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Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 9, August, 1836

Author: Various

Editor: Edgar Allan Poe

Release date: July 20, 2024 [eBook #74083]

Language: English

Original publication: Richmond: T. W. White, Publisher and Proprietor

Credits: Ron Swanson


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 9, AUGUST, 1836 ***


THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents.
                                      _Crebillon's Electre_.

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


RICHMOND:
T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
1835-6.


{525}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.  RICHMOND, AUGUST, 1836.  NO. IX.

T. W. WHITE, PROPRIETOR.  FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.




THE RULER'S FAITH.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

“Come, lay thine hand upon her, and she shall live.”
                                 _Matthew 9th and 18th._


    Death cometh to the chamber of the sick.
  The ruler's daughter, like the peasant's child,
  Grows pale as marble. Hark, that hollow moan
  Which none may help, and then, the last, faint breath
  Subsiding with a shudder!
                         The loud wail
  Bespeaks an idol fallen from the shrine
  Of a fond parent's heart. A wither'd flower
  Is there, oh mother, where thy proudest hope
  Solac'd itself with garlands, and beheld
  New buddings every morn. Father, 'tis o'er!
  That voice is silent, which had been thy harp,
  Quickening thy footstep nightly toward thy home,
  Mingling, perchance, an echo all too deep
  Even with the temple-worship, when the soul
  Should deal with God alone.
                          What stranger-step
  Breaketh the trance of grief? Whose radiant brow
  In meekness, and in majesty doth bend
  Beside the bed of death?
                          “She doth but _sleep_,
  The damsel is _not dead_.”
                               A smother'd hiss
  Contemptuous rises from the wondering band
  Who beat the breast and raise the licens'd wail
  Of Judah's mourning.
                          Look upon the dead!
  Heaves not the winding-sheet? Those trembling lids—
  What peers between their fringes, like the hue
  Of dewy violet? The blanch'd lips dispart,
  And what a quivering, long-drawn sigh restores
  Their rose-leaf beauty! Lo, the clay-cold hand
  Graspeth the Master's, and with sudden spring
  That shrouded sleeper, like a timid fawn,
  Hides in her mother's bosom!
                            Faith's strong root
  Was in the parent's spirit, and its boon
  How beautiful!
                         O mother, who dost gaze
  Upon thy daughter, in that deeper sleep
  Which threats the soul's salvation, breathe her name
  To that Redeemer's ear, both when she smiles
  In all her glowing beauty on the morn,
  And when, at night, her clustering tresses sweep,
  Her downy pillow, in the trance of dreams,
  Or when at pleasure's beckoning she goes forth,
  Or to the meshes of an earthly love
  Yields her young heart! Be eloquent for her!
  Take no denial, till that gracious hand
  Which rais'd the ruler's dead, give life to her—
  That better life, whose wings surmount the tomb!




SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

AND PRESENT CONDITION OF TRIPOLI, WITH SOME ACCOUNTS OF THE OTHER 
BARBARY STATES.

NO. XI.

BY ROBERT GREENHOW.


By the evening of the 3d of July, the preparations for the bombardment 
of the Emperor's castle were completed; ditches had been dug to the 
extent of more than two thousand yards, and the batteries some of 
which were within musket shot of the walls, were armed with six 
sixteen-pounders, ten twenty-four-pounders, four eleven-inch mortars 
and six nine-inch howitzers. In order to secure themselves against any 
general attack, the French had likewise established communications 
between the different bodies of their forces by roads across the field 
and gardens, while they had barricaded or otherwise fortified the 
lanes and passes which separated their positions from those of their 
enemies. All this was done notwithstanding the bold and persevering 
efforts of the Algerines, who maintained an almost constant though 
ill-directed fire on the workmen from their batteries, and annoyed 
them by frequent sorties.

At day break on the morning of the 4th, a rocket was thrown up from 
the quarters of the French commander as a signal for the commencement 
of the attack, and all the batteries were instantly opened on the 
devoted fortress. Its dauntless defenders returned the fire, which 
they continued for some time with great spirit but with little effect, 
their balls and shells causing scarcely any damage to the persons or 
works of the besiegers. The walls of the castle, high and entirely 
exposed, soon exhibited evidences of the skill of the French 
artillerists; the materials of which they were built, crumbled under 
the “iron shower” falling incessantly upon them; and the embrasures, 
made unnecessarily wide, afforded but little protection either to the 
guns or to those engaged in serving them.

By eight o'clock the guns of the castle were nearly all dismounted, 
and the number of its effective defenders had been so much diminished, 
that it was found necessary to desert the ramparts, and retire within 
the great tower, which from the thickness of its walls offered at 
least a temporary security. On this last place of refuge, the Hasnagee 
hoisted a black flag, in token of his determination to die rather than 
yield, according to the promise which he had made to his master. He 
was however released from this promise by a signal from the Casauba 
indicating the Dey's wish that the fortress should be abandoned; this 
was accordingly done and the garrison escaped just as the French had 
effected a practicable breach in its wall. General Hurel who commanded 
the nearest battery, was then in the act of advancing with his men 
towards the opening, when suddenly the earth shook, the towers of the 
castle were seen to totter, flashes of flame and dense clouds of smoke 
rose above them, and an explosion ensued which momentarily stunned the 
ardent soldiers. The {526} Algerines, before they evacuated the 
castle, had fired a slow match communicating with the powder magazines 
in its vaults, and the last and strongest defence of Algiers was 
utterly destroyed. As the smoke vanished, the walls of the fortress 
were seen rent and shattered by the terrible concussion; the great 
tower was reduced to a few shapeless masses, and the ground in the 
environs was covered with fragments of wall, corpses and even cannon, 
which had been projected into the air by the violence of the 
explosion. The French soon recovered, and rushing forward with shouts 
of triumph, planted their standard among the smoking ruins; scarcely 
too was this done, ere the prompt and skilful engineers were directing 
the workmen to clear away the interior of the place, and stop the 
breaches in its outward walls, so as to protect it against the 
assaults of its former possessors. The ruins of the Star fort were 
also occupied, and preparations were made for erecting batteries on 
them for the bombardment of the city.

Algiers was now completely exposed; in a few hours the artillery which 
had so rapidly overwhelmed its strongest defence, would be levelled 
against the palace of the Dey and the dwellings of the citizens. 
Hussein and his subjects had done all that men could do in defence of 
their country; and it was unnecessary farther to provoke a foe who 
held them at his mercy. At two o'clock Sidi Mustapha, the Dey's 
private secretary, appeared under a flag of truce at Bourmont's head 
quarters, to offer on the part of his master, the surrender of those 
claims against France which had led to the war, as well as the payment 
of the expenses occasioned by the expedition, provided the French 
would leave the country. It is scarcely necessary to say that this 
proposition was rejected with scorn. “I hold in my hand,” was the 
reply, “the fate of your city; nothing less than its unconditional 
surrender can save the Dey and inhabitants from being buried in its 
ruins.” With this answer Mustapha returned to the Casauba, exclaiming, 
says Bourmont, “When the Algerines are at war with France, they should 
obtain peace before the evening prayer.” Such a speech may have been 
uttered by the trembling secretary, but when repeated in the despatch 
of the victorious general it became a mere _fanfaronade_.

A few bombs were immediately thrown into the town which produced the 
desired effects. Hussein saw that his fate was in the power of his 
enemies, and his whole anxiety was to obtain as good terms as possible 
for himself and his own immediate followers; he accordingly despatched 
a Turk named Mahmoud, and Bouderba a Moor who had lived in Marseilles 
and spoke French, to entreat that the firing might be stopped, 
promising a similar cessation on the side of the Algerines. They 
received at first the same answer which had been given to the 
Secretary; however a conference ensued between them and Bourmont, 
which resulted in a suspension of hostilities.

As soon as the Dey had received the first answer of the French 
General, he sent to entreat the intervention of the British Consul. 
Mr. St. John instantly obeyed the summons, and after an interview with 
the Dey, proceeded to Bourmont's head quarters which were by this time 
established among the ruins of the Emperor's castle, in order to learn 
with exactness the conditions required by him. Bourmont at first 
objected to his interference, but subsequently thought proper to treat 
with him. The plan of a Convention was in consequence drawn up between 
them, by the terms of which, the Casauba and all the other fortresses 
of the city were to be delivered to the French early on the following 
morning; the Dey and soldiers were to quit Algiers with their families 
and private property; the inhabitants were to be protected in the 
enjoyment of their personal liberty, property and religion; their 
women were to be respected, and their commerce and industry to remain 
undisturbed.

This Convention was sent to the Dey and immediately returned with his 
seal and signature affixed in token of his own assent; he however 
required time to consult his Divan without whose approbation it could 
not be legally executed. Bourmont agreed to wait until the next 
morning; he did not however suspend his preparations for the 
investment of the place, which were continued with unabated activity.

The debate in the Divan lasted the whole night of the 4th, and it was 
probably stormy; the younger and poorer members of the body proposed, 
it is said, to murder Hussein, then divide the treasures of the 
Casauba and escape with them to the interior of the country; the older 
Turks who had wives and other valuables to lose, found the conditions 
so much better than was expected, that they only doubted as to their 
being observed by the French commander. The morning's sun however put 
an end to the discussion, by enabling them to see every height around 
the place occupied by the batteries of their enemy; they therefore 
resigned themselves to their fate, and Mahmoud and Bouderba were 
despatched to announce their acceptance of the conditions proposed by 
the conqueror. The envoys were likewise charged if possible to obtain 
a delay of twenty-four hours before the entry of the French troops 
into the city; this was peremptorily refused by Bourmont, who probably 
conceiving that within that period the treasures of the Casauba might 
become the “private property” of the Turks, insisted that the port, 
the forts and the town should all be delivered to him before noon. The 
Dey of course assented to this demand, and prepared for his retreat to 
a house in the town which he had occupied before his elevation to the 
throne; the Beys of Tittery and Constantina made their way with their 
surviving followers to the country; the forts were evacuated, and the 
Turks and citizens sullenly retired to their houses.

The French troops were in the meantime collected under arms; every 
flag was unfurled, and all the pomp and circumstance of warlike 
triumph was displayed, to render the serious ceremony more imposing. 
At two o'clock the fleet was anchoring in security under the dreaded 
batteries of the Mole, and the famous _Algezr Al Ghazie_ so long the 
terror as well as the reproach of Christian Europe, was in the 
possession of the Franks.

Bourmont met at the gate the French prisoners who had been liberated, 
and after receiving their felicitations he hastened to the Casauba, 
whither a guard had been already despatched. The Dey was just taking 
his departure, and his followers were endeavoring to appropriate to 
themselves the rich shawls, hangings, plate, &c. which had not been 
secured, when the appearance of the French grenadiers put them to 
flight. The General received from Hussein the keys of the treasury, 
and accompanied by Commissioners who had {527} been appointed to that 
effect he proceeded to inspect its contents.

Whether the amount of treasure found in the Casauba differed from that 
stated in the report of the commissioners will probably ever remain a 
subject for speculation. Shaler reckoned it at fifty-two millions of 
dollars in 1818, when Ali Cogia transferred his residence to the 
Casauba; his calculations were however founded only upon the number 
and the probable values of the burthens of the mules employed to 
transport it. The British Consul, when he visited Hussein on the 
evening previous to the surrender of the city, “was admitted by him” 
says Campbell,[1] “to the chamber of his treasures. It was paved with 
stone, for no wooden floor would have borne the weight of them—golden 
coins literally in millions were heaped up like corn in a granary 
several feet high.” A French officer who accompanied Bourmont in his 
first visit describes rather more minutely the number and size of the 
rooms containing these precious articles.

[Footnote 1: _Letters from Algiers_ by Thomas Campbell, published in 
the London New Monthly Magazine. These letters give an agreeable and 
interesting picture of Algiers as it now is; the historical statements 
are, however, in almost every instance erroneous.]

Such appear to be the only data from which we can estimate the 
treasures in the Casauba previous to its surrender. Gold, silver and 
jewels, to the value of forty-one millions of francs (seven millions 
seven hundred and forty-nine thousand dollars,) declared by the 
General and Commissioners appointed to superintend the affair, to be 
the whole contents of the Algerine treasury, were transmitted to 
France immediately after the conquest of the city.

To these fruits of the expedition are to be added, wool and other 
articles found in the Magazines of the Regency, worth three millions 
of francs, and brass cannon valued as old metal at four millions, thus 
giving to the government an immediate return of more than nine 
millions of dollars, besides ammunition, materials of various sorts 
and public property to a vast amount. The whole expenses of the 
armament, to the middle of September following the capture of the 
place were reckoned at eight and a quarter millions of dollars, to 
which should however be added nearly half as much more for the cost of 
the blockade since June, 1827. Taking all the circumstances into 
consideration, the French Government was probably the gainer in the 
contest at the time of the capture of Algiers.

How many lives were lost during the war it is impossible to determine 
with accuracy; between the 14th of June, the day on which the French 
landed at Sidi Ferruch, and the 5th of July when Algiers was 
surrendered, it is supposed that not less than six hundred of their 
men were killed and two thousand five hundred wounded. Of the loss on 
the side of the Algerines we have no accounts, but it was probably 
greater than that of the French.

On the 11th of August the news of the surrender of Algiers reached 
Paris, and was received with the utmost enthusiasm by all classes of 
the population. The liberals could afford to rejoice as it came just 
too late to produce any effect on the elections, the result of which 
was known to be fatal to the Ministry. The Court was perhaps somewhat 
disappointed by the failure of what was in reality the principal 
object of the expedition; the _baton_ of Marshal of France was indeed 
sent to Bourmont, but the crosses (only three) to be distributed among 
his officers were much less numerous than had been expected.

The British Ambassador immediately offered his congratulations to 
Prince Polignac, expressing at the same time his conviction, that the 
French Government “would keep its faith with his Court and would not 
fall from the assurances given in the name of the Sovereign, that the 
expedition was undertaken for the sole purpose of vindicating the 
national honor, and not with views of acquisition or conquest.” The 
Prince in answer “declared his readiness to repeat his former 
assurances, from which he protested that their late success had given 
the French government no inclination to depart.”

With this repetition of former assurances terminated all 
correspondence on the subject between the government of Great Britain 
and that of Charles X. His successor on the 10th of August, 
immediately after his establishment on the throne, and before his 
government was acknowledged by that of Great Britain, verbally 
declared to Lord Stewart “his intention to fulfil the engagements of 
the preceding government relative to Algiers.” We have already seen 
how vague were those engagements. Charles the Tenth declared his 
readiness, “in case the existing government of Algiers should be 
overthrown, to concert immediately with the other Powers, the new 
order of things to be there established, for the greatest advantage of 
the Christian world.” The change produced in the political relations 
of the European Governments, by the Revolution of July, has rendered 
any such “concert” with regard to Algiers impossible; and the 
engagement of the French King may be considered as obsolete as that 
made by Great Britain at the peace of Amiens, to restore Malta to the 
Knights of Saint John.

To return to Algiers. Immediately after their occupation of the city, 
the conquerors took measures to conciliate the inhabitants, and to 
free the country from the presence of the Turks. For the former 
purpose administrative institutions were established, similar at least 
in name and form to those which had previously existed; they were 
however soon found to be inefficient, and were replaced by others 
which have been also since abandoned. With regard to the Turks a 
considerable number had perished in the conflicts, others went off 
with the Beys of Tittery and Constantina, and only about three 
thousand five hundred were left in the place. Of these the elder, and 
such as had wives and houses, obtained permission to remain in Algiers 
under certain conditions until they could dispose of their property; 
the others were sent without delay to Turkey, each man receiving five 
dollars on his departure.

On the 11th of July, Hussein embarked with his son-in-law the Aga 
Ibrahim, and their families and attendants to the number of a hundred, 
on board the frigate Jeanne d'Arc for Mahon, carrying with them, it 
was said, upwards of a million of dollars. As he has no farther 
connection with this history, it may be here stated, that from Mahon 
he proceeded to Naples where he had the satisfaction to learn that the 
Sovereign who had ordered, and the General who had effected his 
overthrow were themselves in exile; from Naples he went to Leghorn, in 
the vicinity of which he passed a year; {528} in 1831 he visited 
Paris, where he was of course the object of universal attention; his 
piety afterwards led him to make the pilgrimage to Mecca, and he died 
in Egypt in 1835, aged about 70 years. Notwithstanding his 
dethronement and exile, he was perhaps in every respect, the most 
fortunate of the Deys of Algiers.

The Bey of Oran, on learning the fall of the capital, made his 
submission to the conquerors and received their troops as garrisons 
into the principal places on the coast of his province. Achmet Bey of 
Constantina retired with the remnant of his forces and some Turks, 
towards his capital, determined to resist the invaders to the last 
extremity. As a first measure against him a division of the fleet 
under Admiral Rosamel was sent with a detachment of troops commanded 
by General Damremont to occupy Bona.

The Bey of Tittery appeared in person at Algiers on the 8th of July; 
and after a conference with the General in Chief took the oath of 
allegiance to the French before the Moorish Cadi or principal 
municipal officer of the place, and was confirmed in his government. 
He then invited Bourmont to make an excursion to Blida, a small town 
at the foot of the great chain of Mount Atlas about twenty-four miles 
south of the capital, assuring him that his presence there would tend 
to quiet the apprehensions of the inhabitants, and induce them the 
more readily to submit to the French. The Ex-Dey Hussein, on being 
consulted with regard to the propriety of making this excursion, 
declared his total want of confidence in the assurances of 
Abderrahman, whom he described a designing and treacherous knave. 
Notwithstanding this premonition, on the 23d of July the Marshal (he 
had just received his _baton_) left Algiers with about two thousand 
men and several of his principal officers for Blida, which place they 
reached in the evening after a fatiguing march across the Metijah. 
They were received with every demonstration of joy by the inhabitants, 
who came out to meet them bringing fruits and refreshments of all 
kinds; some uneasiness was indeed excited by the number of the 
Kabyles, who appeared loitering about the place and its vicinity; 
however no distrust was manifested by the French, the soldiers 
bivouaced in an open square, and the Marshal having occupied the best 
house in the place, was about to retire to rest, when some musket 
shots were heard under the window. One of his aid-de-camps went out to 
ascertain the cause and was immediately brought back mortally wounded; 
the assailants increased in numbers, and the French soldiers were soon 
completely surrounded and exposed to a murderous fire. In this state 
of things it was determined to retreat without delay to Algiers; the 
men although fatigued with their day's march were formed in order, and 
the party proceeded back to the city exposed during the way to the 
unceasing attacks of their daring enemies.

The ill success of this first attempt on the part of the French to 
penetrate the country, rendered the wandering tribes of Arabs and 
Kabyles more bold and more determined to resist the invaders, who were 
soon almost shut up within the walls of the capital. Several 
expeditions have been subsequently sent from Algiers in the same 
direction, the events of which are described in glowing colors in the 
despatches of their commanders; in one of them the treacherous Bey of 
Tittery was made prisoner and sent to Paris, where he strutted his 
hour rather as a prince than as a captive; this and the glory of 
planting the standard of France on a new soil, appear to have been the 
only beneficial results obtained from these excursions.

During the first ten days of August, no news was received from France. 
On the 11th of that month, a corvette appeared in the bay; she was 
recognized as French, but instead of the white flag of the Bourbons 
the tri-color of the revolution appeared on her mast head. The 
despatches brought by her were delivered to Bourmont, but 
notwithstanding all his efforts to keep their contents secret, the 
astounding details of the events which occurred in Paris during _the 
three days_ of July, soon became known. Bourmont assembled a council 
of his principal officers and proposed to them to retain the white 
cockade, and sail back to France with the army, in order to defend the 
cause of Charles the Tenth. His arguments were however unavailing; the 
majority declared in favor of the new state of things, and the 
tri-colored flag had been already hoisted by the fleet. At length 
after some days spent in hesitation, or in hopes that the cause of the 
Bourbons might not be lost, he at length decided to obey the orders 
which he had received, and his soldiers were gratified by seeing that 
standard which they considered as the symbol of victory, waving over 
the towers of the Casauba.

