and reasoning, about laws, treaties or imposts, compared with assurances by the hon- orable member from B., of his respect for the honorable gentle- man on his right, and contempt for the honorable gentleman on his left . of the alarm, conviction, indignation and horror, that have successively usurped his breast during the debate of his idio- syncrasy, as explanatory of these emotions of the proper con- struction of his speech made ten sessions ago of the motives of his determined silence, ever since the day before yesterday of the necessity in which he is now placed of replying, at some length, to the very pointed allusions of the honorable gentleman from A. of his cough, and how he got it of his willingness to spend and be spent in the service of his country of his eager- ness, so soon as she can spare him, to retire to the shades of Bushburg, and to domestic bliss! Oh, when will Heaven give us grace to learn and digest the certain truth, that if ever the wise man talks foolishly, the clever stupidly, or the wit ridiculously, it is when self is the topic. And whose tongue is unfailingly lively or wise? Whose discourse is rdl highland? Gentle reader, is there a new book on your table, that is not spiced, more or less freely, with the same interesting individu- ality? An eagle to a dime, not one! Each of their authors feels poor fellow ! as every writer, who is not a truly great man, must feel now-a-days, that he is one of a mob; and deter- mining that whatever notice, in spite of multitudinous competi- tion, he may attract, shall, at any rate, fasten upon his proper self, he has stamped his picture in little, or at length, on every sheet. Open that new novel. Is not the author his own hero? Does he not entertain you with youthful adventures, which, having im- pressed his own fond recollection, must, he concludes, be clever or wicked enough to interest others? The only disguise is a slight change of name and the use of the third person. But even this transparent mask is ever and anon cast impatiently side, and in introduction, notes, and frequent rhapsodical digressions, he ex- patiates in all the naked wantonness of egotism. At the end of his book, we know, mediately through his hero or immediately from himself, as much of his circumstances, person and tastes, the length of his dinners and of his shoes, as if he had been our familiar for a twelvemonth. Yet the creature piques himself on ridicule, and is very lavish of it; as if there were anything more supremely ridiculous, than a person, about whom the world has .11 Complaint against Verbiage and Egotism. 193 never heard nor inquired, gratuitously introducing himself, and all that is his, to its acquaintance blowing his own brazen trum- pet, and obtruding his own brazen face! Open that Quarterly, and look at the leading article. Twenty pages, about the spirit of the age, and matters thereanent; half a dozen about the book reviewed, or the person and circumstances of its author; the next page tells us how much more the journab 1st meant to write, and would like to write but that he has reached his limits, and must content himself with a few extracts: a series follows ; and, thereafter to the end, the reviewer reviews his motives for reviewing the book, reiterating, at large and with many sighs, that he has come to an end and must stop, although he has written quite otherwise than he designed! Is not the impertinence consummate most lolerable and not to be endured ? Who cares for his intentions~? Who asked him to write ? Whose husiness is it, but his and the editors, whether his uninvited, unvalued and unremembered trifle be, in his own conceit, complete or incomplete, long or short? Must we not utterly despair of ever again opening two covers, between which we can be secure from the great, impersonated, hundred-tongued Self that rides like an incubus the whole word-mongering troop of the day ? Whither shall we flee, or how bless ourselves, from the incessant halloo, or hissing whisper, or loathsome stare, of this inevitable sprite if the very reviewer, who does not aspire to deal directly with nature or reality, but merely to remark on the way in which somebody else has dealt with them a name- less contributor to a perishing periodical not recognized as a separate existence a mere fibre of a yellow-winged epheme- ron a poor part-tenant of a paper tenement doomed to be puffed away into oblivion with the breath of the changing sea- son if he is to discourse to the world of himself! As for these memoirs, journals, vindications, letters and remi- niscences, the promulgation of them may at least claim credit for candor. They affect no fictitious theme or title, but yield without shame to the infectious irretinence of self. Obedient to the feverish automania, the throng plunge panting into the tempt- ing tide of notoriety, like a caravan at a desert stream. Alas, a poem too! But be it passed in silence! Egotism and poetry! But be it passed in silence! Spare the veiled muse who blushes for her unworthy votary. For her sweet sake and in charity to his dark laurels, who, when all eyes were turned on his changed young brow and sickened heart, un- wittingly set the ill example be this silken and gilded volume passed in silence The pyramids have forgotten the date of their own corner- stone and the home of their founder. The men of these days gather around those faithless monuments, nor can learn from their VOL. IX. 25 194 .11 Complaint against Verbiage and Egotism. time-defying faces, whether they guard the remains of a monarch or an ox. While they were heavily rising, by the sweat of a nations brow, and under the eye of the forgotten king, who ex- ultingly committed his name to their vast memorial even then, haply, a blind bard was wandering about the vales and isles of Greece, and starting their echoes with the deathless song, that has immortalized a hundred heroes, himself, his country and his age. Yet bath the father and perpetual prince of all generations of bards whose lyre, instinct with immortality, thus triumphs over the eternal pyramid in no line or word of his golden rhap- sodies, left any record of himself. Faint tradition tells us the name of William Shakspeares father and wife ; that he came to London a wayward boy; wrote certain plays ; played some parts ; went back to his village- home and died. Nor to this lean legend hath his own pen added a syllable. Without asking, or apparently expecting of us the least attention to himself, or care for his memory, he be- queathed us a priceless legacy works rivalling those of nature, in compass, variety and exquisite truth; thought, that must ever be dear in the inmost hearts, as his words are household on the lips of the civilized world. Once more. If ever heroism doffs the helmetif ever, in still obscurities, her ear pines not for the trumpets clangor and the neigh of steed, nor her eagle-eye for the red gush of blood John Milton was a hero. His life was an epic. Comp6sing Paradise Lost, he was as sublime an image as humanity ever presented for contemplation. Yet nowhere, in that awful master- piece, has he ~vrought a picture or type of himself, or whispered how his great heart fared under the spurns of fortune and the vis- itings of the muse: never but in some occasional outpouring of sublime prayer and resignation, as when the genial sunshine falls upon him, hut brings to his darkened orbs No sight of vernal bloom, or summers rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine. Thrice honored Three! Oh that the rhymers of a perverse generation would learn of you to forget self and every small con- ceit, when they address a world and to invoke the muse with single and expanded hearts, into which alone she will descend! Co SMO. 195 TIlE ROSE-COLORED PACKET. BY THE AUTHOR OF ~IHE ITALIAN SKETCH-BOOK.~ SOOTHINGLY played the sunset breeze over the sleeping sea, laden with the perfume from the orange-groves of Genoa. As the mellow light gilded the palace-roofs and domes of the old city, its aspect, to the imaginative spectator who gazed distantly frcm the ocean, was not unlike an ancient and splendid amphitheatre, with golden battlements, an azure canopy, and an arena of pol- ished emerald. The quiet waters of the bay wore an air of un- wonted solitude ; and but a single vessel was moored in a posi- tion which indicated a speedy departure. This was a brigantine, of beautiful proportions evidently one of the comparatively small, but singularly efficient craft, which supplied Britain with the finer fabrics of southern Europe. If the eye lingered uncon- sciously upon the symmetrical exterior of the Sea-Nymph, a glance at her occupants and equipments, could not but speedily yield to a gaze of earnestness and pleasure. The most promi- nent figure discernible upon her deck, was that of a young man clad in mariner s vestments, the quality of which indicated supe- riority of rank not more distinctly than did their perfect adapta- tion serve to discover superiority of form and strength. There was enough in the strangers appearance to denote his English origin ; but other characteristics as readily suggested to an intel- ligent observer, that circumstances of birth or experience had modified the peculiarities so obvious in the sons of the north. A certain nervousness of temperament and latent warmth of feel- ing, were discoverable in the natural language of the seaman and as the light puffs of air, ever and anon, threw hack the side- locks from his uncovered head, the disciple of a beautiful but misinterpreted science would have noticed the cause of the bland complacency which rested on his countenance, as his eye roved over the surrounding scene. The breadth of the brow indicated a large endowment of ideality, to the delight of which, that fairy- like picture was now silently ministering. The mother of Cap- tain Roberto was a native of Spain, and neither the qualities of his Albion father, which he largely inherited, nor a boyhood spent amid the fogs of the island, had sufficed to eradicate the southern leaven from his nature. Earlier, by several years, than ordinary prudence would warrant, he had been entrusted with a large interest in the trade in which he was then engaged. Eor him, it had many and peculiar charms. His latent affinity with the region of his mothers nativity found free scope during his frequent sojourns in the cities and campagna of the Mediterra- nean coast; and in every port there were those who welcomed

The Author of 'The Italian Sketch-Book' The Author of 'The Italian Sketch-Book' The Rose-Colored Packet Original Papers 195-200

195 TIlE ROSE-COLORED PACKET. BY THE AUTHOR OF ~IHE ITALIAN SKETCH-BOOK.~ SOOTHINGLY played the sunset breeze over the sleeping sea, laden with the perfume from the orange-groves of Genoa. As the mellow light gilded the palace-roofs and domes of the old city, its aspect, to the imaginative spectator who gazed distantly frcm the ocean, was not unlike an ancient and splendid amphitheatre, with golden battlements, an azure canopy, and an arena of pol- ished emerald. The quiet waters of the bay wore an air of un- wonted solitude ; and but a single vessel was moored in a posi- tion which indicated a speedy departure. This was a brigantine, of beautiful proportions evidently one of the comparatively small, but singularly efficient craft, which supplied Britain with the finer fabrics of southern Europe. If the eye lingered uncon- sciously upon the symmetrical exterior of the Sea-Nymph, a glance at her occupants and equipments, could not but speedily yield to a gaze of earnestness and pleasure. The most promi- nent figure discernible upon her deck, was that of a young man clad in mariner s vestments, the quality of which indicated supe- riority of rank not more distinctly than did their perfect adapta- tion serve to discover superiority of form and strength. There was enough in the strangers appearance to denote his English origin ; but other characteristics as readily suggested to an intel- ligent observer, that circumstances of birth or experience had modified the peculiarities so obvious in the sons of the north. A certain nervousness of temperament and latent warmth of feel- ing, were discoverable in the natural language of the seaman and as the light puffs of air, ever and anon, threw hack the side- locks from his uncovered head, the disciple of a beautiful but misinterpreted science would have noticed the cause of the bland complacency which rested on his countenance, as his eye roved over the surrounding scene. The breadth of the brow indicated a large endowment of ideality, to the delight of which, that fairy- like picture was now silently ministering. The mother of Cap- tain Roberto was a native of Spain, and neither the qualities of his Albion father, which he largely inherited, nor a boyhood spent amid the fogs of the island, had sufficed to eradicate the southern leaven from his nature. Earlier, by several years, than ordinary prudence would warrant, he had been entrusted with a large interest in the trade in which he was then engaged. Eor him, it had many and peculiar charms. His latent affinity with the region of his mothers nativity found free scope during his frequent sojourns in the cities and campagna of the Mediterra- nean coast; and in every port there were those who welcomed 196 The Rose-colored Packet. the Sea-Nymph and her gallant commander, with a greeting such as seldom cheers the arrival of foreign merchautmen. I think the lad has started, yonder, said the captain. Aye, aye, sir, replied his second in command, turning his eye towards the shipping. A slacker hoy than Zed would have lingered longer on his last land-errand. In a few moments the hoat, propelled gently on by the skilful arm of the young sailor, touched the vessels side, and he stood, bat in hand, before his commander. All s iight, ohserved that functionary, taking a small file of papers from the hoy, and hastily glancing at their contents ; and had ye brought a good hreeze with ye, Zed, we would see how much nearer the Straits the dawn would find us. Your honor knows that Zed would ever be the bearer of pleasant things ; and drawing from his vest a small pink packet, he presented it, with unusual obeisance, wherehy as the quick eye of Roberto was not slow to detect the lad hoped to con- ceal the arch smile that was playing on his lip. Whence this? exclaimed the captain, xvith an air of surprise. It was left at the consignees, an hour since, sir ; and so saying, be retreated among his messmates. Nicholas Vanbiunt, the mate of the Sea-Nymph, possessed the numerous solid excellencies which characterized his Dutch progenitors. Indeed, if the truth must be told, the prudent part- ners of Roberto had connived to secure the old man the berth he enjoyed deeming his caution and judicious timidity well fitted to neutralize the action of the captains more mercurial nature; and they were wont, in l)rivate converse, to yclep Vanblunt the ballast of their enterprises, and Roberto the ends the one ever advocating steadiness, and preferring perfect immobility to the least risk; the other striving to catch every breeze of fortune, and carry some canvass even in a tempest. One quickening im- pulse, however, occasionally wakened into temporary vivacity the energies of Nicholas ; this was that restless appetite, of mother- Eve memory, denominated curiosity; and, had one seen the start and the gttze, which the phenomenon of the rose-colored packet gave rise to, be would have thought that the Netherlands had suddenly become visible over the bow of the brigantine. The effect which the epistle produced upon the demeanor of Roberto, ~vas well calculated still farther to excite the inquisitive spirit of his mate. He dwelt long and curiously upon the superscription; and the listless manner in which he broke the seal, was strongly contrasted xvith the expression of intense interest which its con- tents awakened. He read, then walked the deck and read again; now he turned his eyes intently upon some inland object, and now surveyed, with anxious circumspection, the hues of the horizon; The Rose-colored Packet. 197 he smiled as the breeze evidently freshened, and glanced compla- cently over the garniture of his vessel; then resuming his walk, he hummed musingly a Spanish air, till the flutter of the paper seemed to awaken his mind from its abstraction ; once again he read, then carefully refolding and depositing it in his bosom, he murmured, yet in a tone of resolution, It shall be done ! What, sir? ejaculated the impatient Nicholas, at his elbow. A trifle, in the way of business on shore. Harkee, Mr. Van- blunt, send Zed, with the small boat and two lads, alongside; loosen the sheets and make all ready ; in five minutes after my return, we must be off. Roberto hastened to the cabin; and Nicholas, having given orders agreeable to his instructions, returned t6 his post deter- mined, on the captains re-appearance, to learn the occasion of these unexpected movements. Any news of import? he asked. No, Mr. Vanblunt, not a word. Are the invoices all on board, sir? Yes; you can examine them, below. But, Captain What? stopping and looking up, as he descended the ves- sels side. The the rose-colored packet, sir? Oh! I will tell you all about it Do, sir, winningly exclaimed Nicholas, leaning over, in fond expectation. On my return, dryly added Roberto, as he dropped into the boat, and, in an urgent though low tone, bade the oarsmen pull away. Before the disappointed mate could rally from his discom- fiture, their long and vigorous strokes had borne their commander to a distance which precluded any but a vociferous renewal of the interview. The business which thus unexpectedly called on shore the captain of the Sea-Nymph, was of that species with regard to which experience had taught him it was well to postpone consult- ing his reflecting brother officer. He made it a rule, indeed, to take counsel with that worthy on all occasions of mutual concern- ment; but chose to exercise his private judgement in fixing the time for presenting certain subjects to the veterans considera- tion having often found his opinion, on questions of expedi- ency, less troublesome after than before the said questions were experimentally settled. Accordingly, he already anticipated ma- ny long discussions with Nicholas, relative to the rose-colored packet, but not till his own view of the matter had been practi- cally adopted. Leaving the anxious Hollander to superintend the preparations for the speedy departure of the brigantine, let us follow her small 193 The Rose-colored Packet. boat, and learn what is writ on the rosy scroll, against which the Anglo..-Spaniards noble heart is beating with benevolent expec- tancy. The delicacy of the characters betray the hand of woman; and the elegant Italian, in which the epistle is couched, evince more than ordinary cultivation. In homely English, it would read thus: To the captain of the Sea-Nymph The writer of this has been, almost from her earliest recollec- tion, a denizen of the convent of St. Agatha. She has gazed often from the tower above, forth upon the beautiful city, and out upon the bright sea ; she has heard the festal cries of the Geno- ese, and the song of the mariners from the bay; she has noted the glad faces of the young gentry and the happy countenances of the peasants, as they have passed along the adjacent road; and these things have awakened in her soul the desire of freedom. The thought has been cherished till it has become a passion and a necessity. She has read much of the honor and generosity of Englishmen. Thrice has she marked thy distant vessel; but, until this hour, knew not by what title to address thee. She now appeals to the captain of the Sea-Nymph for deliverance and pro- tection. Three hours after vespers, a blue cord will be dropped from the third window of the farther wing of the convent. Wilt thou be there to rescue an involuntary nun? and shall the Sea- Nymph bear her to the free shores of England? In nomine Dei Patri, et Fuji, et Spiritus ~Sancti, thou art invoked to compas sionate VIOLA DONATELLI. The long, delicious twilight, peculiar to southern latitudes, was fast yielding to the deeper shades and more solemn effulgence of night. The lovely daughters of Genoa again welcomed their evening pastimes. The cheerful hum of the converzazione, the rich music of Italian song, a ad even the low notes of a guitar, ever and anon echoed along the terrace-groves, or stole out from among the garden-shrubbery of the street of palaces. A day of uncom- mon sultriness had rendered the cool and tranquil even-time doubly grateful. Yet the new-born breeze, s~veetly musical as it was within the city and by the sea-side, stirred, with some- thing of wildness, amid the rank grass that clustered about the foundation of a massive pile which arose loftily, beyond the sub- urbs. Its anterior wall cast a gigantic shadow over the solitary fields; and nought but the white habiliments would have be- trayed a figure, which, in a crouching attitude, was slowly follow- ing the line of its base. Suddenly it seemed to spring forward, and presently the gleam of a lantern revealed the captain of the Sea-Nymph hastening towards Zed, who was drawing from among the vines the tessalated extremity of a silken rope. To this, a light but & trong ladder of cordage was attached and drawn upward. Roberto soon felt the cords tremble in his grasp, as he The Rose-colored Packet. 199 endeavored to steady them. Corragio! he whispered, as a light female form dropped gently among the weeds at his feet, and knelt down, with folded arms and an upward gaze, as if wit- less of his presence. He quietly raised the lantern, and its fee- ble rays fell on features of that indescribable saint-like beauty, with which the traveler occasionally meets among the religeuse of the continent. The freshness of youth combined with the sacred ardor of devotion to vivify their expression; and the ex- citement of the occasion tended to deepen the impression, which the vision for such it seemed made upon the ardent mind of the young seaman. He inwardly rejoiced, yet with something of awe, that the enterprise was undertaken, and felt nerved for its fulfilment. Zed suddenly pointed to the ladder, and to his dis- may, the captain beheld another and seemingly decrepit female slowly descending; his exclamation recalled the nun from her reverie. Rising, she anxiously surveyed the countenance of Roberto; then softly murmured Viola confides in one above and thee. Fear not; yonder comes the only other being whom I can call friend on earth; finding me resolute, she has deter- mined to accompany me. Roberto was sadly perplexed at this information; but his cogitations on the subject were quickly in- terrupted by a cry of alarm, and the next moment the unfortunate donna fell groaning at the foot of the ladder. Snatching a cloak from the arms of Zed, he threw it around the fair being beside him, and lifting her on his shoulder, ran with wonderful rapidity, followed by the sailor-boy. The cries of the fallen dame echoed through the solitude. Roberto pressed onward in silence, nor paused till he reached the last point whence the convent was dis- cernible; then gazing momentarily back, he beheld lights gleaming from twenty windows, and fancied the cries of pursuers, borne on the rising wind. * * * * * Hadst thou, gentle reader, while rusticating, at a subsequent pe- riod, at one of the most beautiful villages in the vicinity of Lon- doi~, unexpectedly entered the drawing-room of the accomplished Madame Clarissa Roberto, thou wouldst have seen, among that ladys fair-haired and blue-eyed daughters, a flower not less pleas- ing to contemplate, though evidently exotic. But it would be only by patient attention, that, in the cheerful and womanly beauty of the stranger, thou couldst discover any especial semblance to the lovely apostate who, three years before, prayed for forgiveness beneath the walls of St. Agatha. Yet, were it thy privilege to linger beside her to mark the sweet naivete, with which she uttered the accents of the Anglo-Saxon, kindle her expressive- ness by appeals to her enthusiasm, or drink the melody of her song; when the wand of the enchanter was no longer visibly swayed, thou wouldst learn, by the rapid flight of time and the lingering of the souls glow, that thou hadst been within the magic 200 & nnet. circle of Italian loveliness. Who can wonder, then, that Madame Clarissas noble nephew, on every return voyage, tarried in the noisy metropolis only long enough to take every requisite care of his gallant bark, and then hastened to practice la bella lingua Ital- jana with his charming proteg~? It may be thought singular that one who so narrowly escaped the consequences of a vow, should ever again voluntarily assume such a responsibility. Yet, if the records of the parish say truly, not many years since, Viola iDon- atelli did religiously promise, through all the vicissitudes of this our world, to love, honor and obey Francisco Roberto. Prosperity has followed the captain of the Sea-Nymph, and that title is displaced by a nobler; happiness dwells with the nun of St. Agatha, and that appellation is no longer hers. Yet, often do their wondering children look up, from the sports of infancy, to mark the grateful tears with which their parents speak of the ROSE-COLORED PACKET. SONNET. DAWN. I see the light, I taste the flowing air There is no cloud above me and I feel, Bathing my forehead, delicate and rare, And full of odor, the sweet influence steal~ The tints of dawn the last fair star conceal, Throwing faint crimson oer its lessening ray; And the far, billowy vapors melt away, Touched by thy golden wand imperial Sun Rising in glorious beauty, giving life To the young flowers, and joy to every one Whose early-wafted thoughts to Heaven are rife With deep devotion, borrowed at thy shrine. Well might the ancient world deem thee divine, And the first worship of the soul be thine! P. B.

P. B. B., P. Sonnet. Dawn Original Papers 200-201

200 & nnet. circle of Italian loveliness. Who can wonder, then, that Madame Clarissas noble nephew, on every return voyage, tarried in the noisy metropolis only long enough to take every requisite care of his gallant bark, and then hastened to practice la bella lingua Ital- jana with his charming proteg~? It may be thought singular that one who so narrowly escaped the consequences of a vow, should ever again voluntarily assume such a responsibility. Yet, if the records of the parish say truly, not many years since, Viola iDon- atelli did religiously promise, through all the vicissitudes of this our world, to love, honor and obey Francisco Roberto. Prosperity has followed the captain of the Sea-Nymph, and that title is displaced by a nobler; happiness dwells with the nun of St. Agatha, and that appellation is no longer hers. Yet, often do their wondering children look up, from the sports of infancy, to mark the grateful tears with which their parents speak of the ROSE-COLORED PACKET. SONNET. DAWN. I see the light, I taste the flowing air There is no cloud above me and I feel, Bathing my forehead, delicate and rare, And full of odor, the sweet influence steal~ The tints of dawn the last fair star conceal, Throwing faint crimson oer its lessening ray; And the far, billowy vapors melt away, Touched by thy golden wand imperial Sun Rising in glorious beauty, giving life To the young flowers, and joy to every one Whose early-wafted thoughts to Heaven are rife With deep devotion, borrowed at thy shrine. Well might the ancient world deem thee divine, And the first worship of the soul be thine! P. B. 201 SCRAPS OF PHILOSOPhY AND CRITICISM. VICTOR HuGo, one of the most popular novelists and dramat- ists of modern Prance, has recently published a couple of vol- umes, with a title which may be, not inaptly, translated, eLi .1I{Iied- ley of Philosophy and Literature. The style of this collection is various ; for its papers were produced at different intervals, dur- ing a considerable series of years. We have translated here and there a few brilliant paragraphs, which may convey correctly the authors sentiments, and may furnish some idea of his style: WALTER SCOTT AND LE SAGE. Le Sage, I should say, is more witty; Scott is more original; the one excels in narrating individual adventure, the other mingles with such adventure the description of a whole people, or age the first scorns all truth of place, manner, history ; the latter, scrupulously faithful to truth, owes to it perhaps the magic attrac- tion of his pages. In the works of both, the characters are drawn with skill ; but in Scott they seem better sustained, because they are more lively, and of a fresher nature. Le Sage often sacri- fices the conscience of his heroes to the humor of an intrigue; Scott gives his heroes a severer disposition ; their principles, their very prejudices have in them something noble that cannot bend to circumstances. We are surprised, in reading a romance of Le Sage, at his great variety of incident; we are still more surprised, on finishing a romance of Sir Walter, at the simplicity of his plot; and the reason is, that the first labors chiefly on the general action, the second on the particular details. The one paints life, the other paints the heart. In short, the works of Le Sage give us, as it were, experience of fortune; those of Sir Walter Scott give us experience of men. GREAT MEN Are those who have felt much, lived much; who, in a few years, have lived many lives. The tallest pines grow only in the regions of storm. Athens, the city of tumult, was the mother of a thousand great men; Sparta, the city of order, boasted but one Lycurgus; and Lycurgus was born before his laws. Thus we see that great men most frequently appear in the midst of popular agitations: Homer, in the midst of the heroic ages of Greece ; Virgil, under the triumvirate ; Ossian, on the wreck of his country and her gods; Dante, Ariosto and Tasso, in the midst of the reviving convulsions of Italy; Corneille and VOL. IX. 26

