HJTNAWS ~1ONTHLY. ~y ~~t~iite of ~iter~turt, ~zitutt, ~n~r ~rt. VOL. V.JAN. 1855.NO. XXV. THE OCEAN AND ITS LIFE. Apurrov /L~P $~p.P1NDAR. flIGH on the terrible cliff that over- U. hangs the Charybdis of the ancients, stood King Frederick, of Sicily; and by his side the fairest of Europes fair daughters. Often and often had he gazed down into the fierce seething cauldron beneath him, and in vain had he offered the gold of his treasure and the honors of his court to him who would dive into the whirlpool and tell him of the fearful mysteries that were hid beneath the hissing, boiling foam. But neither fisher~man nor proud knight had dared to tempt the Ged of mercy, and to venture down into the dread abyss, which threatened death, sure, inevitable death, to the bold intruder. But better than gold and honor, is fair maidens love. And when the kings beautiful daughter smiled upon the gazing crowd around her, and -when her sweet lips uttered words of gentle en- treaty, the spell was woven, and the bold heart found that would do her bidding, forgetful of worldly reward, and alas! unmindful, also, of th& word of the Almighty! He was a bold seaman, and his com- panions called him Pesce-Colo, Nick the fish, for he lived in the oceans depths, and days and nights passed, which he spent swimming and diving in the warm waters of Sicily. And from the very cliff on which the king had spoken his taunting words, from the very feet of his fair, tempting child, he threw him- self down into the raging flood. The waters closed over him, hissing and seething in restless madness, and deeper TOL. vl and darker grew the fierce whirlpool. All eyes were bent upon the gaping gnlf, all lips were silent as the grave. Time seemed to be at rest; the very hearts ceased to beat. But lo! out of the dark waves there arises a snow- white form, and a glowing arm is seen, and black curls hanging down on the nervous neck of the daring seaman. And, as he breathes once more the pure air of heaven, and as his eyes behold once more the blue vault above him, he stammers words of thanks to his Maker; and a shout arose from cliff to cliff, that the welkin rang, and the oceans roar was hushed. But when their eyes turned again to greet the bold man who had dared what God had forbidden, and man had never ventured to do, the dark waters had closed upon him. They saw the fierce flood rush up in wild haste; they saw the white foam sink down into the dark, gloomy gulf; they heard the thunder- ing roar and the hideous hissing below; the waters rose and the waters fell, but the bold, daring seaman was never seen again. And so it is even now. Little is known of the fea~rfnl mysteries of the great deep, and the hungry ocean de- mands still its countless victims. For the calm of the sea is a treacherous rest, and under the deceitful mirror-like smooth- ness reign eternal warfare and strife. Oceanus holds not, as of old, the Earth, his spouse, in quiet; loving embrace; our sea-god is a god of battles, and wrestles and wrangles in neyer-ceasing struggle 2 The Ocean and its Lffe. [Jan. with the firm continent. Even when apparently calm and slumbering, he is moving in restless action, for there is sorrow on the sea, it cannot be quiet. Listen, and you will hear the gentle beating of l)layful waves against the snowy sands of the beach; look again, and you will see the gigantic mass breathe and heave like a living being. No quiet, no sleep, is allowed to the great element. As the little brook dances merrily over rock and root, never resting day and night, so the great ocean also knows no leisure, no repose. It is not merely, however, that the weight of the agitated atmosphere presses upon the surface of the vast ocean, and moves it now with the gen- tle breath of the zephyr, and now with the fierce power of the tempest. Even when the waters seem lashed into madness by the raging tornado, or rise in daring rebellion under the sudden, sullen fury of the typhoon, it is but childs play compared with the gigantic and yet silent, la~vful movement, in which they ascend to the very heavens on high, where He bindeth up the waters in his thick clouds, and then again sink uncomplaining to the lowest depths of the earth. As the bright sun rests warm and glowing on the bosom of the cool flood, millions of briny drops abandon the mighty ocean and rise, unseen by human eye, borne on the wings of the wind, up into the blue ether. IJ3ut soon they are recalled to their allegiance. They gather into silvery clouds, race around the globe, and sink down again, now impetuously in a furious storm, bringing destruction and ruin, now as gentle rain, fertilizing and refreshing, or more quietly yet, as brilliant dew pearls, glit- tering in the bosom of the unfolding rose and filling each tiny cup held up by leaf and blossom. Eagerly the thirsty earth drinks in the heavenly gift; in a thou- sand veins she sends it down to her lowest depths, and fills her vast invisi- ble reservoirs. Soon she can hold the rich abundance of health-bringing waters no longer, and through the cleft and cliff they gush joyfully forth as merry, chattering springs. They join rill to nh, and rush heedlessly down the mouqtains in brook and creek, until they grow to mighty rivers, thundering over gigantic rocks, leap fearlessly down lofty precipices, or gently rolling their mighty masses along the inclined planes of lowlands, become mans obedient slaves, and carry richly laden vessels on their broad shoulders, before they return once more to the bosom of their common mother, the great ocean. How quietly, how silently nature works in her great household. Unheard and unseen, these enormous masses of water rise up from the broad seas of the earth, and yet it requires not less than one-third of the whole warmth which the sun grants to our globe, to lift them up from the ocean to the re- gion of clouds. Raised thus by forces far beyond our boldest speculations, and thence returning as blessed rain, as humble mill-race, or as active, rapid high-road carrying huge loads from land to land, the ocean receives back again its own, and thus completes one of its great movements in the eternal change through wdter, air, and land. But the mighty ocean rests not even in its own legitimate limits. When not driven about as spray, as mist, as river, when gently reposing in its eternal home on the bosom of the great earth, it is still subject to powerful influences from abroad. That mysterious force which chains sun to sun, and planet to planet, which calls back the wandering comet to its central sun, and binds the worlds in one great universe, the force of general attraction, must needs have its effect upon the waters also, and under the control of sun and moon, they per- form a second race around the globe on which we live. When the companions of Nearchus, under Alexander the Great, reached the mouth of the Indus, nothing excited their amazement in that wonderful country so much as the regular rise and fall of all the oceana phenomena which they had never seen at home, on the coasts of Asia Minor and Greece. Even their short stay there sufficed, however, to show them the connection of this as- tonishing change with the phases of the moon. For sweet as the moon- light sleeps upon this bank, it is never- theless full of silent power. Stronger even than the larger sun, because so much nearer to the earth, it raises upon the boundless plains of the Pacific a wave only a few feet high, but extend- ing down to the bottom of the sea, and moves it onwards, chained as it were to its own path high in heaven. Harmless and powerless this wave rolls along the placid surface of the ocean. But lands arise, New Holland on one side, South- 1855.] The Ocean and its Life. 8 em Asia on the other, and the low but immensely broad tidal wave is pressed together and rises upwards, racing ra- pidly round the sharp point of Africa. An hour after the moon has risen high- est at Greenwich, it reaches Fez and Morocco; two hours later it passes through the Straits of Gibraltar, and along the coast of Portugal. The fourth hour sees it rush with increased force into the Channel and past the western coast of England. There the rocky cliffs of Ireland and the numerous is- lands of the Northern seas arrest its rapid course, so that it reaches Norway only after an eight hours headlong race. Another branch of the same wave hurries along the eastern coast of Amne- rica in almost furious haste, often amounting to 120 miles an hour; from thence it passes on to the north, where, hemmed in on all sides, it rises here and there to the enormous height of eighty feet. Such is not rarely the case in the Bay of Fundya circumstance which shows us forcibly the vast superiority of this silent, steady movement over that of the fiercest tempest. Even at that most stormy. and most dreaded spot on earth, Cape Horn, all the vio- lence of raging tempests cannot raise the waves higher than some thirty feet, nor does it ever disturb the habitual calm of the ocean deeper than a few fathoms, so that divers do not hesitate to stay below, even when the hurricane rages above. Gentle in its appearance, though grand in its effect, this mighty wave shows its true power only when it meets obstacles worthy of such effort. Where strong currents oppose its ap- proach, as in the river Dordogne, in France, it races in contemptuous haste up the daring stream and reaches there, for instance, in two miautes, the height of lofty houses. Or it rolls the mighty waters of the Amazon River mountain high up into huge dark masses of foam- ing cascades, and then drives them steadily, resistiessly upwards, leaving the calm of a mirror behind, and send- ing its roar and its thunder for miles into the upland. Still less known and less observed is the third great movement which inter- rupts the apparent calm and peace of the ocean. For here, as everywhere, movement is life, as rest would be death. Without this-ever stirring acti- vity in its own bosom, without this constant moving and intermingling of its waters, the countless myriads of decaying plants and animals which are daily buried in the vast deep, would soon destroy, by their mephitic vapors, all life upon earth. This, greatest of all movements, never resting, nover ending, is the effect of the sun and the warmth it generates. Like, all bodies, water also contracts, and consequently grows heavier as the temperature sinks; but only to a certain point, about three de- gress Reaumur. This is the invariable warmth of tke%cean at a depth of 8,600 feet, and below tkat. If t~e tem- perature is cooler, water becomes thin- ner again and lighter, so that at the freezing point, as ice, it weighs consider- ably less than when fluid. The conse- quence of this peculiar relation of water to warmth produces the remarkable result, that in the great ocean an inces- sant movement continues: up to the above mentioned degree of warmth, the warmer and lighter water rises con- tinually, whilst the cooler and heavier sinks in like manner; below that point the colder water rises and the warmer part descends to the bottom. Hence, the many currents in the vast mass of the ocean; sometimes icy cold, at other times warm, and even hot, so that often the difference between the temperature of the current and that of the quiet water by its side, is quite astonishing. The great Humboldt found at Truxillo, the undisturbed waters as warm as 22 degrees, whilst the stream on the Peru- vian coast had but little more than 8 degrees, and the sailor who paddles his boat with tolerable accuracy on the outer line of the gulf-stream, may dip his left into cold and his right into warm water. Greater wonders still are hidden under the calm, still surface of the slumbering giant. Thoughtless and careless, man passes in his light fragile boat, over the boundless expanse of the ocean, and lit- tle does he know, as yet, of the vast plains beneath him, the luxuriant forests, the sweet, green meadc~ws, that lie stretched out at the foot of unmeasured mountains, which raise their lofty peaks up to his ships bottom, and the fiery volcanoes that earthquakes have thrown up below the waves. For the sea, also, has its hills and its dales; its table-lands and its valleys; sometimes barren, and sometimes covered with luxuriant vegetation. Beneath its placid, even surface, there are inequali- ties far greater than the most startling on the continents of the earth. In the 4 The Ocean and its Lffe. [Jan. Atlantic, south of St. Helena, the lead of the French frigate Venus, reached bot- tom only at a depth of 14,556 feet, or a distance equal to the height of Mount Blanc; and Captain Ross, during his lest expedition to the South Pole, found, at 27,600 feet, a. depth equal to more than five miles, no bottom yet: so that there the Dawalaghiri might have been placed on top of Mount Sinai, without appearing above the waters! And yet, from the same depth, ~ountains rise in cliffs and reefs, or expand upwards, in broad, fertile islands. Nor can we any longer sustain the an- cient faith in the stability of the terra firma, as contrasted with the ever- changing nature of the sea. Recent dis- coveries have proved that the land changes, and the waters are stable! The ocean maintains always the same level; but, as on the great continents, table- lands rise and prairies sink, so does the bottom of the sea rise and fall. In the South Sea this takes place alternately, at stated times. To such sinking portions of our earth belongs, among others, New Holland. So far from being a new, young land it is on the contrary, with un strange flora, so unlike that of the rest of the world, and its odd and mar- vellous animals, an aged, dying island, which the ocean is slowly burying, inch by inch. And a wondrous world, is the world of the great sea. There are deep abysses, filled with huge rocks, spectral ruins of large ships, and the corpses of men. There lie, half covered with lime and slime, the green, decaying gun, and the precious box, filled with the gold of Perus snow-covered Alps, by the side of count- less skeletons, gathered from every shore and every clime. There moulders the bald skull of the brave sea captain, by the side of the broken armor of gigantic turtles; the whalers harpoon rests peaceably near the tooth of the whale; thousands of fishes dwell in huge bales of costly silks from India, and over them pass, in silent crowds, myriads of dimi- nutive infusoria; enormous whales, and voraeious sharks, chasing before them thickly packed shoals of frightened her- rings. Here, the sea foams and frets restlessly up curiously-shaped cliffs, and oddly-formed rocks; there, it moves sluggishly over large plains of white, shining sand. In the morning, the tidal waves break in grim fury against the bald peaks of submarine Alps, or l)ass, in hissing streams, through ancient forests on their side; in the evening, they glide noiselessly over bottomless abysses, as if afraid, lest they, also, might sink down into the eternal night below, from which rises distant thunder; and the locked up waters roar and whine like evil spirits chained in the vast deep. The ocean is a vast charnel house. There are millions and millions of ani- mals mouldering, piled up, layer upon layer, in huge masses, or forming mile- long banks. For no peace is found be- low and under the thin, transparent veil; there reigns endless murder, wild war- fare, and fierce bloodshed. Infinite, un- quenchable hatred seems to dwell in the cold, unfeeling deep. Destruction alone, maintains life in the boundless world of the ocean. Lions, tigers and wolves, reach a gigantic size in its vast caverns, and, day after day, destroy whole gene- rations of smaller animals. Polypi and medusa, in countless nu,nbers, spread their nets, catching the th& ughdess radi- ati by tens of thousands, and the huge whale swallows, at one gulp, millions of minute, but living creatures. The sword- fish and the sea-lion hunt the elephant and rhinoceros of the Pacific, and tiny parasites dart upon the tunny fish, to dwell in myriads in his thick layers of fat. All are hunting. killing, murdering; but the strife is silent, no war-cry is heard, no burst of anguish disturbs the eternal silence, no shouts of triumph rise up through the crystal waves to the world of light. The battles are fought in deep, still secresy; only now and then the parting waves disclose the bloody scene for an instant, or the dying whale throws his enormous carcass high into the air, driving the water up in lofty co- lumns, capped with foam, and tinged with blood. Ceaseless as that warfare is, it does not leave the oceans depths a waste, a scene of desolation. On the contrary, we find that the sea, the most varied and the most wondem4ul part of creation, where nature still keeps some of her profound- est secrets, teems with life. Things innumerable, both great and small, are there. It contains, especially, a most diversified and exuberant abundance of animal life, from the microscopic infu- soria, in inconceivable numbers, up to those colossal forms which, free from the incumbrance of weight, are left free to exert the whole of their giant power for their enjoyment. Where the rocky cliffs of Spitzbergen and the inhospitable shores of Victoria land refuse to nourish 1855.] The Ocean ama! its Life. 5 even the simplest, humblest lichen, where no reindeer is ever seen, and even the polar bear finds no longer com- fort, there the sea is still covered with fuci and conferv~, and inyriads of mi- nute animals crowd its life-sustain- ing waves. Naturally, the purest spring- water is not more limpid than the water of the ocean; for it absorbs all colors save that of ultramarine, which gives it the azure hue vying with the blue of heaven. It varies, to be sure, with every gleam of sunshine, with every passing cloud, and when shallow, it reflects the color of its bed. But its brightest tints, and strangest colors, are derived from in- fusoria and plants. In the Arctic Sea, a broad band of opaque olive green, passes right through the pure ultramarine; and off the Arabian coast, we are told, there is a strip of green water so distinctly marked, that a ship has been seen in blue and green water at the same time. The Verinillion Sea of California, has its name from the red color of vast quantities of infusoria, and the Red Sea of Arabia changes from delicate pink to deep scar- let, as its tiny inhabitants move in thicker or thinner layers. Other masses of minute creatures tinge the waters round the Maldives black, and that of the Gulf of Guinea, white. When Captain Ross, in the Arctic Sea, explored the bottom of the sea, and dropped his lead to a depth of 6,000 feet, he still brought up living anilnalcula3; and, even at a depth exceeding the height of our loftiest mountains, the water is alive with countless hosts of diminutive, phosphoric creatures, which, when at- tracted to the surface, convert every wave into a crest of light, and the wide ocean into a sea of fire. It is well known that the abundance of these minute be- ings, and of the animal matter supplied by their rapid decomposition, is such, that the sea water itself becomes a nu- tritions fluid to many of the largest dwellers in the ocean. Still, they all have their own homes, even their own means of locomotion. They are not bound to certain regions of that great countm~y below the oceans waters. They travel far and fast; currents, unknown to man, carry them, in vast masses, from the Pole to the Equator, and often from Pole to Pole, so that the whale must travel, with locomotive speed, to follow the muedusm of the Arctic to the seas of the Antilles, if he will not dispense with his daily food. How strange a chase! The giant of the seas racing in furious haste after hardly visible, faintly colored, jelly-balls! But, for othe~ purposes, also, there is incessant travel going on in the oceans hidden realm. Water ip the true and proper element of motion. Hence, we find here the most rapid jour~meys, the most constant changes from zone to zone. No class of animals travel so much and so reoularly as fish, and nowhere, in the vast household of nature, do we see so clearly the close relation between the wants of man, and the provision made for them by a bountiful providence. The first herrings that appeared in the waters of Holland, used to be paid for by their weight in gold, and a Japanese nobleman spent more than a thousand ducats for a brace of common fish, when it pleased his Japanese majesty to order a fish din- ner at his honse in the depth of winter, when all fish leave the coasts of his country. Now singly, now in & hoals, fish are constantly seen moving through the ocean. The delicate mackerel travels towards the south, the small, elegant sar- dine, of the Mediterranean, moves in spring westward, and returns in fall to the east. The sturgeon of northern seas, sails lonely up the large rivers of the continent of Europe, an dhas been found in the very heart of Germany, under the shadow of the famous cathedral of Stras- burg. Triangular masses of salmon press up nearly all northern rivers, and are sometimes so numerous, so closely packed, that they actually impede the current of large rivers. Before their arrival, count- less millions of herrings leave the same waters, but where their home is, man has not yet found out. Only in the spring months there suddenly appeni- vast banks of this remarkable fish, two or three miles wide, and twenty to thirty miles long, and so dense are the crowds, so great their depth, that lances and har- poons,even the sounding leadthrown at random amongst them, do not sink, but remain standing upright. What numbers are devoured by sharks and birds of prey, is not known; what im- mense quantities are caught along the coast, to be spread as manure on the fields inland, is beyond all calculation; and yet, it has been ascertained that over a thousand millions alone, are an- nually salted for winter consumption I Alike gigantic is the life of the ocean in its dimensions. Whales of a hundred feet len0 th and more, are the largest of all animals on earth, five times as long as 6 The Ocean and its Life. [Jan. the elephant, the giant of the firm land. Turtles weighing a thousand pounds, are found in more than one sea. The rocky islands of the southern Arctic alone, furnish a yearly supply of a million of sea-lions, sea-cows, and seals. Huge birds rise from the foam-covered waves, their homes never seen by human eye, their young ones bred in lands unknown to man. Islands are formed, and moun- tains raised, by the mere dung of gene- rations of smaller birds. And yet nature is here also greatest in her smallest cre- ations. For how fine must, for instance, be the texture of sinews and muscles, of nerves and blood-vessels, in animals that never reach the size of a pea, or even a pins head! The ocean has not only its mountains and plains, its turf moors and sandy de- serts, its rivers and sweet springs, gushing forth from hidden recesses, and rising through the midst of salt water, but it has also its lofty forests, with luxuriant parasites, its vast prairies and blooming gardens; landscapes, in fine, far more gorgeous and glorious than all the splen- dor of the firm land. It is true that but two kinds of plants, alg~ or fucus, pros- per upon the bottom of the sea, the one a jointed kind, having a threadlike form, the other jointless, and containing all the species that grow in submarine forests, or float like green meadows in the open sea. But t!aeir forms are so varied, their colors so brilliant, their number and size so enormous, that they change the deep into fabulous fairy gardens. And, as branches and leaves of firm, earth-rooted trees, tremble and bend on the elastic waves of the air, or wrestle, sighing and groaning, with the tempests fury, so the seaweed, slimy and dark, waves its arms, so lank and brown, and struggles with the ocean, that pulls at its roots, and tears its leaves into shreds. Now and then the mighty adversary is victorious, and rends them from their home, when they wander homeless and restless, in long, broad masses, towards the shores of distant lands, where often fields are found so impenetrable, that they have saved vessels from shipwreck, and many a human life from the hungry waves. These different kinds of fucus dwell in various parts of the ocean, and have their own, well-defined limits. Some cling with hand-like roots so firmly to the rocky ground that, when strong waves pull and tear their upper parts, they often lift up gigantic masses of stone, and drag them, like huge anchors, for miles and miles. Most of them, how- ever, love the coast, or, at least, a firm sea bottom, and seldom thrive lower than at a depth of forty fathoms. Still, they are found in every sea; the most gigan- tic, strangely enough, in the two Arctics, where they reach the enormous length of 1,500 feet. Occasionally, they cover vast portions of the sea, and form those fabulous green meadows on deep, azure ground, which struck terror in the hearts of early navigators. The largest of these, called Sargossa Sea, between the Azores and the Antilles, is a huge floating gar- den, stretching, with a varying width of one to three hundred miles, over twenty- five degrees of latitude, so that Colum- bus spent thme.e hopeless, endless weeks, in passing through this strange land of ocean-prairies! Take these fuci out of their briny element, and they present you with forms as whimsical as luxuriant. They are, in truth, nothing more than shapeless mass- es of jelly, covered with a leathery sur- face, and mostly dividing into irregular branches, which occasionally end in scanty bunches of real leaves. The first stem is thin and dry; it dies soon, but the plant continues to grow, apparently without limit. A few are eatable. Off Ireland grows the Carraghen-mnoss, with gracefully shaped and curled leaves, which physicians prescribe for pectoral diseases. Another kind of sea-focus fur- nishes the swallows of the Indian Sea with the material for their world-famous edible nests. The sugar-focus of the Northern Sea is broad as the hand, thin as a line, but miles long; well prepared, it gives the so-called Marina-sugar. The Antarctic is the home of the most gigantic of all plants of this kind. The bladder-focus grows to a length of a thousand feet in the very waters that are constantly congealing, and its long varie- gated foliage shines in bright crimson, or brilliant purple. The middle ribs of its magnificent leaves are supported under- neath by huge bladders, which enable them to swim on the surface of the ocean. Off the Falkland Islands a focus is found which resembles an appletree; it has an upright trunk, with forked branches, grass-like leaves, and an abundance of fruit. The roots and stem cling by means of clasping fibres to rocks above high-water mark, from them branches shoot upwards, and its long pendent leaves hang, like the willows, dreamy and woe-begone, in the restless waters. Besides the countless varieties of fucus, 1855.] The Ocean and its ~ the bottom of the sea is overgrown with the curled, deep purple leaves of the sea- lettuce, with large, porous lichens, and many-branched, hollow algm, full of life and motion in their rosy little blad- ders, thickly set with ever-moving, tiny arms. These plants form sub-marine forests, growing one into another, in apparently lawless order, here interlacing their branches, there forming bowers and long avenues; at one time thriving abun- dantly until the thicket seems impene- trable, then again leaving large openings between wold and wold, where smaller plants form a beautitul [)ink turf. There a thousand hues and linges shine and glitter in each changing light. In the indulgence of their luxuriant growth, the fuci especially seem to gratify every whim and freak. Creeping close to the ground, or senjing long-stretched arms, crowned with waving plumes, up to the blessed light of heaven, they form pale-green sea groves, where there is nei- ther moon nor star, or rise up nearer to the surfuce, to be transcendently rich and gorgeous in brightest green, gold, and purple. And, through this dream- like scene, playing in all the colors of the rainbow, and deep under the hollow, briny ocean, there sail and chase each other merrily, gaily painted mollusks, and bright shining fishes. Snails of every shape creep slowly along the stems, whilst huge, grey-haired seals hang with their enormous tusks on large, tall trees. There is the gigantic Dugong, the siren of the ancients, the sidelong shark with his leaden eyes, the thick- haired sea-leopard, and the sluggish tur- tle. Look how these strange, ill-shapen forms, which ever keep their dm-eamnless sleep far down in the gloomy deep, stir themselves from time to time! See, how they drive each other from their rich pastures, how they seem to awakemi in storms, rising like islands from be- neath, and snorting through the angry spray! Perhaps they graze peacefully in the unbroken cool of the oceans deep bed, when lo! a hungry shark comes slily, silently around that grove; its glassy eyes shine ghost-like with a yel- low sheen, band seek, their prey. The sea-dog first becomes aware of his dreaded enemy, and seeks refuge in the thickest recesses of the fucus forest. In an instant the whole scene changes. The oyster closes its shell with a clap, and throws itself into the deep below; the turtle conceals head and feet under her impenetrable armor, and sinks slowly downward; the playful little fish disap- pear among the branches of the macro- cystis; lobsters hide under the thick, clumsily-shapen roots, and the young walrus alone turns boldly round, and faces the intruder with his sharp, point- ed teeth. The shaik seeks to gain ~ unprotected side. The battle commen- ces; both seek the forest; their fins be- come entangled in the closely interwoven branches; at last the more agile shark succeeds in wounding his adversarys side. Despaim-ing of life, the bleeding walrus tries to conceal his last agony in the woods, but blinded by pain and blood, he fastens himself among the branches, and soon falls an ensy prey to the shurk, who greedily devours him. A few miles further, and the scene changes. Here lies a large, undisturbed oyster bed, so felicitously styled, a con- centration of quiet happiness. Dormant though the soft, glutinous creatures seem to be, in their impeneti-able shells, each individual is leading the beautiful exist- ence of the epicurean god. The world without, its cares and joys, its storms and calms, its passions, good and evil all are indifferent to the unheeding oys- ter. Its whole soul is concentrated in itself; its body is throbbing with life and enjoyment. The mighty ocean is subservient to its pleasures. Invisible to human eye, a thousand vibrating cilia move incessantly around every fibme of each fringing leaflet. To these the roll- ing waves waft fresh and choice food, and the flood of the current feeds the oyster, without requiring an effort. Each atom of water that comes in con- tact with its delicate gills, gives out its imprisoned air, ~o freshen and invigorate the creatures pellucid blood. Here, in the lonely, weary sea, so rest- less and uneasy, ~ve find, moreover, that strangest of all l)roductions, half vege- table and half animal, the coral. From the tree-shaped limestone, springs forth the sense-endowed am-in of the polypus; it grows, it feeds, it produces others, and then is turned again into stone, burying itself in its own rocky home, over which new generations build at once new rocky homes. Thus it is that the many-shaped, far- branched coral-tree grows; only where the plants of the upper world bear leaves and flowers, there germinates heme, from out of the stone, a living, ~ensimive ani- mal, clad in the gay form and bright colors of flowers and adorned with 8 The Ocean and its Lsfe. [Jan. phosphorescent brilliancy. As if in a dream the animal polypus awakens in the stone for a moment, and like a tiream it crystallizes again into stone. Yet, what no tree on earth, in all its vigor and beauty ever could do, that is accom- plished hy these strange animal trees. They build large, po.werful castles, and high, lofty steeples, resting upon the very bottom of the ocean, rising stone upon stone, and cemented like no other build- ing on this globe. For they are a strange, mysterious race, these maidens of the ocean, as the old Greeks used to call them. Their beauty of form and color, their marvel- lous economy, their gigantic edifices, all had early attracted the attention of the curious, and given rise to fantastic fables, and amusing errors. For centuries the world believed that these bright-colored, delicate flowers, which, out of their ele- inent, appeared only humble, brown stones, were real, fragile sea-plants, which the contact with air instantaneous- ly turned into stone. Even the last cen- tury adhered yet to this belief, and only repeated nnd energetic efforts succeeded in establishing their claim to a place in the animal kingdom. Charles Darwin, at last, in the charming account he has given us of his voyages, set all errors aside, and made us familiar with this most wondrous of all creatures. Now we all know their atolls and coral-rings, filling the warm seas of the tropics with the green crowns of slender palm-trees waving over them in the breeze, and man living securely in their midst. For in vain has he himself tried to protect his lands against the fury of the ocean, in vain has he labored and pressed all the forces of r~mture, even all- powerful steam into his service. But the minute polypi work quietly and si- lently, with modest industry, in their never-ceasing struggle with the mighty waves of the sea. A struggle it is, for, strangely enough, they never build in turbid, never in still waters; their home is amid the most violent breakers, and living force, though so minute, triumphs victoriously over the blind, terrible might of furious waves. Thus they build, year after year, century after cen- tury, until at last their atolls inclose vast lakes in the midst of the ocean, where eternal peace reigns, undisturbed by the stormy waves and the raging tempest. But when their marvellous structure reaches the surface, it rises no further, for the polypt are true children of the sea, and as soon as sun and air touch them they die. Like enchanted islands,. these circular reefs of the corals bask in the brightest light of the tropics. A light green ring incloses a quieL inland lake, the ground is white, and being shallow, shines bril- liantly in the gorgeous floods of light, whilst without the dark, black billows of the ocean are kept off by a line of breakers, rushing incessantly in white foam against the cliffs; above them an ever pure, deep blue ether; and far be- yond, the dark ocean and the hazy air blending at the horizon and melting bar- moniously into one another. The effect is peculiarly grand and almost magical, when the coral rings are under water, and the huge, furious breakers toss up their white crests in vast circles around the still, calm waters within, whilst no land, no rock is seen to rise above the surface of the ocean. Frequently large reefs, richly studded with graceful palms, surround on all sides lofty mountains, around whose foot there grows a luxuriant, tropical vegeta- tion. Inside of these reefs the water is smooth and mirror-like, basking in the warm sunlight; without, there is eternal warfare; raging, foaming surges swell and rush in fierce attack against the firm wall, besieging it year after year, century after century. Thus, the tiny polypi protect proud man on his threatened island against the destructive flood: polypi struggling boldly against time un- measured ocean! and it all the nations on earth united, they could not build the smallest of these coral reefs in the ocean but the corals build a part of the crust of the great earth! For their islands count alone in the South Sea by thou- sands; all but a few feet above the sur- face of the sea, which, around, is un- fathomable; all ring-shaped, with a peaceful lake in the centre; all consist- ing of no other material but that of still living corals. These islands, built by the industrious polypi under water, are planted and peopled by the same waves, by whom they were raised above high- water mark. The currents bring seed and carry large living trees from distant shores; lizards dwelling in their roots, birds nestling in their branches, and in- sects innumerable arrive with the tree, and water-birds soon give life to the scanty, little strip of newly made land. Thins they meet below, plant and ani- mal; the pale, huehess fucus twining its long, ghastly arms around the bright 1855.] The Ocean and its Ltfr. B scarlet coral, and through their branches glides the nautilus with wide-spread sails. Every ray of light that falls on the surface, changes hue and tinge below. But the deep has lights of its own. There is the glimmer of gorgeous fish in gold and silver armor, the phosphores- cent sheen of the milk-white or sky-blue bells of brilliant medus~e, as they pass through the purple-colored tops of lofty fuci, and the bright, sparkling light of tiny, gelatinous creatures, chasing each other along the blue and olive-green hedges of algte and humbler plants. When day fades, and night covers with her dark mantle the sea also, these fan- tastic gardens begin to shine in new, mysterious light; green, yellow and red flames are seen to kindle and to ft*de away; bright stars twinkle in every direction, even the darkest recesses blaze up, now and then, in bright flashes of light, and fitful rays pass incessantly to and fro in the wild, dark world beneath the waves. Broad furrows of flashing light mark the track of the dolphins through the midst of the foaming waters. Troops of porpoises are sporting about, and as they cut through the glistening flood, you see their mazy path bright with intense and sparkling light. There also passes the huge moonfish, shedding a pale spectral light from every fin and scale, through the crowd of brilliant starfish, whilst afar from the coast of Oeylon are heard the soft, melancholy accents of the singing mussel, like the distant not~s of an IEolian harp, and yet louder than even the breakers on the rocky shore. But the. great sea itself is not silent. Listen, and you will hear how the grey old ocean, heaving in a gentle motion, sings in an undertone, chiming in with the great melody, until all the sweet sounds of sea, earth, and air melt into one low voice alone, that murmurs over the weary sea and rises, singing eternal praise, to the throne of Him, who is mightier than the noise of many waters, ye:i, than the mighty waves of the sea. The great botanist, Schleideu, tells us how, off the coast of the island of Sitky, the bottom of the sea is covered with a dense and ancient forests, plant grows close to plant, and branch intertwines with branch. Below, there lies a closely woven carpet of rich hues, made of countless threads of tiny waterplants, red conferv~e and brown-rooted mosses, each branching off iato a thousand finely traced. leaves. On this soft couch the luxuriant sea-lettuce spreads its bro~4, elegant leaves, a rich pasture for peace- ful snails and slow turtles. Between them shine the gigantic leaves of the Irides in brilliant scarlet or delicate pink, whilst along reef and cliff the dark olive- green fuci hang in rich festoons, and half cover the magnificent sea-rose in its unsurpassed beauty. Like tall trees the Laminaria spread about, waving in end- less broad ribbons along the currents, and rising high above the dense crowd. Maria send up long naked stems, which at last expand into a huge, unsightly leaf of more than fifty feet length. But the sea-forest boasts of still loftier trees, for the Nereocysti rise to a height of seventy feet; beginning with a coral- shaped root, they grow up in a thin, thread-like trunk, which, however, gra- dually thickens, until its clubshaped form grows into an enormous bladder, from the top of which, like a crest on a gigantic helmet, there waves proudly a large bunch of delicate but immense leaves. These are the palms of the ocean, and these forests grow, as by magic, in a few mouths, cover the bottom of the sea with a most luxuriant growth, wither and vanish, only to reappear soon again in greater richness and splendor. And what crowds of strange, ill-shapen, and unheard of molluscs, fish, and shellfish more among them! Here they are huge balls, there many cornered or starlike, then again like long streaming ribbons. Some are armed with large, prominent teeth, others with sharp saws, whilst a few, when pursued, make themselvea invisible by emitting a dark vapor-like fluid. Here, glassy, colorless eyes stare at you with dull, imbecile light,there, deep blue or black eyes glare with almost human sense and unmistakable cunning. Through bush and through thicket there glide the hosts of fierce, gluttonous robbers who fill the vast deep. But not only the animals of the ocean pasture and hunt there; man also stretches ou~ his covetous hand and demands hi~ share. Proud ships with swelling sails disdain not to arrest their bird-like flight, to carry off vast fuous-forests which they have torn up from the bottom of the sea, in order to manufacture kelp or iodine from the ashes, or to fish at the peril of their lives for bright corals in the depth. In the streets of Edinburgh the cry of buy pepper-dulse and tangle is heard in our day, and the Irish fisher~ man boldly faces death to snatch ~ 10 The Ocean and its Ltfe. [Jan. of Carraghen-moss from the rapid car- rent. The poor peasant of Normandy gathers the vast heaps of decaying fuci, which wind and wave have driven to his shore, in order to carry them pain- fully, miles and miles, as manure on his fields, and the so-called sheep-fucus sup- ports the flocks and herds of cattle in many a Northern island in Scotland and in Norway, through their long, dreary winters. The men of Iceland and of Greenland diligently grind some farina- ceous kind of fucus into flour and sub- sist, like their cattle, upon this strange wood for many months, whilst their wives follow Paris fashion, and rouge themselves with the red flower of the purple fucus. Here, however, one of the great mys- teries which the ocean suggests, startles the thinking observer. For whom did the Almighty create all this wealth of beauty and splendor? Why did He con- ceal the greatest wonders, the most marvellous creations of nature under that azure veil, the mirror-like surface of which reflects nearly every ray of light and mostly returns, as if in de- rision, the searchers own face as his only reward I But because all the varied forms, all the minute details are not seen, is there- fore the impression, which the ocean produces on our mind, less striking or less permanent? We count not the stars in heaven, we see even but a small num- ber of all, and yet the starry sky has never failed to lift up the mind of man to his Maker. So with the ocean. His way is in the sea, and His path in the great waters. The voice of the Lord is upon the waters; the Lord is upon many waters. From olden times the ocean has ever been to the nations of the earth the type of all that is great, power- ful, infinite. All the fictions of the Orient and Eastern India, all the myths of Greece of the earth embracing Okeanos, and even the Jewish tradition that the earth was without form and void, and the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters, speak of the sea as the great source of all life, the very dwelling-place of the Infinite. There are nations who never see the ocean. How dream-like, how fantastic are their ideas of the unknown world l German poetry abounds with wild, fanciful dreams of mermaids and mer- men, and even the sailor-nation has its favorite legend of the ancient mariner, and a Tennyson has sung of fabled mner men and their loves. But truly has it been said that they that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, these see the works of Jehovah and his wonders in the deep. Uniform and monotonous as the wide ocean often appears, it has its changes and is now mournful, now cheery and bright. Only when the wind is lulled and a calm has soothed the angry waves, can the ocean be seen in its quiet ma- jesty. But the aspect is apt to be dreary and lonely; whether we see the dark waves of the sea draw lazily in and out of rocky riffs. or watch wearily the seas perpetual swing, the melancholy wash of endless waves. Away from the land there is nothing so full of awe and horror as a perfectly calm sea: man is spell-bound, a magic charm seems to chain him to the glassy and transparent waters; he cannot move from the fatal spot, and death, slow, fearful, certain death stares him in the face. He trem- bles as his despairing gaze meets the upturned, leaden eye of the shark, pa- tiently waiting for him, or as he hears far below the sigh of some grim monster, slowly shifting on his uneasy pillow of brine. Fancy knows but one picture more dreadful yet than tempest, ship- wreck, or the burning of a vessel out at sea: it is a ship on the great ocean in a calm, with no hope for a breeze. Wild and waste is the view. On the same sunshine, over the same waves the poor mariners gaze day by day with languid eye, even until the heart is sick and the body perishes. At other times it is the gladsome ocean, full of proud ships, merry waves and ceaseless motion, that greets the eye. Then the wild, shoreless sea, on which the waves have rolled for thousands of years in unbroken might, fills the mind with the idea of infinity, and thought, escaping from all visible impression of space and time, rises to sublimest con- templations. Yet, the sight of the clear, transparent mirror of the ocean, with its light, curling, sportive waves, cheers the heart like that of a friend, and reminds us that here, as upon the great sea of life, even when the wrecked ma- riner has been cast among the raging billows, an unseen hand has often guided him to a happy shore. For He ruleth the raging of the sea: when the waves thereof rise, He sAllethi them. This sense of the Infinite, suggested and awakened by the vast expanse of restless and uneasy waters is, however, 1855.1 Winter. not unmixed with a feeling of deep mysterious awe. The mind cannot seize nor comprehend this boundless grandeur; hence its mysteriousness. The eye can- not see, no sense can, in fact, perceive the connection between iie stupendous phenomena on the wide ocean and the fate of man. To human eyes the surg- ing billows and the towering waves are both raised by an invisible, unknown power, and their depth is peopled with beings uncouth, ungoverned and un- known. The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, like a wide, watery waste com- pared with the gay, bright colors of the land, and the might of gigantic waves that rush from age to age against the~ bulwarks of continent and isle, seems irresistible and able to destroy the worlds foundation. Thus the ocean awakens in us feelings of dark mystery and grim power; the Infinite carries us off beyond the limits of familiar thought, and the sea becomes the home of fabled beings and weird images. All sea-shore countries teem with stories, legends and traditions; the fickle sea, the envious ocean, the fierce, hungry waves, the furious breakers, all become the repre- sentatives of so many human passions. Our fancy peoples the ocean with sweet, luring sirens, endowed with magic power to weave a spell and to draw the yielding mariner down to the green crystal halls beneath the waves. There sea-kings and morgana fairies live in en- chanted palaces; monsters of unheard size and shape ffit ghostlike through that 11 dark, mysterious realm, and huge snakes trail themselves slowly from their coiled sleep in the central deep, amidst all the dry pied things that.lie in the hueless mosses under the sea. The bewildered and astounded mind tries, in his own way, to connect the great phe- nomena of nature with his fate and the will of the Almighty. It sees in home- less, restless birds the harbingers of the coming storm, in flying fishes the spirits of wrecked seamen, and points to the Flying Dutchman and the Ancient Mari- ner as illustrations of the justice of Gods wrath. The strong mind, the believing soul, of course, shake off all such idle dreams and vain superstitions. To them the sea is the very source of energy and courage. The life at sen is a life of unceasing strife and struggle. Hence all sea-faring nations are warlike, fond of adventures, and poetical. But the seas greatest charm is, after all, its freedom. The free, unbounded ocean, where man feels no restraint, sees no narrow limits, where he must rely upon his own stout heart, strong in faith, where he is alone with his great Father in heaven, gives him a sense of his own freedom and strength like no other part of earth, and makes him return to the sea, its perils and suffer- ings, in spite of all the peace and hap- piness that the land can afford him. He knows that even if he dwell in the utter- most parts of the sea, even there shall His hand lead him and His right hand shall hold him. WINTER. COLD winds, whIte snow, Now rain, DOW blow, And chill the landscapes Autumn glow; The ice-bolts freeze The naked trees, And seal the old years obsequies I A leaden sky Droops heavily, As doll and glazed as dead mans eye; The sweeping clouds In cold, cold crowds, Enfold the day in ghastly shrouds I The woods lie bare, And here and there The grey moss hangs its mournful hair; The leaves that burned, Dy fierce winds spurned Lie mouldering mid the son inurnecL The sinewy vines In leafeless lines Hang sadly round the sombre pines: Through their festoons Ring solemn tunes, As weird as any northern runes. The day is cold, The earth is old, And mourns, its summers squandered gold. The birds are dumb, The springs are numb, Per winter in his might bath come I

1855.1 Winter. not unmixed with a feeling of deep mysterious awe. The mind cannot seize nor comprehend this boundless grandeur; hence its mysteriousness. The eye can- not see, no sense can, in fact, perceive the connection between iie stupendous phenomena on the wide ocean and the fate of man. To human eyes the surg- ing billows and the towering waves are both raised by an invisible, unknown power, and their depth is peopled with beings uncouth, ungoverned and un- known. The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, like a wide, watery waste com- pared with the gay, bright colors of the land, and the might of gigantic waves that rush from age to age against the~ bulwarks of continent and isle, seems irresistible and able to destroy the worlds foundation. Thus the ocean awakens in us feelings of dark mystery and grim power; the Infinite carries us off beyond the limits of familiar thought, and the sea becomes the home of fabled beings and weird images. All sea-shore countries teem with stories, legends and traditions; the fickle sea, the envious ocean, the fierce, hungry waves, the furious breakers, all become the repre- sentatives of so many human passions. Our fancy peoples the ocean with sweet, luring sirens, endowed with magic power to weave a spell and to draw the yielding mariner down to the green crystal halls beneath the waves. There sea-kings and morgana fairies live in en- chanted palaces; monsters of unheard size and shape ffit ghostlike through that 11 dark, mysterious realm, and huge snakes trail themselves slowly from their coiled sleep in the central deep, amidst all the dry pied things that.lie in the hueless mosses under the sea. The bewildered and astounded mind tries, in his own way, to connect the great phe- nomena of nature with his fate and the will of the Almighty. It sees in home- less, restless birds the harbingers of the coming storm, in flying fishes the spirits of wrecked seamen, and points to the Flying Dutchman and the Ancient Mari- ner as illustrations of the justice of Gods wrath. The strong mind, the believing soul, of course, shake off all such idle dreams and vain superstitions. To them the sea is the very source of energy and courage. The life at sen is a life of unceasing strife and struggle. Hence all sea-faring nations are warlike, fond of adventures, and poetical. But the seas greatest charm is, after all, its freedom. The free, unbounded ocean, where man feels no restraint, sees no narrow limits, where he must rely upon his own stout heart, strong in faith, where he is alone with his great Father in heaven, gives him a sense of his own freedom and strength like no other part of earth, and makes him return to the sea, its perils and suffer- ings, in spite of all the peace and hap- piness that the land can afford him. He knows that even if he dwell in the utter- most parts of the sea, even there shall His hand lead him and His right hand shall hold him. WINTER. COLD winds, whIte snow, Now rain, DOW blow, And chill the landscapes Autumn glow; The ice-bolts freeze The naked trees, And seal the old years obsequies I A leaden sky Droops heavily, As doll and glazed as dead mans eye; The sweeping clouds In cold, cold crowds, Enfold the day in ghastly shrouds I The woods lie bare, And here and there The grey moss hangs its mournful hair; The leaves that burned, Dy fierce winds spurned Lie mouldering mid the son inurnecL The sinewy vines In leafeless lines Hang sadly round the sombre pines: Through their festoons Ring solemn tunes, As weird as any northern runes. The day is cold, The earth is old, And mourns, its summers squandered gold. The birds are dumb, The springs are numb, Per winter in his might bath come I 12 [~. WAS NAPOLEON A DICTATOR? NTAPOLEON, it may be stated without IA venture, is one of those historical magnitudes, which attr& the renewed scrutiny, and periodicall1 revived atten- tion of successive ages. Does he also belong to those who present themselves for centuries in different phases, accord- ing to the different and characteristic elements which may be at work in the wrestling progress of the race to which they have belonged? Public men are open to the gaze of all; and people will have their opinions about them. We heard Niebuhr ex- claim: How true! How wise !, when on one of the high roads of Tyrol, we passed a house, over the door of which was painted the distich: wer da bauet no der Strassen, Muss die Leute reden lassen.* Nor must we forget the wise saying of Goethe, that it does not require an architect to live in a house. The greater a name is among those that are stamped as historical, the surer it is to be discussed and exsmined from various points of view, and to present itself in different lights and hues in the sequel of years. Indeed, may it not be said that, as it is one of the character- istics of a great soul, that it lives with- in itself the lives of many men; so it is the variety of phases which a name, an epoch, a nation, or an institution, pre- sents to succeeding generations, that con- stitutes one of the standards of histori- cal greatness? Like great books, new eras find something new in them, and they grow on mankind. Christ became man; as such, the greatest man, and his name presents itself in entiless phases to generation after generation. Timour and Attila did vast things for the times, but there is but one unchanging aspect in which they can be viewed. They were nothing but conquerors. Greece is studied with intenser zeal as our race advances, and always with the relish of a newly-discovered subject. Even the middle of the nineteenth century has pro- duced several important and elaborate histories of that brilliant star in history. Portugal had a brilliant period, too; but it is like one flash of light, and there it ends. No successive ages present it in a new aspect. The institutions of the Anglican race are an inexh~ustible theme of re- flection, and wou I be so for all ages to come, even if t .~is day the Americans and English were swept from the face of the earth. Russia is a vast empire. Qescribe it once with accuracy and trtith, or, when it will have crumbled into dust, let its rise and fall be carefully chronicled, and all is done that mankind stand in need of or will care for. Napoleon was a great man. Whether that whole phenomenon comprehended within the one name, Napoleon Bona- parte, will have in future ages the poly- phasial character which has just been spoken of, cannot be decided in our times, whatever the anticipations of present historians may be, according to the different bias of their minds. But the period is arriving when his history may be written. We are daily receding from his time, and ascending the summit from which the historian may calmly look around. It is not the contempora- ries that can write the history of a man or age. They can only accumulate ma- terials. Niebuhr wrote a wiser history of Rome than Livy; Grote, a deeper history of Greece than Thucydides or Herodotus. In the meantime, separate questions are to be answered; distinct subjects belonging to the great theme are gradually to be treated with more and more of that character with which, ultimately, his whole history must be handled. One of these questions is and it is a vital onewas Napoleon a dictator? Did he consciously concen- trate immense power, compress freedom of action in France, and conquer the European continent, merely to prepare a nobler and a permanent state of things? Did he sow and plant, or did he merely concentrate power, and, in doin 0so,de- stroy the germs of freedom? Did he treat liberty as merely in abeyance, while, nevertheless, he was fostering its germs, or did he induce a state of things, which, in the same degree as he succeeded, ex- tirpated freedom, and which in turn must be undone in the same degree in which liberty would struggle into existence? The Roman dictator was no annihilator. He received extraordinary, not ahsolute, power, for a limited period, in times of danger and difficulty, to help the wheels * He who builds where people walk, Mu~t allow the folk to talk.