On the 2d of September Marshal Clausel arrived from France to assume 
the command of the forces, in the name of King Louis Philippe; on the 
same day, Bourmont accompanied by his two sons and carrying with him 
the embalmed heart of the third who had fallen in action, embarked on 
board an Austrian trading vessel for Malaga. He has since been a 
wanderer in exile; and except for a few weeks, during which he 
endeavored unsuccessfully to retrieve the fortunes of a fiendish 
despot, his active spirit has been unemployed. The Duke d'Escars and 
some other officers whose attachment to the cause of the fallen 
dynasty, was either too strong or had been too conspicuously 
manifested, also retired from the army; the general popularity and 
good management of Clausel however soon reconciled the majority of the 
disaffected to the change of rulers, and restored the troops to 
discipline.

The division of the fleet commanded by Admiral Rosamel, consisting of 
two ships of the line, three frigates and four smaller vessels, which 
quitted Algiers on the 26th of July, arrived before Bona on the 7th of 
August. That town was instantly occupied by the troops under 
Damremont, who endeavored to repair the fortifications and render them 
tenable against the Bey of Constantina as it was expected that he 
would soon attack them. The Kabyles however soon after appearing in 
great numbers about the place, it was judged prudent by the French 
Commander to withdraw with his troops to Algiers. The wretched 
inhabitants, who relying upon the assurances of the conquerors had 
quietly submitted to them, were thus left until the spring of 1832, to 
maintain themselves as they could against the savage mountaineers.

After the troops had been landed at Bona the French squadron proceeded 
eastward and on the 7th of August was seen at the entrance of the 
harbor of Tunis, where its appearance contributed to hasten the 
conclusion of the negotiation then in progress between the Consul of 
France and the Bey of that Regency. The result of the {529} 
negotiation was a treaty, signed at Tunis on the 8th of August, the 
provisions of which were apparently more liberal and more nearly 
universal in their application, than those of any convention 
previously made between a Christian State and a Barbary Power. The Bey 
of Tunis here distinctly renounced for himself and his successors, the 
right of cruising against any nation, which should renounce or have 
renounced the right of cruising against Tunis. Christian prisoners of 
war were not to be enslaved under any circumstances, but to be treated 
according to the usages of European nations. Foreign vessels wrecked 
on the coasts of the Regency were not to be plundered; their crews 
were to receive every assistance; those guilty of maltreating or 
robbing them were to be punished, and the government was made 
answerable for all injuries to their persons or property. Foreign 
nations were to have the privilege of establishing consular and 
commercial agents in any part of the Regency, and no tribute or 
present was to be exacted from or on account of them, on any occasion 
whatsoever. The subjects of foreign nations were to be at liberty to 
trade in all parts of the Regency, without being subject to any other 
than the established duties; and the government was to exercise no 
right of pre-emption or of monopoly, with regard to any goods which 
they may wish to buy or sell. Finally, the Bey gives to the French the 
full right of fishing for coral on certain parts of the coast of Tunis 
without any tribute or duty. These conditions appear to evince a 
degree of liberality on the part of France and of regard for the 
interests of other nations, which her former diplomatic proceedings 
had not prepared us to expect. However on examining the subject more 
minutely, it will be seen that although something may have been gained 
for the cause of civilization, by the formal admission of such 
principles, yet nothing was in reality secured to any other Power than 
France; for no other nation could or would avail itself of these 
provisions, as France could not be expected to enforce their 
observance, in any other cases than those in which the interests of 
her own subjects were concerned. The treaty was received with great 
dissatisfaction at Tunis; for which there was indeed just cause, as it 
not only prescribed new rules for intercourse with foreign nations but 
also interfered materially with the internal administration of the 
country.

Having produced the desired effect at Tunis, Admiral Rosamel sailed 
for Tripoli, off which he appeared on the 9th of August.

Ever since the precipitate departure of Baron Rousseau, the French 
Consul, from Tripoli, in August 1829, the Pasha of that Regency had 
been vainly endeavoring through the intercession of the Spanish 
Consul, to avert the vengeance which he knew would fall upon him, for 
his share in that affair. The news of the fall of Algiers left him 
without hope; and therefore as soon as the French squadron had come to 
anchor, he sent Hadji Mohammed the Bet-el-Mel or Judge of 
inheritances, on board the Admiral's ship, with full powers to 
conclude an arrangement. A convention was accordingly signed on the 
11th, containing besides the same general stipulations to which the 
Bey of Tunis had agreed on the 8th, some severe and humiliating 
engagements on the part of the Pasha. In the first article, he agreed 
to deliver to the Admiral a letter, addressed to the _Emperor_ of 
France, in which he entreats his Majesty to accept his most humble 
excuses for the circumstances which had obliged the French Consul to 
quit his post; disavows all participation in the calumnious reports 
circulated with respect to that agent; and expresses his anxious 
desire for the restoration of friendly intercourse between the two 
countries, as well as for the return of Rousseau, to whom the excuses 
were to be repeated on his arrival. Yusuf moreover agreed to pay 
800,000 francs, one half immediately, the remainder in December 
following, in exoneration of all demands of French subjects against 
him.

The 400,000 francs were with some difficulty procured and delivered in 
a few days after the signature of the Treaty; in December 200,000 more 
were paid and the revenues of the province of Bengazi were pledged for 
the remainder. Yusuf was however spared the mortification of being 
obliged to receive Rousseau again as French Consul in Tripoli; his 
place was supplied by M. Schwebels, who appears to be superior in 
capacity, acquirements and character to the generality of such agents.

The forced loans and other acts of violence by means of which these 
sums were raised, increased the unpopularity of the Pasha's government 
and contributed to excite disturbances in his dominions. In the spring 
of 1831, a formidable insurrection broke out in Fezzan, to quell which 
the Bey Ali was sent with a large force. Of the circumstances of the 
war we can obtain no accounts; its result was the discomfiture of the 
Tripolines and the return of the Bey to the capital. The rebels appear 
to have been headed by Abdi Zaleel, who has been already mentioned as 
the grandson of the celebrated Sheik Safanissa, and the Chief of the 
Arab tribe called the Waled Suleiman. The successful issue of this 
revolt encouraged many of the wandering tribes to throw off the 
authority of the Pasha, and his difficulties were soon after increased 
by another heavy demand on his treasury from abroad.

As soon as it was known that the French had obtained payment of nearly 
all the debts due to their subjects, the British Government of course 
insisted on a similar settlement in favor of its own merchants, which 
the Pasha, according to the immemorial custom of Princes and people in 
the East, evaded by every means in his power. Warrington at length 
declared that he would be put off no longer; accordingly on the 14th 
of July 1832, a British squadron of two frigates and a sloop of war 
appeared in the bay, and Yusuf was summoned immediately to pay a 
hundred and eighty thousand dollars to satisfy the demands of his 
English creditors. The Pasha in vain repeated the oft urged plea of 
poverty; in vain appealed to his sons, to his wives, to his ministers, 
and to the citizens of Tripoli; the sum could not be obtained, and 
although sixty per cent on the whole amount was tendered in part 
payment, the inexorable Consul refused to receive it. Yusuf in despair 
then determined to levy a contribution by force on the inhabitants of 
the Messeah, the rich and populous plain near the city; the attempt 
was resisted, the soldiers who were sent to collect the tax were 
repulsed, and the people of the Messeah raised the standard of 
rebellion.

A new actor now appeared on the scene.

It has been stated that on the death of the Pasha's {530} eldest son 
Mohammed, the claims of Emhammed the son of the deceased Prince to the 
succession, had been set aside by Yusuf, in favor of Ali his second 
son, who had been raised to the dignity of Bey. Emhammed had now 
attained manhood, and though closely watched by his uncle and 
grandfather had succeeded in forming a small party among the people, 
who looked to him for deliverance from the tyranny and oppression 
under which they groaned. In this he had been assisted and encouraged 
by the British Consul, who hating Ali on account of his connection 
with the D'Ghies family, and his well known partiality to France, 
adopted this means to satisfy his vengeance. Warrington has indeed 
been supposed to have carried his views still farther, and to have 
fomented disturbances in Tripoli, in order to obtain possession of the 
country for Great Britain. The sequel will show how far such 
suppositions were warranted.

As soon as the insurrection in the Messeah broke out, the neighboring 
Arab tribes came in crowds to join the rebels, and Emhammed, having 
succeeded in making his escape from the city, was proclaimed by them 
Pasha of Tripoli. The Bey Ali immediately assembled his adherents, and 
on the 27th of July 1832, a battle was fought on the sea shore between 
them and the insurgents. Emhammed's party was successful; the Bey's 
troops were driven back into the city, and the insurgents, receiving 
daily accessions to their forces, were soon able to close effectually 
all the communications of the place on the land side; a battery was 
also established by them at the entrance of the harbor on its eastern 
shore, in order to prevent the entrance of vessels. In a few days the 
city was completely invested by the besiegers, who began to bombard 
it; and the supply of provisions from the country being thus cut off, 
the inhabitants were threatened with the horrors of famine. The 
Consuls were however informed by Emhammed, that they might be 
furnished with necessaries for their families, by means of boats sent 
under the flag of a Christian nation to his batteries.

In the meantime, the British Consul had struck his flag, and the 
besiegers were in hopes that an attack would be made on the place by 
the squadron. These expectations were however disappointed by the 
sudden departure of the ships, in consequence it was supposed of an 
order from Malta, to which island Colonel Warrington shortly after 
sailed with his family in an Austrian brig.

Things continued in this state of uncertainty until the 12th of 
August, when the Consuls were informed by Yusuf, at a public audience, 
in the presence of his Divan and the principal persons of the place, 
that he had abdicated the throne in favor of his son Ali, whom he 
requested them to consider as Pasha of Tripoli. Letters were at the 
same time delivered to the Consuls addressed to the heads of their 
respective Governments, formally communicating the same intelligence, 
and soliciting from each the speedy recognition of the new sovereign. 
The means by which the old man was thus induced to transfer his powers 
to his son are not known; there is reason to believe however that he 
was impelled to it by the threats of Ali, and the promises and 
representations of the French Consul, both of whom had cause to 
apprehend that an admission of Emhammed's claims to the succession 
might otherwise be extorted from him by Warrington on his return from 
Malta. Ali immediately assumed the authority and title of Pasha, 
appointing as Prime Minister his brother-in-law Mohammed d'Ghies, (the 
younger, the old minister of that name died in 1831) who has been 
already mentioned in connection with the affair of Major Laing's 
papers.




STANZAS.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.


  Oh, lovely were once her eyes, but grief
    Their light hath now o'erclouded—
  And her lips were sweet, like the budding leaf,
    Though now their bloom be shrouded—
  For in her heart, a malady
    Like the canker-worm in the rose,
  Preys ever there, unceasingly,
    And gives her no repose.

  It is sad to think, in a few short hours,
    We shall look on her no longer,
  For the glance gives sign of the failing powers,
    And the pang grows hourly stronger;
  We shall lose the balm of her budding breath,
    We shall hear her voice no more;
  We shall see those sweet eyes sealed in death,
    That we once could so adore.

  Yet shall I not weep, though losing all
    For many long days I so have loved;
  The tear that from mine eyes would fall,
    My thought has well reproved:
  For hers has been a doomed life,
    And those who love her well, should pray,
  That she may quickly lose the strife,
    That has eaten her heart away.




THE RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION.

BY JUDGE JOSEPH HOPKINSON.


_Dear Sir_—I am well aware that my letter on the Right of Instruction, 
published in your June number, will encounter, in Virginia and 
elsewhere, names of high and deserved authority, and talents of great 
power, if it shall be thought worthy of any attention. I must 
therefore beg you to allow me to explain my views of this interesting 
subject, a little more fully than was necessary or proper in a letter 
to a friend. The additions, however, will be briefly made. I am 
particularly desirous to sustain myself by the countenance of our 
distinguished patriots and jurists, especially those who, having 
assisted in framing the government, may be presumed to understand its 
mechanism at least as well as the politicians of a later date; who 
are, as I have suggested, the authors of the doctrine of instructions. 
It was unknown to those who made the constitution—as well as to those 
writers and speakers who afterwards attacked and defended it.

It is a matter of familiar history that from the commencement of this 
government, there has been a party, {531} particularly in the South, 
powerful by its talents, its character and the public confidence, who 
have cherished and propagated, with unwearied efforts, a jealous fear 
of the power of the general government. They have taught and, I may 
not doubt, truly believed that this power would swallow the 
independence of the states, or so depress their influence and strip 
them of their rights, that they would finally become mere subordinate 
corporations, living and acting by the will of a master. I do not stop 
to examine the justice of this apprehension, nor to show that the 
federal government, _constitutionally administered_, (and no fair 
argument can be drawn from usurpation and violence,) has more to fear 
from the power of the states than the states from it. This is not my 
present purpose. I would show how the doctrine of instructions was 
introduced among us. It was one of the devices and means resorted 
to—and invented by the party I have alluded to, to cripple the federal 
power, and, in this way, to give the states a control over the action 
of the general government, which they could not exercise directly 
under any power or rights given or reserved to them in the 
constitution they had adopted. Thus by binding their representatives 
in Congress by the obligation of obedience to their instructions, and 
by limiting and fettering the powers of the federal body by their 
doctrines of _constitutional construction_, they would acquire an 
ascendancy over the federal operations which would reduce that body to 
a bloodless, fleshless skeleton.

In looking for a support for my opinions upon this subject, I was 
naturally led to open the volume of the “Secret Proceedings and 
Debates of the Convention,” published from the notes of Chief Justice 
Yates. In this volume we find also the information communicated, by 
_Luther Martin, Esq._ a delegate to the federal convention from the 
state of Maryland, to the legislature of Maryland, relative to the 
proceedings of the convention. This communication occupies about 
ninety pages of the book, and contains a string of resolutions, 
amounting to nineteen, reported to the convention by a committee of 
the whole house. The fourth of these resolutions proposed “That the 
members of the second branch of the legislature ought to be chosen by 
the individual legislatures, to be of the age of thirty years at 
least, _to hold their offices for a term sufficient to insure their 
independence_, namely, seven years,” &c. There is another provision in 
this resolution which shows an intention to make the senators equally 
independent of the several states and of the United States. It is that 
they are “to be ineligible to any office by a particular state—or 
under the authority of the United States—except those peculiarly 
belonging to the functions of the second branch, _during the term of 
service_, and under the national government for the space of one year 
after its expiration.”

Mr. Martin was a decided opponent to the adoption of the constitution; 
he was opposed to federal power—a friend of state power—and seeking 
every means by which he could restrain the first and strengthen and 
enlarge the latter. He especially feared the senate; but he never 
thought of this controlling right of instructions by which the states 
might direct the federal legislation at their will, and make their 
senators, in the language of Mr. Tyler, “mere automata to move only 
when they are bidden—and to sit in their places like statues, to 
record such edicts as may come to them.” Mr. Martin's objection to the 
construction of the second branch of the federal legislature is, that 
the senators are independent of the states appointing them. He objects 
that they are chosen for _six years_; that they are not paid by the 
respective states, but from the treasury of the United States; that 
they _are not liable to be recalled during the period for which they 
are chosen_. This very able and ingenious lawyer could not have made 
this objection if he had conceived the cunning device of making it the 
constitutional duty of a senator to resign his place at the will of 
the legislature of his state.—After stating these objections, Mr. 
Martin proceeds: “Thus, sir, for six years the senators are rendered 
_totally and absolutely independent of their states_, of whom they 
ought to be the representatives, without any bond or tie between them. 
_During that time_, they may join in measures ruinous and destructive 
to their states, even such as should totally annihilate the state 
governments; and their states cannot recall them, _nor exercise any 
control over them_.” Such was his understanding of the constitution, 
and of the rights of senators and state legislatures, under it. His 
objection was that _they are not_ precisely what the advocates for 
instructions say _they are_. He saw nothing in the instrument that 
gives the state legislatures any right to instruct their senators, 
accompanied by a duty on the part of the senators to obey or resign. 
This is practically to give the legislatures a power to recall their 
senators, as instructions may always be given which must be disobeyed 
by an honest man.

On considering the question whether the second branch of the general 
legislature should or should not be appointed by the state 
legislatures, Mr. Wilson (the most democratic of all the members of 
the convention) said, “It is improper that the state legislatures 
should have the power contemplated to be given to them. A citizen of 
America may be considered in two points of view; as a citizen of the 
general government, and as a citizen of the particular state in which 
he may reside. We ought to consider in what character he acts, in 
forming a general government. I am both a citizen of Pennsylvania and 
of the United States; I must, therefore, _lay aside my state 
connexions and act for the general good of the whole_. We must forget 
our local habits and attachments. There ought to be a leading 
distinction between the one and the other; nor ought the general 
government _to be comprised of an assemblage of different state 
governments_.” Mr. Wilson was opposed to the election of the senators 
by the state legislatures.

Mr. Ellsworth was for the state legislatures. He thought the choice by 
them would be more judicious. “In the second branch we want _wisdom 
and firmness_, to check hasty and inconsiderate proceedings of the 
first branch.”

Gov. Randolph, speaking of the senate, says: “This body must act with 
firmness. The state governments will always attempt to counteract the 
general government.” His opinion, of course, was, that it was the duty 
of the senators to resist these attempts, to protect the general 
government against them, and not to yield to them as bound and bidden 
slaves, and abandon to their caprices and will the sacred trust 
reposed in them.

Mr. Madison says: “We are proceeding in the same manner that was done 
when the confederation was first {532} formed. Its original draft was 
excellent, but in its progress and completion it became so 
insufficient as to give rise to the present convention. By the vote 
already taken, _will not the temper_ of the state legislatures 
transfuse itself into the senate? Do we create a free government?” We 
see then that Mr. Madison was of opinion that the mere power of 
appointing the senators by the state legislatures, would give those 
legislatures so much influence in this branch of the federal 
legislature as to impair its necessary power and independence. He 
asks: “Do we create a free government?” What would he have said had he 
supposed that to this power of appointment, there was to be added as 
flowing from it, an imperative and constitutional right of 
instruction, under the penalty of a forfeiture of the place by 
disobedience?

At another period of the debate, on the constitution of the senate, 
Mr. Madison says: “That great powers are to be given, there is no 
doubt; and that these powers may be abused, is equally true. It is 
probable that members may lose their attachments to the states that 
sent them; yet the first branch will control them in many of these 
abuses. But we are forming a body on whose wisdom we mean to rely, and 
their _permanency in office_ secures a proper field in which _they may 
exert their firmness and knowledge_. Democratic communities may be 
unsteady, and be led to action by the impulse of the moment.” After 
showing the dangers that may arise from popular bodies without some 
wholesome check and control of another body, he says: “The senate, 
therefore, ought to be this body; and to answer these purposes, they 
ought to have _permanency and stability_.”

On the debate on the question whether the senators should be paid from 
the national treasury or by the states, Mr. Wilson said: “The states 
may say, although I appoint you for six years, yet if you are against 
the state your table shall be unprovided. Is this the way you are to 
erect an independent government?” But the doctrine of instructions 
comes to the same end by a much shorter and more certain operation. 
_Obey or resign._ Men might be found who, to render a great service to 
their country, or from personal motives of inclination or ambition, 
would continue in their seats, although their compensation were 
withdrawn. But they have no such choice, when the action of the 
legislature comes upon them in the shape of instructions.

On the same question, Mr. Madison said: “I do assert that a national 
senate, elected and paid by the people, will have no more efficiency 
than congress; _for the states will usurp the general government_.”

In looking over this column of debates, I have made my selections as 
few and brief as possible. Not a syllable is found any where, or from 
any body, which hints at this right of instruction to senators, as a 
means by which the states may control or interfere with the 
constitutional action of the federal government, or add to their own 
power and influence. Every proceeding of the convention, every 
argument and word having any bearing upon the question, has a contrary 
tendency. The whole doctrine has been got up at a later date, to serve 
particular interests and purposes; and, unfortunately, is so palatable 
to state pride and state politicians, that it has found a reception 
too favorable for the safety of our government and the preservation of 
the Union.

