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!

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!

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!

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

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

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. 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-

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

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.

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. 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. 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

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.

*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

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-

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

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

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.

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. 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.

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

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

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 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

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

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

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.

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~

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!

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

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

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.

~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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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 rea