Scraps of Philosophy and Criticism Original Papers 201-208

201 SCRAPS OF PHILOSOPhY AND CRITICISM. VICTOR HuGo, one of the most popular novelists and dramat- ists of modern Prance, has recently published a couple of vol- umes, with a title which may be, not inaptly, translated, eLi .1I{Iied- ley of Philosophy and Literature. The style of this collection is various ; for its papers were produced at different intervals, dur- ing a considerable series of years. We have translated here and there a few brilliant paragraphs, which may convey correctly the authors sentiments, and may furnish some idea of his style: WALTER SCOTT AND LE SAGE. Le Sage, I should say, is more witty; Scott is more original; the one excels in narrating individual adventure, the other mingles with such adventure the description of a whole people, or age the first scorns all truth of place, manner, history ; the latter, scrupulously faithful to truth, owes to it perhaps the magic attrac- tion of his pages. In the works of both, the characters are drawn with skill ; but in Scott they seem better sustained, because they are more lively, and of a fresher nature. Le Sage often sacri- fices the conscience of his heroes to the humor of an intrigue; Scott gives his heroes a severer disposition ; their principles, their very prejudices have in them something noble that cannot bend to circumstances. We are surprised, in reading a romance of Le Sage, at his great variety of incident; we are still more surprised, on finishing a romance of Sir Walter, at the simplicity of his plot; and the reason is, that the first labors chiefly on the general action, the second on the particular details. The one paints life, the other paints the heart. In short, the works of Le Sage give us, as it were, experience of fortune; those of Sir Walter Scott give us experience of men. GREAT MEN Are those who have felt much, lived much; who, in a few years, have lived many lives. The tallest pines grow only in the regions of storm. Athens, the city of tumult, was the mother of a thousand great men; Sparta, the city of order, boasted but one Lycurgus; and Lycurgus was born before his laws. Thus we see that great men most frequently appear in the midst of popular agitations: Homer, in the midst of the heroic ages of Greece ; Virgil, under the triumvirate ; Ossian, on the wreck of his country and her gods; Dante, Ariosto and Tasso, in the midst of the reviving convulsions of Italy; Corneille and VOL. IX. 26 202 Scraps of Philosophy and Criticism. ~acine,in the age of the Fronde ; and Milton, chanting the first rebellion at the foot of the bloody scaffold of Whitehall. And if xve examine the individual destiny of these great men, we shall find them harrassed by an agitated and miserable life. Camoens cleaves the waves, his poem in his hand. DErcilla writes his verses on the skins of beasts, in the forests of Mexico. Those of them, whom bodily suffering does not divert from suf- fering of mind, lead a stormy life, devoured by an irritability of disposition, which renders them a burthen to themselves and to those who surround them. Happy they who do not die before their time, consumed by the ardor of their own genius, like Pas- cal; by grief, like Molidre and liacine or victims to the ter- rors of their own imagination, like the miserable Tasso KANTS WIG Was sold for thirty thousand florins, at the time of his death, and brought only twelve hundred crowns at the last Leipsic fair: a palpable proof, in my opinion, that the rage for Kant and his ideology is abating in Germany. This wig, in its changes of price, may be considered as a thermometer of the progress of Kantis.rn. APPRECIATION OF cRIME. Visdelou, that Platonic lover of Lexicology, mentions, in his Supplement to the Oriental Library, that the Chinese empress, Un-lieu, was guilty of many crimes, such as the assassination of her husband, her brother, her children; but one in particular, which he calls an unheard-of outrage, is an order all the laws of grammar to the contrary notwithstanding that she should be styled emperor, and not empress! LET T E R WRIT ING, We now consider in France, and with reason, that an essen- tial part of elegant education is the acquisition of a certain facility of managing what is called the epistolary style. In fact, the style to which we give this name. if in truth it can be called a style is, in literatnre, like a public domain, which all the world have a right to cultivate. It thus happens that the epistolary style belongs rather to nature than art. Productions of this kind, in some fashion, are like flowers, which grow of themselves while other compositions of human wit resemble edifices, which, from foundation to summit, must be laboriously built after general laws antI particular combinations. The greater number of letter- writers have been ignorant that they were authors, they have made works, as the often~cited Monsieur Jourdain made prose without knowing it. They did not write for the sake of writing, but bectiuse they had relations and friends, business and affec & raps of Philosophy and Criticism. 20J tions. They were very little pre-occupied, in their correspon& ence, with a care for immortality, but, very vulgarly, with the substantial cares of life. Their style is simple as intimacy, and its simplicity constitutes its charm. It is because they sent their letters only to their families, that they have reached posterity. We think it impossible to say what are the elements of the epis tolary style ; other styles have rules this has only its secrets~ FOIBLES OF THE GREAT. Voltaire should not be judged by his comedies, Boile~u by his Pindaric odes, or Rousseau by his allegories. Criticism should not maliciously seize upon the feebleness which the most distin~ guished talent often exhibits; nor should history give undue prominence to the httlenesses which are almost always found in the most illustrious charaters. Louis XIV. would have thought himself dishonored, if his valet de chambre had surprised him without a wig; Turenne, when alone in the dark, trembled like a child; and we know that C~sar was alarmed, lest he ~bould be upset in his car of triumph. THE POET OF WORD5~ NGT IDEAS. When a language has been in use, like ours, during several ages of literature; when it has been created and carried to perfec tton, turned and twisted into every shape and style; when it has passed not only through all the material forms of rhythm and rhyme, but through no one knows how many comical, tragical and lyrical brains, there escapes, like a scum, from the collec- tion of xvords which compose its literary richness, a certain quan~ tity, or, so to speak, a certain floating mass of conventional phra- ses, hemistiches, more or less insignificant, which are nobodys property, but belong to all the world. Thus it is, that a man of the least invention, with the aid of a little memory, can rake up, by diligence, from this public reser- voir, a tragedy, a poem, an ode, which shall be in verses of twelve, eight, or six syllables, of good rhyme and excellent pauses, and not deficient, perhaps, in elegance, harmony, and a certain grace. Thereupon, our master shall publish his work in a great, empty volome, and shall believe himself a lyric, epic, or tragic poet, after the fashion of the fool who thoimght himself the owner of his hospital. Envy, however, the patroness of medi- ocrity, shall smile upon his labors ; the prouder critics, ~ho wish to imitate omnipotence, and create something, will amuse them- selves in building him up a reputation; and connoisseurs, who are not so ridiculously obstinate as to Insist that words should ex- press ideas, will celebrate, after the morning journals, the bril- liancy, the point, the taste of the new poet; the saloons echoes 204 Scraps of Philosophy and Criticism. of the journals will be in ecstacy; and the publication of the work will result in no further inconvenience than the premature wearing out of the poets hat-rim. GRAMMAR AND MEDICINE. The wise men, who are so clear-sighted in grammar, in versi- fication, in prosody, and so blind in poesy, remind us of those physicians who know the slightest fibre of the human frame, but who deny the soul, and are ignorant of virtue. POETRY. Poetical composition results from two intellectual phenomena, meditation and inspiration. Meditation is a faculty ; inspiration is a gift. All men, to a certain degree, can meditate; very few are inspired. Spiritus flat ubi vult. In meditation, the spirit acts; in inspiration, it oheys ; because the first is of men, the second comes from a higher source. He who gave us this power is stronger than ~ve. These two processes of thoughts are inti- mately linked in the soul of the poet. The poet invites inspira- tion by meditation, as the prophets raised themselves to ecstacies by prayer. That the muse should reveal herself to him, he must in some sort have passed all his material existence in repose, in silence, and in meditation. He must be isolated from external life, to enjoy in its fullness that inward life, which developes in bim a new existence; and it is only when the physical world has utterly vanished from before his eyes, that the ideal world is fully revealed to him. It seems that poetic inspiration has in it some- thing too sublime for~the common nature of man. Genius can compass its greater efforts only when the soul is released from the vulgar cares that follow it in life ; for thought cannot take its wings till it has laid aside its burden. Thence comes it, doubt- less, that inspiration is born only of meditation. Among the Jews, the people whose history is so rich in mysterious sym- bols~ when the priest had built the altar, he lighted upon it an earthly flame and it was then only that the divine ray descend- ed from Heaven. Happy he who possesses this double power of meditation and inspmratm& n, which is genius ! Whatever may be the age on which he fa~Xs, or the country be he born in the bosom of domestic calamities, be he thrown on a time of popular convul- sions, or, what is still more to be lamented, on a period of stag- nant indifference let him trust himself to the future; for, if the present belong to other men, the future is for him. He is of the number of chosen beings for whom a day is allotted. Soon- er or later, the day comes ; and it is then fed by sublime thought, and elevated by divine inspiration that he throws him- Scraps of Philosophy and Criticism. 2O~5 self boldly before the world, with the cry of the poet upon his lips Voici mon Orient: peuples levez les yeux! PARADISE LOST. If ever a literary composition bore the ineffacable impress of meditation and inspiration, it is the Paradise Lost. A moral thought, touching at once the two natures of man; a terrible les- son, conveyed in sublime verse ; one of the most momentous truths of religion and philosophy, developed in one of the most beautiful fictions of poetry; the entire scale of creation run over, from its highest to its lowest degree, an action which comrnen- ces with Jesus and terminates with Satan; Eve, gradually drawn by curiosity, compassion and imprudence, to her perdition; the first woman in contact with the first devil such is the scene pre- sented by Milton ; a vast and simple drama, in which all the ma- chinery is spirit; a magic painting, in which the shadows of dark- ness steal gradually over all the brighter tints a poem which at once charms and terrifies STYLE. if the name attached to these lines were a name of note, if the voice which speaks here were a voice of power, we would intreat the young and brilliant talents, on ~vhich depends the future lot of a literature, for three ages so magnificent, to reflect how impor- tant is their mission, and to preserve, in their manner of writing, the most worthy and severe habitudes. The future let them think well of it belongs only to the masters of style. Without referring to the admirable works of antiquity, and confining our- selves to our national literature, try to take from the thought of our great writers the expression which is peculiar to it. Take from Molh~re his lively, ardent, frank and amusing verse, so well made, so well turned, so well finished; take from Lafontaine the simple and honest perfection of detail ; take from the phrase of Corneille the vigorous muscle, the strong cords, the beautiful forms of exaggerated vigor, which would have made of the old poet half Roman, half Spaniard, the Michael Angelo of our trag- edy, if the elements of his genius had mingled as much fancy as thought; take from Racine that touch in his style which resem- bles Raphael a touch, chaste, harmonious, and repressed, like that of Raphael, although of an inferior power, quite as pure but less grand, as perfect though less sublime ; take from IPenelon the man, of his age, who had the best sentiment of antiquity that prose, as melodious and severe as the verse of Racine, of which it is the sister; take from Bossuet the magnificent bearing of his periods; take from Boilean his grave and sober manner, at times so admirably colored; take from Pascal that original and 206 Scraps of Philosophy and Criticism. mathematical style, with so much appropriateness in the choice of words, and so much logic in every metaphor; take from Vob taire that clear, solid, indestructible prose, that crystal prose of Candide and the Philosophical Dictionary; take from all these great writers that simple attraction style ; and of Voltaire, of Pascal, of Boilean, of Bossuet, of Fenelon, of Racine, of Cor- neille, of Lafontaine, of Molidre, of all these masters, what will remain ? It is style which insures duration to the work, and fame to the poet. Beauty of expression embellishes beauty of thought, and preserves it; it is at the same time an ornament and armor~ Style, to the idea, is like enamel to the tooth. POLITIC5~ Politics, said Charles XII., is my sword. It is the art of de~ ception, thought Michiavel. According to Madame de M***, it should be the art of governing men with prudence and virtue. The first definition is that of a madman, the second that of a knave; and that of Madame de M**~ is the only one for an hon- est man. What a pity that it should he so old, and its applica- tion so rare QUALIFIcATIONS FOR A SOLDIER. Madame de M*** recapitulates, after Folard, the qualities ~ sential to a great captain. For my own part, I distrust these perfect definitions, which would comprehend only the exceptions of humannature. It is quite alarming to see the catalogue of preparatory studies marked out for the apprenticeship of the gen- eral; but how many excellent generals have there been who could not even read! It would seem the first condition, the sine qua non of every man destined for the wars, that he should have good eyes, or at least that he should be stout and active. Sure enough! But a crowd of great generals have been one-eyed, or crippled. Philip was one-eyed, lame, and maimed of one hand; Hannibal was one-eyed; Bajazet and Tamerlane the two thun- der-bolts of war, in their age were the one lame, the other half-blind; Luxembourg was hunchbacked. It seems even that nature, in ridicule of all our calculations, had wished to show us the phenomenon of a general, totally blind, guiding an army, mar- shalling his troops for battle, and carrying off victories. Such a man was Ziska, chief of the Hussites. FUTURE DESTINIES OF RUSSIA. France, England and Russia are in our day the three giants of Europe. Since our recent political convulsions, these colossal nations have held each a peculiar attitude; England stands up~ right, France is recovering herself, and Russia for the first timc~ Scraps of Philosophy and Criticism. 207 rising. This last empire still young, in the centre of an old continent has grown, during the age, with a wonderful celerity. Its future is of immense moment in our destinies. It is not im- possible that its barbarism will one day re-temper our civiliza- tion ; the Russian soil seems to hold a reserve of savage popula- tion for our polished regions. This FUTURE of Russiaat present so important to Europe gives a deep interest to its past. Well to understand what this people will be, one ought carefully to study what it has been. But nothing is more difficult than such a study. We must wan- der, like a person lost, in a chaos of confused traditions, incom- plete narratives, fables, contradictions, and truncated chronicles. The past of this nation is as overshadowed as its sky ; and the deserts of its annals are like those of its territory. It is, then, no easy thing to make a good history of Russia. It is no trifling enterprise to traverse this night of time, to com- pass, among so many contradictory and conflicting narrations, the discovery of truth. The writer must seize boldly by the thread of the labyrinth, dispel its darkness, and, by laborious erudition, light up all the summits of this history. His scrupulous and learned criticism, in combining results, will have need to reestab- lish causes. His pen will fix the yet uncertain features of per- sons and epochs. Surely, it is no easy task to revive, and pass in review, events that have so long been lost in the lapse of ages. To be complete, the historian, we think, ought to pay more at- tention than has hitherto been given to the epoch preceding the invasion of the Tartars; and to devote perhaps a whole volume to the history of those wandering tribes, which acknowledge the sovereignty of Russia. This labor would doubtless throw much light on the ancient civilization which probably existed in the north; and the historian would be much aided by the learned re- searches of Mr. Klaproth. L6vesque, it is true, in a couple of volumes supplementary to his great work, has already recounted the history of these wan- dering tribes ; but this subject still looks for a trustworthy histo- rian. It would be necessary to treat more fully, and more sin- cerely than L6vesque, certain epochs of great interest; like the famous reign of Catharine, for instance. The historian worthy of the name would brand with the hot iron of Tacitus, and scourge with the lash of Juvenal, this crowned courtezan, to whom the arrogant sophists of the last age paid a homage which they refused to their God and their king; this regicide queen, who selected, even for the ornaments of her boudoir, pictures of a massacre* and a conflagration.f * The massacre of the Poles, in the faubourg of Praga. t The burning of the Ottoman fleet, in the bay of Tchesme. These two were the only paintings which decorated the boudoir of Catbarine. 208 Ocean Scenery. Doubtless, a good iistory of Russia would excite a great deal of attention. The future destinies of this empire are now the fruitful sources of general speculation. These northern regions have already often poured out the torrent of their population over Europe. The French of the present day, among other wonders, have seen pastured, on the green plots of the Tuileries, horses which had been used to broxvze at the foot of the great wall of China ; arid, in the course of events, unexpected vicissitudes have compelled the nations of the south to address to another Alexander the wish of Diogenes Stand out of our sunshine. OCEAN SCENERY. BY W. SEVERN. THE sun, slow wheeling oer th horizons verge, His disk uplifted from the oceans bed, At first glanced faintly oer the purpling surge; But soon a flood of full refelgence shed, Kindling the billows of the summer sea, While melting vapors left his pathway free. The misty wreath, above the city hung, Gleams like a huge tiara in the air; Back from the glistening spires the rays are flung, And from the Gothic windows strangely fair; The morning breeze come rushing oer the bay, Stirring the wet leaves in its amorous play. Hark! tis the robins warble, as he leaves His bowered nest to soar with dewy wing; While twittering flies the swallow from the eaves, Skimming the glossy wave, a happy thing! Ah! who, for matin melodies like these, Would not forsake the slumbrous bed of ease? And I must emulate the birds career, And oer the briny billow wing my flight; Welcome the freshning breeze without a fear, And ride the mounting sea secnre and light. The wind wails through the cordage, and my boat Leaps like a charger to the trumpets note. Welcome the music of the rising gale! What though the waves come tumbling from the main ? Not oer my art the tempest shall prevail, Nor my staunch sea-boat breast the storm in vain. Bravely she ploughs the surge against the wind, Her foaming furrow stretching far behind.

W. Severn Severn, W. Ocean Scenery Original Papers 208-210

208 Ocean Scenery. Doubtless, a good iistory of Russia would excite a great deal of attention. The future destinies of this empire are now the fruitful sources of general speculation. These northern regions have already often poured out the torrent of their population over Europe. The French of the present day, among other wonders, have seen pastured, on the green plots of the Tuileries, horses which had been used to broxvze at the foot of the great wall of China ; arid, in the course of events, unexpected vicissitudes have compelled the nations of the south to address to another Alexander the wish of Diogenes Stand out of our sunshine. OCEAN SCENERY. BY W. SEVERN. THE sun, slow wheeling oer th horizons verge, His disk uplifted from the oceans bed, At first glanced faintly oer the purpling surge; But soon a flood of full refelgence shed, Kindling the billows of the summer sea, While melting vapors left his pathway free. The misty wreath, above the city hung, Gleams like a huge tiara in the air; Back from the glistening spires the rays are flung, And from the Gothic windows strangely fair; The morning breeze come rushing oer the bay, Stirring the wet leaves in its amorous play. Hark! tis the robins warble, as he leaves His bowered nest to soar with dewy wing; While twittering flies the swallow from the eaves, Skimming the glossy wave, a happy thing! Ah! who, for matin melodies like these, Would not forsake the slumbrous bed of ease? And I must emulate the birds career, And oer the briny billow wing my flight; Welcome the freshning breeze without a fear, And ride the mounting sea secnre and light. The wind wails through the cordage, and my boat Leaps like a charger to the trumpets note. Welcome the music of the rising gale! What though the waves come tumbling from the main ? Not oer my art the tempest shall prevail, Nor my staunch sea-boat breast the storm in vain. Bravely she ploughs the surge against the wind, Her foaming furrow stretching far behind. Ocean Scenery. 209 Farewell, awhile, ye spires and pinnacles, Gray crags and glens fast fading oer the strand Aronad me are tall monntains and deep dells, Bet not the hills and valleys of the land: Yet are these hillows cappd with shining foam, Like snowclad snmmits in my inonntain home. Nor seek my eyes the rocky promontories, Far stretching from the niainlands northern coast For I am rapt, contemplating the alories Of waves, careering like a mighty host While, like a banner, rrmtny-hued and gay, The instrons snn-how sparkles oer the spray. Still holds the breeze the dancing waves rnsh fast And broad and bright the ocean spreads before me, Reflecting clearly, in its mirror vast, The azure of the arch thats bending oer me. My gay barqne, as a thing of life, is stirred, And spreads her pinions like a gallant hird. From far the hovering osprey scans her form, And plumes herself for combat but she sweeps Majestically onward, while a warm, Bright flood of sunshine on her pennon sleeps. Well bath she sped nie, for I hear no sound Save the roused billows murmuring around. All hail, old Ocean I mightiest element Thou type of change, bnt doomed to no decay Thou wondrous mirror of the firmament With stars that shine by night as bright as they That hind Orions belt, or oer thy seas Shed silvery lustre from the Pleindes. What are the countless crews that oer thee ride To those that slumber neath thy faithless breast? To those that in thy shadowy depths abide, A quiet population, all at rest ? Gold from the mines is there, and banners wave Bleaching and torn within thy briny grave. We feel thy power, even in thy softest slumbers, XVhen, like an infants, comes thy balmy breath; And sad and solemn are thy sweetest numbers, Moaned like a dirge above the home of death. While the light waves, that oer thy surface pass, Roll like the billows of the church-yard grass. A word is uttered in the waters roar, That fills the bosom with a deep emotion T is breathed at midnight, on the stilly shore, By tiny ripples stealing from the ocean T is shouted by the wild tornados breath A word of power I it stills the pang of death. What name is that, in softest accents spoken At starry midnight, on the sparkling sea? Heard in the tempest, when the seal is broken, When whirlpools yawn, and navies cease to be? T is His, who oer those waves in safety trod The earth proclaims, and Ocean thunders GOD! VOL. IX. 27 210 LETTERS FROM CHILl AND PERU, TO A FRiEND IN ]NEW-ENGLAND.5 Valparaiso, 1832. SAFELY arrived, at last, and on terra firma; no, not firma I have already made a mistake; for in a few hours after my arri- val, the earth trembled and quaked under my feet, to my great terror. I think these constant mementos mon must be a terrible drawback to enjoyment ; and I fear I shall never get sufficiently accustomed to them to feel safe or at ease. You can form no idea of the appalling effects of these convulsions of nature ; the mind is perfectly paralyzed ; indeed, all human power is use- less all effort unavailing. The only thing to be done, is to wait, as calmly as possible, an event which you feel may the next instant bury you in the bowels of the earth. My first impulse was to fly for safety; but where could I go ? all places were equally unsafe and I stood like a statue, perfectly powerless, without either the ability or inclination to take one step. For a moment all seemed to share my sensations ; but as soon as the earth was quiet, all went their way, as if nothing had hap- pened to disturb their security. The hum of business was re- sumed, with the laugh, the oath, the clatter of the heavy wagons, and the trampling of feet over that ground which, but a moment before, seemed like the unstable ocean, ready to engulf them. I will confess to you, that I did not recover my composure in many hours; and that when I trod the ground, it was with a strange sensation, something resembling your feelings when step- ping on a quagmire or quicksand a want of confidence in its firmness. My friend tells me I shall soon get used to such slight shocks, and think nothing of them; but I doubt it. I have been in violent storms at sea, when the waves seemed every moment ready to sweep over our frail vessel; but there I had a feeling of dependence on an Almighty arm; I was brought step by step to the brink of the grave, and had time to think of and feel my own insufficiency. But an earthquake overwhelms you at once; you * To the Editor of the JVew-England Magazine: Sin, I have in my posses- sion the letters of a friend, who was three years a resident in Peru, and who, at dif- ferent times before his long location there, visited various parts of South America. His situation gave him access to the best society; and as he is a man of sense and observation, with a scrupulous regard to the correctness of his statements, I think your readers will be instructed as well as amused by various descriptions of man- ners, customs, persons, buildings, & c. The present letter is a mere sketch as at the time it was written, he was only about six months in Chili, though he had been there before. He is more minute when he writes from Peru. In the hope that these letters will please you, and your readers generally, I am, with due re- spect, & c. & c.

Letters from Chili and Peru, to a Friend in New-England Original Papers 210-216

210 LETTERS FROM CHILl AND PERU, TO A FRiEND IN ]NEW-ENGLAND.5 Valparaiso, 1832. SAFELY arrived, at last, and on terra firma; no, not firma I have already made a mistake; for in a few hours after my arri- val, the earth trembled and quaked under my feet, to my great terror. I think these constant mementos mon must be a terrible drawback to enjoyment ; and I fear I shall never get sufficiently accustomed to them to feel safe or at ease. You can form no idea of the appalling effects of these convulsions of nature ; the mind is perfectly paralyzed ; indeed, all human power is use- less all effort unavailing. The only thing to be done, is to wait, as calmly as possible, an event which you feel may the next instant bury you in the bowels of the earth. My first impulse was to fly for safety; but where could I go ? all places were equally unsafe and I stood like a statue, perfectly powerless, without either the ability or inclination to take one step. For a moment all seemed to share my sensations ; but as soon as the earth was quiet, all went their way, as if nothing had hap- pened to disturb their security. The hum of business was re- sumed, with the laugh, the oath, the clatter of the heavy wagons, and the trampling of feet over that ground which, but a moment before, seemed like the unstable ocean, ready to engulf them. I will confess to you, that I did not recover my composure in many hours; and that when I trod the ground, it was with a strange sensation, something resembling your feelings when step- ping on a quagmire or quicksand a want of confidence in its firmness. My friend tells me I shall soon get used to such slight shocks, and think nothing of them; but I doubt it. I have been in violent storms at sea, when the waves seemed every moment ready to sweep over our frail vessel; but there I had a feeling of dependence on an Almighty arm; I was brought step by step to the brink of the grave, and had time to think of and feel my own insufficiency. But an earthquake overwhelms you at once; you * To the Editor of the JVew-England Magazine: Sin, I have in my posses- sion the letters of a friend, who was three years a resident in Peru, and who, at dif- ferent times before his long location there, visited various parts of South America. His situation gave him access to the best society; and as he is a man of sense and observation, with a scrupulous regard to the correctness of his statements, I think your readers will be instructed as well as amused by various descriptions of man- ners, customs, persons, buildings, & c. The present letter is a mere sketch as at the time it was written, he was only about six months in Chili, though he had been there before. He is more minute when he writes from Peru. In the hope that these letters will please you, and your readers generally, I am, with due re- spect, & c. & c. Letters from Chili and Peru. 211 eel as if you were about to be crushed by the very power you would fain rest on and have scarcely time or ability to ask aid of the high and lofty One, who holds the waters in the hollow of his hand. But enough of the earthquake, which occupies, I pre- sume, a larger place in my thoughts than it ought; as every one else appears to have forgotten it. Mr. B****# smiled when I asked him this morning if he had ever felt so severe a shock, and said, as he left the door Oh yes, every day in the week; we do nt think much of shocks when nothing is thrown down. Valparaiso has very few attractions, though it is the largest and indeed the principal seaport of Chili being only about one hun- dred miles from the beautiful city of Santiago. I shall say noth- ing of Valparaiso until my return from Santiago, for which I set out to-morrow. I think you would have smiled had you seen me with my pon- cho on, making my way over the Andes, with a merry party, all arrayed in the same manner, appearing at the first glance like a group of Indians in pursuit of game. We were all, however, gentlemen of quality, I assure you, if not of estate; and per- haps to the latter our claims were quite as great as many a proud Hidalgos, who boasts of his descent from the ancient kings, and wraps his cloak around him with all the consequence of a duke. I forget that you are yet ignorant what my poncho is, and may suppose it some fantastic garb when in fact, it is only a large shawl, with a hole in the centre, through which the bead is thrust, leaving the whole to fall over the person. It is very convenient, being light and easy, and preserving the under dress from dust. The road we traveled was good, and the pros- pect varied and delightful. I could tell you how magnificently the Andes towered above me, peak upon peak, far off in the dis- tance; how calmly the boundless Pacific spread its waste of waters behind me. I could tell, too, of sparkling rivulets, gush- ing through chasms in the rocks, and leaping from steep to steep, like the antelope and chamois, who often bend their graceful necks to taste the limpid element. I could describe scenes of terrifi6 grandeur, brought to view by some sudden turn in the road, much like the wild pictures of Salvator Rosa; but as the pen cannot place the scene before you, I shall leave it for your imagination. We were detained on the road by a storm, and contrary to my expectations were very well accommodated. The road, for the greater part of the distance, is very good. It was constructed during the reign of Viceroy Ambrosio OHggins, at an immense expense, and does great credit to his public spirit, perseverance and liberality. On its route it crosses the Andes, at an eleva- tion of about seven hundred feet which is effected by zig-zag cuts, supported on the precipitous sides by strong walls of stone. Letters from Chili and Peru. Before reaching the highest peak, there are twenty-eight turns and the ascent, even with wheels, is neither difficult nor danger- ous. On horseback, it is the most delightful part of the ride and the prospect from the summit extensive, sublime, and beau- tiful. On one side, a richly variegated plain, of forty miles in extent, is spread out, encircled by mountains ; on the other is a plain of twenty miles, near the extremity of which rise the tall spires and cupolas of Santiago forming a rich and imposing back-ground ; while, to complete the picture, the river Maypo- cho, on which the city is huilt, meanders through the xvhole scene. You have, in short, in glorious comhination, snow-& rowned moun- tains, green fields and sparkling streams, with white walled villa- ges, surrounded by vineyards and groves of orange, lemon, and other fruits their deep green foliage contrasting beautifully with the blowing sky. But I am lingering on the road, quite forgetful of the Chilian capital, before entering which I will mention the only two places worth observation between this place and Valparaiso Casa Blanco and Bustamenti. They are both small, pleasantly situn- ~ted directly on the route ; and places where travelers generally stop for rest and refreshment ; the former, though destroyed by an earthquake in 1S22, has been since re-built, and contains a pretty church. On approaching the city, I was much surprised at the uncultivated state of the fine plain, xvhich, though of the richest soil, produced nothing of consequence. I xvas told that the produce would not pay the expense of artificial irrigation. The wants of the city are supplied from estates in its vicin- ity, situated on the rivers, by which they are watered. The supply is so abundant, that all the necessaries of life are sold at very moderate prices. The entrance to the city, from the post-road, is through a very ordinary gate, at which were stationed sentinels and custom-house officers, to guard against smuggling. Our baggage escaped ex- amination, by the aid of a charm which never fails in the cities of South America that I have visited. We proceeded from the gate through a narrow, dirty street, to a handsome stone bridge across the .Maypocho, xvhich traverses the western side of the city. Leaving this, we soon entered the principal square, front- ing the palace, near which was the hotel where I was to take up my abode. The general appearance of the city is imposing not only on account of its spires and cupolas, but from a pecu- liarly shaped hill, which rises abruptly from the centre of it. You may imagine its curious appearance, when I tell you it is four hundred feet high, in the form of a sugar-loaf, and that not another elevation is visible on the whole plain. It is called St. Lucia; its summit is crowned with a fort, within which are bar- racks, magazines, & c. & c. ; but it is not now used as a fortress; Letters from Chili and Peru. 213 and the works are fast going to ruins. On one of the bastions, a brass cannon is so placed as to discharge at meridian ; the suns rays are thrown upon the priming through a glass lens ; by this, the time of the citizens is regulated, except in cloudy weather then they refer to the church clocks, of which there are abun- dance. The churches are most of them fine structures ; and the cathedral, when finished, will be very splendid. The palace, or government-house, is also a showy edifice, occupying one whole side of the Plaza Major; it is two stories high, and in good taste. Besides being the residence of the Supreme Direc- tor, it contains the offices of the chief departments of the govern- ment. The mint is a truly noble establishment, throughout combining every convenience and facility for coining on a large scale. It is very spacious, occupying four sides of a large square, with a fine court in the centre. The machinery is operated by water brought fro mt he .Maypocho, and is, I presume, of the high- est order, though, as it was not in motion while I was in the city, I can only judge by what I have heard and seen of its works. The custom-house department occupies one of the central squares; its offices and stores are convenient, and well conducted upon a system liberal and encouraging to the commercial interest of the republic. The private dwellings generally have a neat and com- fortable appearance ; most of them are two stories high, and some are very spacious and elegant. Those belonging to their former nobility, richly deserve to be called palaces ; and before the revo- lution, they lived in them in a style of princely splendor. Some of the noble families still retain their wealth, though stripped of their titles by the republican government. I will here mention a sin- gular fact, touching the state of this republic, which is xvorth re- membering. The whole landed property of Chili is owned by about one hundred and fifty families. Such a monopoly fits them, I suspect, much better for aristocrats than republicans. The buildings all have sharp roofs, covered with tile, baked from the clay which ahounds in the vicinity of the city. These cover- ings render their habitations secure from the pelting storms of the rainy season ; though few of them are provided with proper means for keeping out the cold which generally accompanies the rain. The usual way of warming rooms is by brascos, or brass pans of ignited charcoal. Most of the women have small ones, which they place under their petticoats, or keep in their laps. By this management, they reap a fruitful harvest of diseases consequent upon taking cold. The chief part of the foreigners resident in Santiago and Valparaiso, have introduced fire.places, and a few of the rich class of natives have followed their example. It is probable, before the lapse of many years, these conveniences will entirely take the place of their miserable health-destroying warm- ing-pans. 214 Letters from Chili and Peru. The walks of the city those most frequented are the Canida, or principal Alemeda; and the Tajamar. This last is formed by a wall, extending the whole length of the city along the hanks of the Ailaypocho, which was built to prevent that river from inundating the place, when swollen by the winter rains; but, notwithstanding this, it sometimes comes over the barricades, and, hy its impetuous career, causes much injury and distress to many poor families who reside in that quarter. The Tajamar is the fashionable promenade for spring, summer and autumn, and is indeed a most lovely walk. I have never seen one combining more of the beautiful, the sublime, and the picturesque. The plain on which it is built has a circuit of perhaps forty miles, and is near twenty-six hundred feet ahove the level of the ocean; it is surrounded on all sides by ranges of the Andes spreading be- ~fore the eye, from different points, all that is delightful in nature. -Its coup d ceil is seldom equalled never excelled. A few words about the inhabitants must close my account of the Chilian capital. There are many fine-looking men to be met with, and some very handsome women; and one discovers more educated intelligence and refinement in the higher classes than is usually found in the cities of South America. The tone of moral feeling is much higher; and their intercourse among themselves and with foreigners, is upon a footing of liberal hospitality and friendliness truly creditable to their taste and character. Much of this is perhaps owing to their freedom from Catholic bigotry, aided by the great number of marriages that have taken place be- tween the inhabitants and people of other nations who have settled there. I have every reason to believe that the republic of Chili, and particularly its capital, is making repectable advances in ev- ery department of social life, and that the means of education are extending and improving. From this fact alone, there is good ground to hope that the Chilian republic will ere long present the gratifying spectacle of an enlightened, moral people, enjoying the blessings of a firm, correct, well-administered goverment. Of my ride back to Valparaiso, I will merely say it was performed in twelve hours, in a gig drawn by three horses abreast. II was set down at my lodgings just after sunset, without being in the least fatigued. Valparaiso is fast becoming a market of great commercial im- portance. The bulk of the business of Chili is even now trans- acted here; and a coasting trade is carried on to all the ports between Cape Horn and the north-west coast; thus creating a de- mand for every description of merchandize, greater than is found at any other place in the Pacific. At this time, it unquestionably rivals Lima, in Peru. The harbor of this place, though only an open roadstead, or bay, is secure against all winds, except those from the northern quarter; these prevail only in the winter sea- son, when they are sometimes so severe as to cause terrible dis Letters from Chili and Peru aster to the shipping, with loss of lives and property. All this might be obviated by the construction of a breakwater, from a point that seems by nature to have been designed for that pur- pose. Of the city of Valparaiso, a few words will suffice ; for, notwithstanding its notoriety as a place of trade, there is nothing in or about it deserving of much notice though it bears the attractive name of the Vale of Paradise. One would suppose from this title, that its situation is one of peculiar beauty. Th~ reverse of this, however, comes nearer the truth; and there is no way to account for the Spaniards bestowing the title on a spot so barren, but by believing this harbor to have been the first they visited after their tedious passage around Cape Horn, when the sight of the few shrubs and flowers, which were visible in the vallies, was so delightful to their exhausted senses as to call forth the extravagant title of Val-paraiso. The city is built at the foot of a high hill bordering the bay; in fact, it may be said, its location is on the beach; and so narrow is that part where the business is done, as to allow of but one street and this scarce deserves the name; nor is there a street in the place that has any pretensions to regularity or beauty. The buildings are scattered in all directions ; a large proportion are on the sides of the hills and in the ravines between them. Their general appearance is rather ordinary, though with an indication of comfort. A few among them are large and handsome. One peculiarity attending some, I must tell you. They are built of wood, with timber frames. These are considered earthquake- proof, and are, of course, most desirable habitations in a place so subject to those terrible convulsions of nature. They have been erected since the city was so nearly destroyed by the great earth- quake in 1822. The lumber, requisite for such buildings, is chiefly imported from Valdiejo and the island of Chiloe, which renders them so expensive, that they will ever be confined to the rich residents. Of public edifices, this place is almost desti- tute, and quite so of any worthy of note. I shall mention but two a church and a convent. The last has been converted into military quarters, for which it answers admirably, from its situation and spacious accommodation. The church is altogether a miserable concern, and quite a reproach upon the wealthy Cath- olics, who celebrate mass within its walls showing, very con- clusively, the low state of religion and the prostrate power of the priesthood. There are various buildings attached to the custom- house department, and others connected with the administration of justice; but they are not of a class to merit notice. In short, this place is exclusively devoted to commercial pursuits ; and little is done by its inhabitants to improve its external appear- ance. Conveniences and facilities for business operations, alone command their attention. Many improvements of this nature 216 To have been made in a very liberal manner. Valparaiso has a pop- ulation of about twenty thousand, among which, it is said there are about two thousand foreigners, chiefly English and American; by whom the principal part of the trade is carried on. In con- sequence of this, the English language is spoken by many of the natives, whose avocations bring them in contact with the former. The whole place seems like an English city, especially among the best society promising, before many years, to become the most important as well as the most pleasant seaport on the west coast of the American continent. This being my second visit to this country, everything appears quite familiar, and I shall have it in my poxver to give you all the information you desire. My next will be from Lima, where I expect soon to he located, unless something unforeseen happens to detain me here. TO DEAR maiden, if this world were mine, And I, from all its richest treasure, Had power to choose some gem divine Some hoard of never-failing pleasure, Some amulet, whose charm should be To fill the soul with soft delight Or diamonds, brilliant as the sea Beneath the moonbeams silvery light; If I could wander, on a pinion, Bathed in the hue of sunset fountains, Within the gates of that dominion Where glory rests oer vales and mountains And, tracing up its streams that flash, Like thine own glance, to their first springing7 Could find, beneath the cataracts dash, Rainbows, like gemmd tiaras, flinging Their splendors to adorn the air Which, wandering over beds of flowers, Made all things seem most sweet and fair ; So that lifes many lingering hours Would glide away in happiness, And make Earth Paradise to me How dim would be its loveliness, How cold, how pale, how valueless Unblessed, uncheered by thee!