I have not referred to the opinion of Mr. Burke, so often quoted, 
because I think the argument stands here on a different and a stronger 
ground. We have a number of sovereign states which have, by their own 
will, placed themselves under one government; and for this purpose, 
they have mutually agreed upon _the extent and manner_ in which each 
shall have a participation in the government of the whole. No one has 
a right to control or interfere with the government of the whole to 
any further extent or in any other manner than those which have been 
thus agreed upon. They may elect their senators by their legislatures 
respectively; having done this, their power over that body is 
fulfilled. The senators of each become the senators of all, and the 
power of each over them is merged in the power of the whole for the 
period for which they are elected. The senators from Virginia are as 
independent of Virginia as those from Massachusetts. Any control over, 
or interference with them, except by their periodical election, would 
verify the prediction of Mr. Madison, that “states will usurp the 
general government,” and that “the greatest danger is from the 
encroachments of the states upon the general government.”

If you will now do me the favor to republish some observations I had 
printed in the “National Gazette,” on the perusal of Mr. Tyler's 
letter, by which he resigned his seat in the Senate of the United 
States, I shall have the satisfaction to see, in your valuable 
journal, all I have to say upon a question which, in my view, is of 
vital importance to the existence of our national government, and the 
continuance of this happy and prosperous Union.

[The following is the article alluded to.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A man may pertinaciously assert an error in the face of truth and his 
own better judgment; but the moment he attempts to defend it, be 
assured that he will seldom fail to destroy the delusion by the very 
arguments he brings to support it. Like a brilliant bubble, the moment 
you would test it by the touch, it is gone. This truth is forcibly 
illustrated in the letter addressed by Mr. Tyler to the Legislature of 
Virginia, resigning his seat as a Senator of the United States. Let 
any one examine his reasons for refusing to obey the instructions of 
his legislature,—for refusing to do what they require of him, for he 
does refuse, and his reasons for it are absolutely unanswerable,—and 
then say whether the same reasons do not as decidedly prove that the 
legislature had no lawful right to give the instructions as that Mr. 
Tyler had the right to disobey them. There could not be a 
constitutional right to give an order, the obedience to which would be 
“to violate the Constitution.” This is a plain absurdity, and it is 
equally clear that if there was no right to give the order there could 
be no duty to obey it. Assuredly the pointed and pregnant question put 
by Mr. Tyler applies to the whole subject of instructions. He 
asks—“whether the representatives of a sovereign State are such mere 
automata, as to move only when they are bidden, and to sit in their 
places like statues to record such edicts as may come to them?” Mr. 
Tyler implies in his answer, that Senators are not such passive 
machines, and yet he consents to become one, in a modified way. On 
this particular {533} case he says to the Legislature, “To obey your 
instructions would be to _violate the Constitution of the United 
States_.” One would suppose that this was a full and definite answer 
to the demand, and to the right to make it. Of course Mr. Tyler will 
not do the deed; he will not with his own hand strike the blow which 
is to wound the sacred body which his country had put under his 
protection. But does this fulfil his duty? does it discharge the 
obligations of his oath of office? That oath is not answered by merely 
abstaining from the wrong himself; it does not stop with this negative 
duty; he has sworn _to support and defend it_ against violation and 
wrong _from any quarter_. Did he not desert this high and solemn duty 
when he abandoned his post _in order_ that another might take it with 
the _avowed design of violating the Constitution_; for that such is 
the act to be done is the conscientious belief of Mr. Tyler himself. 
To resign, to surrender his power _for such a purpose_, is hardly an 
evasion of the high principles which Mr. Tyler assumes as his rule of 
duty; it is, in effect, to sacrifice them. Where is the difference 
between the sentinel who turns his own arms upon the citadel he was 
bound to defend, and one who gives up his trust to the enemy, that he 
may do the work of ruin which the conscience of the latter forbids. In 
my opinion, the very time and occasion where a Senator _should not 
resign_, are where his place is wanted for such a purpose. It is then 
peculiarly his duty to keep his post, because it is always his 
paramount duty, _as a Senator of the United States_, to protect the 
Constitution of the United States. May he put it at the mercy of a 
State Legislature, issuing, from year to year, or from month to month, 
its contradictory orders, as party or caprice may prevail? What is the 
Constitution, under such a dictation, but a fabric built upon the 
sand; a rag floating in the wind? It has neither permanency nor 
strength.

It is to be lamented that good and talented men, sometimes unadvisedly 
and without looking far enough to consequences, entangle themselves in 
theories, which afterwards embarrass and constrain them, in the sound 
and practical exercise of their understanding, and compel them to 
participate in acts condemned, at once, by their judgment and 
conscience. In such cases it is more honest, more safe and noble, to 
shake off the webs which their own ingenuity has wound around them, 
and give a free use and exercise to their better knowledge and true 
convictions. There is a sensible maxim in common life which is equally 
wise in public affairs—that “the shortest follies are the best.”

Mr. Tyler tells the Legislature that he would have complied with their 
wishes, if they had put them in another _form_; indeed it is only a 
change of form—he would have voted, at their bidding, to _rescind or 
repeal_ the offensive resolution of the Senate. Why would he do so, 
unless he thought it ought to be rescinded or repealed? If he did not 
think so, he was as much bound by a conscientious performance of his 
duty to vote against the repeal as the expunging. If the latter be a 
stronger case, the principle is the same. But will he say, that in the 
one case he is called upon to violate the Constitution, in the other 
only to give up an _opinion_ upon the conduct of the President? This 
is altogether an illusion; there is in truth no difference in the 
cases. In the one case he was of opinion that the President had 
transcended his constitutional powers; he is of the same opinion 
still, but his Legislature do not think so, and he yields his opinion 
to theirs, or rather he votes against his own opinion to give effect 
to theirs. In the other case he holds the _opinion_ that to expunge a 
part of the records of the Senate is a violation of the Constitution, 
but his Legislature are of opinion that it is not so; it is a question 
of opinion between them, and nothing more. Why, then, should he not 
give up this opinion to their power or their judgment, as well as the 
other? Why must he not on this question surrender his judgment and 
conscience, and become the “mere automaton” of the majority of the 
members of the Virginia Assembly? He casts off and treads upon the 
robes of a _Senator of the United States_, to bind himself in a 
straight jacket, fashioned by heads and hands which would acknowledge 
no power but their own. There is no such thing as dividing or 
modifying this State claim to instruct the Senators of the United 
States. It is a full, perfect, and universal right, or it is no right. 
It binds every limb and muscle of the Senator, or none of them. If he 
may move a finger in opposition to it, his whole body is free. It is 
an absolute, despotic power in all cases, or it must be reduced to 
that voluntary respect and serious consideration which a wise 
representative will always give to the opinions and wishes of those 
from whom he derives his office. There will always be subserviency 
enough; the danger is from too much.

I do not see where Mr. Tyler gets his alternative to obey or resign. 
This is not his instruction, it is “not so nominated in the bond.” He 
is ordered to vote, to act—not to fly the field. If the command is 
lawful, he should obey the mandate of his “approved good masters,” as 
they have issued it. He might equally disappoint their object by 
leaving his seat, as by voting in opposition to their wishes. How 
impossible it is to be consistent in the pursuit of a false principle. 
When a man splits a hair to get a principle or rule of action, he must 
go on splitting hairs to modify or get rid of it.

I have said that I cannot see the distinction taken by Mr. Tyler 
between a vote to rescind the resolution and one to expunge it. It 
cannot be replied, that a Senator may properly give up his opinion 
concerning a matter comparatively insignificant, but should refuse 
such a compliance on a question of more importance. If the argument be 
good it cannot help the present case; there is no such difference 
between the question to rescind and expunge; both refer to 
constitutional rights and powers, and there is the same obligation on 
a Senator to give up or not to give his opinion in both cases. They 
are of equal dignity, but in importance, as to consequences, the 
advantage is infinitely on the side of the vote to rescind. What is to 
be rescinded? A resolution of the Senate on the subject of the power 
of the President over the treasury and revenue of the United States. 
Can any question under the Constitution arise of more vital importance 
to the liberties and rights of the people? The other vote relates only 
to the power of the Senate over its own records. Both are to be 
decided by the Constitution, and the decision, in the one way or the 
other, gives an authoritative construction to that instrument, and 
becomes, while admitted, a part of it. This resolution has 
declared,—whether right or wrong, is of no importance to our present 
question—that the Constitution does not vest in the President of the 
United States the power that he has assumed over the treasure of the 
{534} United States. This solemn declaration Mr. Tyler is willing to 
rescind, to take back, to disaffirm, although he believes that the 
resolution does express the true sense of the Constitution. Had his 
legislature _only_ required this sacrifice of him, he would have made 
it, thus indirectly affirming a most dangerous power in the executive, 
to which Mr. Tyler thinks he is not entitled. He would ratify an 
usurpation of this alarming magnitude. But this was not enough to 
satisfy his hard masters; he must not only do the deed of rescision, 
but he must do it in the manner and form prescribed to him; he must 
expunge the offensive resolution from the journal of the Senate. Here 
he takes his stand; he will not do it, and shows by an unanswerable 
argument that he cannot honestly do it, _because_ it is a violation of 
the Constitution. Now, was not the act of the President upon the 
treasury also, in his opinion, a violation of the same Constitution, 
and yet this opinion he was willing to surrender to his constituents, 
and record a vote on the same journal, affirming so far as his vote 
could do it, this violation of the Constitution. I confess there is a 
perplexity in these political metaphysics which surpasses my 
understanding, and confounds my notions of right and wrong. Here, 
then, we have a gentleman of fine talents, a lawyer and a statesman of 
great experience and eminence, who has often received and well 
deserved the respect and confidence of his fellow-citizens, brought 
into a labyrinth of doubt and obscurity; entangled by errors and 
contradictions, merely by setting out on a _false principle_. How 
plain and satisfactory is the duty of a Senator who will steadily and 
fearlessly say, I am not “an automaton to move only when I am bidden; 
a statue to record the edicts that may come to me”—I am a Senator of 
the _United States_—I am bound by the most sacred obligations to my 
country and my God, to discharge this high trust with fidelity, 
firmness and truth, according to my best judgment, and the calm 
convictions of my conscience. I am bound to support, defend, protect 
the Constitution of the United States, whose officer I am, as I 
honestly and truly understand it—this is my first law. And it is my 
duty to pay a most considerate and respectful attention to the wishes 
and interests of my immediate constituents—this is my second law.

Contrast this plain, intelligible course, which requires no uncommon 
sagacity to discover it, no deep casuistry to explain it; which 
demands no prostration of personal character and independence, and is 
followed by no misgiving or remorse—with the incomprehensible, 
tortuous, humiliating doctrines of the school of instructions, as to 
which the most devoted professors do not agree, and which a novitiate, 
however docile, cannot comprehend. Let us try him. He would first 
inquire—am I bound to obey my orders strictly and implicitly to the 
letter, or is there some alternative left me? must I give the vote 
required, or may I in any way avoid it? He will be answered, in some 
cases—You must stand your ground and give your vote as directed; for 
instance, if you are called upon to rescind and repeal a recorded 
resolution of the Senate, in which you did or did not concur, you must 
record your vote for such repeal in the same journal which testifies 
your approval of it, but if you are instructed to come at this 
conclusion in another form, that is, by expunging it from the page on 
which it is written, then you are not bound to a strict obedience, but 
may make your bow, beg to be excused, raise a high question of honor 
and conscience about it, and go about your business. So far the 
scholar might understand that he must always either obey or resign, 
although it may puzzle him to know how to make the choice. He is, 
however, altogether mistaken in believing that he has got even this 
uncertain rule for a guide. He asks another learned Doctor in this 
science—Must I, in every case, either obey or resign? By no means, is 
the reply. There are cases in which you may do neither, such as an 
order to expunge the record of some _act_ or _opinion_ of the Senate; 
this is not a _law_, and you may do as you please with it. [_See Mr. 
Leigh's Letter._] The anxious scholar proceeds to inquire, by what 
rule or sign can I distinguish and decide between these close cases; 
how may I know when I may act and think for myself, without infringing 
the sacred right of instruction? Truly there is no defined line or 
settled rule; it must depend upon the _nature of the question and the 
circumstances of the case_, which are very numerous and complicated, 
and sometimes require half a dozen columns of a newspaper to elucidate 
and apply them. [_See the same letter._] The simple novitiate 
observes, this then is very like leaving the whole matter to myself 
after all. He is bewildered and lost in this maze of inexplicable 
rules and exceptions, principles and qualifying circumstances. Should 
he pass by these difficulties, he has others scarcely less formidable 
to encounter. He understands that he must obey the instructions of the 
Legislature of his State, because he is their agent or representative. 
What Legislature is he to obey? Not that only which _de facto_ 
appointed him. But is this allegiance due to the Legislature of the 
last year or of this year? Certainly, he is told, the latter. But why 
so? They are equal and contrary weights; they act in opposition upon 
the same subject, with the same lights and by the same authority. Why 
not wait for another to decide between them? Why should he not, 
especially in Virginia, play for the rubber—take his chance for the 
third heat? There may be another change in the fortune of 
parties—another _will of the State Legislature_, to which he may run 
counter by a hasty submission. Again—must this State agent, miscalled 
a Senator of the United States, take the vote of the Legislature to be 
the will of the people, without regard to the state of the vote? may 
he inquire how the vote was constituted, _how it was obtained_—by what 
influence, misrepresentation or mistake? Suppose he should find that 
his orders came from a majority of the members present, but not a 
majority of the house, and he should know that the absent members 
would have turned the vote—may he refuse his obedience to what is, 
legally speaking, the act and will of the Legislature? If he should 
obey or resign, and then, in a full house, his instructions are 
revoked, what is his situation? He has perhaps inflicted a serious 
wound upon the Constitution of his country, which he cannot heal.

I will present one other difficulty which might distress the 
unlearned. A Senator may be presumed to know the members of his State 
Legislature—their general standing and character. He receives 
instructions passed by a majority of six or eight, on a vote of one or 
two hundred. He looks at the roll of yeas and nays. He finds in the 
majority a great proportion of men he knows to be of little knowledge, 
of strong passions and prejudices, with a servile adherence to party 
purposes; {535} men, even if honest, on whose judgment he would not 
place the least reliance in the most common business—whose opinion he 
would not regard in any concern of his own of the value of a dollar. 
On the other side, he finds the names of men long distinguished for 
their learning and experience, of unsuspected integrity, dispassionate 
in judgment, and pure in their patriotism and purposes;—men to whom 
all the country has looked for years, with confidence and veneration. 
In a word, he sees the name of _James Madison_ on the one hand, 
opposed by that of some violent, ignorant, interested demagogue on the 
other. Is he to shut his eyes and his understanding to such a state of 
things, and surrender his duty, his honor, and his conscience, to the 
dictation of ignorance, passion and prejudice, and turn a deaf ear to 
the voice of knowledge, virtue, and patriotism? Is he to decide a 
vital constitutional question by the will of such masters, who would 
not hold themselves bound by their vote? Mr. Tyler assures us that 
some of the voters for his last instructions were among those who but 
the year before gave him contrary orders on the same subject. Such an 
obedience is to make himself something worse than an automaton—it is 
to be an active, efficient, self-condemned agent in the consummation 
of designs he knows to be morally wrong, and deeply injurious to his 
country, to _the whole people_ he has sworn to defend and protect, by 
the preservation, inviolate, of the great charter of their rights and 
liberties. This Mr. Tyler would not, could not do; it would be to 
contradict and disparage the whole course of an honorable and useful 
life. He has spurned such degradation. But I lament that he did not do 
more than this—that he could find an alternative in abandoning his 
post to the enemy.

I have alluded to Mr. Leigh's letter, but should be tedious were I now 
to make it a subject of particular comment, but cannot refrain from 
remarking that these gentlemen (Messrs. Tyler and Leigh) both 
professing to maintain the true and orthodox doctrines of 
“Instruction,” and exerting their powerful and cultivated intellects 
to explain them through many a labored column, at last bring 
themselves to opposite conclusions on the same case. Is it possible to 
give a more impressive illustration and evidence of the fallacy of the 
whole faith than that two such men, both indoctrinated in the same 
school, should, when brought to the practical application of their 
principles, so differ about their import and obligation?

This is a subject of vast and growing magnitude. In my judgment, it is 
of vital importance to the Constitution of the United States, which 
will be essentially if not fatally changed, if its powers and 
operations are to be in this way under the dictation and control of 
State Legislatures. It will no longer be a Government of the United 
States. The Senate and House of Representatives will be but the agents 
of the State Legislatures, “to move only when they are bidden, and to 
record such edicts as may come to them.”




In “Dodsley's Collection” is an old play called “_Eastward Hoe!_” It 
was written by Ben Jonson, and published in 1605 by George Chapman and 
John Marston. This probably suggested to our Paulding the title of his 
“_Westward Ho!_”




TO ——.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.


  'Twas meant for thee, when all look'd dark,
    And ev'ry friend my childhood knew,
  Shrunk from the slight and vent'rous bark
    As reckless, through the waves it flew—
  Unshaken still, to keep thy faith,
    And through each gloomy storm that came,
  To shield me, in thy pray'rs, from scaith,
    To keep me, in thy words, from blame.

  When narrow fears beset the base,
    And selfish hopes o'ercame the mean,
  'Twas love alone whose gentle face
    Look'd still unchanged through all the scene;
  And with the darkness of the hour,
    Thy truth but more conspicuous shone,
  As some sweet star, when clouds have power,
    Looks proudly out from Heaven, alone!

  Shall I not love thee, evermore,
    Thou more than planet guide to me,
  Whose gentle light, on sea and shore,
    Still spoke thy true heart's constancy!
  Oh, be Time's changes what they will,
    They cannot change that sleepless thought,
  That tells,—that teaches of thee still,
    By thee, for evermore, still taught.




A REMINISCENCE.

BY DR. FRANCIS LIEBER.


_Charleston, S. C. June 28—the day of Fort Moultrie—1836._

_Dear Sir_—Your favor of Richmond, June 18—the anniversary of the 
battle of Waterloo—reached me here, a few minutes ago. The vacations 
of South Carolina College have begun, and I am here waiting for a 
vessel to carry me to the Island of Porto Rico, whither I intend to 
proceed for the sake of recreation! A strange way of getting cool, you 
will say, to go from South Carolina to the West Indies, from degree 31 
northern latitude to degree 18—it is a more formidable experiment than 
the process of annealing, by which glass is passed into an oven not 
quite so hot as the first in which it was melted. I allow, it may be 
strange; still I shall go. But here I am, not only without any 
materials or memoranda, but confined to the sofa by a _faux-pas_, 
which has made of me, ever since, a lame man. Now if you sum up all 
these items—vacations just begun, without books or papers, lame and 
windbound in a seaport, a voyage of considerable interest before me, 
for which one ought to prepare himself a little—you will own that they 
are as many difficulties in the way of granting your request, which 
otherwise it would have given me much pleasure to comply with.

A lame man feels poor—helpless, much more so than a man with an 
injured arm. How interesting does not a young officer look with his 
arm in a sling; but his comrade with a crutch attracts nothing but 
bare, sheer pity. Limping—the mere idea of limping, makes all the 
difference. Has not the Prussian government {536} decided, after the 
wars against Napoleon, that the old law, which prohibits a cripple 
from officiating as priest or minister, is to be interpreted, that an 
individual who has lost a leg is a cripple, but if he has lost an arm 
only, he is not to be considered such. They thought, perhaps, of the 
noble Cervantes, who lost his right hand in the battle of Lepanto, and 
wrote his immortal Don Quixotte with the left.