12 [~. WAS NAPOLEON A DICTATOR? NTAPOLEON, it may be stated without IA venture, is one of those historical magnitudes, which attr& the renewed scrutiny, and periodicall1 revived atten- tion of successive ages. Does he also belong to those who present themselves for centuries in different phases, accord- ing to the different and characteristic elements which may be at work in the wrestling progress of the race to which they have belonged? Public men are open to the gaze of all; and people will have their opinions about them. We heard Niebuhr ex- claim: How true! How wise !, when on one of the high roads of Tyrol, we passed a house, over the door of which was painted the distich: wer da bauet no der Strassen, Muss die Leute reden lassen.* Nor must we forget the wise saying of Goethe, that it does not require an architect to live in a house. The greater a name is among those that are stamped as historical, the surer it is to be discussed and exsmined from various points of view, and to present itself in different lights and hues in the sequel of years. Indeed, may it not be said that, as it is one of the character- istics of a great soul, that it lives with- in itself the lives of many men; so it is the variety of phases which a name, an epoch, a nation, or an institution, pre- sents to succeeding generations, that con- stitutes one of the standards of histori- cal greatness? Like great books, new eras find something new in them, and they grow on mankind. Christ became man; as such, the greatest man, and his name presents itself in entiless phases to generation after generation. Timour and Attila did vast things for the times, but there is but one unchanging aspect in which they can be viewed. They were nothing but conquerors. Greece is studied with intenser zeal as our race advances, and always with the relish of a newly-discovered subject. Even the middle of the nineteenth century has pro- duced several important and elaborate histories of that brilliant star in history. Portugal had a brilliant period, too; but it is like one flash of light, and there it ends. No successive ages present it in a new aspect. The institutions of the Anglican race are an inexh~ustible theme of re- flection, and wou I be so for all ages to come, even if t .~is day the Americans and English were swept from the face of the earth. Russia is a vast empire. Qescribe it once with accuracy and trtith, or, when it will have crumbled into dust, let its rise and fall be carefully chronicled, and all is done that mankind stand in need of or will care for. Napoleon was a great man. Whether that whole phenomenon comprehended within the one name, Napoleon Bona- parte, will have in future ages the poly- phasial character which has just been spoken of, cannot be decided in our times, whatever the anticipations of present historians may be, according to the different bias of their minds. But the period is arriving when his history may be written. We are daily receding from his time, and ascending the summit from which the historian may calmly look around. It is not the contempora- ries that can write the history of a man or age. They can only accumulate ma- terials. Niebuhr wrote a wiser history of Rome than Livy; Grote, a deeper history of Greece than Thucydides or Herodotus. In the meantime, separate questions are to be answered; distinct subjects belonging to the great theme are gradually to be treated with more and more of that character with which, ultimately, his whole history must be handled. One of these questions is and it is a vital onewas Napoleon a dictator? Did he consciously concen- trate immense power, compress freedom of action in France, and conquer the European continent, merely to prepare a nobler and a permanent state of things? Did he sow and plant, or did he merely concentrate power, and, in doin 0so,de- stroy the germs of freedom? Did he treat liberty as merely in abeyance, while, nevertheless, he was fostering its germs, or did he induce a state of things, which, in the same degree as he succeeded, ex- tirpated freedom, and which in turn must be undone in the same degree in which liberty would struggle into existence? The Roman dictator was no annihilator. He received extraordinary, not ahsolute, power, for a limited period, in times of danger and difficulty, to help the wheels * He who builds where people walk, Mu~t allow the folk to talk. 185L5.] Was Napoleon a Dictator? of the State through a miry pass, and when the days of his power were over, he was responsible for his stewardship. The admirers of Napoleon, those that served him, and those who now worship his name, have ever striven to present him in this light. They felt instinctively that this was the only way of reconciling his acts with the great aim of our times. We are well aware that there are two other classes of Napoleonists. There are those who boldly assert that Napo- leon actually ruled France in a lieral spirit, and that freedom really was en- joyed under him; and there are those who, with still greater boldness, main- tain that France did not struggle for lib- erty in her first revolution, nor that she yearns for it now; that all she ever wanted is equality. This opinion was proclaimed at the time when the present emperor of the French was forging a new crown for himself, and new gyves for bleeding France. We have nothing to do with this species of Napoleonists. They are void of the shame of history, or else, not knowing it and its sacred character, they merely write to say something new and startling. We leave them and pass ~ The elder brother of Napoleon was not of their opinion. In many of his letters, written from his exile in the United States, he expresses the idea that Napoleon was a dictatora real lover of liberty, forced by foreign enemies to assume the sole power of the State; a power developed by the wars into which he was driven, to such an extent, that in a measure it overpowered himself. J0- seph Bonaparte has repeatedly expressed this idea, especially in an elaborate letter to Count Thibeaudeau, who had stated in his history, that Napoleon had caused France to retrograde in the path of lib- erty. But we must confess, that the idea of a dictatorship in Napoleon seems not to have been very clear in the mind of that able, benevolent, and otherwise clear-headed and liberal brother of the emperor ;* for, in the same letter to CoPnt Thibeaudeau, he shows that the dire idea of the C~sars, successfully revived with its blightiug associations, in our own times, was also floating in the mind of Joseph. He says: He (the emperor) has succumbed in the struggle. It is impossible to say what he would have done after Actium. I say whatI know. Impartial men, who have seen nothing but the internal facts, will say that probably Napoleon would have been as superior to Augustus, as he had been to Octavius; that a man of such a genius, would not have desired anything but what was meet for the French people; and that, if he were liv- ing now,t he would make France as happy by her institutions, as the fortu- nate country which I inhabita country which proves that liberal institutions make nations happy and wise. Yet this very Napoleon used to repeat: Everything for the people, nothing by the people. That same letter to Count Thibean- dean contains the remarkable sentence: Napoleon isolated himself much in France; people ended with no longer understanding what he was after. The studious reader will find this letter on page 820, of the tenth volume of the Memoirs and Correspondence, political as well as military, of King Joseph the last volume of which has just ap- peared in Paris. Joseph expresses similar views in a letter to Francis Lieber, which follows in the mentioned volume, immediately after that to Count Thibeaudeau. In- deed, he endorsed a copy of the latter in that to the former. We consider these two letters of great interest, if they are not important in point of historical facts. We shall give the translation of the one to Mr. Lieber, in this paper, feeling assured that its pe- rusal will prove the propriety of insert- ing it. When Lieber had resolved to write the Encycloptedia Americana, he wished to turn the presence of Napoleons brother in this country to good account, with reference to some disputed facts in the great period which had just ended, and regarding which Joseph Bonaparte had it in his power to give him light. He wrote, therefore, at once to Count Survilliers, asking him whether he would allow him occasionally to apply * General Lanl~rque, in a letter to Joseph, in which he enumerates all the good the latter had done to Naples, has this observation: Unable to establish political liberty, you endeavored to let your subjects en- joy all the benefits of a municipal government (a government of incorporated cities and the self-manage- snent of communes), which you considered as the foundation of all institutions. To have seen and done this, is, for a king and Frenchman of that time, and for a brother of Napoleon, more reputable than the gain of a victury. Every statesman will admit that this redounds to the highest honor of Josephs mind and character. 1 The letter is dated, Point.Breeze, 19th May, 1829. 14 Was Napoleon a Dictator? [Jan. to him for information concerning im- portant facts in his own, or his brothers lifc. The answer was friendly and lib- eral, and produced a correspondence, of which a number of letters are now in the hands of Lieber. Possibly they may be published. It seems that Joseph retained copies of all his letters; at any rate, a copy of the letter whieh has been mentioned must have been among the papers of the man, who, twice king, lived among us an esteemed and beloved citizen, full of unpretending and genuine kindness.* The emperor himself was desirous of having his reign considered as a dictator- ship. This was at least the case in his exile, where, as it is well-known, and was natural, he occupied himself much with his name and reputation as they would appear to posterity. On one oc- casion he observed: Some people have said that I ought to have made myself a French Washington. All that I was allowed to be was a crowned Washing- ton. For me to imitate Washington would have been a niaiserie. He meant, undoubtedly, that circumstances did not allow him to be a Washington. This is true; but it is equally true that he could never have been a Washington, whatever the circumstances might have been. There are no two men in the whole breadth of history more unlike to one another. Washingtons fellow star of the binary constellation is William of Nassau, the founder of the Netherlands republic, not Bonaparte, crowned or uncrowned. Napoleons and Washingtons minds and souls differed no less than their bodies. The one was wholly Anglican, or Teutonic; the other a very type of the Celtic or Iberian. The one great and noble as a calm and persevering man of duty; the other impetuous, and of flashy brilliancy. Washington has ever ap- peared to us as the historic model of sound common sense, and sterling judg- ment, coupled with immaculate patriot- ism. There was nothing brilliant in Washington, unless, indeed, the Fabian genius of unyielding perseverance in a high career, be called brilliant. Napo- leon, on the other hand is, possibly, the most brilliant character of all modern times. Glory was his very idol. Wash- ington was throughout his life a self- limiting man; Napoleon was ever a self- stimulating man. The fever of grandeur consumed him. Washington was obe- dient to the law, a law-abiding man if ever there was one; Napoleon con- stantly broke down the law when it ap- peare~ necessary to him, and it appeared to him often so. Washington aided in creating a new empire; Napoleon crea- ted, or aimed at creating a new state of things. Washington arose out of a struggle of independencca severance of colonies from a distant mother-coun- try; Napoleon arose out of a fearful in- ternal revolution. Washington is daily growing in the affection of history, and there is the most remarkable uniformity of opinion regarding his character; there is the greatest difference of opinion regarding Napoleons, and however many may admire him, no one loves him, ex- cept some survivors, who have received acts of personal kindness at his hands. No man ever loves power merely as power. We could not .even love God were He only almighty. Washington never persecuted; he imprisoned no opponent, banished no enemy, and when he died his hands were unstained like Pericles; Napoleon banished, imprisoned, and per- secuted, and developed a system of police, which must be called stupendous, on ac- count of its vastness, completeness, per- fection, power, and penetrating refine- menta system pressing to this day on France like an Alp, and which makes all that Aristotle writes on the police of usurpers appear as the veriest trash. The Dionysian sycophant was a poor bungler, compared to an agent of the French secret police; and, be it well remembered, this gigantic police system with the gendarmerie, and all the thou- sand ramifications, is essentially Napole- onic. It was developed in all its stifling grandear under him, and is, unfor * The writer well remembers with what simplicity Joseph would relate events of his life at the dinner table, often prefacing them with the words: when I was King of Naples, or Spain. One day, Mr. an old convention-man, who had left France, where he had been well acquainted with the Bonapartes, when Napoleon made himself consul for life, and had lived ever since in South America, dined at Point- Breeze. He called Joseph, Thou, in the old republican style; he spoke freely of Napoleon, and the courtesy of Joseph, somi~times as it seemed to us, fairly tried, appeared most charming, when, that evening, we bade Joseph good uight, he said: un moment, took the candle and showed us to our bed-room, we have often said, and mean it literally, that the two old men, personally most courteous, and put- ting a visitor most at ease, that we have ever known, were Joseph Bonaparte and General Jackson. It used to be a great enjoyment at Point-Breeze, to walk up and down the room with Joseph Bonaparte, and to hear from him those delightful anecdotes, which are to the philosophic historian or statesman like little delicate touches in a historic picture, or the nicely modulated accents of a great speaker on a greal qssea. tion. 1855.] Wa8 Napoleon a Dictator? 15 tunately, more truly his own, than the code which bears his name. Washington was strictly institutional in his character, and never dreamed of concentration of powei~. If Satan ever appeared to him showing him the glory and power of a kingdom on earth, it was buried in his noble breast, aud no act or word of his has ever shown even a struggle to beat down the tempter. Na- poleon had no instinct for institutional government whntever,* and con~tautly struck out new paths of brilliancy to make him and his people more glorious. Washington was a citizeu, aud states- man, a patriot and also a soldier; Napo- leon was soldier above all. He acknow- ledges it, aud is proud of it. To be the greatest captain was his greatest glory. We Americans acknowledge that Washington plainly served his country, to which he bowed as the great thing above him and above all; the greatest admirers of Napoleon say that soldiers, money, peoples, were in his hands but means to establish un~ 8y8t~me gran- diose.t Washington never was a dic- tator, and never aimed at a dictatorship; Napoleon claims the title to explain or excuse his despotism and centralism. Washington never compared himself to any one; Napoleon compares himself to him. Washingtons policy was strictly domestic, and in leaving public life he urges the abstaining from foreign policy as a most essential point in the whole American State-system. Napoleons po- licy became from year to year more fo- reign, until it ended almost exclusively in conquest, and an absolute supremacy of France, to which all else was sacri- ficed. Washington was a modest man; Napoleon looked upon himself as a sort of Fate. Washington was one of the beginners of the Revolution; Napoleon steps in when the revolution of his coun- try had already developed immense pow- ers and forces. Washington aimed at no elevation of his family, and dies a justice of the peace; Napoleon writes to Joseph: I want a family of kings (ii mefaut une famille de rois.) Washington divests himself of the chief magistracy, volunta- rily and gracefully, leaving to his people a document which after-ages honor like a political gospel; Napoleon, in his last days, is occupied with the idea of family aggrandixement, or with the means by which his house may be prevented from mingling again with common men. IDnr- ing his closing illness he directs General Bertrand to advise, in his name, the members of his family to settle chiefly in Rome, where their children ought to be married to the prineely families of the Colonnas, & c., and where some Bona- parte would not fail to become pope. Jerome and Caroline ought to reside in Switxerland, where, in Berne, they must establish themselves in the Swiss Oli- garchy, and where a landamman-ship~ would be certain to fall to the family; and the children of Joseph, should he remain in America, might marry into the great fa,nilies of the Washingtons and Jeffersons, and a Bonaparte would be- come President of the United Stntes. Washington was all that this country at the time required, and no more; he was thus, and remains, a political blessing to our country. Was Napoleon all that France required, and no more? Did the desires of his genius and his personal greatness not present themselves as France to his enormous mind? Even Louis Napoleon has said on his throne that his uncle, it must be owned, had loved war too much. Both Washington and Napeleon have been men of high action, and some points of similarity undoubtedly exist, but to find them is a work of ingenuity, rather than one that naturally presents itself to an ingenuous mind. * We take the word institution and institutional government in the sense in which it has lately been defined in Lebers Civil Liberty and Self-Government. 1 W or(ls of the editors of the Memoirs quoted before, and cited here hecause they only express what thousands say, and what pervades the whole ten volumes of imperial correspondence. 4: The Landamman of Switzerland is the chief magistrate. The word implies magistrate of the land. This extraordinary communication of the dying emperor to his family, will be found in the 10th volume of the mentioned memoirs, page 204, and sequel. It proves, in addition, how deplorably mistaken Napoleon frequently was on subjects, on which, nevertheless, he formed absolute opinions on which he acted. His opinions on England, her institutions and the facijity of her conquest, because the people would rush into his arms, against their own oligarchy, were frequently no less absurd than his Idea of les Washington et les Jefferson as families prisaci~res. That there are no families of the Washingtons and Jeffersons may be passed over, but who would ever dream of marrying into the family of the van Burens, Adamses, or Poiks tn order to increase the chance of come issue, to arrive at the White House? The whole is so chimerical, and built on so utterly unfounded an analogy, with a hastiness and violence, as it were, that it creates a feeling of discomfort to find that so great a man has been capable of harboring so pitiful an idea; a suspicion accompanies this feeling, that if he has erred so egregiously once, he may have been grievously mistaken at other times. Did he know more of the East than of us? It cannot be said that this extraordinary advice was owing to a failing mind. On the contrary, Bertrand, Montholon, and all the companions of Napoleon at St. Helena state, that his mind remained remarkably clear to the last day, and Bertrand states, that he repeatedly spoke of these family settlements. 16 Was Napole~m a Dictator 9 [Jan. If Napoleon really was a dictator, forced by France, or by foreign combi- nations to assume that characterif the establishment of liberty was a merely suspended work with him, we would find the element of freedom in his cha- racter and psychological configuration, at some time or other in his life. But the more closely we examine the charac- ter of that gigantic man, the more we become convinced that, as we~expressed it before, he was eminently destitute of a civic character. There was no ingre- dient of freedom in the brass of that co- lossus. He was bred a soldier; his youth was imbued with Rousseanism, as it has been called his early manhood, when his ideas became, to use one of his own favorite expressions, bien arr~ti, and his soul ripened, fell in a period at which popular absolutism was revelling in anarchy; all his instincts were towards the grand, the effective in history, with- out any reference to the solemn mean- ing of the individual, without which, real liberty cannot be imagined. We find, secondly, that in no case did he lay the foundation of institutions in which liberty may be said to have lain undeveloped, as the whole organism of the future independent individual is fore- shadowed in the fmtus, dependent though it be, for the time, upon the mother. We find that wherever he changed laws or institutions, established by the revo- lution, he curtailed, or extinguished lib- erty in them, substituting everywhere an uncompromising centralism. When Napoleon was liberal, we believe it will be generally found that it amounts ra- ther to thisthat he was not small, not mean. He was too great a man to be puny in any sphere; but we do not know that he ever acknowledged free- dom of action as a substantive thing, and independent of himself. Lastly, ii Napoleon really aimed at ultimate liber- ty, we must necessarily find some indi- cation that his measures were purely provisional, in his abundant correspond- ence with his brother Joseph, as given in the work repeatedly cited. We certainly do not agree with the dictum, that a man necessarily shows his character in the truest light in his letters. Many a genial man writes arid letters; many a morose husband writes affection- ately to his wife; many a liberal man writes as if he were penurious; but the many letters of Napoleon to his brother are written for the very purpose of un- parting his system to the brother he had just made a king, of communicating his ideas of statesmanship to him, and of informing him of the great ends of what we will call Napoleonism. We think that these lettera are invaluable as to a clearer understanding of Napoleon. The French editors justly consider them so; only, they and we differ regarding the opinions and ends of Napoleon, disclosed in this precious correspondencea col- lection, the like of which is not to be found in all history. No emperor like him ever wrote letters under such cir- cumstances to a cherished, though fre- quently abused brother of his. The his- torian cannot be sufficiently thankful that they have been preserved. What, then, was it that floated as the great ideal over the depth of his soul? What was the fundamental idea of which the honor of my crown, the glory of France, the grand nation, the grand empire, the grande arm~e, and all similar terms and things were but emanations I What was the grand systime que la divine Providence news a destin6 dfonder, as he calls it in the decree of the thirtieth of March, 1806, by which he recognizes his brother Jo- seph as King of Naples? Throughout his proclamations, laws, letters, and whole administration, we find a clear and determined hostility to the ancient system of feudal privileges, and of administrative corruption and mismanagement. We find a pretty clear idea of equality of all citizens before the law, and of their equal legal capacity to be called to the different public employ- ments. Joseph generally adds the de- struction of the influence of priests, but Napoleon took good care not to proclaim it, as indeed he often vaunts that he was the restorer of throne and altar. These ideas Napoleon had received from the revolution, and gradually he came to believe that the destruction of feudalism and the establishment of legal equality had been the sole object of notre 1~elle rivolution, as he called it on one occasion. The identical error has been expressed by Louis Napoleon, who, shortly before he ascended the tbrone, declared that there was not a single day during which he did not study the works of his uncle, and endeavored to mould all his ideas and measures in conformity with that great model. On another occasion, when he ushered in his new constitution, the imitative era- peror spoke of the great ginie, which, as by inspiration, had brought the true 1855.] Was Napoleon a Dictator? 11 and only national system for France, treating, at the same time, in terms of derogation and ridicule, all those who were of a different opinion, thus fore- stalling every idea of self-development from below upward. We do not believe in political Mahometanism. Napoleons hostility to Gothic insti- tutions extended to all institutions, if we understand by them, legal establish- ments, with an independent organism of life and progress within themselves. He became the very apostle of absorbing centralism, the declared and uncompro- mising enemy of self-government in all its details, to self-developmentin one word, to institutional, that is, to real liberty. We believe we are strictly cor- rect ia tl)i5 opinion, and if we are, it is obvious that Napoleon was anything but a dictator. He was an absolute ruler very brilliant, very great, and, for that reason, only the more absolute and dan- gerous, and he established and wished to establish absolutism, with unprivileged equality, in some degree, beneath it. Everything for the people, nothing by it. Napoleon unfortunately represent- ed, intensely and absolutely, the vanity of the French, which maintained that an entire new era must needs be ushered in, and be ushered in through the French, forgetting to do the needful round-about, and that no introducer of a new era, has ever said so of himself. Self-praise is ruinous in the individual; in history it is a proof of inefficiency regarding the object of self-praise. It is unnecessary to show here, how- ever instructive to the political philoso- pher it would be, how the very system pursued by Napoleon insensibly led him into many of the abuses of the decried feudalism, against which he set out. The military superiority, his re-establish- ment of fiefs, and of a nobility, chiefly founded on military merit, show this among many other things. Nor did his hostility to corruption remain more con- sistent. He hated the voleurs, the pecu- lators; but he allowed his generals to extort money in foreign parts, and he repeats, time after time, to Joseph, that he should enrich the generals, and see before all to the greatest possible well- being of the army, for both which pur- poses he must fs~apper is pays with a heavy contribution, and raise the taxes of Naples from fifty millions to at least a hundred millions. This is repeated again and again, for Joseph was slow in oppressing.* We do not believe that a candid and reflecting man can read the volumes of Napoleons correspondence, without coming to the conclusion, that with whatever ideas and intentions that ex- traordinary man may have set out, he ended as a worshipper of power, raising, as millions do in their different spheres, the means into the endthe great and ever-repeated fallacy of men and nations. The fundamental idea that the people are the substantive, and governments, systems, armies, nothing but means, wholly vanished from his mind. Force, power, glory, French glory, centered in him, came to be his idols; and soldiers, money, people, system, were mere means to serve them. We do not recollect in all these vo- lumes, one expression about the meliora- tion of the .people. If there be, it has escaped us. The constant advice, itera- ted to the satiety of the reader, is: ac- quireforee, so that the mh~hants fear, and the loyal esteem you. Strength is what makes the people esteem govern- ments, and love with nations only means esteem. These are his words. At this stage, it may well be asked~ was Napoleon a great statesman? Ev- ery one knows that he was a gifted poli- tician; but was lie a great statesman, taking this comprehensive term in the highest meaning which it has acquired? Great statesmanship, in the advanced state of our race, consists, in our opinion, of three main elementsof being what Schlegel said the true historian must be, namely, the prophet of the past ; secondly, of using the given means for the highest purposes; of evoking new means, and of effecting great things with small means; lastly, of so shaping all measures and organizing all institutions, that by their inherent character they will lead to a higher future, which, in the political sphere of all nations belong- ing to the European family, is liberty, or * The imperial notions of political economy, which, as it is welt known, were very uncouth, present them- selves in this correspondence, in a ludicrous light. Joseph constantly replied to Napoleons demands of higher taxes and heavy-contributions, that, so long as Sicily was not conquered, and peace established, all commerco was at an end, and the important products of the country, wine, oil, silk, and coarse cloth, would find no isotte. Whereupon Napoleon answers that Josephs reply amounted to nothing, for if the English blockade put a slop to all exports, it also prevented specie (ressssnaerccire) from leaving the country; what reason, then, was there that the government couid not get at this wealth? And he was in the habitof rIdi~ culing political economists I voL. v.2 18 Was Napoleon a Dicta~tor? [Jan. a higher and higher degree of freedom. Every political measure, no matter how brilliant;, that does not aim at this ulti- mate end, is but meteoric, passing, futile. The political destiny of all Europides is Freedom. It cannot be too often re- peated; and, as we believe that it is the destiny of this peculiar race to cover the earth, so we believe that the gospel and libertyare destined to spread over the globe, or, which amounts to the same, as Christianity and liberty are destined to be preached and worshipped one of these days, over the whole face of the earth, we believe that the Europides will cover all lands. Now, Napoleon was totally deficient in that element of high statesmanship of the white race, which has been men- tioned as the third. He quieted France, he developed many resources, he estab- lished order in many cases, he concen- trated, he stimulated, he ruled many minds, and attached them to himself, as Mahomet did, in a wonderful degree. Napoleon knew how to give the electric shock to large massesa sure attribute of greatness. He was brilliant beyond any man of his and many other ages; but, with all this, he unfitted France for political self-evolvement, for a real inter- nal productive life, for freedom, and, in exactly the same degree as he succeeded, so he made it necessary for her to re- trace her steps, and to undo what he had done, would she attain to liberty. As a matter of course, the same is proportion- ally true of the present emperor, whose avowed object it is, as we have seen, to Napoleonize France once more. Napo- leons government was not, and never was intended to be a mere bridge to a better state of things. If it had been, we must consider him a man much infe- rior to what we have been accustomed to consider him; for in that case, he has chosen means contrary to his ends. Was Napoleon a great statesman with reference to that characterestic which we have given as the first? Did he find the blue thread of French history? Our preceding remarks show that we do not believe he has. - And now as a last question connected with our theme, we may ask :~Was, then, Napoleon not the greatest man of all history? Was he not, at least, the greatest man of modern times, or of the laat~ five centuries? Not only many Freneh~ but even many others, consider him tl~ greatest man of all ages. We believe that they are blinded by the magnifying power of historical nearness, or else they take the word greatness in a different sense from what we do. What constitutes a great man? Greatness implies elevation of soul and nobleness of mind, above common influences; but so soon as we apply the word great to individual charactersto the artist, the author, the captain, the statesman or the religionist, we always mean conception and production on a large scale and of a high order, combined with masterly executionwe mean action, not merely vast, but high, wide and of permanent effect. Erostratus was no great man, though his name is men- tioned to this day. He is a great man that produces with means insignificant in the hands of others, comprehensive effects; that discovers a continent in a crazy craft. He is greater that becomes the representative of his age and utters forth clearly and boldly the unspoken and discomforting yearn- ings of his own timeswho delivers his age of new ideas, and aids them to struggle into institutional existence and permanency; he is the greatest who adds to this the perfection of wholly new ideas and instils them into his age, and who organizes for the advent of a new future. The greater a man is the more he impresses, with his stamp, not only the people of his own period, but through it all future times. The deeper you study history the surer you find the truly great man and his era like threads interwoven in the tissue of the whole successive history of their race or nation. There is yet Miltiades in the atmosphere we breathe in this country, and there is Alfred in our daily doings. With reference to this subject, and speaking exclusively as historians, we call Christ the greatest man. His means were the smallest, his conceptions the greatest, his imprints the deepest, his effects the vastest, the changes he produced the most searching and es- sential. The merest deist, the total disbeliever in Christs gospel, must ac- knowledge it as a historical fact, pro- vided he be a candid and a studious historian. If we apply these tests, it does not appear why Alexander was not at least as great as Napoleon, in conceptions as well as in doing comprehensive things with small means. As a captain, was Hannibal not as great? What, in- deed, makes Mohammed less great than 1855.] Wa8 Napoleon a Dtctator? 19 him? As a ruler over a new empire Char- lemagne was greater. He was greater, too, as a seminator and preparer for new times. Aristotle, Pope Gregory the Sevenththat ecclesiastic Cmsar; Luther and Shakespeare were greater men in conceiving, imprinting and plant- ing. In taking either of them out of the history of our race, it would be far more changed than by striking out the name of Napoleon. They have tinctured all history; they have added elements which work and expand. Napoleon has not. Even if the renewed empire were to last, which assuredly it will not, what advancing ideas does it add to the cultural treasures of our race? what institutions? Absolut4sm is barren. It produces great battles and great palaces. The whole system of what Lieber calls Anglican liberty is actually expanding and spreading without any ingredient of Napoleonism. Where are the vaunted id~ies Napolionienne8? The Frenchman may connect some idea of great enterprises with this terman artificial harbor at Cherbourg, a road ever the Simplonnoble undertakings, but not as great as our ideas of a ship- canal across the Isthmus or a railway to California; still they are worthy enter- prises, but where does the impartial historian find something he can call une id~e Napol~onienne, and put the mark on it so that it can be recognized by all. We fear it will be found that every- thing truly deserving the name of an idie Napol~onienne, relates to stringent centralism, uniting, with the utmost pre- cision, the administrative and executive power of a vast country in the hands of one brilliant man-one of the weakest governments, as history has shown; and well may Count Tribeaudean say to Joseph, that certain it is~ Napoleon fell with his centralism, but it is not proved that the same would have befallen him with a truly representative governtnent. From all we have said it will amply appear that we no way agree with those who deplore the fall of Napoleon, as an irreparable loss for the people. The conduct of the monarchs who dethroned him led the people to sigh for the absent one, for his oppression was not felt when theirs pinched; but the acts of the succeeding governments alter nothing in the deeds and tendency of the emperor. His brilliant, crushing despot- ism was worse, and whether or not, his downfall was necessary if Europe was to march towards liberty. If new difficul- ties have arisen, they must be overcome, but they change nothing in the necessity of his downfall. We consider it pitiful to side in the present conflict with the Russians, because, forsooth, we do not like the Turks. The Turks will one day be driven from Europe, and ought to meet that fate, but Russian despotism and arrogance must not on that account be allowed to swell without repulse. The fall of Napoleon was simply a histo- rical bonsistency and necessity. The following is the translation of the letter we have promised to the reader. Letter of Count Survillier (Joseph Bonaparte) to Francis Lieber. Point Breeze,* 1st July, 1859. I have only this day received your letter of the 22d of June, on my return from a journey of several days to New York. I have read the article which you have sent me; I return it immedi- ately as you desire. The number of works on the emperor Napoleon is so large; that the catalogue of them alone would be a work; you know many of them. I have under my eyes a work, entitled Comment ctrii di Napoleone, printed at Brussels in 1827, which is not mentioned in the list I return to you; nor is the work of Botta mentioned; both are written in Italian. Among the works enumerated in the note in question, there are many which are evidently libels, payed for by the ene- mies of the revolution and the empire. There are othersworks of passions dictated by disappointment and spite. Those of the writers of St. Helena themselves, contain details evidently false; but they represent, in mass, suffi- ciently well the general views of the emperor Napoleon. When these authors speak of individuals, and when they write memoirs, they deceive themselves occasionally. I have the positive proof, regarding that which concerns myself, in several cases. I have sent such evidence at the time even to Mr. Las Casas. The work of general Petet, is that which seems to me to deserve the greatest con- fidence. The younger S6gur has evi- dently had in view to reconcile himself with the new court; grandsott of the marshal S6gur, who was minister of war * Near Bordertown, New Jersey. 20 Was Napoleon a Dictator P [Jan. to Louis the Sixteenth, his intention has been to make people forget how devoted he and his father have been to the em- peror Napoleon when l)owerful, & c. Walter Scott has written for the English government, from sources furnished by the government which followed that of the emperor Napoleon. The abb6 de Montgaillard is an avowed enemy of the revolution and of Napoleon: the me- moirs of Fouch6 are apocryphal, ad- judged to be such by the courts of jus- tice. Tribeaudean, convention-man and Thermidorian, strives to attribute t.o Na- poleon steps the m9st retrograde, which the terror of the convention and the semi-royal terror that followed upon the 9th of Thermidor, had caused revolution- ary France to make. Napoleon found France in a delirium; he endeavored to preserve her from the anarchy of 1793, and from the counter-revolution; he floated with France in the middle of the wrecks of all parties, seeking to avoid all the rocks, making himself the slave of no party, in order to avoid making himself the enemy of all the others; obeying that, which in his conscience he believed to be the wants and wishes of France, which desired equality and liber- ty compatible with civilization. She felt, like himself, that these benefits (which we see nowhere but in this new world), would be enjoyed only, with a general peaceat the end of thatijiter- ininable war which had necessitatedhis dictatorship, never of a tyrannical cha- racter, but called by the foreign enemies and men of a superficial mind, the impe- rial despotism. That Napoleon had well understood the national will, is suffi- ciently proved to posterity by his mira- culous return from Elba. But the En- glish cabinet has always opposed the cessation of this despotism in fanning the war, which obliged Napoleon to adopt all possible forn~s to reconcile the gov- ernments of continental Europe with France. All that Napoleon has done, his nobility, which was uot feudal, his family relations, his legions of honor, his new kingdoms & c., he was obliged to do; the English have always forced him to do that which he has done, so that he might place himself in apparent har- mony with all the gover~lnents which he had conquered, and wh ~h he wished to wrest from the seductions of England. The struggle has been long; England has derived advant~tge from the character of the emperor Alexander, who gave way ;* from that of the emperor of Austria; and the oligarchy of Vienna, of Moscow, coalesced themselves with that of London. They triumphed at last over Napoleon, over France, in sacrificing the future in- terests of the peoples, and the reigning houses of Europe, who had endedt in accommodating themselves to the con- stitutions in which the peoples and the kings would have found their advan- tages. Some hundred aristocratic fami- lies alone would have experienced some loss for the moment; and they would have found a ju~t indemnity in the favor of their prince, in the public welfare, which would have been the result of an order of things, ordained by the degree of civilization to which we have attained. The good people of Germany have been misled, and England, at the moment of succumbing to the continental system, rose again by throwing down her enemy through the hands of the nations and kinas that ought to have considered Napoleon and France (as things then stoodt) as the saviours, the moderators of the destinies of Europe, longing for legal equality, constitutional liberty, re- ligious freedom, and a permanent peace, independent of the hordes of the north and the Gothic prejudices of the nobles and priests of the middle ages. Napo- leon had taken the words to destroy the things ; he often said to me: I stand in need of yet ten years to give complete libevty. He was the scholar of Plato and the pi~dlosophers, and yet he frequently repeate4: I do not what I wish, but that which I can do; these English force me to live from day to day.ff He stood in need of ten years of general peace. But I perceive that my answer is be- coming a book,J write to you without preparation, as I would speak to you. I send you, as to myseig the only docu- ments which I acknowle~lge as true, the biographical articles published in Europe are dictated by ignorance or pas- sion. All the letters written by Joseph to the same correspondent, contain the re- peated expressions of ~he same views * The original is: Alexandre, qus sestfatigu~. 1 The original has, qui avaientftn tper saceorder. Probably the writer of the letter meant auraieeesl. ~ Aux termes o~ elic (Ia France) en 6tait. ~ Napoleon avait pris les mots i)our d~truire lee choses. cee Anglais me forcent ~ vivro an jour le jour. 1855.] Was Napoleon a Dictator? 21 and the reiterated statements of Napo- leons words regarding the necessity of doing things which were not in his system, because the English forced him thus to act. The sad necessity in which he considered himself placed, to visre aujour lejour, seems to have been frequently expressed in these very words by him to his older brother. The reader will recollect the emperors words when urged by the Poles, after the defeat of the Prussians, in 1806, to re-establish the independence of Poland. I am no god, he said, I am not doing that which I would, but only that which I can do. Joseph told us once that several times, when the emperor had severely and even passionately rated some persons, he would say, when alone with his brother, I must thus, always wear a mask. If I do not show myself farouche, on such occasions, everything would go wrong. Another time Joseph told us that at dinner, the conversation had turned on the subject of ambition and glory. Joseph had stoutly main- tained that he cared nothing for all this, and that true hapl)iness consisted in the peaceful enjoyment of life, remote from the anxieties of ambition. What is it to me, Joseph had observed, that people mention my name after I am gone I Napoleon took umbrage at this, and after the company had dispersed, informed his brother that he did not desire him to repeat such discourse. All that Joseph had said might be very well for a philosopher, but that Napo- leons duty was to conquer victories and that, in accordance he must de- velop the most ambitious spirit. I want men to consider it their hhrhest glory to die on the battle-field, he said. At some future period your views may obtain a proper place. These things are mentioned here, sim- ply as facts. The historian and states- man must weigh and probe them, as, indeed, they must do with this entire letter, which at any rate is a remarkable document, even if it be taken in its nar- rowest possible limits; namely, as the expression of those views with which the brother of Napoleon, who had been the recipient of the emperors confi- dence, desired to impress an individual with whom Joseph was pleased to cor- respond. To examine and criticise this letter, would require a work of commentaries on the whole career of the emperor. Nothing of the kind can be possibly expected here. We close our paper, adding but one remark on an expression of Josephs, which, even in an off-hand letter, seems to be surprising. The writer says: Napoleon was the scholar of Plato and the philosophers (~tait ~l~ve de Platon et des philosophes). We do not understand this sentemice, even if it were meant in the most hy- perbolical sense. A scholar of Pla~ o? Of what work of Plato? Of his 1~e- public? Napoleon took, as is known, every occasion of expressing his bond .ftde detestation and hatred of the ideologues, as he called, in a bunch all philosophers; and Plato, assuredlj was idiologue, if any one was. In one of his letters to Joseph, then king of Na- ples, and which is published in the very collection from which the foregoing translation has been made, he distinctly and very positively enjoins his brother, to discountenance all hommes de lettres, gens desprit, and philosophers; telling him that they are nothing but coquettes. Napoleon was so positive on this point, that he may be said to have established a sort of school in this sense. No one who has lived any time in France can have helped observing what a deep- rooted contempt for legistes (lawyers), philosophers, and orators, pervades the army and all true Napoleonists. A common dinner conversation with an officer is almost sure to bring it out. It was so at the time of Napoleon, arid has ever since been so. The complaints of the arrogance of the army were universal in the reign of Napoleon. It had become an intolerable military aris- tocracy. Napoleon ended with falling into an idolatry of power, and consider- ing the profession of the soldier le plus noble de tous les m~tiers, as he calls it in one of his letters; he forgot or he had never a true perception of the simple fact, that of all the mighty things, the mnightiest, the sovereigns of the earth, are Will, Love, and Thought.* He ac- knowledged the first. Did he acknow- ledge the two others of the triumvirate? Louis the Fourteenth was, at least in the shrewdness of perceiving the power of the sword and the pen, his superior. He took great care to conciliate the latter. * Since this article was written, the author has met wmth the fomlowing passage in Mr. crowss History of the Reigns of Louis xviii. and charmes X., London 1854: But the inure perfectly France became organized and disciplined for war and domination, the more unfit 22 [Jan. THE OLD SCULPTOR AND HIS PUPIL. ~AN we wonder Donatellos eyes were dim with blissful tears, ~ When, a thing of perfect beauty, stood the dream of earlier years, Crowning all his wildest longingsstifling een his lightest fears? Waking wild ideal yearnings, weary years the dream had lain Gathring ever strength and beauty in the artists haunted brain, Till excess of wondrous sweetness made it almost seem like pain. And, at last, its fit expression in some outward type it sought Beauty thrilling all the pulses, lonely days and nights he wrought, And full well 1~e Inner Vision had the pallid marble caught. Calm it stooda statued image of the young impassioned saint, On whose mortal beauty lingered not the shade of mortal taint, To whose mortal eyes heavens vision seemed no longer dim and faint. And the passing shadows flitting lightly oer the earnest face, On each youthful, godlike feature left a strangely living trace, Till it seemed St. George was standing in the passive marbles place. Yet, methinks, oer something nobler might those wayward shadows glide, On a beauty, higher, rarer, well contented might they bide, When another, rapt, before it, stood by Donatellos side. He was one among his pupils, scarce to manhood-summer grown, All his flowers in Fames bright chaplet were, as yet, but buds unblown; Yet the master felt their blooming would be brighter than his own. For there seemed ar6nnd his forehead and within his eye to glow Visions far more deep and wondrous than eer sculptors hand might know; All too grand for outward semblance were thy visions, Angelo! And behind the noblest figure, born beneath thy potent hand, Still in wondrous, mocking beauty, shall a something nobler stand Shadowy, as the forms upspringing neath some dread magicians wand. Then upon that lofty forehead, Cares rude fingers had not wrought, Not as yet his iron sternness had those proud, dark features caught ; Dreaming boy was he who stood there, rapt in deep and silent thought. Naywhat thinkst thou I said the master, seems it not almost divine I In his eye the glow of genius seemed with clearer light to shine, As he answered, Only one thing does it lack,this work of thine. did it become to establish its influence peaceably and permanently over that Europe which it had conquered. Por, thanked be Providence and civilization, there are no rights which have been so modified and curtailed as those of conquest. Of old the victor might make of the vanquished his slave, and partition his territory to new holders. nut the days of exterminating a people, of enslaving or dispossessing them, are past. The race and the soil remain, and the victors must devise some means of satisfying the wants, and even the pride of the vanquished; for the rule of brute intimidation is far too ineffectual and costly. Had the French Revolution achieved wide conquest, however turbulent and irregular its rule, in foreign countries, it would at least have found friends amongst the classes it emancipated, and by degrees it would have succeeded in the formation of allied States, republics like itself. But a military chief and an embryo emperor, command. lug the French soldiers, and through them master of the State, saw or would see nothing in other nations hut monarch like himself. With these alone he would negotiatethese alone conciliate or court. Napoleon, from character as well as position, was fitted to enact this part of the mere crowned head. His early ex. perience made him acquainted with all that was abhorrent and impuissant in Democracy. He thus learnt to ignore the existence of a people altogether. His political optics were so formed as exclusively to discern princes and courts and armies. He neither knew what the word people meant, nor the worth nor the powex which it lmpli~d.

22 [Jan. THE OLD SCULPTOR AND HIS PUPIL. ~AN we wonder Donatellos eyes were dim with blissful tears, ~ When, a thing of perfect beauty, stood the dream of earlier years, Crowning all his wildest longingsstifling een his lightest fears? Waking wild ideal yearnings, weary years the dream had lain Gathring ever strength and beauty in the artists haunted brain, Till excess of wondrous sweetness made it almost seem like pain. And, at last, its fit expression in some outward type it sought Beauty thrilling all the pulses, lonely days and nights he wrought, And full well 1~e Inner Vision had the pallid marble caught. Calm it stooda statued image of the young impassioned saint, On whose mortal beauty lingered not the shade of mortal taint, To whose mortal eyes heavens vision seemed no longer dim and faint. And the passing shadows flitting lightly oer the earnest face, On each youthful, godlike feature left a strangely living trace, Till it seemed St. George was standing in the passive marbles place. Yet, methinks, oer something nobler might those wayward shadows glide, On a beauty, higher, rarer, well contented might they bide, When another, rapt, before it, stood by Donatellos side. He was one among his pupils, scarce to manhood-summer grown, All his flowers in Fames bright chaplet were, as yet, but buds unblown; Yet the master felt their blooming would be brighter than his own. For there seemed ar6nnd his forehead and within his eye to glow Visions far more deep and wondrous than eer sculptors hand might know; All too grand for outward semblance were thy visions, Angelo! And behind the noblest figure, born beneath thy potent hand, Still in wondrous, mocking beauty, shall a something nobler stand Shadowy, as the forms upspringing neath some dread magicians wand. Then upon that lofty forehead, Cares rude fingers had not wrought, Not as yet his iron sternness had those proud, dark features caught ; Dreaming boy was he who stood there, rapt in deep and silent thought. Naywhat thinkst thou I said the master, seems it not almost divine I In his eye the glow of genius seemed with clearer light to shine, As he answered, Only one thing does it lack,this work of thine. did it become to establish its influence peaceably and permanently over that Europe which it had conquered. Por, thanked be Providence and civilization, there are no rights which have been so modified and curtailed as those of conquest. Of old the victor might make of the vanquished his slave, and partition his territory to new holders. nut the days of exterminating a people, of enslaving or dispossessing them, are past. The race and the soil remain, and the victors must devise some means of satisfying the wants, and even the pride of the vanquished; for the rule of brute intimidation is far too ineffectual and costly. Had the French Revolution achieved wide conquest, however turbulent and irregular its rule, in foreign countries, it would at least have found friends amongst the classes it emancipated, and by degrees it would have succeeded in the formation of allied States, republics like itself. But a military chief and an embryo emperor, command. lug the French soldiers, and through them master of the State, saw or would see nothing in other nations hut monarch like himself. With these alone he would negotiatethese alone conciliate or court. Napoleon, from character as well as position, was fitted to enact this part of the mere crowned head. His early ex. perience made him acquainted with all that was abhorrent and impuissant in Democracy. He thus learnt to ignore the existence of a people altogether. His political optics were so formed as exclusively to discern princes and courts and armies. He neither knew what the word people meant, nor the worth nor the powex which it lmpli~d. 1855.J Professor Phantillo. 23 One thing lacks it !did not matchless stand that form of youthful grace? Could more firm and high endeavor leave round lips of marble trace? Could more pure and saint-like passion light that pale and upturned face ?.. Neer a fault could he discover there, to mar its perfect claim, Though anew he searched and pondered often as again there came, Grown each year a heavier burden, tales of Buonarottis fame. And, in sooth, a heavy burden it had grown to be that dny, When he knelt beside the pallet where the pale old sculptor lay Waiting patiently the moment death should bear his soul away. Patientyet, within his spirit seemed some vexing thought to bide, For amid his dying murmurs, What lacks it? faint he sighed2 Only speech! said Buonarotti.With a smile the old ni~in died. Only speech! 0 mighty spirit! who through time didst nobly send, Thoughts whose grandeur lower natures rather guess than comprehend, With what earthly mould or being eer may perfect utterance blend! All our loftiest thoughts and visions seem, for want of language, lost ;. Longingly we read the story of the tongues of flame which crossed, Lips of fervid Gallileans on the day of Pentecost. All the Holy Spirit tells us we may never hope to teach, Little of the hearts affection lips or eyes can ever reach ; .Miore than Donatellos statue do our stammering tongues need speech. PROFESSOR PHANTILLO. A ROMANCE OF THE WATER CURE. CHAPTER I. PROFESSOR PHANTILLO was, and I presume still is, an astrologer. His advertisements, which ornamented the newspapers a year ago, told the public in what esteem he was held by the kings and potentates of the old world, who consulted him on all important occasions with astonishing success. Why this favorite of royalty should wish to estab- lish himself in the shire-town of Bear- brook in New Englandor why his august disciples should suffer him to come, if he didwere questions to which the advertisements aforemen- tioned afforded no response. The particular service rendered by this illustrious stranger to my uncle, Major Wherrey, being rather paternal than astrological in its character, need be preceded by no inquiry concerning the claims of that occult science which yet finds many dupes in the midst of our boasted enlightenment. Now, my uncle, Major Wherrey, was a very thin gentleman, with queer little eyes and still droller mouthnot at all like the engraving of the picture in pos- session of the Bearbrook High Art Asso- ciation, which serves (or should serre) as frontispiece to the history. A con- stitutional shynessor, as he chose to call it, an elegant fastidiousnessprevented my uncle from relishing the society of ladies; so that his forty-second birth- day found him in celibacy, and chaxm. bered in the city of New York. Of the particular nature of the festivi- ties that distinguished this annual corn- inemoration, I am unfortunately ignorant never having been invited to assist thereat; and, as the present narrative has only to do with facts, I decline con- sulting my fancy, or even the doctrine of probabilities, for a sketch of the occasion. It is sufficient to conclude the intro- ductory chapter (which, in my opinion, should be devoted to telling the reader who people arewhether they figure immediately or not) with a statement to the following effect. The mornix~g