To ________ Original Papers 216-217

216 To have been made in a very liberal manner. Valparaiso has a pop- ulation of about twenty thousand, among which, it is said there are about two thousand foreigners, chiefly English and American; by whom the principal part of the trade is carried on. In con- sequence of this, the English language is spoken by many of the natives, whose avocations bring them in contact with the former. The whole place seems like an English city, especially among the best society promising, before many years, to become the most important as well as the most pleasant seaport on the west coast of the American continent. This being my second visit to this country, everything appears quite familiar, and I shall have it in my poxver to give you all the information you desire. My next will be from Lima, where I expect soon to he located, unless something unforeseen happens to detain me here. TO DEAR maiden, if this world were mine, And I, from all its richest treasure, Had power to choose some gem divine Some hoard of never-failing pleasure, Some amulet, whose charm should be To fill the soul with soft delight Or diamonds, brilliant as the sea Beneath the moonbeams silvery light; If I could wander, on a pinion, Bathed in the hue of sunset fountains, Within the gates of that dominion Where glory rests oer vales and mountains And, tracing up its streams that flash, Like thine own glance, to their first springing7 Could find, beneath the cataracts dash, Rainbows, like gemmd tiaras, flinging Their splendors to adorn the air Which, wandering over beds of flowers, Made all things seem most sweet and fair ; So that lifes many lingering hours Would glide away in happiness, And make Earth Paradise to me How dim would be its loveliness, How cold, how pale, how valueless Unblessed, uncheered by thee! CRITICAL NOTICES. Specimens of the Table- Talk of the late Samuel Taylor Coler~ idge. Two vols. in one. Iv is hardly possible that a work like the above should answer all the expecta- tions raised by its announcement. The written record of the conversation of great. talkers, from obvious reasons, is apt to disappoint us. Dr. Johnson is almost the only man whose social reputation is amply supported by written memorials ; and this arises partly from the terse and epigrammatic character of his conversation, which made it easily remembered and partly from the admiring mediocrity of his biographer, who had no higher ambition than to be a faithful chronicler of the good things which fell from the lips of his idol. Coleridge has, for a long time, enjoyed a most brilliant reputation as a talker, or rather as a discourser for his conversation was a succession of dissertations, and had nothing of the sententious and compact form of common dialogue. This diffuseness and flow of discourse, while they the more impressed his hearers with a sense of his boundless affluence of mind, made it the more difficult to retain and record the winged words, to which they had listened with such rapt attention. A terse aphorism clings to the memory, in spite of ourselves; but who can carry away a long monologue, in which the most profound reflections, illustrated by the most various knowledge, are connected together by links of association too subtle to be perceived, except by minds at once meditative and acute? The effect of Coleridges conversation was also heightened by his remarkable appearance; the dreamy inspiration of his face, in his latter days, made more impressive by his apostolic and flowing white locks, and the mysterious music of his voice, which is described, by those who have heard it, as resembling rather tones from some far-off spirit-land, than any sound of earth. These things, of course, die with the man. Looks and tones cannot he printed; and painting itself cannot embody the illumination of the countenance of a gifted man, when he feels the god stirring within him, which, of all things veuch safed to mortal eyes, is the brightest effluence of the essence increate. It is no wonder then, that most persons were somewhat disappointed in these Specimens of the Table-Talk of Coleridge and as might easily be anticipated, in the reaction of feeling, they have not given to it its due meed of praise. Their expectations have not been gratified; hut they have not stopped to ask themselves the question, whether they were not too extravagant to be gratified by the silent pages of any book? But, looking at the work alone and by itself, as a critic should always do, we find in it a great deal to approve and a great deal to admire, and hail it as a good book, largely imbued with the spirit of truth and beauty. It is open to some objections and, as we like to get through with our fault-finding at first, and leave ourselves ample sea-room for praising afterwards, we will state VOL. IX. 2S

Specimens of the Table-Talk of the late Samuel Taylor Coleridge Critical Notices 217-220

CRITICAL NOTICES. Specimens of the Table- Talk of the late Samuel Taylor Coler~ idge. Two vols. in one. Iv is hardly possible that a work like the above should answer all the expecta- tions raised by its announcement. The written record of the conversation of great. talkers, from obvious reasons, is apt to disappoint us. Dr. Johnson is almost the only man whose social reputation is amply supported by written memorials ; and this arises partly from the terse and epigrammatic character of his conversation, which made it easily remembered and partly from the admiring mediocrity of his biographer, who had no higher ambition than to be a faithful chronicler of the good things which fell from the lips of his idol. Coleridge has, for a long time, enjoyed a most brilliant reputation as a talker, or rather as a discourser for his conversation was a succession of dissertations, and had nothing of the sententious and compact form of common dialogue. This diffuseness and flow of discourse, while they the more impressed his hearers with a sense of his boundless affluence of mind, made it the more difficult to retain and record the winged words, to which they had listened with such rapt attention. A terse aphorism clings to the memory, in spite of ourselves; but who can carry away a long monologue, in which the most profound reflections, illustrated by the most various knowledge, are connected together by links of association too subtle to be perceived, except by minds at once meditative and acute? The effect of Coleridges conversation was also heightened by his remarkable appearance; the dreamy inspiration of his face, in his latter days, made more impressive by his apostolic and flowing white locks, and the mysterious music of his voice, which is described, by those who have heard it, as resembling rather tones from some far-off spirit-land, than any sound of earth. These things, of course, die with the man. Looks and tones cannot he printed; and painting itself cannot embody the illumination of the countenance of a gifted man, when he feels the god stirring within him, which, of all things veuch safed to mortal eyes, is the brightest effluence of the essence increate. It is no wonder then, that most persons were somewhat disappointed in these Specimens of the Table-Talk of Coleridge and as might easily be anticipated, in the reaction of feeling, they have not given to it its due meed of praise. Their expectations have not been gratified; hut they have not stopped to ask themselves the question, whether they were not too extravagant to be gratified by the silent pages of any book? But, looking at the work alone and by itself, as a critic should always do, we find in it a great deal to approve and a great deal to admire, and hail it as a good book, largely imbued with the spirit of truth and beauty. It is open to some objections and, as we like to get through with our fault-finding at first, and leave ourselves ample sea-room for praising afterwards, we will state VOL. IX. 2S p218 Critical ~Notices. some that occur to us, and, we trust, in that respectful spirit with which the errors of so gifted and amiable a man should be treated. In the first place, there are a good many things in the hook, which are in nowise remarkable, and which mi~ht have been said by any well-educated man, without his wits suffering bankruptcy, in consequence of any lavish expenditure. But this is but a ~rifie, and it adds to the authenticity and honesty of the record, since every man who talks a great deal, must say many commonplace things ; and if every passage had been brilliant and striking, we should have felt convinced that many things had been suppressed, and the value of the book, as a literal transcript of the speakers mind, would thus have been impaired. In the next place, the book con- tains many instances of self-repetition; that is to say, there are many remarks and observations, which are old acquaintances to those who have been familiar with Coleridges prose works. But tbis does not arise from any poverty of invention, but from the fact th t his mind was wedded to certain great principles, which he lost no opportunity of illustrating and assertina, both in writing and conversation and he cared as little about repeating himself, provided he called the attention of the public thereby to his doctrines, as a lawyer does about saying the same thing over and over again to a jury, provided he thereby gains a verdict. No man ever had a inure single-hearted love of truth for its own sake and his own literary reputation was a thing of comparatively little value in his eyes. Again: the reader will now and then come to one of those passages, (which are sometimes supposed, hut unjustly, to be the distinguishing characteristics of Coleridges writings) in which the meaning is so shadowy in itself, or so involved in a cloud of meta- physics, as quite to elude the grasp of a plain man. But there are are few the greater part being entirely and immediately intelligible. A volume of table-talk will, of course, contain the free and unqualified senti- ments of the speaker; and about them, there will be as many opinions as there are individuals. Coleridge, as every body knows, held the high tory doctrines in politics, and was the earnest defender of the church hating all its foes with the true odiunr theologicurn; and the reader will find his views upon these subjects coloring almost every page in the book. He speaks of those who differ from him on these vital points or rather of their principles, for he very seldom stoops to personality with the bitterness which belongs to the losing party. We need hardly say that, in common with nine out of ten of his readers on this side of the Atlantic, we differ from him, toto crate, on all these topics. We believe that he exaggerated the extent of the reforming or radical spirit in England ; and we also believe that there are many things susceptible of improvement, which he would have wished to remain unaltered. But we would not, on this account, suffer our eyes to be blinded to the merit of the good things in the book nor admire him with any less good-will where we think he is right. Indeed, his opinions result ne- cessarily from the very character of his mind. He was a man of imagination all compact; and this quality made him exaggerate the value of existing institutions, as well us the amount of the danger which menaced them. (Poets belong to the conservative party, all the world over.) He could not conceive of a radical change- which was an improvement. For the established church, in particular, he had the most unqualified reverence. He never seems to have admitted the existence of, or at least never permitted his thoughts to dwell upon its manifold defects and. abuses but contemplated only the favorable side. The church was associated iii Critical ,Notices. 219 his mind with innumerable images of dignity, beauty and usefulness. He idealized and exalted it. His imagination, his taste and his recollections endeared him to it. He regarded those who proposed to lay the rude hand of reform upon the venera- ble fabric, as impious atheists, who made war upon mans dearest hopes and con- solations. When he imanined that he was writing and speaking of the church as a political institution, and defending it on grounds of State expediency, he was, in fact, transcribing his own particular feelings and sentiments. In all this, there was a want of high philosophy and far-looking sagacity. But Coleridge shocked as his ultra-admirers will doubtless be at the opinion was not a great philosopher. He was a great poet, and a poetical atmosphere colored everything he looked at. He often listened to his imagination, or his fears, when he thought he was taking counsel of his reason. Greatly gifted as he was, he had not the rare faculty of seeing things as they are. But there are some opinions expressed in these volumes, which we regret to see, and which, in a degree, diminish our respect for the author. Coleridge shews himself, sometimes, unjust to individuals, particularly to Burke and Sir James Mackintosh. His remarks upon the Malthusian doctrines, in political economy, are coarse and untrue. We will not quarrel with him for his love of the estalished church, and his apparent impossibility of conceiving of the existence of religion separate from a hierarchy. But what shall we say to such sentiments as this: It would require stronger arguments than any which I have heard, as yet, to prove that men in authority have not a right, involved in an imperative duty, to deter those under their controul from teaching or countenancing doctrines, which they believe to be damnable, and even to punish with death those who violate such prohibition. * This is comfortable doctrine for a philosopher of the nineteenth century, and a Christian to boot, to uphold. The fires of Smithfield seem gleaming through that passage. To be sure, he softens the atrocity of the remark, somewhat, in the sub- sequent sentences, and admits the manifest inexpediency of all persecution ; but the words remain as a monument of the strength of prejudice and the vitality of error. In another place he says, You are always talking of the rights of the negroes. As a rhetorical mode of stimulating the people of England here, I do not object but I utterly condemn your frantic practice of declaiming about their rights to the blacks themselves. They ought to be forcibly reminded of the state in which their brethren in Africa still are, and taught to be thankful for the providence which has placed them within the reach of the means of grace. t This is certainly a new view of the interesting question of slavery. It seems that the world has been in a great mistake, in looking with abhorrence upon the slave-dealer, for he has really been engaged in the great missionary enterprise of Christianizing the earth; and the slave, who writhes under the lash of a savage taskmaster, should feel, not wrath, madness and despair, but joy and gratitude at being placed within the reach of the means of grace. We recommend this para- graph to Governor MDuffies serious consideration, when he writes his next mes- sage. But, soberly, (for this is no subject for trifling) this expression of opinion affords a melancholy instance of the extent to which a mind of the highest order *Vol.2,p.J44. tVol.2,p.98. 220 Critical JVotices. and deeply loving the truth for its own sake, may become warped and perverted by political prejudices and the bigotry of party. But, after all the objections to the Table-Talk have been stated and ex- hausted, there remains a large amount of excellent and delightful matter of striking thoughts and brilliant expressions, of sound wisdom, profound reflections, playful wit, and admirable criticism. His high and spiritual views, in philosophy, are occasionally explained and illustrated in a felicitous manner; and the book will serve as a bridge, by means of which common readers may pass over to his more abstruse and elaborate works. XVe have been particularly pleased with the critical remarks, especially those upon Shakspeare and the early English dramatists. They are at once original, just and discriminating ; evincing an unerring tact in the per- ception of the most delicate beauties, and an unequalled acquaintance with the phi- losophy of literature. Were all criticism like this, it would indeed be a noble alt, worthy of the best labors of the l~i~best mind. There are many beautiful and strikim reflections on common, every-day things, which shew the accuracy and a extent of his observation. He speaks of our own country and its institutions, with great liberality and good-feeling ; and rebukes the illoatured and disparaging tone of English travelers and reviewers ; though, in his remarks upon the tariff, (vol. 2, p. 79) he betrays the dense ignorance of his countrymen generally, upon our his- tory and politics.* WTe had marked many passages for extraction; but we found that they were fast growing under our bands; and had we copied all that pleased us, we should have taken the greater part of the book. The editor who is the nephew and son-in-law of Coleridge has performed his task with zeal and ability. He has, of course, the most unbounded reverence for his illustrious kinsman, and subscribes implicitly to every opinion and sentiment uttered by him. Some of his notes might have been spared without any injury to his book. The preface is beautifully written but we do not think that his defence of Coleridge, against the charge of plagiarism, brought against him by the English opium-eater, is a very triumphant one. In concluding, we cannot but indulge a hope, that a more sightly edition of this book will be issued from the American press. The present is hardly worthy of its merits. The Gipsy; a Tale. By the ~iluthor of Richelieu, .Mary of Burgundy, 4~c. Harper and Brothers. Mr. Jamess new novel will be passed from hand to hand, and read with great interest greater, perhaps, than has been inspired by any work of fiction since Mr, Bulwers ~ Last Days of Pompeii. We cannot say that the Gipsy has in- creased our admiration of this authors powers. It exhibits the same fertility of * We are here reminded of aeurious instance of the inconsistency between preaching and practice. Coleridge, in one lace, (vol. 2, p. 34) scolds about the use of the word talented, and says, Why not shdhieged, tenpeaced, farthiaged, & c.; and adds, Most of these pieces of slang come from America, which opinion the editor endorses in a flippant note. And yet, (vol. 2, p. 64) we find this expression: In Macsinger, tbe style is d~reaced but differ- enced, in the smallest degrce possible, from animated conversation, by the vein of poetry.

The Gipsy; a Tale. By the Author of 'Richelieu' Critical Notices 220-223

220 Critical JVotices. and deeply loving the truth for its own sake, may become warped and perverted by political prejudices and the bigotry of party. But, after all the objections to the Table-Talk have been stated and ex- hausted, there remains a large amount of excellent and delightful matter of striking thoughts and brilliant expressions, of sound wisdom, profound reflections, playful wit, and admirable criticism. His high and spiritual views, in philosophy, are occasionally explained and illustrated in a felicitous manner; and the book will serve as a bridge, by means of which common readers may pass over to his more abstruse and elaborate works. XVe have been particularly pleased with the critical remarks, especially those upon Shakspeare and the early English dramatists. They are at once original, just and discriminating ; evincing an unerring tact in the per- ception of the most delicate beauties, and an unequalled acquaintance with the phi- losophy of literature. Were all criticism like this, it would indeed be a noble alt, worthy of the best labors of the l~i~best mind. There are many beautiful and strikim reflections on common, every-day things, which shew the accuracy and a extent of his observation. He speaks of our own country and its institutions, with great liberality and good-feeling ; and rebukes the illoatured and disparaging tone of English travelers and reviewers ; though, in his remarks upon the tariff, (vol. 2, p. 79) he betrays the dense ignorance of his countrymen generally, upon our his- tory and politics.* WTe had marked many passages for extraction; but we found that they were fast growing under our bands; and had we copied all that pleased us, we should have taken the greater part of the book. The editor who is the nephew and son-in-law of Coleridge has performed his task with zeal and ability. He has, of course, the most unbounded reverence for his illustrious kinsman, and subscribes implicitly to every opinion and sentiment uttered by him. Some of his notes might have been spared without any injury to his book. The preface is beautifully written but we do not think that his defence of Coleridge, against the charge of plagiarism, brought against him by the English opium-eater, is a very triumphant one. In concluding, we cannot but indulge a hope, that a more sightly edition of this book will be issued from the American press. The present is hardly worthy of its merits. The Gipsy; a Tale. By the ~iluthor of Richelieu, .Mary of Burgundy, 4~c. Harper and Brothers. Mr. Jamess new novel will be passed from hand to hand, and read with great interest greater, perhaps, than has been inspired by any work of fiction since Mr, Bulwers ~ Last Days of Pompeii. We cannot say that the Gipsy has in- creased our admiration of this authors powers. It exhibits the same fertility of * We are here reminded of aeurious instance of the inconsistency between preaching and practice. Coleridge, in one lace, (vol. 2, p. 34) scolds about the use of the word talented, and says, Why not shdhieged, tenpeaced, farthiaged, & c.; and adds, Most of these pieces of slang come from America, which opinion the editor endorses in a flippant note. And yet, (vol. 2, p. 64) we find this expression: In Macsinger, tbe style is d~reaced but differ- enced, in the smallest degrce possible, from animated conversation, by the vein of poetry. Critical JVotiees. 221 invention, copiousness of thought, and exuberance of language, which surprise us in his former works ; but it lacks that lofty and chivalrous tone which, from the different nature of its subject, could not be imparted in the present story. Darn- ley, and Philip Augustus, are the best better, in our estimation, than henry Masterton, or Mary of Burgundy, though by many the latter are preferred. In- deed, Henry Masterton seems to have excited from the critics, on this side of the water at least, the highest eulogium. To our view, our author appears to greatest advantage, helmed and spurred, mounted on bis milk-white charger, with his lance in rest. The field upon which he seems most noble, is The Field of the Cloth of Gold. His figure is better suited to the joust and tournament than to the hall and drawing-room. His brilliant are more effective than his tender points ; though there are many exquisite touches of feeling and sentiment in his works. Nothing can be finer than his description of the feasts and gorgeous paraphernalia and lavish display of the two most magnificent princes of the world, meeting to vie in splen- dor and a waste of wealth, on that Field of the Cloth of Gold, so celebrated in history and by Shakspeare: Men might say, Till this time, pomp was single; but now married To one above itself. Each following day Became the next days master, till the last Made former wonders its: To-day, the French, All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, Shone down the English; and, to-morrow, they Made Britain, India; every man, that stood, Showd like a mine. We have not read Mr. Jamess History of Chivalry; but, since Scott is dead, there lives no man who can write a superior and we shall read it, not think- ing, however, that his style is at all adapted to historical or biographical composi- tion. It has been pronounced excellent, and so has the Life of Charlemagne. Such works should be performed in a clear and succinct manner. Redundancy and diffuseness are tolerable in a novel, but unpardonable in a plain relation of truths to be firmly set in the mind. From his success, however, in chivalrous scenes, and in delineating the character and manners of the middle ages, an ad- mirer of the author of Darnley may, we think, take up these two works without fear of disappointment. The Gipsy is a tale of domestic life; all the incidents occur within a circle of a few miles, in one county in England, where lie the large estates of one noble family. As may be conjectured from the title, the story has much to do with that strange class of beings, who trace their genealogy from king Pharaohs host pre- tending to have preserved their dark ancient blood unmingled with that of a lighter hue who shun the dwellings of civilized men, and rove about, from place to place, living in tents, and as free as the migrating birds beneath the firmament of Heaven. The opening scene of the novel reminds us strongly of The Disowned. It is the view of a Gipsy encampment, seen by two strangers, who approach slowly winding their way on horseback after the most approved style of intro- ductions to modern novels. The commencement seems con-imouplace enough; but as you proceed, the plot thickens, the interest deepens, and you are held down to the story so closely, that you are tempted to skip many beautiful passages of description, and very many fine philosophical observations, with which the work 222 Critical Notices. abounds. The author has a provoking way of throwing these into the midst of the most attractive parts of the narrative, when yon are all in a fluster to know what happens next. We ran over the volumes vary swiftly ; but with a pleasurable anticipation of perusing any omitted passage or page after being released from the irresistible fascination of the story. We have said that Mr. James excelled in the chivalrous and splendid, rather than the domestic and tender. Though tempted, as we call to mind many capital scenes in the Gipsy, to retract the opinion, we let it stand ; because we did not say that he was not eminently successful in the latter. As a delineator of character, this author, in our opinion, ranks next to the great master. Let any one study Col. Manners, for instance, and point us to a more elevated example of what a gentleman and a man of true honor should be. Let him find, if he can, a inure charming creature A creature not too bright or good For human natures daily food ban Isadore Falkland. We like her better than Marian the rose of loveliness bat she is with all her true thought and fond devotion. Every trait of the for- mer must have been drawn from life thou~ h from twenty different persons, o have made one so delightful; while the latter is evidently a being of the im- agination. There may be such, and we not had the good fortune to meet them but we have the happiness to read a character like IsadQres full of vivacity and wit and ardent feeling in one or two whom we have been permitted to look upon. It is pleasant to recognize ones acquaintance in such new scenes, and Un- der such agreeable circumstances. It seems like a privilege to see her (them, we mean) as often as we please, without the u~prehension of becoming tiresome, or of the remarks that will be made, by the world, on our aitentions and intentions. Among the greatest charms of a work of fiction, is that of tracing resemblances be- tween the persons introduced and those whom we may have encountered in real life. If our readers have, as we hope, been more fortunate than ourselves, they may have seen the archetypes of Marian de Vaux, as well as of Isadore Falkland. There are some cabinet pictures in this book, which are delightful to contem- plate. We would transfer one or two in this place, did we not think our friends would prefer them in the original setting. They are unsurpassed. There is a truth of coloring and a distinctness that make them as present as life to the minds eye. We called them pictures; but the characters are more real moving, liv- ing, talking, acting. One is positive that they must exist or have had existence somewhere. We have called Mr. Jamess style redundant. It is diffuse. He shows a care- less expenditure of thought and language, that speaks a confidence in the wealth of his own resources. He is too prodigal. Four hundred modem novels might be easily manufactured out of the ideas in one of his volumes. We trust we have said enough to induce those who have not seen The Gipsy to set about verifying the prediction with which we commenced this notice, and go after it directly. We had much rather confess not having read Mr. Bulwers novels than those of Mr. James. Commence with The Gipsy, reader! and if you can believe, with us, that it is possible for others to be better, get them all not from a circulating library, but in your own; for, in spite of the multiplication of new books, you will seek to read these again and again our critical word for it! Critical .A4otices. 223 Progressive Education. Translated from the French of .Miadamc .N~eckar de Saussure; by .Ihiliesdames Willard and Phelps. Boston: TV. D. Ticknor. The style of this work is easy and perspicuous, and therefore well suited to it~ subject. Though a translation, it seems more like the production of an English author ; and the lady editresses have acquitted their task with credit. We offer a few tlioughts suggested by the perusal of their volume. So few, so very few reflect on the importance of education, during the first years of life, that it has often been made a subject of ridicule to speak or write, philosophically, about babies. Though it appears to us much wisei to write philo- sophically and scientifically about babies, than to affect to teach them either th~ sciences or the arts, much as it has been the fashion of the present day to at- tempt it. Madame de Saussure thinks correctly, too that education begins at birth ; for what is education, but that forming and training of the mind and body, which is best calculated to aid, to strengthen, and to support both? Though the mind of an infant is as a sealed book to us, the example we set, the habits we fix upon them, are plainly seenand are important. Oh, how important a look,. a word, a kiss, or a frown, may have an influence of incalculable importance. Mothers lay the foundation; let them, then, have all the light that can be obtained. Too much cannot be done, if it he rightly done ; for education is a subject of as great importance as can be bro4gbt before a rational mind. But as Madame de Saussure says in early life exaniple is everything. Her views of religion are generally just and elevating. 1-ler Chapter on the Willy is admirable. Why is it that we see so little of the true spirit of Christ among his followers? Is it not. because we are not in early life impressed with the belief that religion is or should be the great concern ? that it is to the soul what the sun is to the universe? Do not parents even Christian parents pay more attention to anything and every- thing else? Do they educate their children as if religion was the only true foun- dation for happiness? Do they make it the governing principle? Madame de Saussure considers religion the only power that can subdue without crushing the spirit or cramping the energies. But there is much to admire and reflect upon,. through the whole work; and we hope young mothers, generally, will read it.- And if, among the excellent things she suggests and advises, they find some things. merely speculative, let them not cast it aside for thatbut reflect that, in the in- fancy of all science, there must be speculative suggestion and alteration. The in- ductive philosophy h-d never been thought of, but for speculative suggestion, thought and reflection not only on truth, but on error. And we are sure, if there was more time bestowed on thought and reflection, there would not be half so much discord and dissension half so much quarrelling about terms and trifles. The chapter on dispositions to be cultivated the first year, is worthy all atten- tion. The motto is To love is the beginning of morality. She says that, at all ages, the best means of overcoming, or at least of enfeebling bad inclinations, is to give continual exercise to others. Overcome evil by good, is the admirable precept of the Gospel, and comprises the whole secret of education. Mothers, whcs enjoy the advantage of this work, will find that a child, educated on the principles which it recommends, would become a good son, a good father, a good husband, a good citizen. We should not have so much party-spirit so much railing about tern

Progressive Education. Translated from the French of Madame Neckar de Saussure; by Mesdames Willard and Phelps Critical Notices 223-224

Critical .A4otices. 223 Progressive Education. Translated from the French of .Miadamc .N~eckar de Saussure; by .Ihiliesdames Willard and Phelps. Boston: TV. D. Ticknor. The style of this work is easy and perspicuous, and therefore well suited to it~ subject. Though a translation, it seems more like the production of an English author ; and the lady editresses have acquitted their task with credit. We offer a few tlioughts suggested by the perusal of their volume. So few, so very few reflect on the importance of education, during the first years of life, that it has often been made a subject of ridicule to speak or write, philosophically, about babies. Though it appears to us much wisei to write philo- sophically and scientifically about babies, than to affect to teach them either th~ sciences or the arts, much as it has been the fashion of the present day to at- tempt it. Madame de Saussure thinks correctly, too that education begins at birth ; for what is education, but that forming and training of the mind and body, which is best calculated to aid, to strengthen, and to support both? Though the mind of an infant is as a sealed book to us, the example we set, the habits we fix upon them, are plainly seenand are important. Oh, how important a look,. a word, a kiss, or a frown, may have an influence of incalculable importance. Mothers lay the foundation; let them, then, have all the light that can be obtained. Too much cannot be done, if it he rightly done ; for education is a subject of as great importance as can be bro4gbt before a rational mind. But as Madame de Saussure says in early life exaniple is everything. Her views of religion are generally just and elevating. 1-ler Chapter on the Willy is admirable. Why is it that we see so little of the true spirit of Christ among his followers? Is it not. because we are not in early life impressed with the belief that religion is or should be the great concern ? that it is to the soul what the sun is to the universe? Do not parents even Christian parents pay more attention to anything and every- thing else? Do they educate their children as if religion was the only true foun- dation for happiness? Do they make it the governing principle? Madame de Saussure considers religion the only power that can subdue without crushing the spirit or cramping the energies. But there is much to admire and reflect upon,. through the whole work; and we hope young mothers, generally, will read it.- And if, among the excellent things she suggests and advises, they find some things. merely speculative, let them not cast it aside for thatbut reflect that, in the in- fancy of all science, there must be speculative suggestion and alteration. The in- ductive philosophy h-d never been thought of, but for speculative suggestion, thought and reflection not only on truth, but on error. And we are sure, if there was more time bestowed on thought and reflection, there would not be half so much discord and dissension half so much quarrelling about terms and trifles. The chapter on dispositions to be cultivated the first year, is worthy all atten- tion. The motto is To love is the beginning of morality. She says that, at all ages, the best means of overcoming, or at least of enfeebling bad inclinations, is to give continual exercise to others. Overcome evil by good, is the admirable precept of the Gospel, and comprises the whole secret of education. Mothers, whcs enjoy the advantage of this work, will find that a child, educated on the principles which it recommends, would become a good son, a good father, a good husband, a good citizen. We should not have so much party-spirit so much railing about tern 224 Critical ,Notice.~. perance, by men who are intoxicated with passion so much reviling of slave-hold- ers, by men who are slaves to party and to will so much disputing about the nature of Christ, by those who have yet to learn, not only his nature but his spirit, and their own duty. Why will not the world learn moderation? Is it because there is no one to teach it? Each party declares it possesses the philosophers stone of patient en- durance ; while each rails at the other for want of charity and moderation. They look not in the clear, plain, undeceiving glass of self-examination; but in the mag- nifier of vanity and conceit. Could children be early taught humility, and that love is the fulfilling of the law, surely they would not, could not feel, when they advanced towards manhood, so much bitterness of spirit; nor so much party-rancor when they become men. Party-spirit spreads everywhere even among women in some places and is by no means confined to politicians. How delightful it would be, if the bland spirit of serenity, so strongly recommended by Madame de Saussure, could be infused, not only into children, but into the minds of all classes. The chapter on truth deserves particular attention ; and we sincerely hope the work will be attentively perused by parents for there is certainly some defect in our system of education; and I am inclined to believe we do not begin early enough with example do not feel half the importance of our own conduct, and daily and hourly regulate ourselves by the divine precepts of our holy religion. The kStudents Manual. This is the title of a work By the Rev. John Todd, Pastor of the Edwards Church, Northampton, Author of Lectures to Children, & c We must confess that, until this work was laid before us, by the politeness of its publishers, (we believe this is the most approved manner of commencing a puff) we were ignorant of the fact of the reverend authors existence ; for we had never met with his Lectures to Children and his rural retirement, Like to a Tod in ivy bush, had precluded the possibility of a rencontre. On being made acquainted with his work, we felt almost as much joy as a man may be supposed to feel, who, on be- ing cured of an obstinate deafness, is suddenly serenaded on a moonlight evening. Really, we were poetically inspired; but the few first lines of our address to the reverend author, cured the fit. They ran something thus: Oh, Mr. Todd, How very odd A book you ye kindly given us. But our readers may be impatient to know the nature of this production, which is to float down the stream of time, admired by the Lord knows how many gener. ations of mankind like Shakspeares plays and Scotts novels. But hold! we must not talk of plays or novels, or of genius itself because the Rev. Mr. Todd holds such vanities in abhorrence. What is the design of the work? Stay a mo- ment, till we have glanced at the title-page for an answer. Here we have it: it is designed, by Specific Directions, to aid in forming and strengthening the Intellectual and Moral Characters and Habits of the Student. Excellent, profound,