I am without books. Well! did not Ercilla write his Auracana in the 
very face of the Tudian enemy, and the conquering Spaniard, probably, 
carried no _bibliothéque volante_ with him. True, but had he a 
dislocated toe, did he wait for wind, had he to buy a hundred trifles, 
and to make the place before his sofa a real bazaar? Napoleon, you 
reply, dictated some of his most inspired and inspiring proclamations, 
in the saddle. True, but it is easier to address an army before or 
after a battle, than to address the public through a monthly 
periodical before or after a sea voyage. Again you say—did not Walter 
Scott compose his Lady of the Lake chiefly in his bed, where most 
afflicting pains confined him? True, but he had his books and papers 
around him, and he did not wait for wind. Did not Körner compose his 
_Adieu_ when wounded on the field of battle? True, once more, and so 
would I write a touching poem on dislocated toes—how limping Vulcan 
would inspire me!—were I master of the English tongue; but an article 
for a review is another thing. And then the heat—the thermometer 
stands this moment at—_Impatience Boils_—and the musquitos, who play 
their scornful music long around your frightened ear, before, at 
length, they yield to their Timour-like disposition, as the malicious 
servants of the Holy Inquisition tormented their victims long before 
the actual infliction of the refined torture, by showing and trying 
the racking instruments—and the tickling, inexhaustibly persevering 
flies, which have entered into a most malignant conspiracy against the 
human nose—what can you possibly expect? Nothing but an anecdote. But, 
sir, anecdotes, however witty or trifling, are like the glorious 
pictures which a Raphael painted for the altars of his church—they 
lose much of their merit if out of their place. Still, I should like 
to give what is so kindly asked for, and ——

The wind has changed—to-morrow morning we sail—I have to get some ice 
packed (free intercourse distributes comfort like a blessing far and 
wide; how could we otherwise have northern ice!) and other things to 
attend to; my writing will be a hurried business, and I am afraid my 
communication turn out as so many administrations or notes do—the 
introductory or promissory part will be the best of it, however poor 
even this may be. Now, sir, pray let the following succeed immediately 
after the _and_ above: if you think that the subsequent lines will do, 
they are quite at your service, though I consider it hard that I must 
give, whatever I may send, “_with my name_”—a condition you have 
underlined. If you think you had better “lay it on the table to be 
taken up this day six months,” I shall have no objection.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prussia had been humbled, almost annihilated in the battle of Jena; 
one Prussian fortress after the other surrendered, except Colberg on 
the Baltic. She retained what is called in German military language, 
her maiden reputation. Nettelbeck, an old sea captain and Major 
Schill, contributed most by their patriotic exertions, to the holding 
out of this place against the French, who overflooded all the Prussian 
provinces. Schill had been seriously wounded in the battle at 
Auerstædt, near Jena; but this did not prevent him from collecting 
some scattered infantrists and cavalrists and forming them into a 
corps, motley from without, but unanimous within. He restored to them 
confidence, and from the rallying of this small band must be dated, 
perhaps, the regeneration of Prussia. Schill's perseverance and the 
brave obstinacy of Colberg altogether, had a good effect upon 
Königsberg, whither the king and queen had fled, and a powerful one 
upon the whole kingdom. The mere idea—there is one spot at least, 
where the sweeping eagles of Napoleon have not been able to 
perch—became a moral rallying point for the stunned hearts of the 
Prussians. Schill was made lieutenant colonel, and he had the honor of 
being the first Prussian soldier that returned to the capital.

The effect of the misfortune which had befallen the royal house, was 
not that of alienating the subjects from the afflicted king and his 
beautiful consort. During the seven years war, the Prussians had 
become proud of their name; the government under Frederick William II, 
had certainly done much to cool all attachment of the people; now, 
after the disaster of Frederick William III, who was universally known 
to love justice, every one felt again strongly attached to the 
government, the country, the name of Prussia. The French, at whose 
hands the people received such galling insult and grinding oppression, 
were hated—calmly, thoroughly hated. No wonder then that the 
inhabitants of Berlin prepared for this day in the spring of 1808 as 
for a great festival. My father considered it so with the rest.

His youthful years had fallen in that momentous time when Frederick 
the Great made the Prussians a nation. As the great Dante has raised 
the Italian idiom from a “vulgar dialect” to a language stamped with 
his gigantic mind, and erected at once the most noble and most 
enduring monument with it, so has Frederick of Prussia elevated his 
people to a nation, stamped it with his mind, and at once led it into 
the temple of glory. There was no greater man in all the pages of 
history, for those who lived under Frederick, than himself. How often 
have I heard my grandfather describe the pillage of Berlin by the 
Russians after the unfortunate battle at Cunersdorf, how they stripped 
him of every thing, wounded him, and took him away as prisoner, 
ill-treating him in all possible ways. Still he would always end his 
story by—“But that was nothing; my greatest grief was about 
Frederick.” Nor can I forget the intensity of veneration with which my 
father would explain to us children some engravings on the walls of 
our sitting-room, representing some memorable actions of “his great 
king.” His greyhounds were forgotten on few of them.

My father went early with us to see the entrance of Schill. Coaches 
were out of question; they could not have proceeded in the throng. We 
soon lost my brothers in the dense crowd; but they were old enough to 
look out for themselves; I only remained with my father, and he 
grasped my hand firmly, to pull me through the almost impenetrable 
masses of loyal people. I suffered considerably, for I was very 
little, and {537} frequently did I look from my lower regions at the 
patches of blue sky which now and then appeared above the heads of my 
taller equals, with a longing desire for some pure air and free 
breathing. After much tossing and pulling we found a place, where, as 
my father believed, I might see the whole procession from the top of a 
garden gate; he placed himself beneath me. It seems to me that we 
waited fully two hours, when, at length, the rumbling sound “he comes, 
he comes,” rolled toward us from a great distance. The sound was 
swelling, the trumpets could be discerned in the roaring noise of the 
crowds, and the yelling “_vivat Schill_” of the boys. I stretched my 
neck, I saw the four hussars, who opened the procession, cutting with 
great labor, their way through all the patriotism and loyalty; they 
approached, they were close by us, but with them had also come an 
irresistible, compact mass. Where is Schill? There he comes; do'nt you 
see?—and in this moment the wedge-like crowd broke down the fences, 
and I tumbled from the place where I had been envied by thousands of 
passers by. I fell upon another crowd, which had conglomerated behind 
the fence, and was carried along like an Imperator of old,—like a 
Franconian king after his election. But I did not remain long in this 
elevated situation, for the searching eyes of my father had discovered 
me. “This is my boy”—he exclaimed, “this is my boy!” while he was 
striving to press through the crowd; but when has a crowd listened to 
any thing? On it went, and I floated on a sea of heads and hats. At 
last my father, impelled by a parent's anxiety, almost driven by 
despair, succeeded in severing this piece of human mosaic. He grasped 
my foot, and down I went. My situation was in no way bettered, for the 
current of men continued to roll on; as Socrates threw himself over 
his beloved Alcibiades or Epaminondas over Pelopidas (I compare the 
great to the small) so resolved my father to form a shield over his 
urchin. This necessarily soon created a mountain of tumbling and 
scrambling individuals over me, and I should surely have been 
suffocated, had not most happily the layer over my father consisted of 
a huge grenadier, who, torn or driven from his line, had met with this 
living stumbling block. “There is a boy below,” he shouted, with a 
stentorian voice; “by G— he sha'nt be killed.” I considered this a 
very sensible speech, quite to the purpose; and felt happy indeed, 
when my Trim—if he was no sergeant, I would have given him the 
cheveron on the spot, had I possessed the power—succeeded in 
excavating me. Oh, with what feeling I drew breath! but Schill was 
gone; I heard the music at a distance long past by, while my father 
hugged me, his eyes beaming with joyful gratitude for my delivery.

We now mingled with the soldiers, and my father picked out three or 
four, to take quarters with us. So great was the ardor of the citizens 
of Berlin, to have some of the followers quartered with them, and in 
such a degree was all military order broken into, that it was 
impossible for the commanding officer to give any orders before his 
followers were dismissed, and he was obliged, the next morning, to 
publish the order, where and when the rendezvous should take place, 
through the police of the city. My father had caught an officer and 
several privates; we made them tell us of Colberg the whole livelong 
day, and pestered them with a thousand questions.

I had not seen Schill, the object of our wishes, but, soon after his 
arrival at Berlin, I began to make a heraldic collection, and it 
struck me, that it would be a fine beginning, could I place at the 
head the seal of Schill. So I went one day to his quarters and told 
the sergeant in waiting that I wished to see Schill. I peremptorily 
refused to tell him my business, and after some conversation, was 
admitted. I found Col. Schill in the garden, shooting with the pistol 
at a target. He asked me what I wanted. Your seal, sir, said I. And 
why my seal? was the reply. Because, said I, I love you, and wish to 
begin my collection with your coat of arms. Does your father love me 
too? he asked. Yes, replied I, all the Berlin people do. He seemed 
much moved, turned toward the other officers, while he treated me in 
the kindest manner, and said something which I now forget, but the 
import of which may be easily surmised. He then asked me to take 
luncheon with them, and I remember that he helped me to a glass of 
wine, saying—“Boy, be ever true to your country; here, let's touch our 
glasses on its welfare.” I remember nothing of his appearance, except 
the kind expression of his large blue eyes. I was a great man among my 
school-fellows the next day, and refused to exchange one of the seals 
which Col. Schill had given me, for the arms of the Emperor of 
Austria. When the signet of the King of Saxony was added, I parted 
with one of Schill's, but still I thought the advantage of the bargain 
on the other side.

Schill, you know, marched in 1809, when the Tyrolese had risen under 
Andrew Hofer, against the French, to second an insurrection, which had 
broken out in Westphalia, under Count Dörnberg. Schill marched, 
without order of his government, had several fights with the French, 
but could do nothing, as the insurrection in Westphalia was soon put 
down, after the brilliant success of Napoleon's army in the campaign 
of 1809 against the Austrians. Schill took Stralsund, and fortified it 
in haste; but on May 31 it was taken by Dutch troops, and Schill fell 
after a valiant resistance. His head was sent in spirits of wine to 
Holland; the King of Westphalia had offered ten thousand francs for 
it, when yet on his shoulders.

Twelve officers of the corps of Schill were taken prisoners, and sent 
to Wesel; a French court-martial sentenced them to be shot; for they 
were treated as common robbers. A maid of honor, at the court of 
Jerome, King of Westphalia, obtained, through the latter, a pardon 
from Napoleon for one of the officers under sentence of death. It 
arrived before the execution, but he firmly refused it, if it could 
not be extended to all. He was shot with the rest. Twelve trees 
designate to this day the spots where this brotherhood in death sank 
into the grave.

I have heard a calm and prudent kind of a reasoner, maintain that the 
officer had no right to refuse his pardon; that his action approached 
very closely to suicide. To me, it approaches rather to that offering 
of our life for our friends, which the Scripture designates as so holy 
a deed. Yet however that may be, a boy of stern and noble metal surely 
he must have been, and he is worthy to be mentioned together with the 
brave Van Spyke, who blew up himself and his crew rather than see the 
flag of his country insulted.

When we hear the word Dutch, we generally {538} connect the idea of 
wide breeches, a long clay pipe and a placidly puffing mouth with 
it—things not very poetical in their association. And yet, these Dutch 
people have erected the most poetic monument to their youthful hero. A 
penny collection has been made throughout the country, for the amount 
of which they have erected a light-house far out in the sea, off the 
estuary of the Scheldt; and on the light-house stands written with 
colossal letters of iron, VAN SPYKE—nothing more. There, to direct the 
lonely mariner on the dangerous coast by night, burns the guiding 
light, and reminds him of a great deed; and when he passes in the day, 
the white pile, reared out of the tossing waves, he reads that name, 
which he, to whom it once belonged has added—a noble bequest—to the 
rich inheritance which his brave people—foremost in liberty, foremost 
in enterprize, foremost in readiness to die for religion—possess in 
the many pages of their proud annals.

Let us not laugh at the Knickerbockers and Rip Van Winkles, but rather 
imitate their nation and inscribe, with the single names of the 
bravest sailors, our naval history on the many light-houses which 
garnish our shores. Thus they would form instructive annals, 
intelligible to every hand before the mast—each light-house a chapter, 
telling a great story, inciting the commander as well as the aspiring 
youth, when they pass it to carry into distant seas our stripes and 
stars, and with them respect to our name, or greeting them with the 
best welcome a sailor desires, when they return from long and ardent 
cruizes. Long ere the wife or brother could welcome them, would thus 
their country have cheered their hearts by these simple but speaking 
monuments of acknowledged faithfulness to home and country. Let 
Congress decree, as the best reward for the noblest actions at sea, 
that the commander's name shall stand in huge letters of bronze on 
these warning or guiding beacons—the pyramids of modern industry and 
modern civilization—to indicate that as the sea shall never wash away 
these names, so shall no tide of time wash them out of the grateful 
hearts of their countrymen. And now Sir, I must take leave; the 
captain wants me on board. I am, &c. &c.

FRANCIS LIEBER.

_To Edgar A. Poe, Esq._




THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL.

BY JAMES K. PAULDING.


  Drink, drink, whom shall we drink?
  A friend or a mistress? Come let me think.
  To those who are absent, or those who are here?
  To the dead that we lov'd, or the living still dear?
  Alas! when I look, I find none of the last,
  The present is barren, let's drink to the past.

  Come! here's to the girl with the voice sweet and low,
  The eye all of fire and the bosom of snow,
  Who erewhile in the days of my youth that are fled,
  Once slept in my bosom, and pillow'd my head!
  Would you know where to find such a delicate prize?
  Go seek in yon church-yard, for there she lies.

  And here's to the friend, the _one_ friend of my youth,
  With a head full of genius, a heart full of truth,
  Who travell'd with me in the sunshine of life,
  And stuck to my side in its sorrow and strife!
  Would you know where to find a blessing so rare?
  Go drag the lone sea, you may find him there.

  And here's to a brace of twin cherubs of mine,
  With hearts like their mother's, as pure as this wine,
  Who came but to see the first act of the play,
  Grew tir'd of the scene, and so both went away.
  Would you know where this brace of bright cherubs have hied?
  Go seek them in Heaven, for there they abide.

  A bumper, my boys! to a gray-headed pair,
  Who watch'd o'er my childhood with tenderest care,
  God bless them, and keep them, and may they look down
  On the head of their son, without tear, sigh or frown!
  Would you know whom I drink to—go seek midst the dead,
  You will find both their names on the stone at their head.

  And here's—but alas! the good wine is no more,
  The bottle is emptied of all its bright store;
  Like those we have toasted, its spirit is fled,
  And nothing is left of the light that it shed.
  Then, a bumper of tears, boys! the banquet here ends,
  With a health to our dead, since we've no living friends.




PISCATORY REMINISCENCES.


“Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
thrust upon them,” and so it is with angling. Some are born fishermen, 
some acquire the art, and it is thrust upon some by necessity. I 
_read_ myself into it. My first _penchant_ for angling was created by 
that prince of good fellows and good fishermen, Izaak Walton. I well 
remember one sunny spring morning, while reclining indolently in my 
little piazza with the “complete angler” open before me, I was 
suddenly smitten with a love for the “cool shaded stream” and the 
exercise of the angling rod. What a happy time of it hath the 
fisherman, thought I. How quietly his life passeth away; his spirits 
are always unruffled, and his bosom unknown to the cares that harass 
the rest of mankind. Here am I, always excited or depressed, and 
eternally ruminating upon dollars and cents, without ever allowing 
myself time to breathe the pure air of heaven in peace. I will turn 
fisherman, quoth I to myself, and immediately proceeded to purchase a 
rod and tackle just such as is recommended in the “complete angler,” 
mentally repeating all the while, one of honest old Izaak's wishes.

  “I in these flowery meads would be,
   These chrystal streams should solace me,
   To whose harmonious babbling noise,
   I with my angle would rejoice.”

Duly accoutred according to the directions of master Izaak, I wended 
my way with a light heart and impatient step, to the slippery banks of 
old Neuse, chasing and catching grasshoppers for bait, as I passed 
through a meadow that lay in my way. When arrived at the {539} river I 
ensconced myself “secretly behind a tree,” fastened a grasshopper on 
my hook, and let it down to the water “as softly as a snail moves,” 
nothing doubting that I should soon draw forth a chub of the first 
water. There I sat with all the patience recommended by the “complete 
angler,” for two good long hours, expecting every moment to see the 
writhing grasshopper taken down by some monster of a chub. But nothing 
disturbed the poor fellow's kicking, except an impudent dragon fly 
that alighted on him, and sat there, floating lazily on the water and 
basking his bright wings in the warm sun, very prejudicially, as I 
thought, to Mr. Walton's manner of fishing. About this time I began to 
have some doubts as to the practice of master Izaak's rules for chub 
fishing in our uncivilized streams, and was pretty well cured of my 
fishing mania. I must say, though in justice to my preceptor, that I 
lacked one essential qualification for a fisherman—_devotion_, though 
I swore not an oath, sorely tempted as I was. This was doubtless the 
reason of my bad luck. After seeing the poor grasshopper make his last 
effort to get loose, without the least interruption from a chub, I 
despaired of ever being an angler, and “drew up stakes” to make for 
home, consoling myself with the reflection that “angling is like 
poetry—men are born to it.” As I trudged leisurely along I could not 
help thinking that I had been vastly more taken with the oddities and 
eccentricities of the devout old fisherman, than with the practice of 
his art in these unromantic regions, and inwardly assented to Swift's 
definition of angling—“a stick and a string, with a fool at one end 
and a worm at the other.” Ever since that day, I have been pointed at 
as the man that fished by the book, much to the gratification of my 
rustic neighbors, and mortification of myself.




ISRAFEL.[1]

BY E. A. POE.

[Footnote 1: And the angel Israfel who has the sweetest voice of all 
God's creatures.—_Koran._]


  In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
  Whose heart-strings are a lute:
  None sing so wild—so well
  As the angel Israfel—
  And the giddy stars are mute.

  Tottering above
  In her highest noon,
  The enamored moon
  Blushes with love—
  While, to listen, the red levin
  Pauses in Heaven.

  And they say (the starry choir
  And all the listening things)
  That Israfeli's fire
  Is owing to that lyre
  With those unusual strings.

  But the Heavens that angel trod
  Where deep thoughts are a duty—
  Where Love is a grown god—
  Where Houri glances are
  Imbued with all the beauty
  Which we worship in a star.

  Thou art not, therefore, wrong
  Israfeli, who despisest
  An unimpassion'd song:
  To thee the laurels belong
  Best bard—because the wisest.

  The extacies above
  With thy burning measures suit—
  Thy grief—if any—thy love
  With the fervor of thy lute—
  Well may the stars be mute!

  Yes, Heaven is thine: but this
  Is a world of sweets and sours:
  Our flowers are merely—flowers,
  And the shadow of thy bliss
  Is the sunshine of ours.

  If I did dwell where Israfel
  Hath dwelt, and he where I,
  He would not sing one half as well—
  One half as passionately—
  And a loftier note than this would swell
  From my lyre within the sky.




JUDGMENT OF RHADAMANTHUS.

BY JAMES K. PAULDING.


One day, Rhadamanthus, the stern and wise judge of the dead, sat in 
the shades, passing sentence on the crimes, follies, and virtues of 
the human race, that flocked in myriads to his awful tribunal. On his 
right hand extended a delicious region, fragrant with flowers of 
unnumbered tints and odors, musical with the song of myriads of happy 
birds, and glowing in glories brighter than sunbeams, for they were 
reflected from the smiling face of an approving deity. On his left lay 
the kingdom of darkness and despair, where though nothing could be 
seen, the wretchedness of its tenants was sadly indicated by groans 
and howlings of suffering and despair, which might aptly represent the 
universal chorus of human misery. To the former, Rhadamanthus beckoned 
the good with a benignant and approving smile—to the latter, he 
condemned the wicked with a withering frown.

Few—alas! few and far between, were they who were beckoned to the land 
of delight, while crowds of wicked beings expiated in the region of 
howling darkness, the crimes of a guilty life. At length there 
approached a proud stately woman, clad carelessly in attire not the 
most cleanly, her cap on one side, her hands begrimed with ink, and a 
hole in either stocking. Pride and conceit sat on her brow, and she 
was passing to the right of the judge, towards the region of the 
blest, before receiving judgment, when Rhadamanthus stopped her, and 
demanded an account of her doings in the other world.