1855.J Professor Phantillo. 23 One thing lacks it !did not matchless stand that form of youthful grace? Could more firm and high endeavor leave round lips of marble trace? Could more pure and saint-like passion light that pale and upturned face ?.. Neer a fault could he discover there, to mar its perfect claim, Though anew he searched and pondered often as again there came, Grown each year a heavier burden, tales of Buonarottis fame. And, in sooth, a heavy burden it had grown to be that dny, When he knelt beside the pallet where the pale old sculptor lay Waiting patiently the moment death should bear his soul away. Patientyet, within his spirit seemed some vexing thought to bide, For amid his dying murmurs, What lacks it? faint he sighed2 Only speech! said Buonarotti.With a smile the old ni~in died. Only speech! 0 mighty spirit! who through time didst nobly send, Thoughts whose grandeur lower natures rather guess than comprehend, With what earthly mould or being eer may perfect utterance blend! All our loftiest thoughts and visions seem, for want of language, lost ;. Longingly we read the story of the tongues of flame which crossed, Lips of fervid Gallileans on the day of Pentecost. All the Holy Spirit tells us we may never hope to teach, Little of the hearts affection lips or eyes can ever reach ; .Miore than Donatellos statue do our stammering tongues need speech. PROFESSOR PHANTILLO. A ROMANCE OF THE WATER CURE. CHAPTER I. PROFESSOR PHANTILLO was, and I presume still is, an astrologer. His advertisements, which ornamented the newspapers a year ago, told the public in what esteem he was held by the kings and potentates of the old world, who consulted him on all important occasions with astonishing success. Why this favorite of royalty should wish to estab- lish himself in the shire-town of Bear- brook in New Englandor why his august disciples should suffer him to come, if he didwere questions to which the advertisements aforemen- tioned afforded no response. The particular service rendered by this illustrious stranger to my uncle, Major Wherrey, being rather paternal than astrological in its character, need be preceded by no inquiry concerning the claims of that occult science which yet finds many dupes in the midst of our boasted enlightenment. Now, my uncle, Major Wherrey, was a very thin gentleman, with queer little eyes and still droller mouthnot at all like the engraving of the picture in pos- session of the Bearbrook High Art Asso- ciation, which serves (or should serre) as frontispiece to the history. A con- stitutional shynessor, as he chose to call it, an elegant fastidiousnessprevented my uncle from relishing the society of ladies; so that his forty-second birth- day found him in celibacy, and chaxm. bered in the city of New York. Of the particular nature of the festivi- ties that distinguished this annual corn- inemoration, I am unfortunately ignorant never having been invited to assist thereat; and, as the present narrative has only to do with facts, I decline con- sulting my fancy, or even the doctrine of probabilities, for a sketch of the occasion. It is sufficient to conclude the intro- ductory chapter (which, in my opinion, should be devoted to telling the reader who people arewhether they figure immediately or not) with a statement to the following effect. The mornix~g 24 Professor Phantillo. [Jan. succeeding the Majors party found him prostrate and headachy upon a sofa, en- deavoring to extract some comfort from the columns of a weekly journal. The very thing, by Jove 1 exclaimed my uncle, as he read an advertisement headed Granville County Water-Cure. The very thing! P11 go imme- diately I CHkPTER II. A WRITER who is concise and intelligi- ble in the first charter, has surely earned the right to a little episodical description in the secondof which allowed title advantage is thus taken. A water-cure! Who does not remem- ber the mixture of surprise and incredu- lity, with which he first heard the name! What sexagenarian invalid does not re- call the glow caused by the first reading of Bulwers panegyric upon the new remedial agent! An unhappy man he was, if his literary cravings happen-ed to take him to the Medical Reviews after having perused this delicious publication. In their conservative pages, he found the professors of the new art placed in the same category with the proprietors of all-healing sarsaparillas or vegetable pills. The short dream of a perfect restora- tion to all bodily and mental vigorthat fair palace of perpetual healththat the brilliant novelist had conjured up, was suddenly assailed by the harsh words humbug, self-delusion, quackery, and such other vituperative missives as the professional batteries afforded. Yet, in spite of the extravagant lauda- tion of enthusiasts, and the vigorous attacks of opponents, the establishments for the practice of the new system have steadily increased among us; till the discovery of Preissnitz, with certain mo- difications, is almost universally allowed to be of service in many cases of chronic disorder. It is hardly just, however, to attribute the number and thriving condition of the Hydropathic institutions by which we are surrounded, to the wonders wrought by the simple agency of water. A great part of their success is doubtless owing to the love of that easy, independent intercourse with one another, which crowds Saratoga and Newport, and has made the boarding-house an Ameri- can institution. There is always an ex- cuse for passing a few weeks at a Water- Cure, which must be inconveniently stretched to apply to Fabians, or the Mountain House at Catskill. To the former we are driven, not by inclination, but misfortune. A gentlemans business connections have no cause to complain a ladys household duties may with propriety be left to take care of them- selveswhen the great necessity of health demand their absence. There are other circumstances that make these establishments a favorite retreat for a large class of our restless population. The moderate cost of such a sojourn in some pleasant part of tho country, in comparisou with a visit to the Lakes or Niagarathe complete ab- solution from the daily penance of dress- ingand, above all, the perfect equality in the state and position of each occu- pantare, to the great mass of migratory citizens, very positive advantages. Why, the fact is, says young Wil- kinson (he who lost so heavily a few years ago, by the failure of a noted firm in this city), the fact is, that at New- port, where I formerly passed the sea- son, I should now be positively nobody! There are plenty of fellows whose kids and broadcloth, not to speak of turn- outs, it would be impossible for me to equal, whereas, by going through the water cure, I can flourish and flirt in dressing-gown and slippers, and get up quite as pleasant an understanding with a damsel in a calico morning-gown, with hair damp and dishevelled by frequent ablutions, as if we were mutually booted and laced to the most orthodox pattern. The recent visit of my uncle to one of the most famous of these establishments, has given me a particularity of informa- tion concerning the details of water- cure life, that, under other circumstances could. only be attained by a personal residence. It has always been the habit of Major Wherrey to keep a daily diary to the end, that should he by some un- forseen event blaze into notoriety, there may not be wanting the materials for a biography sufficiently copious to satisfy his warmest admirer. A great amount of blotted manuscript was recently pre- sented me by the good gentleman, ac- companied by the same friendly permis- sion with which people who have been restored to health by some elixir or cordial, conclude their certificates namely, that they might be put to any use likely to benefit the proprietor. From these inky fountains, the stream of this narrative derives its source 1855.] Issor Phantillo. 25 some tributaries may help to increase its bodybut the main supplies I here open- ly acknowledge. CHAPTER m. A FAVORABLE first impression is of ac- knowledged importance in reconciling us to places or people. in our younger days we may, indeed, recover from the shock of seeing a fine view in a thunder storm, or of failing to recognize some shabby little gentle- man as the favorite poet, whose intel- lectual visage had beamed at us from the first page of his published produc- tions. But in mature life, the loss of impulse is supplied by the compara- tive duration of the feeling excited; and it must be regarded as a happy circum- stance when a middle-aged bachelor, an imaginary or real invalid, on arriving at the place where he has determined to make a considerable stay, discovers that matters are reasonably to his liking. Such a satisfaction did my uncle ex- perience on reaching the Granville County Water-Cure. The house, to be sure, had rather a patched effect, for nearly every water-cure was originally designed for something else, and had been through various processes of en- largement and adaptation. But the inside seemed quiet and cheerful, and looked remarkably unlike a hotel. The existence of any peculiar aquatic privi- leges would never have been suspected by a transient visitor; for baths of every description were banished to the cellar, where they kept company with an im- mense tank, whose calm dark surface was strongly suggestive of mosquitoes. Whether these annoying insects were actually generated in this lower region could never be fully determined; but that they appeared up stairs in goodly numbers, is a fact concerning which my uncle is peculiarly positive. The chambers were small and low, as they must necessarily be where many are to be accommodatedbut the archi- tect, with the view of providing a suffi- ciency of oxygen, as well as mitigating the evils of solitude, placed ventilators over all the doors, by which means my kinsman was kept pleasantly informed of the affairs of his neighbors, and lis- tened to many profitable strictures upon himself. It is not until the first breakfast that the stranger sees the full corps of pa- tients among whom he is to take his place. Then, they all enter fresh and rosy from an early walk, where has been dispersed that silent misanthropy which usually characterizes the first hour after rising. There is certainly a republican mix- ture of the different varieties of the human race. The pale and the florid, the fastidious and the gossiping, the judge, the colonel, and the author, all mingle together as the black and white spirits are instructed to do about the witches cauldron. Among the ladies the variety is no less striking. First, there is the pleasant, chatty little person, whose toilet, manners, and conversation, may be described by the newspaper phrase very neat. Opposite are se- veral damsels of the intensely natural and unaffected school. These are the young ladies who are afraid of nobody, despise all sentiment, and can talk about fast horses and fancy drinks. Next, come some representatives of a different order, who manage to smile a little, occasion- ally screw up their courage sufficiently to ask for the butter, and secretly envy the ease and volubility of their neighbors. Besides these, there is a dowager, who sparkles with breast-pins and showy rings, and a young lady or two, who, not being patients, and consequently allowed to rise when they please, steal to their places with that guilty look that the con- sciousness of having overslept oneself in- variably occasions. The breakfast itself is always plain, though exceedingly good; yet my uncle sees fit to express his private distaste for a dark, husky mixture, which might pass for the species of provender upon which the prodigal son was tempted to regale in the hour of necessity, and which is handed about under the name of cracked wheat. From the memoranda made during the first few days of his sojourn, it is conjectured that my uncles visit began in a manner by no means disagreeable. The day was spent in bathing an4 walk- ing; and, until the walkers and bathers had narrated the principal events in their past lives, and told when they had come, and how long they meant to staythere seems to have been little lack of diver- sion. The end of the week, however, brought with it the time that must come sooner or later, when our companions began to repeat the same observations in the same way, and we feel that con- Profrssor Ps1iantillo. [Jan. sciousness of having seen to the bottom of one anothers minds, which Goldsmith urged as a good reason for admiting new members to the Literary 0mb. The new members in the present instance were not attainableeither the proper season had not arrived, or the advertisements and billiard tables of rival establishments succeeded in attract- ing the crowd. The daily routine seemed to drag a little heavily, except when en- livened by some expedition, which, out of the many talked about, happened actually to take place. Of this description of entertainment the grand ascent of Squaticub Hill alone deserves a notice. A barouche, accompanied by several buggies, contained the pleasure-seekers. One of these latter vehicles, and a very talkative young lady (who to prevent anything like embarrassment, at once in- formed her companion that she never intended to be married), were bestowed upon my uncle. The prospect from various parts of the road was said to be remarkably fine, and was, perhaps, en- joyed by the proprietor of the fast horse; but the less favored individuals who were enveloped in the dust occa- sioned by the performance of this favorite animal, were obliged to rely on their imaginations for its various beauties. The fair friend who took charge of Major Wherrey, was by no means of a careful or timorous disposition, and in- sisted upon hurrying on at the greatest speed, in a fruitless endeavor to obtain the lead. The result was, that, when at last the summit of the hill was attained, my uncles eyes were full of very fine gravel, and his black broadcloth suit turned to that peppered-salt color, which the tailors assure us makes up into neat business-coats. Nor did the hue seem particularly inappropriate to the party ;whose general appearance was more suggestive of business than anything elsefor how could it be sup- posed that pleasure would induce people to climb a high hill, to sit in the scorch- ing rays of the sun, for the purpose of drinking wretched lemonade, and looki~g at nothing in particular. CHAPTER iv. Paswsssoa PHANTILLO, having recently arrived from Germany, where he was constantly consulted by the principal crowned heads of Europe, gives the most satisfactory advice in all matters connected with Love, Courtship or Marriage. Tor the sum of two dollars (post-paid, and addressed to nearbrOOk, Mass.), he covenants to teach any lady or gentle- man the art of being irresistibly fascinating; and, for an adequate fee, will insure partners to the moat fastidious. sseopmf. There! I have got to the Professor at lastand he appears soon enough too for with what propriety can the prin- cipal character of the drama come on in the first scene. Is not Hamlet all the more interesting for the suspense in which he keeps the audience before he opens his lips; and do we not improve Richard by playing that everlasting scene about King Henry, while the tyrant lingers at the first en- trance? Insures partners to the most fas- tidious, and teaches the art of being irre- sistibly fascinating :There, Major! ex- claimed a dark-eyed, roguish damsel, addressing my uncle, after the author before mentioned had finished reading the advertisement that stands at the head of this chapter what a capital chance for some people to be surejust think what fun to have everybody fall- ing in love with us. Of course my uncle had the gallantry to suggest that any new acquirement would be quite superfluous to a lady whose natural graces were fully able to insure such a result, At this Miss Kate Lawton (for by this name is the lady distinguished in the diary) thought it necessary to state that she didnt like flattery, and couldnt see why everybody so mistook her character as to be always saying such sort of things; adding much more to the same purport, after the manner in which people who are inordinately fond of hearing their own praises, really try to persuade them- selves that they dont like it. Well, well, observed Mr. Barnard, the reader of the advertisement, which he continued still to study, I would give something to know what this fellow would say, if any one wrote to him. If somebody will write the letter for me, I declare Ill try, rejoined Miss Kate. No difficult matter that, said the author; if the doctor hadnt forbid using my eyes in the evening, Id do it myself; but heres the major, whos just the man; the letter may be written to- night, sent oft the first thing in the morning, and we shall have an answer by Wednesday. It was only much discussion and a considerable biological influence which 1855.] Professor Pkcuztillo. 27 streamed from the eyes of Miss Lawton, that reconciled my uncle to the plan; and his assent was given in the midst of serious doubts concerning the propriety of opening a correspondence with an in- dividual who might make himself as troublesome as the German professor. The assent, however, being all that was wanted, the letter, by the joint inspira- tions of the trio was composed upon the spot and was quite a model of deceptive composition. It purported to be written by a cer- tain Fanny Weston, who had been en- gaged to one Smitkinson, a clerk in a jewellers shop. This young gentleman (so ran the tale) had basely broken his engagement to contract another with Jane Gossifant, daughter of old Mr. Gos- sifant, who lived by the church at South Beckford, and had a consumption and fifty thousand dollars. The requisite sum was inclosed, and advice requested in this delicate case. But an unexpected difficulty arose in determining the address to which the answer should be sent. There was a necessity of making use of some real name, for, the post-office being some miles off, the letters passed through the hands of an agent, who would obviously refuse any epistle bearing a name un~ known in the establishment. The author, on account of his literary notoriety, de- clared he could not be thought of; but that my uncle, being nobody in particu- lar, could not reasonably object to hav- ing the letter address to his care. The major, although willing to assent to the first proposition relating to him- seW could not easily be convinced of the second. The dispute waxed warm. Mr. Barnard could not see the force of my uncles objections, and the dark-eyed young lady used those orbs to great effect, and only wished she could do any- thing to oblige anybody. The result might have been predicted. A post- script was added directing the professor to address, Miss F. Weston, care of Ma- jor Wherrey, at the Water Cure. The letter was thoroughly sealed and deposited in a leathern bag which car- ried the mail of the establishment to the nearest post-office; and my uncle retired to bed with that dismal consciousness of having done something contrary to his best judgment, that always prevented the enjoyment of peaceful repose. During the three or four days that elapsed before the arrival of the letter containing so much valuable information, a stage-load of people were added to the guests. The slight scramble for seats at dinner, that usually succeeded such ad- vents, generally resulted in everybody finding himself next to just the people whose society he would least have chosen. The exception, which is of such value in establishing the general rule, was, in this instance, in favor of my uncle. Hap- pening to arrive rather late, he was driven in like a wedge between two very nice young ladies, who agreeably short- ened the tedious entract between the meal and the dessert. A nice young lady! What reasonable sized folio could contain the different definitions of these simple words? If some had their way, the candidates for this honorable degree would be examined in polking and small talksome would select such text-books as Childe Harold and Corinnewhile Mrs. Farrar and Hints on Made Dishes would be con- sidered by others as necessary as the Faculty of Harvard College consider the grammars and readers of their own professors, to the proper preparation of a Freshman. As my uncles opinion on this subject has the merit of being briefly expressed, it shall be set down for what it is worth. According to this authority, the title is deserved by any damsel who has learnt the great truth that perfect simplicity is perfect elegance. The two ladies near whom my kinsman was placed, and with whom he appears to have had considerable association, stood this test in a manner the most sa- tisfactory. They were city-bred, and held what is called a position in so- cietyadvantages, by the way, that always make themselves evident in femi- nine deportment and finish. It is custom- ary to compare (greatly to the advan- tage of the former) the good tempered country girl with the indulged and af- fected creatures with whom sarcastic writers choose to people the drawing- rooms of the city. Now, there doul~tless are many vulgar fellow-citizens of ours, who, having risen to sudden wealth, and not to the real position of dignity and intelligence, do conduct themselves quite unworthily; but that these gentry com- prise, or in any legitimate way represent, the best society of our eastern cities, my uncle has never been willing to allow. 28 Profes8or Phantillo. [Jan. CHAPTER V. THE remarks that concluded the last chapter, although having no connection with the story, may serve to indicate the time supposed to elapse before the arrival of the professors answer; just as a drop-scene, representing a battle in Mexico, marks the interval between the acts of a Roman tragedy. The reader will now imagine the par- lor of the establishment as it appeared on a particularly sultry summers even- ing. The windows are all openthe company sufficiently mixed for every- body to serve as a restraint upon some- body else, and the Dorr-bugs (I have no idea how they spell their name) wreck- ing themselves against the ceiling, and thence tumbling upon the heads beneath, until you could not help sympathizing with the Reverend Homer Wilbur (in re- lation to a similar nuisance) in the doubt whether Noah could be justified in pre- serving this species of insect. A piano that was in the room, and a most obliging lady to officiate thereat, re- deemed parts of the evening; but the event that waked up everybody was the entrance of Kate Lawton with a letter from Professor Phantillo. It was read aloud at the request of many voices; but the contents were vague and unsatisfactory. There was something concerning the position and influence of the planets (which it seems were averse to any interposition just then though holding out good hopes for the future), a little concerning the mysteries of love and courtship in generaland a great deal about a future remittance of money. The interest of the communi- cation, however, was reserved for the postscript, which ran as follows I desire some information concern- ing this Major Wherrey, to whose care this letter is to be addressed. I discern that your fate is strangely connected with his. I shall be glad to learn the amount of his property; also, whether he is disposed to believe in the science which I profess. Not a word to him of these inquiries; but answer me discreetly and secretly and I will help you, to a for- tune beyond your proudest hopes. Ha, ha, ha, laughed Mr. Barnard the professor is completely taken in; he evidently thinks that he has fallen upon a vein of metal that will pay the working. Dont you see, Major, he means to inform himself about your pro- perty, habits, & c., and then come down on you in some dextrous manner for a remittance. Well, this is good! Id no idea we should have such success! Success! exclaimed my uncle, start- ing from his seat; yes! its fine fun for youbut consider the fellow knows my real namehe will be angry enough when he discovers the hoax, and in some way or other will make me pay for it. And a dismal diorama, representing re- spectable elderly gentlemen who had un- wittingly fallen into the power of some character whom they were obliged to furnish with pocket-money forever after, uvrolled itself before the mental vision of my relative. To be sure, Major Wherrey was unable to recollect that he had embezzled at the bank, or ever entertained a passion for his cook; but his faith was strong in the ability of his scientific friend to dis- cover some point upon which to rest the lever of persecution, should he be so disposed. Such dismal forebodings were not shared by Miss Kate Lawton, who declared the letter quite worth the two dollars it bad cost, and was particularly diverted with the connection discovered between her destiny, and anybody then at the water-cure. Much more was said or sung (the lat- ter by the lady at the piano) during the evening; all which, I would set down, if I naturally ran to conversation. But, not having the talent of Miss Bur- ney for this, as well as one or two other things, I think it best to keep up the sober jog of narration. And here let me avow,what I have no doubt the reader has suspected all along, that the title of this paper, a romance, is alto- gether a misnomer. Yet, when I in- scribed that taking substantive at the head of my first chapter, I had no idea of asking a hearing under false preten- ces. The note-books, which were men- tioned as being in my possession, and the singular sequel to the adventures they contain, seemed to me materials from which an elegant structure of fiction might be reared, and I had actually the temerity to draw a sketch for the ground floor. But the strong solution of fact with which my mind was filled, would precipitate itself upon the paper, till at last the proposed embellishments of fancy were thrown aside, and I became a chronicler of real experience, almost against my will. Well! my uncle passed a hot, uncom- fortable night. Hot !yes; it was hot indeed. You could almost cut the cab- rio with a knife. Everybody pretended 1855.] Professor Phantillo. 29 to go to bed, but speedily rose, and stumbled about the entries all night. Muttered execrations, combined with the notes of a distaat musical box, streamed through the i~entilator, and pervaded my uncles apartment, while friends in boots, stalked up and down the piazza before the window, with the same inter- ininable tramp. Sleep was impossible for the most in- nocent or thoughtless, during that long night. Every half hour, or so, my uncle would go down cellar, and paddle about the tank; which performance served to impart a more fiery sultriness to his chamber, when he came out. But the extreme discomforture of his bodily state, was exceeded by the turbu- lent nature of his mental speculations. One may dismiss a troublesome thought, or suspicion, by day; but, during a sleep- less night, the unwelcome visitor re- turns, and leers upon you horribly, and will not be exorcised. This waking nightmare is far more terrible than any- thing dreams can furnish, and leaves us as weak and miserable as was Sancho Panza, after the visit of the Enchanted Moors, at the village inn. In short, Major Wherrey, naturally nervous and timid, was goaded almost to frenzy, at the remembrance of his own indiscretion. At Bearbrook, too--that this Professor Phantillo should live at Bearbrook, where my uncles famous cranberry plantation was situated, and where he himself resided several months in the year. Good heavens I thought the poor gentleman, what an oppor- tunity it gives him for . ~king together all sorts of scandalfor setting my neigh- bors against meand, perhaps, getting up some curious chemical blight for the cranberries. Two letters, that were brought to my uncles room the next~ morning, served to plunge him into still deeper perplexity. The first was written on odd-looking paper, was post-marked from Bearbrook, bore a strictly non-committal seal, and turned ont to be from Professor Phan- tillo himself. It was filled with dark hints about secret information the pro- fessor had received, which obliged him to suppose that Major Wherrey had tam- pered with the affections of a certain Miss Fanny Weston, and stated that un- less the sum of twenty dollars was re- ceived by the next post, he should feel it his duty to publish his suspicions in the Bearbrook Gazette. The other epistle was from a nameless gentleman, connected with the New York press, who politely forwarded a copy of an article that was to appear in the Criminal investigator of the next week. Poor Major Wherrey was nearly be- side himself, at this palpable conspiracy. He drove to the next town to consult a lawyer; and caine back again to advise with the doctor. He bewailed his fate with no gentle expletives touching him- self, the professor, Miss Lawton, Mr. Barnard, and the New York reporter. Finally, his trunks were ordered, and he determined to fly from his tormentors. There was no stage, however, before afternoon, and six or eight hours must be endured before any one could leave the plhce. The obliging young lady played the wedding march upon the piano; but music had no charm to soothe the troubles of my uncle. In a fit of impatient desperation, Major Wherrey seized a book from the cemitre-table of the boarders parlorwhere the usual number were collected, to stare at each other, and wish away the morningand hastily turned over its leaves. It had the popular alliterative title, and, of course, had sold to an almost mythical number of copiesat least, so said the publishers. Harpoons and Hautboys, from Hat- tys Haversack, repeated my uncle, as he glanced over tIme title-page, and then with a start of recognition Miss Kate Lawton, from her friend, T. Barnard. The start was occasioned by a remarka- ble resemblance that Major Wherrey detected between the chirography of these latter words, and that of Professor Phantillo; nor was his astonishment lessened, when he observed, in the hand- writing of the New York reporter, near the bottom of the page, this expressive criticism a book just such as I like. K. L. Of course, my uncles understanding received a sudden illumination from this accidental discovery. Relieved from his apprehensions so unexpectedly, his first impulse was to embrace his persecutors, as if they had done him some distin- guished favor; then caine the revulsion of feeling, and the mortification of hav- ing been successfully hoaxedthan which there are few things harder to bear with equanimity. He was, nevertheless, reminded by the lady and gentleman who had amused themselves at his expense, of an opinion he had himself expressed upon the I 80 allowability of a practical joke, when there was positively no other way of getting rid of timeand the contempt with which lie had dared anybody to take him inif they could. As this reminiscence served to check the bitter complaints of which the major was about to deliver himself, he summoned sufficient discretion to smooth his cheek to smiles, and pre- tend to laugh at his own misfortune. At any rate, his equanimity was com- pletely restored, when some whisky, lemons, and sugar, smuggled from the neighboring village, were mingled with the water supplied so lavishly by the institution; and, the door being locked, he sat with Mr. Barnard enjoying the same after dinner. Well, sir, said my uncle, after the professors epistles had been duly dis- cussed, so you sent the letters to Bear- brook to be post-marked; and all that stuff about my fate being united with that of Miss Kate Lawton, and the havoc I had made with her affections, was written by you 1 Written by meyes replied Mr. Barnard, but dictated by herself. CHAPTER VI. And now we have come to the last chapter, which, according to all rules and precedents, should contain a wed- ding, or, at the very least, an engage- ment. I have something of the kind to put into it, you may be sure, though it may not prove of the most legitimate description. In fact, had I persevered in my first idea, and made a romance out of this matter, I should have bestowed the hand of Miss Kate Lawton upon Signor Kwin- sidi, the gentleman from Norway, or Sir Harold Skiff, the English baronet; both of whom, as I learn from my uncles diary, were sojourners at the establish- ment during his visit, and appear to have been of person and years suitable for the manufacture of a hero. But, as I have determined to adhere to the real facts in the case, and tell, not what Miss Kate could, would, or should have done, but, what she actually did doI am compelled to declare that she is at present my aunt. To make a lively young creature of three-and-twenty marry a somewhat in- firm gentleman of forty-two, even if he did have a fine house in the country, and oould keep his carriage in town, would, [Jan 1 admit, in any work of fiction be utterly unnatural and preposterous. I can only urge, in palliation of so original a finale, the excuse Ben Jonson once ad vance4 for dispensing with the graces of rhyme that the fact stated happens to be true. Of course I was astonished at the en- gagement, and suspected the parties im- mediately concerned must have been still more so. Yet, it is not difficult to see how it happened. My uncle had never seen so much of any lady before, and no lady had ever seemed so disposed to see a great deal of him. But, after all, it is likely enough that the whole affair was determined upon and arranged soon after Major Wherreys arrival. Here is a good-tempered gentleman, of handsome fortune, who only wants a little encou- ragemcnt, to take a wife to assist him in spending itand if so, why should not I as well as any one else profit by the cir- cumstance I Mind,I dont say that Miss Kate said or thought anything of the kind; I only decline to peril the per- fect authenticity of this history by declar- ing that she did not. But however it came about, I am heart- ily glad that it did come about somehow for a happier match was never lighted amid such watery surroundings. Happy I yes, you would have thought so, had you been at Bearbrook last winter during the session of the Court. Why, that great house was full of company, and Major Wherrey, all smiles, was going about from one guest to another, expatiating upon the excellence of his wife and his cranberries, and ~itreating us all to make our elves perfectly at homefor which eve~y ne thanked him sincerely, and declared they would. And, what is more, I believe we did it tooonly that nobodys real home could have been half so amusing. You should have seen our Bearbrook theatricals not the performance of Loves Sacri- fice: that to be sure was a failurebut those two farces in which Aunt Cathe- rine played the chambermaid, and had fifteen bouquets thrown upon her by the delighted audience. And then that good romping country ball ~vhen the young lady who never meant to marry found herself engaged to Sir Harold Skiff; and Mr. Barnard sang that capital song after supper, and even Kwinsidi, the i mpertur- bable Norwegian, was stimulated into something like life. But, as the reader did not see all this (that is supposing he was not of the party), I can only wish him better luck another time, and not Profe88or Phantillo. 1855.] Spen& eriana. 31 try to anticipate his pleasure by imper~ feet reminiscences. In conclusion, thenbut, stop :be- fore concluding, I wish to say a word to Mr. Frank Osborne, whose history of Wensley I have just read with almost unmingled satisfaction. There exists in that work a passage highly commendatory of the institution of cousins, and, by implication, rather severe upon those who are slow to ap- preciate the advantages of this blessed relationship; but, Mr. Osborne, had ~ou had a young and pretty kinswoman, to whose luxurious mansion you were al- ways welcomed, whom you could drive, and read to, and take to the theatre, without the confounded report of an en- gagement, and the shrugs and frowns of fathers and brothershad you found such a treasure at Wensley, should w~ not have read: Cousins may be very well for those who can get nothing better; bnt,tl,ere Is virtue in an Aunt. S PENS ER IAN A. THE title of this recently issued work I. is a text ~-propas alike to a discus- sion of the life and fortunes of a great poet, and of a great poem. We desire to speak of both; but what we have to say must be briefly said, and we shall endeavor to concentrate our critical illu- mination upon a few topics suggested by Dr. Harts volume, rather than to diffuse it over the whole ground. Let us begin by recapitulating the prominent incidents of the poets life. In London~ just about three hundred and one years ago, was born Edmund Spenser. At that time the future Queen Elizabeth was twenty years of age. Five years afterwards she succeeded to the English crown. RaleighSpenser Sidneyfriends so congenial, and men so eminent in those spacious times of great Elizabeth, were singularly cotem- poraneous in their origin. Raleigh was born in 1552, Spenser in 53, and Sidney in 54. At sixteen, Spenser entered one of the colleges at Cambridge as a charity scholar. There, during his seven years of study, he became intimate with one Gabriel Harvey, a singular man, whose eccentricities attracted the out- rageous ridicule of Thomas Nash, a student of the same university, and one of the liveliest satirists of the time. Harvey was not only learned, but fond of displaying his acquirements, full of conceit, singular in his manners and dress, and especially oracular on matters of astrology. But Harvey, for all his whimsicalities, became a warm and active friend of Spenser, and ma- terially assisted his promotion in after life. Spenser left Cambridge at twenty- three, and resided about two years at some unascertained place in the north of England. There he fell in love with a wayward Rosalind, who liked and loathed him, and finally rejected his suit. However harrowing such an accident must have been to one of the gentlest of the gentle race of poets, it has been by the common consent of mankind declared essential to the discipline of all poets, inasmuch as nothing less grievous is supposed to induce that desperate state of mind in which successful poets are popu- larly believed to write successful poetry. The hterary results of the affliction, in Spensers case, were not long afterwards before the world. But passing by his poetry for the present, let us first deal with his biography as a man. Harvey, assisted doubtless by the unfortunate love affair, enticed his friend from his seclusion, and introduced him to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, and his nephew, Sir Philip Sidneyperson- ages then high in favor with the queen noble, wealthy, adorned with mani- fold accomplishments, after the fashion of gentlemen of the time, and congenial (especially Sidney), to the peculiar abili- ties of Spenser. These noblemen were not slow in discovering his wealth of mind and heart, and, from mingled motives of admiration and friendly affec- tion, gave the young poet patronagea home, and to some extent employment, and in 1580 secured his appointment na a secretary to Lord Gray, then about * Rpenser amd the Fairm, Queen, or An Eeeay on the L(fe and Writinge of Edmund Bpeia~sir. By Joan 8. HART, LL.D., Philadelphia, 1854.

1855.] Spen& eriana. 31 try to anticipate his pleasure by imper~ feet reminiscences. In conclusion, thenbut, stop :be- fore concluding, I wish to say a word to Mr. Frank Osborne, whose history of Wensley I have just read with almost unmingled satisfaction. There exists in that work a passage highly commendatory of the institution of cousins, and, by implication, rather severe upon those who are slow to ap- preciate the advantages of this blessed relationship; but, Mr. Osborne, had ~ou had a young and pretty kinswoman, to whose luxurious mansion you were al- ways welcomed, whom you could drive, and read to, and take to the theatre, without the confounded report of an en- gagement, and the shrugs and frowns of fathers and brothershad you found such a treasure at Wensley, should w~ not have read: Cousins may be very well for those who can get nothing better; bnt,tl,ere Is virtue in an Aunt. S PENS ER IAN A. THE title of this recently issued work I. is a text ~-propas alike to a discus- sion of the life and fortunes of a great poet, and of a great poem. We desire to speak of both; but what we have to say must be briefly said, and we shall endeavor to concentrate our critical illu- mination upon a few topics suggested by Dr. Harts volume, rather than to diffuse it over the whole ground. Let us begin by recapitulating the prominent incidents of the poets life. In London~ just about three hundred and one years ago, was born Edmund Spenser. At that time the future Queen Elizabeth was twenty years of age. Five years afterwards she succeeded to the English crown. RaleighSpenser Sidneyfriends so congenial, and men so eminent in those spacious times of great Elizabeth, were singularly cotem- poraneous in their origin. Raleigh was born in 1552, Spenser in 53, and Sidney in 54. At sixteen, Spenser entered one of the colleges at Cambridge as a charity scholar. There, during his seven years of study, he became intimate with one Gabriel Harvey, a singular man, whose eccentricities attracted the out- rageous ridicule of Thomas Nash, a student of the same university, and one of the liveliest satirists of the time. Harvey was not only learned, but fond of displaying his acquirements, full of conceit, singular in his manners and dress, and especially oracular on matters of astrology. But Harvey, for all his whimsicalities, became a warm and active friend of Spenser, and ma- terially assisted his promotion in after life. Spenser left Cambridge at twenty- three, and resided about two years at some unascertained place in the north of England. There he fell in love with a wayward Rosalind, who liked and loathed him, and finally rejected his suit. However harrowing such an accident must have been to one of the gentlest of the gentle race of poets, it has been by the common consent of mankind declared essential to the discipline of all poets, inasmuch as nothing less grievous is supposed to induce that desperate state of mind in which successful poets are popu- larly believed to write successful poetry. The hterary results of the affliction, in Spensers case, were not long afterwards before the world. But passing by his poetry for the present, let us first deal with his biography as a man. Harvey, assisted doubtless by the unfortunate love affair, enticed his friend from his seclusion, and introduced him to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, and his nephew, Sir Philip Sidneyperson- ages then high in favor with the queen noble, wealthy, adorned with mani- fold accomplishments, after the fashion of gentlemen of the time, and congenial (especially Sidney), to the peculiar abili- ties of Spenser. These noblemen were not slow in discovering his wealth of mind and heart, and, from mingled motives of admiration and friendly affec- tion, gave the young poet patronagea home, and to some extent employment, and in 1580 secured his appointment na a secretary to Lord Gray, then about * Rpenser amd the Fairm, Queen, or An Eeeay on the L(fe and Writinge of Edmund Bpeia~sir. By Joan 8. HART, LL.D., Philadelphia, 1854. 32 Spenseriana. [Jan. to assume the government of Ireland. Thither Spenser followed his superior, and there received various minor offices and emoluments, and in 1586 a grant from the crown of 3,028 acres in the county of Cork, being part of the estate of the Earl of Desmond, forfeited by treason and rebellion. Sir Walter Raleigh had previously received nearly 12,000 acres of the same domain; and it is curious that there is no record of acquaintance between Spenser and Ra- leigh until after these possessions had made them neighbors. The grant to Spenser required his residence upon his estate, end he took uphis abode at Kil- colman Castle, an ancient stronghold of the Earls of Desmond. It was situated on the shore of a lake, which was sur- rounded by a plain, the whole being encircled in the distance by mountains. This old castle remains (or did recently remain), a ruin strikingly venerable and picturesque, and surrounded by some of the fairest scenery of Ireland. Here began the halcyon days of Spenser. He had seen trouble; the leisure and com- petence which he desired had been delayed by the ill-will of Cecil and others who were rivals to his patron, Leicester, but now the clouds which had lowrd upon his house seemed to be in the deep bosom of the ocean buried. At Kilcolinan he lived twelve years, during which he married the lady whose graces and virtues are so magnificently celebrated in his Epithalamium. During this period the larger portion of his poetry was composed. here, too, he was visited by one whom he styled the Shepherd of the OceanRaleigh who, familiar with foreign adventure, brought an account of that New World, quite as novel, and almost as romantic as the continent just discovered, and in part explored, by Spenser in his own exuberant imagination. Here, too, with- out anachronism, we may imagine Ra- leigh to have initiated his friend into a new art and mystery, then lately im- ported from America by an expedition which lie had sent thither. As they reclined at a window of the old castle, or among the alders by the Mullas shore, we may fancy them wrapt in a cloud not altogether ideal, while wound and loitered, idly free, the cur- rent of unguided talk. But a wild storm was mustering be- hind the mountains that bounded the fair horizon of Kilcolman. It quickly overspread the heavens and burst. It made shipwreck of the fortunes of Spen- ser, and sent his life down amid sorrow and desolation to the grave. It is difficult to comprehend fully the condition of Ireland at that time; but it does seem as if there never had been, from the remotest period, a nation more shockingly cursed with anarchy and misrule, than the Irish. The first an- thcntic fragment of the history of Ire- land, is found in Tacitus, who mentions that an Irish chief; driven from his coun- try by civil war, came to Agricola, and endeavored to persuade him to invade Ireland, assuring him, that a single legion of Roman soldiers would be sufficient to overrun and subdue the whole island. This incident is a fair exponent of centu- ries of the succeeding history of Ireland. Government, so far as it existed at all, remained for a long period in the form which it always assumes among barbar- ous nationsthat of petty independent tribes, between which there is no bond of union, ruled by chiefs who are per- petually at feud with each other. The country was successively invaded, at different periods, by the English, the iDanes, and again, the English; but these invasions were predatory and partial. The Celts were not subdued, nor their governments centralized. Neither was the condition of the native tribes eleva- ted by the infusion of new political and social elements. On the contrary, those of the invaders who remained, retro- graded, and assumed the manners and spirit of the natives. They embodied themselves i~ new clans, and by new feuds between themselves, and with their neighbors, complicated the existing an- archy and misery. The power of England, however, grad- ually increased and predominated in Ire- land, from the invasion under Henry II., in 1172, until its thorough establishment in the time of Elizabeth. But, through- out all that period, Ireland may be con- sidered as territory partially colonized by English sabjects, rather than as an integral portion of England under Eng- lish law. The barbarism and poverty of the country rendered it unprofitable to the English sovereigns; they had enough to do to handle France and their home affairs, and they gave themselves very little concern about Ireland. When Elizabeth came to the throne, the ten- dency to rebellion was aggravated by religious dissension. The Celtic race continued loyal to Catholicism, which, at a very early period, had become the 1855.] Spensertana. 33 religion of Ireland. The Protestant re- form, under Henry VIII. and Edward VI., had been pushed with the intem- perate violence characteristic of the times; and though the Catholic rule of Mary allayed political disturbances for a while, the accession of Elizabeth opened afresh the old wound. Philip of Spain, also, exasperated by the loss of his in- fluence in England, and the refusal of Elizabeth to marry him, stimulated the factions in Ireland. These factions Eliz- abeth endeavored at one time to concili- ate by policy, and at another to subdue by arms; and she lived just long enough to see the latter object accomplished. At the date of the grant which gave Spenser his title to Kilcolman, one of these troublesome factions, headed by the Earl of Desmond, had lately been quelled. The earl himself had been put to death, and his domain, which was immense, embracing a large portion of the county of Munster, in the south of Ireland, had been vested in the Crown. This territory Elizabeth endeavored so to distribute among her English-born subjects as to strengthen her government in the rebellious district. In carrying out this policy, she issued grants to whomsoever she chose, empowering those parties, to buy up portions of the confiscated estate, on condition of actual settlement thereon, at the low price of two-pence per acre. A subsequent re- bellion under Tyrone and his confede- rates, which was quelled not long after, brought half a million of acres in the north of Ireland into market in the same manner, and thus Englishmen became landlords of the soil of Ireland, as they are to this day. At the period to which we have brought the life of Spenser, his fairy home at Kilcolman was flourishing, like a vineyard of Naples, on the breast of a volcano. A new insurrection, kindled from Tyrones rebellion in the north, suddenly broke out in the south, during the progress of which, a lineal heir of the Earl of Desmond attempted to oust the English possessors of the estate. Backed by a wild mob the rough rug- headed Kernes~ of Irelandhe surprised Kilcolman Castle and burnt it. Spenser and his wife had brief notice, and es- caped; but, in the confusion, an infant child of the poet was left behind, and perished in the conflagration. Spenser made good his flight to England, and three months afterwards, January 16th, 1599, at the age of forty-six, died in VOL. V.8 London. During those three months, for reasons which we can only conject- ure, but which it is easy to conceive, he had lived obscurely. Yet, at his death he was publicly and duly honored. The Earl of Essex gave him a costly funeral, and his remains were laid near those of Chaucer, in Westminster Abbey. On reviewing what is left us of the biography of Spenser, it is not difficult to define a pretty satisfactory outline of his character as a man. In his case we are not much troubled by those incon- sistent traits which render some charac- ters hard to draw. It is noticeable that throughout his whole life, he was de~ pendent, for worldly advancement, on the bountiful love and admiration of a few good friendsHarveySidneyLeices- terand the queen. It is noticeable that his acquisitions of wealth and honors, and his poetical achievements, made him but few enemies; and that those who laid blocks in the way of his advance- ment at court, appear to have done so from partisan, and not personal, motives. In his day great license was allowed to satire, and it so happened that its keen- est arrows were levelled at his nearest friends. Harvey, especially, was a shin- ing mark for the crossbow of Nash, and was punched full of deadly holes; but Spenser does not seem to have made himself sufficiently disagreeable or ridi- culous to give any point to the wit of malice. In his own poetical attempts at satire, the wit is not pungent nor the application closeit is that diffused satire of classes and conditions of men which does not betray the hand of a special good hater. To his youthful love affair he makes various allusions in his writings, and in a poem written shortly after it, treats it, under feigned names, at some length; yet without asperity or any bitterness, save the bitterness of a too aspiring and disappointed affection, for which he blames no one but himself. But many years afterwards, we find him, on occa- sion of his marriage, honoring the reci- procated affection of his new love with a nuptial song, which, in exuberance of imagery and brilliancy of spirit, is not surpassedperhaps not equalledby the same number of lines anywhere eke in all his works. Another illustration of his temper may be found in a literary affair in which he took part. At a certain time Sidney, Harvey, and Dyer, formed a project, which wse no less than that of banishing 34 Spenseriana. [Jan. rhyme and accented rhythm from Eng- lish prosody, and substituting in their stead a species of hexameter verse. This hudacious attempt provedas we believe that all such attempts will provea failure. The Saxon mind, from what- ever cause we may choose to assign, does not, cannot, and will not move in such a measure. The thing has been repeatedly tried, until it has become just a little less than certain that the poet who attempts a work in English hexam- eters thereby foredooms his own defeat; and we can half forgive the venomous- ness of Nash, in consideration of a sound remark which he made at that time, namely, that the hexameter, tho ugha gentleman of an ancient house, was not likely to thrive in this clime of ours, the soil being too craggy to set his plough in. Speusers private judgment does not appear to have approved the innova- tion, yet in deference to his friends, and fondly overcome by Sidneys charm, he laid aside, for a time, his great work, The Fairy Queen, and wrote hexa- meters. Then, again, the friends on whom Spensers fortune most depended, with whom his biographers most intimately associate him, and who, in literary tastes and abilities, were congenial, were never- theless, in some respects, very dith~rent men, and l)assed a very different course of life. Raleigh and Sidney were stir- ring men of the times, an(l the times offered them abundant opportunities for stirring. The court was headed by a queen, who, while she knew how to me- tam her power firmly, understood also every art of coquetting with it, and contrived to perpetuate, even to old age, a game highly exciting and alluring to whosoever of her subjects were chival- rous, accomplished and intriguing. Eli- zabeth had a shrewd eye for all that a woman admires in a man. Being inor- dinately fond of flattery, she made pre- cisely that use of her royal power in her court, which a belle makes of her beauty in a ball-room; consequently, her court furnished a brilliant field for the achieve- ments of men, who, to the graces of the beau, added the genius of the diplomat- ist. Then, too, the world abroad was alive with action. America, not half discovered, hung like a dominion in the evening clouds, just sufficiently defined to allure adventurous spirits in quest of all manner of golden imaginations. Up the northern Atlantic camne sweeping, in a seven-mile crescent, the Spanish Armada, breathing out threatenings, and horribly armed with death and hell tor- ture. On the southern main, the Spanish plate fleet, bearing millions of treasure, and doubtfully convoyed, tempted repri- sals. In Ireland, rebellion and confusion abounded; and, on the Continent, Ca- tholic and Protestant had each other by the throat. Of such like affairs, Raleigh and Sidney saw much, and were a part. They were men of bravery and spirit, who craved action, and their contribu- tions to the literature of England were mostly the rainy-day labors of minds laid on the shelf by misfortune, and too restless to remain idle. With these men, and in these times, Spensers lot was cast; yet the inspiration of these men and times he reflected and illustrated, not at all in his own exploits, but only in the adventures of elfin knights and ladies, the creations of his imagination. And now, going back to the paragraph where we left his remains reposing in Westminster Abbey, what does all that intervenes, in its relation to his character, indicate respecting him? What else can it indicate than that he was a man sin- gularly gentle, modest, loving, tractable, ~rudent, and forgivinga man as little tinctured with selfish and unkind passion as any maul had lie been different had he possessed, in any considerable degree, the incompatible and uncompro- mising qualities of Dante, or Milton, or Byron, could he have gone through life so smoothly, and left behind him so clear a record? Yet, there are one or two accusations brought against him which should not be passed over. During the tenure of his estate in ireland, he is accused, on the authority of existing legal documents, of having attempted to add unjustly to his possessions. He also wrote, in 1596, a political treatise on the state of Ireland, in which he strongly advocates the ex- ercise of Elizabeths arbitrary power. Neither the documents nor the treatise referred to are within our reach, and how far they compromise tIme character of Spenser we cannot judge. We desire not to fashion an ideal character for him, but to ascertain the strict truth respecting him. Notwithstanding his fair fame, lie maight have been, in some thimigs, ungentle auid unjust. We know that very good mnen have done things that were very wrong; yet we know that it is unfair to judge any tuna by one or two particular instances of conduct. Conduct indicates character only so far 1855.] Spenseriana. as it indicates that which is native and habitual; and character is to be justly drawn only by a large induction from all the facts that can be known about a man. All men who give charity are not equally benevolent; nor all who commit murder equally depraved. Neither the treatment which king David showed to Uriah, nor the tears of Nero over a death warrant, nor the throwing an open pen- knife at a friend, by Henry Martyn, can be accepted as deflecting the main drift of testimony respecting those men. But without a basis of facts it is idle to spe- culate on the conduct of Spenser in Ireland. Let us say no more than that the enormity of his offences cannot, for obvious reasons, be inferred from the circumstances which attended his expul- sion from Kilcolman Castlein his posi- tion, an angel of light would have been as ruthlessly expelledand that the fact that his political treatise, however Ma- chiavelian, was not published by him- self, but came to light long after his death, gives him the benefit of a very important doubt. The work of Dr. Hart embraces a sketch of the life of Spenser, with notices of, and quotations from all his principal miscellaneous peorns. These matters occupy about one-fourth of the volume. The remainder is an essay on the Fairy Queen. This essay comprises critical and historical notices, and an elaborate re-construction of the poem, wherein the essayist, with the design of giving a view of the whole work in a small com- pass, hurries forward the story in his own words, interspersed with frequent, though not long, quotations from the poem. Many timings episodical are passed by; but the thread of the plot is carried through to the end. The labor of ren- dering Spensers great work in an abl?re- viated form is, on the whole, ably and faithfully accomplished; and it has ob- viously been a labor lightened by a devout love and admiration fur the genius of the poet. Something of the design and spirit of the essayist may be gathered fro.m the following quotation To catch the spirit and meaning of the concrete and poetical symbols of the author; to extract from the flower of poesy, and l)resent in marketable form the honey which it contains; to present to the imagination such pictures as should tend to cultivate and elevate the taste, and enkindle in the heart a love for the good, the beautiful, and the true; to give so much of the story as to make the characters and pictures intelligible to all classes of readers, without taking from the poem the zest of novelty to those who may have the leisure and the inclin- ation to read it for themselves, and with- out wearying those who have read it already; to penetrate the instructive mysteries of Belphmbe, and Amoret, and Britomnart, and Florimnel; this, let it be said, has required something beyond mere verbal criticism, or historical and grammatical illustrations. It has been necessary rather to abstract the mind from the piles of erudition with which the subject is loaded, and to read the poem as the Christian should read his Bible, with a perpetual appeal to the silent expositor within. It is evident, on every page, that the taste of Dr. Hart is highly congenial to the romantic and chivalrous character of S~ensers poem. One proof of this is, the care with which he renders, in his own words, his conceptions of the poets princil)al female personages. We quote what we find most detachable Spenser excels in his female characters. He possessed not only the genius requi- site for the successful delineation of cha- racters generally, but in a special manner that goodness of heart without which there can be no proper appreciation of the mystery of ~vomnan. * * * Britomart was the only daughter of her father, the king of Wales. Merlin, the great Magician, had made for this king a magic mirror, in which he could see both the distant and the future. No foe could ever attack his kingdom unawares, be- cause the king always saw them in his mirror long crc they approached the border. Britomnart had been a sort of Di Vernon in her time, and had given Dan Cupid bold defiance. But happening to stroll one day into her fathers closet, she took it into her head to look into this wondrous mirror, which could bring into the field of vision whatever scene the wishes, interests, or circui ristances, of the beholder might happen to suggest. It is difficult to analyze the subtle essences which compose a young maidens heart. Whether Britomart was governed by anything more than mere idle curio- sity it is impossible to say. The ide:i of a husband surely had never yet occupied her thoughts. But yet as she gazed in the mirror there came before her, in the distance, the vision of a knight, of whoni an elaborate description is given. It was the portrait of one whoma she had *0 Spen8eriana. [Jan. never seen. Upon his shield was the name ARTEGAL. That was all she knew or could learn of him. Thenceforth the feather In her lofty crest, Ruffed of Love, gao slowly to avale; And her proud portance ~nd her princely gest, With which she erst triumphed, now did quail: Sad, solemn, sour, and full of fancies frall She waxed: yet wist she neither how nor why; She wist not, silly maid, what she did all, Yet wist she was not well at ease, perdy; Yet thought it was not love, but some melancboly. Henceforth the quiet of her breast is disturbed. She is in love with a mere shadow. But shadow implies substance, and the shadow of Artegal, seen in the mirror, has its representative in a real Artegal somewhere in or out of fairy- land. At last under the advice of Mer- lin, whose cave she visits, she resolves to go forth equipped as a knight, in quest of the unknown and noble stranger whom she had seen in the mirror. The next is a different character, and more studied in the delineationBEL- PH~EBEa woman having all the grace and delicacy of her sex, without its de- pendencenot like Britomart, unloving, because she has not seen the right one, or not appearing to others to love be- cause she successfully conceals her feel- ingsbut one who can pity the mis- fortunes, or admire the noble qualities, of a man as she would those of a woman; who does not love, because in the com- position of her heart there is no mixture of that subtle element on which love feeds; whose want of love is not want of feeling, nor the result of disappoint- ment, much less of chagrin; who can sympathize with the pains, and alleviate the distresses, of a wounded squire, as she would those of a younger brother in whose bosom there is no latent unde- veloped want; to whose eyes the magic mirror of Merlin would reveal only a group of sisterly nymphs, or a medicinal herb, or a wounded deer; in whose ten- der and graceful stalk (to vary yet once more the expression) neither the germ has been retarded by late spring, nor the bud blasted by untimely frost, nor the flower already faded and fallen, but its sap, by native constitution, contains only that element which produces branches and leavesa plant flowerless, indeed, but graceful, unchanging, perennial, green. Belphmbe is not a perfect wo- man. Her imperfection, however, is of a kind which makes her more admirable, though less interesting. In proportion as she is less womanly she is more an- gelic. Under the character of Belphcnbe in the poem, Spenser compliments Queen Elizabeth. Here is AMonirr: By the Amoret of Spenser, we are to understand one whose perfections and imperfections are the counterpart of her sisters fBel- phcebes]; who is both less angelic and more womanly; who is made to love and to be loved; who finds not only her happiness, but her honor and her protec- tion, in a feeling of dependence upon another; * * * Amor~ is a being too earnest to be coy, too confiding to be jealous. She bestows her love not as a boon to another, but as a necessary gratification to herself. Her love is twice blessed. It blesseth her that gives, and him that takes. Her repose is not inward and within herself, but outward upon another. She experiences a high gratification in knowing that she is loved, but a still higher one in loving. FLORIMEL : Her name (meaning flower8 and honey) indicates truly that union of sweetness and delicacy which resides in her person. It breathes of the freshness at once of Flora and Sylva, and those unstudied graces which spring from nature, rather than those which result from cultivated and artificial life. MnIABRL : What Spenser meant by Mirabel, perhaps it might not be courte- ous to say. Perhaps, also, it is not ne- cessary. * * ~ It is, I believe, not uncommon for the woman that trifles, to be trifled with just about the time that she begins to be serious. * * * In prime of youthful years, when first the flower Of beauty gan to bud, and bloom delight; And nature me endued with plenteous dower Of all her gifts, that pleased each living sight: I was beloved by many ~ gentle Knight, And sued and sought with all the service due; run many a one for me deep groaned and sight, And to the door of death for sorrow drew, Complaining oeet on me, that would not on them rue. But let them love that list, or live or die; Me list not die for any lovers dole: Ne list me leave my loved liberty To pity him that list to play the fool: To love myself I learndd had in schooL Thus I tridmphed long in lovers pain, And sitting careless on the scorners stool, Did laugh at those that did lament and plain: But all is new repaid with interest again. Mirabels character sticks riglt out. But here is RADIGUND, still more strong.. minded 185g.] Spenderiana. The cause, they say, of this her cruel hate, Is for the sake of Bellodant the bold, to whom she bore mast fervent lose of late Lad *oodd him by all the ways she could: But when she saw at last that he ne would, For ought or nought, be won unto her will, She turned her love to hatred manifold, And for his sake vowed to do all the ill Which she Could do to nuights; which now she hflh MAL Prh~ce Arthur, in his knightly wan- derings, comes to a halt before the castle- gate of a most rancorous and atrocious- minded Soudan; and sends in a chal- lenge to the venomous Pagan to come ont and fight him. Wherewith the Soudan, all with fury fraught, Swearing and banning most blasphdmously, Commanded straight his armor to be brought: And mounting straight upon a chariot high, (With Iron wheels and hooks armed dreadfully, And drawn of cruel steeds which he had fed With flesh of men, whom through fell tyranny He slaughtered had, and ere they were half dead, Their bodies to his beasts for provender had spread.) So forth he came all in a coat of plate Burnished with bloody rust, whiles on the green The Briton Prince him ready did await In glistening arms right goodly well beseen In the Soudan, Spenser typifies Philip of Spain, and his chariot is the Spanish Armada. The Soudan attacks and wounds Prince Arthur with missiles, but the prince, mounted on horseback, finds his adversary inaccessible, in his scythe- armed chariot, to spear or sword. His horse too shies, and he is completely foiled. But he carries an enchanted shield, which, ordinarily he keeps cov- ered with a case of cloth At last, from hia victoniona shield he drew The veil which did his (its] powerful light Ito- peach; And coming fuilbefore his [the Soudans] horses view, As they upon him pressed, It, plain, to them did shew. Like lightning flash that bath the gazer burned, So did the sight thereof their sense dismay, That back again upon themselves they turned, And with their rider ran perforce away: Ne could the Soudan them from flying stay With reins or wo,ited rule, as well he knew: Nought feardd they what he could do or say, But th only fear that was htfore their slew; item which like mnad~ deer dismayfully they flew. Past did they fly as them their feet could bear, High over hills, and lowly over dales, As they were followed of their former fear: In vain the Pagan bans and swears and rails, And back with both his hands unto him hales 37 The resty reins, regarded now no more: He to them calls and speaks, yet nought avails; They hear him not, they have forgot his lore; But go which way they list; their guide they have forlore. Such was the fury of these headstrong steeds, Soon as the Infants sun-like shield they saw, That all obedience, both to words and deeds, They quite forgot, and scorned all formet law: Through woods and rocks and inountains they did draw The iron chariot and the wheels did tear, And tossed the Paynim without fear or awe; Prom side to side, they tossed him here and there, Crying to them in vain that nould his crying hear. Yet still the Prince pursued him close behind, Oft making offer him to smite, but found No easy means according to his mind; At last they have all overthrown to ground Quite topside turvy, and the Pagan hound Amongst the iron hooks and grapples keen Torn all to rags and rent with many a wound; That no whole piece of him was to be seen, But acattered all about and strewed upon the green. This very spirited passage breathes the fierce delight with which the whole English nation regarded tile overthrow of the Spanish Armada. It has, to our appreciation1 a touch of the comic, which perhaps was not intended by the sage and serious Spenser. We Americans, with our enlarged ideas of railroad tra- veIling, would not call the catastrophe that involved the blasphemous Soudan, such a very bad smash-uponly one car cleaned of the trucks, and the brake~ man killed. Once again we will allow Spenser to speak for himself, in a passage, respect- ing which we will say no more than that nothing else ever need be quoted in vindication of his poetical genius. Ar- chimago, an enchanter, sends an attend- ant Spirit to the house of Sleep to pro- cure for him a dream. The Spirit Making speedy way through spersdd air, And through the world of waters wide and deep, To Morpheus house doth hastily repair, Amid the bowels of the earth; full steep And low, where dawning day doth never peep, His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steep In silver dew his ever drooping head, Whiles sad night over him her mantle black doth spread: Whose double gates he findeth lockdd fast; The one fair framed of burnished ivory, The other all with silver overcast; And wakeful dogs before them far do lie, Watching to banish care, their enemy, Who oft is wont to trouble gentle sleep. By them the Sprite doth pass in quietly, And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowndd deep In drowsy fit he finds; of nothing he takes keep. 38 Spenseriana. [Jan. And more to lull him in his slnmher soft, A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down, And ever drizzling rain upon the loft, Mixi with a murmuring wind, much like the sound Of swarming bees did cast him in a swown. No other noise, nor peoples troubled cries, As still are wont tannoy the waited town, Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lies Wrapt in eternal silence far from enemies. There are doubtless many before whose eyes this article will come, who know little or nothing about the Fairy Queen. Let us therefore, before we leave the poem, sketch, briefly, the plan of it: Spenser laid out his work in twelve Books, six only of which he lived to complete. Each of these books is occu- pied with the adventures of a particular Knight, who goes forth as the champion of a particular virtue; and the accessory personages who appear, illustrate, in their characters and conduct, the virtue (or its opposites) treated of in the book in which they appear. Each of the chaiupion Knights figures prominently in a book by himself, and then goes off the stage, or appears afterwards as an accessory character. This explanation does not make mani- fest the connection between the books, nor the pertinence of the title to the whole. But Spenser did not finish his design. He completed six books, only, and it was not until the twelfth that he proposed to give his readers a view of his whole plan. This appears from a letter which he wrote to Raleigh, wherein he says The beginning, therefore of my history, if it were to be told by an histomiogra- pher, should be the twelfth book, which is the last; where I devise that the Fairy Queen kept her annual feast twelve days, upon which several days the occa- sion of the twelve several adventures happenednot the adventures them- selves, but the occasion or cause of themfor these several Knights or champions who go through these adven- tures, are subjects of the Fairy Queen sent out by her on occasion, and are abroad occupied for various periods. The ingenuity of Spenser enabled him to make these pattern Knights not only illustrate the several virtues of Holiness, Teniperance, Chastity, Justice, & c. but to typify actual personages. In the course of the pc~m we find that the Fairy Queen is Queen Elizabeth, in her royal character, and Belphcebe, the same, in her character of a most virtuous and beautiful lady. Prince Arthur, the Fairy Queens most magnificent Knight, is the Earl of Leicester; Artegal, the Knight of Justice, is Sidney; the Son- dan is Philip, as we have seen & c. Thus, his allegory becomes in many places a double allegory, and the whole forms a metrical romance, which, notwith- standing its great length, is carried for- ward with wonderful facility and rapidity,. introducing us to knights, ladies, pages, squires, Saracens, enchanters, enchan-. tresses, witches, spirits, dreams, dra- gons, wild-beasts, blatant-beasts, giants, satyrs, wild-Inen, iron-men, fishernien, mermaids, shepherds, shepherdesses, nyrophs, graces, amazons, hermits, palmners, old Proteus and innumerable personified virtues and vices. And now come we to a point which has been much discussed among critics: Why does this great poem, which seems the very embodiment of all that is romantic, wild, and beautiful in the old Gothic fic- tion, remain, in our day, so much in the background of publicity ?Why is not Spenser as much read as Shakespeare and Milton? In fertility of invention is he surpassed by Shakespeare, or equalled by Milton ?or in the genuine poetical value of his materials, and the moral purity and beauty of his creations, has he any- thing to fear from the comparison? yet it is evident that The Fairy Queen is not read, as Hamlet, and Paradise Lost, are read. In explanation of this fact, various reasons have been assigned; such as the obsolete language, the allegory, and the great length of the poem. But the suc- cesses of Shakespeare, Bunyan, and Mil- ton, are sufficient to set aside thes~ ob- jections. Di.. Hart, near the close of his essay, offers a few observations of his own on this point. He thinks that Spensers want of entire success is due to a want of art in one particularthat his fertile imagination presented him so rapidly with new scenes and adventures, that he neglected to mark his transitions clearly and boldlythat he enters so fully into the present scene that he for- gets the one just past or just to come. The story-teller should be to some extent like a showman. To Vull successfully the wires, he should stand apart, behiiid the scenes. Si * * * * To be so enwrapped in the subject as to forget your audience, is to reckon without your host. Spenser is so absorbed with what is immediately in hand, his imagination 1855.] Spenseriart ci. 39 is so completely engrossed with the pre- sent object, that the wants of the reader are forgotten. The reader is precipitated from one scene to another, without any sufficient warning or preparation. He consequently gets bewildered. This is just criticism, so far as it sets forth a fault of Spenser; but does it thoroughly explain why he is not uni- versally read? Shakespeare, also, is no- toriously careless of the order and con- nection of his scenes; and writes on in the same absorbed and self-forgetful man- ner; while Milton, on the other hand, betrays more self- consciousness and artistical design to the reader than either Shakespeare or Spenser. Yet, of the three poets, Shakespeare, unques~ tionably, is the most universally appre- ciated. The exposition of Dr. Hart does not wholly satisfy us. Let us observe how authors obtain their readers. When we take up a book that is new to us, do we generally open at the first page and read it through? Do we not usually reserve that, until we have first dipped in at random here and there, and with- out understanding the connection, ascer- tained whether what we have lighted upon pleases us? The best writings of the best authors have a singular mag- netic power upon minds constituted to appreciate them. Open them where you will, you immediately happen upon something that grapples your attention.. Let us try the experiment. Here is Hamlet. Fling the book across the room. It has fallen open. Now go and read the first sentence that you see A murderer and a villain! A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precddent lord; a vice of kings: A cut purse of the empire and the rule That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket 1 There! you pick the book up and put it in your own pocket, resolved to bor- row or steal it till you have read more. This power of seizing the attention, lives, alike, in the matter and the man- ner of a writerand quite as much in the manner as in the matter. In those literary works, and particularly in those poems which are most read, we always find an intensely vital and vivifying spirit., colnpared with which, in produc- ing popular effect, unity and coherence of desigii are of secondary importance. The percel)t.ion of this fact has led some critics to the extreme of asserting that manner is everything to a poet, and that he who executes best is best. This is going too far. Be it understood of our- selves that fine frenzies do not satisfy us, if they are not coherent and consist- entif they do not reproduce, in new combinations the true appearances of the external world and the natural port and gesture of the human soul. The best poetry is not only the most spirited, but it is the most true to nature, the most logical, the most inventive; it will bear to be read forcibly, with full lungs, and the. strong utterance of passion; and it will bear to be read coolly and critically, like a demonstration in geometry. We do not say that such poetry is the only poetry; but that it is the best. It satis- fies the reason and judgment, it satisfies the imagination and passions, it rouses and exalts the whole soul, it Dissolves us into ecstasies And brings all heaven before our eyes, it is an eagle-winged eloquence, that first comes down and takes a strong grapple on the minds of men, with the talons of reason and judgment, and then bears them away on the pinions of imagina- tion. Such poetry, once written, makes itself known and endures. It is acknow- ledged as equally supreme, oer the mir~s sunshine bright and warm, and oer reasons colder hours. In Spensers poetry we find such purity and brilliancy of materials, and such fertility of invention, as have hardly been excelled; but, in brilliancy of spirit, it does not,com& up to the highest stand- ard. His temper is not high-strung. He does not deal with the strongest pas- sions in the heartiest manner. There is glow and feeling, but not to the extent of that divine ardor, which is rapturous, and which kindles rapture. His highest enthusiasm is in the Epithalamium. His Fairy Queen we read with admiration of its magnificence, yet with a feeling that other poets, some of them of much less inventive genius, have achieved pro- founder effects in productions of much less compass, written with more concen- trated energy and power. Posterity, however, will not willingly let his works die. There will always be those who will remember, and by their labors assist others in remembering, the moral purity and tenderness, and the bountiful ideal wealth of Edmund Spenser. Of his own age he was a conspicuous light, as he is still a shining illustration. His rank is with Bacon and Shakapeare, 40 Willy and I. who, in the same age, annexed to the realms of human knowledge large conti- nents of thought, wherein the whole mind may orb about; and, in contem- plation of whose great works, we may truly say that, in that fortunate age, other New Worlds were explored besides America. It is a peculiar glory of Eliza- beth that those intellectual discoverers were her coternporaries, and that she en- couraged and rewarded them. Many other sovereigns, intensely occupied with the active affairs of empire, have de- spised studious men, forgetting that all their high and mighty pageantry of ac- tion must speedily pass into oblivion, ilniess the monuments thereof are builded in books. Look back over the dilapidations of Time. See what an in- significant record of great actions the monumental granite of kings has been, compared with the monumental language of poets and historians. Granite cannot tell its own age, and will not burden its dull faculties with human remembrances. The steps of the pyramids lead up to noWhere, and sphynxes have themselves become riddles. But Cheops and Ce- phrenes are still heard of in books. This great unstable globe is perpetually turn- ing on its trunnions, and hurrying every- thing around towards the shady side of earthly oblivion; but books, like ranges of mountains, are the last objects that cease to reflect the light of one age to the eyes of another. Bacon says, of libraries, that they are the shrines where all the relics of the ancient saint; full of true virtue, and that without de- lusion or imposture, are preserved and reposed. And sometimes, on opening a volume of history, we imagine our- selves in a sort of Westminster Abbey, where we behold kings, princes, noblest warriors, each with the insignia of his offices and the trophies of his achieve- ments gathered about him, each in his own robes or armor, lying on his own tomb, labelled with such an epitaph as it pleased his successors to give him, and all of them, in their helpless repose, silently appealing to the tender mercies of posterity. WILLY AND I. S ~XTE grew together in wind and rain; VT We shared the pleasure and shared the pain; I would have died for him, and he, I thought, would have done the same for me Willy and I! Summer and winter found us together, Through snow, and storm, and shiny weather; Together we hid in the scented hay, Or plucked the blooms of our English May- Willy and I l I called him husbandhe called me wife; We builded the dream of a perfect life: He was to conquer some, noble state, And I was to love him through every fate Willy and I! Oh! he was so fair with his golden hair; And his breath was sweet as our homestead air. My cheeks were red, so the neighbors said A thousand pities we were not wed Willy and I I Now I stand alone in the wind and rain, With none of the pleasure and all the pain. I am a beggar, and Willy is dead, And the blood of another is on his head Poor Willy and I!