The Student's Manual Critical Notices 224-226

224 Critical ,Notice.~. perance, by men who are intoxicated with passion so much reviling of slave-hold- ers, by men who are slaves to party and to will so much disputing about the nature of Christ, by those who have yet to learn, not only his nature but his spirit, and their own duty. Why will not the world learn moderation? Is it because there is no one to teach it? Each party declares it possesses the philosophers stone of patient en- durance ; while each rails at the other for want of charity and moderation. They look not in the clear, plain, undeceiving glass of self-examination; but in the mag- nifier of vanity and conceit. Could children be early taught humility, and that love is the fulfilling of the law, surely they would not, could not feel, when they advanced towards manhood, so much bitterness of spirit; nor so much party-rancor when they become men. Party-spirit spreads everywhere even among women in some places and is by no means confined to politicians. How delightful it would be, if the bland spirit of serenity, so strongly recommended by Madame de Saussure, could be infused, not only into children, but into the minds of all classes. The chapter on truth deserves particular attention ; and we sincerely hope the work will be attentively perused by parents for there is certainly some defect in our system of education; and I am inclined to believe we do not begin early enough with example do not feel half the importance of our own conduct, and daily and hourly regulate ourselves by the divine precepts of our holy religion. The kStudents Manual. This is the title of a work By the Rev. John Todd, Pastor of the Edwards Church, Northampton, Author of Lectures to Children, & c We must confess that, until this work was laid before us, by the politeness of its publishers, (we believe this is the most approved manner of commencing a puff) we were ignorant of the fact of the reverend authors existence ; for we had never met with his Lectures to Children and his rural retirement, Like to a Tod in ivy bush, had precluded the possibility of a rencontre. On being made acquainted with his work, we felt almost as much joy as a man may be supposed to feel, who, on be- ing cured of an obstinate deafness, is suddenly serenaded on a moonlight evening. Really, we were poetically inspired; but the few first lines of our address to the reverend author, cured the fit. They ran something thus: Oh, Mr. Todd, How very odd A book you ye kindly given us. But our readers may be impatient to know the nature of this production, which is to float down the stream of time, admired by the Lord knows how many gener. ations of mankind like Shakspeares plays and Scotts novels. But hold! we must not talk of plays or novels, or of genius itself because the Rev. Mr. Todd holds such vanities in abhorrence. What is the design of the work? Stay a mo- ment, till we have glanced at the title-page for an answer. Here we have it: it is designed, by Specific Directions, to aid in forming and strengthening the Intellectual and Moral Characters and Habits of the Student. Excellent, profound, Critical ,JVoticcs. 225 and original, as the work undoubtedly is, we can furnish a receipt, by which one of equal merit may be got up by the merest tyro in tbe art of book-making~ Take the Percy Anecdotes, a volume of Oriental Maxims, and one of Moral Apothegms; add translations of the Latin and Greek Readers used in elementary schools ; take from these the oldest and stupidest stories, and paste at random intervals over three quires of paper. Cut up a few old sermonsMS. if you can steal them and insert detached sentences between the anecdotes. You will now be obliged to connect the paragraphs together by writing a few commonplace sentiments. Divide into chapters, to which affix sounding titles ; add marginal and foot notes. After this comes the heaviest part of the labor-making the index and the title-page. Let the latter be high-sounding and full of words, and describe yourself as the au- thor of some popular works imaginary, of course. Any pnblisher will give your book to the world ; it will he puffed in the newspapers ; you will he called a dis- tinguished author; and you will equal, perhaps eclipse the Reverend Mr. Todd. But let us drop into a strain of less exalted panegyric, that our readers may not charge us with too much enthusiasm. The Students Manual to borrow a witty criticism on another subject contains much that is true and much that is new ; but all that is true is not new, and all that is new is not true. The rever- end author has thrown together a number of stale maxims and practical hints, for the guidance of a scholar ; and some of them are calculated to do good. If there was less fanaticism in the book, it would be more useful. In the earlier part of it, among a host of other strictures, we find the Reverend Mr. Todd abusing poor Fancy, and running full tilt against the pleasures of Imagination. He says that day-dreatus, reveries, & c. sour the feelings, make a man morose, and hints that they are criminal indulgences. We are sorry to differ from so respectable an au- thority, and reluctant to go wrong deliberately ; but we would rather err with Fitz- Greene Halleck, Esq. than be right with the Reverend Mr. Todd. What says our favorite? There are some happy moments in this lone And desolate world of ours, that will repay The toil of struggling through it, and atone For many a long sad night and weary day. They come upon the mind like some wild air Of distant music, when we know not where Or whence the sounds are brought from; and their powr, Though brief, is boundless. That far, future home, Oft dreamd of, sparkles near; its rose-wreathed bower And cloudless skies before us: we become Changed on the instant all gold-leaf and gilding; This is, in vulgar phrase, calld castle-building. 5 C * * * 5 * 5 5 5 And these are innocent thoughts a man may sit Upon a bright throne of his own creation, Untortured by the ghastly sprites that fit Around the many of exalted station. Reverie sours the feelings. Did the reverend gentleman have Mr. Irving in his eye when he wrote these words ? Washington Irving, whose writings and life are full of benevolence? and who so delights in building castles in the air? We VOL. IX. 226 Critical .JVotices. dare. say that ~ho Reverend Mr. Todd had his eye upon Irving, for he has laid his paw upon Scott. While, saith the sage of Northampton, I confess that I have read him and read him entire, in order that I may speak from experience I cannot but say that it would give me the keenest pain to believe that my exam- ple would be quoted, small as is its influence, after I am in the grave, without this solemn protest accompanying it. Indeed! If a man have committed no more heinous sin than that of reading and recommending the Waverly novels, he may die with a cLear conscience. We can hardly realize the strong perversion of taste, which can lead some who have read them, to declaim against these admirable works inculcating as they do the purest principles; exciting our admiration for nothing that is unworthy; holding up, to the veneration of the world, pictures of intellectual greatness, of unyielding private and public virtue, of generosity, of everything that is great and good. It is too late in the day for anathemas to be pronounced against them. Yet, why should we say so, while cant is a marketa- ble quality, and liberality denounced? After a deal of sage advice to the student, the Reverend Mr. Todd assures him that originality is not essential to composition. If he mean that a man may make a book without a particle of originality in it, he is right and the Manual proves the possibility of doing so ; but if he mean that a man can acquire an honorable reputation by preying on the thoughts of others, he is clearly wrong. What! XVould the reverend gentleman encourage literary larceny? Unless a man can be original, he should give up authorship; although if all writers were to follow this plan, it would ruin the book-selling trade and certainly that is A consummation Devoutly to be wished. This quotation is from one Shakspeare, who wrote a parcel of excellent plays which play the devil with young people, thinks the Reverend Mr. Todd! Record of a School: exempbfying the general principles of Spir- itual Culture. Boston: James JJiunroe 4~ Co. This is one of the most strikingly original works which have for a long time time fallen under our notice. It is a psychological diary, recording the thoughts and mental progression of childhood where the young pupils were educated in a school conducted after a peculiar and, as appears to us, highly judicious plan. The opinions of the instructer, with regard to the best methods of training the minds of children, are conveyed in the course of the journal. The principal of this school (Mr. Alcott) is very favorably known to parents and among teachers in this community; and we feel a strong sentiment of gratitude to the man who is willing to apply to so simple a task as school-keeping the labored results of a faithful philosophical investigation. The success which has followed the application to practice of his excellent theory, is well exemplified in this book; which is the production of a female assistant, whose excellent capacities and per- fect understanding of the best system of mental culture can be doubted by no one who will exercise the laudable curiosity of reading her volume. We call school- keeping a simple task; but it is a task of the highest importance. It is a very simple matter, apart from the government of it~ conduct, to make a child learn

Record of a School: exemplifying the general principles of Spiritual Culture Critical Notices 226-227

226 Critical .JVotices. dare. say that ~ho Reverend Mr. Todd had his eye upon Irving, for he has laid his paw upon Scott. While, saith the sage of Northampton, I confess that I have read him and read him entire, in order that I may speak from experience I cannot but say that it would give me the keenest pain to believe that my exam- ple would be quoted, small as is its influence, after I am in the grave, without this solemn protest accompanying it. Indeed! If a man have committed no more heinous sin than that of reading and recommending the Waverly novels, he may die with a cLear conscience. We can hardly realize the strong perversion of taste, which can lead some who have read them, to declaim against these admirable works inculcating as they do the purest principles; exciting our admiration for nothing that is unworthy; holding up, to the veneration of the world, pictures of intellectual greatness, of unyielding private and public virtue, of generosity, of everything that is great and good. It is too late in the day for anathemas to be pronounced against them. Yet, why should we say so, while cant is a marketa- ble quality, and liberality denounced? After a deal of sage advice to the student, the Reverend Mr. Todd assures him that originality is not essential to composition. If he mean that a man may make a book without a particle of originality in it, he is right and the Manual proves the possibility of doing so ; but if he mean that a man can acquire an honorable reputation by preying on the thoughts of others, he is clearly wrong. What! XVould the reverend gentleman encourage literary larceny? Unless a man can be original, he should give up authorship; although if all writers were to follow this plan, it would ruin the book-selling trade and certainly that is A consummation Devoutly to be wished. This quotation is from one Shakspeare, who wrote a parcel of excellent plays which play the devil with young people, thinks the Reverend Mr. Todd! Record of a School: exempbfying the general principles of Spir- itual Culture. Boston: James JJiunroe 4~ Co. This is one of the most strikingly original works which have for a long time time fallen under our notice. It is a psychological diary, recording the thoughts and mental progression of childhood where the young pupils were educated in a school conducted after a peculiar and, as appears to us, highly judicious plan. The opinions of the instructer, with regard to the best methods of training the minds of children, are conveyed in the course of the journal. The principal of this school (Mr. Alcott) is very favorably known to parents and among teachers in this community; and we feel a strong sentiment of gratitude to the man who is willing to apply to so simple a task as school-keeping the labored results of a faithful philosophical investigation. The success which has followed the application to practice of his excellent theory, is well exemplified in this book; which is the production of a female assistant, whose excellent capacities and per- fect understanding of the best system of mental culture can be doubted by no one who will exercise the laudable curiosity of reading her volume. We call school- keeping a simple task; but it is a task of the highest importance. It is a very simple matter, apart from the government of it~ conduct, to make a child learn Critical Notices. 227 easy lessons by wrote ; but, to watch the minds developement, and to instil learning, slowly and completely, into the understanding, as it becomes more and more capable of receiving it, is a labor which can be judiciously effected only by those who possess such wisdom and experience as the instructress to the excellent school, of which, we doubt not, this is the faithful Record. The best way to characterize the instruction exemplified in this volume, is to call it purely intellec- tual, and less mechanical than that which is commonly exhibited: that, as regards language in particular, it imparts a life and actuality to this department of educa- tion, which has not hitherto been realized. Every word, in a spelling or reading lesson, is made to tell on the mind with all the vividness and power of living thought. One chief excellence of the manner of education here exhibited, is the pains taken by the instructer to solicit instead of to compel the attention. Feeling is first elicited, imagination awakened, and the attention secured. Pupils are won into study as into a pleasant garden, where they are to see beautiful things, and to leans a lesson from every leaf and every blossom. How different from the stony path over which many hays been led Another of the prominent merits of this little book (and we regret that our limits will not allow us to make a complete exposition of them all) consists in its affording to teachers and to parents a model of mild yet effective authority in the moral management of children the methods, made use of, being singularly happy. They unite a sincere respect for the rightful freedom of the young mind, with a just perception of the necessity of unqualified obedience and submission to proper guidance. Law is recognized with reverence in all the proceedings of the school; and happily it is the law inscribed on the heart. In presenting such a notice of this peculiar and highly valuable work, we have but borrowed from opinions, which, if given to the public, would be deeply re- spected opinions expressed by one, perfectly experienced in education; and in whose hearty recommendation of this interesting volume, we are happy to accord. The Wife and Womans Reward. In two vols. t2mo. JVew York: Harper 4 Brothers. These tales for there are two of them are just such as might have beeu expected from the pen of the Hon. Mrs. Norton graceful and interesting; but al- most any clever woman could equal them. We were never enthusiastic admirers of Mrs. Norton, and find nothing in the present work to change our indiffarence. Womans Reward is a tale of domestic life a tale of trials, of humiliated ~vice, and suffering virtue. The heroine is one of those young ladies whom we meet oftener in the pages of fiction than in the walks of real life, but little lower than the angels. Lionel Dupr6, the base, overbearing profligate of the story, is very well done. The subordinate characters are excellent. The sketch of the actress is admirable admirable for its truth and originality; one of those fortunate con- ceptions which frequently redeem whole pages of dullness. Her story perhaps is episodical, but it arrests the attention of the reader, and retains it throughout. The Wife, although inferior to Womans Reward, is a good tale, very well told. There is nothing in these volumes to ensure them a lasting reputation; but they are agreeable and well-written, and deserve honorable mention among the epheniera

The Wife and Woman's Reward Critical Notices 227-228

Critical Notices. 227 easy lessons by wrote ; but, to watch the minds developement, and to instil learning, slowly and completely, into the understanding, as it becomes more and more capable of receiving it, is a labor which can be judiciously effected only by those who possess such wisdom and experience as the instructress to the excellent school, of which, we doubt not, this is the faithful Record. The best way to characterize the instruction exemplified in this volume, is to call it purely intellec- tual, and less mechanical than that which is commonly exhibited: that, as regards language in particular, it imparts a life and actuality to this department of educa- tion, which has not hitherto been realized. Every word, in a spelling or reading lesson, is made to tell on the mind with all the vividness and power of living thought. One chief excellence of the manner of education here exhibited, is the pains taken by the instructer to solicit instead of to compel the attention. Feeling is first elicited, imagination awakened, and the attention secured. Pupils are won into study as into a pleasant garden, where they are to see beautiful things, and to leans a lesson from every leaf and every blossom. How different from the stony path over which many hays been led Another of the prominent merits of this little book (and we regret that our limits will not allow us to make a complete exposition of them all) consists in its affording to teachers and to parents a model of mild yet effective authority in the moral management of children the methods, made use of, being singularly happy. They unite a sincere respect for the rightful freedom of the young mind, with a just perception of the necessity of unqualified obedience and submission to proper guidance. Law is recognized with reverence in all the proceedings of the school; and happily it is the law inscribed on the heart. In presenting such a notice of this peculiar and highly valuable work, we have but borrowed from opinions, which, if given to the public, would be deeply re- spected opinions expressed by one, perfectly experienced in education; and in whose hearty recommendation of this interesting volume, we are happy to accord. The Wife and Womans Reward. In two vols. t2mo. JVew York: Harper 4 Brothers. These tales for there are two of them are just such as might have beeu expected from the pen of the Hon. Mrs. Norton graceful and interesting; but al- most any clever woman could equal them. We were never enthusiastic admirers of Mrs. Norton, and find nothing in the present work to change our indiffarence. Womans Reward is a tale of domestic life a tale of trials, of humiliated ~vice, and suffering virtue. The heroine is one of those young ladies whom we meet oftener in the pages of fiction than in the walks of real life, but little lower than the angels. Lionel Dupr6, the base, overbearing profligate of the story, is very well done. The subordinate characters are excellent. The sketch of the actress is admirable admirable for its truth and originality; one of those fortunate con- ceptions which frequently redeem whole pages of dullness. Her story perhaps is episodical, but it arrests the attention of the reader, and retains it throughout. The Wife, although inferior to Womans Reward, is a good tale, very well told. There is nothing in these volumes to ensure them a lasting reputation; but they are agreeable and well-written, and deserve honorable mention among the epheniera 228 Critical .Notices. of the day. For ourselves, we should have liked them hetter if they had contained a less liberal allowance of mawkish sentiment, which is our aversion. We hate it quite as cordially as did Sir Oliver Surface, who, on being told that Joseph is a young man of sentiment, replies So much the worse: if he salute me with a scrap of morality if his mouth, I shall be sick directly. Edmund .ilhlerton. We have been favored with the perusal of a MS. novel, with this title, which we hope to see shortly issued from the press, in good type and on fair paper, with the names of our most respectable publishers on the title-page ; for it is a work of great merit, and will doubtless meet with a warm reception from the public. New nov- els are generally such bores, that it was with extreme reluctance that we complied with the request of a friend, and sat down to the perusal of the MS., as to the per- formance of a disagreeable task. Having been pleasantly disappointed, however, we cannot help anticipating the general voice, and pronouncing our critical sen- tence in favor of the book ; so that, when it comes out, our readers (and who readeth not the Maga?) will be prepared to admire in our wake. The story (which we are longing to tell, but will not) is wild, romantic, and full of startling incidents, and yet grounded upon events which actually occurred near the beginning of the present century. The scene lies partly in America and partly in Europe. The principal characters are interesting, and drawn with masterly skill. Notwithstanding the tragical events which occur in the tale, and which cast their gloomy shadows before them, filling the mind with melancholy presages from the very first, there are sunny gleams of vivacity and humor, which prove the posses- sion of great versatility in the author. His descrilitive powers appear by no means inferior to his dramatic capabilities. Take, for example, the following extract, with which we close our notice: The academy, at the gate of which Edmund Allerton alighted, was a square, stone building, two stories high, which had originally been a farm-house. Its high, sloping roof and long eaves, its little, deep-set windows, and its stoop, proclaimed distinctly its Dutch origin. The building faced the west, in which direction arose the most elevated summits of the chain of hills which have before been mentioned. Some tall button-wood, or plane trees, and a solitary elm, of vast size, spread their guardian arms above the roof, which was hoary with age, and overgrown with ragged mosses. A small portion of the land in front of the building was devoted to a flower-garden, the alleys of which were laid out with mathematical exactness, carefully gravelled, and bordered with clipt rows of box. A clumsy summer-house stood at the extremity of the central walk, opposite the main door of the building, and was all overgrown with woodbine and the monthly honeysuckle, and sur- mounted with a rusty weathercock and a little wooden champion, armed with a sword of shingle, with which he valiantly did battle against the wind. The flow- ers, which adorned this second garden of Eden, were neither rare nor delicate. Whole hosts of little squat Dutch tulips, like extravagant young vrows arrayed in flaunting dresses, turned themselves by the edges of the alleys, parading their mot- ley colors in full view ; tawdry marigolds and coquettish poppies nodded to each other above the modest violets, while at a disdainful distance stood the great lordly sunflowers, wagging their brazen faces, and seeming to talk scandal about the beau- ties of the garden. Nor must we forget to mention a little painted box, elevated on a pole a miniature model of the stadt-house at Amsterdam, in and out of which the martins were continually flying, like bustling burgomasters full of some impor- tant business.~

Edmund Allerton Critical Notices 228-229

228 Critical .Notices. of the day. For ourselves, we should have liked them hetter if they had contained a less liberal allowance of mawkish sentiment, which is our aversion. We hate it quite as cordially as did Sir Oliver Surface, who, on being told that Joseph is a young man of sentiment, replies So much the worse: if he salute me with a scrap of morality if his mouth, I shall be sick directly. Edmund .ilhlerton. We have been favored with the perusal of a MS. novel, with this title, which we hope to see shortly issued from the press, in good type and on fair paper, with the names of our most respectable publishers on the title-page ; for it is a work of great merit, and will doubtless meet with a warm reception from the public. New nov- els are generally such bores, that it was with extreme reluctance that we complied with the request of a friend, and sat down to the perusal of the MS., as to the per- formance of a disagreeable task. Having been pleasantly disappointed, however, we cannot help anticipating the general voice, and pronouncing our critical sen- tence in favor of the book ; so that, when it comes out, our readers (and who readeth not the Maga?) will be prepared to admire in our wake. The story (which we are longing to tell, but will not) is wild, romantic, and full of startling incidents, and yet grounded upon events which actually occurred near the beginning of the present century. The scene lies partly in America and partly in Europe. The principal characters are interesting, and drawn with masterly skill. Notwithstanding the tragical events which occur in the tale, and which cast their gloomy shadows before them, filling the mind with melancholy presages from the very first, there are sunny gleams of vivacity and humor, which prove the posses- sion of great versatility in the author. His descrilitive powers appear by no means inferior to his dramatic capabilities. Take, for example, the following extract, with which we close our notice: The academy, at the gate of which Edmund Allerton alighted, was a square, stone building, two stories high, which had originally been a farm-house. Its high, sloping roof and long eaves, its little, deep-set windows, and its stoop, proclaimed distinctly its Dutch origin. The building faced the west, in which direction arose the most elevated summits of the chain of hills which have before been mentioned. Some tall button-wood, or plane trees, and a solitary elm, of vast size, spread their guardian arms above the roof, which was hoary with age, and overgrown with ragged mosses. A small portion of the land in front of the building was devoted to a flower-garden, the alleys of which were laid out with mathematical exactness, carefully gravelled, and bordered with clipt rows of box. A clumsy summer-house stood at the extremity of the central walk, opposite the main door of the building, and was all overgrown with woodbine and the monthly honeysuckle, and sur- mounted with a rusty weathercock and a little wooden champion, armed with a sword of shingle, with which he valiantly did battle against the wind. The flow- ers, which adorned this second garden of Eden, were neither rare nor delicate. Whole hosts of little squat Dutch tulips, like extravagant young vrows arrayed in flaunting dresses, turned themselves by the edges of the alleys, parading their mot- ley colors in full view ; tawdry marigolds and coquettish poppies nodded to each other above the modest violets, while at a disdainful distance stood the great lordly sunflowers, wagging their brazen faces, and seeming to talk scandal about the beau- ties of the garden. Nor must we forget to mention a little painted box, elevated on a pole a miniature model of the stadt-house at Amsterdam, in and out of which the martins were continually flying, like bustling burgomasters full of some impor- tant business.~ THE DRAMA. THE rremont Theatre, in Boston, is under a three years lease to Thomas Barry, Esq. It would be difficult to find a more excellent and efficient man- ager than this gentleman. During the past theatrical seasons, he has acquired, as he has richly merited, the public approbation. The circumstances under which he assumed his charge, were not the most favorable ; the popular voice was in favor of the late managers, and the friends of the stage were disap- pointed in a change which could promise very little for the better. Mr. Barry was unknown among us, or only known as a highly respectable actor on the New-York boards. Mr. Barrett, the former manager, was displeased with the conduct unfair, his friends called it of the lessors; and refusing to occupy a subordinate situation, took his charming wife by the hand and departed thus creating a gloom which could not be dissipated by the light of any other stars. The new manage- ment, for these and some other reasons, was regarded with vigilant and jealous eyes. But Mr. Barry arose superior to every prejudice, and displayed a skill and ability which soon won the public confidence. 1-us unceasing endeavors to gratify the varying tastes of this community, by successive engagements of favorite play- ers, and the production of numerous attractive pieces, won the public regard. His polished manners and gentlemanly conduct and feeling commended him to the friendship of many; and, with one or two unimportant exceptions, his efforts were assisted and his course openly approved by the editorial corps. His distinguishing trait is a noble enthusiasm for his profession to which he has ever been ready to sacrifice pecuniary interest; and his ruling desire is to elevate the drama from the contempt into which it has fallen, on account of the abuses which it has allowed. He probably found the stage here in a more sound condition than he would have found it in any other city in the Union; yet, with such highly-refined notions of what the theatre ought to be made, he found means gradually to introduce improve- ments, of essential importance. Without deferring to the prejudices of New-England folks, he respected their opinions, and introduced order and propriety into the house. Without any osten- tation, he has done much to reconcile the sober part of the community to the acting of stage-plays~ and the effects of his judicious control are manifested in the quiet and respectable audiences which fill the pit, boxes and gallery of the Tremont Theatre. His corps dramatique has been selected with judgement, and it has been pro- nounced the best in the country. We do not believe that a superior body of ac- tors to the present could well be chosen; for, retaining all the good performers of the former season, he has supplied one or two very apparent deficiencies. These existed in the female ranks. l~1rs. Lewis whom we will say little about till we

The Drama 229-232

THE DRAMA. THE rremont Theatre, in Boston, is under a three years lease to Thomas Barry, Esq. It would be difficult to find a more excellent and efficient man- ager than this gentleman. During the past theatrical seasons, he has acquired, as he has richly merited, the public approbation. The circumstances under which he assumed his charge, were not the most favorable ; the popular voice was in favor of the late managers, and the friends of the stage were disap- pointed in a change which could promise very little for the better. Mr. Barry was unknown among us, or only known as a highly respectable actor on the New-York boards. Mr. Barrett, the former manager, was displeased with the conduct unfair, his friends called it of the lessors; and refusing to occupy a subordinate situation, took his charming wife by the hand and departed thus creating a gloom which could not be dissipated by the light of any other stars. The new manage- ment, for these and some other reasons, was regarded with vigilant and jealous eyes. But Mr. Barry arose superior to every prejudice, and displayed a skill and ability which soon won the public confidence. 1-us unceasing endeavors to gratify the varying tastes of this community, by successive engagements of favorite play- ers, and the production of numerous attractive pieces, won the public regard. His polished manners and gentlemanly conduct and feeling commended him to the friendship of many; and, with one or two unimportant exceptions, his efforts were assisted and his course openly approved by the editorial corps. His distinguishing trait is a noble enthusiasm for his profession to which he has ever been ready to sacrifice pecuniary interest; and his ruling desire is to elevate the drama from the contempt into which it has fallen, on account of the abuses which it has allowed. He probably found the stage here in a more sound condition than he would have found it in any other city in the Union; yet, with such highly-refined notions of what the theatre ought to be made, he found means gradually to introduce improve- ments, of essential importance. Without deferring to the prejudices of New-England folks, he respected their opinions, and introduced order and propriety into the house. Without any osten- tation, he has done much to reconcile the sober part of the community to the acting of stage-plays~ and the effects of his judicious control are manifested in the quiet and respectable audiences which fill the pit, boxes and gallery of the Tremont Theatre. His corps dramatique has been selected with judgement, and it has been pro- nounced the best in the country. We do not believe that a superior body of ac- tors to the present could well be chosen; for, retaining all the good performers of the former season, he has supplied one or two very apparent deficiencies. These existed in the female ranks. l~1rs. Lewis whom we will say little about till we 230 The Drama. have seen more of her is to play tragedy-queens, princesses, and forlorn ladies but no one doubts that any change here from the last season, must be an improve- ment. Miss Lane a pretty creature, young and pretty plays very nicely, and will improve. She has chosen an arduous profession poor girl I Miss Kerr dan- ces well, we dare say ; she is not particularly beautiful, nor ugly. Ugliness is perfectly inexcusable in an actress. The other female favorites remain, excepting Mrs. Ilughes poor woman! the absence of whose shrill tones will save us all in uotton for the ears Shakspeare! Ever-charming Mrs. Barrett was the first that stepped on the stage when the green curtain (many thanks for its restoration!) first arose with tremendous applause. She delivered a poetical address on the open- ing of the theatre the production of a nautical friend of ours (the readers of the Magazine can not have forgotten CAPTAIN ~INGLEToN;) which, being admirably written, and very appositely delivered, went off with quite a brilliant effect. Mrs. Barrett seldom fails of success in any part which she undertakes. Her race and figure are so remarkably fine, her manners and motions so graceful, that we should be blind to many greater errors than those into which she occasionally falls. She is the crown-favorite of a Boston audience; and long may she continue ~o! She is as radiant as ever this season, and plays with the same capital spirit. Mrs. Smith is a very agreeable actress, and always performs her part to the life unless it be a serious character of tragedy, to which her form and proportions are very badly adapted. In farce and melodrama she is unsurpassed ; but there is not en actress in the company that does not stand higher in her profession, when Gorgeous Tragedy, In solemn pall, comes sweeping by. We shall not dwell more particularly at this time on the individual merits of the uompany they are well known nud appreciated; but we shall, from month to month, offer such critical observations on theatrical matters, as will doubtless tend to enlighten the performers, and keep our readers informed of the progress of the drama. A word or two in season, however, about one or two of the best actors. Mr. Barrett played Sir Charles Rackett admirably the other night; it could not be more inimitably excellent: so did he not play Benedict. The dress of a Spanish eavalier is unbecoming to his figure. LIe should never play Sir Thomas Clifford. As he is stage-manager, he should cast the parts more judiciously and give them to Barry. The reason is evident: Benedict is no buffoon to wear a goats head as a mask; neither is it allowable for Clifford to act an indifferent part indifferently; or accomplished gentleman that he is to talk another mans English than his authors. We, by far, prefer Mr. Barretts acting in genteel comedy to that of any performer we ever saw without excepting Charles Kemble ; but he often plays with too much and sometimes with too little spirit. Mr. Smith never should be cast for Claudio. He misconceives the character altogether. Macduff is very well suited to his impetuous manner of acting. This part he plays well as need be. Tender scenes should never be shouted, He plays Tybalt very well; but not the lover of the gentle Rosalind. He is, like Mrs. Smith, capital in melodrama and light comedy. He makes an inimitable town-gentleman or gentlemans gentleman, or officer or gay cavalier; but he is awkward in plate armor, and ,5truts badly in state robes. Mr. Smith appears to do more work and to be more useful than any other aetor. He can adapt himself to the many diversified parts into which he is The Drama~ 231 thrown, exceedingly well; a man cannot be expected to excel in all things; he would be a prodigy not to fail in some. We will promise to laugh more heartily than ever at Andrews, if he will try to act with a little more force, and to vary his style for a wonder. Enough of the company. We would give them a word more, but have not space at present. They shall not escape our notice. The theatre will be benefited by a little independent and severe criticism ; and we intend to confer the favor. Our cousins, of the daily journals, are too lenient or too harsh. We entreat them to criticixe fairly not to puff or abuse. It does no good. Those of our readers who have not yet returned to their city residences, or whd have deferred their visit to their city friends till autumn our most delightful sea- son will, on entering the Tremont, find it vastly improved in its internal appear- ance. The manager has displayed as much good taste, in decorating this favorite temple of the drama, as he has in elevating the character of its ceremonials. The house has been considerably enlarged. The stage is entirely new. The useless and misplaced, old-fashioned side-doors have been removed, and in their stead have been placed six private boxes to two of which, neatly-finished withdrawing- rooms are connected; all decorated, with silken hangings and tassels, in expensive style, and handsomely carpeted and furnished with seats. The dome is richly paint- ed in fresco ; above the stage is a bust of the dramas high-priest; over which, along the whole arch, passes a finely-carved golden wreath of laurel. The boxes are impannelled with crimson silk, gathered together with ornaments of a most classic pattern; and the whole affords to the spectator a coup d o3il, which has never been surpassed in this country. The house is fashioned exactly after the model of Drury Lane Old Drury with this exception, that the Tremont has one tier less of boxes. The season promises to be very brilliant. Mr. and Mrs. Wood have arrived and will soon appear; and so will several other performers of great merit, whom the manager, with his accustomed liberality, has sent to England to engage, with offers of the highest remuneration. Miss Ellen Tree will be the brightest attract ion, and may, as has been deli- cately insinuated, come attended by a satellite, of scarcely inferior lustre Mr. Charles Kean. Mademoiselle Celeste is now turning the heads of the multitude. She is no favorite with us. We could never discover, in her labored display of exquisite mechanical movement, the poetry of motion. She is not to be named with Taglioni. Such dancing, as popular as it may be, will not, in eur judge ment, help forward the managers favorite plan of elevating the character of the drama. it ia all very fine to talk fashionably and philosophically about; but mof est women will blush and men of good taste will not Leave the gentle Juliets wo, To count the twirls of Almavivas toe LITERARY ANNOTANDA. The most interesting literary festivals of the year have taken place within the last month. There has been a public examination of the common schools in Boston, which was followed by a dinner at old Faneuil Hall, at which several distinguished men of letters were present. The remarks made by various speakers were exceedingly happy and appropriate ; the toasts prepared and the songs written for the occasion, went off merrily; and tbe whole scene was one of the most gratifying kind. The Commencement at Yale College was celebrated on the twentieth ultimo. Seventy-three candidates received in course the degree of A. B, twenty-three that of A. M., and seventeen that of M. D. Four gentlemen received the honorary de- gree of M. D., on the recommendation of the Medical Society. From sixty-five to seventy pupils were admitted to the Freshman Class, and twelve to the Sopho- more. The exercises of the day were well received by a numerous audience. The Commencement exercises at Harvard University took place on the twenty- sixth nIt. There were fifty-six candidates who received the Baccalaureate degree. The performances were highly creditable to the young gentlemen who participated in them. The honorary degree of L. L. D. was conferred on the Hon. Judge Thompson of the Supreme Court of the United States, Hon. John Pickering, and Hon. Edward Everett. The degree of D. D. was conferred on the Rev. Jonathan M. Wainwright, of Boston, and Rev. James Walker, of Charlestown. The anniversary of the Society of Phi Beta Kappa was celebrated on the twenty- seventh, at Cambridge. An oration was delivered by Theophilus Parsons, Esq., of Boston, and a poem by the Rev. Mr. Peabody, of Cincinnati. lATe shall take oc- casion to speak of these productions when they shall appear in print. We are still behiadhand in our notices of several new books; such, for instance, as Horse-Shoe Robinson, and The Brothers, a Tale of the Fronde. The latter, we are informed, is from the pen of Mr. Herbert, one of the editors of the Amesican Monthly Magazine. His papers in this most excellent periodical, as well as the present work, shew him a man of superior genius, and one whose literary services must prove of the highest value in the task of elevating American literature. We s~re happy to he engaged in the same labors with such able compeers as our cousins of the American Monthly. THE LINwoons, by Miss Sedgwick, is announced as shortly to be produced. Carey & Hart announce a new annual, THE GEM, to be edited byMiss Leslie. THE TOKEN will be published as usual by Mr. Bowen. Light & Horton have in press THE YouTHs KEEPSAKE, which is to be presented to its little readers in a style superior to that of any of its predecessors elegantly illustrated by cop.~ perplate and wood engravings. James Munroe & Co. have in press Wordsworths new volume, YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS, which we have read in the English copy with great delight.