She seemed mightily indignant at this, and after muttering something 
about “an old ignoramus,” proceeded as follows:

{540} “Your worship surely cannot be ignorant of the services I have 
rendered the present age, as well as posterity, in writing six folio 
volumes on political economy, the duties of kings, princes and 
governors, the character of different nations, and the true principles 
of government. That I might the more exclusively devote myself to 
these great objects, I resolved never to marry, lest the care of my 
household and children might interfere with the desire I had to be 
useful.”

“Humph,” quoth Rhadamanthus—and the woman of six folios mistaking this 
for an approving fiat, was about to pass into the happy region, when 
he sternly bade her remain where she was. Whereupon she tossed her 
head, cocked her chin, and took a pinch of snuff, half of which she 
flourished in the face of the judge.

At this moment there approached a respectable matronly female, of an 
open, contented, and happy countenance, which seemed the index of a 
virtuous mind. She was dressed in plain attire of exquisite neatness, 
and as she came before the judgment seat, made a low obeisance, 
reverent, yet devoid of fear. The judge returned the salutation with a 
bow, and asked in a voice of kind encouragement what she had been 
doing in her past life.

With timid modesty, she told her tale of usefulness. She had married a 
worthy man, whose house she tried to make a happy home, and whose 
moderate means she exerted all the becoming arts of domestic economy 
to render sufficient for the supply of all the rational wants of life. 
She had borne him six children, four sons and two daughters; of the 
former of whom, one was now fighting in defence of his country at the 
head of its armies; another was a judge administering the laws to the 
people with justice and mingled mercy; a third was cultivating his 
father's land, and watching over his declining age; and a fourth 
imitating the faith of his forefathers both by precept and example. 
The daughters were all happily married, and living a life of virtue, 
in the midst of their children.

The lady of the six folios listened to this detail of modest 
usefulness with unutterable scorn, but far different were the feelings 
of Rhadamanthus, who nodded and smiled approbation at every sentence.

“Approach,” cried he to the mother of six children, and the writer of 
six folios. “Thou,” addressing himself to the former—“Thou that hast 
made thy husband happy by thy cares and thy economy, and thy children 
useful to their country by thy precepts and example, pass into the 
region of the blest, and enjoy thy reward in an eternity of happiness. 
But thou”—and he frowned majestically—“thou that has preferred the 
quill to the spindle; to instruct mankind rather than teach thy 
children the ways of virtue; and to be the mother of six musty books, 
rather than of as many sons and daughters, to honor their parents, 
serve their country, and worship their God, thou shalt return again to 
the earth, where thy punishment shall be to give advice which none 
will follow, and write books that nobody will read.”

The happy mother passed into the region of bliss, and the instructer 
of nations returned to the earth, with a resolution to write another 
folio, contesting the decision of Rhadamanthus, and pointing out the 
abuses of his system of jurisprudence.




SCENES IN CAMPILLO.[1]

BY LIEUT. A. SLIDELL.

[Footnote 1: These hitherto unpublished _Scenes in Campillo_ are from 
a new edition (now in press) of the “Year in Spain.” We are indebted 
for them to the kindness of the author and of the Messrs. Harpers.]


The Andalusian village of Campillo is built on a plain, with regular 
and well-paved streets, houses in good repair and neatly whitewashed, 
each with its stone seat at the door, and grated cage projecting from 
the window and garnished with shrubs and flowers, the scene of many a 
tender parley and midnight interview. Everything in Campillo, to the 
village church and village posada, bespeaks a pervading spirit of 
order and cleanliness, and the little room into which I was installed, 
partook largely of these qualities. It looked upon the principal 
square of the village, having in front the church, with its Gothic 
tower surmounted by the simple emblem of our faith, and embellished 
with the unwonted decoration of a clock, under whose promptings a 
hoarse old bell muttered forth the passing hours. On another side of 
the square was the hotel of the Ayuntamiénto, which contained the 
offices of the municipal authorities and police; while opposite was a 
guard-room, in which were a few ill-fed soldiers, shabbily accoutred 
in dirty belts and rusty muskets. In the middle of the square was a 
plain granite fountain, surrounded by a kerb, which formed a reservoir 
for watering cattle.

For want of better occupation, I passed a great part of the day in 
gazing from my window upon the moving scene below. Sometimes a stable 
boy would bring a train of jaded mules to the fountain, give them 
water, and wash their backs where they had been galled by the 
pack-saddles. Next would come a party of mules, heavily laden; each 
muleteer having his carbine slung securely beside him. These would 
pause a moment, refresh their cattle at the fountain, and then pass on 
and leave the arena again solitary, until some modern Sancho came 
ambling across the square, sitting upon the end of a mouse-colored 
ass, which he would guide at pleasure by means of a staff, touching 
the animal first on one side of the neck, then on the other. He too 
would pause at the fountain, renew his journey, and then have a 
contest with the animal about stopping at the open door of the posada, 
disappearing at length in a rage, and at a full gallop.

While the middle of the square seemed given up to passing travellers, 
the sides were more exclusively occupied by the native worthies of 
Campillo. In the guard-house, the soldiers were all sleeping away the 
heat of the day upon wooden benches in the interior; while the one on 
post sat under the shade of the portico, with his musket leaning 
against the wall beside him, occupied in cutting up tobacco on a board 
to make paper cigars. Immediately under my window was a group of the 
village notables, seated upon the stone bench that ran along the whole 
front of the building, or gathered round the more important personages 
of the assemblage. I amused myself in assigning to each a character, 
and in guessing at the import of his discourse.

That well-fed royalist, with silver shoe and knee buckles, and the red 
cockade in his hat, is doubtless the Alcalde of Campillo. He is 
declaiming upon the {541} late successes of the insurgent royalists in 
Portugal; and of those two who listen to him, and seem to catch the 
words that fall from his lips, the one is our own innkeeper paying his 
court to the powers that be, and the other, with the thin legs and 
long nose, who is followed by a half-starved dog, equally miserable 
with his master, is certainly the village doctor, the Sangrado of 
Campillo. He is evidently looked on contemptuously by the rest of the 
assembly, who are aware of his ignorance, and know that he owes his 
situation, and the right to kill or cure the good people of Campillo, 
rather to two ounces of gold opportunely bestowed on the Alcalde, than 
to any acquaintance with the healing art. The thick-set man in the 
oil-cloth cocked hat, with scowling look and bushy whiskers, who is 
fingering the hilt of his sabre, is the commandant of the royalist 
volunteers. He has become terrible to the “negros,” who will tell you 
that he is no better than he should be, that he began the world after 
the manner of Robin Hood, and passed in due season to the command of a 
royalist guerrilla. But who is that tall sharp featured individual, 
walking across the Plaza, with the village curate on one side and a 
capuchin on the other? That is doubtless the intendant of police, who 
has just received intelligence of some pretended revolutionary plot, 
and who will soon go with a force in search of persons and papers.




THE PINE WOOD.

A SONG—WRITTEN IN GEORGIA.

BY DR. ROBERT M. BIRD.


  'Tis brave and good through the broad pine-wood,
    As through a sea, to steer,
  Cheering the heart and warming the blood,
    In chase of the gallant deer;
  Up o'er the hill, and down the hollow,
    Still through a wood to go,
  With some antique pine in the distance ever
    Echoing your loud hillo.
                        Hillo! hillo!

  In opening May, what a grand array
    Of flowers is spread around!
  Solemn, aloft, are the tree-tops gray,
    But a garden on the ground;
  With the pleasant wild-pink, goatsbeard, and brier,
    And the wild-rose here and there,
  Smelling so sweet in the desert woods,
    And making them so fair.
                        Hillo! hillo!

  Your dogs they rest on the ridgy crest,
    When evening darkens o'er,
  The trumpeter[1] creeps to her high perched nest,
    The hawk he screams no more.
  Down with a pine—how the light-wood catches!
    And soon 'tis in a glow:
  A merry fine time in the pines one passes,
    When we camp—Now, my dogs, hillo!
                        Hillo! Hillo!

  Just at your ear, all night you hear
    The wailing whippoorwill;
  The turkey tramps through the hollow near,
    The owl hoots from the hill;
  The katydid, too, if the summer wake her,
    Pipes out from the flame-bush nigh:
  Sure, the song of the midnight woods is sweeter
    Than mortal minstrelsy!
                        Hillo! hillo!

  And hark! the sound that swells around!
    How mournfully it gush'd!
  A groan of air in the tree-trops drown'd,
    A voice, half-heard, then hush'd;
  The ghostly whisper, the sob, and sigh,
    The dirge of the piny breeze,
  As spirits were clustering over-head,
    Like birds, upon the trees.
                        Hillo! Hillo!

  Then Memory wakes from her silent cell,—
    Perhaps a tear is shed
  For the few we love, or loved, so well,
    The distant, or the dead.
  But a truce to sorrow—the night is waxing,
    The fire is burning low:
  We sleep as well in the dry pine-wood
    As ever in sheets of snow.
                        Hillo! Hillo!

[Footnote 1: The greater wood-pecker.]




THE BATTLE OF LODI.

BY MAJOR HENRY LEE.[1]

[Footnote 1: We are pleased at an opportunity afforded us of 
presenting our readers in anticipation with an extract of great beauty 
from the _second_ volume of Major Lee's Life of Napoleon. This volume 
will not be published for some time—many laborious investigations 
operating to delay the work much longer than was anticipated by its 
author. We are indebted to Major Lee himself for the MS,—who sends it 
to us from Paris.]


Bonaparte, having despatched the affairs which on the evening of the 
action of Fombio called him back to Placentia; having adjusted the 
amount of contribution imposed on that town, provided for the 
immediate passage of his rear division across the Po, and signed an 
armistice with the commissioners of the Duke of Parma, hastened to 
rejoin his advance, and to resume the personal direction of its 
movements. He arrived at Casal Pusterlengo at 3 o'clock on the morning 
of the 10th, and marched without delay in pursuit of Beaulieu. Early 
in the forenoon, and at some distance in front of Lodi, with the 
grenadiers under Lannes, he reached the Austrian rear guard, composed 
of the grenadiers of Nadasti, and two squadrons of hussars, with two 
field pieces; which detachment, Beaulieu, that he might gain time to 
withdraw his main body, encumbered with a heavy train of artillery, 
across the Adda, had directed to defend to the last the approach to 
Lodi. The ground they occupied was found to be so strong that it was 
necessary to execute several manœuvres before they could be 
advantageously attacked. The onset of the French was made with that 
ardor which the presence of their general, and the confidence of 
victory {542} inspired. The defence, which was as obstinate as the 
post was important, was persisted in until the French battalions 
pouring along in succession, the Austrians were nearly surrounded. 
They at last gave way, leaving their killed and wounded, with one 
field piece, on the field; and were pursued so closely into Lodi, that 
they could neither shut the gates nor cross the river before the 
French van-guard was in possession of the town.

Beaulieu's main body, upon which the fugitives retreated, consisting 
of 12,000 infantry, 4,000 horse, and 30 pieces of artillery, was drawn 
up behind field-works on the left bank of the Adda, and immediately 
opposite to Lodi; the artillery, in front, looking on the bridge, and 
the cavalry, a little withdrawn, on the flanks. From this position, in 
which he felt at last safe and unassailable, the Austrian general 
directed a violent cannonade on the town of Lodi, as soon as he 
perceived it was occupied by the French; and expecting rather to 
dislodge his adversary than to be himself disturbed, he declined 
destroying the bridge over the Adda, and thus interrupting his direct 
communication with Milan. To avoid and to mitigate the effect of this 
cannonade, Bonaparte sheltered his infantry and horse, as fast as they 
came up, behind the rampart of the town, which ran along the bank of 
the river; and planting advantageously his own artillery, opened a 
fire, which though supported by fewer guns, was more effectual than 
the enemy's, inasmuch as the Austrians were uncovered. Notwithstanding 
the strength of Beaulieu's ground, Bonaparte perceived, that with men 
like his, it was not impregnable; and persevering in his design of 
intercepting Wukassowich and Colli in their retreat to Mantua, he 
resolved, even under the Austrian guns, to force the passage of the 
Adda. The attempt was hazardous; but the soul of the enterprise 
consisted in its danger, and the main chance of success, in its 
apparent impossibility, which, so long as the bridge remained entire, 
was only apparent. To prevent its destruction, he proceeded in person, 
in full exposure to the Austrian artillery, to place two guns in such 
positions that their cross fires, which assisted by Berthier he 
himself tried, covered the farther end of the bridge, and rendered all 
approach to it impracticable. The freedom with which he exposed 
himself while making his skill as an artillery officer, instrumental 
to his success as their general, delighted the troops extremely, and 
was the occasion of their conferring on him that rank, which rendered 
him famous in the annals of the bivouac, as “the Little Corporal.” 
Then, comparatively at leisure, he made his preparations for forcing 
the passage, ordering the artillery officers to maintain their fire 
with unabated spirit, and directing Massena to give the rest of the 
troops, who were drawn up behind the rampart, and had been in constant 
exertion from 3 o'clock in the morning, a hasty breakfast and a short 
repose.

The force which he had in hand at Lodi was more formidable in 
character than numbers, consisting of three brigades of Massena's 
division, the grenadier corps lately commanded by Laharpe, and a 
reserve of light cavalry under general Beaumont, in all about 13,000 
men; Gen. Kilmaine with the principal part of the horse, and Gen. 
Mesnard with a brigade of infantry, had been detached in the morning 
from Casal; the first to the left for the double purpose of keeping 
free that wing of the army, and of hanging upon the flank of the 
Austrian divisions in their retreat from Milan to Cassano; the second 
to the right, for security on that side, and with instructions to 
observe and act against the garrison of Pizzighitone. Serrurier's 
division being the last in crossing the Po, and having been directed 
to occupy Pavia, was at some distance in the rear; while Augereau's, 
which had encamped the previous night at Borghetto, was following by 
the way of Casal the progress of the advance. To this General, 
therefore, as additional force might be required at Lodi, orders were 
sent to expedite his march, and close up with the front as soon as 
possible.

Although the chief reliance for success in this undertaking, was to be 
on the courage and alacrity of the troops engaged in it, two 
circumstances enabled Bonaparte to bring its issue, in some degree, 
within the range of calculation. One of these was the information of 
the inhabitants, that at the present stage of the water, the Adda was 
fordable for cavalry, at a point half a league above the town; and the 
other, his own observation, that the Austrian commander, in order to 
shelter his troops from the French artillery as the French were 
sheltered from his own, had withdrawn his mass of infantry and his 
corps of horse behind a swell in the surface of the ground, to a 
position so much in the rear, that it placed them farther from the 
Austrian guns, than the French grenadiers would be when prepared to 
rush across the bridge. In the first he perceived an opportunity of 
annoying the right flank of the enemy, and distracting his attention 
at a critical moment; in the second, and more important one, the 
practicability, by a sudden and impetuous charge, of reaching his guns 
before his infantry could interpose; and in both the probability that 
his own column of attack, would be exposed but for an instant, to the 
enemy's artillery. Upon the edge of this sharp inference, which few 
minds would have had the acuteness to shape or the firmness to act 
upon, the fate of the day was to turn.

At 5 o'clock in the afternoon, when the men were refreshed, and when 
Augereau's immediate junction might be counted on, he directed Gen. 
Beaumont with the cavalry and four pieces of light artillery, to pass 
the Adda at the ford above, and having gained a footing on the 
opposite bank, to cannonade the right flank of the Austrians, and if 
practicable, to charge them. A column of attack 4,000 strong, composed 
of grenadiers, and having the second battalion of carabiniers or light 
infantry grenadiers, in front,[2] was formed under the orders of 
Massena behind the rampart of the town, with the leading sections so 
close to the gate, that by merely facing to the left, they would be 
ready to spring upon the bridge. The rest of Massena's troops had 
orders to follow in the charge instantly. The time required for the 
_detour_ of the cavalry, Bonaparte employed in passing through the 
ranks of the grenadiers, by a few energetic expressions encouraging 
their zeal and rousing their intrepidity. Shouts of “long live the 
republic!” repeated by a thousand voices, welcomed his appearance, and 
proclaimed, that troops who had {543} turned the Alps and traversed 
the Po, were not to be stopped by the Adda.[3] The cannonade was 
continued with fury on both sides; when the guns of Beaumont being 
heard on the left, and the Austrian fire seeming to slacken at the 
sound, Bonaparte himself gave the word to advance. The drums beat the 
charge; and the assailants issuing from behind the wall, like a band 
of giants sprung from the earth, suddenly changed the face of the 
conflict and quickly brought it to a closer decision. Wheeling to the 
left, the leading sections rushed upon the bridge against a storm of 
fire, which at the first onset, was so fatal, that the head of the 
column reeled under its destruction. Bonaparte, aware that his attempt 
must prove instantly successful or dreadfully abortive, perceived the 
disorder in a moment, and in a moment repaired it. He hastened to the 
front, and seconded by Berthier, Massena, Cervoni, d'Allemagne, 
Lannes, Dupat, and the Commissary Salicetti, gave a fresh impulse to 
the charge; and the column closing its ranks and quickly redressing 
its disordered front, sprang forward with more determined valor and 
more ardent steps. The bridge, two hundred yards long, was instantly 
cleared. Dupat was the first officer across; Bonaparte himself was 
next after Lannes. The soldiers, impatient to get across, and crowding 
on their leaders, were seen as they approached the shore, some sliding 
down the timbers of the bridge, others leaping off into the water, and 
then speeding up the bank to close with the enemy. Displaying as 
rapidly as they passed, they threw in a close and a deadly fire, and 
falling upon the Austrian artillery before it could be supported, 
dispersed the men or killed them at their pieces. Then with fury they 
rushed upon the infantry, which, neither in time for rescue, nor in 
spirit for revenge, was advancing. A struggle too fierce to be 
lasting, ensued. The Austrians, discouraged by frequent defeats and 
constant misfortunes, were unnerved by this unexpected attack, which 
like a blast of death had swept across the river; and their line was 
already pierced and mangled, when Augereau coming up with his light 
brigade under Gen. Rusca, led it keenly into action and completed this 
double victory, which at one blow, severed a strong line of defence, 
and routed a formidable army. Part of Beaulieu's force fled, with 
their general, into the Venetian territory to Crema, part to 
Pizzighitone, some even to Cremona. His hussars endeavoring to cover 
the retreat, made several charges, which, owing to the firmness of the 
French infantry, were not successful.

[Footnote 2: When Alexander's officers dissuaded him against 
attempting the passage of the Granicus, and particularly at a late 
hour in the day, he said—“The Hellespont would blush, if after having 
crossed it, I should be afraid of the Granicus.”—_Plutarch's Life of 
Alexander._]

[Footnote 3: Napoleon in his despatch reporting to the government the 
battle of Lodi (Moniteur, 20th May, 1796) says, his column of attack 
was formed of grenadiers, with the “second battalion of carabiniers in 
front.” In the French army there are both foot and horse carabiniers, 
the former of which were employed at Lodi, and are the grenadiers of 
the light infantry.]