40 Willy and I. who, in the same age, annexed to the realms of human knowledge large conti- nents of thought, wherein the whole mind may orb about; and, in contem- plation of whose great works, we may truly say that, in that fortunate age, other New Worlds were explored besides America. It is a peculiar glory of Eliza- beth that those intellectual discoverers were her coternporaries, and that she en- couraged and rewarded them. Many other sovereigns, intensely occupied with the active affairs of empire, have de- spised studious men, forgetting that all their high and mighty pageantry of ac- tion must speedily pass into oblivion, ilniess the monuments thereof are builded in books. Look back over the dilapidations of Time. See what an in- significant record of great actions the monumental granite of kings has been, compared with the monumental language of poets and historians. Granite cannot tell its own age, and will not burden its dull faculties with human remembrances. The steps of the pyramids lead up to noWhere, and sphynxes have themselves become riddles. But Cheops and Ce- phrenes are still heard of in books. This great unstable globe is perpetually turn- ing on its trunnions, and hurrying every- thing around towards the shady side of earthly oblivion; but books, like ranges of mountains, are the last objects that cease to reflect the light of one age to the eyes of another. Bacon says, of libraries, that they are the shrines where all the relics of the ancient saint; full of true virtue, and that without de- lusion or imposture, are preserved and reposed. And sometimes, on opening a volume of history, we imagine our- selves in a sort of Westminster Abbey, where we behold kings, princes, noblest warriors, each with the insignia of his offices and the trophies of his achieve- ments gathered about him, each in his own robes or armor, lying on his own tomb, labelled with such an epitaph as it pleased his successors to give him, and all of them, in their helpless repose, silently appealing to the tender mercies of posterity. WILLY AND I. S ~XTE grew together in wind and rain; VT We shared the pleasure and shared the pain; I would have died for him, and he, I thought, would have done the same for me Willy and I! Summer and winter found us together, Through snow, and storm, and shiny weather; Together we hid in the scented hay, Or plucked the blooms of our English May- Willy and I l I called him husbandhe called me wife; We builded the dream of a perfect life: He was to conquer some, noble state, And I was to love him through every fate Willy and I! Oh! he was so fair with his golden hair; And his breath was sweet as our homestead air. My cheeks were red, so the neighbors said A thousand pities we were not wed Willy and I I Now I stand alone in the wind and rain, With none of the pleasure and all the pain. I am a beggar, and Willy is dead, And the blood of another is on his head Poor Willy and I! 18~.J 41 HARD SWEARING ON A CHURCH STEEPLE: nJILoSoPmOALLY TiIEATED II! A EAMDLING LETTER TO THE EDITOE, flOM A eUXET MAN Ter centoin tonat ore Deos, Erebumque, Chaosque, Tergeminamque Hecaten.~zeEw. iv. 510. CAIJBMI. You taught me language, and my profit ont Is, I know hoW to curse: the red plague rid you For learning me your language.TRMPZRT. From a common custom of Swearing, men easily slide into Peijury; therefore, if thou wouldet not be perjured, use not to swear.HasucuTus. SwuARuco. A scape-pipe through which men let off their anger, their good breeding, and their morality. MODESIN Du,uemoN MR. EDITOR, J AM a quiet man; I may say, a serf, ~ quiet man. Rarely, indeed, is my equanimity of temper disturbed; and, though the experiment has never been made, I feel an inward assurance that I could go through-even a steamboat ex- plosioncoolly, calmly, and collectedly, instead of scatteraceously, as do some of a less quiet turn, and who are always found, at the time of such accidents, in the vicinity of the boiler, or other equal- ly dangerous locality. I am satisfied that the papers, of the day after the disaster, would have my name in the list of those gentlemen who behaved with great gallantry on the occasion; or among those whose admirable pre- sence of mind and cool intrepidity ena- bled them to be of invaluable service to the ladies on the boat, many of whom were on deck at the moment of the shocking catastrophe. So, at least, I am sure it would be, did not my pecu- liar infirmityof which you will pre- sently know more-intervene to foil me. I am known sir, in my neighborhood, as THE QUIET MAN, and when J inform you that I live in the same vicinity with three old maids, a chatty young widow, and a number of gossiping misses, you may possibly appreciate the intensity of that placidity which has apquired, and still maintains for me, a reputation so enviable under these highly adverse circumstances. I have been known, when an awk~ward lout of a boy had well-nigh eradicated the corn upon my gouty toe, by crushing it with his boot- heel, to turn to his mamma, who sat near, and, smiling sweetly, assure her in the blandest manner that, it was of no consequence at all made not the slightest difference. I have been bled by a mosquito for half an hour, without wincing; and, when he had become so dropsical with the red current of my life, that lie could no longer fly, I have been known to capture and slay him without one word of reproach, or the slightest malevolence of countenance. When the seediness of my coat and the shoc.king badness of my hat have pro- cured for me the cut direct from old friends and fashionable acquaintances, I have calmly buttoned the one, and jauntily adjusting the other, walked for- wards as imperturbably as if nothing whatever had occurredjust as the moon continued shining and held the even tenor of her way, despite the angry barkings of a diminutive cur Which had imbibed the notion she had no business to shine. Aye, and I hav~ been knownbut sir, I will enumerate no further, lest the countless instances I could quote of my invincible quietude, should keep me too long away from the main subject of this letter. I repeat it, then, I am a very quiet mana mild, tranquil, unrulfied, bland, placid man; and by some have even been thought phlegmatic. But I am also, In some respects, a nervous man. I belong to that unfor- tunate class of persons whose acoustic ducts were too finely fashioned by na- ture in the beginning; over the drums of whose ears the parchment is either too thin, or too tightly drawn; and I am consequently the recipient of pains through that chajinel, which seem well- nigh incredible to those of less sensitive tympanapains as i-cal and racking, ae tangible and torturous, as are kicks, cuffs, and stripes, to others of my fellow-

18~.J 41 HARD SWEARING ON A CHURCH STEEPLE: nJILoSoPmOALLY TiIEATED II! A EAMDLING LETTER TO THE EDITOE, flOM A eUXET MAN Ter centoin tonat ore Deos, Erebumque, Chaosque, Tergeminamque Hecaten.~zeEw. iv. 510. CAIJBMI. You taught me language, and my profit ont Is, I know hoW to curse: the red plague rid you For learning me your language.TRMPZRT. From a common custom of Swearing, men easily slide into Peijury; therefore, if thou wouldet not be perjured, use not to swear.HasucuTus. SwuARuco. A scape-pipe through which men let off their anger, their good breeding, and their morality. MODESIN Du,uemoN MR. EDITOR, J AM a quiet man; I may say, a serf, ~ quiet man. Rarely, indeed, is my equanimity of temper disturbed; and, though the experiment has never been made, I feel an inward assurance that I could go through-even a steamboat ex- plosioncoolly, calmly, and collectedly, instead of scatteraceously, as do some of a less quiet turn, and who are always found, at the time of such accidents, in the vicinity of the boiler, or other equal- ly dangerous locality. I am satisfied that the papers, of the day after the disaster, would have my name in the list of those gentlemen who behaved with great gallantry on the occasion; or among those whose admirable pre- sence of mind and cool intrepidity ena- bled them to be of invaluable service to the ladies on the boat, many of whom were on deck at the moment of the shocking catastrophe. So, at least, I am sure it would be, did not my pecu- liar infirmityof which you will pre- sently know more-intervene to foil me. I am known sir, in my neighborhood, as THE QUIET MAN, and when J inform you that I live in the same vicinity with three old maids, a chatty young widow, and a number of gossiping misses, you may possibly appreciate the intensity of that placidity which has apquired, and still maintains for me, a reputation so enviable under these highly adverse circumstances. I have been known, when an awk~ward lout of a boy had well-nigh eradicated the corn upon my gouty toe, by crushing it with his boot- heel, to turn to his mamma, who sat near, and, smiling sweetly, assure her in the blandest manner that, it was of no consequence at all made not the slightest difference. I have been bled by a mosquito for half an hour, without wincing; and, when he had become so dropsical with the red current of my life, that lie could no longer fly, I have been known to capture and slay him without one word of reproach, or the slightest malevolence of countenance. When the seediness of my coat and the shoc.king badness of my hat have pro- cured for me the cut direct from old friends and fashionable acquaintances, I have calmly buttoned the one, and jauntily adjusting the other, walked for- wards as imperturbably as if nothing whatever had occurredjust as the moon continued shining and held the even tenor of her way, despite the angry barkings of a diminutive cur Which had imbibed the notion she had no business to shine. Aye, and I hav~ been knownbut sir, I will enumerate no further, lest the countless instances I could quote of my invincible quietude, should keep me too long away from the main subject of this letter. I repeat it, then, I am a very quiet mana mild, tranquil, unrulfied, bland, placid man; and by some have even been thought phlegmatic. But I am also, In some respects, a nervous man. I belong to that unfor- tunate class of persons whose acoustic ducts were too finely fashioned by na- ture in the beginning; over the drums of whose ears the parchment is either too thin, or too tightly drawn; and I am consequently the recipient of pains through that chajinel, which seem well- nigh incredible to those of less sensitive tympanapains as i-cal and racking, ae tangible and torturous, as are kicks, cuffs, and stripes, to others of my fellow- 42 Hard Swearing on a Church Steeple. [Jan. creatures. So subtle, refined, and ex- quisitely delicate is my sense of hearing, I have often wished, that like the peo- ple of the moon, I had been created earles8. The faintest echo from the tongue of a termagant, or a scold, causes me in- continently to betake myself to my heels; nor is it of any avail that I summon my resolution to aid me. So- crates philosophized, when Xantippe ranted and raved: but I consider flight a better thing than philosophy, when woman gives her tongue its will. Some of your street cries, in linked vocifera- tion long drawn out, affect me sensibly. A feline concert from an adjacent roof, ends my repose for the night; while the cries of a cross child or a spoiled baby, induce in me certain snappish and pugnacious tendencies which might sug- gest to a timid mother the propriety of binding me, in a suitable sum, to keep the peacefirst broken, be it observed, by their own darlings. Can you pay this little bill, to-day, sir I especially if I cannotand I never can, till to- morrow, or the latter part of next week renders me a promising candi- date for some friendly asylum. The tickings of a death-watch in the wall cause me to turn restlessly in bed; and the shrill pipings of a mosquito, or the buzz of a bee near my ear, are more dreaded than the concealed weapons they carry, in defiance of the statute made and provided. I ama not a quiet man during the performances of an earthquake; am nervous on gunpowder days, such as national anniversaries; do not blame a dog for leaving the neighborhood of exploding fire-crackers; and am provokingly restless under the influences of opera music in churches. My teeth are set on edge by the scraping of a reed; and the mere thought, even in midsummer, of craunching a cane thus converting the teeth into an ama- teur sugar millbegets in me a chilliness which would be refreshing (in the dog- days) were it not also freezing; even a creaking hinge causes me to fly, with creeping cuticle, after the oil-can; and, though 1 have not tried it, I cannot doubt that the report of my adversarys pistol, in an affair of honor so miscalled, would cause me great trepidation, and force me to minute se~f-examination searching and thorough as if occasioned by the monitions of that still, small voice, ever heard when least desired, but which I dare not disregard. These sounds, however, are trifles com- pared with another assault upon my ear, frequently made, and so very frequenty of late, I have been driven to this letter with a hope of relief. I allude, sir, laugh if you willto AN OATHA cunsx. This it is, which shocks and shatters the whole web-work of my nerves-goes tingling and ripping through my cellular tissuecauses mae involuntarily to wink as it flies past me; and grates and jan- gles upon my ear as if it would shiver the very skull itself. One of your big, black oaths, as it hums and hurtles and whizzes through the air, seems literally to cleave me through. I say seems, but the word is quite strong enough, for I have never learned the difference between verisimile and esse. We are happy or miserable as, to our- selves, we seem thus or sonot as we are. At times, I have believed myself riddled under a shower of oaths; and, as I know from actual experience how a man feels when he is shot, I have no hesitation in saying, that. aside from the fatality sometimes resulting from lead, there is little choice between a ball, shot fiomn some black-mouthed fire-aria, and an oath fired from the foul muzzle of a hard-swearer. Of course, I speak only for myselg and for others having a like sensitiveness of ear. I am fully aware of the eccentricity of these notions. My prejudices many be, doubtless they are, very singular and very antiquated: but, sir, I cannot help cherishing them. I am cognizant of the fact, that the world holds an oath in high esteem; but upon this point the world and I can never agree, though I do not undertake to say which party is in the right. I know that boys consider an oath a matter of much moment, and a proof of manliness(rather mannish- ness); that dandies and bloods use it as an elegant ornament of speech, and can scarce do without it, it being an excellent substitute for thoughts and ideas, and for giving weight and ex- pression to the same; that sea-cap- tains use it as part of their discipline, to ensure prompt obedience to orders, and generals, as an necessory to victory; nor does it surprise me, a muembem, by-the- by, of the Peace Society, that oaths, imprecations and curses should form a fit accomapanimeat to tIme wholesale murder which men call war. Rich old gents use it as their prerogative fools, from a want of senseand sailors, as a luxury. I have understood that 1855.] Hard Swearing on a Church Steeple. 43 oaths and curses form the popular ver- nacular of hell; and know that Lord Byron considered swearing a heavenly invention, professing to believe it divine in its origin. Many other great poets, too, and orators, and statesmen, have indulged slily in the luxury of oaths; though, for what reason I know not, they have seen fit to make small use of them in their songs, speeches, and State-papers. A celebrated queen, now dead, swore with great piquancy; and it is said, though I will not vouch for it, that a queen, now living, sometimes inserts an oath between a sip of her brandy-and-water and the whifls of her cigarrette. That some women do swear, however, is an incontestible fact females known to the world as wo- men, and females recognized as ladies; if no instance of the kind is known to you, Mr. Editor, I sincerely trust you may continue iu this truly blissful ignorance, for an oath from female lips, fairly curdles the blood! May I never hear a second one! Oaths pass sometimes for wit, some- times fbr humor, and often for bravery; are daily heard in the streets of towns and cities, and frequently in private and gentlemanly circles; they abound in bar and billiard rooms, in brothels and bowling-alleys; are heard in hotels and stables; have been whispered in par- lors, and even echoed through the halls of. Congress. Yet, sir, in the teeth of all this authority and precedent, I am compelled to say that I do not admire an oath; and that I detQst swear- ing. Though I do not now allude to the oath taken in courts of justice, at inaugura- tions, and coroners inquests, I am pre- pared to attack even this species of swearing, if any can be found to defend it. Any man may dodge the book, and affirm instead of swear, if he will but pretend to a little scrupulosity of con- science, and profess to have no stomach for a regular oath; and I have often laughed, in my sleeve and out of it, at the grave judges and shrewd lawyers who are quite willing to take a mans word for the stringency of his religious views, yet make him approximate as near as possible to swearing, to restrain him from lying about other matters. Oaths, moreover, are but pout sureties for veracity. Men have been known to lie on the gallows, under torture, in the very jaws of death, on the last confines of Time, and the threshold of Eternity; and it is a good, general rule, that ho who regards not his word and sacred honor, will not regard his oath, WHEN THE PINCH coMEsthe very moment when the value of an oath becomes most apparent; for lying and false-witness are absolute luxuries to no man, and seldom resorted to except in the ex- tremest emergency. Lastly and chiefly: we are expressly commanded, in the best of books, to swear not at all, and though some commentators bave argued that the prohibition applies to our con- versation only, which word occurs in the same verse with the above, I be- lieve it would be difficult to show that conversation is there used in our sense of the word. My dislike to oaths embraces the whole calendar; I fancy none of them. The smoothly running oath of the Latins, the majestic oath of the Greeks, the ambiguous oath of Spain, the soft, music- al oath of Italy, the thunderous oath of Germany, the crisp, crackling, trolling oath of France, are all alike to meall on a par with the big, burly oath of the English. Nor would I care if I never heard any one of them again. For a beggarly dinner, I would dispose of my sole right and title to the privilege, and even pay a handsome premium to any company that would insure my ears for- ever agniost such assaults. But, sir, between the eccentricity of these views, and my awkward manner of expressing them, I fear that I weary you. Bear with me, I beg; for, though my hand is all unused to the pen, I feel it my duty for once to write, and let the pen have its way. I am fond of metaphysics, and have been somewhat given to their study ; but I have not been able to discover what peculiar cast or quality of mind it is, that leads men to swear. Phrenolo- gists pretend that the bump of venera- tion is either wholly wanting in the crania of a wearers, or is else so small, it cannot be rightfully considered a phrenological tumulus. My observation, however, has taught me not to place phrenology among the positive sciences; like many delicate, attenuate, and beautiful theories, that science can be turned to little practical account; and, in this especial particular of swearing, to ~o account. I have found mountains of veneration on the heads of the hardest swearers: and mole-hills of reverence overtopping mouths that were never de- filed with an oathfacts which admonish 4 Hard Swearing on a Ckurck Steeple. [Jan. me not to look to craniology for an explanation. Gen. Paoli was of opinion that all barbarous nations swore from a certain violence of temper that could not be confined to earth, but was always reach- ing to the powers above. I consider this, however, an egregious error. The American aborigines were certainly bar- barous enough when Columbus landed among them; and, though they possessed great violence of tempera spirit which has never been tamedthey did not swear at all. It was not until the Pale Face taught him how, that the Red Man blasphemed. Indeed, it is among the barbarous races that we are to look, for awe, veneration and fear of God. Com- pare the white mans reverence for his God,with the Indians for his Great Spirit, remembering the enlightenment of the one, the ignorance of the other; the for- mer shrinksabashed from the comparison. Again: it is in great cities, in towns, and civilized countries that swearing flou- rishes most vigorously. Paoli himself went on to say, that as is the variety of religious ceremonies, so is the variety of swearing. Wherever you find refine- ment, luxury, ease, affluence, and high civilizationin whatever countries these exist, there also will you find oaths in great abundance and variety. Swearing originated in high life. Hence the proverb that it cdme in at the head and went out at the tail,~ meaning thereby, that the nobility and gentry were the first to adopt it, and that it was afterwards confined to the plebeians. However true this may have been when the proverb was penned, it no longer holds good. Swearing has not gone out, either at head or tail or else it has been revived; for we find the practice on every hand and amongst all classes. Like everything else, the custom seems to have had its series of rises, progressions, and declines. Under the first Charles of England (1685), it was a finable offence to swear; offices were established in every parish for the collection of the fines; and the funds thus accruing were p aid over to the bishops for the relief of the poor. Thirty years after, under Charles IL, there arose an aristocracy of oaths, the gentry hav- ing their curses, and the plebeians theirs: and to such height was the distinction carried, Keith relates that the nobility greatly exceeded the commons in their terrific maledietions, which were called gentleman~oaths. The result of much meditation and inquiry was the conclusion that swearing does not come of any special character of mind, but is rather the offspring of fashion, circumstance, and custom. A habit, that like ones coat may be put on or off at will. In support of this view I gathered the following facts: I once lived in a family, the head of which was an inveterate swearer. He was a stern man, and passionate: the slightest annoyance, the vaguest hint of trouble or perplexity, the least rippk in the stream of his existence, was sufficient to rouse his ire. Then, how the curses flocked to his lips, and were scattered broadcast arouhd him! He had many sons, and though he never scrupled to swear before them, so positive were his commands to them not to imitate his example, and so sure the dread penalty that would have followed their disobe- dience, not one of them ever uttered an oath in my presence. Now, the inherent qualities of the mind will assert them- selvesthey will put forth bud and opening blossom, though circumstance, poverty or neglect may cut off the fruit. Had these boys had any native, mental proclivity towards swearing, the fathers commands would have acted as but a partial restraint upon their tongues. My presence was, certainly, no check, for, like themselves, I was but a boy; and, moreover, no blab, as they all knew. Again :the hardest swearer will re- main for hours, and even days, in the society of ladies, or in company with a parson, without uttering an oath, or an approach to one. A sailor never dns the eyes of his captain; a trooper will not swear in presence of his command- ing officer; nor will an urchin in ear- shot of his father; even Byron, though he thought swearing a heavenly inven- tion, seldom cursed in print. I had begun to flatter myself that the position just mentionedthat swearing is merely a habitwas impregnable. But my views have been well-nigh up- set by the terrific oaths daily thundered forth from a Cnundn-SruzrLz now going up near my residence, causing great con- sternation and disquietude in the neigh- borhood, and not only impinging with dire effect upon my own nerves, but those also of all around. If men can ride an hundred miles with priest and parson without an oath, why can they not refrain from it on a chui~ch-steeple ~ If the parlor be too sacred a place to 1855.] Hard Swearing on a Ckurck Steeple. 45 swear in, why, I asked myself, is not a church cupola equally sacred? That it is not so considered, is plain. What, then, becomes of my position? You may well conceive the discomfiture which my falling argument gave me. l3ut nous verrons. I have paid some attention to Archi- tecture; looked a little into Model Cot- tages, and can prate right fluently and prettily about the Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite ordersancient and modern Donethe Tuscan order, now extinct; the Egyptian and the Roman styles. I have at hand, a store of ecclesiastic-ar- chitectural pedantry, well spiced with such words as :transepts, almeries, lavatories, oratories, aimonries, roods, jubes, misereres, aspersoria, naves, hap- tistries, piles, crypts, anditoria, cloisters, chantries, benetiers, tabernacles, weep- ers, etc., to say nothing of a host of merely secular technicalities. I am, also, author of an essay, written to prove the superiority of the Jeffersonian capi- tal, composed of the leaf and flower of the tobacco-plant, and surmounting a shaft of Indian corn, over the Greek Corinthian, of acanthus leaves, perched on a fluted column, and emblematic of nothing; also to show that Thomas Jefferson was a greater man, though no sculptor, than Callicrates, author of the Corinthian capital; that his con- ception was the happier of the two; and that we, Americans, are fools, fogies, and toadies, in not adopting the Jeffersonian idea, and running off after Grecian gods, when we have in our own land the elements of architectural orders, quite as beautiful, more chaste, and infinitely more symbolic, than anything to be found either at Athens or Rome. From some inexplicable cause, the essay attracted no attention, and is now out of print. Yet, much as I have dabbled in archi- tecture, I have nowhere seen it stated that oaths are essentially necessary in the construction of steeples, churches, or other sacred edifices. Their perpetual recurrence, however, falling at the rate of about sixty per hour from the afore- said steeple, would indicate that I am at fault; and, though no writer on architect- ure has yet mentioned it, you may re- cord it as a fact, that curses are as ne- cessary to masonry and wood-work, as are bricks, mortar, and boards. The steeple to which I allude has now at- tained a height of some sixty feet, in- cluding the church at its base; and the vane above the spire is to be 150 feet from the ground. I do not think it any exaggeration to say, that about 1,000 oaths, not reckoning the little fellows, have been consumed in getting the steeple to its present height. THIs SETS ME TmNKrITG! What a vast amount of imprecation must have been required for rearing the turrets and towers, the steeples and spires, the monuments, columns, obelisks, and domes of the world! There is the Escurial, at Madrid, whose highest point is 200 feet from the earth; Notre Dame, at Paris, 204 feet; the Porch onl~,i of Solo- mons Temple, 210 feet (I can never believe that oaths were used on that work); the Wellington Obelisk, at Dublin, also 210 feet hi h; Porcelain Tower, at Nankin, 22 8; Seville Tower, in Spain, 250; Milan Cathedral, and Castellan Tower, at Yalencia, each 280; the minarets on the Mosque of St. Sophia, at Constantinople, 290 feet; St. Ivans Tower, Moscow, and Lincoln Spire, England, each 800 feet; Trinity Spire, and St. Michaels Tower, Coventry, the former of which is 300 feet high, and overlooked by the latter, which boasts its yard mere of altitude; St. Pauls, and the Dome of Milan, each 370; the Walls of l3abylon, 850; the end Wall of Herods Temple, 860; Dome of the Florence Cathedral, 880; Tower of Utrecht, 464, and of Strasburgh, 474; the ancient tower of Balbec, in Syria, 500, and St. Peters, at Rome,518 feet high I What awful maledictions must have accompanied these structures, while on their way to greet the earliest glories of the rising sun! And we have not yet mounted the Egyptian Pyramids, the highest of which rears its head to the proud height of 520 feet. What shud- dering imprecations frightened the hyena and the jackal of the desert, when these vast piles of stone were heaping up, and up, almost to the clouds! Think too, of the Babylonian Belus, 666 feet high; and of presumptuous Babel, seeking for the sky, and only pausing when it had mounted to a height of 680 feet. What volleys of curses must have echoed through these stupendous fabrics ore they became wonderful! No wonder, that at Babel, there should have been confusion of tongues, amid such a din of oaths, as reverberated and resounded through its gigantic tube, from base to apex I And yet, sir, I have enumerated but a few of the architectural prodigies 46 Hard Swearing on a Church Steeple. [Jan. of the world; have not dropped a hint about light-houses; not mentioned Trini- ty Church, New York; nor said one word of Bunker Hill, and Baltimore. You may well join me in my surprise that the earth was not long ago crushed out, or swung blindly from its moor- ings, under the weight of so large a load of profanation. Sir, as an American citizen, I have serious fears lest the architect of the National Monument to Washington, hath under-estimated the amount of im- precation necessary to the completion of that work. While the census-takers are gathering pitiful pennies in aid of this truly national and patriotic design, and the managers are forced to employ all sorts of schemes and ingenuities to shame the American people into patriot- ismI blush while I write itwould it not be well ~hr each State to send on a delegation of hard swearers to Washing- t9n Ior, at least, authorize their Sena- tors and Representatives in Congress, many of whom, I understand, can out- swear a trooper, to do the necessary cussing, and at once relieve our coun- try of the disgraceful spectacle now staring her in the facea monument commenced to her father, creeping up- wards like a snail, threatening every mo- ment to stand still, and be transformed into a monument of base ingratitude? Sir, I consider this a most excellent and timely suggestion, and trust the manag- ing committee may be profited by it. But to return to our steeple. How do you account, Mr. Editor, for this shame- ful practice, thus openly pursued in the broad libht of day, and in so prominent and sacred a place, as a cupola of one of Gods temples? I see you are puzzled, and will only trouble you to look over the results of my investigations; if no other good come of them, I have made at least one valuable discovery, which I shall give you the benefit of in brackets, and afterwards resume the thread of this sadly disjointed and incoherent epis- tle. [Necessity is the reputed mother of invention. Havent you often wondered who was the father? As usual, alas! the mother all the world knows; but the fatherwho is lie? Well, sir, I have discovered that Perplexity is the sire of that brat; and, further, that he is the offspring of lawful wedlock. I hope the world will be duly grateful for this discovery, and that the boy will be more kindly received for the future, than in the days of Fulton and Watt, whenhe lay under the ban of illegitimacy. You will see the bearings of this paragraph as you proceed.] To resume: my first theory, by which to account for this singular phenomenon, was, luckily, correct. I only regret that I must invoke your patience while I un- fold it. An Eastern Pacha, whenever any row, broil, tumult, or other difficulty, was brought before him for adjustment, was wont to inquire, Who was she ? Ex- perience, he said, had taught him, that whenever these affairs were probed to the bottom and thoroughly sifted, a wo- man would be found to be the prime cause of the disturbance. Womatin, he believed, was at the bottom of all evil whatsoever; and he even attributed to her the misfortunes and accidents which men commonly lay to the account of ill- luck, or destiny. In this day and gene- ration, we are more gallant. Whatever we may think, we are careful to assign to woman a loftier position than the cor- ner-stone of turpitude, the foundation course of disaster. Neither doth our philosophy consider money the root of all evilthe vivifying esculent which nourishes the hardy tree of wickedness. The race after wealth is daily becoming more exciting: the haste to be rich has kept pace with locomotion in general; and we of the present day, so far from turning up our nostrils at lucre, and pre- tending to believe it filthy, esteem it as our greatest good, and its acquisition the chief end of man. The true root of evil the great first cause-is now ascer- tained to be the atch-enemy of man- kind; and the burden (if sin is laid where it rightfully belongson the broad shoulders of its father Beehzebub. To account, now, for this church-steeple swearing. Can anything be more plausible than that Satan, who hates all things good good men, good deeds, and good books seeiog an arena in process of construc- tion, wherein he was to be encountered, grappled with, overthrown and utterly discoinfited, is greatly exercised thereat, and is doing all that in him lies, to stay the progress of the work. Finding church and steeple to advance steadily, in defiance of all his machinations,for a long, long time he persuaded the con- gregatmon they were too poor to build he, in his blind fury and rage, has deter- mined at all events, to manifest his pre- sence in and about the edifice. But, 1855.] Hard Swearing on a Church Steeple. 4,7 being himself too modest to mount the steeple in the garish light of day, and in the face of a whole town, and curse it in person; and having neither imp nor satellite equal to the task, he has put oaths and anathemas in the mouths of the builders, and thus vents his spleen by proxy upon the holy pile! Sir,I am no believer in spiritual rappings, necromancy, sorcery, or other humbug. I believe that witches are ob- solete, and all manner of spells and en- chantments brokenat best they were, in my opinion, but so much nonsense. But allow me to say, that however the world may scorn the idea, I do believe in a Satan. I accept him, sit, hoof horns and tail, according to orthodoxy; and I believe him to be art active, wily, wide-awake, trap-setting, plotting, bird- liming, snlphureous fiend. Moreover, I believe HE 15 AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS CUPOLA! Another brace of brackets, if you please, Mr. Editor; twill break the con- nection but a moment. [One of the workmen on the steeple has just called, in a loud voice, upon God to damn hitn! What superlative folly, to say the least, for a man upon a steeple to be guilty of! Help thyself, and Heaven will help thee, is an old proverb, and a good one. Nor can I see why this man should invoke the Divine aid in a matter so easily arranged with- out it. Still less can I approve of the petition, when the whole neighborhood, old men and maidens, fathers and mo- thers and servants, and wed little ones who have a great knack for imitation, and turn all they hear into availability should be compelled to listen to it, or emigrate, and remain in exile from home till the lightning-rod is tipped, and the steeple finished. Why call upon God at all in this emergency? What with a fall of sixty feetthe route diversified by an occasional corbel, and terminating in a pile of slab-stones, setting up edgewise at the base of the steepleit does strike me, and it will strike the experimenter even more forcibly, that a man of mode- rate abilities might contrive most effectu- ally to damn himself, by simply leaping from the steeple to the stones. He who takes the leap may rest assured he will never be hung: and, with no better pass- port into heaven than the oath last upon his lips, I can promise him St Peter will never grant hitn admittance.] Having succeeded, as I trust, in ferret- ing out the cause of the dire effects about which I complain, will you deign, Mr. Editor, to cast your eye over the following conversation in which Neces- sitas, Perplex, and I, participated; and containing, as you will see, numerous plans submitted by them with a view to cure or alleviate the evil, together with my comments upon them respectively. PEiwLxx.(loquitur.) I believe with you, that tIme devil is at the bottom of your steeplethe true and sole cause of this evil of swearing. Can he not be dug uprooted out? Eno. Alas! Perplex, I fear not. For though Satan is as arrant a Paul Pry as ever popped in, and is solicitous never to be intrusive; though, like a bad shilling, he is always on handI fear that any attetupt to be rid of him by excavation, would end in defeat. You have no idea at what an imtnense depth he lies concealed. There is an artesian well in Charleston (S. C.), which has attained a depth of more than a thousand feet, and though every turn of the screw was. expected to bring up water, there was no water yet at last accounts. Now, philosophers suppose the volcanic or fire strata of the earth to lie l~elow the aqueous regions; and, as we should have to find fire before finding Satan, you will at once perceive the impracti- cability of your plan. Besides, to say nothing of the expense attendant upon the execntion of your scheme, before we could attain such immense profundity of depth as would be necessary, the steeple would be finished, the bells hung, and thenan oath would stand no sort of chance by the side of a bob-major in the belfry. PERPLEx. Can you not exorcise himlay him in some way l EGO. You forget the ubiquitous nature of the fiend; that he is spry as well as black as a fleajust un- der your thumb till you lift it to get him between your fingers. Even were there any power in incantatIon, which I do not believe, the subject to be exor- cised must first be foundas a hare must be caught ere boiledbefore .you could commence to work upon him. While utterly faithless as regards the power of spells, I know of but one pro- cess f~r raising the devil, which of course would have to be done, prior to laying himn. Danmeus de Sortiaraiis tells us, that he who would raise Beel- Eebub, must sacrifice to him, a dog, a cat, and a hen, all his own pro- perty(none of which I possess); must 48 Hard Swearing on a Church Steeple. [Jan. swear eternal obedience to him, and receive a mark in some unseen place, either under the eyelid, or in the roof of the mouth, inflicted by the devil in persona pretty piece of business truly, for a quiet man, and an anti- swearer, to be engaged in! Moreover, what would be the use of laying him, when he has been laid again and again, and will not stay laid like the nasal organ of the urchin whose father took him to see the great Dr. Franklin; and who, when affec- tionately requested by his sire to blow his nose, replied, that he had repeatedly performed that interesting operation, but the nose wouldnt stay blowed. PERPLEX. Decant a thousand o brick from the top of the steeple, so as to take the old reprobate just between the horns. EGo. Ingenious, but not practi- cable. It would be folly to proceed thus, unless you had his majesty so cabined, cribbed, and confined,~ that he could not dodge the falling missiles. You constantly forget that he is still at large, and that catching him is the first great step to be taken. In the event that we had him in such close quarters as I have described, what would it pro- fit us? Didnt Father OFlaherty hit him wunst over the top ov his head wid a testamint, widout aven stunnin ov him? And shure, didnt he come back the very next night widout aven a bit of rag round his horns? I am of opinion we can do nothing with Beelzebub. Will you please con- trive some plan, dear Perplex, for rendering the evil endurable. Cure it we cannot, unless we could remove the cause. PERPLEx. Could not these swearers be induced to adopt the plan of the Louisiania sugar-planter, who was an awful swearer in his wild-oat days, but as the years grew thick upon him, be- came converted at a camp-meeting, and, instead of his old oaths, would ejaculate a terrific Thunder 1 when his wrath wds provoked. EGO. You are still seeking to cure, rather than to alleviate. Men are for- getful, and swearers proverbially short of memory. Were the neighborhood to adopt the expedient you suggest, it would destroy our present watchfulness. In our joy at having at last found a remedy, we would throw off all restraint, instead of sitting, as we now do, on a perpetual qui vive, with shoulders shrugged and eyes shut, awaiting the impending oath. Ere we knew it, some swearer would forget his substitute, and down would come a big, black oath, like a bomb-shell at a mess-table, scattering confusion and dismay in every direction, and completely upsetting confidence. I have heard of your sugar-planter before; and may as well tell you, what perhaps you have never heard, that when his ire was greatly provoked, he forgot to thunder after the new style. PERPLEX. Let the swearers be per- suaded to commence work an hour or two before dawnnot with their ham- mers and trowels, but their oaths. And while Age is recruiting for the morrow, Innocence peacefully dreaming, Child- hood smiling in its sleep, and Infancy chatting with the cherubimere dark- ness has flown to the uttermost parts of the earth, or the East grown warm with the blushes of Aurora,let these fellows take a private cuss of an hours duration, to last them through the day. EGO. A verypretty scheme, but like most pretty schemes, thoroughly Utopian. Swearing is said to be only good in its place (for my part I do not think it good in any place). To illustrate :A traveller who once stopped at a badly kept inn, complained to the waiter, that his plate greatly needed cleansing, and received for answer that every man must eat his peck of dirt before he dies. To this he replied (I am sorry to say with an oath), that he had no objection to complying with that requisition, but hed be ddif he liked this way of making a fellow eat the whole peck at a meal. Thus, I fear it would be, with our steeple-swearers. They might curse you for your suggestions, and pre- fer to take their oaths in DRIBLETS. Another consideration men could not easily be brought to swear, at that hour, upon a steeple. The darkness shrouding the tall spire in its sable folds the striking similitude of the cupolas deep, black, and hollow void, to an abyss deeper, darker, and infinitely more pro- foundand, above all, the sweet, silent stars, which at that hour would still be shining overhead, would set the strongest lungs at variance, and illy attune the tongue to imprecation. Methinks that men, with hearts of men, would be more inclined to adoration, a mid the deep stilness, the solemn grandeur, and holy beauty of such a scene. P~nPLEx. Get the swearers to curse 1855.] Hard Swearing on a Church Steeple. 49 in some foreign lingo, which your child- ren, at least, would not understand. You can easily collate from the dictionaries, a variety of oaths, some of which might strike the fancy of these fellows, and be adopted in lieu of their native-tongued curses. EGO. Too much like your Sugar- planter scheme. I tell you there is no trusting the memory of a swearer. Besides, Perplex, do you not see that the furnishing of such a list would bring us in, as accessories to the crime. Tis all one with God, whether men use their mother tongue or an adopted one, in which to blaspheme. Nay, there are men, who will one day be called to ac- count for oaths nestling deep down, like a brood of serpents, within their hearts, but forbidden by propriety, decency, or other motive, to come to the lip for utterance; others, for oaths inaudible, born in the rancor of the heart, and dying in whispers between their teeth. What think you, Perplex, of mount- ing a parson on the steeple l PERPLEX. Ayeor, a committee of ladies. The difficulty would be in pro- curing these worthy conservators of morals. Twould be an unheard-of duty to require of the clergy; and the ladies could not long survive 50 severe a trial as keeping guard, for days and weeks, over a regiment of hard-swearers. I fear, sir, I must give up your case as irremediable; I am quite in despair.~~ NEcEssirAs. Please, sir, I have just thought of a remedy, occurring to me at the moment, when Perplex spoke of his despair. EGO. Speak, Madame: I do attend ye. NEcEssiTAs. I propose, sir, that you do sink, or cause to be sunk, at bottom of your steeple, a pit, deep, wide, and roomy; covered in with staunch, stout boards, all tongued and grooved, and sealed hermetically, save an aperture in the middle plank, through which you insert a tube, in length ten feet; five thereof below and five above, the inter- section. Into this shaft, conduct tubes supplemental, in length sufficient to oer- top the highest point to which your spire aspires, 150 feet (as all the morning journals say), and in numbers such as to supply each scaffolding that girts your spire. And at each landing in the hol- low void, where airy ladders kiss, each ladder, ladders foot, connecting tubes you place, all snugly fitting, with inter- joinings nice. Thus then, each swearer, VOL. v.4 or high or low in standing, when he fain would curse, hath but to turn him round, and fire into the tubes; once safe therein, the flying oaths would quickly find their destined grave, which hideth all de- formity. Eoo. Bravo! NecessitasI will I will. You have heard Mr. Editor; and now, may I beg of you to have the order for the tubing filled (which you will find inclosed), and ship time same to my address, at your earliest convenience. Be pleased to have the tubing of gutta percha, firmly riveted, and finished in a thorough manner. Some splitting, shi- vering oaths will try its strength, ere they become innocuous in the earth. And now, sir, that I am done, I have misgivings last you should think my tone toolight. I assure you, I was never more serious in my life. What would you have had? A ser- mon or a homily with the untaking title, Swearing I Sir, your patrons would never have read it. Nine-tenths of them would have turned over the leaves bearing that captkn, with an im- patient twirl of finger and thump, mak- ing a dog-ear at each corner, as they hurried forwards to the next article; just as people, at a book-auction, when a splendid binding surprises them with an inside Bible, shut it up with a contemp- tuous bang, and pry about for an Annual, some Love- Thicen, Forget-me-not, or anything, in short, interestino~ The Swearers have so often been soundly drubbed for their iniquities, they have become case-hardened and sermon-proof; of course they would have passed it by, perhaps with an oath, or a malediction on my devoted head. As it is, many will have an itching to know how their brethren appear while in successful operation on a church steeple. Much good may the sight do them. The anti-swearers would, of course, have passed it over, as not meant for them. As for the ladiesheaven bless them they, too, would have thought it in no way useful to them, not knowing, in their innocence, that the world contained so unnatural a creature as a fernctlo swearer. While one-half your lady- readers would have been prodigiously shocked at th3 bald, hard word SWEAR- ING, and immediately skipped the paper; the other half would have held up their pretty little hands in dumb 50 The Rich Aferchant of Cairo. [Jan. astonishment, wondering what on earth possessed you to publish such a dry thingjudging of it, as all women do, by the first glance. Then calling for Godey, Putnam would have been pitched summarily aside, and slid off upon the floor with as much celerity as did gallant Old Put. of Revolu- tionary memory slide down the stone stairs, when the enemy were after him. The next moment would have found them threading the mazes of some love- story, or ravished with delight over the latest fa.shion-plates! Sir, it is my earnest desire to be read, and I trust I shall not be disappointed. The world dearly loves to see folly shot upon the wingsome hoping to see her fall; the others ready to greet her with bravuras, can she but shake out the arrow from her side. For my own part, I was never a good shot on the wing; and have, tkerefore, chosen for my target, Folly on a church steeple. I trust the world will take equal interest in watch- ing her struggles there, as when skim- mning the air. For, sir, though I am nervous man, my own voice has a sooth- ing, rather than a hurtful effect, upon my own ears; and to say truly, there is no one more fond of hearing himself talk, than Youn QUIET MAN. P.S. I am not sure, but you had best delay publication of this until the steeple is finished at all events, until I tele- graph you that the tubing is put up and the connections with the pit duly made. I foresee that your magazine, when it arrives with this article, is to make a great disturbance among the swearers, and I must warn you to breathe not my nameno, not even to your wifelest the whole troop should come buzzing about my ears like so many wasps and hornets. In passing the church, which I now do daily, I shall hereafter take the other side of the street, lest Perplexs idea about a thousand of brick should be carried into effect for the special benefit of, & c., Q. M. THE RICH MERCHANT OF CAIRO A GREAT while ago,several hun- dred years at least, there lived in Cairo a rich merchant, wnose name was Abdallah. He had other names beside, as is the custom there, but none that added to his reputation or credit. He was commonly called Ab- dallah the Rich, and sometimes Abdallah the Miserly. From boyhood almost he had been en- gaged in traffic, and always successfully. Shift as it might, the wind was still favorable to some of his ships, and ven- tures which ruined other merchants overflowed his coffers with gold. The blue Mediterranean reflected the gleam of his sails. Nile, the father of rivers, was shadowed by the swarthy faces of the slaves who rowed his boats, and the burning sands of the desert were trampled by the feet of his caravans. His emissaries were known in the bazaars of Delhi and Damascus, in the spicy forests of Ceylon, and among the pearl- divers of the far Indian seas. They even traded, it is said, with the natives of Timbuctoo, that mysterious city whose existence has so often been denied. Ab dallah, however, had neverquitted Cairo, the city of his birth. He knew too well the dangers and hardships of travel to think of exposing his precious person to them. He had but to name a place to his agents, and say Go there, and they went. His bazaars were in different parts of the city, but his house, like that of every good Turk, was in the Turkish Quarter. It was three stories in height, and the upper stories projected over the lower ones, casting a shadow even at noonday on the street below. The walls were originally white, with horizontal bars of crimson, like the stripes in a flag; but years had elapsed since they were painted, and they were kept in such bad repair that it was hard to say what color they really were, a smoky yellow, or a muddy red. Along the front of the mansion, on a level with the floor of the two upper stories, ran a couple of balconies closely shut in with lattice-work. You see such lattices in most oriental pictures; they are made of thin slips of wood like our lath, and cross each other diamond-