Literary Annotanda 232

LITERARY ANNOTANDA. The most interesting literary festivals of the year have taken place within the last month. There has been a public examination of the common schools in Boston, which was followed by a dinner at old Faneuil Hall, at which several distinguished men of letters were present. The remarks made by various speakers were exceedingly happy and appropriate ; the toasts prepared and the songs written for the occasion, went off merrily; and tbe whole scene was one of the most gratifying kind. The Commencement at Yale College was celebrated on the twentieth ultimo. Seventy-three candidates received in course the degree of A. B, twenty-three that of A. M., and seventeen that of M. D. Four gentlemen received the honorary de- gree of M. D., on the recommendation of the Medical Society. From sixty-five to seventy pupils were admitted to the Freshman Class, and twelve to the Sopho- more. The exercises of the day were well received by a numerous audience. The Commencement exercises at Harvard University took place on the twenty- sixth nIt. There were fifty-six candidates who received the Baccalaureate degree. The performances were highly creditable to the young gentlemen who participated in them. The honorary degree of L. L. D. was conferred on the Hon. Judge Thompson of the Supreme Court of the United States, Hon. John Pickering, and Hon. Edward Everett. The degree of D. D. was conferred on the Rev. Jonathan M. Wainwright, of Boston, and Rev. James Walker, of Charlestown. The anniversary of the Society of Phi Beta Kappa was celebrated on the twenty- seventh, at Cambridge. An oration was delivered by Theophilus Parsons, Esq., of Boston, and a poem by the Rev. Mr. Peabody, of Cincinnati. lATe shall take oc- casion to speak of these productions when they shall appear in print. We are still behiadhand in our notices of several new books; such, for instance, as Horse-Shoe Robinson, and The Brothers, a Tale of the Fronde. The latter, we are informed, is from the pen of Mr. Herbert, one of the editors of the Amesican Monthly Magazine. His papers in this most excellent periodical, as well as the present work, shew him a man of superior genius, and one whose literary services must prove of the highest value in the task of elevating American literature. We s~re happy to he engaged in the same labors with such able compeers as our cousins of the American Monthly. THE LINwoons, by Miss Sedgwick, is announced as shortly to be produced. Carey & Hart announce a new annual, THE GEM, to be edited byMiss Leslie. THE TOKEN will be published as usual by Mr. Bowen. Light & Horton have in press THE YouTHs KEEPSAKE, which is to be presented to its little readers in a style superior to that of any of its predecessors elegantly illustrated by cop.~ perplate and wood engravings. James Munroe & Co. have in press Wordsworths new volume, YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS, which we have read in the English copy with great delight.

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The New-England magazine. / Volume 9, Issue 10 New England magazine American monthly review American monthly magazine J. T. and E. Buckingham Boston October 1835 0009 010
Elia Original Papers 233-239

THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. OCTOBER, 1835. ORIGINAL PAPERS. ELlA. AN admirable humorist is Mr. Charles Lamb airy without frivolities ; queer and capricious without impertinence ; senti- mental without sentimentality ; fanciful, witty and wise. His papers look like pure self-indulgences the reveries and free- will specLilations and sauntering gambols of an unbarnessed mind. Elia is veiy original. He reminds us, slighily and occasionally, of Addison, of Sterne, of Goldsmith and of Irving, (less, in- deed, than they resemble each other) of Dr. Donne, too, and Cowley, and shall xve say it ? of Shakspeare. Elias wit is sometimes more subtilized, and his humor more whimsical and more curiously suffused over his thoughts and words, than that e{ any other English essayist. He will refine and over-refine an odd idea, till one fairly laughs out in admiration of its impalp~ble. transparent, glittering, fluttering exility He delights to seethe a conceit in humor, till it rises volatilized, and vanisj7es, with all its Iris colors, in the air. Yet is he riot, at all nor at any time, laborious or tedious or obscure: we doubt if he rsad German. His fancy is as racy and individual as it is exquisite and re- cherchd. Still we do not wonder that hd h~s not been much read in our country. He is essentially a refiner- an eccen- tric a lover of obsolete and curious ti2ou~t)t5 and things. His sympathies are not general enough ; hc does not view things in sufficiently plain relations and everyday lights to he, like Scott or Goldsmith, everybodys favorite, lie lacks story and satire, extent of observation, breadth of ~omo~ and boldness of wit, to make the unskilful laugh. The million are incapable of him. His curious lore his clissic yet aboriginal diction his quaint snatches and recondite allusions bis innocent sophistries, and burlesques and grotesques, and paradoxical humors, and motley- VOL. IX. ~3O 234 1;Nict. clad truths his metaphysic wit, and the sentiment that exales from it airily, like an aroma must ever be caviare to the gen- eral. But what universal favorite or who but Elia could have written this account of The Two Races of men? The human species, according to the best theory I can form of it, is composed of two distinct races, the inca who borrow and the men who lead. To these two original diversities may he reduced all those izepeitinent classifications of the Gothic and 12etic trihas, white men, hack men, red men. All the dwellers upon earth, Pa; thims, ;nd Kedes dud El aimite~, flor~e hither and do naturally fell in with one or the other of the~e p iniiy di~tinctioas. The infinite superiority of the for- mer, which I choose to desi in tn a~ the greet race, is discernible in their figure, port, and a certain inst active ~o~eiei rty. The latter are borii degraded. He shall serve his brethren 3 hem e i something in the air of one of this cast, lean and suspicious contrasting with the open, trusting, generous manner of the other. Observa who have been the icatest borrowers of all agesAlcihiades, Fal- staff, Sir Richard Steele our late incomparable Priusley what a family-likeness in all four What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower! what rosy giPs what a beautiful reliance on Providence doth ha manifest, taking no more thought than lilies What contempt for money, accoantina it (yours and mine especially) no better than dross ! What a liberal confounding of those pedantic distinctions of rneuoe and lenin! or rather what a noble simplification of language, (beyond Tooke) resolving these supposed opposites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjective ! What near approaches doth he make to the primitive corn miaunity ! to the extent of one half of the principle at least! He is the true taxer who calleth all the werd up to he taxed ; ard the distence isas vast between him and one of as, as subsisted betwixt the Augustan Majesty and the pmmorest obolary Jaw that paid tribute-pittance at Jerusalem I His exac tim)ns, too, laive such a cheerful, voluntary air I so fmmr removed front your sour pa- rochial or state gatherers, those in~-horn varlets, who carry their want of wel- come in their faces ! He conieth to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no receipt confining himself to no set season. Every day is his Candlemnas, or his feast imf Holy Michael. He applieth the leme torineatmm, of a pleasant look to your 1-ursa, which to that gentle warmth expands her silken leaves as naturally as the chak of the traveller, for which sun and wind contended I He is the true Propon- tic Wl~aichnever ebbeth IThe sea which taketh handsomely at each mans hmmnd. In vaihthdyictimn, whomn he deli~hteth to honor, struggles with destiny ; he is in the net. Lead therefore cheerfully, 0 man ordained to lendthat thou lose not in the out wite thy wordly penny, the reversion proniised. Combine not prepos- terously in tiine 9wn person tile panalties of Lazarus and of Dives I hut, when thou se est th~ pl~aper authority coining, meet it smilinQy, as it were halfway. Come, a handsoue s~tu~rificeI See how li~ht he makes of it! strain not courtesies with a noble enen.y. There is here ~ cestain comic exquisiteness of touch and ex- pation, hardly equaAed,w~ think, (certainly never surpassed) by Knickerbocker or Y ic\ Again: how doth our iPlia continu- ally cumulate and rise u1~oriThimself.. how subhile and transcend- ental he is in this paragi~pK~on the player Munden Can any man wonder, like him? ~ssy man see ghosts, like him? or fight weth has owe shadow sessa as he doLs in That strangely-neglected thing, the Cobler of Preston where his alternations from (he Cobler to the Magnifico, and from the Mmignifico to the Cobler, keep the brain of the spectator in as wild a fer mont. as if some Arabian Night were being acted before him, or as if 1 halaha were no tale! Who ilk. hirer can throw, or ever attempted to throw, a super Elia. eaton 1 interest oxer the commonest daily-life objects? A table, or a joint stools in his coiceptiori, rises into a dignity equivalent to Cassiopeias chair. It is in- vested w t~ consteatory importance. You coeld not speak of it with more defer ence, if it weic n onoted into the firmament. A beggar in the bands of Michael Ange o s s [u~e i, rose the Patriarch of Poverty. So the gusto of Munden anti- qnates md ennoble what it touches. I is pots and his ladles are as grand and pri inal as tne seet ~in~ pots and hooks seen in old prophetic vision. A tnb of better, contemplated by him, amounts to a Platonic idea. He understands a leg of mnut ton in its quiddity. He stands wondering, amid the commonplace n~aterials of life, like priinnval man, with the son and stars about him. Resist, if you can, the intoxicaing magnificence of this sketch, in airy portraiture displayed, of a still better player than the other a player in real life one who played himself into a realising sense of affluence, whereof his pocket and table were utterly unconscious Captain Jackson was a retired, half-pay officer, with a wife and two daughters. And was I in danger of forgetting this man ? his cheerful suppers the no- ble tone of hospitality, when first you set foot in the cottage the anxious minis terings abotit you, where little or nothing (God kiiows) was to be ninistered. Altheas horn in a poor platter the power of self-enchantment, by which, in his mannificent wishes to entertain you, he mnultipied his means to bounties. You saw with yonr bodily eyes indeed what seemed a bare scrag cold sav- ings from the foregone mealremnant hardly suflicient to send a mendicant from the door contented. But in the copious will the revelling imagination of your hostthe mind, the mind, i~ aster Shallow, whole beeves were spread before you hecato ibs no end appeared to the profusion. It was the widows cruse the loaves and fishes ; carving could not lessen, nor helping diminish itthe stamina were leftthe elemental bone still flour- ished, divested of its accidents. Let us live while we can, metiminks I hear the open-handed creature exclaim; while we have let us not want, here is plenty left; want for nothing with many more such hospitable sayings, the spurs of appetite, and old concomitants of smoeing hoards, and feast-oppressed chargers. Tb en sliding a slender ratio of Single Gloucester upon his wifes plate or the dau~hiters, he would comivey the rernanemit rind into his own, with a nierry quirk of the nearer the bone, & c., and declaring that he universally preferred the outside. For we had our table-distinctiOns, you are to know, and some of us in a nianner sate ahmove the salt. None but his guest or guests, dreamed of tasting flesh luxuries at night, the fragments were vera hos- pitibus srncra. Bet of one thing or another there was always enoogh, and leav- ings only he would sometimes finish the remainder crust, to show that he wished no savings. Wine we had none; nor, except on very rare occasions, spirits; but the sen- sation of wine was there. Some thin kind of ale I remember British beverage, he would say! Push about, roy boys; drink to your sweethearts, girls. At every meagre draught, a toast roust ensue, or a song. All the forms of good liquor were there, with none of the effect wanting. Shut your eyes, and you would swear a cap: cious bowl of punch was foaming in the centre, with beams of gener- ous Port or Madeira radiatin~ to it from each of the table corners. You got flus- tered, without knowing whence; tipsy upon wiurds; and reeled under the potency of his unperforming Bacchanalian encouragements. We had our songs Why, Soldiers., Why, and the British Grenadiers in which last we were all obliged to bear chorus. Both the daughters sang. Their proficiency was a ni~htly theme the masters he had given them the no expense which he spared to accomplish them in a science so necessary to young women. But then they could not sing without the instrument. S S Enthusiasm is catching; and even his wife, a sober native of Nortla Britain, 236 Elia. who generally saw things more as they were, was not proof against the continual collision of his credulity. Her daughters were rational and discreet young women; in the main, perhaps, not insensible to their true circumstances. I have seen them assume a thoughtful air at times. ut such was the preponderating opulence of his fancy, that I am persuaded, not for any half hour together, did they ever look their owu prospects fairly in the face. There was no resisting the vortex of his temperament. His riotous imagination conjured up handsome settlements before their eyes, which kept them up in the eye of the world too, and seem at last to have realized themselves for they both have married since, I am told, more than respectably. The above extracts (which we have taken copiously, from a shrewd suspicion that they will be new to more of our readers than passages of equal merit fiom any other book in the light literature of the last twenty years) have justified, we trust, all our praises of Elia, in point of graphic and humorous fancy. But most gracefully does he, ever and anon, mingle with this Euphro- synean vein~ a grave or delicate pensiveness of sentiment, into which, we have observed that pure and poetic humor is ever prone softly to shadow. Take a randcm specimen for a great many, as good or better, see Elia passirn.* His sentiment, in- deed, often indicates plainly enough a nervous temperament, and perhaps over-~ensitive tastes ; but it is never sickly, or vicious, or hard, or meannever. I am ill at dates, but I think it is now better than five-and-twenty years ago, that walking in the gardens of Grays Inn they were then far finer than they are nowthe accursed Verulam Buildings had not encroached upon all the east side of them, cutting out delicate green wankles, and shouldering away one or two of the stately alcoves of the terrace the survivor stands gaping and relationless, as if it remembered its brother they are still the best gardens of any of the Inns of Court, niy beloved Temple not forgotten have the ravest character, their aspect being altogether reverend and law-breathing Bacon has left the impress of his foot upon their gravel-walkstaking my afternoon solace on a summer day upon tha aforesaid terrace, a comely sad personage came towards me, whoni, from his grave air and deportment, I judged to be one of the old l3enchers of the Inn. He had a serious thoughtful forehead, and seemed to be in meditations of mortality. As I have an instinctive awe of old Benchers, I was passing hini with that sort of subindicative token of respect which one is apt to demonstrate toward a venerable stranger, and which rather denotes an inclination to greet him than any positive motion of the body to that effect a species of humility and will-worship which I observe, nine times out of ten, rather puzzles than peases the person it is offered towhen the face turning full upon me strangely identified itself with that of Dodd. Upon close inspection I was not mistaken. But could this sad thoughtful countenance be the same vacant face of folly which I had hailed so often under circumstances of gayety ; which I had never seen without a suiile, or recognized but as the usher of mirth; that looked out so formally flat in Foppington, so froth- ily pert in Tattle, so impotently busy in Backbite ; so blankly divested of all mean- ing, or resolutely expressive of none, in Acres, in Fribble, and a thousand agreea- ble impertinences? Was this the face full of thought and carefulness that had so often divested itself at will of every trace of either to give me diversion, to clear my cloudy face for two or three hours at least of its furrows? Was this the face manly, sober, intelligent which I had so often despised, made mocks at, made merry with? The remembrance of the freedoms which I had taken with it 5Charles Lambs complete works are announced as in press by George Dear- iorn, of New-York. Many thanks to him. How rich a treat is in store for us! Elict. 2~37 came upon me with a reproach of insult. I could have asked its pardon. I thought it looked apon rue with a sense of injury. There is something strange as well as sad in seeing actors your pleasant fellows partienlarly subjected to and suffer- ing the conurion lot their fortunes, their casualties, their deaths, seem to belong to the scene, their actions to be amenable to poetic justice only. We can hardly connect them with more awful responsibilities. The death of this fine actor took place shortly after this meeting. He had quitted the staae some months ; and, as I learned afterwards, had been in the habit of resorting daily to these gardens al- most to the day of his decease. In these serious walks probably lie was divesting himself of many scenic and so m real vanities weaning himself from the frivoli- ties of the lesser and the geater theatre dome gentle penance for a life of no very reprehensible fooleries taking off by degrees the buffoon mask which he might feel he had worn too long and rehe rsing for a more solemn cast of part. Dying, he Put on the weeds of Dominic. Shall we essay now to justify that presumptuous suggestion of ours, that Elia doth (we said not how faintly or transiently) now and then remind us of Shakspeare ? How can we prove the likeness ? Can we (can any man ?) analyze Shakspeares wit that unaccountable happiness that easy insight that loving truth that diction, free as air, and lighter and more various than the birds that wing it ? No. Reader, we must appeal to your candor. Do you not recognize a likeness, though haply inde- scrihable ? In the foregoing citations, have you not caught a frequent glimpse of the Shakspearean air and fealure ? Pry thee, read this: ALL FooLs DAY. The compliments of the season to my worthy masters, and a merry first of April to us all! Many happy returns of this day to youand youand you, Sirnay, never frown man, nor put a long face upon the matter. Do not we know one another? what need of ceremony among friends? we have all a touch of that same you understand mea speck of the motley. Beshrew the man who, on such a day as this, the general festival, should affect to stand aloof. I am none of those sneak- ers. I am free of the corporation, arid care not who knows it. He that nieets me in the forest to-day, shall meet with no wiseacre, I can tell him. Strsltzrs aiim. Translate toe that, and take the meaning of it to yourself for your pains. What, man, we have four quarters of the globe on our side, at the least computation. Fill us a cap of that sparkling ~ooseberry we will drink no wise, melancholy politic port on this day and let us troll the catch of Amiens dzrc ad me duc aa suehow goes it? nere shall he see Gross fools as he. Now would T eive a trifle to know, historically and authentically, who was the greatest fool that ever lived. I would certainly give him in a bumper. Marry, of the present breed, I think I could without much difliculty name you the party. Remove your cap a little farther, if yon please; it hides my bauble. And now each man bestride his hobby, and dust away his heels to what tune he pleases. I will give you for my part, The crazy old church clack, And the bewildered chimes. Good master Empedocles, you are welcome. It is long since you went a sala- mander-gathering down ~tna. Worse than sariphire-picking, by sonie odds. Tis a mercy your worship did not singe your mustachios. Ha I Cleonibrotas I and what salads in faith did you light upon at the bottom of the Mediterranean? You were founder, 1 take it, of the disinterested sect of the Caleaturists. 238 Elia. Gebir, my o1d free-mason and prince of Plasterers at Babel, bring in your trowel, Host Ancieit Gi ud You have cain to a seat here at n.y right band, as p t;o i of the st 1iiuerc X on cit your ivor ;, it I reinem her f erodotus correctly, at eight liuidced i~ioi toises o t reuho. t, hove the leve. of the sea. Bless us, a o ~ ha I yo iu~t hay p ed, to Ca, yuv top wormeri to their nuncheon on the ow gron d~ of ~eiii ici i did vo. se.,d up your garlic aud onions hy a rocket? I am a rogu it I ~n ot ~iaiied to show you our Monument on Fish street Uill, after your altitrdes. Yet we thiui~ it sojewat. What, the inagnani ions Alexandar in tears? cry, baby, put its finger in its eye, it shall have another abbe, round as orange, pretty iioppet! Mister Adams odso, I honor your coitpray do us the favor to read us that sermon, which you lent to Mistress Slips op the twenty and second in your portmanteau there on Female Incontinence the same it will cone in most irrelevantly and impertinenty seasonable to the time of day. Good Master Raymond Lully, you look wise. Pray correct that error. Duns, spare your definitions. 1 must fine you a bumper, or a paradox. We will have nothing said or done syllogistically this day. Remove those logical forms, waiter, that no gentleman break the tender shins of his apprehension stum- bling across them. VI star Stephen, you are late. 1-Ia! Cokes, is it you ? Aguecheek, my dear knight, let nie pay my devoir to you. Master Shallow, your worships poor ser- vant to command. Master Silence, I will use few words with you. Smender, it shall go hard if I edge not you in somewhere. You six will engross all the poor wit of the company to-day. I know it, I know it. how sayest thou, reader ? does not this smack of the great stock ? is there not a something here beyond book-making, and at first hand ? a sprinkling from the spring of Aven ? a scn~e- thing racy, that tells of a virgin soil and the true root, and of that divine relationship, in short, that native Shakspeareanism, which we trust, 0 reader, thou wilt not now charge us with rash irrev- erence for ascribing to our Elia ? The style of these essays we cannot but think admirable ad- mirably faithful to the thought evidently impressed and deter- mined by it, at every turn ; and therefore unaffected, though whimsical and quaint. It is qtiaint without homeliness, COpious without flippancy, and embroidered, here and there, but never overladen, with a fanciful and humorous pedantry. PolysylIa~ bled Latinities and little Saxon radicals, as our author dispenses them, are equally seasonable, and harmonize to admiration. In significant simplicity and pleasant naivet6, in happy selection from a full store of words, and in combining means of expression drawn from the most opposite resources of our language, Charles Lamb often rivals and combines, in one page, the styles of Bul- wer, of Irving, and of Sterne; while, in the entire freedom of his diction from verbiage loose ends underbrush he stir- passes them all. Elia ought to become a classic ; that is, among all gen- tlefolk, (we speak primitively) all persons of gentle hearts, and, as Addison has it, of a polite imagination . that cherish, or at least indulge, poetry and dreams and metaphysics not dead in love with mere business, though haply wedded thereto by Necessity grim flamen ! moderately lazy. With all such, Scenes in Europe. 239 our gentle Charles should be a household Lar a dear familiar. But for your utilitarian your self-styled matter-of-fact man your busy-body, (out upon them, insufferable bores !) your mere calculator or intriguer your chuckler over petty devices and sordid gains, and all your outrageous mlevotees to the palpa- ble, (hard-handed, prone-faced crew for any of them to en- joy or comprehend or read or endure one page of Elia, is not less intensely impossible than that they should change their spots (spiritual maculations more dureful than the leopards) and list spliere music, and love nights virgin crescent and the dewy still- ness of dawn. They will read ILlia when the briar inhales fra glance from its neighbor rose. SCENES IN EUROPE. ANCIENT PORTRAITS IN THE GALLERY OF FLORENCE. In the famous gallery at Florence, there is a collection of an- tique busts of distinguished 1~ornans, which are undoubtedly cor- rect portraits, as they are known to have been copied from the life. They interested me greatly ; and as I have never seen any description of them in print, I offer the followiub pages, froni notes taken in the gallery. The busms are ranged on each side of an immense corridor, or passage-xvay. I came first to the bust of Pompey the Great. The head is not very ~vell shaped ; the forehead is narrow, but high enough ; the face is handsome ; the nose rather Grecian and the features generally small and handsome. The counte- nance is animated, and expresses an amiable disposition ; but there is very little hich indicates greatness, either in the ex- pression of the face or the formation of the head. Next to this are two busts of Julius C~sar, one of which has the head of bronze. The laurel wreath is not seen on either ; and the baldness of the fore part of the head, of which he was so much ashamed, is fully displayed. The heads are not alike ; ihe bronze is the best, but both are bad ; the marble bust has the forehead very low, and the nose appears extremely long in consequence. The profile of the bronze is good, though the forehead is retreating ; the nose is slightly aquiline, and the features small. on the whole, taking either bust for a likeness, or forming my ideas from both, I should say Julius C~sar had a badly shaped head ; but this is perhaps

Scenes in Europe. Ancient Portraits in the Gallery of Florence Original Papers 239-243

Scenes in Europe. 239 our gentle Charles should be a household Lar a dear familiar. But for your utilitarian your self-styled matter-of-fact man your busy-body, (out upon them, insufferable bores !) your mere calculator or intriguer your chuckler over petty devices and sordid gains, and all your outrageous mlevotees to the palpa- ble, (hard-handed, prone-faced crew for any of them to en- joy or comprehend or read or endure one page of Elia, is not less intensely impossible than that they should change their spots (spiritual maculations more dureful than the leopards) and list spliere music, and love nights virgin crescent and the dewy still- ness of dawn. They will read ILlia when the briar inhales fra glance from its neighbor rose. SCENES IN EUROPE. ANCIENT PORTRAITS IN THE GALLERY OF FLORENCE. In the famous gallery at Florence, there is a collection of an- tique busts of distinguished 1~ornans, which are undoubtedly cor- rect portraits, as they are known to have been copied from the life. They interested me greatly ; and as I have never seen any description of them in print, I offer the followiub pages, froni notes taken in the gallery. The busms are ranged on each side of an immense corridor, or passage-xvay. I came first to the bust of Pompey the Great. The head is not very ~vell shaped ; the forehead is narrow, but high enough ; the face is handsome ; the nose rather Grecian and the features generally small and handsome. The counte- nance is animated, and expresses an amiable disposition ; but there is very little hich indicates greatness, either in the ex- pression of the face or the formation of the head. Next to this are two busts of Julius C~sar, one of which has the head of bronze. The laurel wreath is not seen on either ; and the baldness of the fore part of the head, of which he was so much ashamed, is fully displayed. The heads are not alike ; ihe bronze is the best, but both are bad ; the marble bust has the forehead very low, and the nose appears extremely long in consequence. The profile of the bronze is good, though the forehead is retreating ; the nose is slightly aquiline, and the features small. on the whole, taking either bust for a likeness, or forming my ideas from both, I should say Julius C~sar had a badly shaped head ; but this is perhaps ~24O Scenes in Europe. atoned for by the striking expression of the deeply furrowed and care-worn countenance ; energy and determination appear in ev- ery line; a piercing look and a decisive air characterize the face, which is evidently that of a man irresistibly bent upon his object, and hesitating not as to the means of accomplishing it. The handsome features of Augustus next attracted my attention. His head is good, though the front is rather low ; the countenance expresses amiahle feeling, rather than dignity ; there is nothing in it which indicates the proscriber of Cicero or the conqueror oi Marc Antony. I came now to the bust of a woman of exquisite beauty ; that Grecian forehead and nose, that small mouth, that round and finely formed chin, that voluptuous throat, might have served for the model of a Venus. It is Julia, the daughter of Augustus and the wife of Agrippa. The forehead seems rather lowfor this was esteemed a great beauty among the Ro- mans and the form of her head is like that of her fathers ; the hair is parted on the front and combed back of the ears, being gathered in a simple hoot behind a most beautiful way of ar- ranging in; the fare is dignified, but you think only of the beauty while you contemplate it. The bust of Agrippa stands nearly opposite. Energy, decision, and majesty, are the characteristics of the face ; some would say there was too much sternness ; the brows are heavy, and have the appearance of a scowl; but the goodness expressed in the countenance contradicts this first im- pression. The head is magnificent. the front broad and high, and the whole skull finely formed. The features are Grecian and very handsome, and nature seems to have lavished her gifts upon the man. Near Agrippa, is Tiberius. The likeness was taken probably in the earlier part of his reign, before all his detestable qualities were developed. The head is very well formed ; but the countenance is coarse, vulgar and sensual, and there is a brutality in the expression, which is very disagreeable to look at. The daughter of Marc Antony and of Octavia deserved a mo- ments notice, and I was attracted by her dignified as well as beautiful face, and her admirably formed head. In all the busts of females the dress is extremely modest, but particularly so in that of Antonia, whose virtues form a bright contrast to the pre- vailing licentiousness of the age. Close b~ is the bust of the in- famous Messalina, whose debauchery and crimes brcught her to an untimely death ; her trial, condemnation and death are finely described by Tacitus, in the eleventh book of the Annals, and having there traced her character, I was much interested in ex- amining her features. There is nothing in her strikingly hand- some face which indicates her character ; and, unless there be something too little modest in the rich curling of her hair, no one would imagine this to be the portrait of a voluptuous and depraved woman; the formation of her head shows considerable intellectual Scenes in liurope. 241 power, which she probably possessed. Opposite, is the bust of Nero the portrait seems to have been taken in his youth, before the deformity of his character was exhibited; as here represented, he has a xvell shaped head, and a fat, jolly, and rather pleasing countenance ; the nose is thin and somewhat aquiline ; there was, however, an expression in the face which did not please me a sort of hypocritical benignity which utters tones of sorrow while it tortures a victim ; if there is anything predicted by his look of his future ferocity, it is in this expression. Near him is his mis- tress, the celebrated Poppaea, the most beautiful woman of the time ; her celebrity, hoxvever, was probably not owing merely to her beauty, which is indeed great ; there is an animation, a bril- liancy in her look, which shows the workings of mind ; her coun- tenance is rather bold, but full of vivacity, like that of a very witty person. 1 have no doubt she was a woman of talent and a great belle. Her hair is dressed with great care, in a manner which displays her face to advantage. No one can pass the head of Antoninus Pius without being attracted by the majesty and be- nevolence of the expression. The forehead is high and broad, the nose thin and aquiline, and the face rather long; the prevail- ing characteristic in the countenance is goodness ; the dignity is increased by the long beard. This is supposed to be an excel- lent likeness. The next bust was that of a woman, remarkable for the fine preservation. Though undoubtedly an antique, it still has no mark of age, none of that yellowish color of the an- cient statues ; it is fresh as from the hands of the sculptor; like all the women whose busts are preserved in this gallery, it is sin- gularly beautiful a circumstance which would lead one to sus- pect the correctness of the likeness ; it is the bust of Faustina mater; nothing can be more exquisite than the face and the ar- rangement of the hair, which is twined in wreaths about her head. The countenance of Vespasian is that of a philosopher rather than a monarch ; in later times it might have been taken for that of a jolly monk. The head is bald ; the countenance very broad and full of benevolence and amiable feeling. I could not help noticing also, the great size of the ears. His son Titus has a finely shaped head, and the features are handsome, particularly the mouth. The portrait of Domitian is not considered correct; the head is intellectual, the face thin, and the upper lip projects a very little. There are three busts of Trajan, of which the co- lossal one is considered the best likeness ; the other two are ab- solutely weak, especially about the mouth; in the large one, the head is well formed and the face good, though not remarkable for anything. Adrian has a very good countenance, marked with thought and very dignified ; the beard and mustachios become him extremely well; he is very properly represented in his ar VOL. IX. Si 242 Scenes in Europe. mor, as he was probably seldom without it. I was much inter- ested in the four busts of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, which represent him at different periods of his life. In the first, he is perhaps fourteen or sixteen years of age some would say twen- ty, or over ; the thin pale countenance commands our interest at once, and displays to advantage the broad and lofty forehead; this peculiar thinness of the face, which is marked with thought, does not disappear till a somewhat advanced age, in which he is represented in the fourth bust. In this, the countenance is more stately, and the dignity is increased by the long beard. Lucius Verus is remarkable for his long, shaggy, knotty hair, which seems absolutely piled upon his head ; the front is very good, but the countenance has a disagreeable and even brutal expression. The head of Sept. Severus is well formed ; the forehead is high and the countenance amiable, hut the nose is very ugly. Cara- calla is remarkable for his hold and commanding look, the effect of which is increased by his long beard. We come next to He- liogabalus ; his countenance is xveak, almost imbecile but the features are rather handsome. There are two busts of Alexander Severus; in one of these, the formation of the head is very poor a defect which is somewhat contradicted in the other; the ears are very large, and project from the head. Amidst all these, it was pleasant to meet with the sweet face of Julia Aquila Severa, a vestal virgin; mildness and goodness are the charac- teristics of this lovely countenance ; the hair is simply parted on the forehead, and combed back of the ears. She was afterwards compelled to marry Heliogabalus. I came next to the bust of the Thracian barbarian, the gigantic Maximin, whom Severus raised to the highest offices, and who at length arrived at the throne of the world by the murder of his benefactor. The head is finely shaped, the countenance bold and majestic, and deeply marked with care and passion. The head of Constantine the Great shows that sculpture was on the decline in his time ; there is a sort of hardness and stiffness in the outlines, like that observ- able in the first paintings since the revival of the arts. The face is rather long and thin, but bold ; the forehead high, the look piercing, and the expression striking, but not agreeable. In one of the side rooms I saw the bust of Marc Antony. The bead is uncommonly fine, and the features handsome ; the characteristic of the face is dignity ; the neck is uncommonly large the effect perhaps of passion. All along the great gallery are hung the por- traits of the most distinguished sovereigns, and the remarkable men of almost all nations. I was less interested in these, as I have no faith in their correctness; yet some of them are undoubtedly good likenesses. I was most attracted by the pictures of Saladin, the great opposer of Richard Cwur de Lion, and of Mahomet. The The Star of JVight. 243 former IL suppose to be a fancy piece; the face is very superb, the features small and very handsome, and the expression pleas- ing. Mahomet has not a very good head ; the front is retreating, the nose aquiline, thc mouth and chin small. But the counte- nance is full of fire, and is remarkably expressive. He is dressed in the Oriental style, and has a drawn cimiter in his hand. THE STAR OF NIGHT. BY WALTER SEVERN. CALM rolled the river, broad and bright, Grey cliffs and sloping banks between, While ripples, circling in the light, Disturbed, by fits, the mirrord scene. The rich, autumnal forest screened Wild haunts within its columnd deep, Whose moss-grown trunks together leand, Arching the aisles in verdant sweep. There breathed the breeze its mournful dirge, A sad lament oer withered flowers Sent, like a warning voice, to urge The red-birds flight to Southern bowers. In this wild region of the West Some hues of summer lingered still, Some flowers, like gentle spirits, prest The sloping banks nor felt their chill. Yet upland gusts each moment hurled Their shattered leaflets oer the tide, And eddying waves around them whirled, And formed the grave that earth denied. Though sunset still, to land and sky, Lent glories worthy of the past, Suffused the clouds with Tyrian dye, And oer the wave a halo cast Gone were the budding charms of spring, The beauties of the seasons prime, The warbled music wont to ring Along the woods, in ceaseless chime Within the covert of the wood, When sunset faded oer the wave, And coming night to solitude The dreams of superstition gave, A Christian lover wood his mate, The daughter of an Indian chief, Who listening lookd, and lowly sate, With smiles that seemed to strive with grief~