But the marches and fighting of the day had so much exhausted the 
victorious troops, that though still eager for glory they were panting 
for breath, and the pursuit was not carried far beyond the field of 
battle. The Austrians left on the ground 1,200 men killed and wounded, 
and in possession of the French 1,000 prisoners, 600 horses, 20 guns, 
and several stand of colors. Bonaparte's loss scarcely exceeded 200 in 
killed and wounded; such was the rapidity and effect of a movement 
which, with the nicest calculations of judgment, seemed to combine the 
wild boldness of inspiration.[4]

[Footnote 4: Formally announcing to his readers a minute description 
of the battle of Lodi, (vol. iii. p. 128) the author of Waverley 
prefaces it by assuring them that the Adda falls into the Po at 
Pizzighitone, a town at least twenty-five miles above its mouth; which 
is like saying that the Tiber falls into the sea at Rome. Another 
error into which he falls, requires more serious notice, because he 
founds on it a general prospective imputation of untruth against 
Napoleon, in reference to his military despatches, and his posthumous 
works. At page 134, this free and fanciful historian says—“Bonaparte 
states that they only lost 200 men during the storm of the passage. We 
cannot but suppose that this is a very mitigated account of the actual 
loss of the French army. So slight a loss is not to be reconciled with 
the horrors of the battle, as he himself detailed them in his 
despatches; nor with the conclusion, in which he mentions, that of the 
sharp contests which the army of Italy had to sustain during the 
campaign, none was to be compared with that ‘terrible passage of the 
bridge of Lodi.’”

Now the truth is, Napoleon never “details” nor even mentions, “the 
horrors of the battle” of Lodi, in any of his despatches. In that of 
the 22d Floreal, 11th of May, he says—“Although since the commencement 
of the campaign we have had some severe affairs, and it has frequently 
been necessary to expose the troops to fire in the freest manner, none 
of our struggles has come up to the terrible passage of the bridge of 
Lodi.” Here is certainly no “_detail_ of the horrors of a battle,” 
implying a conflict and slaughter of some duration. On the contrary, 
in the body of the same despatch, he had previously described the 
severity of the affair, as existing only for a moment. “The grenadiers 
presented themselves on the bridge, which is 200 yards in length; the 
fire of the enemy was terrible; the head of the column seemed even to 
hesitate; _a moment's hesitation_ and all would have been lost. The 
generals sensible of this, threw themselves in front, and decided the 
struggle _while it was yet balanced_. This formidable column overthrew 
every thing opposed to it; the enemy's artillery was _instantly_ 
taken. _In the twinkling of an eye_ his army was completely 
dispersed.” Salicetti's despatch is conceived in similar terms. The 
charge was made “with the rapidity of lightning”—the column hesitated 
“for an instant”—and renewing the charge, carried the Austrian 
artillery “in a moment.” In his account dictated to Montholon, (vol. 
iii. p. 214) Napoleon, who could hardly have anticipated a calumny of 
this kind, says—“the column traversed the bridge at a running pace, in 
a few seconds,” and “was not exposed to the fire of the enemy, except 
at the very moment when it wheeled to the left upon the bridge.” All 
this shows that the “storm of the passage” instead of consisting of a 
“_detail_ of horrors,” was a momentary hurricane of shot, which swept 
off in an instant from the head of the column 200 men. Now the head of 
the column, could only have been a certain portion of the whole 
column. As the second battalion of carabiniers was in front, let us 
suppose this battalion constituted the head, and had got upon the 
bridge. We learn from a previous statement of Napoleon's, which is not 
disputed, (Montholon, t. 3, p. 205) that the ten battalions of 
grenadiers collected at Tortona, composed a force of 3,500 men. They 
had been marching and fighting ever since; but let us estimate the 
second carabiniers at 300; supposing them all on the bridge when the 
Austrians fired, and we have two thirds of them killed and wounded in 
a single instant! If this was not _a sharp affair, a hot fire, a 
terrible passage,_ it is doubtful whether the annals of war furnish 
any thing that is. Cæsar lost but 200 men at the battle of Pharsalia, 
although the struggle had been at one moment so warm, that the brave 
Crastinus and thirty centurions fell.—_Bello civili. L. 3, C. 99._

The head of the column being thus shattered, had the Austrian 
artillery quickly repeated and vigorously sustained their fire, the 
attempt of Napoleon must have failed. But it is evident that they were 
daunted and confused by the sudden rush of the French upon the bridge, 
by the opening of Beaumont's guns upon their flank, and by the want of 
support from their own infantry; and after delivering one fire, served 
their guns unsteadily and made little effectual resistance; for of all 
the distinguished persons who sprang to the front of the column, eight 
in number, not one was even wounded. This agrees perfectly with 
another passage of Napoleon's report, which is of itself a {544} 
refutation of Sir Walter's calumny. “If we have lost but few men, it 
is owing to the promptitude with which the charge was executed, and to 
the sudden effect produced on the enemy, by the imposing mass and 
dreadful fire, of our intrepid column.”

But the author of Waverley, finding that no authentic narrative of 
this action furnished the desired “horrors of the battle,” resolved, 
it seems, in order to color his charge of wilful and habitual 
misstatement against Napoleon, to prepare a set of horrors of his own, 
expressly for the occasion. At page 133, therefore, he asserts, in 
opposition to the report of Napoleon, that of Salicetti, the memoires 
of Napoleon, the histories of Jomini and Desjardins, all of which were 
in existence when he wrote, that “from the windows of the houses on 
the left side of the river, the soldiers who occupied them, poured 
volley upon volley of musketry on the thick column as it endeavored to 
force its way over the long bridge.” This _detail_ seems with little 
variation to be transposed from his own spirited account of the battle 
of Bothwell bridge. “But the bridge was long and narrow, which 
rendered the manœuvres slow as well as dangerous, and those who first 
passed had still to force the houses, from which the covenanters 
continued to fire.”—_Old Mortality_, chapter xxxii. After this it 
would be needless to remark upon the next passage in Sir Walter's 
commentary, which runs thus: “In fact, as we may take occasion to 
prove hereafter, the memoranda of the great general, dictated to his 
officers at St. Helena, have a little too much the character of his 
original bulletins; and while they show a considerable disposition to 
exaggerate the difficulties to be overcome, the fury of the conflict, 
and the exertions of courage by which the victory was attained, show a 
natural inconsistency, from the obvious wish to diminish the loss 
which was its unavoidable price.”]

The French cavalry, with the exception of a small party headed by 
Marmont, and composed mostly of Bonaparte's escort, took no part in 
the action, and received none of the General's praise. It was alleged 
that the ford was found less practicable and the circuit more 
extensive, than had been counted upon. But the conduct, or rather the 
nullity of this corps, at Lodi could hardly have lessened the 
dissatisfaction which Bonaparte expressed the day before in a letter 
to Carnot. “I will confess to you, that since the death of Stengel, I 
have not a single fighting man among the superior officers of cavalry. 
I wish you would send me two or three Adjutants General, who have 
risen in the dragoons, possess a spark of military fire, and are 
firmly resolved never to make skilful retreats.” It was not until the 
French had reached the borders of the Mincio, and by capture or 
contribution had furnished their troopers with heavy horses; and when 
Murat, being returned with promotion from Paris, had an opportunity of 
displaying that unbounded courage which gave a romantic splendor to 
the technical force of his charges, that the cavalry of the army of 
Italy began to prove worthy of their General's skill in war, and to 
rival the infantry in prowess.[5] The conduct of the grenadiers, and 
particularly of the battalion of carabiniers, was above praise or 
description. When Bonaparte asked for the names of the men who formed 
the leading section of the column, for the purpose of mentioning them 
honorably in his report, the names of the whole battalion were handed 
him. Léon, a sergeant of the thirty-second, whose courage had been 
noticed at Monteligino and Montinotte, and Laforge, a grenadier of the 
twenty-first, remarkable for activity and strength, appear however to 
have been most conspicuous. The sergeant, after passing the bridge in 
the front section, led the assault upon the Austrian batteries. The 
grenadier, throwing himself into the enemy's intrenchments, slew five 
men with his own hand. Among the generals in like manner, the 
gallantry of Berthier was judged pre-eminent. To these circumstances 
Bonaparte made allusion in his report. “Were I to mention all who 
distinguished themselves, I should be obliged to name all the 
carabiniers and grenadiers of the light division, and almost all the 
officers of the staff. But I must not forget the intrepid Berthier, 
who himself acted as gunner, horseman, and grenadier, on this 
memorable day.”[6] Yet however excellent the spirit of the troops and 
the conduct of the officers, few victories were ever, in so great a 
degree, the result of the General's sagacity and courage, as that of 
Lodi.[7] His modesty in making no reference to himself in his report, 
was as heroic as his conduct in the battle.

[Footnote 5: This account of the French cavalry at Lodi is confirmed 
by the words of Napoleon's report—“the ford being found very bad, the 
cavalry was greatly retarded, and could not charge.” It corresponds 
with the observation respecting them in his memoires (Montholon, t. 1, 
p. 4.) Yet Lockhart insists, that at the battle of Lodi and during the 
charge of the French grenadiers, “Beaumont pressed gallantly with his 
horse upon the Austrian flank.” The same critical historian, who 
appears to have written for the sole purpose of repeating or inventing 
misrepresentations, copies devoutly Sir Walter's errors; one importing 
that the vanguard of grenadiers who first passed the Po, was commanded 
by Andreossi, and the other that the Adda falls into the Po _at 
Pizzighitone_.]

[Footnote 6: In the report, neither of Napoleon nor of Salicetti, is 
it stated that they were personally engaged in this charge. But at St. 
Helena, “some one having read an account of the battle of Lodi, in 
which it was said that Bonaparte displayed great courage in crossing 
the bridge; and that Lannes passed it after him—‘Before me,’ said 
Bonaparte, with much warmth; ‘Lannes passed first and I only followed 
him. It is necessary to correct that on the spot’—and the correction 
was accordingly made in the margin of the book.” (Haylitt, vol. i. p. 
449. See also Lockhart, t. 1, p. 47.) Here _first_ must mean _before 
me_; for in his despatch to the Directory of the 22d July, (Moniteur 
of the 1st of August,) in reporting a successful assault on the 
outworks of Mantua, and extolling the conduct of the officers engaged 
in it, Napoleon says—“The chief of battalion Dupat, who commands the 
brave fifth battalion of grenadiers, is the same officer who passed 
the first the bridge of Lodi.” In his despatch, Bonaparte tells the 
Directors that Salicetti was constantly at his side, a fact which 
shows the latter was in the charge, and which otherwise would probably 
not have been mentioned. He also says—“the army is under real 
obligations to him,” referring no doubt by the word _real_, to the 
_false_ pretensions set up, by Salicetti and his colleagues, or for 
them, in regard to the storming of Little Gibraltar at Toulon, which 
are noticed in the first volume (p. 365) of this work.]

[Footnote 7: After this anecdote, the author of Waverley lugs into his 
narrative, the following compliment to the national vanity of his 
countrymen. (Vol. iii, p. 137.) “This somewhat resembles the charge 
which foreign tacticians have brought against the English, that they 
gained victories by continuing, with their insular ignorance and 
obstinacy, to fight on, long after the period when if they had known 
the rules of war, they ought to have considered themselves as 
completely defeated.” Such impertinence and bad taste deter imitation, 
or it might be said, this charge against Sir Walter's compatriots has 
never been urged by officers of the army or navy of the United 
States—neither on the lakes nor on the ocean; at Saratoga, nor at New 
Orleans, where the “flower of the peninsular veterans,” as Sir Walter 
himself admits, (vol. viii. p. 474,) led by the disciple and 
brother-in-law of Wellington—sought a combat with an inferior force of 
western militia, and were perfectly sensible of a total defeat.

  “Testis Metaurum flumen et Asdrubal
   Devictus, et pulcher fugatis
   Ille dies Latio tenebris.”]

Although the possession of Milan and the submission of Lombardy were 
consequences of the battle of Lodi, Bonaparte was disappointed in one 
of the principal objects which he hoped to gain by it. Wukassowich and 
{545} Colli, feebly annoyed by Kilmaine, had crossed the Adda at 
Cassano, in the forenoon of the day; he forced a passage at Lodi, and 
taking the upper route, by the way of Brescia, to Mantua, were beyond 
the reach of interception. Relinquishing, therefore, further efforts 
against these Generals, he determined to attack Pizzighitone before it 
could be put in a state of defence, and marched for that purpose on 
the morning of the 11th, down the left bank of the Adda. The flight of 
a few shells seconded by the cannonade of Mesnard from the right bank 
of the river, compelled the garrison of three hundred men, which 
Liptay had left behind him, to surrender. Cremona, a more important 
fortress, opened its gates the same day to General Beaumont, who after 
charging a body of the fugitives from Lodi, appeared before it with an 
advance guard of cavalry.

From this point, which was the present limit of his career, Bonaparte 
determined to lead back his forces in order to secure the country they 
had overrun; and turning his views toward Milan, resolved to impress 
on that capital and other cities of Lombardy, the stamp of French 
authority, in the room of that which his victories had expelled. This 
operation, which first called into exercise his abilities for 
government, appears to have awakened the germs of that high ambition, 
which, nurtured by the possession of great civil qualities, placed him 
so far above all the other Generals of his age, and conducted him to a 
sphere of elevated greatness which a mind supported by military 
talents alone, and ambitious only of success in war, can never reach. 
In recurring to the events of his early life, he afterwards 
said—“Neither my success on the thirteenth of Vendemiaire, nor in the 
campaign of Montenotte, made me believe myself a superior man. It was 
not until after the battle of Lodi, that I began to think I might 
become a decisive actor on our political theatre. Then it was, that 
the first spark of high ambition was kindled in my soul.”

Suspending for the moment his further advance towards the Adige, he 
thus disposed of his troops: The light division lately commanded by 
Laharpe, was distributed along the Adda from Como to Cassano; and that 
of Serrurier, which had been under orders to occupy Pavia, was 
recalled and posted at Lodi, Pizzighitone and Cremona, so as to 
complete the possession of the line of the Adda. From this last place, 
he was to observe the discomfited forces of Beaulieu, who were 
reassembling behind the Oglio and the Mincio. Augereau was directed to 
take possession of Pavia, and to exhibit in that celebrated city, 
which was next to Milan itself in importance, one of the finest 
divisions of the invading army; while to Masséna was assigned the 
still more honorable duty, of receiving the keys of the noble capital 
of Lombardy. At the head of his division, this distinguished General 
marched from Lodi, on the 13th of May.

The hostile forces being now separated, the imperialists collecting 
their shattered battalions within the Venetian frontier, and the 
republicans spreading their victorious divisions over the plains of 
Lombardy, the reader's attention will be inclined to turn from the 
constant success of the one, and the uniform defeat of the other 
party, to the conduct of their respective commanders. He will observe 
that while a lamp of foresight guided the French General, the Austrian 
was bewildered in a cloud of uncertainty. Though active, courageous, 
and experienced, Beaulieu was throughout the struggle, as distracted 
in his efforts as a sightless pugilist, who knows neither where to aim 
nor to expect a blow; and although operating in the open field and in 
a populous quarter of his own country, was invariably subjected to the 
effect of surprise. The passage of the Po, the combat of Fombio, the 
victory of Lodi, operations which constituted the leading acts of this 
brilliant section of the campaign, were, each of them, the result of 
an attempt, which had it been foreseen, might have been frustrated. 
But while Beaulieu was guarding the Po at Valenza, Bonaparte had 
passed it at Placentia; while he was preparing to support Liptay at 
Fombio, that General was already defeated; and while he felt 
unassailable and meditated offensive operations at Lodi, he was 
himself overthrown by a blow of such quick and incalculable energy, 
that it was impossible to fear, withstand, or recover from it.

The confusion and dismay which these circumstances spread through the 
ranks of the imperial army, are aptly exemplified by the anecdote 
which Bonaparte records of an old Hungarian captain, with whom among 
other captives he fell in, while making the rounds of his camp, the 
night after the surrender of Pizzighitone. The prisoner, who did not 
know to whom he spoke, being asked by the General what he thought of 
the state of the war, replied—“nothing could be worse, and that it was 
altogether incomprehensible.” “We have to do,” he added, “with a young 
General who is at one moment in our front, at another in our rear, and 
the next on our flanks. One knows not how to take him. This manner of 
making war, against all rules, is insupportable.”

Bonaparte on the other hand, seizing the initiative by his boldness 
and maintaining it by his activity, divined the intentions of his 
adversary on all occasions, and confounded them, as with the 
overruling force of destiny. Accordingly, though operating with little 
more than his vanguard, he predominated irresistibly in the campaign, 
defeating the corps which came in his way, terrifying those which kept 
out of it, and in defiance of obstructions that seemed to others 
insurmountable, by an electric shock of genius and audacity, hurling 
to the ground the military strength and political power of his once 
gigantic antagonist.




MARCUS CURTIUS.

BY OMEGA.


    A Roman matron thus addressed her son:
  “Why, at this time, wilt thou put armor on;
  No foreign foes menace thy native land,
  No hostile galleys seek her guarded strand—
  At peace with all but Gods, thou dost not hope
  In martial pride with Heavenly power to cope?
  Oh say thou goest not, as much I fear,
  To view yon gulph of terror and despair:
  It open'd at the word of angry Jove,
  And 'till our prayers win mercy from above,  {546}
  A million, brave as thou, might spend in vain
  Their strength or lives to close its depths again.
  No answer, Marcus? Ah, my heart sinks down
  With sad presentiment of ills unknown.
  Why shade those ringlets, trimm'd with scrup'lous care,
  A brow whose gloom thy mother cannot cheer?
  And deck'd more gaily than a bridegroom—why
  Turn'st thou on me a grave and mournful eye?
  Remain with me, my son, but this one day—
  To-morrow take my blessing with thee;—say,
  Shall she who gave thee birth implore in vain?
  Unblest by me, what canst thou hope to gain?”
  To this alone he calmly made reply—              |
  His gaze on her, his right hand raised on high—  |
  “Safety for Rome——renown that ne'er shall die!”  |

    No kind farewell, tho' shower'd her grief like rain—
  He knew himself, nor dar'd to look again;
  But shook his plume, suppress'd the gathering tear,
  Turn'd his proud horse, and urg'd his fleet career.
  His parent gazed in that convulsive grief
  Which burns the heart, nor finds in tears relief—
  No Spartan she to bid him wear his shield,
  Or be borne on it from the battle field.
  “Oh Death,” she cried, “a desolate mother see!
  In mercy strike, and set my spirit free!
  I'll seek my son on thy unfriendly shore,
  My heart assures me he returns no more.”

         *       *       *       *       *

    Though Rome's ten thousands throng'd the Forum: there—
  All stood aloof in more than mortal fear,
  Save now and then, a veteran or a priest
  Approach'd the gulph, more hardy than the rest,
  And gaz'd on what the boldest might confound—
  So vast its depth, so black, and so profound.
  Sulphurous, stifling exhalations rose,
  With hollow sounds, perchance the laboring throes
  Of a new Ætna, whose volcanic ire
  Might burst ere long, and deluge Rome with fire:
  But when the priestly train, in pomp and state,
  Proclaimed aloud the stern decree of Fate,
  That never more should close that dread abyss,
  Or Rome know safety, 'till the appointed price
  Of peace with Heav'n were paid, by burying there
  All that she held most precious—then despair
  Gave way to patriotic hope, and soon
  Money and costliest goods were tossing down
  With eager haste, 'till Curtius rode along
  The precipice, and thus bespoke the throng.
  “Romans, withhold your gifts—the Gods behold
  Unmoved this reckless waste of gems and gold!
  Think ye the wealth of conquer'd realms can save
  Th' imperill'd city from this yawning grave—
  That Rome, whose banner to the skies unfurl'd,
  Proclaims the future mistress of the world,
  Can bring, when to her last resources driven,
  No purer, costlier boon to proffer Heaven
  Than sordid ore, which every miser craves,
  The bane of freedom, and the life of slaves?
  Be sure it needs in this abyss to throw
  What gold ne'er bought, and Gods alone bestow.
  Our guardian deities do most approve
  Of military courage, and the love
  Of native land; and if within my heart
  These virtues may be found, I now depart
  Alone to fathom the impervious gloom,
  And be this gulph my altar and my tomb!
  Oh may propitious Jove with favor see
  This sacrifice, and Rome remember me!”
  Rider and horse have reached the brink—one bound,
  And, like a dream, he disappeared!——no sound,
  No shout of triumph, or of dread, to tell
  His fate, who dar'd so nobly and so well.
    Strange horror, admiration, and regret,
  Spell-bound that multitude—thereon was set
  Silence unearthly—even as with a seal
  Unbroken—'till a muttering thunder-peal,
  Low, sad and solemn, through the empyrean rung,
  As tho' the Gods his funeral requiem sung—
  While slowly to its music closed the tomb
  That held the saviour and the pride of Rome.
    The act—its motives—its results, imprest
  A sacred awe on every Roman breast.
  In silence to their rescued homes they turn'd,
  And inly blest the hero while they mourn'd;
  They rais'd no arch, in vain triumphal pride,
  Recording how or wherefore Curtius died—
  No column trophy-crown'd: no sculptured stone;
  These but emblazon what were else unknown:
  A death whose influence might ne'er depart,
  Had shrin'd his heroism in every heart.