50 The Rich Aferchant of Cairo. [Jan. astonishment, wondering what on earth possessed you to publish such a dry thingjudging of it, as all women do, by the first glance. Then calling for Godey, Putnam would have been pitched summarily aside, and slid off upon the floor with as much celerity as did gallant Old Put. of Revolu- tionary memory slide down the stone stairs, when the enemy were after him. The next moment would have found them threading the mazes of some love- story, or ravished with delight over the latest fa.shion-plates! Sir, it is my earnest desire to be read, and I trust I shall not be disappointed. The world dearly loves to see folly shot upon the wingsome hoping to see her fall; the others ready to greet her with bravuras, can she but shake out the arrow from her side. For my own part, I was never a good shot on the wing; and have, tkerefore, chosen for my target, Folly on a church steeple. I trust the world will take equal interest in watch- ing her struggles there, as when skim- mning the air. For, sir, though I am nervous man, my own voice has a sooth- ing, rather than a hurtful effect, upon my own ears; and to say truly, there is no one more fond of hearing himself talk, than Youn QUIET MAN. P.S. I am not sure, but you had best delay publication of this until the steeple is finished at all events, until I tele- graph you that the tubing is put up and the connections with the pit duly made. I foresee that your magazine, when it arrives with this article, is to make a great disturbance among the swearers, and I must warn you to breathe not my nameno, not even to your wifelest the whole troop should come buzzing about my ears like so many wasps and hornets. In passing the church, which I now do daily, I shall hereafter take the other side of the street, lest Perplexs idea about a thousand of brick should be carried into effect for the special benefit of, & c., Q. M. THE RICH MERCHANT OF CAIRO A GREAT while ago,several hun- dred years at least, there lived in Cairo a rich merchant, wnose name was Abdallah. He had other names beside, as is the custom there, but none that added to his reputation or credit. He was commonly called Ab- dallah the Rich, and sometimes Abdallah the Miserly. From boyhood almost he had been en- gaged in traffic, and always successfully. Shift as it might, the wind was still favorable to some of his ships, and ven- tures which ruined other merchants overflowed his coffers with gold. The blue Mediterranean reflected the gleam of his sails. Nile, the father of rivers, was shadowed by the swarthy faces of the slaves who rowed his boats, and the burning sands of the desert were trampled by the feet of his caravans. His emissaries were known in the bazaars of Delhi and Damascus, in the spicy forests of Ceylon, and among the pearl- divers of the far Indian seas. They even traded, it is said, with the natives of Timbuctoo, that mysterious city whose existence has so often been denied. Ab dallah, however, had neverquitted Cairo, the city of his birth. He knew too well the dangers and hardships of travel to think of exposing his precious person to them. He had but to name a place to his agents, and say Go there, and they went. His bazaars were in different parts of the city, but his house, like that of every good Turk, was in the Turkish Quarter. It was three stories in height, and the upper stories projected over the lower ones, casting a shadow even at noonday on the street below. The walls were originally white, with horizontal bars of crimson, like the stripes in a flag; but years had elapsed since they were painted, and they were kept in such bad repair that it was hard to say what color they really were, a smoky yellow, or a muddy red. Along the front of the mansion, on a level with the floor of the two upper stories, ran a couple of balconies closely shut in with lattice-work. You see such lattices in most oriental pictures; they are made of thin slips of wood like our lath, and cross each other diamond- 1855.] The Rick kferchant qf Cairo. 51 wise. Save the arch over the door, which was elaborately carved, and illum~ mated with gold lettersa text from the Koran,there was nothing about the out- side of the house to stamp its owner a wealthy man. Inside, however, it was apparent, and all was rich and beautiful. Like many other mean and selfish men, Abdallah was at heart sensual and luxurious. His floors were carpeted with the richest stuffs of the East, bril- liant in dye, and soft as flowers to the feet. Where the marble pavement was seen, as it was in some rooms which were merely strewn with mats, it was cunningly inlaid with mosaics. Couches and divans softer than down lined the walls, and cabinets were filled with chiboques, and beautiful Persian pipes, whose water-bowls were buried in the long coil of their stems. You passed from room to room by gliding between pillars, and by pushing aside curtains. Over the curtains rose magnificent arches of the finest and costliest workmanship. It would have made you feel proud just to walk be- neath them, they were so grand, and yet so airy. Spicy cressets hung from the ceiling, and lanterns of divers colors dangled on golden chains. Pictures and statues there were none, both being for- bidden by the Koran, but vases and cups abounded; vases of exquisite pat- tern, gold and silver, heaped with precious stones, pearls, rubies, and em- eralds; and cups which a king might have drained. And Abdnllah did drain them daily, so fond was he of his vault of old Greek wine! But it was not within doors, after all, that the wealth of Abdallah was most manifest, but in his garden, which was the finest in all Cairo. It was situated at the back of the house, and was. walled in with a high wall. A forest could not have been more shady and pleasant, so thick and leafy were the trees, palms, acacias, and sycamores, and so cool the winds imprisoned in their green retreats. The walks were hedged with roses and jessamines, and roofed with the branches of fruit trees. Here hung the golden quince, there the bloom-cheeked peach, and there purple plums and red poine- granates. In the centre, of the garden was a kiosk, or Turkish summer-house, a mi- racle of grace and beauty. It was square, with four pillars on each side, and a fretted dome overhead. The pillars sup- ported Saracenic arches, through which came gleams of the garden around, and the mingled scent of its flowers. From a black marble urn in the basin of the kiosk gushed a sparkling fountain, a broad silver shaft with a willowy base that dripped back into the urn, and over its rim into the bubbling ripples below. It was a nook of delight, and a perfect nest of birds, the wondrous birds of the East. Some were inclosed in cages of sandal-wood and pearl, while others were as free as the air in which they wantoned. Peacocks strutted in and out spreading their gorgeons trains; golden pheasants dreamed in the gloom of the dome; parrots chattered and swung on their rings, and Birds of Paradise, with sweeping rainbow tails, flew from perch to perch. Truly it was an en- chanted place, that garden and house, and worthy of a better master than Abdallab. Here Abdallah dwelt year after year. No one shared his enjoyments save his daughter Zuleika, and she only when he was away. There was not much happi- ness in the house where Abdallah was, he was so selfi~h and exacting. It was impossible to please him. He thought of no one but himself, and his own gains and losses. He had a wonderful head for accounts, and could reckon untold sums as by instinct. He knew to a frac- tion, how much every debtor owed him, and how much it cost him to just keep the life in his slaves. When the business of the day was over, and he had smoked his bubbling pipe, and quaffed his cup of Greek wine, he used to shut himself up in his room, and gloat over his gold. It was his God, and he recognixed no other, ex- cept he wished to take a false oath. Then he was profuse of his By Allahs, and the holy beard of the Prophet 1 Such was the man Abdallab, and such his mode of life up to the morning when our story begins. Having a new scheme of gain on hand that morning, he rose earlier than usual, performed his cus- tomary ablutions, and prepared to de- part for the market-place. Before set- ting forth, he allotted their days work to his servants and slaves; then he charged his daughter Zuleika not to leave the house during his absence; and, finally, after lie had mnade everybody as miserable as he could, he departed, and the door was barred behind him. It was still early in Cairo, and but few of the better citizens had yet risen. The streets were filled with the poorest 52 The Rich Merchant of Cairo. [Jan. classes, and they jostled Abdallah in passing. He avoided them as much as possible, by picking the least-crowded thoroughfares, and keeping close to the houses. Here sauntered a water-carrier, with his jar poised on his head; and there marched a string of camels, bound for Siout and the desert. Artisans hurried to their workshops, rubbing their eyes as they went; donkeys turned the corners suddenly, and almost knock- ed him down; and, to crown all, a per- tinacious driver insisted on having his custom! He must have been a wag, or a stranger in Cairo, that driver, to have, for a moment, imagined that Ab- dallah the Miser would ride. He knew the value of money too well, however wearied he might be, to think of spend- ing it in that way. The idea was ab- surd. As I said before, the streets were filled with the poorest classes, and the short turn that Abdallah made to reach the market-place led him among their dwellings. He had but little time for observation, so intent was he in hatch- ing his schemes,but he could not help seeing the filth and misery which sur- rounded him. The houses were in a ruinous and tumble-down condition; many of them without windows and doorsrnere hovels,and their dwellers were in perfect keeping, lean, sallow, and ragged. Few of the men were at home, for the day being a festival, promised an abun- dant alms; but he saw the women in the miserable rooms, and troops of squalid children. Some of the women were busy with household matters, kindling fires for the morning meal, and mending the rents in their gar- ments: others sat in the ashes, supine and dejected, their long hair falling over their eyes, and over the infants on their bosoms. These were the mothers and grandmothers: if there were girls in the family they were generally at the win- dows, ogling the passers-by, and singing ribald songs to entice them in. One among the number arrested the sight of Abdallab, she was so much like his own child Zuleika. She was just her height, although her figure was frailer; had the same black hair adorned with sequins, and the same lustrous large eyes and long lashes. Zuleika, however, lacked the mingled mirth and melan- choly of her counterfeit; nor was she ever seen, like her, at the balcony unveiled. The likeness puzzled Abdaflab, but he knew that Zuleika was safe at home, and his schemes came into his head againso he passed on, and forgot it. He had now reached a better portion of the city, although he was still in the Beg- gars Quarter. He stopped in the pub- lic square, and gazed about him. His vision was bounded on all sides by the white wall of the city, and the fringe of palms overlooking it. An open country lay on the northa region of gardens and grain fields; on the south and west, the shining length of the Nile flecked with sails, and the Pyramids that loomed through the haze of the Lybian desert. But the glory of the dawn was in the east, in the serene blue sky, and on the crests of the Mokattam hills, which were tipped with light. The sun had not yet risen, but the domes of the mosques were brightening, and the minarets burn- ed with rosy flames. The heart of Abdallah was glad within him, he hardly knew why, and he went on his way with a lighter and firmer step. To say that he was depressed by the Beggars Quarter, or that he pitied its unfortunate dwellers, would show but little knowledge of ~a nature like his. Still, he felt happy in leaving them behind him, and in comparing his condi- tion with theirs. He drew near the market-place, in which his bazaars were held, when he was accosted by a beggar. I am poor, said the beggar, it is two days now since I have tasted food. What is that to me I inquired the merclant. Abdallah the Rich, I am poor and hungry, and I demand alms from thee ! Abdallah started back amazed. He was not accustomed to demands, besides he had never before been mimicked as he was by the beggar; for the voice of the latter was an exact echo of his own. Nor did the imitation stop at his voice: form, features, gait, everything pertain- ing to Abdallah was reproduced with strange fidelity. It was as if he saw himself in a mirror, or stood beside himself in a dream! There was a difference though, between the beggars garments and those of Ab- dallah. The merchant was dressed as became his station and wealth, in a flow- ing robe, with a rich sash around his waist, and a jewel-hilted dagger in his belt. His turban was a costly cashmere shawl, and his slippers were heavily em- broidered with gold. The beggar was clad in rags whidi failed to hide his leanness, 1855.] The Rich ilterchant of Cairo. 53 and he supported his tottering limbs with a long staff. His face was thin and ghastly, and his eyes, that burned with an unnatural lustre, were deeply sunken in their sockets. He was like Abdallah, an(l yet unlike; looking not so much as Abdallah did, as Abdallah might, should he by any chance become a beggar. Abdallah the Miserly, said the beg- gar, you are rolling in abundance, while I am starving with want. Help me, or I die. You are mistaken in thinking me rich, said the covetpns merchant. True I have the reputation of wealth, but everybody knows the uncertainty of a merchants business. To day he is rich, to-morrow poor. But, admitting that I am rich, my money is my own. I owe it entirely to my own exertions, and not to others. I cannot help you, so let me pass. But I am dying, persisted the beg- gar. Again I say, what is that to me? Listen to me, Abdallah, said the excited beggar, shaking his skinny fin- ger in the face of the merchant. Listen to me, hard-hearted man, and tremble. You refuse me, your fellow man, bread, and you arrogate to yourself your good fortune. These are deadly sins, and must be atoned for. God gave you prosperity; he can give you adversity as well. And he does; from this hour there is a spell upon you. The merchant turned in wrath and was about to smite the beggar, when he saw the Captain of the Sultans Guard approaching in the distance. In spite 01 himself, he shuddered and turned pale. He did not for an instant believe the beggara prophecy; but he knew that no mans life was safe, if it were known that he was rich, and the Sultan was in want of money. The curse is beginning to work, Abdallah, said the beggar, tauntingly; but Abdallah was too much troubled to hear him. He ran over in his mind all his late business transactions, to see how far the worst had infringcd the law; wondered which one of his many agents was most likely to betray him; and whether, if the worst came to the worst, he could manage to escape with life. Perhaps I may escape even now, said he to himself: but nothe guard was too close. Besides, he reasoned, if I attempt flight, it will seem to confirm suspicion. But he could not have flown had he tiled, for his feet were rooted to the ground. He was a grim-looking fellow, the Captain of the Guard, and his manner of arresting Abdallah was not calculated to set the latter at ease. He drew his long sword with one hand, and clutched the merchant by the wrist with the other, while the soldiers sprang upon him from the opposite side, and pinioned his arms behind him. He was then marched off in the direction of the Sul- tans palace. As might have been ex- pected, his arrest drew together a crowd. First and foremost came the rabble frojn the Beggars Quarter; children who broke off their plays to revile him women who ran to see if it was their lovers or husbands; and numbers of the beggarmen, whom the news had already reached. Among others, was the girl who looked so much like Zuleika. It was strange, but she was not in the least like Zuleika now. She had lustrous eyes, long lashes, and black hair, adorned with sequins; but her face was hag- gard with sensuality, and distorted with indecent mirth. She was no more like Zuleikathe pure and beautiful Zuleikathan a wandering comet, a hell of merial fire is like the moon, the silver Eden of night. This is marvellous, this change,~) thought Abdallah; and the beggar coming into his mind, he turned his head to, see if the beggar was changed also; and lo! he had vanished. The guard and their prisoner had now reached the Sultans palace. It was a holiday in Cairo, and the square was filIled with soldiers. Bodies of black troops were drawn up in files on each side, while the centre was filled by- the dignitaries of the empire; bashaws of distant provinces, white-bearded old shekhs of desert tribes, and daring Mamalukes. Beside the palace gate, stood two gigantic Kubian slaves, the executioners of the Sultan, one swinging his bowstring, the other poising his immense scymitar. The gates were thrown open, and the Sultan came firth to judgment. The Commander of the Faithful was mounted on a superb Arab barb, whose neck arched proudly, and whose step dis- dained the earth. His turban was cover- ed with jewels, and it shone like a con- stellation under his cloudy plume. His caftan was green, the sacred color, but his sash was deep red. It was an omi 1~4 The liich Merchant of Cairo. [Jan. nons color with the Commander of the Faithful, for it generally betokened the shedding of blood. So his court ap- proached him with terror, kissing his robe, and feet, and even the ground before him. Long life to the Shereef! May God prolong his days ! Casting his eyes over the prostrate crowd, the Commander of the Faithful saw Ahdallah kneeling in the custody of the Captain of the Guard. He sum- moned the latter, and as he drew near, dragging the helpless culprit, beckoned to the executioners. Behold Abdallah between them, in flout of the Sultan. Long life to the Shereef! May God prolong his days! We have heard of this man, said the Commander of the Faithful; does any here know him? It is said that he is rich, very rich. It is also said that his riches are ill-gotten. If he has wronged any here, even a slave, let the wronged man step forth, and accuse him. By the beard of my father he shall have justice ! The words of the Sultan passed from mouth to mouth till they reached the ears of a merchant who was passing the palace. Emboldened by the Sultans permission, he accused Abdallah. Commander of the Faithful, the mer- chant Abdallah owes me five purses of gold, which he refuses to pay. He came to me one day, accompanied by a strange merchant,who, he said, was his friend; and who wished to purchase sandal-wood and gums. I sold him five purses worth, Abdallah agreeing to pay for the same, in case his friend did not. Twelve moons have passed since then, and I have not seen the merchant, nor will Abdallah pay me the debt. Your case is hard, said the Sultan; but we cannot help you. The law will do you justice, if you can prove your claim. We give you a purse of gold that you may prosecute it freely. The next accuser ~vas one of the Ma- malukes. Commander of the Faithful, this shop-keeper lately sold me a sword for a true Damascus blade. I paid him his price without higgling, and went forth to battle with the enemies of the Prophet. We were hard pushed by the accursed Giaonrs, and fell before them like ripe grain. A boy, whom I could have slain with the wind of a good scimitar, enga- ged me; and, snapping my sword like a reed, gave me this ugly gash on the cheek. I have no sword now. Here is the hilt of my famous Damascus blade, and lie threw it at the feet of the Sultans barb; give me another, Master, and I will punish the lying shop-keeper. You are a brave fellow, Mainaluke, said the Sultan, unbuckliug his own sword, and handing it to the soldier; wear this, and smite the Giaours. Leave the shop-keeper to us. The soldier fell back in the ranks, and the Sultan made a sign to the slave with the bow-string, who seized Abdallab, and prepared to strangle him. The next accuser was one of the desert shekhs. Seven years ago, he said, there was a famine among my people. The tidings reached Cairo, and this dog sent his agents amongst us loaded with corn, not to relieve our wants, but to rob us of our flocks and herds. He built gran- aries in our midst, and tortured us with the sight of food which few were rich enough to buy. We implored the assist- ance of other merchants, and many at- tempted to help us, but he drove them all from the field, some by bribery, and some by underselling~ till, at last, no one would venture against him. The souls of our dead cry out for justicejustice on the corn-selling dog! We, too, have a cause of complaint, said the Commander of the Faithful, after a score or two had finished accusing Abdallah. This jewel, and he plucked one from his turban, was sold us by the merchant for a pure diamond, and it turns out to be a bit of glass. We gave him a thousand purses for what is not worth a piastre. To punish him for the cheat we confiscate his estates for the Prophets treasury, and we seize his daughter for the imperial Harem. As for the wretch himself he shall become a slave. We give him to your tribe, said the Sultan turning to the desert shekh It is just that he should suffer, even as he has made others. The dog is no longer Abdallak the Merchant, but Abdallah the Slave. God is great ! Long life to the Shereef! May God prolong his days! The Sultan shook the reins of his barb, and rode down the square, accompanied by his bashaws and shekhs. Time Mama- lukes and black troops remained, together with Abdallah and the executioners. There was no danger now in insulting him, and they made the most of the opportunity. The Mamalukes began by robbing him of everything valuable. One snatched his turban, another his -4 1855.] The Rick Merchant of Cairo. 55 sash, a third his jewel-hilted dagger, and the fourth the purse which he vain- ly attempted to conceal; the rest, mean- while, rode around him and pricked him with the pAnts of their long. spears. He was then handed over to the soldiers and buffeted about till his bones ached. When the shekh returned for his slave he found him in a sorry plight, for he was covered with blood and bruises, and his garments were torn to tatters. Could his counterfeit and second self, the van- ished beggar, have seen him then, even he must have pitied him, he was so ragged and forlorn. It pleased the shekh to ride through Cairo before he started for the desert, and the whim seized him to make Ab- dallah lead his camel. The slave walked before his master, sullen and slow, the string of the camel slack in his hand, and his eyes fixed on the ground. Tnrn which way he would he was blasted by the sight of human faces. Men of all ranks and conditions rejoiced at his abasement. Children climbed up arches and gateways to get a glimpse of him; citizens pointed him out to strangers, and veiled women peered at him from latticed balconies. Many of his debtors were present, and merry enongh they were too. It was not every day that they could pay their debts so easily! After traversing the principal streets of the city, passing squares, markets, and bazaars, the shekh halted to make room for a processsion. First came a file of soldiers loaded with swords and daggers~ and armfnlls of sashes and shawls; then a row of black slaves, each with a jar of gold or jewels on his head; and lastly, the head eunuch leading a veiled girl, who trembled under her veil I The heart of the slave sank within him. It was the spoil of his own bazaars which the Snltan had just seized, and his own child Zuleika on her way to the accursed Ha- rem! A mist swain before the eyes of the wretched man; he staggered a step, and fell senseless in the dust. When he came to himself he was tra- velling with a caravan, for the tribe whose slave he had become, were jour- neying back to the desert. The shekh rode at their head, and Abdallab led his camel over the sand. An ocean of yellow sand stretched away on all sides till it reached the edge of the horizon. Not a tree or plant was to be seen anywhere, not even a blade of grass. The sky was without a cloud, intensely blue and bright, and the sun a perfect glare of light. Sometimes they followed the track of former caravans, trampling in the foot- prints of men and camels; at others, they struck out a path for themselves, making the far-away mountains landmarks. The road was frequently strewn with bones, the skeletons of men and camels, some of whom were overthrown by whirling clouds of sand, while others must have perished from starvation. One skeleton in particular impressed Abdallab, and made him thoughtful for a long time. It lay in advance of the multitude, and beside it was a broken water-cruse. He picked up a fragment of the cruse, and saw its owners name engraved under the mark of the potter. The dead man was one of his own agents, a trusty Egyptian who started on a long journey for him, and never returned. He met his fate in the desert, thought Abdallab, he was starved to death that I might increase my gains. I remember now that his wife told me this, but I feigned to think it false, and refused her a single piastre. I am punished now, for I am in the desert myself Allah for- bid that his fate should be mine! He cast his eyes over the sea of rolling sand, and sighed aloud. Up to this time, and it was now the second day of the journey, he had made no complaint.; but now his limbs began to fail him from ex- cessive weariness. The hot sand burnt his tender feet, the waste of flint, into which the caravan had come, cut him to the very bone, and his steps were marked with blood. In the afternoon the caravan halted at a valley well, and pitched their tents for the night. The valley was a mere gully, the bed of some ancient river, and the well a pit of brackish water. A stunted palm rustled in the burning air, and a few brave tufts of grass disputed the su- premacy of the sand. It was a dreary place, but it seemed a garden to the weary Abdallah. The camels were fed and tethered for the night: the shekh and his sons sat cross-legged in the tent and related mar- vellous tales; the slaves huddled to- gether, and sang wild songs in strange tongues; but Abdallah, stood alone in the shade of the palm. His first impulse was flight, but a glance at his swollen feet convinced him of its utter folly. Had he needed anything else to deter him he could have found it in the hyena tracks which surrounded the valley. He threw himself under the stunted palm, and strove to forget the change in his fortunes. He was no longer Abdal 56 The Rich Merchant of Cairo. [Jan. Iah the slave; nor yet Abdallah the mer- chant, but Abdallali the man_ a man alone with nature. The stars were out by thousands, sparkling in the deep blue sky, and the moon lifted her horn above the rim of the desert. The first news that Abdallab had of her presence was a long ray of light which she shot full in his eyes. He turned his head aside and it glinted on the surface of the well. A second followed it, and discovered what the dusk had for some time concealed, the dusky faces of the slaves as they sang their strange wild songs. Then Abdallah saw the white tent of the shekh, and the group of tethered camels, and then the stretch of desert beyond. There was something in the moon- light which made everything it shone upon beautiful, even the stern old shekh who came to the door of his tent to watch the slaves. It softened the heart of Abdallah and filled him with tender and dreamy thoughts. He remembered how often he had seen it shining on the mosques and domes of Cairo, and how it flooded the walks of his garden, and dripped from the walls of his beloved kiosk. Then his fancy wandered, as a moonlight fancy sometimes will, to ruin- ous old houses, and he saw the Beggars Quarter as it was on the previous morn- lug. The houses were old still, with walls and chimneys leaning to a fall; yet their decay seemed in some degree repaired, for the chinks and doors were closed, he knew not how, while the windows were curtained with white. If the moonlight does so much for the beggars houses, thought Abdallah, what might not human kindness do for the beggars ? It was a manly thought, and it ennobled even while it grieved him. He pondered over his past life, its narrow selfishness and blindness, and giving himself up to the influences around was initiated into the mysteries of nature. And the first thing that the universal mother taught him was that nothing exists for itself alone. He saw, in thought, the moon and stars shining on the earth, and the earth baring her brow to receive their light, giving her own in return. The land gradually crumbled into the sea on one side of the world, while the sea as gradually with- drew its waters from the land on the other. The clouds covered the moun- tains with snow: the snow melted and formed rivers: the rivers with mist fed the clouds; and the clouds turned into anew, and again covered the mountains. The dew crept into the heart of the flowers, and the flowers breathed their fragrance to the falling dew. Innum- erable were the examples of Nature, that it is necessary to give, as well as to re- ceive. Yes, and even to give when there is no hope of receiving in return. The desert, for instance, thought Ab- dallah, what can the sun hope to gain by shining on its rocks and billows of sand? For leagues there is no living thing, save now and then a scorpion, or a straggling blade of grass. Yet the sun shines as generously there as in the gardens of Cashmere, and the stars, and the queenly moon brighten the solitude with their luminous smiles I And the great God of the heavens, the infinite and everlasting Allah, who made and overlooks the worlds-of what avail to Him are the prayers, and the lives of even the holiest? Yet the hands of the great Father are always stretched forth with blessings and bounties, and his ears are always open to the cries of his children. I have not performed my part, said Abdallah sadly, as God and Nature perform theirs, but from this hour I will amend my life. I have not fallen in vain since I have learned to fulfil my duty. God is great! He rose from his seat beneath the palm, and walked to the edge of the valley, where he saw a stunted colycinth growing alone in the sand. Curiosity impelled himn to view it closer, and he hastened to it, although it grew in the midst of the hyena tracks. Stooping on his hands and knees he brushed the sand from it, and found that it was dying for want of moisture. Its leaves were shrivelled with heat, and the poor me}on which it strove to shelter, was fairly wilted on the stem. It was a worthless plant at best; so hitter that no animal could eat it; but its forlorn condition touched the heart of Abdallah, and retracing his steps to the well he pro- ceeded to water it, using for that pur- pose a fragment of the broken cruse which he picked up in the desert. That done he bowed his head to the Holy City, and said the prayers of the Faith- ful, and, creeping among the camels, he was soon fast asleep. The caravan rose at dawn, and re- sumed their march. The fist good deed of Abdallah repaid him well; for the colyciuth was green and fresh. It waved its leaves to him at parting, and the shine of its yellow melon was brighter than gold. 1855.] Our Given Names. 57 The sky above, and the sand below; a desert of blue, and a desert of yellow. In the upper desert marched the sun, showering abroad his spears of fire, in the under desert the shekh and his tribe, vainly endeavoring to ward them off. Sun, and sand, and hot wind. Frag- ments of bleaching bones. A winding string of men and camels, and a solitary swooping kite! About noon they were startled by a mirage. It was the first that Abdallah had ever seen, and he marvelled greatly thereat. It grew up from the sand sud- denly, and assumed the shape of a band of roving Bedouins, a tribe of desert robbers, mounted on flying stallions, and armed with long spears which they brandished furiously. Then it became the house of Abdal- lah, a perfect picture of his lost mansion in Cairo. Like that, its walls were striped with red; its balconies shaded the street; the fountain played in its kiosk; and a mock Zuleika walked in the shade of its unreal trees! Its third change was into the Beggars Quarter, which seemed more wretched, if that were possible, than when Ab- dallah saw it last. Some of the houses had fairly tumbled down, nearly all the windows and doors were gone, and the squalid wretches had multiplied in every room. Parents had strangled their child- ren, and were weeping for them; child- ren bad grown up, and were beating their parents; and the girl with sequins in her hairshe lay stone dead in the street! Then the mirage surrounded Abdallab, and became the very square in which he was stopped by the beggar. He stared down the long streets, and saw the white wall of the city, and the fringe of palms overlooking it. Gardens and grain-fields barred the north; on the south and west ran the Nile, alive with glancing sails. The Mokattam hills were flooded with light, and the mosques and minarets blazed with rosy flames. It was too like Cairo, not to be Cairo itself! Abdallah rubbed his eyes, like a man awaking from a dream, and found to his great joy that he had not stirred from the square. The beggar still stood before him, holding out his hand for alms, and in the distance he saw the Captain of the Sultans Guard! Hardly a moment had elapsed, and yet Abdallah had passed through so many changes of fortune. It was like the Irophets living in the seventh heaven seventy thousand years, while a drop of water was falling froni his pitcher to the ground. I have not dreamed in vain, said the thankful and humbled merchant, for I have learned to perform my duty. Here, my brother, is alms for thee, and he gave the beggar a piece of gold; depart in peace, and be happy. For meI will go and pray. God is Great! God is Great!the muezzins took up the cry, and passed it from minaret to minaret, till the morning wind was vocal with the sound. The faithful heard it in their houses, and came ponr- ing into the streets, and sought the near- est mosque. Every man drew the slip- pers from his feet, and, crossing the sacred threshold, worshipped God and the Prophet. There were many solemn prayers said that day, and many grateful men in Cairo, but none that were more devout than Abdallah, the merchant. For, by the grace of God, he said, I am still Abdallah the Merchant, and not Abdallah the Slave. OUR GIVEN NAMES. gave you this name ? ~V~ My sponsors in baptism.~~ Then these sponsors have much to answer for in this matter of naming, to say nothing of the obligations that they take upon themselves. The name of a person is a sound that suggests the idea of him. It is indisso- lubly united with every notion of him; the name and the man are more closely bound than man and wife, for even after death we associate them together. How important, then, is it that no one should suffer for his name, that no unplea- sant, ridiculous, or infamous associations should be connected with it, but rather that it should be honorable and honored. It is true that the fair Juliet, in a pas- sage often quoted and oftener misquoted,. asks whats in a name? that which we call a rose, By any other name would, smell ae sweet.

1855.] Our Given Names. 57 The sky above, and the sand below; a desert of blue, and a desert of yellow. In the upper desert marched the sun, showering abroad his spears of fire, in the under desert the shekh and his tribe, vainly endeavoring to ward them off. Sun, and sand, and hot wind. Frag- ments of bleaching bones. A winding string of men and camels, and a solitary swooping kite! About noon they were startled by a mirage. It was the first that Abdallah had ever seen, and he marvelled greatly thereat. It grew up from the sand sud- denly, and assumed the shape of a band of roving Bedouins, a tribe of desert robbers, mounted on flying stallions, and armed with long spears which they brandished furiously. Then it became the house of Abdal- lah, a perfect picture of his lost mansion in Cairo. Like that, its walls were striped with red; its balconies shaded the street; the fountain played in its kiosk; and a mock Zuleika walked in the shade of its unreal trees! Its third change was into the Beggars Quarter, which seemed more wretched, if that were possible, than when Ab- dallah saw it last. Some of the houses had fairly tumbled down, nearly all the windows and doors were gone, and the squalid wretches had multiplied in every room. Parents had strangled their child- ren, and were weeping for them; child- ren bad grown up, and were beating their parents; and the girl with sequins in her hairshe lay stone dead in the street! Then the mirage surrounded Abdallab, and became the very square in which he was stopped by the beggar. He stared down the long streets, and saw the white wall of the city, and the fringe of palms overlooking it. Gardens and grain-fields barred the north; on the south and west ran the Nile, alive with glancing sails. The Mokattam hills were flooded with light, and the mosques and minarets blazed with rosy flames. It was too like Cairo, not to be Cairo itself! Abdallah rubbed his eyes, like a man awaking from a dream, and found to his great joy that he had not stirred from the square. The beggar still stood before him, holding out his hand for alms, and in the distance he saw the Captain of the Sultans Guard! Hardly a moment had elapsed, and yet Abdallah had passed through so many changes of fortune. It was like the Irophets living in the seventh heaven seventy thousand years, while a drop of water was falling froni his pitcher to the ground. I have not dreamed in vain, said the thankful and humbled merchant, for I have learned to perform my duty. Here, my brother, is alms for thee, and he gave the beggar a piece of gold; depart in peace, and be happy. For meI will go and pray. God is Great! God is Great!the muezzins took up the cry, and passed it from minaret to minaret, till the morning wind was vocal with the sound. The faithful heard it in their houses, and came ponr- ing into the streets, and sought the near- est mosque. Every man drew the slip- pers from his feet, and, crossing the sacred threshold, worshipped God and the Prophet. There were many solemn prayers said that day, and many grateful men in Cairo, but none that were more devout than Abdallah, the merchant. For, by the grace of God, he said, I am still Abdallah the Merchant, and not Abdallah the Slave. OUR GIVEN NAMES. gave you this name ? ~V~ My sponsors in baptism.~~ Then these sponsors have much to answer for in this matter of naming, to say nothing of the obligations that they take upon themselves. The name of a person is a sound that suggests the idea of him. It is indisso- lubly united with every notion of him; the name and the man are more closely bound than man and wife, for even after death we associate them together. How important, then, is it that no one should suffer for his name, that no unplea- sant, ridiculous, or infamous associations should be connected with it, but rather that it should be honorable and honored. It is true that the fair Juliet, in a pas- sage often quoted and oftener misquoted,. asks whats in a name? that which we call a rose, By any other name would, smell ae sweet. 58 Our Given Names. [Jan. Very true; but we do not go to names for smells, any more than to colors for music. And in the instance that she gives, what a loss it would have been to the world, if the word rose had not existed as the title of the queen of flowers; but, instead of it, some such common unmusical word as turnip or squash had been selected by the founders of the English tongue! What could poets have done with such a word? Where would they have found rhymes for it? The queen of flowers should have a name of beauty, and she has it. We are not able, at present, to say how many of th& modern languages of Europe call this flower by a name resembling rose, or identical with it but we l~elieve that all of them do, which are based in any degree upon the Latin tongue, which had its rosa, a deri- vative and improvement upon the rodon of the Greeks. Juliet is in a very small minority upon this question. And we would strengthen our position as to the importance of first names, by quoting Sternes remark, that no one has ever thought of calling a child after Judas Jscariot. Some come pretty near it when they select the name Judah, which is radically the same name as Judas, but how carefully do they stop here! What an immense difference does a single letter, an H for an 5, make! We say given names, not Christian names, as i~ more common; for it is not every one having a first name that has a Christian name, as was exemplified in the case of Mr. Levi, who appeared as a witness before the Lord Mayor of London. What is your Christian name, Mr. Levi ? said that civic functionary. I have not got any, my Lord, was the reply. I am a Jew, but my first name is Moses.~, Various are the tastes in the selection of a name for a childvarious are the motives that influence the decision. Sometimes a rich friend or relation is to be conciliated, and therefore some barba- rous designation is affixed to a child that is a thorn in his side as long as he lives; and after all, the unfortunate may miss the expected legacy. Sometimes the name of some distinguished man is selected, to which the life of the new wearer adds no new lustre; thus we see George Washington and John Wesley occasionally figuring in the police re- ports, as the names of people arrested for riot or petty larceny. A classical taste inspires others, who are not always very particular in the names, provided they smack of the ancients, owing to which it happens that there is a boy now living in Philadelphia who has been christened if we may thus use the wordafter Commodus, one of the most infamous of the Roman Emporors. The late Bishop Chase, of Illinois, had a dislike to having Greek and Roman names imposed upon children, which he displayed very pointedly on one occa- sion when a child was brouo4 to be baptixed. ~ it to him Name this child, said the bishop. Marcus Tullius Cicero, answered the father. What? Marcus Tullius Cicero. Tnt! tnt! with your heathen non- sense! Peter, I baptize thee, and the child was Peter thenceforth and for ever. Others, again, set much store by Scripture names, many of which to our ears are anything but melodiousfor in- stance, Obadiah, Jeremiah, and all the other iahs; but this fashion is not near so prevalent as it was a century or two ago. Some of the Bible names have much sweetness, such as Beulab, Ru- hamab, and Rhoda, but even these are rarely used. The story is well known of the miman, who, having called four sons after Mat- thew, Mark, Luke, and John, wished to have the fifth christened Acts, because, as lie said, he wanted to compliment the apostles a bit ; but the sequel, as given by Mr. Lower, in the last edition of his valuable work on English sur- names, is not so familiar to us. It ap- pears that the father had two other sons, who were christened Richard and Tho- mas, and that the story of the name that had been proposed for No. 5, getting wind amongst his schoolmates, he was constantly annoyed with having this distich repeated, of better nietre than rhyme Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, Acts of Postles, Dick and Tom. Some persons appear to have tried how near they could come to the height of absuidity, in giving namnes to their children. Benjamin Stokeley, the first white settler in Mercer county, Pennsyl- vania (whose account thereof is in the fourth volume of tIme Memoirs of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania), gave most eJtraordinttry namnes to all hi~ 1855.] Our Ginen~ Names. 59 children; at present, but one of them occurs to our memoryAurora Borealis by which he thought proper to desig- nate one of his daughters. A Mr. Stick- ney, a distant relative of Dr. Franklin, numbered his children, calling them One Stickney, Two Stickney, & c. We might mention here, the case of Mr. New, who is said to have called his first child, Something, and the next, Nothing; but the story is probably the creation of the fertile imagination of Mr. Joseph Miller, or some of his successors. We will venture to add a few rules, which are the results of our reflections upon this subject. 1. The son should not be called after his father, nor the daughter after her mother. The object of giving first names is to distinguish a person from all others bear- ing the same last name, particularly from those of his immediate family; but this latter is not attained when a child bears the name of its parent. Confusion must always follow, not always to be avoided by the additions of senior and junior, or the designations, 1st, 2d, & c., which are common in New England. An eminent lawyer, who adorned the Philadelphia bar, forty or fifty years ago, had a son with the same first name as himself, who was studying law in his office. One day a letter arrived without any addition of junior, but intended for the younger, which the elder gentleman opened and read. It was from a source not very creditable to any one. I am ashamed of you, said the father indignantly, handing it to his son. I am ashamed of you, sir, replied the son, handing it back, with his finger imointed at the direction. One of the sons of the Benjamin Stokely of whom we have spoken above, was born during his fathers absence from home. On his return, his wife told him that she had called the child Benja- min, after him. None of that~, cried he, I have no notion of hearing people talking of old Ben Stokely. This confusion is one objection to the practice which we condemn; another is that if a parent calls a child after him- self, he is in danger of becoming partial to that child, at the expense of the others. This is a feeling which makes its way into the minds of even good men and good women; it seems to some that a child bearing their name in full, is more fully their representative than others. As this is all wrong, it is best to prevent the arising of such feelings, by giving no occasion for their existence. 2. The more common a last name is, the more uncommon should the first name be. We can pardon almost any prefix to Smith, Brown, and Jones. As one of the learned fathers of the bar lately observed in a discourse, Who shall declare the generation of the Smiths, and especially of the John Smiths ? The very mention of John Smith in a court-house, police office, or other public placeand it is of frequent mention thereinbrings a broad grin into every ones face immediately. 3. No name should be given to a child that will suggest a ludicrous idea when written in full, or when the initial only is used. We always pitied Mr. P. Cox, and Mr. T. Potts, both worthy men, but with thoughtless godfathers. Middle-aged persons, in Philadelphia, can recollect a druggist, named Ash, (now deceased) whose friends had se- lected Caleb for his first name. He was constantly annoyed with inquiries from school-boys, and others of the rising generation, as to the residence of Mr. Calabash. Forty or fifty years ago a very worthy little French tailor, named Frogg, re- sided in Charleston, S. C., and on the birth of one of his sons some wags per- suaded him that it would be a very good thing for the child to call him after the chief magistrate of the StateGovernor Bull, which was done accordingly, the unlucky combination of the two names never striking the father until it was too late. 4. Females should have but one given name and when they marry, should retain their maiden name as a middle name. This is the practice among the Society of Friends, and were it generally adopted it would have many advantages. We should know at once, on seeing a ladys name whether she was married or single, and, if the former, what the name of her family was. And it is further to be con- sidered that the adoption of this rule of but a single first name for girls, would put an end for ever to the whole brood of Emma Milvindas and Euphemia Helen Lauras, and a style of nomencla- ture which is thought by most persons to be ridiculous in the extreme. Have many of our readers seen the pretty verses on the raising of a child, written by Mary, the unhappy sister of Charles Lamb l We shall presume that 60 To Mummy Wheat. {Jan; they have not, and without apology con- elude this essay with them: CHOOSING A NAME. I have got a new-born sister; I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papas dear eyes did glisten She will shortly he to christen: And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her. Now I wonder what would please her, Charlotte, Julia or Louisa? Ann and Mary, theyre to~ common; Joans too formal for a woman; Janes a prettier name beside; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker. Ediths pretty, but that looks Better in old English books; * Ellens left off long ago; Blanch is out of fashion now. None that 1 have named as yet Are so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine What do you think of Caroline? How Im puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next! I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her: I will leave papa to name her. TO MUMMY WHEAT. AIR resurrection from a buried era, F Superb in beauty, smiling here to-day, $eeming almost a fancy-born Chimera, What comst thou thus of ages past to say? Freed from the cerements resinous and gummy, Speak for thyself and for thy speechless mummy. Of her life-unit earth retains no record, Nor shows a footprint of her sojourn here How her swift course with sun and shade was chequered. What was her love, her faith, her hope, or fear; Nor symbolled host of heaven, nor scarabeus Untombed comes up, from doubts hereon to free us. What was her presence, when the spirit lighted Her eye with joy, or darkened it with tears? How shone her visagesince, indeed, benighted And hid, perhaps, for thrice a thousand years? No conjured ghost from Lethes sullen water, Will whisper aught of Egypts silent daughter. Was she devote to Isis and Osiris, Friends of spring budding, and the ripening corn? And (we abjure impertinent inquiries) How old was she Iand to what fortune born? Where, and how long before the morning twilight Of Gospel day, first breathed the baby Nilite? Was she of Ceres once a priestess, making Glad sheafy offerings to her deity; Then to the shades, with power vicarious, taking The grain, tight-clutched, whose heart embosomed thee The cunning life within the germin wheaten, The long, lone night in deaths dark house to sweeten? * Southey was of a different opinion from Mary Lamb; in one of his sonnets he says, Saxen Edith pleases me the best.