Walter Severn Severn, Walter The Star of Night Original Papers 243-247

The Star of JVight. 243 former IL suppose to be a fancy piece; the face is very superb, the features small and very handsome, and the expression pleas- ing. Mahomet has not a very good head ; the front is retreating, the nose aquiline, thc mouth and chin small. But the counte- nance is full of fire, and is remarkably expressive. He is dressed in the Oriental style, and has a drawn cimiter in his hand. THE STAR OF NIGHT. BY WALTER SEVERN. CALM rolled the river, broad and bright, Grey cliffs and sloping banks between, While ripples, circling in the light, Disturbed, by fits, the mirrord scene. The rich, autumnal forest screened Wild haunts within its columnd deep, Whose moss-grown trunks together leand, Arching the aisles in verdant sweep. There breathed the breeze its mournful dirge, A sad lament oer withered flowers Sent, like a warning voice, to urge The red-birds flight to Southern bowers. In this wild region of the West Some hues of summer lingered still, Some flowers, like gentle spirits, prest The sloping banks nor felt their chill. Yet upland gusts each moment hurled Their shattered leaflets oer the tide, And eddying waves around them whirled, And formed the grave that earth denied. Though sunset still, to land and sky, Lent glories worthy of the past, Suffused the clouds with Tyrian dye, And oer the wave a halo cast Gone were the budding charms of spring, The beauties of the seasons prime, The warbled music wont to ring Along the woods, in ceaseless chime Within the covert of the wood, When sunset faded oer the wave, And coming night to solitude The dreams of superstition gave, A Christian lover wood his mate, The daughter of an Indian chief, Who listening lookd, and lowly sate, With smiles that seemed to strive with grief~ 244 The Star of Xight. There bloomd upon her dusky cheek A bright carnation, glowing through, As, melting in the shadowy deep, The coral sends its blushing hue. So softly heaved that gentle breast, The parted lips appeared so red, And, Loves soft witchery all confest, Those eyes a timid lustre shed So warm her blush, the virgin hue That tells of feelings pure and bright Her tribe, her lover, all who knew, Had named the maid the Star of Night. A gentle heart St. Aubin bore, Though he the hunters craft pursued, A gallant heart be side, with more Than human energy endued. And though fierce rivals frowned to see The pale-face prosper in his love, And though the whispering green-wood tree, The waving grass and blossomed grove, Might prove the shelter of a foe He fearless roved the forest wild, Prepared to strike, or ward a blow, He thought of danger but he smiled. And happy now, he sang a strain A woodland melody untaught And Echo breathed the song again, With passions tender fondness fraught. THE HUNTERS SONG. Away in the East, in the land of my birth, That, vine-clad and olive-wreathed, borders the sea, There dance, in the glow of their innocent mirth, A thousand pale-faces but none are like thee. Through deep, tangled forests I wandered forlorn, And sighed for some planet my pathway to light, When, bright as the rose-cloud that heralds the morn, I saw thee appearing, my sweet Star of Night. Oh! when wilt thou gladden my home on the wild, Its darkness and solitude chasing away, Thus making my heart like yon dark pool that smiled As it caught in its bosom the moons tender ray? Turn not from my arms, for I sigh for thy face, As flowrets in darkness still pine for the light Enfold me for aye in thy gentle embrace, Dear lamp of my darkness, and Star of my Night. For thee will I speed to the prairies so green, And strike the wild bull in his headlong career No forest, though dismal and tangled, shall screen The fierce prowling bear, or the fugitive deer. Oh! how can my rifle prove other than true, Or how can my courser prove other than fleet, When success will restore me more quickly to you, And Love give new wings to the wanderers feet? S 1 * * & S ,5 S The Star of JVight. 245 Days, weeks rolled onSt. Aubin knew The joy for which he long had sighed And time, alas! full fleetly flew, As smiled he on his Indian bride: A hride no more hut dearer far A wife a fonder, holier name: Still, as of yore, the hrightest star, That lit his path to deeds of fame. * * * * The night was dark. Why lingers he? His hunting-lodge is dear as ever, His Star of Night as true for she Sits gazing on the rolling river, Dim-lighted by the transient flash Of some wild meteor, sudden streaming, Displaying waves that rudely lash The wintry banks with white foam gleaming. A rough hand shakes the cahin door It opes St. Aubin is it you?~ A stranger stalks across the floor A brother huntsman, staunch and true. His words were hrief: outlying game Had led St. Auhin to prolong The chace; himself returning, came And brought a hunters spoils along. He lingered by the calm fireside, His dripping moccasins unlaced, His trusty rifle laid aside, The belt that held his pouch nnbraced. They sat conversed a woodland strain The cheerful huntsman gaily sang, And paused upon the last refrain When, loud and near, a gun-shot rang. Up from his seat, with sudden start, The woodman sprang a moment stood, While, from his faintly throbbing heart, Gushed forth a welling tide of blood: A moment round he wildly gazed, With feeble fingers sought his wound Then closed his eyes, akeady glazed, And dying, sank upon the ground. And high in air a wild hurrah Arose without The deed is done! A fiendish voice exclaimedBright Star Of Night, thus strikes the Susseton! That voice she knowsSt. Aubins foe, His worst, his deadliest, slew their friend And on the ground, sedate and low, Behold her oer the pale corse bend. The morning comesthat weary night! How passed its tearful hours away? But morning came and calm and bright The sun shot forth its early ray, Regardless of the bitter grief That filled the heart of that young wife, Who, thinking of the vengeful chief, Despaired of hope, of joy, of life. 246 The Star of .Night. St. Aubin came but what a tale Is told to his unwilling ear! How turned his cheek with sorrow pale, How throbbed his heart with anxious fear ! Not for himself for her, his Heaven, The rainbow of his cloudy way, The Star that, when the rack was riven, Poured through its clefts a gentle ray. No time to waste ! The Indian tribe Are mustering on the dark frontier, Yon fiendish chieftain is their guide, Ourselves the sacrifice, I fear. Of yore you spurned the youthful brave, Nor breathed upon his taper ig* To him my murdered comrade gave His life, by error sought last night. Their war-dance the wild dance of death At eve the Sussetons have trod; They gather on the distant heath, And trampling chargers shake the sod. For thee I fear our steeds are fleet Seek we the prairie, green and far; Again our life shall be most sweet, And thou shalt smile again, my Star. They fled the gallant steeds flew fast Above the withered, trackless wild; The wearied riders paused at last, And oer their camp-fire faintly smiled. Chill was the eve, and near the blaze The horses chose their leafy bed; Above the earth, a surging haze, Dark as a funeral-pall, was spread. Together on the tentless ground The chilled and wretched wanderers crept Fatigued, a deep repose they found, Their cares, their miseries unwept. The wild wolf prowled around the fire, The hooting owl swept rushing by, The fitful wind rose high and higher, Yet these but breathed their lullaby. Midnight ! the dry grass rustled near Wa~ it a stealthy, venomed snake, Low coiling, with a sound of fear, Within the seared and leafless brake? Great God! an Indian rifle rang! The sulphury flash blazed broad and bright The whistling ball a death-note sang And all again was darkest night. The morning dawned upon a sight Almost too sad for mortal eye St. Aubins soul had winged its flight, And she, his bride, had seen him die * Among the Susseton Indians, it is customary for the lover to approach the couch of his mistress with a lighted taper. If she blows it out, he may consider himiell accepted; if his taper is permitted to burn, his advances are repelled. This I learned from a sketch in prose, by the gifted author of Tales of the North-West, from which I have borrowed the plot of the story, now first done into rhyme. Rain. 247 Yet not survived: all stark and cold His corpse was resting on her knee And stooping downward, to enfold His marble breast, thus perished she The cold wind raised her streaming hair, And frozen tear-drops dimmed her cheek But there she sat, all coldly fair, As sculptured forms that seem to speak. Still, of the gentle Indians wo Young lovers tell the mournful tale, And roving huntsmen pause to show That sorrow-consecrated vale. RAIN. A C0LL0~tULAL LECTURE. SAINTS, saith Mistress Barbauld who was more a saint herself, James, than most old rhymersshe made nice hymns nay, boy, curl not thy pretty lip a good hymn-book, unfingered by modern revision, is very good reading, as you may come to to know, when you are wiser (perhaps you have yet to learn that a hard biscuit and olives make a royal supper another crumb of philosophy in store for you) Saints have been calm when stretched upon the rack, And Montezuma smiled on burning coals; But never yet did housewife notable Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day! Because, forsooth, it forbids her to hang out the subjects of her lotion. It gives her the means of washing them, but forasmuch as it does not dry them, too, she thinketh no shame to rail in its honest face. Marry she must learn that the world was not made for clothes-lines, nor can the wind, that whirleth about continually, be a respecter of wet linen! Housewives notable are we all, in this regard. We scruple not to fret our spleen against a rainy day, or a moderate series of them, as against a common nuisance a vexatious defeasance of all the purposes of life. As if the air were not to be disbur- dened, earth not to imbibe her seasonable beverage, nor the cir- culations of Nature to go onlest our napkins dry notor some other fatal let, or pregnant mischief befal Truly, James, we need a frequency of rainy days to dash our petulant presumption ! to assure us that the great globe was not

Cosmo Cosmo Rain. A Colloquial Lecture Original Papers 247-252

Rain. 247 Yet not survived: all stark and cold His corpse was resting on her knee And stooping downward, to enfold His marble breast, thus perished she The cold wind raised her streaming hair, And frozen tear-drops dimmed her cheek But there she sat, all coldly fair, As sculptured forms that seem to speak. Still, of the gentle Indians wo Young lovers tell the mournful tale, And roving huntsmen pause to show That sorrow-consecrated vale. RAIN. A C0LL0~tULAL LECTURE. SAINTS, saith Mistress Barbauld who was more a saint herself, James, than most old rhymersshe made nice hymns nay, boy, curl not thy pretty lip a good hymn-book, unfingered by modern revision, is very good reading, as you may come to to know, when you are wiser (perhaps you have yet to learn that a hard biscuit and olives make a royal supper another crumb of philosophy in store for you) Saints have been calm when stretched upon the rack, And Montezuma smiled on burning coals; But never yet did housewife notable Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day! Because, forsooth, it forbids her to hang out the subjects of her lotion. It gives her the means of washing them, but forasmuch as it does not dry them, too, she thinketh no shame to rail in its honest face. Marry she must learn that the world was not made for clothes-lines, nor can the wind, that whirleth about continually, be a respecter of wet linen! Housewives notable are we all, in this regard. We scruple not to fret our spleen against a rainy day, or a moderate series of them, as against a common nuisance a vexatious defeasance of all the purposes of life. As if the air were not to be disbur- dened, earth not to imbibe her seasonable beverage, nor the cir- culations of Nature to go onlest our napkins dry notor some other fatal let, or pregnant mischief befal Truly, James, we need a frequency of rainy days to dash our petulant presumption ! to assure us that the great globe was not 24S Rain. made for our poor service that we are a transient company of squatters, indulgently suffered to pick a living off it. And when this goodly frame, the Earth, and the brave, overhanging Firma- ment would hold their natural commerce, of generous effusion and loving receipt, it is well that we have to retire from between them and withdraw our interloping insignificance peeping forth from under cover, and feeling that we are in the way in the world. Tis a wholesome lesson of humility. Indeed, James, such moist abatement of the busy vanities and turmoil of life is truly edifying. So plainly does it let us know that oui~ehows and exchanges and combinations, our perpetual pervasion of streets, and going up and down in the earth, are of no essential import inconsequential fooleries very lightly es- teemed above. So that he who is sorely vexed with rainy inter- ruptions, may conclude that he lives wrong is too bitter in his worldly activity makes much ado about nothing and the sweet heavens will not countenance him in it; they check and detain him; and the continuous rain preacheth him a sermon. Why will he not profit by it and sweeten his humors and be quieted ? Right monitory also, to you younkers, if pondered fittingly, and to all the minions of fortune and pleasure, is the hueless so- briety of a rainy day. It washes off, as it were, the paint and gilding from the face of Life, beats down her gay feather, and puts her wanton fancies quite out of countenance. It dethrones ~and blinds the garish day, and dresses him in sackcloth. It holds in abeyance all the new-born gauds of the time ; or if they venture forth, they show right sorrily tempt not to envy or imitation. You are not solicited by the vile screaking of the wrynecked fife, to look out upon Christian fools with varnished faces, nor doth the sound of shallow foppery enter your sober house. The streets, that seemed to concentrate within them a world of frivolity and pride and fantastic gayety, are no longer paced by wanton feet. You look forth and see nothing going forward but the homeliest offices of society the supply of the necessaries of life, by humble agents ; and thus you see what life and society, in their coarse under-texture, really are. In cities, we are apt to intercourse too much, and reflect and study too little no better acquainted with ourselves, often, than with anybody else. Now rain tends to keep people apart, ex- cept so far as Providence has put them together, in families. This is well. Were Lucullus oftener seduced to sup with Lu- cullus, he might recover his dissipated thoughts and his individu- ality, worn away by promiscuous intercourse; and the unde- signing approaches and familiar communion of his family could not but win and intenerate his heart. Yes, James, a rainy day nurses more amiability than half a Rain. 249 dozen dry ones. Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros. It makes the folly of ill-humor so manifest. When a testy gentleman sa~ lutes a wet morning, and finds himself condemned to the inside of the house for the day, at first, perhaps, he frets and scolds sadly. He chokes himself with fish-bones, and, to comfort the wounds, swallows scalding coffee ; his questions are sharp his answers brief or none ; he walks the house with rueful aspect and impa- tient steps ; he plants himself at the window and looks straight out. But the sky relents no more than a cope of lead, and its xvatery issues rather thicken than fail. A very dull spectacle .Monsieur soon tires of it; he gradually becomes less peripa- tetic then more quiet then serene then placid ; he keeps his seat for some minutes ; now and then he relapses but the fits are less and less outrageous ; he reads the newspaper, and laughs at something in it; he calls his xvife by her first name. She talks and smiles, and ventures timidly nearer. He is disap- pointed of his ennui. The clock surprises him it must be too fast ; indeed, he is confident he shall outlive the day ; and at length takes up a pen or book entirely master of himself, in love xvith his wife2 and tolerably complaisant even with Providence. Now ten to one, James, that he applies himself more effectu- ally than if the sun shone. Give me a rainy day, for close and continuous thought. It invests you with quietness ; you are hermetically sealed. It dulls the pert prattle of the piano. It quenches the fierce loves and faithless wars of all small beasts; so that no canine bark nor feline ululation rises on the wings of silence, to startle your seclusion. It blanks your windows. In the intervals of application, you look through them, but eye nor thought finds anything to detain it. Your subject seems diffused through the overcharged air, and you gaze and gaze, with intent abstraction, till your flow of thought becomes as permanently so- ber and steady as the day itself. A day, that solicits not or tickles the sense plays no fantastic tricks but stands over you xvith the vast, grey, motionless, thought-moulded aspect of an Egyptian Sphynx. What a preceptress what a Muse what a foster-mother of studious thought, to political economists, and lexicographers, and deep divines! They should mark it white, in their calendars. Our rains, of week on week, must be their tri uinphant seasons their magni menses their high tides. Then labors the mind with weighty incumbency with a long, pa- tient, ox-like draught. Then are all logarithmic tables calculated and corrected then is the circle squared then are the first principles of trade and exchange proved then are clouds of met- aphysics generated; then is logic chopped; then is black letter read, and the Revolt of Islam attempted then do they that write Histories of the World, and they that read them, make large advances into the bowels of the land. von. ix. 32 250 Rair& . Then, too, methinks, better than when everything is dry, bright, and rampant, beneath the suns flaring beams, may the deep- revolving poet build the lofty rhyme. Was it of a gadding, sunshiny day, think you, when the world and his wife were abroad, and all creatures prated, that Dan Homer heard the Iliad and the Odyssey Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea? No, James ; be assured, tis to rainy days we owe the concep- tion of most good and great thinkings, sayings and doings. A man is commonly alone, when he is great alone, when he studies hard alone, when he discovers, invents, creates alone, when his spirit plumes herself, cherub-like, and soars on the wings of vast aspiration alone, when he communes with God. There- fore, James, accept the early and the latter rain, as kind sig- nals to retire and be alone. We have men of action enow, James exhibitors enoxv . forwarders of movements stirr- ers up talkers men who lead lives of speaking and being spoken to men, whose pocket-minds are furnished with noth- ing but a mere circulating medium enough and more than enough of them all ! We want mediators devotees still- thinkers rainy-day men. So did the Persians and Assyrians, of old. Their history is a long tract of darkness. But, from Hebrew and Greek historians, we learn that they were powers of great duration, made immense conquests, and reared hundreds of magnificent cities. They abounded, therefore, in the active, ambitious and bold. Yet have the mighty empires of Babylon and Persia left behind them absolutely nothing for the benefit of mankind not a precept or a truth not a monument of gran- deur and no other trace of their existence than three heaps of bricks and clay on the banks of Euphrates. Gracious Rain! how long wilt thou vouchsafe thyself to us, thankless groundlings ? Wilt thou never tire, serviceable priest- ess, of thy great lustrations? From a thousand mountain-torrents, and emerald meads, and imperial rivers from those pleasant homes of thine, the great lakes of the wilderness from thy pal- ace of Ocean painfully art thou ever ascending suffering the intolerable sun-stroke, and expanding to bodiless vapor that thou mayst climb the air, and re-gather thy weary atoms not to sail off, in thy gorgeous cloud-squadron, to a better world, or to live in soft dalliance forever with the blue Heaven and the silver star but to hang anxiously over our unworthy heads, and de- scend seasonably upon city or field, without a murmur from thy hard-earned elevation. Ay! and during that aerial watch of thine, heavenly benefactress! while thou art waiting to be gra- cious tempering the meridian and unutterably decorating sun- set and the dawn art thou not exposed to the rude and wanton Rait~. 251 winds, who rend thy skirts, and hurry thee shivering about the inhospitable skies ? And dost thou not entertain, perforce, the lightning fearful guest deafened with his monstrous music, the thunder-peal, and scorched and riven with his fierce love Yet wherefore that toilsome ascent that dread sojourn but to descend at last, purified hy the sublime ordeal, in beneficent cadence, upon an oft ungrateful world? Oh! our offence is rank ! One heart, at least, hereafter shall humbly and thankfully welcome thee, whenever thou fallest, sweet rain from Heaven, upon the place beneath. Whether in the genial infusion of thy fitful April favors, or in the copious and renovating magnificence of the summer shower, or under thy heavy equinoctial dominion, or in the loud, black storm wintry or autumnal; welcome ever welcome in all thy seasons and in all thy moods For in none, fair minister, art thou not benignant ; in the least amiable of them, most singularly dost thou deserve our love. Well would it please thee, doubtless, to usher in perpetual May- mornings with a soft suffusion to fall never but when fanned by zephyrs and the sweet south-west or from the breathless skies of June, when a verdant world pants for thy bountiful down- coming! And do we upbraid thee, in our heartless stupidity, because, rather than withold thy life-giving dispensations, thou allyest thy gentle nature with thy opposites, and comest in unwel- come company in chilly league with Eurus, or riding on the stormy wings of night-confounding Aquilo subduing him to thy soft purpose, and charming away his rage daring all things, so thou inayst reach and nourish the bosom of thine ancient Mother? Pious child dear invader forgive us! COSMO~ 52 A BULL-FIGhT AT MAI)RID. BULL-FIGHTS are still much in vogue in Spain, but among the Spaniards of the better classes, there are few who are not ashamed to confess their partiality for so cruel an amusement. They seek, therefore, many grave reasons to justify it. For in- stance, it is a national amusement. This word national would alone he sufficient, for the patriotism of the anti-chamber is as strong in Spain as in France. Then, say they, the Romans were still more barbarous than we, because they pitted men against men. And the economists come to their aid with the argument, that agriculture profits by the custom, for the high price of fighting bulls encourages the owners to raise them in large numbers. You must know that all bulls have not the courage to rush upon men and horses, and that out of txventy you xvill hardly find one brave enough to figure in a circus ; the nineteen others answer for the farms. The only argument which they are afraid to advance, and yet which would be unanswerable, is thisthat the spectacle, xvhether cruel or not, is so interesting, so attractive, and causes such pow- erful emotion, that it is impossible to give it up after one has con- quered the repugnance of a first sitting. Strangers, who enter the circus for the first time with a degree of horror, and only to acquit themselves of duty as faithful travelers strm~ers I s a b ay, soon become as passionately fond of bull-baiting as the Spaniards themselves. We must confess, to the shame of humanity, that xvar itself, with all its horrors, possesses irresistible charms to those who contemplate it from its borders. St. Augustin relates that, in his youth he bad an extreme re- pugriance for gladiatorial combats, and had never witnessed one. Being induced by a friend to accompany him to one of these splendid butcheries, he swore to himself that he wotild keep his eyes closed during the xvhole exhibition. For a while he kept his promise manfully, and managed to think of something else but on a shout raised by the whole assembly at the fall of a cele- brated gladiator, he opened his eyes ; he opened them, and could not close them. From that time and to the period of his cor.- version, he was one of the most (levoted amateurs of the sports of the circus. After so great a saint, I feel rather delicate about citing myself; but you know that i[ have not the tastes of a can- nibal. The first time that I entered the circus of Madrid, I feared One of the most spirited and popular of the French magazine writers, is Pros- per Merim6e. Some of his sketches have been collected in a volume, under the title of .4foseique; from one of them we have translated this description of a Bull- Fight.