    Immortal Curtius, Heaven hath deigned to hear
  Thy aspirations and thy dying prayer
  For Rome and for thy memory: it shall be
  A watchword to the patriot and the free
  'Till Rome shall perish. Since thy deed sublime,
  Two thousand years have join'd the flight of Time;
  Earth's mightiest empires, one by one o'erthrown,
  Have seen thy country matchless and alone;
  Supreme in arts and arms. Her godlike race
  Of statesmen, poets, orators, who grace
  Th' eternal city's annals, have arisen,
  And shone, and set like stars—and o'er the scene
  Of her departing greatness, trod the throng
  Of unredeeming tyranny and wrong;
  The Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun have given
  Her pride and grandeur to the winds of heaven.
  New times, new creeds, new worlds have sprung to birth,
  And countless changes overswept the earth,
  But kindles still the generous emotion
  Of youth, at thy heroic self-devotion;
  Nor may the votaries of a purer faith,
  And loftier hopes, think slightly of thy death—
  For had thy lot in after days been thrown,
  Thou might'st have been a Christian, and have known
  The ardent zeal which, shrinking not t' engage
  The fangs of beasts, or man's more brutal rage,
  Had given thy spirit from the flames to rise,
  And seek a martyr's crown beyond the skies;
  By thy example fired in many a land
  Shall future Washingtons and Hampdens stand,
  Unbought by gold, unaw'd by despot power,
  Between their country and her perilous hour—
  And in the historic page their names shall shine
  In stainless lustre, unimpaired, like thine.

_Richmond, July 25._


{547}


BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835.

NO. II.

THE HOUSE OF LORDS.


The chamber of the House of Lords is close to that of the Commons. The 
constant communication between these two bodies, renders it necessary 
that they should sit within the same palace. The recent destruction of 
the old Parliament House, by fire, has not separated them. Their 
temporary chambers are connected by temporary passages, leading from 
one to the other. Along them Members of the House of Commons, 
personally, carry their bills to the bar of the Peers; while the Peers 
despatch their messengers to lay their own before the representatives 
of the people.

The Ministers do not fail to avail themselves of this proximity. Being 
entitled to a seat only in that chamber to which they belong as 
Members of Parliament, when any struggle between themselves and the 
opposition is going on at the same time in both houses, they are at 
least enabled to exchange messages, from minute to minute, and to 
regulate their movements accordingly.

Thanks to this proximity, the noise and uproar of the popular branch, 
has alone, more than once, made the members of the more aristocratic 
body tremble on their seats. While the fanatical coalition of the 
Lords, temporal and spiritual, assailed the intrepidly defended, but 
badly fortified ministry of Lord Melbourne, more than once, the 
thundering voice of the Commons has relaxed the fury of the 
assailants, and encouraged the resistance of the besieged. The 
victorious cry of the reformers, led by Lord John Russell, often threw 
into confusion the conquered conservatres of Sir Robert Peel.

But it is necessary to describe this second arena of political 
warfare.

The chamber of the Lords is of the same form as that of the Commons—a 
lengthened square. The benches are generally placed in the same way; 
but the decorations are of a more striking appearance. Looking from 
the only gallery, common to the public and the reporters, you behold 
the throne immediately in front. This throne is not, as in France, a 
piece of furniture placed in the chamber every year, on the first day 
of the session. Here it is immovable.

Below is the celebrated woolsack, the seat of the real President of 
the assembly. Custom has determined that this must be a sort of sack—a 
bench without a back.

The apartment for the clerks is separated from the woolsack by two 
benches, on which two places are reserved for the Masters in Chancery, 
the official messengers of the chamber.

The covering and drapery of the throne, the hangings of the walls, the 
carpet, the screens, the benches, cushions and backs, every thing is 
red in this hall. Red is the aristocratic color. When the Peers, on 
the occasion of a visit from the King, are seated in state, with their 
red mantles, the whole appearance of the chamber is more dazzling than 
imposing. The appearance of the Commons at the bar, in their simple 
every day dress, presents a striking contrast. One smiles in spite of 
himself on reflecting that those are not the masters, who are thus 
sumptuously dressed in garments of purple.

This hall, in which the Lords are temporarily convened, was formerly 
the bed-chamber of Edward the Confessor. One can well imagine that if 
the four hundred and thirty nobles should take it into their heads to 
meet at the same time, that this room would with great difficulty 
contain them; but this fancy rarely ever seizes them. It is a great 
occasion which draws together even two hundred. The Peers enjoy a 
singular privilege which renders personal attendance almost 
unnecessary. They can vote by proxy. So that, when any one of them 
desires to travel on the continent, he leaves, if he choose, a power 
with some Peer of his own party, who exercises this delegated right of 
voting as often as he pleases, when he pleases, and how he pleases, 
except in divisions of a committee. Formerly the royal authority alone 
could render these powers available. Now even this is not required. At 
the present time, the Duke of Wellington, for instance, has his pocket 
full of tory votes.

The Peers who are in the habit of attending Parliament, find the 
present hall very small and uncomfortable. The government, which is 
building a new Parliament House, has consulted them on its dimensions; 
and it has been decided that it shall be neither very large nor very 
small. No one ever thought of building it on the supposition that the 
whole of the Peers would assemble at one time within its walls. This 
hypothesis has never even been suggested. The number of Peers present 
at the same time, has never been greater than on the question of the 
passage of the principal amendment attempted against parliamentary 
reform, the 7th of May, 1832. On that occasion there were two hundred 
and sixty-seven members in the house. That number was taken as the 
maximum: each member will be allowed three feet square. It is evident 
that the noble Lords are divided between the desire to be seated 
comfortably, and the fear of having too large an apartment, in which 
on some day or other a crowd of intruders may lodge themselves.

One word on the constitution of this chamber. Nothing can be more 
various than the elements of which it is composed. It has, first, its 
Peerages hereditary under the law of primogeniture—these are the 
English Peerages, and are beyond all comparison the most numerous; 
next, the Scotch and Irish Peerages, which are elective, but on 
different principles. The Scotch Peers are nominated only for a single 
Parliament; the Irish are for life. There are besides Ecclesiastical 
Peers, Archbishops and Bishops, English or Irish, who sit, the former 
on their own right, and for life, the latter by turns, every year, 
four by four.

In England the Peerage forms the only nobility possessed of any real 
title. One who is not a Peer has no legal title. The sons of Peers are 
not authorized to assume, in their public acts, any title of nobility. 
Even the eldest sons are only Lords by general consent and courtesy. 
The official list of the Peerage is the only official list of the 
nobility. The peerages are of different ranks; and among those of the 
same class, the most ancient has precedence. Thus there are in the 
first place, Dukes, then Marquises, Earls, Viscounts, and Barons. The 
Bishops and Archbishops, known as Lords Spiritual, are ranked 
according to their respective {548} dignity. The Archbishops of 
England have the rank of Dukes, and even precede them. The Archbishop 
of Canterbury, the primate and head of the church, is a sort of 
English Pope, and follows immediately after the Princes of the blood. 
He is the first Peer of the House of Lords. The Lord Chancellor (when 
there is one) is, in virtue of his office, the second; and the 
Archbishop of York is the third. The Bishops are ranked as Barons, and 
have precedence of them.

The Barons of Kingsale, like the Grandees of Spain, enjoy the 
exclusive and hereditary privilege of remaining uncovered in the 
presence of the King. The Peers have no other privileges, (excepting 
the peculiar style in which they are addressed, as “his grace,” or the 
“right honorable,”) which are not common to them all. Their chief 
privileges are those which prevent the seizure of their goods, their 
being arrested for debt, or judged by default in any civil action. 
They cannot be held to answer any criminal process but before their 
Peers. The reason of the inviolability of their persons in these and 
many other cases, is to be found in the fiction by which the Peers are 
all considered as counsellors of the King, and therefore secured in 
this perfect personal freedom, that they may be always ready to serve 
the necessities of the crown.

The House of Lords can only exclude a member and deprive him of the 
privileges of his rank, by convicting him of some capital or infamous 
crime. However, Blackstone mentions that, during the reign of Edward 
IV, George Neville, Duke of Bedford, was degraded by act of 
Parliament, on account of his poverty, which prevented his keeping up 
a style suited to his rank as a Peer. This fact is the more curious, 
as it is the only one of the kind, in the whole history of Parliament. 
Subsequently, a practice the very reverse has prevailed. So that, 
recently, the Earl of Huntingdon, though reduced to extreme indigence, 
has succeeded in establishing a contested claim to the Peerage, and 
the King has endowed him to enable him to sustain his rank as becomes 
a nobleman.

In England the aristocracy is firmly established. Each Peerage rests, 
at least fictitiously, on a real title, based on landed property. 
France and Spain, with a much larger and more ancient and illustrious 
nobility, have, however, never had a powerful and deeply-rooted 
aristocracy. If the French noblesse of the States-General had formed a 
political body strongly seated, properly supported, and distinctively 
marked, the revolution could not have overthrown them with as much 
ease as it did. Louis XVIII undertook, in 1814, to construct an upper 
house; he was too late—the materials were wanting—he built with sand 
on a foundation of sand.

It is now two years since M. Martinez de la Rosa also endeavored to 
form one in Spain. Well! in the country where every body is a 
_hidalgo_, he was unable to find grandees and _tilulos_ for his frail 
edifice. He went to work like the French political masons in 1831; he 
took political economists, philosophers, judges, lawyers, poets, 
merchants, and mixed them all up with the little of true nobility that 
remained. With this mortar he built his _proceres_, destined to last 
about as long as the new Peers of France.

It is certain that the British Peerage has no longer the solid 
strength it once possessed; but, though weakened and shaken, it 
maintains itself by the vigor of its original organization; it does 
not absolutely arrest the popular torrent, but it resists, even in 
letting it pass along. However, this flood will not always dash 
without injury, around the House which forms an obstacle to its 
course; it is fast undermining its foundations; and will soon or late 
overthrow the whole mass. It will have been long submerged while 
Westminster Abbey still mirrors itself in the Thames. Such is the lot 
of the works of the middle ages. Its buildings outlive its strongest 
institutions.

The British Peerage is not only a legislative body; it is at the same 
time a court of justice—not an extraordinary court for the trial of 
its own members or persons accused of high treason, but a permanent 
and regular court—a supreme court of appeals in civil matters. These 
two attributes are, however, as distinct as the unavoidable 
consequences of this double capacity will permit; good sense has 
corrected in practice, the theoretical absurdity of the law. Although 
every Peer is born a competent judge in every cause, as he is a born 
legislator, the House of Lords only sits as a common tribunal when it 
is represented by the lawyers belonging to its own body. For example, 
Lord Brougham or Lord Lyndhurst, both Ex-Chancellors, usually sit in 
the morning, and give a final judgment on civil suits brought to that 
court.

No divorce can be pronounced but by act of Parliament. The Peers 
decide on all process for separation. As in these cases the only 
question is about facts which no legal knowledge is required to 
comprehend, they are decided indifferently by the Law-Peers, or any 
others present at the commencement of the political session. So the 
House of Lords is at the same time a court and a legislative chamber; 
a barbarous amalgam.

If the strict rules of ceremony were preserved, the Peers should sit 
according to their ranks; that is to say, Dukes on the first benches, 
Marquisses on the second, and the Barons on the third. This order is, 
however, not observed. They range themselves like the Commons, 
according to the political party to which they belong, Barons, Earls, 
Dukes or Marquisses indiscriminately. During the session just closed, 
the ministry of the whigs and their friends, occupied the seats to the 
right of the woolsack; the opposition of the tories, those on the 
left.

We use the terms “whigs” and “tories,” for these words are most 
suitable to the House of Lords. The whole aristocracy being centered 
in that House, the Peers only represent themselves; they do not 
express the will of such or such a party, but their own will. Lord 
Durham and Lord Brougham, both radicals, are anomalies and differ 
entirely from their fellows.

The political classification of the House of Lords, is more simple and 
easy than that of the Commons. There is at present, as during the last 
century, in the Upper House, two different shades of aristocracy, 
which fiercely contend for power and the emoluments of office; the 
_tories_, consistent at least with their anti-liberal principles, the 
triumph of which, if such triumph could be accomplished peacefully and 
without a revolution, would be the only safety for the Peerage; the 
_whigs_, very much embarrassed by their pretended popular opinions, of 
the sincerity of which proofs by acts and not by words, are begun to 
be required.

Numerically these two divisions are far from being {549} equal. 
Counting consciences, you would have ten tories for one whig. However, 
in 1832 the whig minority forced the tories to capitulate; and, since 
that time assisted by the pressure from without, it has more than once 
dictated the law to its adversaries. But the period is rapidly 
approaching when the true majority will attempt to break the yoke, 
perceiving that concessions can no longer avail to secure its safety. 
It would be at least as becoming to seize the sword, and fall in 
defending its ramparts, as to wait seated on its curule chairs, the 
political death which threatens it.

The rules and customs of the two chambers in some respects resemble, 
and in others differ from each other.

In the House of Lords the members remain covered as in the Commons; 
and in the former chamber more etiquette is preserved. It is more rare 
to see their Lordships convert their benches into beds, or imitate 
with their legs the signs of a telegraph. The murmurs of the House are 
more subdued and civilized, the disapprobations expressed with more 
courtesy; the arena of discussion generally presents less animating 
and striking scenes; there is more concession, and more unity. You 
witness none of that strife of common-places which exasperate to so 
great a degree the patience and the politeness of the Lower House. 
There, for one eloquent harangue, you will have to submit to ten 
stupid ones, which serve no other end than to lengthen and injure the 
discussion. In the Lords able speakers are not so common, and do not 
abuse to so great a degree their right of speaking. It is true that 
the Peerage is but a groupe, but a little intrenched garrison; and you 
should not expect either reserve, or discretion, or discipline, in 
such a multitude as the Commons; an impatient army bivouacing whole 
nights on the benches, and where each soldier wishes to be a 
conqueror.




TO A TORTOISE-SHELL COMB.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Being an humble imitation of the style of some modern poets, by the 
prism of whose fancy the most common objects are invested with the 
hues of poesy, even as the sunbeam turneth to diamonds the dews which 
heedless night hath flung over the earth.


    There is more in thy history than meets
  The eye of cold observance. Had'st thou words
  To speak imprisoned secrets, how would all
  Thy silent, chiselled labyrinths resound
  With thought transcending eloquence! Deep things—
  The passionate breathings of a hidden voice,
  And young and fond imaginings that swell
  The fountains of a yet untroubled soul,
  Ere to the world its flowings have gone forth—
  Thou hast been witness to. Thou hast reposed,
  Pressed by a pearly hand, upon a brow
  Stainless and lofty; and thou hast been worn
  When the full tide of youth and loveliness
  Coursed wildly through her heart, o'erlooking all
  Her regal swanlike grace; moved when she moved,
  In blest obedience—perchance hast stooped
  To watch the speakings of her mantling cheek,
  And felt the haughtiest tossings of a head
  Whose classic beauty might a Phidias shame.

    And when the hour of twilight musings came
  And thy fair mistress in the leafy bower,
  Or by the curtained casement, lay entranced
  In all the dreamy luxury of thought,
  When the soft odors of the sleeping flowers
  Stole forth on dewy wing to visit her,
  And bathe her brow in sweetness—when she looked
  To the far, quiet stars, that glanced abroad
  In silent, glorious beauty—thou hast strayed
  Carelessly through the long fair locks that lay
  Like a sun-kindled cloud across her neck:
  Lifting each half unconscious tress in pride,
  Fondly and lingeringly entwining it,
  As loth to quit thy lovely resting place.

    And thou art—aye, sweet shell—more favored far
  To owe thy polish to her gentle touch,
  Than the most honored worshipper who kneels
  Before her shrine: than he who holds thee now
  Betwixt a reverential thumb and finger,
  Absorbed in admiration of thy worth.

_New York, 1836._




INFLUENCE OF NAMES.

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would 
smell as sweet.”—_Shakspeare._


Shakspeare was mistaken. There is a great deal—there is almost every 
thing in names. Their influence is felt at all times, and under all 
circumstances. In war and peace—in morals, literature and religion—in 
the world of fashion—and above all, in politics, the despotism of 
names is all powerful, universal and irresistible. Nay, Shakspeare 
himself is authority against Shakspeare. Does he not make the gentle 
Juliet say to her lover, “'Tis but thy _name_ that is my enemy”—that 
fatal name which separated two devoted hearts—which planted thick 
sorrows in their path, and finally shrouded them in one common 
sepulchre! Does he not put into the mouth of one of Antony's captains, 
“I'll humbly signify what in his _name_, that _magical word of war_, 
we have effected.” And again, speaking of the great Pompey, “his 
_name_ strikes more than could his war resisted.” Names indeed govern 
the world; and it is not among the least ingenious of all human 
contrivances that the world should be so governed. I do not wish to 
speak of the moral guilt and future accountability of those who 
combine to delude the ignorant—who chain mens' minds to some false 
idol, or enlist them in some scheme of abomination, whose iniquities 
are artfully veiled under the names of virtue, patriotism, and the 
like. If the denunciations of the eloquent Hebrew prophet against 
those who call evil good, and good evil—who put darkness for light, 
and light for darkness—who call bitter sweet, and sweet bitter—are not 
sufficient to alarm such delinquents, it would avail nothing for 
uninspired tongues and pens to attempt their conviction and reform.

In _literature_, how remarkable and how injurious is the influence of 
names, apart from any actual or intrinsic merit. How common is it to 
estimate an opinion or sentiment, not by the wisdom of the one or the 
purity of the other, but by the authority of him who pronounces {550} 
it. A false, immoral, or stupid passage in a book, which bears on its 
title-page the name of a popular writer, is often received with favor, 
when precisely the same offence in an unknown author would be almost 
certain to bring down upon him the lash of criticism. Take for example 
one of England's most renowned bards—one, not more known even in his 
own country than on this side of the Atlantic—whose “Melodies” are 
lisped by our amorous youths and sentimental maidens, and whose name 
has become a “household word”—a passport to every festival where 
music, love and wine are the sources of enjoyment. Among his “National 
Airs” so called, Mr. Moore has written the following lines, which have 
no doubt been admired by every pretty miss in the country, as the very 
perfection of poetry, sentiment, and even good sense.

  Flow on, thou shining river,
    But, ere thou reach the sea,
  Seek Ella's bower, and give her
    The wreaths I fling o'er thee.
  And tell her thus, if she'll be mine,
    The current of our lives shall be,
  With joys along their course to shine,
    Like those sweet flowers on thee.

  But if, in wandering thither,
    Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
  Then leave those wreaths to wither
    Upon the cold bank there.
  And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,
    Her lone and loveless charms shall be
  Thrown by upon life's weedy shore,
    Like those sweet flowers from thee.

Now the plain English prose of all this, when divested of the magic of 
Mr. Moore's numbers, is something like the following. “Take, gentle 
river, these pretty flowers which I fling upon thy surface, and before 
thou reachest the great ocean, be pleased to flow into the bower of my 
fair Ella; and if it be not miracle enough, good river, for thee to 
rush into a lady's bower, without either drowning her or wetting her 
garments, be pleased to perform another wonderful feat and _speak to 
her_—tell her if she will only marry me, our joys whilst we are 
floating down life's current, shall resemble these wreaths which are 
borne upon thy bosom. But mark me, river!—if this insensible girl is 
resolved that she will not accept a good offer, why then roar like 
another cataract, toss these worthless wreaths on the shore to wither 
and rot, and tell this cruel Ella that she will live and die an ugly, 
neglected old maid.”