60 To Mummy Wheat. {Jan; they have not, and without apology con- elude this essay with them: CHOOSING A NAME. I have got a new-born sister; I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papas dear eyes did glisten She will shortly he to christen: And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her. Now I wonder what would please her, Charlotte, Julia or Louisa? Ann and Mary, theyre to~ common; Joans too formal for a woman; Janes a prettier name beside; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker. Ediths pretty, but that looks Better in old English books; * Ellens left off long ago; Blanch is out of fashion now. None that 1 have named as yet Are so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine What do you think of Caroline? How Im puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next! I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her: I will leave papa to name her. TO MUMMY WHEAT. AIR resurrection from a buried era, F Superb in beauty, smiling here to-day, $eeming almost a fancy-born Chimera, What comst thou thus of ages past to say? Freed from the cerements resinous and gummy, Speak for thyself and for thy speechless mummy. Of her life-unit earth retains no record, Nor shows a footprint of her sojourn here How her swift course with sun and shade was chequered. What was her love, her faith, her hope, or fear; Nor symbolled host of heaven, nor scarabeus Untombed comes up, from doubts hereon to free us. What was her presence, when the spirit lighted Her eye with joy, or darkened it with tears? How shone her visagesince, indeed, benighted And hid, perhaps, for thrice a thousand years? No conjured ghost from Lethes sullen water, Will whisper aught of Egypts silent daughter. Was she devote to Isis and Osiris, Friends of spring budding, and the ripening corn? And (we abjure impertinent inquiries) How old was she Iand to what fortune born? Where, and how long before the morning twilight Of Gospel day, first breathed the baby Nilite? Was she of Ceres once a priestess, making Glad sheafy offerings to her deity; Then to the shades, with power vicarious, taking The grain, tight-clutched, whose heart embosomed thee The cunning life within the germin wheaten, The long, lone night in deaths dark house to sweeten? * Southey was of a different opinion from Mary Lamb; in one of his sonnets he says, Saxen Edith pleases me the best. 81 To Mummy Wheat. Sleeping while Egypts impious power was humbled! Roused not by monarchy in dying throes! Fearless, while gods and thrones around her crumbled! Thus far, her past estate the present shows: Buried by times impervious rocky strata, Herlifes last story giveth up no data. Eager to turn both life and death to profit, Some wily speculator of our day Has broke her frame, and made a cook-fire of it, Tested for grace, and dined; then borne away The balmy stuffing of the old Egyptian Hoarded with care, for medical prescription! For precious gums, and spice of flue aroma, From heads uncatacombed, are borne as prey, From where theyd rested since the death of Homer, The vital fire iu modern clods to stay; And give the head Homeric, high and spicy, Though on the lyre the hand be weak and icy. Deposits choice, inclasped by mummys cincture, And blocked for ages in sepulchral walls, Now turned to powder, balls, and pungent tincture, Are deemed specific for the loudest calls To war with death and Pilules Belladonna! Tis true, upon a listeners sacred honor! Such, fair-haired Afric, was thy mummys portion; But thou shalt live and thrive while earth remains; Albeit thy beauty may induce extortion From greedy traffickers in bread and grains When dearth, that comes to pinch the needy tighter, Rubs every groat, to christian venders, brighter. But, premature may seem this open statement To one like thee, so fresh from ancient times; The while we moderns reckon for abatement, When filling measure, and supplying rhymes: While we affirm, our hearer should be sifting, Lest the light chaff the grain be over-drifting. Yet men can meditate the grand transaction, To sell their fathers in their graves, for gain, Those saint old precincts, where the first infraction Must shock like doom the reverential brain! When filial hearts can sanction such profaning, Grace save the city stricken with the staining! Spirits of Abraham,Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Whose bones one tomb was consecrate to hold, How bad ye left them to the graves repose, if Paynim or Jew had shown such lust of gold? If Christian man can vend his brother living, To sell the dead for street, were past forgiving! Magnific wheat! did thine ancestral kindred The silver cup imbed, in that full sack Of Benjamin, which his departure hindered When his lost elder brother called him back, Where the sweet stratagem of love fraternal, Drew tears like rain that gems the blossom vernal? 1855.] 02 To Itfummy Wheat. [J~an~ Did Nature, to commemorate the story, From that cups lustre and those sparkling tears, By her fine alchemy, this silvery glory Produce, to shine so mildly round thine ears, While in the breath of morn with plume-like swaying, They seem with spirit bands at tilt, or playing? Those busy powers by one bold prince deputed For building happy castles in the air, To lay out lawns, and get the roses rooted, Still show their inklings after earthly fare, Through agents here, on muffled drum-heads thramming, With velvet touch, and modesty becoming. If THEE they seek, their whispers never heeding, Cling to thy mothers lap, and be content; For thou, of earth, art earthly still, and needing Her careful bosom and its nutriment; While, clothed anew, in modern fancy-dresses, Egypts old priest-craft our young world caresses. We wot not what their tables, here so troubled, Have done, dismissing spirits to unrest,-~--- If death has on them in the beaker bubbled, Or reeked in savory platters, richly dressed; Or some young soul to games thereat been tempted, Till earth and heaven, to him, of hope were emptied. But none may plant thee on the air-based mountains, And dreamy vales, that fill the sev 8phere$: Where spirit-rappings cannot open fountains, Nor furnish soil, to grow thy jeweled ears; And where some awkward planetary blunder Might crop thy head, thy grounding blow asunder Nay, lovely emblem, through the broken portal Of deaths abode, thus sprnng to life and light, As man by faith beholds himself immortal Beyond the tomb, till faith dissolves in sight, Thou and thy seed, to man on earth pertaining, Must nourish him and his, whilst here remaining. We love the genial WHEAT from earth that springeth, The staff of life, supplying natures need; We bless the sweet remembrance that it bringeth Of food whereon our faith and hope may feed; The hallowed metaphor of bread supernal, To stay the soul, and give it life eternal. Yet, as the living grain to mummy olden, Who darkly held it ages in disuse Gods will to man may now be coldly holden, Still clasped, perverted, jeered, or deemed abstruse; When it should spread, a tree of life full blooming, Halod, the Spirits breath each leaf perfnming~ 1855j 63 ISRAEL POTTER; OR, FIFTY YE4RS OF ]IXILE. (Continued from page 601, vol. IV.) CHAPTER XIX. CONTINUED. ~ RE long, a horrible explosion was U heard, drowning for the instant the cannonade. Two of the old eighteen- l)oundersbefore spoken of as having been hurriedly set up below the main deck of the Richardburst all to pieces, killing the sailors who worked them, and shattering all that part of the hull, as if two exploded steam-boilers had shot out of its opposite sides. The effect was like the fall of the walls of a house. Little now upheld the great tower of Pisa but a few naked crow stanchions. Thence- forth, not a few balls from the Serapis must have passed straight throngh the Richard without grazing her. It was like firing buck-shot through the ribs of of a skeleton. But, further forward, so deadly was the broadside from the heavy batteries of the Serapis,levelled point-blank, and right down the throat and bowels, as it were, of the Richardthat it cleared everything before it. The men on the Richards covered gun-deck ran above, like miners fi-om the fire-damp. Col- lecting on the forecastle, they con- tinued to fight with grenades and mus- kets. The soldiers also were in the lofty tops, whence they kept up incessant volleys, cascading their fire down as pour- ing lava from cliffs. The position of the men in the two ships was now exactly reversed. For while the Serapis was tearing the Rich- ard all to pieces below deck, and had swept that covered part almost of the last man; the Richards crowd of mus- ketry had complete control of the upper deck of the Serapis, where it was almost impossible for man to remain unless as a corpse. Though in the beginning, the tops of the Serapis had not been unsup- plied with marksmen, yet they had long since been cleared by the overmastering musketry of the Richard. Several, with leg or arm broken by a ball, had been seen going dimly downward from their giddy perch, like falling pigeons shot on the wing. As busy swallows about barn-eaves and ridge-poles, some of the Richards marksmen quitting their tops, now went ~ar out on their yard-arms, where they overhung the Serapis. From thence they dropped hand-grenades upon her decks, like apples, which growing in one field fall over the fence into another. Others of their band flung the same sonr fruit into the open ports of the Se~ rapis. A hail-storm of aerial combus- tion descended and slanted on the Se- rapis~ while horizontal thunder-bQlts rolled crosswise through the subterra- nean vaults of the Richard. The belli- gerents were no longer, in the ordinary sense of things, an English ship, and an American ship. It was a co-partnership and joint-stock combustion-company of both ships; yet divided, even in partici- pation. The two vessels were as two houses, through whose party-wall doors have been cut; one family (the G6elphs) occupying the whole lower story; an- other thmily (the Ghibelines) the whole upper story. Meanwhile determ med Paul flew hither and thither like the meteoric corposant- ball, which shiftingly dances on the tips and verges of ships rigging in storms. Wherever he went, he soeined to cast a pale light on all faces. Blacked and burnt, his Scotch bonnet was compressed to a gun-wad on his head. his Parisian coat, with its gold-laced sleeve laid aside, disclosed to the full the blue tatooing on his arm, which sometimes in fierce ges- tures streamed in the haze of the can- nonade, cabalistically terrific as the charmed standard of Satan. Yet his frenzied manner was less a testimony of his internal commotion than intended to inspirit and madd~u his men, some of whom seeing him, in transports of intre- pidity stripped themselves to their trows- ers, exposing their naked bodies to the as naked shot. The same was done on the Serapis, where several guns were soen surrounded by their buff crews as by fauns and satyrs. At the beginning of the fray, before the ships interlocked, in the intervals of smoke which swept over the ships as mist over mountain-tops, affording open rents here and therethe gun-deck of the Serapis, at certain points, showed, congealed for the instant in all attitudes of dauntlessness, a gallery of marble statuesfighting gladiators. Stooping low and intent, with ona braced leg thrust behind, and one arm thrust forward, curling round towards the muzzle of the gun :there was seen

1855j 63 ISRAEL POTTER; OR, FIFTY YE4RS OF ]IXILE. (Continued from page 601, vol. IV.) CHAPTER XIX. CONTINUED. ~ RE long, a horrible explosion was U heard, drowning for the instant the cannonade. Two of the old eighteen- l)oundersbefore spoken of as having been hurriedly set up below the main deck of the Richardburst all to pieces, killing the sailors who worked them, and shattering all that part of the hull, as if two exploded steam-boilers had shot out of its opposite sides. The effect was like the fall of the walls of a house. Little now upheld the great tower of Pisa but a few naked crow stanchions. Thence- forth, not a few balls from the Serapis must have passed straight throngh the Richard without grazing her. It was like firing buck-shot through the ribs of of a skeleton. But, further forward, so deadly was the broadside from the heavy batteries of the Serapis,levelled point-blank, and right down the throat and bowels, as it were, of the Richardthat it cleared everything before it. The men on the Richards covered gun-deck ran above, like miners fi-om the fire-damp. Col- lecting on the forecastle, they con- tinued to fight with grenades and mus- kets. The soldiers also were in the lofty tops, whence they kept up incessant volleys, cascading their fire down as pour- ing lava from cliffs. The position of the men in the two ships was now exactly reversed. For while the Serapis was tearing the Rich- ard all to pieces below deck, and had swept that covered part almost of the last man; the Richards crowd of mus- ketry had complete control of the upper deck of the Serapis, where it was almost impossible for man to remain unless as a corpse. Though in the beginning, the tops of the Serapis had not been unsup- plied with marksmen, yet they had long since been cleared by the overmastering musketry of the Richard. Several, with leg or arm broken by a ball, had been seen going dimly downward from their giddy perch, like falling pigeons shot on the wing. As busy swallows about barn-eaves and ridge-poles, some of the Richards marksmen quitting their tops, now went ~ar out on their yard-arms, where they overhung the Serapis. From thence they dropped hand-grenades upon her decks, like apples, which growing in one field fall over the fence into another. Others of their band flung the same sonr fruit into the open ports of the Se~ rapis. A hail-storm of aerial combus- tion descended and slanted on the Se- rapis~ while horizontal thunder-bQlts rolled crosswise through the subterra- nean vaults of the Richard. The belli- gerents were no longer, in the ordinary sense of things, an English ship, and an American ship. It was a co-partnership and joint-stock combustion-company of both ships; yet divided, even in partici- pation. The two vessels were as two houses, through whose party-wall doors have been cut; one family (the G6elphs) occupying the whole lower story; an- other thmily (the Ghibelines) the whole upper story. Meanwhile determ med Paul flew hither and thither like the meteoric corposant- ball, which shiftingly dances on the tips and verges of ships rigging in storms. Wherever he went, he soeined to cast a pale light on all faces. Blacked and burnt, his Scotch bonnet was compressed to a gun-wad on his head. his Parisian coat, with its gold-laced sleeve laid aside, disclosed to the full the blue tatooing on his arm, which sometimes in fierce ges- tures streamed in the haze of the can- nonade, cabalistically terrific as the charmed standard of Satan. Yet his frenzied manner was less a testimony of his internal commotion than intended to inspirit and madd~u his men, some of whom seeing him, in transports of intre- pidity stripped themselves to their trows- ers, exposing their naked bodies to the as naked shot. The same was done on the Serapis, where several guns were soen surrounded by their buff crews as by fauns and satyrs. At the beginning of the fray, before the ships interlocked, in the intervals of smoke which swept over the ships as mist over mountain-tops, affording open rents here and therethe gun-deck of the Serapis, at certain points, showed, congealed for the instant in all attitudes of dauntlessness, a gallery of marble statuesfighting gladiators. Stooping low and intent, with ona braced leg thrust behind, and one arm thrust forward, curling round towards the muzzle of the gun :there was seen 64 Israel Potter; or, Fifty Years of Exile. [Jan. the loader, performing his allotted part; on the other side of the carriage, in the same stooping posture, but with both hands holding his long black pole, pike- wise, ready for instant usestood the eager rammer and sponger; while at the breech, crouched the wary captain ~of the gun, his keen eye, like the watching leopards, burning along the range; and behind, all tall and erect, the Egyptian symbol of death, stood the matchman, immovable for the moment, his long- handled match reversed. Up to their two long death-dealing batteries, the trained men of the Serapis stood and toiled in mechanical magic of discipline. They tended those rows of guns, as Lowell girls the rows of looms in a cotton factory. The Parc~ were not more methodical; Atropos not more fatal; the automaton chess-player not more irre- slonsible. Look, lad; I want a grenade, now, thrown down their main hatch-way. I saw long piles of cartridges there. The powder monkeys have brought them up faster than they can be used. Take a bucket of combustibles, and lets hear from you presently. These words were spoken by Paul to Israel. Israel did as ordered. In a few minutes, bucket in hand, begrimed with powder, sixty-feet in air, he hung like Apollyon from the extreme tip of the yard over the fated abyss of the hatchway. As he looked down between the eddies of smoke into that slaughterous pit, it was like looking from the verge of a cataract down into the yeasty pool at its base. Watching his chance, he dropped one grenade with such faultless precision, that, striking its mark, an explosion rent the Serapis like a volcano. The long row of heaped cartridges was ig- nited. The fire ran horizontally, like an express on a railway. More than twenty men were instantly killed: nearly forty wounded. This blow restored the chances of battle, before in favor of the Semis. But the drooping spirits of the English were suddenly revived, by an event which crowned the scene by an act on the part of one of the consorts of the Richard, the incredible atrocity of which, has induced all humane minds to impute it rather to some incompre- he~nsible mistake, than to the malignant madness of the perpetrator. The cautious approach and retreat of a consort of the Serapis, the Scarborough, before the moon rose, has already been mentioned. It is now to be related how that, when the moon was more than an hour high, a consort of the Richard, the Alliance, likewise approached and re- treated. This ship, commanded by a Frenchman, infamous in his own navy, and obnoxious in the service to which he at present belonged; this ship, fore- most in insurgency to Paul hitherto, and which, for the most part had crept like a poltroon from the fray; the Alliance now was at hand. Seeing her, Paul deemed the battle at an end. But to his horror, the Alliance threw a broadside full into the stern of the Richard, with- out touching the Serapis. Paul called to her, for ~ods sake to forbear destroy- ing the Richard. The reply was, a second, a third, a fourth broadside; striking the Richard ahead, astern, and amidships. One of the volleys killed several men and one officer. Meantime, like carpen- ters augurs, and the sea-worm called remora, the guns of the Serapis were drilling away atthe same doomed hull. After performing her nameless exploit, the Alliance sailed away, and did no more. She was like the great fire of London, breaking out on the heel of the great Plague. By this time, the Richard had received so many shot-holes low down in her hull, that like a sieve she began to settle. iDo you strike? cried the English captain. I have not yet begun to fight, howled sinking Paul. This summons and response were whirled on eddies of smoke and flame. Both vessels were now on fire. The men of either knew hardly which to do; strive to destroy the enemy, or save themselves. In the midst of-~ this, one hundred human beings, hitherto invisible strangers, were suddenly added to the rest. Five score English prisoners, till now confined in the Richards hold, libe- rated in his consternation, by the master at arms, burst up the hatchways. One of them, the captain of a letter of marque, captured by Paul, off the Scottish coast, crawled through a port, as a burglar through a window, from the one ship to the other, and reported affairs to the English captain. While Paul and his lieutenants were confronting these prisoners, the gunner, running up from below, and not per- ceiving his official superiors, and deeming them dead; believing himself now left sole surviving officer, ran to the tower of Pisa to haul down the colors. B~,t they were already shot down and trail- 1855.] Israel Potter; or, Fifty Years of Exile. 65 ing in the water astern, like a sailors towing shirt. Seeing the gunner there, groJ)ing about in the smoke, Israel asked what he wanted. At this moment, the gunner, rushing to the rail, shouted quarter! quarter! to the Serapis. Ill quarter ye, yelled Israel, smiting the gunner with the flat of his cutlass. Do you strike ? now caine from the Serapis. Aye, aye, aye! involuntary cried Israel, fetching the gunner a shower of blows. Do you strike ? again was repeated from the Serapis; whose captain, judg- ing from the augmented confusion on board the Richard, owing to the escape of the prisoners, and also influenced by the report made to him by his late guest of the port-hole, doubted not that the enemy must needs be about surrender- Do you strike? Aye !J strike hack, roared Paul, for the first time now hearing the sum- inons. But judging this frantic response to come, like the others, from some unau- thorized source, the English captain di- rected his boarders to be called; some of whom presently leaped on the Rich- aids rail; but, throwing out his tatooed arm at them with a sabre at the end of it, Paul showed them how boarders repelled boarders. The English retreated; but not before they had been thinned out again, like spring radishes, by the unfal- tering fire from the Richards tops. An officer of the Richard, seeing the mass ot prisoners delirious with sudden liberty and fright, pricked theni with his sword to the liniups; thus keeping the ship afloat by the very blunder which had l)roinised to have been fatal. The vessels now blazed so in the rigging, that both parties desisted from hostilities to subdue the common foe. When some faint order was again restored upon the Richard, her chances of victory increased, while those of the English, driven under cover, proportion- ably waned. Early in the contest, Paul, with his own h nd, had brought one of his largest guns to bear against the enemys main-mast. That shot had hit. Time mast now plainly tottered. Never- theless, it seemed as if, in this fight, neither party could be victor. Mutual obliteration from the face of the waters seemed the only natural sequel to hosti- lities like these. It i5~ therefore, honor VOL. Y.5 to him as a man, and not reproach to him as an officer, that, to stay such car- nage, Captain Pearson, of the Serapis, with his own hands hauled down his colors. But just as an officer from the Richard swung himself on board the Serapis, and accosted the English cap- tairm, the first lieutenant of the Serapis caine up from below inquiring whether the Richard had struck, since her fire had ceased. So equal was the conflict that, even after the surrender, it could be, and was, a question to one of the warriors engaged (who had not happened to see the Eng- lish flag hauled down) whether the Serapis had struck to the Richard, or the Richard to the Serapis. Nay, while the Richards officer was still amicably conversing with the English captain, a midshipman of the Richard, in act of following his superior on board the surrendered vessel, was run through the thigh by ~ pike in the hand of an ignorant boarder of the Serapis. While equally ignorant, the cannons below deck were still thundering away at the nominal conqueror from the battcries of the nominally conquered ship. But though the Serapis had sub- mitted, there were two misanthropical foes on board the Richard which would not so easily succumab,fire and water. All night the victors were engaged in suppressing the flames. Not until day- light were the flames got under; but though the pumps were kept & ntiaua.ly going, the water in the hold still gained. A few hours after sunrise the Richard was deserted for the Serapis and the other vessels of the squadron of Paul. About ten oclock, the Richard, gorged with slaughter, wallowed heavily, gave a long roll, and blasted by tornadoes of sulphur, slowly sunk, like Gomorrah,.out of sight. The loss of life in the two ships was about equal; one-half of time totaL num- ber of those engaged being either killed or wounded. In view of this battle one may well askWhat separates the enlightened man from the sava0e? Is civilization a thing distinct, or is it an advanced, stage of barbarism? CUAPTER XX. TlI~ 5IWTTLS. Fon a time back, across the- other- wise blue-jean career of Israelr F& iil 86 Israel Potter; or, Pffty Years of Exile. [Jan. Jones flits and re-flits like a crimson thread. One more brief intermingling of it, and to the plain old homespun we return. The battle won, the squadron started for the Texel, where they arrived in safety. Omitting all mention of inter- vening h~arass,nents, suffice it, that after some months of inaction as to anything of a warlike nature, Paul and Israel (both from different motives, eager to return to America), sailed for that coun- try in the armed ship Ariel; Paul as commander, Israel as quarter-master. Two weeks out, they encountered by night, a frigate-like craft, supposed to be an enemy. The vessels came within hail, both showing English colors, with purposes of mutual deception, affecting to belong to the English navy. For an hour, through their speaking trumpets, the captains equivocally conversed. A very reserved, adroit, hoodwinking, statesman-like conversation, indeed. At last, professing some little incredulity as to the truthfulness of the strangers statement, Paul intimated a desire that he should put out a boat and come on board to show his commission, to which the stranger very affably replied, that unfortunately his boat was exceedingly leaky. With equal politeness, Paul begged him to consider the danger at- tending a refusal, which rejoinder nettled the other, who suddenly retorted that he would answer for twenty guns, and that both himself and men were knock- down Englishmen. Upon this, Paul said that he would allow him exactly five minutes for a sober, second thought. That brief period passed, Paul, hoisting the American colors, ran close under the other ships stern, and engaged her. It was about eight oclock at night, that this strange quarrel was picked in the middle of the ocean. Why cannot men be peaceable on that great corn- mon? Or does nature in those fierce night-brawlers, the billows, set man- kind but a sorry example? After ten minutes cannonading, the stranger struck, shouting out, that half his men were killed. The Ariels crew hurraed. Boarders were called to take possession. At this juncture, the prize shifting her position so that she headed away, and to leeward of the Ariel, thrust her long spanker boon diagonally over the latters quarter; when Israel, who was standing close by, instinctively caught hold of itjust as he had grasp- ed the jib-boom of the Serapisand, at the same moment, hearing the call to take possession, in the valiant excite- ment of the occasion, he leaped upon the spar, and made a rush for the strangers deck, thinking, of course, that. he would be immuediately followed by the regular boarders. But the sails of the strange ship suddenly filled ; she began to glide through the sea; her spanker-boom, not having at all entan- gled itself, offering no hindrance. Is- rael clinging midway along the boom, soon found himself divided from the Arid, by a space impossible to be leaped. Meantime, suspecting foul play, Paul set every sail; but the stranger, having already the advantage, contrived to make good her escape, though per- severingly chased by the cheated con- queror. In the confusiou, no eye had observed our heros spring. But, as the vessels separated more, an officer of the strange ship spying a man on the boom, and taking hun for one of his own men, demanded what he did there. Clearing the signal halyards, sir, replied Israel, fumbling with the cord which happened to be dangling near by. Well, bear a hand and come in, or you will have a bow-chaser at you soon, referrin~, to the bow guns of the Arid. Aye, aye, sim, said Israel, and in a moment he sprang to the deck, and soon found himself mixed in among some two hundred English sailors of a large letter of inarque. At once he perceived that the story of half the crew being killed was a mere hoax, played off for the sake of making an escape. Orders were con- tinually being given to pull on this and that rope, as the ship crowded all sail in flight. To these orders Israel with the rest promptly responded, pulling at the rigging stoutly as the best of them; though heaven knows his heart sank deeper and deeper at every pull which thus helped once again to widen the gulf between him and home. In intervals, he considered with him- self what to do. Favored by the obscu- rity of the night and the number of the crew, and wearing much the same dress as theirs, it was very easy to pass him- self off for one of them till morning. But daylight would be sure to expose him, unless some cunning plan could be hit upon. If discovered for what he was, nothing short of a prison awaited him upon the ships arrival in port. 1855.] Israel Potter; or, Fifty Years of Exile. It was a desperate case; only as de- sperate a remedy could serve. One thing was sure, he could not hi(le. Some audacious parade of himself pro- inised the only hope. Marking that the sailors, not being of the regular navy, wore no uniform; and perceiving that his jacket was the only garment on him which bore any distinguishing badge, our adventurer took it oW and privily dropped it overboard, remaining now in his dark blue woollen shirt, and blue cloth waistcoat. What the more inspirited Israel to the ad(led step now conternl)lated, was the circumstance, that the ship was not a Frendhmans, or other foreigner, but her crew, though enemies, spoke the same language that lie did. So very quietly, at last, he goes aloft into the main-mop, and sitting down on an old sail there, beside some eight or ten topmen, in an off-handed way asks one for tobacco. Give us a quid, lad, as he settled himself in his seat. llalloo, said the strange sailor, who be you? Get out of the top! The fore and mizzen-top men wont let us go into their tops, and blame me if well let any of their gangs come here. So, away ye go. Youre blind, or crazy, old boy, re- joined Israel. Im a top-mate; aint I, lads I appealing to the rest. Theres only ten main-topmen be- longing to our watch; if you are one, then therell be eleven, said a second sailor. Get out of the top I This is too bad, maties, cried Israel, to serve an old top-mate this way. Come, come, you are foolish. Give us a quid. And, once more, with the ut- most sociability, he addressed the sailor next to him. Look ye, returned the other, if you dont make away with yourself; you skulking ~lY from the mizzen, well drop you to deck like a jewel-block. Seeing the party thins resolute, Israel, with some affected banter, descended. The reason why lie had tried the schemeand, spite of the foregoing fail- ure, meant to repeat itwas this: As customary in armed ships, the men were in coin panics, allotted to particular pla- ces and functions. Therefore, to escape final detecmioa, Israel must some way get himself recognized as belonging to some one of those bands; otherwise, as an isolated nondescript, discovery ere long would be certain; especially upon the next general muster. To be sure, the hope in question was a forlorn sort of hope; but it was his sole one, and must therefore be tried. Mixing in again for a while with the general watch, he at last goes on the fore- castle among the sheet-anchor-men there, at present engaged in critically discussing the merits of the late valiant encounter, and expressing their opinion that by daybreak the enemy in chase would be hull-down out of sight. To be sure she will, cried Israel, joining in with the group, old ballyhoo that she is, to be sure. But didnt we pepper her, lads? Give us a chew of tobacco, one of ye? How many have we wounded, do ye know? None killed that Ive heard of. Wasnt that a fine hoax we played on em? Ha! ha! But give us a chew. In tIme prodigal fraternal patriotism of the moment, one of time old worthies freely handed his plug to our adventurer, who, helping himself, returned it, repeat- ing the question as to the killed and wounded. Why, said he of the plug, Jack Jewboy told me, just now, that theres only seven men been carried down to the surgeon, but not a soul killed. Good, boys, good! emied Israel, moving up to one of the gun-carriages, where three or four men were sitting slip along, chaps, slip along, and give a watchmate a sent with ye. All full here, lad; try the next gun. Boys, clear a place here, saidIsraei, advancing, like one of the family, to that gun. Who the devil are you, making this row here? demanded a stern-looking old fellow, captain of the forecastle, seems to me you make consi(lcrable noise. Are you a forecastleman ? If the bowsprit belongs here, so do I, rcj(iined Israel, composedly. Lets look at ye, then? and seizing a battle-lantern, before thrust under a gun, the old veteran came close to Israel before lie had time to elude the scrutiny. Take that ! said his examiner, and fetching Israel a terrible thump, pushed him ignominiously off the forecastle as some unknown interloper from distant parts of the ship. With similar perseverance of effron- tery, Israel tried other quarters of the vessel. But with equal ill success. Jealous with the spirit of class, no social circle would receive him. As a last re- sort, he dived down among the kolders. 08 Israel Potter; or, Fifty Years of Exile. [Jan. A group of them sat round a lantern, in the dark bowels of the ship, like a knot of charcoal burners in a pine forest at midnight. Well, boys, whats the good word ? said Israel, advancing very cordially, but keeping as much as possible in the had ~W. The good word is, rejoined a cen- sorious old holder, that you had best go where you belongon deckand not be a skulking down here where you dont belong. I suppose this is the way you skulked during the fight. 01], youre growly to-night, ship- !nate,said Israel, pleasantly supper sits hard on your conscience.~~ Get out of the hold with ye, roared the other. On deck, or Ill call the master-at-arms. Once more Israel decamped. Sorely ngainst his grain, as a final ef- fort to blend himself openly with the crew, he now went among the waisters; the vilest caste of an armed ships com- pany; mere dregs and settlingssca- Pariahs; comprising all the lazy, all the inefficient, all the unfortunate and fated, all the melancholy, all the infirm; all the rheumatical scamps, scape-graces, ruined prodigal sons, sooty faces, and swineherds of the crew, not excluding those with dismal wardrobes. An unhappy, tattered, moping row of them sat along dolefully on the gun-deck, like a parcel of crest-fallen buzzards, exiled from civilized society. Cheer up, lads, said Israel, in a jovial tone, homeward bound, you know. Give us a seat among ye, friends. Oh, sit on your head I answered a sullen fellow in the corner. Come, come, no growling; were homeward-bound. Whoop, my hear- ties Work-house bound, you mean, grumbled another sorry chap, in a darned shirt. 01), boys, dont be down-hearted. Lets keep up our spirits. Sing us a song, one of ye, and Ill give the chorus. Sing if ye like, but Ill plug my ears for one, said still another sulky varlet, with the toes out of his sea-boots; while all the rest with one roar of misanthropy joined him. But Israel, not to be daunted, began: Cease, rude Boreas, cease your growling! And you cease your squeaking, will ye, cried a fellow in a banged tarpaulin. Did ye get a ball in the windpipe, that ye cough that way, worse nor a broken- nosed old bellows? Have done with your groaning; its worse nor the death- rattle. Boys, is this the way you treat a watch-mate, demanded israel reproach- fully, trying to cheer lip his friends? Shame on ye, boys. Come, lets be sociable. Spin u~ a yarn, one of ye. Meantime, rub my back for me, an- other, and very confidently lie leaned against his neighbor. Lean off me, will ye I roared his friend, shoving him away. But who is this ere singing, leaning, yarn-spinning, chap? Who are ye? Be you a waister, or be you not ?i So saying, one of this peevish, sottish band staggered close up to Israel. But there was a deck above and a deck below, and the lantern swung in the distance. It was too dun to see with critical exactness. No such singing chap belongs to our gang, thats fiat, he dogmatically exclaimed at last, after an ineffectual scrutiny. Sail out of this! And with a shove once more, poor Israel was i-ejected. Black-balled out of every club, he went disheartened on deck. So long, while night screened him at least, as he contented himself with promiscuously circulating, all was safe; it was the endeavor to frateriiize with any one set which was sui-e to endanger him. At last, wearied out, he happened to find himself on the berth deck, where the watch below were slumbem-ing. Some hundred and fifty hammocks were on that deck. Seeing one empty, he leaped in, thinking luck might yet some way befriend him. Here, at last, the sultry confinement put him fast asleep. He was wakened by a savage whiskerando of the othem- watch, who, seizing him by his waistband, dragged him most indecorously out, furiously denouncing him for a skulkeI-. Springing to his feet, Israel perceived from the crowd and tumult of the beith deck, now all alive with men leaping into their hammocks, instead of being full of sleepers quietly dosing therein, that the watches were changed. Going above, he renewed in various quarters his offers of intimacy with the fresh men there assembled; b at was successively repulsed as before. At length, just as day was breaking, an irascible fellow, whose stubborn opposition our adven 1855.] Israel Potter; or, Fifty Years of E~rile. 69 turer had long in vain sought to conci- liaterhis man suddenly perceiving, by the grey morning light, that Israel had somehow nn alien sort of general look, very savagely pressed him for explicit information as to who lie might be. The answers increased his suspicion. Others began to surround the two. Pre- sently, quite a circle was formed. Sailors from distant parts of the ship drew near. One, and then another, and ano- ther, declared that they, in their quarters, too, had been molested by a vagabond claiming fraternity, and seeking to palm humuselt off upon decent society. In vain Israel protested. The truth, like the day, dawned clearer and clearer. More and more closely he was scanned. At length the hour for having all hands on deck arrived; when the other watch which Israel had first tried, icascending to the deck, and heariiig the matter in discussion, they endorsed the charge of molestation and attei upted imposture through the night, on the part of some person unknown, but who, likely enough, was the strange man now before them. In the end, the master-at-arms appeared with his bamboo, who, summarily col- laring poor Israel, led him as a mysteri- ous culprit to the officer of the deck; which gentleman having heard the charge, examined him in great perplex- ity, and, saying that he did not at all recognize that countenance, requested the junior officers to contribute their scrutiny. Bat those officers were equally at fault. Who the deuce are you i at last said the officer of the deck, in added bewilderment. Where did you come from? Whats your business? Where are you stationed? Whats your name? Who are you, any way? How did you get here? and where are von going? Sir, replied Israel very humbly, I am going to my regular duty, if you will but let me. I belong to the main top, and ought to be now engaged in preparing the top-gallant stun-sail for hoisting. Belong to the main-top? Why, these men here say you have been trying to belon~ to the tore-tol), and the mizen- top, and the forecastle, and the hold, and the waist, and every oilier part of the ship. rhis is extraordimiary, lie added, turning upon the junior officers. He must be out of his mind, re- plied one of them, the sailing-master. Out of bis mind ? rejoined tIme offi- cer of the deck. Hes out of all reason; out of all mens knowledge and memo- ries! Why, no one knows him; no one has ever seen him before; no ima- gination, in the wildest flight of a morbid nightmare, has ever so munch as dreamed of him. Who are you ? he again added, fierce with amazement. Whats your name? Are you down in the ships books, or at all in the me- cords of nature I My name, sim., is Peter Perkins, said israel, thinking it most prudent to conceal his real appellation. Certainly, I never heard that name before. Pray, see if Peter Perkins is down on the quarter-bills, he added to a midshipman. Quick, bring the book here. Having received it, he ran his fingers along the columns, and dashiimg down the book, declared that no such name was there. You are not down, sir. There is no Peter Perkins here. Tell me at once who are you ? It might be, sir, said Israel, gravely, that seeing I shipped under the effects of liquor, I iaighm, out of absent-mind- edness like, have given in some other persons name instead of my own. Well, what name have you gone by among your shipInates since youve been aboard ? Peter Perkins, sir. Upon this the officer turned to the men around, inquiring whether the name of Peter Perkins was familiar to them as that of a shipmate. One and all answered no. This wont do, sir, now said the officer. You see it wont do. Who are you ? A poor persecuted fellow at your service, sim~. Who persecutes you ? Every one, sir. All hands seem to be against me; none of them willing to remember me. Tell me, demanded the officer ear- nestly, how long do you remember yourself? Do you remember yesterday morning? You must have come into ex- istence by some sort of spontaneous com- bustion in the hold. Or were you fired aboard from the enemy, last night, in a cartridge? Do you remember yester- day? Oh yes, sir.~~ What was you doing yesterday? Well, sit., for one thing, I believe I h~d the honor of a little talk with yourself. With me 7 10 Israel Potter; or, F~/ty Years of Exile. [Jan. Yes sir; about nine oclock in the morningthe sea being smooth and the ship running, as J should think, about seven knotsyou came up into the main- top, where I belong, and was pleased to ask my opinion about the best way to set a top gallant stun-sail. Hes mad! Hes mad ! said the officer, with delirious conclusiveness. Take him away, take him away put him somewhere, master-at-arms. Stay, one test more. What mess do you be- long to? Number 12, sir.~~ Mr. Tidds, to a midshipman, send mess No. 12 to the mast. Ten sailors replied to the summons, and arranged themselves before Israel. Men, does this man belong to your mess I No, sir; never saw him before this morning. What are those mens names I he demanded of Israel. Well, sir, I am so intimate with all of them, looking upon them with a kindly glance, I never call them by their real names, but by nick-names. So, never using their real names, I have forgotten them. The nick-names that I know them by, are Towser, Bowser, Rowser, Snowser. Enough. Mad as a March hare. Take him away. Hold, again added the officer, whom some strange fascina- tion still bound to the bootless investi- gation. Whats my name sir 2 Why, sir, one of my ninessmates here called you Lieutenant Williamson, just now, and I never heard you called by any other name. Theres method in his madness, thought the officer to himself. Whats the captains name I Why, sir, when we spoke the enemy, last night, I heard him say, through his trumpet, that he was Captain Parker; and very likely he knows his own name.~ I have you now. That aint the captains real name. Hes the best judge himself, sir, of what his name is, I should think. Were it not, said the officer, now turning gravely upon his juniors, were it not, that such a supposition were on other grounds absurd, I should certainly eonclu(le that this man, in some unknown way, got on board here from the enemy last night. How could he, sir ? asked the sailing- master. Heaven knows. But our spanker- boom geared the other ship, you know, in manceuvering to get headway. But supposing he could have got here that fashion, which is quite impos- sible under all the circumstanceswhat motive could have induced him volun- tarily to jump among enemies I Let him answer for himself, said the office,, turning suddenly upon Israel, with the view of taking him off his guard, by the matter of course assump- tion of the very point at issue. Answer, sim~. Why did you jump on board here, last night, from the enemy ? Jump on board, sir, from the enemy? Why, sir, my station at general quar- ters is at gun No. 3, of the lower deck here. Hes crackedor else I am turned or all the world is ;take him away I But where am I to take him, sir! said the master-at-arms. He dont seem to belong anywhere, sir. Where where am I to take him I Take him out of sight, said the officer, now incensed with his own per- plexity. Take him out of sight, I say. Come along, then, my ghost, said the master-at-arms. And, collaring the phantom, he led it hither and thither, not knowing exactly what to do with it. Some fifteen minutes passed, when the captain coming from his cabin, and observing the master-at-arms leading Israel about in this indefinite style, de- manded the reason of that procedure, adding that it was against his express orders for any new and degrading pun. ishments to be invented for his men, Come here, master-at-arms. To what end do you lead that man about? To no end in the world, sir. I keep leading him about because he has no final destination. Mr. officer of the deck, what does this mean? Who is this strange man? I dont know that I re,nember him. Who is he? And what is signified by his being led about ? Hereupon, the officer of the deck, throwing himself into a tragical posture, set forth the entire mystery; much to the captains astonishment, who at once indignantly turned upon the phantom. You rascaldont try to deceive me. Who are you? and where did you come from last ? Sir, my name is Peter Perkins, and I last came from the forecastle, where the master-at-arms last led me, before coming here. No joking, sir, no joking. 1855] Psychaura. 71 Sir, Im sure its too serious a busi- ness to joke about. Do you have the assurance to say, that you, as a regularly shipped man, have been on board this vessel ever since she sailed from Falmouth, ten months ago I Sir, anxious to secure a berth under so good a commander, I was among the first to enlist. Whut ports have we tonched at, sir l said the captain, now in a little softer tone. Ports, sir, ports l Yes, sii, ports. Israel began to scratch his yellow hair. What ports, sir? Well, sit. :Boston, for one. Right there, whispered a midship- man. What was the next port, sir? Why, sir, I was saying Boston was the first port, I believe; wasnt it? and The second port, sir, is what I want. WellNew York. Right again, whispered the mid- shipman. And what port are we bound to, now I Let tue seehomeward-boundFal- mouth. sir. What sort of a place is Boston I Pretty considerable of a place, sir. Very straight streets, aint they I Yes, sir; cow-paths, cut by sheep- walks, and intersected with hen-tracks. When did we fire the first gun? Well, sir,just as we were leavingFal- mouth, ten months agosignal-gun, sir. Where did we fire the first shotted gun, sii~ ?iand what was the name of the privateer we took upon that occasion ? Pears to me, sir, at that time I was on the sick list. Yes, sir, that must have been the time; I had the brain fever, and lost my mind for a while. Master-at-arms, take this man away. Where shall I take him, sir I touch- ing his cap. Go, and air him on the forecastle. So they resumed their devious wan- derings. At last, they descended to the berth-deck. It being now breakfast- time, the master-at-arms, a good-humor- ed man, very, kindly introduced our hero to his mess, and presented him with breakfast; during which he in vain en- deavored, by all sorts of subtle blandish- ments, to worm out his secret. At length Israel was set at liberty; and whenever there was any important duty to be do:ie, volunteered to it with such cheerful alacrity, and approved himself so docile and excellent a seaman, that he conciliated the approbation of all the officers, as well as the captain; while his general sociability served in the end, to turn in his favor the suspi- cious hearts of the mariners. Perceiv- ing his good qualities, both as a sailor and man, the captain of the main-top applied for his admission into that sec- tion of the ship; where, still improving upon his former reputation, our hero did duty for the residue of the voyage. One pleasant afternoon, the last of the passage, when the ship was nearing the Lizard, within a few hours sail of her port, the officer of the deck, happening to glance upwards towards the main-top, descried Israel there, leaning very leis- urely over the rail, looking mildly down where the officer stood. Well, Peter Perkins, you seem to belong to the main-top, after all. I always told you so, sir, smiled Israel, benevolently down upon him, though, at first, you re~nemnber, sir, you would not believe it. P S Y OH AURA. Txs wind of an autumn midnight Is moaning around my door The curtains wave at the window, The carpet iifts on the floor. There are sounds, like startled footfalls, In the distant chambers now, And the toi~ching of airy angers Is busy on hand and brow. Tis thus, in the Souls dark dwelling By the moody host unsought Through the chambers of usemory wander The invisible airs of Thought. For it bioweth where it listeth, With a murmur loud or low; Whence it comethwhither it goeth None tell us, and none may know. Now wearying round the portals Of tise vacant, desolate mind As the doors of a ruined mansior,, That creak in the cold night wind. And anon an awful memory Sweeps over it fierce and high Like the roar of a mountain forest, when the midnight gale goes by. Then its voice subsides in wailing, And, ere the dawning of day, Murmuring fainter and fainter, In the distance dies away.

1855] Psychaura. 71 Sir, Im sure its too serious a busi- ness to joke about. Do you have the assurance to say, that you, as a regularly shipped man, have been on board this vessel ever since she sailed from Falmouth, ten months ago I Sir, anxious to secure a berth under so good a commander, I was among the first to enlist. Whut ports have we tonched at, sir l said the captain, now in a little softer tone. Ports, sir, ports l Yes, sii, ports. Israel began to scratch his yellow hair. What ports, sir? Well, sit. :Boston, for one. Right there, whispered a midship- man. What was the next port, sir? Why, sir, I was saying Boston was the first port, I believe; wasnt it? and The second port, sir, is what I want. WellNew York. Right again, whispered the mid- shipman. And what port are we bound to, now I Let tue seehomeward-boundFal- mouth. sir. What sort of a place is Boston I Pretty considerable of a place, sir. Very straight streets, aint they I Yes, sir; cow-paths, cut by sheep- walks, and intersected with hen-tracks. When did we fire the first gun? Well, sir,just as we were leavingFal- mouth, ten months agosignal-gun, sir. Where did we fire the first shotted gun, sii~ ?iand what was the name of the privateer we took upon that occasion ? Pears to me, sir, at that time I was on the sick list. Yes, sir, that must have been the time; I had the brain fever, and lost my mind for a while. Master-at-arms, take this man away. Where shall I take him, sir I touch- ing his cap. Go, and air him on the forecastle. So they resumed their devious wan- derings. At last, they descended to the berth-deck. It being now breakfast- time, the master-at-arms, a good-humor- ed man, very, kindly introduced our hero to his mess, and presented him with breakfast; during which he in vain en- deavored, by all sorts of subtle blandish- ments, to worm out his secret. At length Israel was set at liberty; and whenever there was any important duty to be do:ie, volunteered to it with such cheerful alacrity, and approved himself so docile and excellent a seaman, that he conciliated the approbation of all the officers, as well as the captain; while his general sociability served in the end, to turn in his favor the suspi- cious hearts of the mariners. Perceiv- ing his good qualities, both as a sailor and man, the captain of the main-top applied for his admission into that sec- tion of the ship; where, still improving upon his former reputation, our hero did duty for the residue of the voyage. One pleasant afternoon, the last of the passage, when the ship was nearing the Lizard, within a few hours sail of her port, the officer of the deck, happening to glance upwards towards the main-top, descried Israel there, leaning very leis- urely over the rail, looking mildly down where the officer stood. Well, Peter Perkins, you seem to belong to the main-top, after all. I always told you so, sir, smiled Israel, benevolently down upon him, though, at first, you re~nemnber, sir, you would not believe it. P S Y OH AURA. Txs wind of an autumn midnight Is moaning around my door The curtains wave at the window, The carpet iifts on the floor. There are sounds, like startled footfalls, In the distant chambers now, And the toi~ching of airy angers Is busy on hand and brow. Tis thus, in the Souls dark dwelling By the moody host unsought Through the chambers of usemory wander The invisible airs of Thought. For it bioweth where it listeth, With a murmur loud or low; Whence it comethwhither it goeth None tell us, and none may know. Now wearying round the portals Of tise vacant, desolate mind As the doors of a ruined mansior,, That creak in the cold night wind. And anon an awful memory Sweeps over it fierce and high Like the roar of a mountain forest, when the midnight gale goes by. Then its voice subsides in wailing, And, ere the dawning of day, Murmuring fainter and fainter, In the distance dies away. 12 [Jan. NEGRO MINSTRELSY~ANCIENT AND MODERN. JTnow some eighteen or twenty moe an enterprising Yankee, actuated, it is bnt charitable to suppose, by the purest love of musical art, by the enthusiasm of a discoverer, or by a proper and praiseworthy desire for post- humons fame, produced upon the boards of one of our metropolitan theatres, a musical sketch entitled Jun Crow. Beyond the simple fact of its production by the estimable gentleman above re- ferred to, the origin of this ancient and peculiar melody is beyond the reach of modern antiquarian lore. Whether it was first sung upon the banks of the Alatamaha, the Alabama, or the Missis- sippi; em, whether it is pro-American, and a relic of heathen rites in~ Congo, or in that mysterious heart of Africa, which foot of civilized mann has never trod, is a problem whose solution must be left to the zeal and research of some future Ethiopian Oldbuck. It is sufficient for the present disquisition to know that it appeared in the manner above stated. To those (if there can be any such) who are unacquainted with its character and general scope, it may be proper to re- mark that Jim Crow is what may be called a dramatic song, depending for its success, perhaps more than any play evei written for the stage, upon the ac- tion and mimetic powers of the per- former. Its success was immediate and marked. It touched a chord in the American heart which had never before vibrated, hut which now responded to the skilful fingers of its first expounder, like the music of the Bermoothes to The magic wand of Prospero. The school- boy whistled the melody on his unwilling way to his daily tasks. The ploughman checked his oxen in mid-furrow, as he reached its chorus, that the poetic ex- hortation to do just so, might have the action suited to the word. Mer- chants and staid l)rofessional men, to whom a joke was a sin, were sometimes seen by the eyes of prying curiosity in private to unbend their weird and wonderfal ~O5U.i~, - -. seldom seen but in historic picturcs, or upon the sign of a tobacconist; and of the thoroughly impressive and extraor- dinary sights which the writer of this article has in his lifetime beheld, the most memorable and noteworthy was that of a young lady in a sort of inspired rapture, throwing her weight alternately upon the tendon Achillis of the one, and the toes of the other foot, her left hand resting upon her hip, her might, like that of seine prophetic sybil, extended aloft, gyrating as time exigencies of the song required, and singing Jim Crow at the top of her voice. Popularity like this laughs at anathemas from the pulpit, or sneers from the press. The song which is sung in the parlor, hummed in the kitchen, and whistled in the stable, may defy oblivion. But such signal and tri- umphant success can produce but one result. Close upon the heels of Jim Crow, came treading, one after the other, Zip Coon, Long-tailed Blue, Ole Virginny neber tire, Settin on a Rail, and a host of others, all of superior merit, though unequal alike in their i~- trinsic value, and in their participation in public approval. The golden age of negro literature had commenced. Thence- forward for several years the appearance of a new melody was an event whose importance can hardly be appreciated by the comning generation. It flew from mouth to month, and from hamlet to hamlet, with a rapidity which seemed miraculous. The stage-driver miropped a stave or two of it during a change of the mails at some out of the way tavern; it was treasured up and remembered, and added to from day to day, till the whole became familiar as household words. Yankee Doodle went to town with a load of garden vegetables. If upon his ears there fell the echo of a new plantation song, barter and sight-seeing were se- condary objects till he had mastered both its words and music. Thereafter, and until supplanted by some equally enthu- siastic and enterprising neighbor, Yankee Doodle was the hero of his native vale, of Todd Hollow. Like the troubadours and minstrels of ancient (lays, he found open doors and warm hearts wherever he went. Cider, pumpkin pie, and the smiles of the fair were bestowed upon him with an unsparing hand. I-us song was for the time to him the wand of Fortunatus. The prevailing characteristics of the melodies which this period produced, are their perfect and conLinual light- ness, spirit, and good burner; but the true secret of their favor with the world is to be found in the fact that they