A Bull-Fight at Madrid Original Papers 252-262

52 A BULL-FIGhT AT MAI)RID. BULL-FIGHTS are still much in vogue in Spain, but among the Spaniards of the better classes, there are few who are not ashamed to confess their partiality for so cruel an amusement. They seek, therefore, many grave reasons to justify it. For in- stance, it is a national amusement. This word national would alone he sufficient, for the patriotism of the anti-chamber is as strong in Spain as in France. Then, say they, the Romans were still more barbarous than we, because they pitted men against men. And the economists come to their aid with the argument, that agriculture profits by the custom, for the high price of fighting bulls encourages the owners to raise them in large numbers. You must know that all bulls have not the courage to rush upon men and horses, and that out of txventy you xvill hardly find one brave enough to figure in a circus ; the nineteen others answer for the farms. The only argument which they are afraid to advance, and yet which would be unanswerable, is thisthat the spectacle, xvhether cruel or not, is so interesting, so attractive, and causes such pow- erful emotion, that it is impossible to give it up after one has con- quered the repugnance of a first sitting. Strangers, who enter the circus for the first time with a degree of horror, and only to acquit themselves of duty as faithful travelers strm~ers I s a b ay, soon become as passionately fond of bull-baiting as the Spaniards themselves. We must confess, to the shame of humanity, that xvar itself, with all its horrors, possesses irresistible charms to those who contemplate it from its borders. St. Augustin relates that, in his youth he bad an extreme re- pugriance for gladiatorial combats, and had never witnessed one. Being induced by a friend to accompany him to one of these splendid butcheries, he swore to himself that he wotild keep his eyes closed during the xvhole exhibition. For a while he kept his promise manfully, and managed to think of something else but on a shout raised by the whole assembly at the fall of a cele- brated gladiator, he opened his eyes ; he opened them, and could not close them. From that time and to the period of his cor.- version, he was one of the most (levoted amateurs of the sports of the circus. After so great a saint, I feel rather delicate about citing myself; but you know that i[ have not the tastes of a can- nibal. The first time that I entered the circus of Madrid, I feared One of the most spirited and popular of the French magazine writers, is Pros- per Merim6e. Some of his sketches have been collected in a volume, under the title of .4foseique; from one of them we have translated this description of a Bull- Fight. Bull-Fight at Madrid. 253 that it would be impossible for me to bear the sight of the blood which was to flow so liberally I feared especially that my sen- sibility, which I distrusted, would render me ridiculous in the eyes of the veteran amateurs who bad given me a seat in their box. There was nothing of it. The first bull appeared, was wounded; and I thought no more of going out. Two hours rolled on without any intermission, and I xvas not yet fatigued. No tragedy in the world could have intnrested me to such a de- gree. During my stay in Spain, IL never missed a single fight, and I blush to confess that I prefer the death-coinhats to those in which they are content with teasing the hulls, and fix balls to the end of their horns to prevent any serious injury. Here is the same difference as between actual combats and tourneys xvith blunted lances. However, the two kinds of hull-fights are very much alike, except that in the second the men escape all danger. The evening before a bull-fight is already a f6te. To avoid accidents, they do not lead the hulls into the stables of the circus till night ; and the evening before the appointed day, they graze in a pasturage but a short distance from Madrid. It is a favorite walk to go and see these bulls, xvhich are often brought from a distance. Great numbers, in carriages, on horseback and on foot, resort to the pasturage. Many young men, on this occasion, as- sume the elegant costume of the Andalusian ~ majo, and display a magnificence and luxury which the simplicity of our ordinary dress does not admit. Besides, this promenade is not without danger ; the hulls are at liberty, their conductors find it difficult to manage them, and it is a matter of some skill to avoid the blows of their horns. There are circuses in almost all the great cities of Spain. These edifices are very simply, not to say rudely constructed. They are in general nothing but great plank barracks and the amphitheatre of Ronda is cited as a wonder, hecause it is built entirely of stone. It is the most beautiful in Spain, as the Cha- teau oF Thurmder-tcn-irermkh was the most beautiful in West- phalia, because it had a gate and windows. But what matters the decoration of a theatre, when the spectacle is attractive ? The circus of Madrid can contain about seven thousand spec- tators, who enter and leave without confusion, by a large number of doors. They sit on benches of stone or wood; some boxes have chairs. That of his Catholic majesty is the only one ele- gantly ornamented. The arena is surrounded by a very strong palisade, about six feet high. About two feet from the ground, and on both sides of the palisades, extends a projection of xvood, a kind of footstep or stirrup, which serves to assist the pursued bull-fighter in leap- * Fashionable amon~ the lower classes. 254 oil Bull-Fight at Madrid. ing the harrier. A narrow gallery separates it from the seats of the spectators, which are also protected by a double cord fastened by strong pickets. This precaution has been practised but a few years. A bull had not only leaped the barrier a matter of not uncommon occurrence but had even thrown itself among the seats, and killed or wounded several of the spectators. The tight cord is thought sufficient to prevent the recurrence of such an accident. Four gates open into the arena. One communicates with the stable; another leads to the shambles, where they skin and dis- sect the bulls. The other two are used by the human actors in this tragedy. A little before the trial, the toreadors assemble in the hall con- tiguous to the circus. Hard by are the stables of the horses. A little farther is an infirmary. A surgeon and a priest attend in the neighborhood, in readiness to yield their aid to the wounded. The hall, which serves as a green-room, is ornamented with a painted Madonna, before which some tapers are burning ; under it, we see a table with a little chafing-dish containing ignited char- coal. On entering, every torero * takes off his hat to the image, hurries over the fag end of a prayer, then pulls a cigar from his pocket, lights it at the chafing-dish, and smokes through a con- versation with his comrades and the amateurs, who have come to discuss the roerits of the bulls which are to be brought into the arena. Meanwhile, in an interior court, the combatants who are going to tilt on horseback, are trying their steeds. For this purpose, they drive them at full gallop to the xvall, which they dash against with a long pole, made after the fashion of a pike; and without quit- ting this rest, they exercise their horses by turning them rapidly, and as near to the wall as possible. You will see at once that this exercise is not without its advantage. The horses made use of are old hacks, bought for a trifle. Before entering the arena lest the cries of the mutitude and the sight of the bulls should terrify them their eyes are bandaged, and their ears are filled with moistened tow. The aspect of the circus is exceedingly animated. The arena, before the combat, is filled with people, and the benches and boxes show a confused mass of heads. There are two kinds of places. Those on the shady side are the most convenient and expensive; but the sunny side is always thronged with the bold- est amateurs. We see much fewer women than men, and the greater part are of the lower classes. In the boxes we observe, however, many elegant dresses, though few young ladies. The Romans, French and English have recently perverted the Span- One who fights on foot. ~2 Bull-Fight at Madrid. 255 iards, and diminished their respect for ancient customs. I know not that it is forbidden the clergy to engage in these amusements but I have seen but one ecclesiastic in costume at Seville. I am told that many come here in disguise. At a signal given by the president of the day, a higb constable, attended by two constables in the costume of Crispin, all mounted and followed hy a company of cavalry, clear the arer~a and tbe narrow gallery which separates it from the benches. When they have retired with their suite, a herald, escorted by a notary and other constables on foot, enters the middle of the place to read a proclamation, which forbids the casting of anything into the arena, or the disturbing of the combatants by cries, signs, or in any other manner. Hardly does he appear, when, in spite of the reasonable formula In the name of the king our lord, whom God long preserve! shouts and hisses are raised in every quarter, and continue during the reading of the proclamation, which is never ohserved. In the cities, and there only, the people are sove- reign, and can do and say just what they please. There are two classes of bull-fighters the picadors, who fight on horseback and with spears ; and the chubs, on foot, who bar- rass the bull by shaking drapery, of various brilliant colors. Among the last are the banderilleros and the matadors, of whom I shall again speak. All wear the Andalusian costume, very like that of Figaro in the Barber of Seville; but, instead of breeches and silk stockings, the picadors wear pantaloons of thick hide, ribbed with wood and iron, to protect their legs and thighs from the horns of the bull. On foot, they walk straddling like a pair of compasses ; and when thrown, they can hardly raise themselves without the aid of the chubs. Their seats are very high, after the Turkish fashion, with stirrups of iron, like a shoe, entirely covering the foot. To guide their horses, they wear spurs with points six inches long. Their spear is large, very heavy, and topped with a very sharp point; but, as the pleasure must be economized, this point is furnished with a handage of cord, which allows but about an inch of steel to penetrate the body ofthe bull. One of the constables catches in his hat a key, which the president of the sports throws to him. This key opens nothing, but he carries it to the man who opens the door which confines the bull, and then escapes at full gallop, followed by the shouts of the multitude, who cry out to him that the bull is out and in pursuit of him. This joke is repeated at every exhibition. Well the picadors have taken their places. There are usu- ally two mounted in the arena; two or three others hold them- selves in readiness to take their places, in case of any accident, such as death or severe wounds. A dozen chubs, on foot, are 256 a Bull-Fight at Madrid. distributed about the place, within reach, if their assistance be re- quired. The bull, xvhich has been previously irritated in his cage, by picking with the pike and ruhbing with nitric acid, comes forth furiously. Ordinarily, he passes by a bound to the centre of the arena, and there stops short, astounded by the noise and spectacle about him. He wears on his neck a knot of ribbons, fastened by a little hook, which enters the skin. The color of these ribbons indicates the drove to which he belongs ; but an experienced amateur knows at a glance to what province and race he belongs. The chubs draw near, shake their brilliant capes, and try to draw the bull towards one of the picadors. If the beast is brave, he attacks without hesitation. The picador, holding his horse well collected, is placed, his spear under his arm, directly in the face of the bull ; he seizes the moment when he lowers his head, in readiness for a blow with his horns, to give him a thrust in the nape of the neck, but nowhere else; he bends on this blow all the strength of his body, and at the same time gives the horse a di- rection to the left, so that he may leave the bull on the right. If all these movements are well executed, if the picador is strong, and his horse manageable, the bull, borne along by his own im- petuosity, passes him without touching. Then it is the duty of the chub to engage the bull, while the picador has time to re- cover himself. But the animal often too well distinguishes his enemy ; he turns abruptly, overtakes the horse, plunges his horns into his belly, and overthrows him with his rider. In this event he is also rescued by the chubs ; some raise the fallen combatant, others divert the bull by throwing their capes at his head, draw him upon themselves, and escape him by gaining the barrier, which they leap with astonishing agility. The Spanish hulls run as swiftly as a horse ; and if the chub were any distance from the barrier, he could hardly escape. It is seldom, therefore, that the rider, whose life always depends on the skill of the chubs, trust themselves in the centre of the arena; when they do, it is thought a mark of extraordinary boldness. Having once regained his feet, the picador remounts his horse, if the horse can again rise, lilt matters little that the poor beast has lost torrents of blood ; if he can stand, he must face the bull. If he remains utterly prostrated, the picador leaves the arena and returns immediately with a fresh horse. I have said that the spears can only give a slight wound to the bull, and that they have no other effect than to irritate him. However, the onsets of the horse and rider, his own action, es-~ pecially the shock that he suffers in stopping himself short on hi~ hams, soon weary him out~ Often, also, the pain of the. spear- .I~ Bull-Fight at .Madrid. 257 wounds overcome him, and then he is afraid again to attack the horses or, to speak the jargon of the hull-fight, he refuses to cuter. However, if a hull of vigor, he has already killed four or five horses. The picadors now rest themselves, and the signal is given to throw the banderillas. These are staffs, about two and a half feet long, terminating in a sharp and barhed point. The chubs hold one of these darts in each hand. The surest mode of giving them effect is to advance quietly behind the hull, and then to excite him by striking these banderillas against each other with a sudden clash. Astonished, the hull suddenly turns and attacks his enemy without hesitation. At the moment when he almost touches him, as he lowers his head to strike, the chub at once thrusts the two darts one on each side of the neck a feat which he can perform only by standing a moment directly opposite the bull, very near, and almost between his horns; then he slips aside to put himself out of harms way. A. mistake, a movement of doubt or fear, would be his destruction. Connoisseurs regard the offices of the bander- illo as the least dangerous of all. If he fall by accident, in plant- ing his dart, he need not, attempt to rise ; he remains quiet in the place where he has fallen. The bull but seldom strikes on the ground, not from generosity, but because in the onset he closes his eyes, and passes the man without seeing him. Sometimes, however, he stops and smells him, to ascertain whether he is alive ; then, recoiling some paces, he lowers his head to raise him on his horns ; but the comrades of the banderillo surround him, and engage him so busily that he is obliged to abandon the pretended carcass. When the bull has shown cowardice, that is, when he has not gallantly received four blows of the spear for that is the requi- site number, the spectators sovereign judges condemn him by acclamation to a process, which is at once a punishment and a means of exciting his fury. On all sides they raise the cry of Fire ! Fire! Then they distribute among the chubs in- stead of their ordinary arms banderillas, whose hafis are sur- rounded with fire-works. The point is provided with a bit of lighted tinder. As soon as it penetrates the skin, the tinder is forced back upon the fire-works ; they ignite, and the flame, which turns toward the bull, burns him to the quick, and drives him to leap and bound about, to the great amusement of the spec- tators. It is indeed a wonderful exhibition the sight of this enormous animal, foaming with rage, shaking the burning bander- illas, and driving about enveloped in fire and smoke. Poets to the contrary notwithstanding, I must say that, of all animals that ever fell under my observation, none has less expression in his eyes than the bulb. None changes the expression less ; for his is almost always that of brutal and savage stupidity. He rarely VOL. IX. 33 258 .11 Bull-Fight ctt Madrid. indicates his suffering by groans ; wounds irritate or frighten him ; but pardon me the phrase he never seems to reflect on his fate ; he never weeps like the stag ; consequently, he never inspires pity, except when it is excited by his courage. When the bull has three or four banderillas fixed in his neck, it is time to finish with him. A roll of drums is heard ; xvhen one of the chubs, designated beforehand, advances from the group of his comrades. He is the matador. Richly clad in gar- ments of gold and silk, he carries a long sword, and a scarlet mantle attached to a staff, that he may the more easily man- age it. This mantle is called the muleta. He advances under the box of the president, and with a profound reverence asks per- mission to kill the bull. This formality is observed but once for the xvhole exhibition. The, president nods assent. Then the matador raises a viva, makes a pirouette, throws his hat on the ground, and advances to encounter the bull. In the bull-fight there are laws as strict as those of the duel to violate them, would be as infamous as the assassination of an adversary. For instance: the matador can only strike the bull at the point of union of the nape of the neck with the back, which the Spaniards call the cross. The blows ought to be struck from above, never underneath. Better a thousand times die than strike a bull below, on the side, or from the rear. The sword used by the matadors is long, strong, and double-edged the handle, very short, terminates in a ball, which rests against the palm of the hand. Great practice and skill are requisite in the use of this weapon. Now to kill a bull handsomely, it is desirable to understand his character. On this knowledge depends not merely the fame, but the life of the matador. We can suppose that there are as many different characters among bulls as among men ; however, they are separated into two divisions: the clear and the obscure. I speak here the language of the circus. The clear bulls attack openly; the obscure, on the contrary, resort to a variety of ruses to entrap their enemy. This last class are exceedingly dan- gerous. Before trying to strike the btill with his sword, the matador presents the muleta, excites him, and observes carefully if he rushes openly forward as soon as he perceives it, or if he ap- proaches gently to gain ground, and not to rush upon his adversary till he seems too near to be able to avoid the shock. We fre- quently see a bull shake his head with an air of menace, grate the ground with his foot without advancing, or even recoil with a slow pace, trying to draw his enemy towards the middle of the arena, where he could not escape him. Others, instead of rush- ing on in a straight line, approach by a roundabout course, slowly, and affecting fatigue ; but when they feel satisfied with the dis Bull-Fight at Madrid. 25~ tance, they spring forward with the swiftness and directness of an arrow. To any one who understands the matter, it is very interesting to witness the approaches of the matador and the bull, who, like two skilful generals, seem to divine each others intentions, and every instant vary their manmuvres. A motion of the head, a side glance, the sinking of an ear, are, to an experienced mata- dor, unequivocal signs of the intentions of his enemy. At last, the impatient bull shoots against the red drapery, with which the matador has enveloped himself. His face is such that he would hatter down a wall with his horns ; but the man avoids him by a pliant movement of the body ; he disappears as by enchantment, and leaves him only the light drapery, which, in escaping, he throws over his horns. The impetuosity of the bull makes him pass his enemy some distance; he then stops himself short by stiffening his hams, and these sudden and violent reactions are so exhausting, that, if the combat were prolonged, they would alone be sufficient to cause his death. This led to the remark of Ro- mero, the famous professor, that a good matador ought to kill eight bulls hy seven hlows of his sword. One of the eight would die of fatigue and rage. After many passes, when the matador thinks that he under- stands his antagonist, he prepares to give him his last blow. Taking a firm attitude, he places himself directly in front of the bull, and remains immovably at a suitable distance. The right hand, holding a sword, is raised to the height of his head; the left, extended, holds the muleta, which, almost touching the ground, induces the bull to lower his head. It is at this moment that he inflicts the fatal blow, with all the strength of his arm7 aided by the weight of his body and the impetuosity of the bull. The sword, three feet long, often enters to the very hilt; and if the blow is well directed, the man has nothing more to fear. The bull stops short; the blood hardly flows; he raises his head; his legs tremble and he falls suddenly, like a weight of lead. Then, from all the benches, rise the deafening vivas; handker- chiefs are waved; hats are thrown into the arena, and the victo- rious hero kisses his hand modestly to the spectators on all sides. Formerly, it is said, they never carried more than one ra- pier ; hut in these days of degeneracy, it is seldom that a bull falls by the first blow. If, however, he appears mortally wound- ed, the matador does not repeat his thrust; aided by the chubs, he turns him about the circle by exciting him with the mantles, so as to make him dizzy in a very short space of time. When he falls, a chub finishes him by planting a poniard in the nape of his neck; the animal dies at the moment. It has been observed that almost all the bulls have a place in 260 a/I Bull-Fight at Madrid. the circle to which they always return. It is called their queren- cia. Usually it is the gate by which they enter the arena. We frequently see the bull bearing the fatal weapon in his neck the hilt only appearing above his shoulder traversing the arena at a sloxv pace, disdaining the chubs and their draper- ies, with which they pursue him. He thinks only of dying at his ease. He seeks the place that be has taken a fancy to, kneels, lies down, stretches out his head, and dies tranquilly, if the blow of a poniard does not come to hasten his end. If the bull refuses fight, the matador runs towards him, and, always at the moment when the animal wavers his head, be pier- ces him with his sword ; but if he keep his head erect, or still flees, it is necessary to employ a more cruel method for his death. A man, armed with a long pole, terminating in a sharp iron, shaped like a crescent, strikes him, assassin-like, from behind, and when he is prostrate, completes the work with his poniard. It is the only episode of the combat at which every one revolts. Fortunately, it is seldom necessary to resort to it. A flourish of trumpets announces the death. Three coach- mules then enter the circus at a full trot; a knot of cords is fixed between the horns of the bull, a book is passed through it, and the mules gallop from the arena. In two minutes, the carcasses of the horses and the bull disappear from the arena. Each combat lasts about twenty minutes, and usually they kill about eight bulls in an afternoon. If the entertainment bas been but indifferent, and the public demand it, the president of the exhibition usually permits a supplement of t~vo or three courses. You see that the profession of a torero is sufficiently dangerous. On an average, two or three are killed in it during a year, in all all Spain. Very few reach an advanced age. If they do not die in the circus, they are obliged to give it up at an early day, in consequence of their wounds. The famous Pepe Illo, in the course of his life was wounded twenty-six times by the horns of bulls ; the last thrust killed him. The high salary of these peo- ple is not their only inducement to embrace their dangerous busi- ness. Glory applause make them brave death. It is pleas- ure to triumph before five or six thousand people. So it is not rare to see amateurs of distinguished birth sharing in the dangers and honors of professional bull-fighters. At Seville, I have seen a Marquis and a Count discharging the functions of a matador at a public exhibition. It is true, however, that the public is not very indulgent to the toreros. The least sign of cowardice is punished by cries and hisses. The most atrocious insults are showered from all sides and sometimes by order of the people. and it is the most deci- sive mark of their indignation an alguazil advances towards the .11 Bull-Fight at Madrid. 261 combatant, and commands him, under pain of imprisonment, to attack the bull on the instant. One day, the actor Maiquez, indignant at seeing a matador hesitate in the presence of the most obscure of all the bulls, load- ed him with insults. Monsieur Maiquez, said the matador, look you there is no such make-believe here as there is on your boards. Applause, and the desire of acquiring fame, or preserving that already obtained, oblige the bull-fighters to go beyond the dan- gers to which they are, of necessity, exposed. Pepe Illo, and Romero after him, presented themselves before the bull with irons on their feet. The coolness of these men, in the most ur- gent dangers, is absolutely miraculous. Recently, a picador, named Juan Sevilla, was overthrown with his horse, by an Andalusian bull, of prodigious strength and agility. This bull, instead of permitting himself to be defeated by the chubs, threw himself upon the man, stamped upon him, and gave him repeated thrusts in the legs with his horns ; but perceiving that they were too well protected by his pantaloons of iron-ribbed hide, he turned and lowered his head, to thrust his horn into the mans breast. Then Sevilla, raising himself by a desperate effort, with one hand seized the bull by the ear; and thrust the fingers of the other into his nostrils, whilst he kept his head fastened under that of the infuriated beast. In vain did the bull try to shake him off, trample him under foot, hurl him to the ground he could never force him to quit his hold. Every one regarded with a beating heart this unequal struggle. It was the agony of a brave man ; they almost regretted that it should be prolonged ; they could neither cry nor breathe, nor turn their eyes from this horrible scene which lasted nearly two minutes. At last the bull, vanquished by the man in this close struggle, left him in pursuit of the chubs. Every one expected to see Se- villa borne out of the enclosure. They raise him, and he is hardly on his feet xvhen lie seizes a mantle, and wishes to attract the bull towards him, in spite of his heavy boots and the incon- vement casing of his legs. If the mantle had not been forcibly snatched from him, he would certainly have been killed. They bring him a horse; he leaps on it, foaming with rage, and attacks the bull in the centre of the arena. The shock of the two valiant adversaries was so terrible, that the horse and bull both fell upon their knees. Oh! if you had heard the viva, if you had wit- nessed the frantic joy, the crazy ecstacy, at the display of so much courage and good fortune, like me you would have envied the lot of Sevilla! This man has become immortal at Madrid~ 262 A REAL SCENE. IT was a lowly dwelling. Round the room, The half-raised curtain threw a twilight gloom Beside a scanty fire, upon her breast, A mother rocked her infant to its rest: Coarse was their humble fare and hard their lot Yet, mid their keenest wants, they murmured not. In that small room, through each successive day, In lingering pain, a grey-haired woman lay; Her body worn by toil and ill at ease, Stricken in years and feehle with disease. I stood beside her bed. Her quick-drawn breath Brought to my saddened mind the thought of death (If by the name of death we call that strife Which leads the spirit to Eternal Life.) I gazed upon her face. Her sunken cheek The trial told, of which she did not speak: Trusting, by kindness, to give faint relief, I spake in love and sorrowed for her grief Oh, sir, she said, how can I speak the praise Of Him, who so has blessed me all my days, And, mid the sickness and the wants I ye known, Has taught my heart His holy will to own?~ I stood amazed. What! could the human mind Remain, amid such bitter pangs, resigned? Still feel that every grief was sent in love, And meekly drink the cup, and look above? Could Christain faith have such stupendous power, To soothe the mind in such a trying hour ? I looked upon her pallid face again: Her parted lips were quivering with pain Her cheek was ashy white her spent frame shook; Yet there was calmness in her tranquil look A leaning upon God a faith sublime, That he would aid her in his own good time. R. C. W.

R. C. W. W., R. C. A Real Scene Original Papers 262-263

262 A REAL SCENE. IT was a lowly dwelling. Round the room, The half-raised curtain threw a twilight gloom Beside a scanty fire, upon her breast, A mother rocked her infant to its rest: Coarse was their humble fare and hard their lot Yet, mid their keenest wants, they murmured not. In that small room, through each successive day, In lingering pain, a grey-haired woman lay; Her body worn by toil and ill at ease, Stricken in years and feehle with disease. I stood beside her bed. Her quick-drawn breath Brought to my saddened mind the thought of death (If by the name of death we call that strife Which leads the spirit to Eternal Life.) I gazed upon her face. Her sunken cheek The trial told, of which she did not speak: Trusting, by kindness, to give faint relief, I spake in love and sorrowed for her grief Oh, sir, she said, how can I speak the praise Of Him, who so has blessed me all my days, And, mid the sickness and the wants I ye known, Has taught my heart His holy will to own?~ I stood amazed. What! could the human mind Remain, amid such bitter pangs, resigned? Still feel that every grief was sent in love, And meekly drink the cup, and look above? Could Christain faith have such stupendous power, To soothe the mind in such a trying hour ? I looked upon her pallid face again: Her parted lips were quivering with pain Her cheek was ashy white her spent frame shook; Yet there was calmness in her tranquil look A leaning upon God a faith sublime, That he would aid her in his own good time. R. C. W. 263 LETTER3 FROM A ~~KAN~AS. NO. L. SIR, You have been pleased to assure mc that a passing sketch or two of Arkansas, its men and manners, would be ad- mitted into your Magazine. If the hasty and imperfect fragments, which I shall from time to time send you, written in moments stolen from severe professional avocations, should merit a place in the New-England Magazine, I shall be gratified by affording your readers some information concerning a country, of which almost as little is known as of the interior of Mexico. If, as is equally probable, they should be deemed too uninteresting to find a place there, I shall be sufficiently rewarded if you yourself derive any pleasure from perusin0 them. My knowledge of Arkansas, and of the people of the West, has been derived from personal observation and actual residence among them. I know their peculiarities well. I am like one of them an adopted son of the West; and I love my brethren and their character. To New-England, however, mine ancient home to Boston, my mother city, 1 look back with love and affection ; and could I be the means of making more fully known to your readers the character and virtues of the inhabitants ot the West, I should hold myself a fortunate man. It will be my object, in the few letters which I shall indite at odd seasons and scattered moments, to give you, in the first place, a general sketch of Arkansas. What order I may after- wards pursue, is entirely uncertain. I think, however, that I shall not weary of my task until I have given you a description of some of the principal curiosities, including courts of justice and distinguished men in Arkansas. The Territory of Arkansas, as every one knows, is bounded on the east by the river Mississippi, on the west by the Indian Territory, on the north by the State of Missouri, and on the south by Red River and a part of Louisiana. It is with the por- tion of the Territory lying on the river Arkansas, that I am most conversant; and it is therefore natural that this river should first engage our attention. It rises in the Rocky Mountains, about three hundred miles north of Santa Fe. I have crossed it and been on it in many places, but never within five hundred miles of its head. In the mountains, however, it is, like all other moun- tain streams, a clear, rapid river, and so continues until its color is changed in its passage through the prairie. I crossed it, in October, 1831, at a considerable distance above the mouth of the Semaron, where it was a shallow and clear stream, with low prairie on one side and sand hills on the other ~ about an eighth

Albert Pike Pike, Albert Letters from Arkansas. No. I. Original Papers 263-270

263 LETTER3 FROM A ~~KAN~AS. NO. L. SIR, You have been pleased to assure mc that a passing sketch or two of Arkansas, its men and manners, would be ad- mitted into your Magazine. If the hasty and imperfect fragments, which I shall from time to time send you, written in moments stolen from severe professional avocations, should merit a place in the New-England Magazine, I shall be gratified by affording your readers some information concerning a country, of which almost as little is known as of the interior of Mexico. If, as is equally probable, they should be deemed too uninteresting to find a place there, I shall be sufficiently rewarded if you yourself derive any pleasure from perusin0 them. My knowledge of Arkansas, and of the people of the West, has been derived from personal observation and actual residence among them. I know their peculiarities well. I am like one of them an adopted son of the West; and I love my brethren and their character. To New-England, however, mine ancient home to Boston, my mother city, 1 look back with love and affection ; and could I be the means of making more fully known to your readers the character and virtues of the inhabitants ot the West, I should hold myself a fortunate man. It will be my object, in the few letters which I shall indite at odd seasons and scattered moments, to give you, in the first place, a general sketch of Arkansas. What order I may after- wards pursue, is entirely uncertain. I think, however, that I shall not weary of my task until I have given you a description of some of the principal curiosities, including courts of justice and distinguished men in Arkansas. The Territory of Arkansas, as every one knows, is bounded on the east by the river Mississippi, on the west by the Indian Territory, on the north by the State of Missouri, and on the south by Red River and a part of Louisiana. It is with the por- tion of the Territory lying on the river Arkansas, that I am most conversant; and it is therefore natural that this river should first engage our attention. It rises in the Rocky Mountains, about three hundred miles north of Santa Fe. I have crossed it and been on it in many places, but never within five hundred miles of its head. In the mountains, however, it is, like all other moun- tain streams, a clear, rapid river, and so continues until its color is changed in its passage through the prairie. I crossed it, in October, 1831, at a considerable distance above the mouth of the Semaron, where it was a shallow and clear stream, with low prairie on one side and sand hills on the other ~ about an eighth 264 Letters from drkasnas. of a mile wide. Farther down it receives the red and salt waters of the Semaron, and above Fort Gibson the waters of the Cana- dian, which come from unde~ the Rocky Mountains. In the Cherokee territory, it receives the waters of the Grand River, or .N~eosho, Illinois, and Salisan, and at Fort Smith, of the Po- teau. Above Fort Smith, the river is generally about a quarter of a mile wide ; and in fact, its width is not much increased from that point to its mouth. Above that place the river is shallow, and not often navigable by steamboats. Below Fort Smith, the river continues of about the same size and depth . passing, in succession, through the counties of Crawford, Johnson and Pope, to Pulaski. Within the boundary of the Territory, that is to say, below Fort Smith, the Arkansas is a muddy, red and brackish stream though much more so at one time than another, accord- ing to the stages of water, or the places where the rises come from. At low water it is the worst river of the West, except Red River, for snags and difficult navigation. To a perscn pass- ing down the river, the country presents generally a uniform ap- pearance, owing to the low bottoms which extehd in a continuous belt on each side of the river from Fort Smith to the month, ex- cept in places where a point or bluff juts out upon the river, im- mediately succeeded by the monotonous bottom. The bottoms, as they are called, being entirely alluvial, are generally from one to three miles in width on each side of the river of a fine black and rich soil, producing excellent corn, and the best cotton in North America. The stranger who enters one of these bottoms for the first time, in spring or summer, is astonished and delighted. Imagine a New-Englander, familiar with the clear, silver-sanded, pebbly brooks and rivers of that country the level, verdant, and heavy-swarded meadows through which they run, and the forests of pine, oak, maple and birch imagine him entering a solid mass of greenness, a heavy and unstirred body of verdure. He enters, by some narrow path, into the depth of the bottom. The first idea that strikes him is, that he could have had no conception of such a depth and solidity of greenness. There is not a hand-breadth of barrenness about him. The immense trees, standing close together, are com- pletely covered and laden with leaves to their very tops and their trunks, twined round and garlanded with vines, appear like pillars of embodied greenness. The undergrowth of small trees and bushes is matted with vines and green briers ; and the ground is covered with grass and weeds, or perhaps with the never-failing greenness of the cane. Such is the character of a great propor- tion of the Arkansas bottom. The cottonwood a tree similar to the poplar, but of gigantic size and immense height is the most common tree in these bottoms. There is, besides, an abundance of ash, black, Spanish and yellow oak all growing Letters from .Ilrkansas. 265 luxuriantly the branching mulberry, the tall and graceful per- sunmon, and the bumble but beautiful passaw, with multitudes of others unknown in your country. The dogwood, with its fine, close grain, and its multitudinous red blossoms ; the hackberry, similar to the beech, the honey and black locust, and that splen- did evergreen, the holly, appearing like a huge boxwood tree blossoms of many kinds shine among the greenness like gems while on the river-bank, the tall sycamore stands, hoary with age, and its silver trunk outlasting many mens lives. in some places, are impervious forests of cane, twenty feet high, as thick as they can be stuck. In others, are low, swampy places, where the water stagnates, and where there is little or no vegetation. Out of these bogs, or swamps, rise the protuberances, or knots, called knees, from which the straight trunk of the cypress (a tree similar to the hemlock) shoots up. This is a picture of the Arkansas bottom in summer. In the winter everything is reversed. The vegetation has passed away ; the leaves are massed and rotting below ; and the tall cottonwood sighs mournfully in the wind ; while the dark and sullen river rolls oii under them. Everything seems dark, filthy, and desolate, and high on the trees are the red marks of the great inundation. The soil of the Arkansas bottoms is inferior to none in the world ; and the facilities offered a man for making a living and a fortune there, are nowhere equalled. A poor man comes here, whose necessities have driven him from the States. He has not a cent in the world nothing but his axe and his rifle. He goes into the Arkansas bottom, cuts a few logs, and his neighbors help him raise a hut, with a wooden chimney, daubed with mud. If it is summer, he leaves the crannies open; if it is winter, he chunks them with hits of wood, and daubs them with mud. He chops out a bole for a door, and another for a window; splits and hews out some thick slabs, or, as we call them here, puncheons, for a floor ; hires himself out for a month or two, till he earns some corn and two or three hogs, and then turns in to work on his own farm. He cuts his hogs ears in some mark or other, turns them out to root for themselves, and goes resolutely to work, chop~ ping timber, grubbing up cane, and performing the various opera- tions necessary to clearing up land. Then you may hear a mile off, the continual musketry which the cane keeps up in burning, as the air contained in the joints expands and explodes. Having burned up the underbrush and the smaller trees, he girdles the larger ones that is, cuts off a girdle of bark around them, for the purpose of deadening them; breaks up his ground a little, and throws in his corn. In four or five years that man will raise twenty bales of cotton and a thousand bushels of corn, and be steadily enlarging his crop and increasing his income. VOL. ix. 34 266 Letters from slrkctnsas. The Arkansas is a singularly winding river, during the whole of its course. The distance from the mouth to Dutch Rock which is by land only one hnndred and twenty-five miles is by water about three hundred miles. On one side, the river is con- tinually forming new land, while on the other it is continually encroaching Ul)Ofl Father Tellus ; arid frequently, when a high overflow comes, the river breaks over the neck of a promontory, around which it has made a bend, and forms a new channel while the old one becomes a lake. Thus, in 1833, it broke across a point of bottom, about one hundred yards xvide at the place, through which new channel, steamboats now pass. The old channel, fifteen miles around the point, is filling up. And thns also, on the south side of the Arkansas, above the fort, are a long chain of lakes, in the former bed of the river. Below Fort Smith, the Arkansas receives the waters of .Mul- berry, Frog Rayon, Horse Head, Spadra, Petit Jean, Point Re- move, Cadron, and Palarme creeks. The three latter are deep, filthy and disgusting bodies of water, sluggish, and resembling the river Styx or the Dead Sea. The former are very pretty, clear running bodies of water. Below Dutch Rock, the river becomes more sinuons. It receives various creeks on its way down among others, Fourche and BayQn Metre. Within twelve miles of the Mississippi, it separates into two channels the northern called the Cut-off, while the latter preserves the name of Arkan- sas. The Cut-off is the most commonly-used channel. The bottoms on each are low, and the greenness extends to the waters edge. Immediately after entering the Cut-off, you see a change in the water. Instead of the red color of the Arkansas, it as- sumes the chalky color of the Mississippi is cooler and more pleasant. Within a mile or two of the lVlississippi, White River comes into the Cut-off, from the north. It rises in Missouri, and is called White River from the extreme clearness of its waters, before Big Black runs into it above its mouth. The junction of White River with the Cut-off, is a most singular sight. Here is a mass of red, or chalky water, there a mass of xvater which seems to be blackboiling and whirling around, and seeming as distinct as though the latter was not water but oil. A little fur- ther on, and the waters mingle and discharge themselves into the great Mississippi. Two years ago, in the month of June, the crops were promis- ing in Arkansas. There game a succession of heavy rains, and the river rose to high-wat~r mark. The rise was red, and salt, and evidently came from the desert prairie. The rains ceased, and the people supposed the rise was over. Suddenly the river began to swell higher and higher. The water came down colder and clearer. The snows had melted on the Rocky Mountains. Higher and higher it rose fifteen feet, at Fort Smith, above high-water mark. The bottoms from Fort Smith to the mouth Letters from .~rkanses. 267 were overflowed. The river was filled with fragments of houses, dead cattle, huge trees, rushing on to the Mississippi. Cattle, hogs, even deer and bear, unable to escape from the bottoms, were all drowned. Many people built rafts, and placing themselves and their horses upon them, fastened them to trees, and lived out the inundation. The crops were ruined; whole farms were filled up xvith sand; and the channel of the river entirely altered. Such is the Arkansas. I entered the Territory of Arkansas at Fort Smith, which is situated on the Arkansas, on the Indian line. At that time there were no troops there, and the only appearance of a military post about it, xvere some few old buildings which had served as bar- racks. It is a place containing three or four stores and some half dozen houses ; and is very prettily situated on a huge bluff on the south side of the river. The county of Crawford, except on the river and creeks, is generally low land, thinly covered with oak timber; and though a large county, it is but thinly settled. As the August election approached, there hegan a stir in the county on the subject of politics. Candidates xvere riding in every direction, electioneering; and now and then a hot quarrel took place among the excited partizans. The overflow had covered the little town of Van Buren, and the population thereof, in number about a dozen, had established themselves in booths at the foot of the hill heyond the town and there, where I rode in one day in June, I found a multitude assembled. Holla, stranger! cried one tall fellow, in a hunting-shirt of leather, as I rode up; Come, light and take a little old rye, anyhow. That s the master, cried another ; dern my skin, if he cant speechify it better nor any of em. Master, if you 11 run for the Assembly, dern me if I do nt vote for ye. Twenty such greeted me, as I dismounted and made fast my horse. 1 soon discovered the object of the gathering. rfhere was a barrel set on end, with a board across it, and I at once di- vined that the rival candidates were to address the people. I in- quired if the candidates for Congress were there, and found they were not. It was a meeting for the county candidates, whom I saw busy among the people, shaking them by the hand, and mak- ing themselves boon companions. It was a perfect Babel. Hurra for Sinclair! He s a horse. Who 11 drink Critten- dens liquor? Here goes for Sevi6r! Good morning, Squire; how s your family? Come up and drink with an old acquaint- ance, who s a candidate. Bates forever! the peoples candi- date ! He s a horse in a cane-brake ! Go ahead, steamboat Brown s a roarer ! Five dollars on Martin ! Such xvere some of the cries which struck my ear. 268 Letters from ~f1rkansas. Directly, Martin one of the candidates for the House of Re- presentatives, a warm Crittenden man, and afterwards elected mounted the barrel. I assure the reader that he may hear as much oratory in the West on a stump, as in the East in a Court- house, or in old Faneuil itself. The impression of oddity soon wears off; and I am inclined to believe that the Western manner of electioneering is to the full as proper, and more honest and open-handed than the silent canvassing in the East. Martin is a lawyer, who had quit brick-laying for brief-making and special pleading. He is a man of strong natural good sense, and a sarcastic and satirical humor, xvhich tells well in a candi date. His speech was about half an hour long, and he was suc- ceeded by Judge Bates, a man of great talent, a polished writer, full of classic lore, but no speaker. When he was on the bench in Arkansas, a lawyer also formerl)r a Judge, and of whom I may hereafter speak named Hall, was in the habit of interlard- ing his speeches at the bar with frequent Latin quotations. In one cause, particularly, he was very profuse of his learning, so much so, that xvhen Bates delivered the opinion of the Court, he did it off-hand in Latin. Hall listened, but only knowing a few quotations learned from law books, he was compelled, to the great amusement of the bar and the spectators, to require of the Judge to translate his opinion into English. Bates was succeeded by three other candidates, two of whom were farmers and the third a lawyer the latter by far the weak- est of all. I had expected a display of bombast and noise, and was agreeably surprised by good strong sense, keen satire, and almost an entire freedom from violence or affectation in all the speeches. 1 was still better pleased when I afterwards saw Crittenden and Sevidrthe rival candidates for Congress meet on the stump. Robert Crittenden is since dead. He was a brother of John J. Crittenden, Senator from Kentucky, and is universally allowed to have been a more talented man than either of his brothers. I have listened to him frequently, since then, in various places, and I esteem him one of the most eloquent men I ever heard. His voice was full and rich, his language copious, strong and yet brilliant; and he excelled equally in pathos and irony. His opponent, Colonel Sevi& , is a very common man. He never made any figure at the bar, and his only character in Congress has been that of an industrious and persevering man. He was evidently no match for Crittenden on the stump, and seemed to be well aware of it. I am extending this letter to an unwarrantable length, and with one tale of perilous adventure, by flood, if not by fire, I shall close. In the month of January, 1833, there was an inundation of the Arkansas. I was living at that time opposite Fort Smith, and, Letters from .Jlrkansas. 269 in company with my host, got into a pirogue, xvhen the rise was at the highest, and took a trip, like fools, seven miles down the river, to the town of Van Buren aforesaid. After reaching that place, we began to consider what we had not thought of be- fore how we were to get hack; and the result of our joint cogitations was that, as it was impossible to get hack in the pi- rogue, we must return on foot. The first four miles were easily accomplished, as it was over the upland ; but at the end of that distance, we arrived at the edge of the bottom, through which we had about three miles to go. It was overflowed in some places to the depth of ten feet. We looked down upon the cane for it was full of that article and held another consultation. On we pushed, however, and commenced floundering through the water, among the cane. It was generally about deep enough to immerse us to our necks; and when the reader remembers that it was in January, he will doubtless be aware that it was not very pleasant. We had proceeded hut a little way, when my com- panion lost his reckoning, and became lost. He turned from home, and commenced wandering about in every direction, until I took the lead, as the oldest woodsman. After proceeding about a mile and a half, with great caution, we came at length to the bank of a little gully, about fifteen feet wide, as we learned by the break in the cane. Here we halted, and consulted how we should cross. I cannot swim an inch, and nothing was left but to hunt for logs. We proceeded down the creek until we had found a small one, when I held one end until he straddled it, and coorted it over; and he did me the same service at the other end. We kept onward. The ground became more elevated; and just as we got out of the water, we found ourselves on the bank of what is called Garrisons creek a stream about sixty feet wide. At low water, the banks are twenty-five feet above water; now, the water was level with them. We attempted to build a raft, but could only find one log, about twenty feet long, and two others about eight. We stripped some hickory bark and tied them together, and straddled the further end of them but were no sooner on than the long one toppled over, the short ones went under, and so did I, clothes and all; so we gave up that idea. I then took one of the short logs, put one end under my breast, and tried to cross in that way. It would nt do. Over and over went the log, and I got another bounteous ducking. By this time it was getting dark, and the air was growing keen and cold. Just then we heard an axe across the creek, and com- menced hallooing, which soon brought a man down, splashing through the water, to the bank of the creek. I advised my compan- ion to go over and hire the man to fell a tree, on which I could cross, and therefore he took to the water, with his breast on one end of the long log. He kicked away manfully, and when the end of 270 Inconveniences of being Lynched. the log struck the shore, jumped off and swam for it. Having made his bargain with the stran ~ er, he xvent home, and the latter went again to his house and brought his axe and a brand of fire. In the meantime I was nearly frozen. There was only one place where I could move, and that was in a circle about six feet in diameter, round a tree. On one side there was a mars, with a fire flaring near him, chopping away at an oak tree four feet through ; and on the other I was pacing round my circle, which I wore as deep, hard and stnooth as a buffalo-path. At the ex- piration of ahout three hours, the tree came down, and barely reached the shore. The upper end was covered with water, and I had to get on it a -straddle, with the water up to my neck. How- ever, I reached the shore in safety ; and though I suffered no in- convenience from sickness, in consequence of my adventure, I learned never to go down river again, in an overflow, without knowing how I xvas to get back. Yours, ALBERT PIKE. TIlE INCONVENIENCES OF BEING LYNCHED. MR. EDITOR, Do you remember Pierce Parker, the Rogue in spite of himself? XVelI, it is he who noxv addresses you. They have just done Lynching me. If it were not that I am used to these things, I should have perished under the operation. I begin to think that there was sound sense and humanity in the reply of the old woman, who on being rebuked for the cruelty of her manner of skinning eels, said, La, sir, they dont mind it theys used to it. On my last escape from jail, where I was confined for unknow- ingly passing a counterfeit bill, which had been given me by an old gentleman, whom I had saved from drowning I determined to try my fortune farther South. Seeing one day in the Rich- mond lEnquirer an advertisement offering one hundred dollars re- ward for a runaway slave, and being pressingly in want of money, I determined to go in search of the individual described. With this view, I rambled through the country, kept a watch in out-of- the-way places, and looked very hard at all the negroes who passed. On the second day of my search, I reached the little village of Peatherville. I had just given up all hopes of attaining my object, and was sitting on a rock, with my chin rest- ing on both hands, and my elbows on my knees, hungry and dis- ~onsoate, when a rough gripe was laid on each of my shoulders.