12 [Jan. NEGRO MINSTRELSY~ANCIENT AND MODERN. JTnow some eighteen or twenty moe an enterprising Yankee, actuated, it is bnt charitable to suppose, by the purest love of musical art, by the enthusiasm of a discoverer, or by a proper and praiseworthy desire for post- humons fame, produced upon the boards of one of our metropolitan theatres, a musical sketch entitled Jun Crow. Beyond the simple fact of its production by the estimable gentleman above re- ferred to, the origin of this ancient and peculiar melody is beyond the reach of modern antiquarian lore. Whether it was first sung upon the banks of the Alatamaha, the Alabama, or the Missis- sippi; em, whether it is pro-American, and a relic of heathen rites in~ Congo, or in that mysterious heart of Africa, which foot of civilized mann has never trod, is a problem whose solution must be left to the zeal and research of some future Ethiopian Oldbuck. It is sufficient for the present disquisition to know that it appeared in the manner above stated. To those (if there can be any such) who are unacquainted with its character and general scope, it may be proper to re- mark that Jim Crow is what may be called a dramatic song, depending for its success, perhaps more than any play evei written for the stage, upon the ac- tion and mimetic powers of the per- former. Its success was immediate and marked. It touched a chord in the American heart which had never before vibrated, hut which now responded to the skilful fingers of its first expounder, like the music of the Bermoothes to The magic wand of Prospero. The school- boy whistled the melody on his unwilling way to his daily tasks. The ploughman checked his oxen in mid-furrow, as he reached its chorus, that the poetic ex- hortation to do just so, might have the action suited to the word. Mer- chants and staid l)rofessional men, to whom a joke was a sin, were sometimes seen by the eyes of prying curiosity in private to unbend their weird and wonderfal ~O5U.i~, - -. seldom seen but in historic picturcs, or upon the sign of a tobacconist; and of the thoroughly impressive and extraor- dinary sights which the writer of this article has in his lifetime beheld, the most memorable and noteworthy was that of a young lady in a sort of inspired rapture, throwing her weight alternately upon the tendon Achillis of the one, and the toes of the other foot, her left hand resting upon her hip, her might, like that of seine prophetic sybil, extended aloft, gyrating as time exigencies of the song required, and singing Jim Crow at the top of her voice. Popularity like this laughs at anathemas from the pulpit, or sneers from the press. The song which is sung in the parlor, hummed in the kitchen, and whistled in the stable, may defy oblivion. But such signal and tri- umphant success can produce but one result. Close upon the heels of Jim Crow, came treading, one after the other, Zip Coon, Long-tailed Blue, Ole Virginny neber tire, Settin on a Rail, and a host of others, all of superior merit, though unequal alike in their i~- trinsic value, and in their participation in public approval. The golden age of negro literature had commenced. Thence- forward for several years the appearance of a new melody was an event whose importance can hardly be appreciated by the comning generation. It flew from mouth to month, and from hamlet to hamlet, with a rapidity which seemed miraculous. The stage-driver miropped a stave or two of it during a change of the mails at some out of the way tavern; it was treasured up and remembered, and added to from day to day, till the whole became familiar as household words. Yankee Doodle went to town with a load of garden vegetables. If upon his ears there fell the echo of a new plantation song, barter and sight-seeing were se- condary objects till he had mastered both its words and music. Thereafter, and until supplanted by some equally enthu- siastic and enterprising neighbor, Yankee Doodle was the hero of his native vale, of Todd Hollow. Like the troubadours and minstrels of ancient (lays, he found open doors and warm hearts wherever he went. Cider, pumpkin pie, and the smiles of the fair were bestowed upon him with an unsparing hand. I-us song was for the time to him the wand of Fortunatus. The prevailing characteristics of the melodies which this period produced, are their perfect and conLinual light- ness, spirit, and good burner; but the true secret of their favor with the world is to be found in the fact that they Negro MinstrelsyAncient arid Modern. are genuine and real. They are no senseless and ridiculous imitations forged in the dull brain of some north- ern self-styled minstrel, but the veritable tunes and words which have lightened the labor of some weary negro in the cotton fields, amused his moonlight hours as he fished, or waked the spirits of the woods as he followed in the track of the wary racoon. It is as impossible to counterfeit, or successfully imitate, one of these songs, as it would be for a modern poet to produce a border ballad like Chevy Chase or Lord Jamie Dou- glas. It is not alone the patient and laborious student of nenro minstrelsy that can detect the ring of the false metal. The shameless imitations carry their imposture upon their face. Wal- pole, with all his credulity, would never have been deceived, had Chatterton turned his attention to manufacturing plantation songs. The allusion to ancient English and Scottish ballads cannot fail to bring to the mind of the poetical scholar, the striking similarity that exists between many of the specimens of Percy, Ritson and others, and the most ap- proved poetry of the African school. In the terseness and fitness of the lan- guage, the oft repeated idiomatic expres- sions, the occasional looseness and negligence in respect to rhyme, the carelessness and license in the metre, and, above all, in the incoherence of the constantly recurring refrain; the lover of negro minstrelsy is continually re- minded of the old, plain songs which Shakespeare loved, and the spinsters and the knitters in the sun did use to chant. I quote almost at random from Motherwell. Oh I I never saw my love before with a hey lilelu and a how lo lan; Till I saw her through an auger bore, And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie. And she gave to me a gay gold ring, with a hey lilelo an(l a how lo lan; with three shining diamonds set therein, And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie. Let the word~ peculiarly Scottish in Hynd Horn, the ballad from which the above is taken, or in almost any other ancient ballatl, be literally translated into the African dialect, an(l we have at once a plantation song. TIre birk and the brulne may be more alliterative, but they are certainly not more poetic trees than the gum and the persimmon. In further illustration of this subject I can- not forbear quoting a portion of a banjo song from a volume now lying before me. Its genuineness, rio one at all fami- liar with negro literature will presume to question, while its intrinsic worth and excellence will be perceived by the most indifferent or prej udiced observer. It is hardly possible to peruse it with- out thinking of Gil Maurice or Syr Charles Bawdin. Not inferior to the former in its simplicity and truthfulness, it is far above the fr~eble imitation of Chatterton in dramatic effect and ar- tistic construction. Oh, my boys Im bound to tell you; Oh! Oh! Listen awhile, and I will tell you; Oh! Oh! Ill tell you little bout Uncle Gabriel; Oh, boys, ive just begun. Hard times i~ old Virginny. Oh, dont you know old Uncle Gabriel? Oh! Oh! Oh, he was a darkey General, Oh! Oh! He was the chief of the insurgents, way down in Southampton. Hard times in old virgiuny. It was a little boy betrayed him, Oh! Oh! A little boy by the name of DanIel Oh! Oh! Betrayed him at the Norfolk landing; Oh, boys Im getting (lone. Hard Times in old virgiuny. Bays he, How dye do, my Uncle Gabriel? Oh! Oh! I am not your Uncle Gabriel, Oh! Oh! My name it is Jim McUullen; Some they calls me Archy Mellin. Hard times in old virgiuny. * * * * * S They took him down to the gallows, Oh! Oh! They drove him down with four grey horses, Oh! Oh! Brices Ben, he drove the wagon, Oh, boys, I am roost done. Hard times in old Virginny. And there they hung him and thcy swung hIm, Oh! Oh! And they swung him and etrey hung him, Oh! Oh! And that was the last of the darkey General; Oh, boys Im just done. Hard times in old virginny. Those of us who have for so many years been looking at~xiously forward to 1855.1 3 Negro AfinstrelsyAnciene and Modern. [Jan~ the advent of the coming poet who is to take away from America the sin and the shame of never having produced an epic, or a lyric, commensurate with Niagara and the Rocky Mountains, will do well to get up a subscription and buy the au- thor of this song, if his owner can be persuaded to part with him. His noble, poetic nature must chafe in the cotton field like Pegasus in harness. The speci- men above given, is simple, grand, and expressive. The picture it presents to the imagination is natural and life-like. The stream of song runs in a straight channel, and conducts us swiftly and di- rectly to the catastrophe. There is no turning aside fbr flowery metaphors, or forcible expressionsno straining for ef- fectno lugubrious whining over the heros downfallno moralizing his un- happy fate. Even the jingle of rhyme is wanting. And yet, for severe beauty, perfect dramatic structure, ~nd succinct impressive narration, it would be difficult in the whole range of ancient and mo- dern ballad poetry, to find a worthy rival to Uncle Gabriel. The lightness and prevailing good hu- mor of the negro songs, have been before remarked npon. A true southern rnelo- dy is seldom sentimental, and never me- lancholy. And this results directly from the character and habits of the colored race. No hardships ordroubles can de- stroy, or even check their happiness and levity. As I pen these words, the grin- ning image of the boy Quash rises up before me like a phantom. Light-heart- ed, witty, and gay, he was the very type of his race. His jests, his laughter, and his songs linger with me yet, though many a long year has passed since I gazed upon his shining face. It is but fitting that I should embalm his memory in these pages. Watching one day the embarkation of a few bales of cotton, I noticed Quash in the shadow of the steamboat as she lay alongside the dock. A foolish whim induced me to say, Quash, what is the name of that boat? Quash stepped deliberately up to the side of the boat, gazed knowingly at the large black letters on the wheel-house, shaded his eyes with his hamid, and looked again, dropped his head between his shoulders, and peered earnestly into the unknown characters, stepped a few paces back, and went through the same manmuvres, and at last turned to me with an arch leer upon his face; I char Maussa, replied he, Ise so neur-sighted, dis mornin, I cant stinguish do let- ters. Reading Othello one warm and quiet afternoon, in the shade of a spreading fig-tree, I became suddenly aware of the bright eyes of Quash, xvhmich were turned with a curious gaze upon me and my book, as if he were wondering at that strange and awful science, which disclos- es to us the thoughts and feelings of the dead. Quash, said I, wishing to get, from a mind totally unbiased by the conflicting opinions of critics, a first impression upon a disputed passage, which reading do you l)refer, Put out the light, and thenPut out the light, or, Ptmt out the light, and thenput out the light I Quash scratched his woolly head, and putting on that same inde- scribable leer again, solved the difficulty at once. I tink, Maussa, replied he, I should make um blow de light out de fuss time. If the student of Shakes- peame ponders as long and as deeply updn this answer as I did, the covert satire and the i~sopian wisdom which it dis- plays will not be lost upon himmi. Alex- anders solution of the Gordian knot was not more witty or more wise. But that rascal Quash is at his old trick, again, I find, of causing me to neglect my busi- ness. Let us return. In or about time year 1841, a descrip- 7 tive ballad, entitled Ole Dan Tucker, first made its appearance, and speedily acqmred a renown and popularity hard- ly excelled, even by that of Jim Crow. This may be partly attributable to the fact that less histrionic talent is required to give it a fitting interpretation, and partly to its intrinsic worth. In some respects Ole Dan Tucker may be regard- ed as the best of what I have denomi- nated the ancient negro ballads. The melody * was far superior to anything that had preced~d it. In its vivacity and liveliness, the music occasionally reminds us of some of Donizettis hap- piest efforts, while its simplicity and quaintness at times breathe of Anber. The words, too, caine more dearly home to the heart of the A~nerican people, than those of its predecessors. The song, it is needless to say, consists of a series of vivid pictures, disconnected in themselves, varying as rapidly as the changes in a kaleidoscope, amid yet pre * I ha e hitherto given to the word melody mts technical sigumfication of cm negroic aotmg. Of course, here, it has its rdinary meaning. 1855.] Negro MinstrelsyAncient and Modern. 75 senting to us the character of the hero, as a most artistic whole. The most searching test of popularity cs~n be ap- plied to Ole Dan Tudker with per- fect confidence. It has been sung, per- haps, oftener than any melody ever written. I have said that this was in some aspects the best of these songs. It was the last. With that ballad African - minstrelsy may be said to have culini- nated. From that period its decline and fall was rapid and saddening. Hard- ly a song has been produced since that time which does not present the most glaring marks of barefaced and linpa- dent imposition. The zealous student of this species of literature, as he wan- ders amongst the decaying ruins of its former grandeur, may well sigh at the rank and mildewed vegetation which is fast overspreading those noble relics of antiquity. If a buttress or a cornice of beauty meets his eye, he finds it but a portion of the old edifice degraded to a new position. If a gleam of the former light occasionally sparkles in his path, it is but the phosphoric glimmer which beams from loathsome and decaying putrescence. Vile parodies, sentimental love songs, dirges for dead wenches who are generally sleeping under the willow, on the bank of some stream, and me- lancholy reminiscences of negroic child- hood fill the places once allotted to the grand old ballads of former days. From the volume before mentioned, I have not been able, after a most critical exa- mination, to select more than ten which bear any trace of the cotton-field affia- tus, and these ten, with only one ex- ception, have been so patched and dressed up for drawing-room inspec- tion, that they look like a bumpkin who has suddenly come into possession of a fortune. They have lost their country grace without acquiring a city polish. This inundation of trash has swept away in its might all the ancient landmarks of song. It is mortifying to be obliged to confess that I have searched unsuccessfully from Appletons t~o the book stand in the rear of the t/post-office, for a c~py of the original Jim Crow. The names, even, have lost their marked significance. The ques- tionable taste which has given birth to appellations like Fanny Fern, Lotty Lee, Minnie Myrtle, and their long re- tinue of vegetable alliterations, has crept into this department of poetry and ex- hibits itself in such Aftico-romantic fancies as Rosa Lee, Lily Dale, Flora May, Nelly Bell or Etty Way.* Poetas- ters who never saw an alligator, or smelt the magnolia blossom in their lives, sit coolly down to write an African ditty as a pleasant after-dinner pastime, or a dail~ task; and, as a natural consequence of this reprehensible assumption, we find the banana growing wild in Ten- nesse, South Carolina slaves gorging themselves with pumpkin pie, a de- ceased negress buried upon the Law- rence river in in the midst of a furious snow, and a Kentucky sugar mill in full blast in the month of June. But ludicrous anachronisms, and un- pardonable ignorance of topography, are not the worst evils of which we have to complain. Instead of the lyrics which once stirred the heart of the nation, our wives and children are daily and nightly compelled to listen to some such horrible parody as this In a lone cypress swamp, where the sAsild-rocsrissg bullfrog, The echoes awalce with his deep thrilling tones Old Pompey lies there, and the plantation watch- dog A requiem ho*ls oer his deep sunken bones. or sentimental trash like this Etty was so gentle, kind, and good to all, She played the old banjo which hung upon de wall; Et5ys voice was low and sweet, like de little bird; Them soft and gentle tones dat Ive so often heard. or this Oh! I neer can lob anudder So fond, so true, again; Im thine, and thine forebber, My charming Kate Loraine. They are fortunate if they get to bed without being wearied and disgusted with some crude burlesque on a popular opera, served up with vulgar caricatures of the style and manner of well-known * Rosa Lee, if such a personage had ever existed, would have been known as Massa Lees Rosa. The prevailing ignorance at the North on the subject of negro names is remarkable and amusing. They seldom have pretty or common appellations, as they impose on their owners the officeon some plantations no sinecureof dispensing the nomenclature; and as the gentlemen are naturally unwilling to confer upon a slave a name borne by some member of the family or some friend. The fruitfulness of the women on the place of a planter whom I once visited, had on one occasion exhausted his vocabulary. Please Massa, said a hand to him one morning before he was out of bed, clementine sent me to ask you for a name. She had a little boy, last night. call him Last Night, said my friend, lazily catching at the last words; and Last Night he is, and will remain until the shadows of the last night of all shall gather round him. He blacked my hoots, and it struck me as a curious anomaly to rise in the morning, and call for Last Night. It seemed as if, like the last poet out, I was summoning before me the dark past, 76 Negro AfinstrelsyAncient and .Afodern. [Jan. artists; and commended to popular favor by the vilest puns, of which Lend her de Sham-money, or Lucy did lam a Moor, are not exaggerated specimens. Now, all this may serve to make the un- skilfol laugh, but it cannot fail to make the judicious grieve. It is from the pur- pose of negroic minstrelsy, whose end at the first was, and now ought to be, to present to the lovers of original poetry and music, a class of songs, peculiar, genuine, and unadulterated. A thought- ful, reflective man, can hardly leave one of the temples devoted to such barbaric sacrifices, without reasonable and just despondency and alarm. The decay of Athens and Rome was as marked and as melancholy in their literature as in their government.* The poet, the orator, and the statesman, went down hand in hand into the shadowy valley, and disappeared together in the clouds of ignorance and superstition that veil for ever the Dark Ages. Is it treasonable to hint, for the warning of American minstrels and poli- ticians, that there is something more than a strikinb coincidence ia this siinul- taneous decline; and that the presen.t diseased taste in popular poetry, may be but the first faint symptoms of another dark period, in which America shall be hidden from the gaze of the world; never, perhaps, to emerge to her pristine dignity and splendor? I am no alarm- ist, and yet it seems to me that, in these views, the patriot may find matter for deep and serious consideration. A proper diagnosis of the disease, however, is of no effect, unless a remedy is applied. Fortunately, in this case, we are not left without hope. The mine from which Jim Crow and Ole, Dan Tucker were dug, is not yet exhausted, and a resort to it will be alike easy and successful. Why need we groan arid grumble under the inflictions of ignorant and self-conceited song-writers, when every cotton-field teems with melody, and every slave lint, throoghout the Southern conritry, has its little list of genuine ballads, which only need to be known, in order to be received to the heart of a nation. We talk with vague regrets arid sentimental longings, of the forgotten strains of Tasso, once chanted so comriionly by the shrill-voiced gorido- hers of Venice. Poets have mused de- jectedly over the songless boatmen, tra- vellers have feelingly bewailed the silence and desolation of those once gay canals; lomancists and serenaders are gradually ceasing to adjure us to list to the voice of the g~v gondolier. That malice which delights to slander the unresisting dead, has begun to deny both the gaiety of the gondolier, and the purity of his voice. He shares the fate of Memnon. Ever since ~he hush of those mysterious sounds which were wont to greet the dawn, there have not been wanting tra- velled Gradgrinds to assure us that the song from his lips was a humbug and a sham; and to de~rade that majestic statue into a vulgar shoemaker with a musical lapstone, upon which the morn- ing hymn was hammered by his knavish priests. So we are asked to believe that the voice of the gondolier was harsh and unmusical, and that Trissos echoes chanted alternately, were but such polite and complimentary remarks as may be heard to this day among the drivers on the Erie Canal. But as I seat myself in imna~inat.ion, on this calm and moonlight night, by a certain wayside in time South, I leave these discussions to the prosy antiquary, amid care not for the songs of Venice, or the matisic of Memnon. Up from tIme Sound comes a gentle south wind, rippling the water, amid fanning my whiskers; tIme shore surge whispers low at my feet; afar itr the distance I hear the hum of the plantation. The tumultuous harmony of the stock, mingled and blending with tIme faint shouts and cries of Pie people, and the nameless arid varied sounds of insect life lull my senses like time gentle susur- rus of Tityrus. And now, faintly heard far over the water, I distinguish tIme soft thump of oars in the rowlock of an ap- pronehming boat. I listen with attentive earsfor I know by experience the gra- tification in store for incand soon catch the distant tones of the human voice now more faintly heard, arid now en- tirely lost. A few miminutes pass, and the breeze once more wafts fo me the swell- ing notes of the chorus half buried in the measured cadence of the oars. The wind dies away, and my straining ears again hear nothing but tIme measured beat of the rowers, and the plashing of the restless sea. But miow, anew, I hear the sound of those manly negro voices swelling up upon the evenuing gale. Nearer and nearer comes the boat, high- er and higher rises time melody, till it overpowers an(l subdues the noise of tIme oars, which in their tura become subser * Itaiiams Middle Agem, chapter ix., Part 1. 1855.] Negro AlinstrelsyAncient and Modern. vient to the song, and mark its time with harmonious beating. And now the boat is so near, that every word and every tone comes to my ear, over the water, with perfect distinctness, and I recog- nize the grand old triumphal chorus of the stirring patriotic melody of Genel Jackson: Genel Jackson, mighty man Whaw, my kingdom, fire away; He fight on sea, and he fight on land, Whaw, my kingdom, fire away. Genel Jackson gain do day whaw, my kingdom, fire away, He gain de day in rioraday, Whaw, my kingdoni, fire away. Genel Jackson fine de trail, whaw, my kingdom, fire away, He full um fote wid cotton bale, Whaw, my kingdom, fire away. But the boat touches the beach; the negroes with a wild cry quit their sing- ing, tumble out into the shallow water, drag their dug-out up high and dry upon the sand, and I am left once more with the evening breeze and the quieter harmony of nature. The song, a part of which I have just quoted, is fresh from the sable mint in which it was coined. Its originality and genuineness every one familiar with plantation life will at once perceive; while some Geornians may even be able to point to the very river on which the dusky trouhadours still chant it. I am well aware that in depriving the words of their appropriate musi~, I rob it of much of its attractiveness, and still it 18 no bad sample of what may be called the historic Plantation Ballad. The particular naval battle in which Old Hickory was engaged, I have not been able to discover; but the allusion to the bales of cotton in the third stanza may not be wthout its effect in settling one of the vexed questions relating to the defence of Ne~v Orleans; and it adds another to the many examples of the superiority of oral tradition over con- temporaneous writteli history. It is not alone, however, on the water that these quaint songs are produced. The annual corn-shucking season has its own peculiar class of songs, never heard but on thatfestival; their rhythmi- cal structure or c~sural pauses not being adapted to the Ineasured cadence of the oars. Standing at a little dis- tance from the corn heap, on some dark and quiet night, watching the sable forms of the gang, illuminated at in- tervals by the flashes of the lightwood knot, and listening to tlie wild high notes of their harvest songs, it is easy to imagine ourselves unseen spectators of some secret aboriginal rite or savage festival. Snatches of one or two songs which on such occasions I have heard, recur to me. Could I in the following specimen give you any idea of the wild grandeur and stirring music of the re- frain, I should need no apology for pre- senting it to my readers. De ladies in de parlor, Hey, come a rollin down A drinking tea and coffee; Good morning ladies all. De gemmen in de kitchen, Hey come a rollin down A drinking brandy toddy; Good morning, ladies all. I place the above in a class to which I have given the name of descriptive songs. By this I do not mean to be understood as hinting that it is an accu- rate description of a whitefolks, party. On the contrary, it probably originated in the tipsy brain of its dusky author; or, perhaps, in a moment of discontent may have been composed as fin exagge- rated satire. The allusiomo to the kitchen, as the place where the gentlemen are engaged in their pleasing and congenial occupation, goes to show that the min- strel had in his view a colored party, which I am inclined to think was in fact the case. But at this stage of our critical knowledge on the subject of negro lite- rature, such speculations are alike tedi- ous and unprofitable. The comic ballads of the South, form a large and highly interesting class of songs, more especially as they are of a sort most readily transplanted, and most grateful to the public taste. Apart from their fun, however, they lack the merit which distinguishes many other kinds of African composition. The negro is humorous rather than witty, and his comic songs consist of ludicrous images, instead of witty conceits. I do not remember, in the whole course of my investigations, to have met with anything like a pun mu a genuine planta- tion muelody. The following shucking song has nothing to recommend it to public u~tention, save the questionable rhyme to supper. The lovers of Ole Dan Tucker will be pleased and interested with a coincidence in which there caminot be the slightest ground for a suspision of plagiarism. 78 Negro .AfinstrelsyAncient and Modern. [Jan. Cow bog on middle e island Ho! meleety, ho! Cow boy or middle e island-.- Ho! meleety, ho! Missis eat do green persimmon, Ho! meleety, ho! [Repeat.] Moo? all drawd up in a pucker, Ho! meleety, ho! [Repeat.] Staid so till she went to supper, Ho! meleety, ho I [Repeat.] The main obstacle which the enthu- siastic collector of these songs will have to contend against, will be the difficulty of thoroughly comprehending the negro dialect. So peculiar is it, that those even who have been familiar with it from their infancy, are often times at a loss to istterpret such passages as the chorus in the last specimen. No assist- ance can be expected in such matters from the negroes, who, when called upon t~ repeat slowly and distinctly a line which they have jnst sung, will declare with the utmost gravity and solemnity that they have utterly for- gotten it. I used to think that they were unwilling to show to th~ world the richest treasures of their literature; but subsequent investigations induced me to believe their assertion, and to conclude that their intellects could only retain the words when assisted by the music. An intelligent friend to whom I applied, suggested, though not without doubt, that the line in question was Oh! my lady, oh I And tl]e fact that the ballad is principally devoted to the misfortune of the mistress, gives some counte- nance to this interpretation. With the line He full urn fote wid cotton bale, in the ballad of Genel Taylor, I had an amount of trouble which will hardly be appreciated by those who see the line in print. I suppose it is hardly necessary to observe that full urn fote means filled i. e., constructed his fort. Autobiographic ballads hold a promi- nent position among Southern melodies; but as they are usually sung exclusively by their authors, and are regarded in a measure as private property, I do not feel at liberty to transfer any specimens to these pages; more especially as at this moment I find it impossible to bring any to my recollection. One melancholy chorus, The long summers day, I still remember. Its perpetually recur- ring sound never failed to have a singu- larly saddening and depressing effect upon me, whenever I heard it. In speaking of this kind of literature the improvisations of the negroes must not be forgotten, but as they are usually but a running commentary on matters pass- ing under the immediate notice of the minstrel, they ~O55~55 but a local and transitory interest, and a single stanza taken at random will suffice. The read- er will notice the chorus, which was a favorite one with the improvisator, and has served to string ninny thousand lines together. Ole Maus william, he gone to legislatur; Al! cbogaloga, chogaloga, cbogalog. Young Maus John, he done come home from college, Ah! chogaloga, chogaloga, chagolog. Those who are familiar with Southern life, and especially those who have par- ticipated in its hunting delights, will per- haps understand, without any explana- tion, that the foregoing refrain is intend- ed to be an imitation of the gobble of the wild turkey. I have performed many orthographical experiments, in or- der to represent the sound more nearly on paper, but without success, and I am aware that no words can express the rich, unctuous, guttural flow of the line, when uttered in perfect time by a full gang at their corn-shucking task. An approximation to it, however, may be made by pronouncing the words rapidly in a deep tone, and at the same time violently agitating the body in a perpen- dicular direction. Having on one or two occasions essayed this mode with con- siderable satisfaction to myself, and no little commendation from a few privi- leged spectators, I atn enabled to make this assertion with some confidence; but as the movement is slightly fatiguing, and totally devoid of grace, I do not wish to be understood as recomniending it either to invalids or ladies. It is, how- ever, the only feasible tuethod of talk- ing turkey, that I have yet been able to discover. I have thus attempted, as calmly and dispassionately as my own strong feel- ings of the importance of the subject will permit, to call the public attention to a serious and growing evil, and hum- bly, as becomes me, to point out some means for its removal. My task is finished, and my duty accomplished. Henceforth, the duty of guiding or cor- rectimig the public taste in these matters will devolve upon other pens than mine. I have endeavored to discharge my obli- gations to society fearlessly and sincere- 1855.] Are all iltem Descended from Adam? 79 ly. For this courage and sincerity alone I desire credit. If the considerations which I have presented shall have the effect of awakening l)ublic attention to the subject, I shall be sufficiently re- war(led; if not, the consciousness of duty performed will sustain me. It is earnestly to be desired that collections of genuine plantation songs may be made. The grateful incense of posterity would embalm the memory of him who should hand down to them authentic ballads, xvhiclm another generation may sweep from the face of the earth forever. There are men whose birth or long resi- dence in the South, whose knowledge of the negro dialect, and whose taste and accomplishments in polite literature, seem to have especially fitted them for this service. For the few and imperfect specimens which I have given above, I have been indebted to a treacherous memory of a few months sojourn in Georgia some six or seven years ago, when I had no reason to suppose that I should ever feel called upon to pen this article. Could I have foreseen its neces- sity, the collection would have been greatly larger and more perfect. But enough has been presented to show how much may be effected by a zealous schol- ar under more advantageous circumstan- ces. Upon a rough calculation, made with no statistics to refer to, I have con- cluded that there are, at least, thirty thousand slave plantations in the United States. Is it unreasonable to suppose that, on each of these plantations, one song may be found of undisputed genu- ineness and excellence? It will be a proud day for America when these thirty thousand songs are collected into several volumes, handsomely bound in Turkey morocco, and superbly embel- lished. Then negro mm strelsy will take its proper place in literature; then Ethiopian Serenaders, and Congo Min- strels will draw crowded houses at three dollars a seat, and one dollar for a prome- nade ticket; and thenbut long ere that time the hand that writes these lines will have mouldered and become dust will the eye of the student and antiqua- ry linger reverently and delightedly over some time-worn manuscript as he deci- phers the title Jima Crow, or Uncle Gabriel i, ARE ALL MEN DESCENDED FROM ADAM? To the most cursory observer, the human race presents the utmost diversity in almost every aspect in which it can be viewed. Men exist of all c~lors, from the deepest black down to the purest white, of all forms of con- figuration, from the finely formed Cii- eassian, to the stunted and deform- ed Bushman, and of all gradations in beauty, from the Georgian to the Pa- puan. Besides, the intellectual capa- cities of the race appear 4o be as various; and there is every variety of mental endowment in the hum~man species, from the far-reaching sagacity and inductive power of tIme philosopher who extends the boundaries of knowledge to the very confines of creation, to the narrow in- tellect of the savage who burrows in the earth, and is influenced only by the instinctive feelings which guide the brnte creation. Is it possible, then, that a class of beings, so different in all their character- istics have descended from a single pair? or does not the diversity of appearance prove also a difference in origin? Are all the modifications of form, color, & c., which distinguish the different families of mankind merely accidental, the re- sult of climate, food, habits, & c., or do they indicate a specific difference which divides inseparably the human race? The latter supposition, viz., that all mankind do not belong to the same species is, we believe, entirely given up, at the present day, by every respectable ethnologist; though, by a very remark- able inconsistency, the accidental differ- ences are adduced as a proof that the different families of mankind must have had a different origin. It is confessed that men possess the same general phy- sical characteristics, are endowed with the same moral and intellectual powers, are influenced by the same hopes and the same fears, have the same sense of accountability, and the same conscience,

1855.] Are all iltem Descended from Adam? 79 ly. For this courage and sincerity alone I desire credit. If the considerations which I have presented shall have the effect of awakening l)ublic attention to the subject, I shall be sufficiently re- war(led; if not, the consciousness of duty performed will sustain me. It is earnestly to be desired that collections of genuine plantation songs may be made. The grateful incense of posterity would embalm the memory of him who should hand down to them authentic ballads, xvhiclm another generation may sweep from the face of the earth forever. There are men whose birth or long resi- dence in the South, whose knowledge of the negro dialect, and whose taste and accomplishments in polite literature, seem to have especially fitted them for this service. For the few and imperfect specimens which I have given above, I have been indebted to a treacherous memory of a few months sojourn in Georgia some six or seven years ago, when I had no reason to suppose that I should ever feel called upon to pen this article. Could I have foreseen its neces- sity, the collection would have been greatly larger and more perfect. But enough has been presented to show how much may be effected by a zealous schol- ar under more advantageous circumstan- ces. Upon a rough calculation, made with no statistics to refer to, I have con- cluded that there are, at least, thirty thousand slave plantations in the United States. Is it unreasonable to suppose that, on each of these plantations, one song may be found of undisputed genu- ineness and excellence? It will be a proud day for America when these thirty thousand songs are collected into several volumes, handsomely bound in Turkey morocco, and superbly embel- lished. Then negro mm strelsy will take its proper place in literature; then Ethiopian Serenaders, and Congo Min- strels will draw crowded houses at three dollars a seat, and one dollar for a prome- nade ticket; and thenbut long ere that time the hand that writes these lines will have mouldered and become dust will the eye of the student and antiqua- ry linger reverently and delightedly over some time-worn manuscript as he deci- phers the title Jima Crow, or Uncle Gabriel i, ARE ALL MEN DESCENDED FROM ADAM? To the most cursory observer, the human race presents the utmost diversity in almost every aspect in which it can be viewed. Men exist of all c~lors, from the deepest black down to the purest white, of all forms of con- figuration, from the finely formed Cii- eassian, to the stunted and deform- ed Bushman, and of all gradations in beauty, from the Georgian to the Pa- puan. Besides, the intellectual capa- cities of the race appear 4o be as various; and there is every variety of mental endowment in the hum~man species, from the far-reaching sagacity and inductive power of tIme philosopher who extends the boundaries of knowledge to the very confines of creation, to the narrow in- tellect of the savage who burrows in the earth, and is influenced only by the instinctive feelings which guide the brnte creation. Is it possible, then, that a class of beings, so different in all their character- istics have descended from a single pair? or does not the diversity of appearance prove also a difference in origin? Are all the modifications of form, color, & c., which distinguish the different families of mankind merely accidental, the re- sult of climate, food, habits, & c., or do they indicate a specific difference which divides inseparably the human race? The latter supposition, viz., that all mankind do not belong to the same species is, we believe, entirely given up, at the present day, by every respectable ethnologist; though, by a very remark- able inconsistency, the accidental differ- ences are adduced as a proof that the different families of mankind must have had a different origin. It is confessed that men possess the same general phy- sical characteristics, are endowed with the same moral and intellectual powers, are influenced by the same hopes and the same fears, have the same sense of accountability, and the same conscience, 80 Are all Men Descended from Adam? [Jan. accusing or else excusing one another. After this avowal, there is doubtless some curiosity, on the part of the in- quirer, to learn on what they ground the diversity of origin. He will be sur- prised to learn that it is partly by deny- ing what they have before asserted with regard to specific unity. Man, they say, is specifically the same, because he possesses the same general characteris- tics. The several races of mankind have sprung from different ancestors and in differ& nt localities, because they do not possess the same characteristics. This, to my mind, is the plain meaning of their language. Suppose, however, that they mean only, that while the broad and general characteristics prove men to be specifically the same, yet the minor differences prove him to be from various stocks; still this language ap- pears to us equally unfortunate, for it matters not in what mystification the term species may be involved of late, it has always been taken in the sense of an aggregation of individuals who may have descended from a common stock. It is perfectly obvious, then, that the accidental or permanent variations in the human race, ftS an argument against the common origin of mankind, are entirely ruled out by the very terms of the controversy. The arguments most relied upon against the unity of the origin of the human species, may be grouped under four heads: 1. From analogy. 2. From the fact that the varieties of mankind have been always the same that they are now, and consequently that they are unchangeable. 3. From the fact that, as we ascend the stream of history, nations appear to be broken into more minute fragments than at the present time. 4. From the diversities of language which exist in the world, all, it is main- tained, entirely disconnected with one another. 1. The argument from analogy is as follows :It is rnailitail)ed, as the opinion of the b~st naturalists, that animals and plants, instead of l)roceeding from a common source, radiate from different centres over the countries in which they are found; for instance, the fauna and flora of the New World are different from those of the old, and those of Aus- tralia from both ; the same fact is true with reference to other places more cir- cumscribed in their geographical limits. The inference by analogy from this phe- nomenon is, that, as animals and plants do not proceed from a common source, but radiate from different centres over the world, the same would be the case with regard to man; and that the vari- ous families of the race would have originated in the different geographical centres around which they are at pre- sent grouped. To this, it might be suffi- cient to reply, that there can be no ana- logy in this case between man and the animal creation: in their development they are subject to quite different la~vs. The fauna and flora appear in their most stunted forms in the colder regions of the norththey improve gradually as you proceed south, until finally they at- tain their most perfect development in the torrid zone; there, the flora exhibit their most gorgeous colors, and the fauna their greatest stren th, ferocity, and beauty; while the law is reversed in the case of man, and he is found invaria- bly to degenerate as you descend from the temperate to the tropical zone. In the language of Professor Guyot, Na- ture goes on adding perfection to perfec- tion, from the polar megions to the temn- perate zones, from time temperate zones to the re~iou of the greatest heat. Ani- mal life grows in strength and develop- meat; the types are improved; intelli- gence increases; the forms approach the human figures; the omirang-outang stands already on his feettrained up by man, he has been seen to sit at his table, and to eat with him. The negro of the woods, deceived by these appearances, regards him as a degenerated brother, who holds his tongue only fi-om a desire to get rid of workevidently the devel- opment of this animimal touches here upon its highest expression. This ascending series will rise to its termination in man, who, in his figure, is the crowning excellence of the whole animal world, and the very realization of its idea; and the tropical man will be also the highest,.the purest type of hu- inanity, and, physically speaking, the niost beautiful of his species. But who does not know that man niakes here a wonderful exception? Far from exhibit- ing that harmonious ontline, those noble and elevated forms, all those perfectipns the chisel of a Plmidias or a Praxiteles has combined upon a single head, the tropical man displays only those unfor- tunate figures whiclm seemmin to app.roach ever nearer and nearer the aninial, and which betray the instincts of the brute. 1855.] Are all Men Descended from Adam? ~81 Here, then, resemblance entirely fails in the very point in which the analogy should hold good, if the development of the human race follows a law common to the brute creation. Supposing, however, that different centres of distribution for the fauna and flora of the globe exist, what does it prove? That as the fauna were in- tended to be local and peculiar, they were not created at a single point and transported by miraculous power to the positions they now occupy, but were called into existence on the spot, and in a situation from which they could spread over their assigned limits. Here we have simply the fact, that as the fauna were intended to be local they were created in different localities. But directly the contrary is the fact with regard to man, intended to be universal ia his dominion over th~ world, and not designed for a particular location his creation took place at one centre from which lie has migrated over the globe. The capabilities of the animal creation limited them, in the utmost extent of their excursions, to cer- tain geographical limits, bounded by barriers, over which they could not pass. As the capacities of man are, however, not limited by any obstacle on the earth, we think it decidedly more in analogy with the mode of the divine operations, that he should be left to find his way from a common centre, than that several distinct pairs should have been created in different localities, in order to make the work somewhat easier. Providence never multiplies force for the accomplishment of an object; and when, for the populating of the world, a common and single centre would have been sufficient, it would be unphilosophical to suppose that more than one was adopted. Gentlemen of the new school in philosophy are not fond of miracles; we cannot but ex- press our astonishment then, that they are disposed to multiply them without necessity. The anomaly, however, may be accounted for by the fact, that in the present instance a miracle would be a proof of their religion8even Lord Her- bert, of Cherbury, could pray for the performance of a miracle to confirm him in his attempt to prove that mira- cles are impossible. Suppose, however, the fact of differ- ent centres of propagation be admitted, will the anomalies in the constitution of the human race be accounted for? will VOL. v.6 not, on the contrary, fresh elements of difficulty be introduced into the discus- sion of the question. How did man come into these positions? Some deny he was created ia these several localities, while others incline to the theory of a development according to law~. Against the former supposition, the weighty ob- jection before mentioned lies, of an ap- parent waste of power on the part of the Almighty, in introducing mankind by miraculous agency into a position of which they could have availed themselves by the mere exercise of their natural powers. In the last four or five centu- ries, how much of the globe has been penetrated by the enterprise of Euro- peans! Almost every sea has been furrowed by their ships, and almost every land has been visited by their commerce. Nay, more, there are fe~- countries presenting any prospect of remuneration that have not been settled by their colonists. And, in more recent periods the mysterious impulse towards emigration has been so strong as near- ly to depopulate countries of inhabit- ants proverbially attached to their na- tive soil. With the prospect of comfort before them at home and with the ex- amples of thousands before them who have been disappointed abroad, the Irish nation appear determined to for- sake, in mass, their native land. The migration from Babel was only a fact belonging to a general law, which has found its expression in every period of the world. The operation of this law, it may be objected, would be slow; we admit it would, but not by any means too much so to accomplish the peopling of the earth in a reasonable length of time; and very quick, when we compare it with the time required to carry out the divine plans in other parts of our eco- nomy. How long a period must it have required to bring the earth into its present state; how many countless ages does geology inform us were passed be- fore it became a fit habitation for man, in comparison with it; how brief must be the period at the very longest com- putation required for sprc ing the human race over the globe. The supposition, however, that man was placed in this world in full posses- sion of his intellectual faculties and physical powers, does not accord well with the theory of those Mho deny the unity of the human race. Man, the embryologiste think, was not made erie 82 Are all Men Descended from Adam ~ [Jan. ginally lord of the creation; but, like some lords of more modern origin, he acquired his dominion in rather a questionable manner, and by force and fraud lorded it over the animal world. It is gravely asserted that man grew up like the vegetables about him; or, more properly, like those forms of in- sect life which we brush every day from our paths; he descended from a monad or an oyster, it is not positively ascer- tained which, and by imperceptible de- grees grew up to his present importance. It would be an amusing but rather tedi- ous task for us to follow the various processes by which he became possessed of the several members which are so useful to him in his struggles for sub- ~istence; and a rather metaphysical one to trace the subtle forces which com- bined to form his intellectual powers. The principle of appetency, in the lan- guage of the embryologist, explains all this. This mysterious power is equally indefinable and plastic in its operation. Where it came from they forget to in- form us. It operates in a thousand capricious ways; it gave the elephant a trunk to save this rather unwicldly per- sonage the trouble of stooping, while it gratified his propensity for feeling about him. Why it did not give all animals trunks, as it appeai~s that it ought to have operated in the most impartial manner, I have never been able to as- certain; it gave the monkeys arms to indulge them in their propensities for climbing; and when these progenitors of the human family settled down into sober respectable ~xnen, they lost their ~trength in these members and used only their legs for the purposes of loco- motion: while their sedentary habits have rubbed off another member, which in times of primitive simplicity was exceedingly useful in swinging an indi- vidual from tree to tree. We are not informed of every particu- lar transformation that took place be- tween the oyster and man; we are only certainly assured of this, that the first stage in the process was an oyster. or something like it; and that the last but one was a monkey. It could scarcely be expected that there would be any records of this rather unintellectual pe- riod; we are therefore left entirely to conjecture as to the various particular developments. But the hstory of the past is even less @bscure than that of the future; we kpow, at any rate, that man was a mon key and had a tail; but what kind of a personage he may be, centuries hence, nobody can conjecture. I am not certain that even the embryologists have pre- dicted. He may possibly lose some, at present, very valuable member, or he may receive some very desirable appen& age to his personhe may manifest a propensity for aerial locomotion, and, by the addition of a pair of wings, reverse Platos definition of man, as bipes im- plumis. Gentlemen tell us that this view of the introduction of the human race is recommended by the simplicity of the means, by its freedom from any abrupt transition in the order of nature; you have a man here actually feeling his way in the world, becoming accustomed by slow degrees to the objects around him, and growing up, as it were, with the state of things in which he is placed. How beautiful is this development ac- cording to law; it shuts out all caprice, and personal partim4ity. But if the law acted in so very impartial a manner, as it appears it ought to have done, how comes it that developments are so very different? The elephant has a very long slender snout, the bull-dog, a very short, thick one; the giraffe has a very lofty neck, the lion and bear, very short ones; the hare can run very fast from his enemies, while the sloth is liable to be overtaken by every pursuer. Why did appetency act so differently in each? How did this blind influence manifest such apparent foresight? Now, we must confess that we cannot admire the phi- losophy which admits all these wonders of appetency, and is staggered by the supposition that man was endowed with the power and the instinct to spread from a single centre over the world. It has been found, however, that the theory of different pairs of the human race originating itt different centres, is liable to insuperable objectionsto ob- jections precisely similar to those urged against the unity of the race. If three or four typical varieties of the human family, such as the Caucasian, the Mon- golian, and the Negro, compel us to adopt the theory of three or four dis- tinct origins, because we cannot ac- count otherwise for these apparently permanent varieties, further investiga- tion will show that we cannot stop here, but that we must extend the principle much further; for the peculiarities that mark the different races are not confined to the great families of mankind, but. extend to the different tribes of each of 1855.] Are all Men Descended from Adam 9 g3 these families; and the northern nations of Europe differ quite as permanently from the southern, as the Caucasian does from the Mongolian, and the tribes of Southern Africa are distinguished quite as much from the tribes north of the equator, and immediately around it, as the Negro himself is from the Caucasian. It is easy to distinguish an Englishman from a Frenchman, a Spaniard from a , & c. Now, if the varieties manifested by the two or three great families of mankind, compel us to trace them to two or three different origins, why will not the differences equally in- eradicable between infinitely numerous tribes, point also in each case to a differ- ent origin? The difficulty has been felt, and Professor Agassiz, the ablest repre- sentative of the above school, concludes that mankind have not sprung from a singhs pair, nor from separate pairs created at different centres; but have originated in groups, in various countries in other words, have been sown broad- cast over the world. To this inference he is also helped by the analogous distri- bution of vegetable and animal life. In countries entirely isolated from the old world, such as Australia, the fauna and flora are entirely different; the plants are of a different specific and generic character; the animals are also entirely distinct. In countries less isolated, there is more resemblance, without absolute identity, however, in any. The fauna of Europe, possessing the same specific type as those in America, present, how- ever, varieties at once recognizable to the eye of the practised naturalist; when the geographical limits become more closely united, the resemblance becomes much greater, yet never amounting to identity. Here it is to be observed that every species in one country has its representa- tive species in another, and sometimes under circumstances, toot which forbid the supposition that they have been pro- pagated from a common source. We find the same general facts to be applica- ble to man; and the representative spe- cies of the human family nearly alike, but not absolutely identical, are scattered over the world. From this it is inferred that, as the representative species of the animal creation could not have descend- ed from a common origin, neither could the representative species of the human race. This argument will strike different minds with different degrees of force; most, however, will only see in it the admirable adaptation of the animal world to the circumstances among which they are placed, and the provisions made for their preservation amid the most di- verse influences. Professor Guyot well remarks, The resemblance of organized beings in the three continents of the north, is one of their distinctive char- acters; and this character is due to cir- cumstance, that in proportion as the species change with the longitude, their place is taken generally, not by new types, but by analogous species. Doubt~ less, the similarity of climate is one of the most active causes of this resem~ blance; for the variety of the genera, the differences between the species of the three continents augment according to the elevation of the temperature; but this is not enough to explain the fact en- tirely. We shall see that the continents of the south, under similar latitudes, and in similar temperatures, offer types of animals, and of vegetation, very differ- ent in each of them. The continents of the south are more remote from each other than the fore- going. Broad oceans separate them, even to isolation. Scarcely any com- munication is possible between lands so distant; at any rate it is only indirect. Shut up in themselves, incapable of act- ing upon one another and modifying their respective natures, these conti- nents are excluded from all community of life. What is there astonishing, then, in seeing their differences carried to an extreme, their characters exaggerated? We see here only the most natural adaptation of animal life to the geogra- phical latitude, and the fact that in dif- ferent climates, the external characters are somewhat differently developed. Admitting, however, as true, every thing which Professor Agassiz wishes to prove, with regard to the auimal creation: the difficulty still remains of showing that the same law of develop- ment applies to the human species. A mere analogy which evidently holds good only up to a certain point, cannot to any reasonable mind be conclusive. You may, from the development of the animal creation, argue with regard to the development of man in his ani- mal nature; but when he is considered in his highest and most important re- lations, as a moral, intellectual, and responsible being, the analogy at once fails, and the law of development would in consequence, we infer, be quite dif ferent. And such is the fact; for, as we before remarked, the animal and vege- tal)le creations assume higher and more perfect types as you proceed from the poles to the equator; while, on the con- trary, man is found in his most degrad- ed position in the tropics, and becomes gradually more elevated as he ap- proaches the temperate zone, in which he reaches his highest development, physical, intellectual and moral. The development of the animal follows only a physical law, while man being a moral as well as material being, is governed by both the laws of the physical and moral world. The distinction has been well drawn by Professor Guyot. In the animal, he remarks, the degree of perfection of the types is proportional to the in- tensity of heat, and of other agents which stimulate the display of material life. The law is of a physical order. In man, the degree of perfection of the types is in proportion to the degree of moral and intellectual improvement. The law is of a moral order. The difference between the laws has its principle in the profound difference existing between the nature and desti- nation of these distinct beings. The plant and the animal are not required to become a different thing from what they already are at the moment of their birth. Their idea, as the philosopher would say, is realized in its fulness, by the fact alone of their material appear- ance, and of their physical organiza- tion. The end of their existence is attained, for they are only of a physical nature. But with man it is quite other- wise. Man, crealed in the image of ~fod, is of a free and moral nature. The physical man, however admirable may be his organization, is not the true man; he is not an aim, but a means; he is not an end, like the animal, bnt a beginning. There is another, new-born, but destined to grow up in him, and to unfold the moral and religious nature until he attahi the perfect stature of his master, and pattern, which is Christ. It is the intellectual and moral man, the spiritual man. The law of development, if I may say so, is the law of man, the law of the human race and human societies; now, the free and moral being cannot unfold his nature without education; he cannot grow to maturity, except by the exercise of the faculties he has re- ceived as his inheritance. Here is the reason that the Creator has placed the [Jan. cradle of mankind in the midst of the continents of the north, so well made by their forms, their structure, by their climate, as we shall soon see, to stimu- late individual development, and that of human society, and not at the centre of the tropical regions, whose balmy, but enervating and treacherous atmosphere would have, perhaps, lulled him to sleepthe sleep of death, in his very cradle. To us, then, it appears incontroverti- ble, that the frail argument from ana- logy, even where analogy is inadmis- sible, fails entirely in the most important points. 2. It is maintained that no race of mankind has changed within the historic period: that the Gaul, the Saxon, & c., present the same conforma- tion, and possess the same qualities now, that they did when first known to his- tory; and that even the monumental remains of Egypt, which date back be- yond 8000 years, exhibit to us the Negro, the Copt, and the Jew, with precisely the same physiognomy which they re- tain at the present day. If, at so early a day, we find races possessed of the same character they now exhibit, and if the lapse of centuries has not been able to change them in any important particular, what evidence have we that they can change at all? Does not the inference appear to be that they are unchangeable. It is not pretended I believe by any one that all the causes which operated in producing permanent varieties in the human species have been discovered; some of the causes, how- ever, which are universally admitted as influential in modifying the human form and color, are climate, food, habits, and education; these being unchanged, man, as far as we knowindeed, the sup- position is confirmed by experience, would remain unchanged. Time itself, without the influence of these modify- ing laws, could never produce any im- pression on the human person. It is not surprising, then, nor contradictory of any law recognized by the advocate of the unity of the human race, that the Negro, the Copt, and the Jew, should present nearly the same appear- ance now, that they did three thousand years ago. The Copt and the Negro live on the same soil and subject to the same influences, climatic and other- wise, that they were then; the Jew, though changing his climate, has not changed his habits, has not amalgamated Are all Men Descended from Ada2m? 1855.] Are all Men Descended from Adam? with other nations, observes the same regimen, and pursues the same avoca- tions now that he ever did. The only change, then, whieh he has undergone in entire conformity with physiological laws, is that of color, while the physiognomy, influenced only by food, and habits, and education, remains unchanged. But the assertion that man does not change when climate, food, moral and intellec- tual habits are changed, is contrary to well established facts. The Jew, occu- pying for several centuries the coast of Malabar, has become black as a Negro. The Brahmins, evidently descended from the same conquering race, differ in complexion according to the latitude they occupy in the immense cQuntry of Hindostan. The Turk in Europe has partially assumed the Caucasian cast of countenance, whilst in Western Asia he inclines towards the Mongolian. The Celtic nations, whoni it would be the merest quixotism of criticism to deny to have sprung from the same race, possess very different characteristics; the Irishman is unlike the Frenchman and the Scotchman ~Iiffers materially from both. Perhaps there can be no two nations more directly the antipodes of one another in mental and moral habits, than the Irish and Scotch; and there is scarcely any historical fact more certain, than that they are descendants from a common stock. The Saxon is different in almost every important as- pect from the Dutch who now inhabit the country from which he formerly emigrated; and since transplanted into Ireland has superadded to the parent stock some of the qualities of the soil, and is generally considered to be a more genial, impulsive character than his brethren on the other side of the Channel; and what is more obvious to us, is that the American is assuming a physiognomy of his own; it is not that of any of the races from which he is sprung, nor is it identical with that of the offspring of those races born in Europe, but it is something peculiar and national. History, then, and the most positive experience, prove that varieties have been produced, within the historic p e- nod, in families descended from the same race; it is, we think, then, the most gra- tuitous hypothesis to maintain that, be- eause there are a few instances of perma- nency of type, during the historic period, there are, therefore, no variations at all from the original typical stock. This is simply a question of facts; and, in my opinion, none has been more completely and triumphantly settled. The juestion has been asked, how- ever, how is it, that if races possess the capabilities of change, they never re-as- sume the original type, and that the ne- gro, after being exposed for centuries to the climate of America, shows no signs of becoming white? As we said before, all the circumstances which govern the development of the human race, are not known; but, from a wide induction of facts, the law has been discovered, that, in the infancy of the human race, when the nature of man was plastic, he re- ceived, from the action of the circum- stances among which he was placed, an impression which determined his confor- mation for ever; or, in the more scien- tific language of Lyell, whose opinions are entitled to the highest respect, hu- man development is governed by the following laws: 1st. All species have a c4pacity, to a certain extent, of adapting themselves to external circumstances. 2d. When the change of situation they can endure is great, it is usually at- tended with some modification of the form, color, size, and other particulars; but the mutations thus superinduced are governed by constant laws; and the ca- pability of so varying forms a part of the permanent specific character. 3d. Some acquired qualities are trans- missable, & c. 4th. The entire variation from the original type which any given kind of change can make, must usually take place in a very short space of time, after which no further variation can be at- tained by continuing to alter the circum- stances, though ever so gradually; inde- finite divergence, either in the way of deterioration or improvement, being pre- vented; and the least excess beyond the defined limits being fatal to the existence of the individual. It may be objected, that this is simply theory; this is true, but it is a theory evolved from a very wide induction of facts, and has the rccommendation of harmonizing all the circumstances known, with regard to human development; while opposing opinions, which arc theo- ries too, run singularly counter both to facts and experience. In this connection we cannot avoid noticing the remarkable theory of Dr. Knox, that races can never change, and never amalgamate or emi- grate without extinction; In other 80 Are all Mei~ Descended front Adam ? [Jait words, that the typical character and lo- cation of a race, are so inseparably con- nected with its well-being, that neither can be changed without extinction. On th~ subject of variations of the human race, we have before remarked; and the connection between migration and extinction will be apparent to very few but the doctor, himself. Most of the nations of Europe have migrated to their present locations during the historic pe- riod, and have been, pretty generally, adulterated with a foreign element, which it is, I believe, generally admitted, has contributed to their improvement. The American nation is certainly derived from a great many different stocks, without any signs of degeneracy. The attempt to account for this anomaly, by pointing to the constant accessions made to the population from the parent stocks, manifests extraordinary ignorance of the true state of the case. Europeans and their immediate descendants are liable, in the process of acclimation, to many more diseases than the native American, and, consequently, exhibit a much great- er mortality. The fact is, that the longer a family has been in the country, the greater is its immunity from disease, and the more does it multiply; whilst the least healthy, and the most subject to mortality, is the European. We are not certain that this is the case in all the British Colonies; we are pretty sure it is in Canada, and incline to the belief it is in all countries in the temperate zone. ~an does, then, not only survive the shock given to his system by the action of a strange climate, and, by the addition of certain peculiarities, but is very fre- qimently improved by the process. 3. It has been stated that as you as- cend the stream of history, there is no more trace of unity among the human race than at the present time; but you find the species broken into divisions still more fragmentary. Where you now have nations, you formerly had tribes; and mankind, instead of converg;ng to- wards a point, as you trace them back towards their origin, are found to di- verge still more hopelessly, rendering the search after unity absolutely desperate. It is doubtless a fact, that the first form of human associations known to history were tribes; and that the first form of government was patriarchal. But to identify societies with race, is to con- found things totally distinct. At the present day, a nation is by no means cc- extensive with, a race, for several king~ doms are peopled by members of the same great family. Witness the Celtic race scattered over France, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland; the Sclavonmc. oc- cupying all the East of Europe, and the German split up into innumerable petty nationalities. It is impossible then from the social subdivisions of mankind to infer anything, as to their diversity of origin; and this is more especially the case, when we are discussing the primi- tive state of society. The first form of government, as we have just said, was patriarchal; the oldest of the family was generally the leader of the tribe; this was simply an extension of the family relation, and continued until rendered impracticable by the multiplication of the People. The sovereignty was then confined to a single family, and by slow degrees as- sumed all the various modifications, which we at present find in society. Besides this very natural order in the development of government, the sub- division into tribes was necessitated by the pursuits of primitive man. The first avocations of the race were pastoral, comumunities were thus formed not too large for acquiring subsistence, and not too small for self-defence. Every pas- toral country presents the same condi- tion of things. The Arab of the desert is a living embodiment of the social state in the same locality two thousand years ago. He lives in tribes, which are broken up when they become unwieldy or when internal dissensions arise, and which never after eQalesce. Yet no one, I believe, has adduced the multiplicity of tribes as a proof of the plurality of stocks from which the Arab is descend- ed. The clan system is, however, not confined to the East or to antiquity; it existed until a very recent period in the Highlands of Scotland, among a nation descended of course from a common stock. To adduce, then, the multiplicity of tribes in ancient times, as inconsistent with the unity of the origin of the human race, is completely to misapprehend th~ state of the question. The same remarks hold substantially gooti in reference to the argument drawn from diversity of language; if indeed, there be a radical diversity in language. Most philologists think not, and i believe most of the languages of Europe and western Asia have been traced to a coni- mon Semitic stem. So obvious was this connection to the most eminent scholars 1855.] Are all Men Descended from Adam! 87 of the last century, that the conveyance of all languages to a common origin, was to them conclusive of the unity of the human race. The opposers of this unity say they make no pretensions to philo- logical research; seeing however, super- ficial differences in various languages, they are disposed to make the most of them. 1f however, a radical difference did exist between the various languages of the world, it would prove nothing against the unity of the race: it being obvious that families, confessedly of the same race, do not always use the same language. The Irish, Welsh, Gtelic, and French are as different as most languages from one another, yet still are consistent with community of origin, on the part of the nations that use them. The South Sea Islanders have different languages, not only in the different groups, but in the several islands which compose these groups; and in the small Island of Tatua, riot more than 80 miles in circumfer- ence, the inhabitants speak four different languages totally distinct from one an- other. Yet it would not sound very philosophical to assign different origins to the inhabitants of each of these islands. The truth is, that every indication which is at all valuable in antiquarian research, points invariably to migration of the race from a single centre: it is the deduction of science as well as the testimony of history and tradition. National vanity is, doubtless, gratified as in Greece, by referring to Autochthones, or aborigines, springing like grasshoppers from the soil; but this tradition is involved in the obscurity of remote antiquity, and is extremely indistinct in its outlines; and, after all, amounts only to the simple fact, that the first recorded emigrants to Greece found inhabitants there before them. The inability to determine when the first inhabitants settled there arises simply from the fact, that the emigration took place before the historic period. In opposition to this supposition of the first inhabitants of Greece springing from the soil, or being created on the spot, we have the unanimous testimony of antiquity in favor of the migration of the race from a spot somewhere in North- western Asia. The Brahmins, Chinese, and Assyrians too, represent the human family as descending from the highlands of Asia; streaming down the sides of the Hindoo Cosh, the Himalaya, and the Altai Mountains, and finally spread- ing over the adjoining plains to the con- fines of the ocean. The history, poetry, and legends of Europe, give precisely the same account of the settlement of that country; and all point to the mysterious, sacred East as the cradle of the human race. We are told, however, that we cannot rely much on the chronicles amid tradi- tions of a barbarous age. Yet we think, that a testimony given with such una- nimity and universality might have some weight with gentlemen who attribute such a profound signimicancy to the Gre- cian tradition of men sprin~,ing from the soil. Our remarks have been extended to this point purposely without any refer- ence to Scripture, because we do nQt think that the argument from Scripture would have much weight with the maintainers of the position we have been attempting to controvert. Scrip- ture, it is asserted, was never given for the settling of physical and scientific qhestions, nor for any purpose, indeed, but the propagation of moral and re- ligious truth. Be it so. But in the purpose of Scripture the oPigin of man is not developed as a simple ethnological question, but dwelt upon as the mode ot accounting for the introduction of moral evil into the world, and its transmission through the different members of the human family down to the present time. All orthodox Christians agree with St. Paul, in tracing the predisposition to evil in the human race, to one mans transgression, by whom sin entered into the world, and to our connection with him as our progenitor. Moral infirmity is part of the constitutional bias derived from our first parents, and only to be accounted for according to the theory of Scripture, by our intimate union with them by direct descent. It may be, as it has been said, that St, Paul was deceived. To discuss this as- sertion, would be opening up a question entirely foreign to the object of this pa- per. Our remarks in this immediate connection are intended only for those who have some confidence in the teach- ing of St. Paul. Apart, however, from the bearing of Scripture on the subject, the various con- verging arguments from science, history, and tradition, as well as the deeper moral consciousness of the race, are, we conceive, conclusive of the unity of man- kind. Man instinctively recognizes man as his brother; the social instinct is paralyzed only when our better feelings Sceret SocietiesThe Know-NotIiing~. [Jan; Ire deadened. Our hopes, our fears, o~ir aspirations after the unseen, are all associated with the society and fellow- ship off our brother man. The mysteri- otis sympathy which inspires whole na- tions with the emotions of a single man; the community of happiness which spreadsthroughsociety under the thrill of a single joyand the deep and yearning tenderness excited by the occurrence of a great misfortuneare certainly indica- tions of something mc~re than a mere general resemblance among mankind; and can be satisfactorily accounted for by no other theory, than that which supposes the moral, religious, and phy- sical unity of the human race. SECRET SOCIETIESTHE KNOW NOTHINGS. Nihil scire, omnia scire est.Tertul& ian. lATE think the historians, in general, TV have scarcely made sufficient ac- count of the influence of secret societies on human affairs. They have written elaborately of the external events of history, of the rise and fall of dynasties, of the migrations of races, of political changes, of victories and defeats, of the philosophy, the arts, the literatures, and the manners and customs of nations; they have also dwelt with circumstan- tial accuracy upon the fortunes of great men, their precocious youth, their ma- ture splendor, and their final mistakes and martyrdom; but the workings of those mysterious organizations, which, as much as anything else, have controlled the movements of society, they have treated only incidentally, as they chanc- ed to be involved in larger movements, and without that careful research and comprehensive philosophy which their importance seems to demand. Yet, no phenomena in history have been more constant, or more powerful in their effects, though not always fla- grant, or even apparent, than the opera- tions of these secret brotherhoods. From the earliest times, and among every peo- ple with which we are acquainted, they have not only existed, but exerted con- siderable influence over the develop- ments of humanity. Among the oldest monuments of social life, carrying us back into the debatable land which ho- vers between a misty mythology, and a scarcely less misty traditional history, in the clouds of which men swell into the proportions of demi-gods, and the re- former, the civiliser, the thinker, and the poet, take the shape, in the excitable imaginations of their followers, of celes- t~1 divinities-.--in th~ rude hieroglyphics and pictures of the Egyptian pyramids, in the Orphic legends which ante-date the civilization of Greece-in the Cabi- nan rites of Samothrace, we find traces of certain mystic associations, which were spread over vast empires, gathering into their shadowy folds the wisest men of the day, teaching through symbols the most exalted sentiments, and deposit- ing, for the most part, the seeds of a su- perior social order. And, in each subse- quent agefrom the Eleusinian, and other mysteries of Greece, and the Bac- chanalia of Romethrough the Disci- plini Ar& tn4 of the earlier Christians the Odinic priesthood of Scandinavia the Druids, the Free-Masonry, the Mon- achism, the Rosicrucianism, the Knight- hoods of the middle agesthe Santa Hermaudad of Spain, the Yehm-Gerichtc of Germany, the Carbonari of Italy down to the Red Republican conclaves of France, the Trade Unions of England and the Odd-Fellowand Know-No- thingism of the United States, the num- ber and power of such associations has increased, until we may safely regard them as co-extensive with the civilized world. They have grown with the growth of society, and though not as daz- zling to the imaginations of men as in the more primeval and credulous ages, they are still potent instruments of good and evil, embracing, as they do, multi- tudes of disciples taken out of every rank and condition of human existence. If their members were numbered, we have no doubt that the figures of the computation would extend into the mil- lions. A certain uniformity of character per- vades these associations, in the midst, however, of a very marked and con-

Sceret SocietiesThe Know-NotIiing~. [Jan; Ire deadened. Our hopes, our fears, o~ir aspirations after the unseen, are all associated with the society and fellow- ship off our brother man. The mysteri- otis sympathy which inspires whole na- tions with the emotions of a single man; the community of happiness which spreadsthroughsociety under the thrill of a single joyand the deep and yearning tenderness excited by the occurrence of a great misfortuneare certainly indica- tions of something mc~re than a mere general resemblance among mankind; and can be satisfactorily accounted for by no other theory, than that which supposes the moral, religious, and phy- sical unity of the human race. SECRET SOCIETIESTHE KNOW NOTHINGS. Nihil scire, omnia scire est.Tertul& ian. lATE think the historians, in general, TV have scarcely made sufficient ac- count of the influence of secret societies on human affairs. They have written elaborately of the external events of history, of the rise and fall of dynasties, of the migrations of races, of political changes, of victories and defeats, of the philosophy, the arts, the literatures, and the manners and customs of nations; they have also dwelt with circumstan- tial accuracy upon the fortunes of great men, their precocious youth, their ma- ture splendor, and their final mistakes and martyrdom; but the workings of those mysterious organizations, which, as much as anything else, have controlled the movements of society, they have treated only incidentally, as they chanc- ed to be involved in larger movements, and without that careful research and comprehensive philosophy which their importance seems to demand. Yet, no phenomena in history have been more constant, or more powerful in their effects, though not always fla- grant, or even apparent, than the opera- tions of these secret brotherhoods. From the earliest times, and among every peo- ple with which we are acquainted, they have not only existed, but exerted con- siderable influence over the develop- ments of humanity. Among the oldest monuments of social life, carrying us back into the debatable land which ho- vers between a misty mythology, and a scarcely less misty traditional history, in the clouds of which men swell into the proportions of demi-gods, and the re- former, the civiliser, the thinker, and the poet, take the shape, in the excitable imaginations of their followers, of celes- t~1 divinities-.--in th~ rude hieroglyphics and pictures of the Egyptian pyramids, in the Orphic legends which ante-date the civilization of Greece-in the Cabi- nan rites of Samothrace, we find traces of certain mystic associations, which were spread over vast empires, gathering into their shadowy folds the wisest men of the day, teaching through symbols the most exalted sentiments, and deposit- ing, for the most part, the seeds of a su- perior social order. And, in each subse- quent agefrom the Eleusinian, and other mysteries of Greece, and the Bac- chanalia of Romethrough the Disci- plini Ar& tn4 of the earlier Christians the Odinic priesthood of Scandinavia the Druids, the Free-Masonry, the Mon- achism, the Rosicrucianism, the Knight- hoods of the middle agesthe Santa Hermaudad of Spain, the Yehm-Gerichtc of Germany, the Carbonari of Italy down to the Red Republican conclaves of France, the Trade Unions of England and the Odd-Fellowand Know-No- thingism of the United States, the num- ber and power of such associations has increased, until we may safely regard them as co-extensive with the civilized world. They have grown with the growth of society, and though not as daz- zling to the imaginations of men as in the more primeval and credulous ages, they are still potent instruments of good and evil, embracing, as they do, multi- tudes of disciples taken out of every rank and condition of human existence. If their members were numbered, we have no doubt that the figures of the computation would extend into the mil- lions. A certain uniformity of character per- vades these associations, in the midst, however, of a very marked and con- 1855.] Secret SocietiesThe Know-Nothings. 89 trasted variety. The principle of secresy they all have in common, and this im- plies, also, the use of symbols, or mystic signs, and the practice of hidden cere- monies. But their objects, both in re- spect to the persons comprised in each fraternity and the world outside, differ as widely as the circumstances of place or time under which they exist, and range from a simple exercise of good-feeling or charity, to the inculcation of a profound- er philosophy, the overthrow of empires, and the reconstruction of society. A controversy exists among learned men as to the origin and purpose of the ancient mysteries, which some regard as simple political devices, designed to im- press the prevailing spontaneous religions faith more deeply upon the minds of the initiated, by imposing ceremonies, and artistic effects, while others see in them profound institutions, founded by great and good men, for the deliberate end of conveying to those who were worthy to receive them, the recondite doctrines of a pure morality, and a divine science. The latter view, introduced mainly by Plutarch and the later Platonists, elabo- rately insisted upon by Warburton in that store-house of erudition, the Divine Legation, and largely illustrated by the more modern works of St. Croix, in French,* and Creuzert and Hermann, in German4 has predominated up to a very recent period; when more accurate his- torical inquests, and a more scientific view of history, are thought to have dismissed it, along with the ancient view of the deep theological and philosophical contents of the early myths. But it is certainly clear that these mysteries, if not intended to impart an esoteric wisdom superior to that of the common people, did yet shadow forth important moral trnth. A larger meaning, astronomical, metaphysical, and theosophic, has doubt- less been given to them by the allegoriz- ing tendencies of later times, than they originally bore; but the idea of purifica- tion, of th~ surrender of vices, and growth in virtue, is more or less involved in all. In no other way can we account for the strong hold they took on the feelings of the initiated, and the satisfaction and peace which they often gav~unquestiona- bly to their consciences. Whatever may be the truth in respect to the mysteries, we are left in no doubt as to the general designs of the secret orders, instituted by distinguished mexi, such as the schools of Pythagoras, or of those still larger fraternities, like the Es- senes, the Templars, the Free-Masons, the Rosicruicians, & c., which were orga- nized with the express purpose of moral and social reform. The sage of Samos, though he con- cealed his principal doctrines jn a nim- bus of words, or under a seal of invio- lable silence, openly avowed his objects to be scientific instruction, moral culture, social communion, and political change. His disciples were taught both speculat- ive tenets and positive science, and, while collected in a special community, were yet induced to operate on the interests of society at large. The constituent principles of his academy were the prin- ciples which he wished to see carried out in the government of a nation, and the body of instruction was a propaganda of new political and social ideas. M~ill~r, in his masterly work on the Dorians, contends that the aim of Pythagoras was to exhibit an ideal of a Dorian State; but a better statement of his leading thought would be, that he wished to show, by a living example, how the State and the individual might both reflect the harmo- nious order by which the universe was regulated and sustained. His celebrated societies were schools of philosophy, poli- tical associations, and religious brother- hoods, united in one; and, consequently, extending their~ discipline to the whole man, physical, intellectual, social and moral. ~Phe Essenes, were a body of contem- plative religionists, supposed to have taken their rise in Judea, about the time of the Maccabees, and whose name is re- ferred to the Essen, a jewelled plate, containing the precious stones, worn by the Jewish high priest. De Quincey, however, in a brilliant and ingenious ~s- say, contends that this was the name of the earlier Christians, adopted with a view to avoid persecution, and to enable them to propagate the new religion with more security and effect. His argument is not satisfactory, altogether, or rather, it is not inconsistent with the supposition of the obscure, ante-Christian existence of such a sect, and of its subsequent merger in the private assemblies of the converted Jews. Yet it is remarkable, as he states, that the New Testament no where speaks of the Essenes, or their im * Recherche sur les Myst~res du Paganisine. t Simbolik und Mythologie des Alten-Folker. ~ De Mythologia Gr~ecorum Antquisslma. ,Sectet SocsetiesTIte Know-iVothings. [Jan. puted doctrines. Christ, during his ministry in Palestine, is brought into contact with all known orders of men, Scribes and Doctors, Sadducees and Pharisees, Herodians and followers of the Baptist, Roman officers, insolent with authority, tax-gatherers, the Pariahs of the land; Galilean~ t most ~, he under- valued of the Jews, Samaritans, hos- tile to the very name of Jew, rich men clothed in purple, and poor men, fishing for their daily bread; the happy, and those that sat in.darkness, wedding par- ties and funeral parties, solitaries among hills or sea-shores, and multitudes that could not be counted; mighty cities, and hamlets the most obscure; golden san- hedrims, and the glorious temple, where he spoke to myriads of the worshippers, and lone corners, where he stood in con- ference with a single, contrite heart. Yet, under none of these circumstances, do we hear of any interview between him and the Essenes. They are men- tioned by none of his biographers; their name does not occur in the Acts of the Apostles; St. Peter, St. James, and St. Paul, never allude to them; and the Apocalypse of St. John is equally silent. Again, as the same writer is at pains to indicate, there was a singular resem- blance between both the doctrine of the Essenes and those of the earlier Chris- tians, and their practical, moral, as well as religious observances. Their hospi- tality, their antelucan worship, their aversion to marriage, their scrupulosity as to oaths, their faithfulness to friends, and love of peace, their contempt of pain and death, their white robes, their meals, their silence and gravity, and, abos~ all, their lofty and spiritual religious princi- ples, seem but mere echoes of the primi- tive economy of the Christians, as it is declared to us in the Apostolical consti- tutions. But, whether the Essenes were Christians or not, we have every reason to infer that the Christians were, at first, a secret society, or, at least, that they cherished a secret discipline and doctrine, which only the initiated were allowed to know. Neander and Mosheim, for cer- tain reasons, pass lightly over the fact, which is abundantly established by Pagan and Christian authorities. Their rites were celebrated in secret, and guarded from profane eyes with jealous vigilance, a peculiar costume of the order was cus- tomary, on certain solemn occasions, as when baptism was administered to the candidates, and secret signs of recogni- tion were used among the members, in order that the dispensers of the frat~rnal charities might know to whom to admi- nister relief; and that travellers, sojourn- ing in strange countries, might discern their true friends. The origin of Freemasonry is lost in the mist of the ages, or rather in the mist of words which learned men are apt to throw about that exceedingly remote and indefinite period of time. Some trace it to the colleqia fabroriim of Rome, and others to King Solomon, while Captain George Smith, of the Royal Ar- tillery at Woolwich, cuts the question short (or long rather) by making it; cdhval with the creation of the globe. When the Sovereign, says he, rais- ed on Masonic principles the beauteous~ globe * & c., & c. But, as a society, the Masons first attracted attention, during the Middle Ages, when the trades began to be incorporated, as the corporation of the Architects, because they were con- cerned in the structure of those grand religious edifices, which have come down to us under the name of Cathedrals, at first, assumed a leading and conspicu- ous position. Cc~ifining their mysteries to the secrets of the craft, they were af- terwards extended to scientific princi- ples, as their religious tenets. Protected by charters from the clerical and secular powers, and composed of members se- lected out of all the nations of Europe, they grew into great power, and drop- ping their technical character, came at last to be mere social and charitable so- cieties, having for their motto, Brother- ly Love, Relief and Truth, and inter- esting themselves in the establishment of schools, the extension of hospitality, and the practice of a pure morality. The conversion of the world to the princi- ples of social equality and freedom has always been imputed to them as a main design of their organization, by the des- pots in Church or State, who have from time to time anathematized or persecut- ed them. Whether this comprehensive scheme was cherished by the Free-Masons or not, it was confessedly an object with the secret orde~ of the Illuminati, which arose in Germany previous to the French Revolution, and which, as revived by that. arch-quack and mystagogue, Count Caghiostro, had, according to Louis Blanc, a great deal to do with the preparation * Use and Abuse of 1m1ee Masonry. London, 1TSB. 1.855.] Secret SocietiesThe Know-Nothings. 91 of that event. Founded in 1776, by Adam Weishaupt, a professor of law at Ingoldstadt, it soon spread over Eu- rope, and sent a shiver through all the established governments. A student of Pythagoras and the Rosicrucians, Weis- haupts primary object appears to have been to organize a movement against the Jesuits, with whom he had had a long and sore quarrel; but he was not slow in giving his order a cosmopo- litan exteusion. A republican, a moral- ist, and a scholar, he sought to extend republicanism, morality and learning to the whole human family. In order to do this more effectually, he resorted to the known influences of decorations, symbolic initiations, & c., which impress the popular imagination and heart. By the sole attraction of mystery, by the single power of association, to submit to one will, and to animate with the same breath thousands of men in every coun- try of the globe; to make entirely new beings of these men by a slow and pro- gressive education; to render them obe- dient to madness, to death, to invisible and unknown leaders; to weigh secret- ly, with such a legion upon courts, to envelop sovereigns, to direct govern- ments at their pleasure, and to lead Eu- rope to that point, that every superstition should be annihilated, every monarchy abated, every privilege of birth de- clared unjust, the very right of proper- ty abolished, and the equality of the first christians proclaimedsuch was the gi~ gantic plan of the founder of the Illumi- nati. * He appeared, too, at a time most favorable to the adoption of hidden practices. The German mind was agi- tated with wonders and novelties. A curate named Gassner, who exorcised devils and cured the sick, by simple for- mularies, counted almost a million of ad- herents. At Leipsic immense crowds gathered on the public square to see the ghost of the inagiciam~ Schoffa; nume- rous interpretations Gf the mystic book of the Revelations were circulated; and the Queen of Prussia and her women themselves maintained that they had seen the White Lady. Thus sensibi- lity to the marvellous was widely awake; and thus Weishaupt attracted the simple by their hopes and fears, and the great by their love of pow- er. Oounts, dukes, and noblemen of all grades became his disciples, and a perfect fanaticism, in the cause of en- lightenmeut in the new light sprang up, when the order was formally suppressed, amid storms of rage and conflict, by the King of Bavaria. But Cagliostro took up its rent and dissevered mantle, and, in that wonderful compotind of mesmer- ism, legerdemain, magic, exorcism and folly, by which he, as the Grand-Kophta, (which Goethe has finely ridiculed) humbugged the visionaries and simple- tons of France, restored the order to more than its pristine glory. The story of the Diamond Necklace, with which his impostures were connected., has gone to the ends of the earth, but his own end was in the castle of St. Leo, on the Adriatic, where he languished for three years in the horrible pits of a dungeon, and then gave up the ghost, in 1795. We have no space now to speak of of the Santa Hermandad of Spain, the Carbonari of Italy, the Lomburg bro- thers of Denmark, and a score of other secret institutions which have arisen at different times and in different coun- tries; and we refer to those we have named, only as an illustration of one or two important principles. They show that this bent to mysterious brother- hoods is a permanent phenomenon of history, while they help us to ex- plain the causes of their sudden and prodigious success, as well as their inevitable tendency, after a temporary triumph, to dissolution and decay. A great many people ascribe their advent and sway to mere delusion or trickery; but they have a deeper foundation in human nature, for which the cunning of the few and the folly of the many, that easy solution for troublesome prob- lems, will not entirely account. In their origin, the greater number of these as- sociations have been really benevolent, and of sincere and earnest purposes. A true, honest sympathy in the cause of mankind, a chivalric and heroi~ enthusiasm, and profound religious con- victions have often lain at their roots. This was the case with the ancient mys- teries, with the Knight Templars, with the illuminati, with the revolutionary societies of Europe, and with many of our own secret charitable societies. And it was this which mainly fastened upon them the regards and attachments of their followers; for the theory of delu- sion~ of imposture, of a wilful trifling and hocus pocus which certain minds consider amply adequate for the clear- * Louis Blancs History of th~ yren~h ilevolution. 92 Seeret SocietiesThe Know-Nothings. JaB. eat explanation of whatever is strange or surprising in this strange world, we hold at the cheapest rate. Great and stirring movementsmovements which extend over large tracts of space, which conquer a species of perplexity as to time, which, if they do not survive in a continuous line, still reappear with an evident constancy, diving down like a duck ra one age (because the sports- mans shot-gun, perhaps, is levelled that way), to come up in another, do not argue a universal and undying gullibi- lity in our race, but deeper principles at work, and striving to get acceptance. The specific causes of the phenomena we are considering are several, and among the first, the inherent and irre- pressible love of our poor human na- ture for mystery itselfmystery whieh is consubstantiate, if we may so express it, with the infinite depth and yearnings of our souls. We, all of us, feel at times, with Thomas Brown, as if there were not miracles enough in the uni- verse to fill our boundless capacity for faith. But, without entering in these profounder regions, do we not know that a simple secret, shared between one or two persons, is a bond of union and amity, and a source of peculiar enthu- siasm? When the heart of the young man has spoken the word, brooded over in silence so long with tremendous al- ternations of fear and hopes, to the heart of the maiden, does not the world take on another hue, and fill up with an unwonted glory? What sweet and blessed radiance hovers over the secret nuptial couch, which one glimmer of the day, one prying eye, or one listening ear, would wither and dash into dark- ness. Speech, says the German pro- verb, is silvern, but silence is golden. Bees will not work, except in dark- ness, says Carlyle; thought will not work except in silence; neither will virtue work except in secresy. It is not, however, secresy itself, so much as a communion of secresy which weaves the charm. Let the silence and secresy relate not to a few but to a multitude, let it span the earth with its unseen mystic ties, let it trace itself back to hoar and venerable antiquity, and look forwards to the far visionary future, linking the two together by awful truths which dare not be avowed, and yet must be propagated, communicating in the broadest daylight by unseen telegraphs, and stretching out in the gloom of night a bloody hand as in Spalatros vision; while back of all there stands a vast, intangible, dark association, woven into a complicated network of affiliated association; having its agents everywhere, omniscient as the eye of Ca3saromnipotent as the hand of Death,and what a mingled fascina- tion of terror and power and glory steals into our thoughts. Connect the idea of benevolence with it, or the watch and ward of some high truth, and the secret spell becomes a grand enchantment. It recalls those imposing oriental fables of subterraneous spirits who guard the sacred treasure beneath the root of the sea; or we think of the mystic virgins, who, in the depths of caves, muffled from human sight, shelter the flame of life; or flitting images of the everlasting wanderer, who bears from generation to generation, a knowledge of the sorrows and woes of his race, of which he must not wholly unburden his breast, impart a kind of supernatural sublimity, or at least an apparitional and portentous greatness to the conception. The symbolism of these societiesthe impressive rites and ceremoniesthe brilliant decorationsthe dignities and ordersis a second cause of the power- ful appeal which they make to human nature. Our ordinary life, save under certain exceptional circumstances, is prosaic, but our souls are full of poetry, and glad to escape from its dryness and monotony. We tire of the arid deserts over which, with our halting caravans and heavy merchandise, we pass wearily, and we run like children towards any verdurous plain, or purling brook, though it prove only afata morgana. Our souls feel themselves regal, while our environ- ments are squalid and beggarly. Lying in mangersswaddled in ra,stoiling as the ox or the ass never toiledex- hausted, overtasked, feeding on husks with a curtain of drab drawn across the glories of the landscape and the sunrise, we are yet conscious natives of palaces at home amid flowers, and wine and music, and dresses studded with gems, and a high and stately intercourse, and a life whose appliances are splendor, and whose motions are graces and harmonies. Even the simulation or mere appearance of these is seductive. Whatever recalls to us a sense of our true destinywhat- ever represents it to our imaginations, though intrinsically puerile and flatulent high-sounding titles regalia the pomp of ceremoniesbanners, orna 1855.] Secret SocietiesThe Know-Nothings. 93 inentsis welcome in the absence of the reality. Not one logical, mensurative faculty, exclaims Teufelsdr~ckh, but our imaginative one. is king over us; priest and prophet to lead us heaven- ward, or magician and wizard to lead us hell-ward. The State and the Church have long known this, and addressed themselves to its nice application. By the brilliancy of courts, heraldic coats of arms, military ensigns, the iniignia of office, baidricks and caparis~ns, buttons and decorations, and the magnificence of rites, they have wielded the minds, by first dazzling the imaginations of men. Consider an army without its gay trap- pings and uniforms, its standards and paradesits pomp and glorious circum- stance! Consider Catholicism without its robes and cassocks, and painted win- dows, and gilded altars, and waving in- cense, and the daily miracle of the host! Secret societies, in the third place, are often a necessary resort under the lynx- eyed and powerful despotisms, which lie in wait for the appearance of new truth. More, perhaps, than any other cause, has this one led to the formation of hidden agencies for the defence and nurture of cherished doctrines and hopes. It is well said by Confucius, that when light caine into the world, a thousand spirits of darkness stand ready to seize upon her, and strangle her in her birth. Every new truth, especially if it be im- portant truth, which menaces old estab- lishments, or rebukes ancient manners and opinions, has to fight its way inch by inch to general acceptance. Con- suming fires of persecution are kindled round itlegions of stipendiaries hang over it with their swordspopular ma- lignity watches it with jealous careor mitred priests and crowned kings let loose their ubiquitous police of spies and spearmen to dog its track, and arrest, or thwart, or crush out its life. It was for this reason that the early Christians guarded so zealously the admissions to the small number of their disciples that they celebrated their worship in caves and catacombs, and stole furtively from land to land, like outcasts hunted by dogs, or guilty wretches flying from the presence of their fellows. And it is for this reason, that the aspiring minds of Europe, who would cast from the backs of the people the heavy weight of wrong, which centuries of royal and priestly oppression have heaped upon Lbe~a, must machinate in secret, must move in the shadow of the woods, or under the pale light of stars, must bury their papers in tombs, and send their dispatches through the airand gather adherents by conspiracyor undermine and elude, and ferret, and circumvent. Echo must not babble of their wherea- bouts,nor the lightest footfall betray them to sudden death. Argus, with his hundred eyes, hovers around them, while Briareus, with his hundred hands, is eager to seize them. All the dread ma- chinery of government, all the selfish instincts of power, are their enemies. Ah! what a story of hair-breadth es- capes and adventuresof heroic daring, and subtle sagacityof impossible com- munications across barriers and cordons finally achievedinsuperable obstacles overcomesecrets of cabinets wrung from their inmost archivesespionage submitted to a keener espionage and made to witness unwittingly of facts whose discovery became its despair. What a story of such things could Kos- suth and Mazzini tell, if policy permit- ted them to unseal their lips, and declare the solicitudes and shifts by which the spark of repuhlican freedom has been kept alive and carried over Europe! Take the young child, and go into Egypt, is a command addressed to all who bear with them a precious deposit of truth. The last cause to be mentioned of the prevailing disposition to fly into secret organizations, is one that has not been sufficiently dwelt upon by those who have thought or written of the subject. We. mean the obvious inability of ex- isting society to meet the wants of the human soul. The actual relations of men to each other, are almost univer sally felt as a burden, if not a curse. The struggles they engender, the long and painful warfare against poverty and disease, the meanness, the false- hood, the competition, the cut-throat conditions of success, the smallness of the recompense when you do succeed, the exaggerated importance given to the mere physical life, and the low estimate put on all kinds of spiritual greatness, the anarchy of opinion in politics, philo- sophy, and religion, the hollowness of. church worship, the oppres5or~s wrong, the proud mans contumely ; in short, a thousand flagrant departures from our conceptions of what is just and true, force us to take refuge, not as Hamlet contemplated in the undiscovered coun- try, but in associations which promise an escape and relief. The harmonies of life and intercourse which we seek in vain, amid the jeers and discords of our mere business societies, we hope to find in the narrower but more sympa- thetic circle of the special brotherhoods. Around us, we say to ourselves, all is hard, cold, formal, distant, and un- ideala social Nova Zembla, where the heart is benumbed by the universal wintry air, and the better thoughts fall back like buds suddenly smitten by the frosts. Let us solace ourselves in some select and worthy fraternity, composed of the finer spirits of the race, and living not in its selfish propensities, but acoording to a noble ideal of the heart. Let us sail away from this rude, coarse, over-crowded continent, to some plea- sant little isle, in the golden tropics, where the day, so long as it lasts, shall be a summer day, and the nights shall be filled with moonlight and syren serenades. There, in the depths of our retreat, while the perfumed breezes blow gently over our cheeks, with hands grasped in warm fellow hands, let us bow down and invoke that ideal of a true society, which is grander than Christianity, and as fair as the sweet com- panies of heaven. Let us gradually pre- pare men for their futurefor the equali ty, the liberty, and the glory which is their rightby a secret regeneration which shall gradually extend over the whole of humanity. Thus, contempla- tive, ardent~ ambitious, and sympathetic minds, are alike drawn from the imme- diate duties of life into partial and generally impractical schemes of secret reform, and thus organizations are re- cruited which come in time to be the most formidable instruments in the re- sistance to the furtherance of the grander movements of society. Strong, however, as the impelling motives of these associations are, the forces of cohesion which bring theni together and the outside pressures which keep them so, they are intrinsically exposed to one or the other of two fatalities. They corrupt inwardly, or they provoke outward hostilities which become their ruin. No matter how pure their original intentions, they sooner or later degenerate; or ,if they do not degenerate, they get to be so powerful that society, by an instinct of self-preservation, rises against their life. The ancient mysteries were undoubtedly at the outset purely religious obser- vances, but they became the scenes of a licentiousness which cannot be ex J~~Tan. pressed in words, the very name of their ceremonies, orgia, now signifying whatever is detestable and repulsivein human indulgence. The schools of Pythagoras, in Greece, at last excited an indignant insurrection of the people. The secret discipline of the early church, as its initiatory rites, have grown into the reserve and the mummeries of Romanism. The Knights Templars, who projected the political unity of Europe, ended as a grasping and avari- cious sect. The Freemasons have never recovered the abduction of Morgan, and if we may believe iDe Quincey, their principal secret now is, thi e imposing style in which the Right Worshipful Grand Master causes the trembling neo- phyte to fork over his two guineas for a general supply of brandy and water. In a word, our humanity will nQt be cheated; it will not permit any of its representatives to seclude them- selves with impunity from the general mass; even in its own apparent inter- ests; for when they make the attempt, it either withholds from them the sources of life, allowing them to dwin- dle and mortify like a limb cut from the parent body, or it stimulates the jea- lousy of its fellows into internecine hatred. We have made a long preamble, in what has been said, to a few words which we have to utter about the KNOW NOTHINGsbut it was necessary to a proper understanding of the subject. It seems to us that the society which bap- tises its members as ignoramuses, and which has made such strange havoc of late among the political parties, is, in some sort, a lineal descendant of the se- cret societies gone before. It has origin- ated in many of the same causes, and will, in all probability, share the same fate. Whether its objects are as dibni- fled or liberal as some of theirs have been, we cannot say, because in respect to those objects it is literally nescient. It refuses to declare its purposes, save as they may be learned from its acts, which fall, ever and anon, like claps of thunder upon a startled world. But it is quite universally believed that its aim is to establish a strict Americanism in the public life of this country; and, in order to accomplish that end, to exclude all foreigners, especially Roman Catholics, from the pursuit of office. If this be so, we feel bound to say, that its doctrine, as well as its discipline, is objectionable, and that neither Demo- Secret Sxiet~esZ7ie Kno~o-Notkings. 185~. Secret SocietiesZhe Know-Nothings. 95 cracy nor Christianity will justify the means or the ends it proposes. As to the former, unless we have grossly mistaken the fundamental prin- ciples of a true State, and a trae Church, the very idea of a secret organization is at war with bothat war with the grand humanitary aims, their open, manly, frank, and comprehensive character. Democracy is a theory of society, which rests the liberty of all men upon a footing of perfect equality, and hounds its syin- pathies only by the good of the whole people. It contemplates nothing less than the Commonwealth, or, as the word truly signifies, the common weal. It can entertain, therefore, no very fri and- ly feeling for any scheme of action which falls short of that exalted and impnrtial scope. Universal in its nature, it has no occasion for concealments or stratagems, Its methods are open and above-board, because its objects are not private nor exclusive, but public. What has it to fear from the broadest daylightthe in- tensest scrutiny of the sunor even the purer search of Gods own steadfast eye? But scorning whatever is sinister, every- thing indeed which approaches the enig- matical, the obscure, or the indirect, how can it tolerate the dark works of an agenc~v unknown to itan agency which skulks like owls and bats at the first glimmer of the morning, and which, like the pestilence, walketh in darkness? Democracy says to its children, 1 am open, honest and free! In the old world, beneath the sensitive and grinding feudalisms of Church and State, there may be reason for those who meditate good purposes to plot in secret and ma- ture their benevolent plans under the wings of silence, but with me there can be no such need. Let your thought be known, and who is there to harm you? Open your hearts, that their good wishes may profit all! Why reserve anything unless it be evil? why muffle and hide your tracks, if you go about good? Are there wolves and beasts of prey to eat you up the moment you are exposed I In the same way, the church, in the true idea of it, can have no sympnthy with any object less broad than the good of all men, nor with methods less open than its own universal charities. An awful mistake has been committed in considering the church as having an in- terest or policy apart from the interest aod policy of the human race, in con- verting it into an ecclesiasticism, for the inculcation of creeds, and the separation of men one from another on grounds of mere belief, instead of regarding it as a universal spiritual economy, identical with all that is truthful and loving in the hearts and minds of men. Of course, all they who take the narrow view of it, will find little in its idea or functions to rebuke the spirit of exclusivism or se- cresy in any of its manifestations; but they who take the larger view, who see in all the designs of Christ a truth and goodness commensurate with the uni- verse, will shrink instinctively from every scheme which proposes to work under- ground like a mole, or to bottle up the overflowing graces of the Creator with- in the limits of its own sect or party. Christianity mnst work for all men, in the openest and directest way, or cease to work at all. We have abundant evi- dence of this in its earlier history, in its disastrous deflections into gross ecclesias- tical impositions, and need not dwell upon that head. In this country, at least, it must exhibit a spirit as broad, generous, and as frank as the spirit of our political organization, or fall disgrace- fully behind. Its doors must be, as an able writer has said, as~ wide as the doors of our political honse, or we shall present the disreputable picture of a body larger than its soul, or of a Church less celestial than its corresponding State. If Democracy, then, disowns every sinister and partial organization, every scheme less Catholic and transpa- rent than itseW how much more must a genuine Christianity? As a doctrine, in the second place, what does Know-Nothingism propose? The political disability of vast numbers of men, on the ground of race or reli- gion. Can anything be more intolerant, narrow, or bigoted? Did the old priestly or warlike tyrannies which man has been writhing under these centuries back, lend themselves to a meaner do- minion than this would assert for our young Republic? The fetid anal defunct dynasties which have~ become a loath- some remembrance to men, which were terrible fungi in their day, and a re- proach for ever, grew from root.s like these it is now proposed to plant in our soil. We that have made it our song ever since we were born, that here hu- manity had at last found a home, that here all the antiquated distinctions of race, nationality, sect, and caste, were merged in the single distinction of man- hoodthat here man was to be finally recognized as man, and not as Jew or 96 Secret SocietiesThe Know-Nothis~gs. [Jait. Gentile, as Christian or Mohammedan,-. as Protestant or Catholicwe, who have made the world ring with self- glorifications of the asylum of the op- pressed of all creeds and nationsof the iity of refuge to all the weary exiles of freedom, whom earths proud lords in rage or fear, drive from their wasted homes, we, are now asked to erect political barriers, to deal out political excommunication as narrow, as mean, as selfish, and as unwarrantable as ever debased the elder governments. That a preparatory residence and disci- piline should be required of foreigners, be- foretheir incorporation into the State, is reasonable; the extent and nature of such social quarantine may also be con- ceded to be a question for discussion; but the total exclusion of aliens from citizenship for the future, is so monstrous a meanness that one is loth to entertain the conception. It is such an utter and unequivocal surrender of nearly every peculiarity of our institutions, that it Would not merely lay all the new comers under ban, but denationalize our- selves! The cry is, America for Ame- ricans, and we agree to it heartily, but what is America, and who are Ame- ricans? He is not a Jew saith the apostle, who is one outwardly and America, in the same sense, is not a cer- tain measurable area of territory,nor the American every miserable biped that happens to be born upon it. America, is the cognomen of a nation of men, and not of a collection of arable acres; and Americans are not simply the individual Indians, negroes, and whites, who first saw light between Passamaquoddy and Pensacola, but all who are Americans in- wardlywho are built up on the Ameri- can idea, who live in the true sentiment of democracy, whose political circum- cision is of the heart, in the spirit and not in the letter, and whose praise is not of men but of God. These are the true Americans, wherever they chanced to be born whether Turk, Russian, Milesian, or Choctaw, and are infinitely to be preferred to the unthink- ing and virulent natives, whose Ameri- canism sinks no deeper than their skins; and had no existence before their flabby little bodies were first swaddled. Ame- rica to the Americans, surely ;not to the spurious, skin-deep, apparitional Americans, but to the real men worthy of the name! We are apt to suppose, in projecting these exclusions, that the persons shut out are the only persons seriously af- fected by them, but that is a woeful mistake. -He that commits injustice, he that perpetrates meanness, suffers from it as badly as he that is the direct victim. Curses, like young chickens, says the familiar old proverb, always come home to roost. Debar the half- million of emigrants who annually reach our shores from the elective fran- chise, and what would be the effect? Why, the growth, in the very midst of the community, of a vast disfranchised classof an immense body of political lepersof men having an existence apart from their fellow men, not identified with them, not incorporated with so- ciety; and consequently tempted on all sides to conspire against it, to prey upon it, and to keep it in disorder. Coming here ignorant, vicious, unruly aliens would remain ignorant, vicious, and unruly; for they would have few of the strong motives which they now have to become orderly and estimable citizens. They would remain outside of those educational influences, which are the glory as well as salvation of free insti- tutions, the jury, the ballot, the legis- lative assembly, etc., and which render it so important to us to extend those in- fluences to all who are members of our societies. We have already, in the midst of us, one class of outcasts, in the poor and degraded free blacks, and that, we should think, sufficient to appease any- bodys malignity, without striving to raise up another from the Germans, the Irish ,or any other nation. It is scarcely possible, however, to believe that the Know-Nothings con- template such an extreme error as the entire exclusion of future aliens from political life. It must be a calumny of their enemies, or a product of suspicion aggravated by fear. At any rate, we are certain that the late political tour- billons which have sent such swift con- sternation and dismay into the hearts of the old political foxes, have not been caused by any affinity for such a project. We have too much respect for our fel- low-citizens to suppose it; but we as- cribe these extraordinary movements to other sources. They are a result of a double reactionfirstly against the ex- cessive cultivation of foreigners by the demagogues; and, secondly, against the miserable folly and corruption of the old political parties. It cannot be denied that for some years now, both whigs and democrats 1855.] The Child that Sleeps. have prostrated themselves before the alien-voters, in a servile and disgraceful way. Holding the balance of power~ ~s the latter did, between the two parties, there was no end to the conee~sions, the flumineries, and the substantial douceurs, too, by which they were 9ourted. Hon- ors and offices were heaped upon them with a profusion, which recalled the debut of some popular actress, and the showers of bouquets which greeted her from her adoring friends. It was better to be an Irishman, or a German, than a native American; a Mac or 0, to ones name, was the handle which lifted him to fortuneand an unpronounceable German patronymic was a passport to all kinds of political favor. No ticket was a complete ticket which did not con- tain a sop, in the shape of a candidate to the Irish interest ~or the German in- terest, and the suppleness with which senators and governors bent themselves in that direction, set new lessons in the art of fawninggave new formulas for the preparation of adroit lies. Is it a wonder, then, that the Americans them- selves, shoved so wholly into the shadow, should get a little tired of the game? More especially, when the same influen- ces, which introduced the foreigners into political office, were likewise introducing them into so many private places of emnolument and trust? Not at all But the foreigners were not to blame for it, or, at least, for nothing beyond a little natural presumption occasioned by their good luck. The dastardly and un principled demagogues, who wheedled them into excesses, are the offenders who should bear the brunt of the I)unishment. Let all those, too, who hereafter appeal to the citizens under any other name than Americans, come in for a share, and then we shall have America for the Am& ri- cans, in the truest and best sense of the phrase. In the late irruptions of Ki~ow No- thingisin, which have come over the old parties like an avalanche from the Alps, whelming rider and horse, captain and cattle, in a common ruin, we are dis- posed to rejoice. We should do so, with a joy unfeigned, if we were sure that the effects of the bouleversement would be confined to the flatulent old hacks, the queasy and prurient old bawds, who have so long had the control of the old parties. We should be glad to see them and their machinerytheir caucuses and primary assemblies, and regular ~toinip~a- tionspitched like rotten wood intQ th~ pit; we did laugh indeed, many a time and oft, during the last fall, as we saw how invisible hands were pricking one after another of their windbags, and al- lowing them to exhale, amid looks of blank astonishment on the part of those whom their gassy contents had often floated into office; but we fear that the success of the Know Nothings may throw them into the hands of these very men, or if it does not, that their intoxication may carry them to lengths which we shall have to deplore. THE CHILD THAT SLEEPS. TM noon-day heat bath hushed the air, And leaflets drink with noiseless glee Their fill or light, and everywhere The hot earth pulses silently. Adown through ash.leaved maple limbs, That guard with green the open sash, & thousand rays, with voiceless hymns, A golden throng, benignant flash. And light and air serenely keep A smiling watch about the bed, Whereon divine resistless sleqp Hath chained those lips, that restl~ss he~isI. The warm beams play at hide and seek Mong naked knees and arms and curls, And smoothly glide from rounded cheek, Like flying shadows chased from pearls. And whosoever there draws nigh, A loving, solemn silence keeps, To catch that whisper from on high, The breathing of a child that sleeps. VOL, V.7 WI

1855.] The Child that Sleeps. have prostrated themselves before the alien-voters, in a servile and disgraceful way. Holding the balance of power~ ~s the latter did, between the two parties, there was no end to the conee~sions, the flumineries, and the substantial douceurs, too, by which they were 9ourted. Hon- ors and offices were heaped upon them with a profusion, which recalled the debut of some popular actress, and the showers of bouquets which greeted her from her adoring friends. It was better to be an Irishman, or a German, than a native American; a Mac or 0, to ones name, was the handle which lifted him to fortuneand an unpronounceable German patronymic was a passport to all kinds of political favor. No ticket was a complete ticket which did not con- tain a sop, in the shape of a candidate to the Irish interest ~or the German in- terest, and the suppleness with which senators and governors bent themselves in that direction, set new lessons in the art of fawninggave new formulas for the preparation of adroit lies. Is it a wonder, then, that the Americans them- selves, shoved so wholly into the shadow, should get a little tired of the game? More especially, when the same influen- ces, which introduced the foreigners into political office, were likewise introducing them into so many private places of emnolument and trust? Not at all But the foreigners were not to blame for it, or, at least, for nothing beyond a little natural presumption occasioned by their good luck. The dastardly and un principled demagogues, who wheedled them into excesses, are the offenders who should bear the brunt of the I)unishment. Let all those, too, who hereafter appeal to the citizens under any other name than Americans, come in for a share, and then we shall have America for the Am& ri- cans, in the truest and best sense of the phrase. In the late irruptions of Ki~ow No- thingisin, which have come over the old parties like an avalanche from the Alps, whelming rider and horse, captain and cattle, in a common ruin, we are dis- posed to rejoice. We should do so, with a joy unfeigned, if we were sure that the effects of the bouleversement would be confined to the flatulent old hacks, the queasy and prurient old bawds, who have so long had the control of the old parties. We