P. P. P., P. The Inconveniences of Being Lynched Original Papers 270-273

270 Inconveniences of being Lynched. the log struck the shore, jumped off and swam for it. Having made his bargain with the stran ~ er, he xvent home, and the latter went again to his house and brought his axe and a brand of fire. In the meantime I was nearly frozen. There was only one place where I could move, and that was in a circle about six feet in diameter, round a tree. On one side there was a mars, with a fire flaring near him, chopping away at an oak tree four feet through ; and on the other I was pacing round my circle, which I wore as deep, hard and stnooth as a buffalo-path. At the ex- piration of ahout three hours, the tree came down, and barely reached the shore. The upper end was covered with water, and I had to get on it a -straddle, with the water up to my neck. How- ever, I reached the shore in safety ; and though I suffered no in- convenience from sickness, in consequence of my adventure, I learned never to go down river again, in an overflow, without knowing how I xvas to get back. Yours, ALBERT PIKE. TIlE INCONVENIENCES OF BEING LYNCHED. MR. EDITOR, Do you remember Pierce Parker, the Rogue in spite of himself? XVelI, it is he who noxv addresses you. They have just done Lynching me. If it were not that I am used to these things, I should have perished under the operation. I begin to think that there was sound sense and humanity in the reply of the old woman, who on being rebuked for the cruelty of her manner of skinning eels, said, La, sir, they dont mind it theys used to it. On my last escape from jail, where I was confined for unknow- ingly passing a counterfeit bill, which had been given me by an old gentleman, whom I had saved from drowning I determined to try my fortune farther South. Seeing one day in the Rich- mond lEnquirer an advertisement offering one hundred dollars re- ward for a runaway slave, and being pressingly in want of money, I determined to go in search of the individual described. With this view, I rambled through the country, kept a watch in out-of- the-way places, and looked very hard at all the negroes who passed. On the second day of my search, I reached the little village of Peatherville. I had just given up all hopes of attaining my object, and was sitting on a rock, with my chin rest- ing on both hands, and my elbows on my knees, hungry and dis- ~onsoate, when a rough gripe was laid on each of my shoulders. Inconveniences of being Lynched. 271 I attempted to start up, but was prevented. On looking round, I saw tbat Judge Lynch and his whole posse comitatus had pounced upon me. V/ith a skilful celerity, they tied my hands behind me, and then, amid shouts and execrations, drove me to- wards the village square. My good friends, you are mistaken in the person whom do you take me for ? let me ent-tr-tr My expostulations were abruptly broken off, by one of the foremost of my captors, whom I took to be his Honor, gagging me with a handful of shavings. Finding it (juite difficult to talk, after being supplied with this mouthful, I submissively held my peace. My amiable conductors dragged me towards an 01(1 pOp- lar tree, and tied me to the trunk. Now, my lads, exclaimed his Honor, with a horrid grin, rubbing his hands now my lads, well show you a biped with feathers. It cant be said now, that the devils to pay, and no pitch hot. Hand along the tar-kettle, Mike, my lad, and, Jemmy Dickin, toss us along that bag of feathers. With a horrible alacrity, these ordets were obeyed. I tried to speak to move 0, the dastards ! I was bound fast. I could not. I looked unutterable things. Dust was flung in my eyes. What could I do ? I ground my teeth in agony, in wrath and in scorn. There is but one step from the farcical to the tragical. Like imps of Pandemonium, the good people of Featherville, flocked round me, and beheld unmoved such tor- tures inflicted, as an uncivilized Arah would weep to witness. The tar and the feathers were bestowed with a liberal hand. There was no lack of generosity in these articles. I believe they are both the natural prodtictions of the State. As soon as there was a cessation in the tender mercies of .llilies- sieurs, the mob, I unclogged my right eye from the tar that sur- rounded it, and looked forth. On the slope of the opposite hill, I noticed a horseman riding at full speed, and making vehement gestures towards the crowd. They were ar ested in their valiant doings, by these pantomimical appeals. In a few moments, the rider arrived on the spot, and dismounting drew the Judge aside, and communicated to him the intelligence with which he was charged. The result was, that his Honor approached me, re- lieved my mouth of the shavings which he had thrust into it, and untying my arms, told me, that I might go; that he believed there was some mistake, but that it was better that fifty innocent ones should suffer than that one guilty should escape and that he took me for a dd abolitionist. The jury shouted acqui- escence in the decision of the Judge. I attempted to speak, but could not not that my heart was too full of gratitude for utterance but because my lips were glued with the tar. 272 Inconveniences of being Lynched. At the tavern, at which I had casually stopped that morning, I had given my name as Andrew Jackson Smith. It seems, that a trunk with that name upon it, was received after my departure, and as it was tied with red tape, sealed with xvax, the landlord remarked, that it was very mysterious. Very, indeed, echoed the editor of the Featherville Banner of Liberty, as he threw his tobacco quid away, and swallowed a mint julep. Upon my word, its very odd, said the Postmaster, trying the lock. Landlord, continued he, bring me a hammer and chisel, aad Ill take the responsibility, as the old Ginral says. Amos will bear me out in it. The hammer and chisel were brought the trunk was forcibly opened and in the dressing-case, carefully concealed under some soap and razors, was found a torn page of a murderous print, published in New York, called the Emancipator. Treason! shouted the Postmaster, holding the scrap up to view. Bloody treason ! echoed the landlord. What is it ? Lynch him, said the editor, lighting a cigar. Call the Judge call the Judge, said the Postmaster. Ay, ay, rejoined the editor; who, by the way, was a pig-eyed gentleman, rather slim and snugly dressed, with light eye-brows, and hair a blackguard in print and a vulgarian out of print. Where is he ? Who is he? Is he here ? Is he gone ? Where in the devil is he? These questions were poured in upon my host in rapid suc- cession. He finally recollected, that a wo-begone looking gen- tleman, in a suit of rusty black, had bought a loaf of bread of him that morning, and that his name corresponded with that on the trunk. The reader knows the rest of my story. The whole village was soon at my heels, and I was regularly Lynched. It was afterwards ascertained that the trunk containing the incendia- ry article, belonged to the son of an eminent slave-holder, whose name I had unwittingly borrowed. I write, Mr. Editor, in a good deal of a hurry, but a person is apt to feel a little confused after being treated as I have been. An eminent author has depicted the inconveniences of being hung they are not equal to those of being tarred and feathered. I beg the good people of Featherville to bear in mind this home- ly truth ; that the very worst use you can put a man to, is to Lynch him. The morning after this unpleasant affair, on taking up the Ban- ner of Liberty, I saw the following flattering version of the trans- action. Sonnet. 273 ANOTHER ARREST. A white man of the name of Andrew Jackson Smith, was yesterday arrested on a writ issued hy Judge Lynch. It seems, that the suspicions of the Postmaster xvere aroused by the singu- lar appearance of Smiths trunk; and on breaking it open, his worst conjectures were more than realized. It was found full of inflammable papers, Emancipators and Liberators, evidently in- tended for distribution among the slaves. On this being known, the people of the town, headed hy his Honor, Judge Lynch, turned out in pursuit of the monster Smith. He was soon caught, and being brought into the village, was furnished gratis with a nexv coat of tar and feathers black turned up with white. The craven roared lustily during the operation, and mani- fested the most cowardly impatience. He has had a lesson, which he will not soon forget. P. 5. We learn that it has been satisfactorily ascertained that Smith is innocent of the charges against him. We are glad of it. The man, who would come here at this time, to raise a rebellion, is unworthy the name and the respect of a man. He is indeed fit for murder, stratagem and spoils. We congratu- late Mr. Smith that the suspicions against him have proved to be unjust. And this, Mr. Editor of the New England Magazine, is all the satisfaction that II have had for my martyrdom! I am not the man, they took me for ! Very consoling, upon my word. But with all this believe me there is no mistake about the incoa- veniences of being Lynched. Farewell ! P~ P. SONNET. TO A FRVEND IN ITALY. Yzs you will thrill with rapture while you gaze On the rich relics of that sacred shore, Made holy by the tales of classic lore, And its own dreamlike beauty. You will stand In the lone places of that distant land, And see its crumblhig temples while the rays Of the glad sun will fall on Arnos rills, And bathe with gold fair Tempes leafy floor, And the old towers of Romes imperial hills, And Tuscan vales, and Istrias sandy shore. Yes fairer scenes than ours will greet thine eyes Beneath the azure of Italian skies But let not these win thy affections more Than the bleak rocks that gird thy native shore. R. C. W VOL. IX. 35

R. C. W. W., R. C. Sonnet. To a Friend in Italy Original Papers 273-274

Sonnet. 273 ANOTHER ARREST. A white man of the name of Andrew Jackson Smith, was yesterday arrested on a writ issued hy Judge Lynch. It seems, that the suspicions of the Postmaster xvere aroused by the singu- lar appearance of Smiths trunk; and on breaking it open, his worst conjectures were more than realized. It was found full of inflammable papers, Emancipators and Liberators, evidently in- tended for distribution among the slaves. On this being known, the people of the town, headed hy his Honor, Judge Lynch, turned out in pursuit of the monster Smith. He was soon caught, and being brought into the village, was furnished gratis with a nexv coat of tar and feathers black turned up with white. The craven roared lustily during the operation, and mani- fested the most cowardly impatience. He has had a lesson, which he will not soon forget. P. 5. We learn that it has been satisfactorily ascertained that Smith is innocent of the charges against him. We are glad of it. The man, who would come here at this time, to raise a rebellion, is unworthy the name and the respect of a man. He is indeed fit for murder, stratagem and spoils. We congratu- late Mr. Smith that the suspicions against him have proved to be unjust. And this, Mr. Editor of the New England Magazine, is all the satisfaction that II have had for my martyrdom! I am not the man, they took me for ! Very consoling, upon my word. But with all this believe me there is no mistake about the incoa- veniences of being Lynched. Farewell ! P~ P. SONNET. TO A FRVEND IN ITALY. Yzs you will thrill with rapture while you gaze On the rich relics of that sacred shore, Made holy by the tales of classic lore, And its own dreamlike beauty. You will stand In the lone places of that distant land, And see its crumblhig temples while the rays Of the glad sun will fall on Arnos rills, And bathe with gold fair Tempes leafy floor, And the old towers of Romes imperial hills, And Tuscan vales, and Istrias sandy shore. Yes fairer scenes than ours will greet thine eyes Beneath the azure of Italian skies But let not these win thy affections more Than the bleak rocks that gird thy native shore. R. C. W VOL. IX. 35 274 MY JOURNAL. un traversing a newly settled country, rich in the gifts of nature1 and rapidly becoming populous, the imagination naturally turns upon the appearance it will present after being inhabited and cultivated long enough to acquire the name of an ancient land. It is not to be denied that natural scenery is greatly increased in beauty by the addition of works of art; and though our majestic rivers and mountains, our broad lakes and fair fields, our cataracts and precipices are perhaps among natures master-pieces, there is still a possibility that art may one day heighten their charms not that nature is to be moulded and formed and perverted by man ; the Lord preserve us from the false taste of clipped trees and formal gardens and artificial cascades. There is another way in which art adorns nature. To one who has ascended the Rhine, or xvandered through the vales of Italy, who has seen the tradi- titionary crag surmounted by the battlemented ruin, or the pictur- esque waterfall, and the clear, coo1 stream, on whose margin stands some classic temple, of delicate proportion, or some rup- tured bridge, festooned with the clustering ivy, which dips its leaves into the dark waters beneath, there is no mystery in the fact that nature is heightened in loveliness by art. But how is our country to be thus adorned by art? The wars and the rapaciousness and tyranny, which reared the stately walls and the embattled towers of the feudal castle, have passed away, and with them have passed away the weakness and terror which drew men together, and caused them to build their little romantic-looking cities, walled and trenched around, on the hill-tops, high as the eagles flight. The enthusiasm in religion, which called into be- ing the magnificent Gothic order, founded the abbey and the cathedral, and poured the treasures of monarchs into the lap of the church, is lost perhaps forever. For us there is no romance. Our ruins, if we ever have any, must be the ruins of factories and warehouses; our temples are raised to the worship of Mammon; our cities grow up at the voice of commerce, not of xvar; our waterfalls are prized in proportion to their power; our hills are to be levelled and our vallies filled up for the accommodation of the railroad. Still, as time rolls on, the objects of art are unavoidably in- vested with some degree of romance and interest, be their char- acter what it may. Indeed, many of the ruins of classic land were, in their original purpose, of anything but a romantic char- acter: the long arcade which stretches across the campagna di Rorna, and forms a very striking and beautiful feature in the land- scape, was built for an aqueduct; and one of the most interesting

My Journal Original Papers 274-279

274 MY JOURNAL. un traversing a newly settled country, rich in the gifts of nature1 and rapidly becoming populous, the imagination naturally turns upon the appearance it will present after being inhabited and cultivated long enough to acquire the name of an ancient land. It is not to be denied that natural scenery is greatly increased in beauty by the addition of works of art; and though our majestic rivers and mountains, our broad lakes and fair fields, our cataracts and precipices are perhaps among natures master-pieces, there is still a possibility that art may one day heighten their charms not that nature is to be moulded and formed and perverted by man ; the Lord preserve us from the false taste of clipped trees and formal gardens and artificial cascades. There is another way in which art adorns nature. To one who has ascended the Rhine, or xvandered through the vales of Italy, who has seen the tradi- titionary crag surmounted by the battlemented ruin, or the pictur- esque waterfall, and the clear, coo1 stream, on whose margin stands some classic temple, of delicate proportion, or some rup- tured bridge, festooned with the clustering ivy, which dips its leaves into the dark waters beneath, there is no mystery in the fact that nature is heightened in loveliness by art. But how is our country to be thus adorned by art? The wars and the rapaciousness and tyranny, which reared the stately walls and the embattled towers of the feudal castle, have passed away, and with them have passed away the weakness and terror which drew men together, and caused them to build their little romantic-looking cities, walled and trenched around, on the hill-tops, high as the eagles flight. The enthusiasm in religion, which called into be- ing the magnificent Gothic order, founded the abbey and the cathedral, and poured the treasures of monarchs into the lap of the church, is lost perhaps forever. For us there is no romance. Our ruins, if we ever have any, must be the ruins of factories and warehouses; our temples are raised to the worship of Mammon; our cities grow up at the voice of commerce, not of xvar; our waterfalls are prized in proportion to their power; our hills are to be levelled and our vallies filled up for the accommodation of the railroad. Still, as time rolls on, the objects of art are unavoidably in- vested with some degree of romance and interest, be their char- acter what it may. Indeed, many of the ruins of classic land were, in their original purpose, of anything but a romantic char- acter: the long arcade which stretches across the campagna di Rorna, and forms a very striking and beautiful feature in the land- scape, was built for an aqueduct; and one of the most interesting t7J/J~~ Journal. objects of Roman art which remains the Piscina mirabile was only an enormous cistern, intended to hold fresh water for the use of the Roman fleet; even the common-sewer of Rome, the cloaca maxima, is pointed out to the traveler as an object of great inter- est. Thus it is that time, while it destroys the works of man, confers additional value upon the small remnants which it leaves, just as the Sybil of old placed the same price upon her three mys- tic volumes which she had at first demanded for nine. How much, then, will there be in our land two thousand years from this time, which the traveler will visit and muse upon with the same feeling of reverence and solemnity, with which he now contemplates the time-hallowed structures of Greece and Rome! I could not but think, as I crossed the viaduct on the Boston and Providence railroad, that the arcades of the Roman aqueducts were not more stupendous nor enduring; the far-famed bridge of Caligula is not a work of the same magnitude as the western ave- nue; the pyramids themselves do not seem destined to.a longer existence than the monument on Bunkers Hill. If we ~mre to have ruins, too which God forbid, for they are more the work of war than of time if we are to have ruins, they will not be less astonishing ~nd beautiful that those which we visit in the old world. We smile at the notion of a manufactory in ruins ; yet, invest it with all the charms which a ruin in England or Scotland gath- ers around it, and it becomes at once romantic and beautiful. The traveler of twenty centuries hence arrives in the neighbor- hood of some one of these celebrated remains, hires his guide from the town, and leaving the high road, takes his path through the richly cultivated meadow shaded by venerable elms and oaks, till he reaches the banks of a beautiful stream, pouring down its bed in leaping cascades ; at the point where the waterfall is most striking, stands the stupendous ruin, the crumbling and vine- covered walls, rising from the waters edge; he passes the broken door-way and pauses in the enclosure, in which are standing trees of the growth of centuries ; and on one side he looks down into a chasm deeper than the subterranean dungeons of the feudal castle, at the bottom of which he discerns the dark waters of the strean], rushing furiously by: no remains of the huge water-wheel are there to tell him why such a gulf was excavated; he wanders around the adjacent grounds, and ponders over the remnants of stone bridges and the dried and half-choked beds of canals, and still finds other ruins and other wonders, till he is lost in specula- tion and bewilderment, and exclaims that a mightier race must have once held the soil. If he visits what will then remain of our naval amphitheatres the dry-docks; if he penetrates into the interior till he reaches that superb piece of masonry, which time itself can hardly destroy, the stone bridge by which the Erie canal crosses the Genessee, at Rochester; if he goes still farther 276 .My Journal. ~vest, and observes the solid and enduring work of the great na- tional road, extending to the banks of the Mississippi, he will riot cease to be impressed with the power, energy and wealth of the ancients. In the meantime, our villages will grow up into cities ; our cities will be adorned with architecture and sculpture ; our lands will teem with the richness of full cultivation, and universal wealth will display its creative and beautifying power over the whole country. Such are the dreams in which a lover of his country will occa- sionally indulge, though wild they be ; but there certainly seems to be no portion of the land of America, which is more likely to realize them, than that beautiful tract which lies between the upper falls of the Mohawk and the lakes which form the western boundary of the State of New-York. Enough has been said, again and again, of the lovely scenery and the productive soil of this tract, and I will not attempt to echo the praises. It does, indeed, seem formed to he the garden of America, as Lombardy is the garden of Europe ; and Joseph Bonaparte remarked, a few years ago, that it reminded him more of Lombardy than any tract he had ever seen. But there is, in the heart of this extensive region, a sweet valley, which does not appear to me to he suffi- ciently known and prized. The tourist on his way to Niagara, passes, not long after leaving Canand aigua, the little village of Avon, famous for its sulphur-springs ; and continues on his jour- ney through Batavia to Buffalo. But it is unknown to many that, in keeping stralbht on through Avon, they leave unexplored, on the left hand, one of the sweetest spots in the western xvorld. Between two chains of hills, extending in a southward direction from Avon to the distance of about thirty miles, is a valley which varies from a mile to two miles in width, through which meanders the Genessee. It seems originally to have been the bed of a lake; and the surface is a perfect level, covered with the richest vege- tation, and spreading away in fair fields, some planted with Indian corn, some reserved for pasturage, over which the herds of cattle are scattered, and some waiting the scythe. The soil is too rich for any kind of grain. The earliest settlers found this valley un- wooded, and the grass growing so high as to conceal a man on horseback. Clusters of oaks and elms are scattered over it, and give it the soft and rich appearance of an English park; and the banks of the river are fringed with alder hushes and sycamores. The hills which rise up on each side, and form the shores, as it were, of this verdant lake are covered with pretty villages and waving fields of grain, or deep and dark forests. The county-town, and the prettiest town in the county, Gene- seo, is about ten miles from Avon; and I recommend to all travellers who are not in a great hurry, to turn aside from the. .M~, Journal. 277 high road to Niagara and stop a day or two in this town, not only for the sake of the fine scenery which it contains within its pre- cincts, hut for the heautiful drives in every direction about. it. One of the pleasantest excursions is to a spot ahout nine miles from the village of Geneseo, called the high banks, where the Genessee bursts through the western rang~ of hills and finds its way to the valley. After crossing the fiats from Cenesco, you follow the parallel of the valley for scme distance, and then as- cending to the highest point of the ran e of hills, you find your- self in a vast grove of oaks, clear froni underwood ; and wander- mb through this, you come suddenly upon the verge of a preci- pice at least twice the height of Niagara. Far, far down heneath your feet rolls the river, on the opposite side of which rises another hank similar to the one upon which you are standing. These banks seem ahsolutely perpendicular yet such is their height, that although their inclination from the margin of the water is almost imperceptible, the strongest man standing on the brink cannot throw a stone so that it will fall into the water. I saw a boat pass by one day as I stood upon the hank ; it looked no larger than the cradle of an infant and the men who rowed it seemed like puppets. Next to Niagara I think this water gap the most majestic scene in the xvestern land. Geneseo is about sixty miles from Buffalo. On the 24th of IDec. 182, I started early in the niorning with one coml)anion, resolved to witness what few travelers see viz, the falls of Niagara in winter, and to eat our Christmas dinner within sound of their roar. We reached Buffalo at night, and pursuing our journey the next morning arrived at Niagara on the American side at 12 oclock, having performed nearly the whole distance in a sleigh. As it was our first visit, we were both eager to behold this wonder of nature, and as soon as we had established our- selves at the inn we went to the hank just below the cataract and gazed upon a scene which for desolate and awful grandeur has not its equal in the world ; the rushing of the rapids, the ma- jestic roll of the waterfall, the rising spray and the roar were the same that the summers tourist finds, but in all other respects the scene was entirely chanbed. The trickling xvater at the edge of the cataract freezes as it falls and constantly increasing in size now stood in immense collonades, a hundred and fifty feet high, of glittering ice, each pillar from ten to twenty feet in diameter. The spray wafted down by the hreeze had gathered and frozen on each bank below the falls, and there it hung like the most graceful drapery in festoons and folds, the winter curtains of natures palace; and becoming opaque from their thickness presented the appearance of white muslin. The evergreens and other trees on the banks were completely frosted with the spray and hung in silver fringe- work over the abyss. But how can pen describe the gorgeous 278 ;II/I~ Journal. magnificence with which Goat Island was clad ! It looked like one vast grove of chrystal ! Every tree covered trunk and branch, with ice, every spear of grass and every shrub glittering like silver and the outer edge of the island where it divides the fall, supported by the gigantic columns which I have already described and bristling with pendent icicles which resembled the most florid Gothic sculpture! In the distance were the shores and hills of Canada, as far as the eye could reach one bleak and dreary waste of snow. The next morning, we descended the steps to the waters edge, a somewhat perilous task as they were covered with ice, and a false step might have been fatal we crossed to the Canada side, and with much ado, mounted up to the plain our guide would not allow us to go upon table rock as it was so slippery that it was almost certain destruction to ap- proach its edge. Having viewed the falls from the best accessi- ble points, we returned to the American side to visit Goat-Island. As we were re-crossing, we observed another canoe also ap- proaching the American shore with a large and gay looking party. It happened to be an Irish wedding party who were coming to this side to have the marriage ceremony performed in order to avoid the expense of a license in Canada. The bridegroom was however, as Sir Walter expresses it, most particularly drunk ~and did not at all like the prospect of mounting up the slippery stair-way. After some consultation at the spot of landing, one of the party very respectfully approached my companion (a most grave looking man in spectacles,) and begged him to perform the service for them where they stood. He had some difficulty in persuading them that he was not a parson nor even a magistrate, so much did his looks give the lie to his words: and he was very sorry not to be able to gratify their wish a wedding on the shore of the Niagara in mid-winter is a scene very rarely wit- nessed. Having ascended the bank we crossed the bridge to Goat Is- land and traversing the whole distance, descended upon the lit- tie foot-bridge which runs out towards the Canada side, and pro- jects over the abyss. The sun had been obscured all the morn- ing till this moment ; but as we were standing on the little bridge, it came out in full splendor and our eyes were blessed with beholding a scene compared with which the mountains of gold and the vallies of diamonds in the fairy tale are tame. Every tree was radiant with all the hues of the prism, the Sun was re- flected from the immense pillars of ice, the spray fell in showers of diamonds and a rainbow forming almost a complete circle stood in the middle of the river below the fall. I have since that time visited the falls in summer and found the scenery far lovelier than when I first saw it. But 1 have never in any land, behel