Now, whilst it is fully conceded that the figure of _personification_ 
is perfectly legitimate, especially in poetry; yet there are certain 
degrees of it which should never be attempted, unless connected with 
subjects of great dignity, or which inspire powerful emotion—and it 
must not be forgotten that the excellence of poetry does not consist 
so much in the form or arrangement of its words as in the value and 
beauty of the thoughts and sentiments which it expresses. A gentle 
zephyr stealing into a lady's bower and lulling her into repose, or 
whispering in her ear the sighs of an absent lover, is natural and 
agreeable enough; but a river, or even rivulet, turning from its 
course and performing the same office, is a conception which would be 
very ridiculous in any other than a _popular_ poet. It would be 
tedious to point out other examples of similar extravagance in Moore, 
and one only shall suffice—a song which has occasioned abundant 
fluttering in female hearts, and which for impious hyperbole was never 
excelled:

  Why does azure deck the sky,
    But to be like thine eyes of blue?
  Why is red the rose's dye?
    Because it is thy blush's hue, &c. &c.

In which said song the poet very calmly shows that all that is bright, 
and fair, and sweet in creation, was made purposely to resemble some 
young lady of his acquaintance. And yet all these trifles and 
absurdities, to say nothing of the frequent obscene allusions of the 
same author, have acquired an extensive popularity under the influence 
of a popular _name_.

It would be no difficult task to extend these remarks so as to embrace 
a long list of distinguished writers, both in prose and verse, who 
have perpetrated various offences against sound morals as well as good 
sense, but with whom the lustre of reputation, like the mantle of 
charity, has not only shielded them from censure, but imparted a kind 
of dignity and splendor to their failings. Enough perhaps has been 
said to illustrate the influence of names in the empire of literature.

How is it in the empire of the church? But here I tread upon sacred 
ground, and must use both brevity and caution. That truth exists in 
religious doctrine as well as in other things, will not be denied, 
except by unthinking scepticism or perverted reason. The difficulty 
has always been in finding her out—in distinguishing her sacred 
vestments and celestial carriage from the skilful imitations of 
imposture. The diamond may be known, by the tests of experiment, from 
the gems which mimic its lustre; but there is no moral chemistry which 
can separate truth from error, and resolve each into its proper 
elements. In fact, it seems to be one of the fallacies which have 
obtained currency among mankind, that truth and error are natural 
antagonists. So far from it, they are scarcely ever to be found in a 
state of disunion or repulsion. Error winds itself around the stately 
column of truth, as the creeper folds in its poisonous embrace the 
sturdy oak of the forest. Not that they are not in themselves 
essentially different—but so are the gasses which are found in 
combination in the water we drink, or in the atmosphere we breathe. 
What tremendous influence has been wielded by the simple word 
_church_, from the very first ages of christianity down to the present 
time! That name alone has covered a multitude of sins, and sanctified 
innumerable crimes. What torrents of blood have been shed under the 
crimson banner of _orthodoxy_, and how many meek and conscientious 
_heretics_ have fled from the tender embraces of that holy and 
infallible mother, who has assumed the supreme government of the soul 
in this world, as well as the direction of its immortal destiny 
hereafter. But I only dwell upon this subject in order to show how 
much we are deceived by empty, unmeaning names. That there is such a 
treasure as “pure and undefiled religion,” none but the hardened 
infidel or remorseless libertine will deny. That it is always 
necessarily found under the priestly robe, or connected with the 
“sober brow,” neither candor nor charity itself will contend for—and 
yet, some how or other, the world has identified the sacred gift with 
a certain sanctimonious exterior, and with certain peculiar 
ceremonials, and there are few, perhaps, who reflect that it may be 
more frequently traced in the abodes {551} of humility and 
wretchedness, in the sighs of a contrite heart, and in the tears of 
penitential guilt.

But how is it in the world of _fashion_? What is fashion? Many 
attempts have been made to define what in truth is undefinable. It is 
an empty _name_—a mere shadow, and yet is of substance sufficient to 
be felt and seen and understood almost every where. A popular English 
novelist, writing of his own country, says—“The middle classes 
interest themselves in grave matters: the aggregate of their 
sentiments is called OPINION. The great interest themselves in 
frivolities, and the aggregate of _their_ sentiments is termed 
FASHION. The first is the moral representative of the popular mind—the 
last of the aristocratic.” But this definition is unsatisfactory. 
Fashion executes its decrees with as much energy and effect upon those 
who are excluded from its mystic circle, as upon them who reside 
within its pale; upon the popular mind as well as the aristocratic. 
Its frivolities bewilder and dazzle the multitude who abjure them, as 
well as the chosen few with whom they originate. Imagine this 
mysterious agent, or whatever it may be called, personified, and 
endowed with the majesty and power of a queen,—and what are her 
attributes? A fickle, inconstant, inscrutable and unscrupulous 
being—selecting her subjects from every rank and condition, and with 
every diversity in morals and intellect—yet investing them with an 
uniform and exclusive badge of distinction; exacting from her 
followers the most unbounded homage, and repaying them often with the 
sacrifice of peace, health, fortune, self-respect and virtue; 
instilling into those who throng around her throne the poison of 
impure and corrupting pleasures, and in those who are banished to the 
outer courts, awakening the worst passions of envy, discontent and 
hatred, added to a debasing sense of inferiority. Fortune is not more 
capricious in dispensing her favors than this empress of smiles and 
frowns. By her command, dullness is transformed into wit, and 
deformity into grace. The withered maiden of forty is arrayed in the 
matchless charms of blooming seventeen, and the notorious libertine 
becomes transmuted into the fascinating and agreeable companion. If a 
despot of bodily shape and form, were to cause his power and caprice 
to be felt in all the minute concerns and occupations of society; if 
he were to ordain laws regulating the dress—furniture—social 
intercourse and amusements of his subjects, and in so doing should 
levy an oppressive tax upon their fortunes, time and comforts—the 
spirit of freedom would circulate like the electric fluid from one end 
of the community to the other; the tyrant would be resisted with 
fearless and determined perseverance. And yet doth fashion issue her 
imperial decrees equally as despotic and calamitous in their effects, 
without other aid than the influence and magic of her name—whilst her 
subjects, so far from opposing resistance, render an implicit and 
delighted obedience to her mandates. And what is this inexorable 
arbitress at last but a _name_? What is this capricious and mysterious 
intermeddler in human affairs but a vain shadow? a creature of 
imagination only, and yet as powerful as Cæsar and Napoleon in all 
their glory! Shakspeare was wrong; there is much—there is every thing 
in _names_.

In that great concern of human society—the structure and action of the 
_political machine_, how does the matter stand? Are the governed 
portion of mankind—I mean a majority of them—influenced by things or 
names? The recorded experience of past ages, and our own particular 
observation, will answer the question. The master spirits who have 
ruled mankind with success, have studied the genius of the people with 
whom they lived. National glory was at one time, if it be not now, the 
passion of the French, and Napoleon well knew how to avail himself of 
a moral lever of such tremendous force. Administering to that all 
devouring and never satiated appetite, he found it an easy task to 
wade through tears and blood to the goal of his ambition. Preceding 
the period of his meteor-like and almost miraculous career, the French 
nation had been intoxicated by seraphic dreams of liberty and 
equality. Awakening from a long and gloomy night of slavery, they 
became suddenly bewitched by the doctrines of a new philosophy, (to 
them at least new,) which proclaimed the sovereignty of the people—and 
it was long before the horrors of Revolution could dispel the 
enchantment. The leaders in that dark and bloody episode of human 
history, retained their ascendancy so long as the names of _liberty_ 
and _equality_ could be skilfully employed for their purposes. An 
_appeal to the people_, or a compliment to their sovereign power, 
wisdom and virtue, was the daily prologue to those scenes of human 
butchery, which posterity will regard as incredible fictions. “Oh 
liberty!” said the beautiful Madame Roland, as she bowed her neck to 
the guillotine—“what crimes are committed in thy _name_!”

Are we free in our day from these disastrous influences? Have names no 
fatal magic with us—sufficiently fatal to unloose the bands of 
society—to subvert institutions, long cherished and venerated, and 
finally to dissolve the fairest fabric which ever realized the visions 
of hope, or the speculations of philosophy? Alas! have we not studied 
human nature enough to know, that _all_ men are not honest and 
patriotic, and that some are sufficiently selfish, cunning, cruel and 
ambitious to work out their own designs, and accomplish their own evil 
desires, although calamity should overspread society, and millions go 
supperless to bed? Are there not hundreds of demagogues who are 
willing to flatter and wheedle and delude the people into final 
enslavement, if in the whirlwinds of their own creation they can ride 
into power and office? With what calm and shameless effrontery do such 
men constantly exert before our eyes a controlling power over the yet 
doubtful destinies of this infant republic! To fulfil the purposes of 
ambition, the vilest appeals are made to the lowest and basest 
passions of the multitude. The _pride of democracy_ is a never failing 
chord to be skilfully touched, when some wicked design or atrocious 
mischief is meditated. The popular good—the welfare of the dear 
people—is the favorite string played upon by worn out political hacks 
and corrupt aspirants to office. Does a well tried and virtuous 
patriot stand in the way, and refuse his sanction to the bold 
assaults, or disguised and no less dangerous encroachments of power? 
He is instantly denounced as an odious and insidious _aristocrat_, and 
is forthwith delivered over to the tender mercies of the faithful—the 
great _democratic republican family_—the self-styled conservators of 
the only true and genuine principles of liberty—whose peculiar 
province it is to keep the republic pure, by a patriotic monopoly of 
all its {552} offices and honors. It would indeed be perfectly 
amusing, if it were not at the same time a subject of sad 
contemplation, to hear the terms _aristocratic_ and _democratic_, in 
the party contests of the day—familiarly applied to things and persons 
having no one quality—to justify such idle distinctions. The man for 
example who is “clothed in purple and fine linen, and fares 
sumptuously every day”—who drives his splendid equipage with liveried 
servants, who “lies down in luxury and rises in sloth”—that man is a 
member, or if you choose, the leader of the plain republican 
party—whilst the humble homespun pedestrian, who walks by the wheels 
of the other's chariot—whose bread is earned by the sweat of his brow, 
but who is sufficiently independent to think for himself—is denounced 
as an _aristocrat_, or what is worse, a _Federalist_ of the genuine 
stamp—and is thought unworthy of all communion with the faithful, or 
at least of all participation in equal political benefits. _Epithets_ 
are the powerful weapons with which bad and ambitions men have in all 
countries finally succeeded in overturning all that was valuable and 
good—all that was wise and beneficent; and unless the people of these 
States shall in time become sufficiently enlightened, to distinguish 
the _qualities_ of things from their _names_, we shall assuredly ere 
long add another to that gloomy procession of republics, WHICH HAVE 
VANISHED FOREVER FROM THE EARTH.

H.




THE CITY OF SIN.

BY E. A. POE.


  Lo! Death hath rear'd himself a throne
  In a strange city, all alone,
  Far down within the dim west—
  Where the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best,
  Have gone to their eternal rest.

  There shrines, and palaces, and towers
  Are—not like any thing of ours—
  Oh no!—O no!—_ours_ never loom
  To heaven with that ungodly gloom!
  Time-eaten towers that tremble not!
  Around, by lifting winds forgot,
  Resignedly beneath the sky
  The melancholy waters lie.

  No holy rays from heaven come down
  On the long night-time of that town,
  But light from out the lurid sea
  Streams up the turrets silently—
  Up thrones—up long-forgotten bowers
  Of sculptur'd ivy and stone flowers—
  Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
  Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
  Up many a melancholy shrine
  Whose entablatures intertwine
  The mask—the viol—and the vine.

  There open temples—open graves
  Are on a level with the waves—
  But not the riches there that lie
  In each idol's diamond eye,
  Not the gaily-jewell'd dead
  Tempt the waters from their bed:
  For no ripples curl, alas!
  Along that wilderness of glass—
  No swellings hint that winds may be
  Upon a far-off happier sea:
  So blend the turrets and shadows there
  That all seem pendulous in air,
  While from the high towers of the town
  Death looks gigantically down.

  But lo! a stir is in the air!
  The wave—there is a ripple there!
  As if the towers had thrown aside,
  In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
  As if the turret-tops had given
  A vacuum in the filmy heaven.
  The waves have now a redder glow—
  The very hours are breathing low—
  And when, amid no earthly moans,
  Down, down, that town shall settle hence,
  All Hades, from a thousand thrones,
  Shall do it reverence,
  And Death to some more happy clime
  Shall give his undivided time.




A HINT,

TOUCHING THE GREEK DRAMA.


While there is an active literary faction in America, who decry the 
study of the ancient classics, it is still pleasing to observe, upon a 
comprehensive survey, that these consecrated remains are assuming in 
public esteem the place which they deserve. I hope therefore to meet 
with some indulgence when I offer a few desultory remarks, not in 
behalf of classic lore in general, so much as in commendation of a 
single branch. The observations which follow are meant to shew some 
reasons why our scholars should devote special attention to the _Greek 
Tragedies_.

It is believed that these relics, unfortunately not more than thirty 
in number, have been more neglected in our schools and among our 
private scholars than any portion of ancient letters. That this has 
not been the case in England will be very apparent to any one who is 
familiar with the lives and labors of such men as Bentley, Porson, 
Markham, and Blomfield. Especially in the University of Cambridge the 
ardor with which these works have been restored to purity of text, and 
elucidated by indefatigable research, has been almost excessive.

The intrinsic difficulties in the Greek plays are not such as should 
deter any well grounded scholar. After an ordinary training in the 
Attic idioms of Zenophon, Plato, and Demosthenes, the labor will be 
small. From the nature of the versification, there is a limit to the 
construction, so that the sense cannot be thrown beyond a few lines. 
And the metres themselves, except in the most difficult choral parts, 
have been robbed of their intricacies by the labors of the critics.

There is this obvious inducement for the scholar to take up a Greek 
tragedy, that it is short. Even if he {553} study with minute 
analysis, a few days will complete his task. But he who begins the 
Odyssey is loth to lay it aside until he has finished it, which is the 
work of months. The tragedy is complete in itself, “_totus teres atque 
rotundus_.”

It has been maintained by some scholars, that no human productions 
have the perfection of literary finish, as it is possessed by the 
dramas of Euripides. And we may include his two great predecessors in 
the remark, that their works, like the Hellenic sculptures, will 
remain unrivalled, the models of all who aim to present nature 
idealized to its utmost point.

The ancient tragedy, from its very nature, contains the concentration 
of high passion. This was the very notion of it, as tragedy. And this 
quality renders it an indispensable study to all those whose province 
it is to scrutinize or to awaken the active powers; in other words, to 
the metaphysician, the poet, and especially the orator. No doubt it 
was this view of the subject which led a man no less visionary than 
Mr. Fox to declare, as he does in his correspondence with Dr. Parr, 
that if he had a son to educate for the senate, he would cause him to 
be profoundly versed in the writings of Euripides.[1] And yet so far 
as mere passion is concerned, we find it more strongly developed in 
the “desolate simplicity” of Aeschylus, than in either of his 
followers. This use of dramatic composition is doubtless involved in 
that celebrated and vexed passage of Aristotle's Poetics, in which 
tragedy is said to be efficacious to _purge the passions_. Barker 
quotes Jamblichus, in illustration of this _παθηματων καθαρσις_, where 
he says: “By contemplating the passions of others in tragedy and 
comedy, we settle our own passions, render them more temperate, and 
purify them.” Milton also, whose whole soul was steeped in Grecian 
poesy, alludes in the introduction to his Samson Agonistes, to this 
same remark of Aristotle, where tragedy is said “to be of power by 
raising pity and fear or terror, to purge the mind of those and such 
like passions, that is, to temper and reduce them to just measure.”

[Footnote 1: See Appendix to Parr's Works, Johnstone's edition. Vol. 
vii. and viii.]

Alike in name, ancient and modern tragedy scarcely belong to the same 
species. The grand distinction of the former is the chorus, which is 
altogether inadmissible in the latter. According to the most specious 
hypothesis this was the nucleus of the Greek drama, around which, by 
slow degrees, the dialogue was gathered. It was the chorus, as a train 
of personages unconnected with the plot, that relieved the tedium or 
directed the excitement of the dialogue. Sometimes, as they appear in 
significant dance, they advise, exhort, or suggest a moral; sometimes 
they echo back the feeling of the actors, and always augment the 
grandeur of the pageant. Thus we find the chorus ever and anon 
breaking in to temper the unnatural rage of Medea, and in this respect 
discharging the duty indicated by Horace,

  Ille bonis faveat, et concilietur amice:
  Et regat iratos, et amet pacare tumentes:
  Ille dapes laudet mensac brevis: ille salubrem
  Justitiam, legesque, et apertis otia portis:
  Ille tegat commissa, &c.
                                       _Ad Pisones_ 195.

The mere English reader will have a fair conception of this singular 
ingredient of the ancient drama, by perusing Milton's tragedy 
above-named, which is cast in the most rigorous Attic mould; and 
which, we are tempted to imagine would have been received even at 
Athens, if it could have been brought out in the astonishing Greek 
version of Glasse. If Gray had not dissipated his matchless powers 
upon mere fugitive efforts, he might have done more than all other 
scholars to produce a spirited repristination of the antique chorus. 
Mason's _Elfrida_ on the same plan has been thought a failure. His 
estimate of the ancient chorus however merits attention. “Shakspeare” 
says he, speaking of the _poetic_ element in the drama, “had the power 
of introducing this naturally, and what is most strange, of joining it 
with pure passion; but I make no doubt, if we had a tragedy of his 
formed on the Greek model, we should find in it more frequent, if not 
nobler, instances of his high poetical capacity. I think you have a 
proof of this in those parts of his historical plays, which are called 
choruses, and written in the common dialogue metre. And your 
imagination will easily conceive, how fine an ode the description of 
the night preceding the battle of Agincourt would have made in his 
hands, and what additional grace it would receive from that form of 
composition.” He also shows that the chorus augmented the pathetic, 
both in its odes and dialogue; by music, by the dance, by aiding and 
carrying forward the impression, and by showing to the spectators 
other spectators strongly affected by the action. These remarks are 
cited merely to throw light on this cardinal attribute of the ancient 
drama, not to recommend its revival among the moderns. The German 
scholar will find the “Iphigenia in Tauris” perhaps the severest and 
happiest imitation of the antique; yet it does not “come home to our 
business and bosoms.”

The relative importance of these great productions should cause them 
to be placed in a commanding position at our great schools. This has 
already been effected in England. A taste for this branch of study is 
fostered by the rank which it is made to hold in the university 
examinations. Porson's noted prize is awarded annually to the best 
translation into Greek verse of a given passage of Shakspeare. In the 
Cambridge examinations, the three great objects of competition in 
classical literature, are the University Scholarships—the Classical 
Tripos, and the Chancellor's Medal. Among other exercises demanded of 
candidates, they are expected to translate into _English verse_ any 
given portions of the three tragedians, as well as of Aristophanes. A 
passage, usually from Shakspeare or Milton, is assigned, to be 
translated into _Greek verse_. The metre is generally Tragic Iambic; 
sometimes Tragic Trochaic; sometimes Anapæstic; rarely Heroic, and 
still more seldom Comic Iambic. The obvious tendency of such measures, 
is to excite the most intense emulation in the whole literary corps, 
and to keep before the mind of the learned the highest models. 
Familiarity with these amazing conflicts of passion is not merely a 
literary luxury; it is a great preparative for those real scenes in 
which the statesman, the advocate and the orator, are called upon to 
reach the hidden springs of human action, to sway the motives, and 
wield “at will the fierce democraty.” The American student therefore 
who is awake to his own interest, will not deem it beneath his notice 
to work in this mine, and will say with Milton,

  Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy
  In sceptered pall come sweeping by,  {554}
  Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
  Or the Tale of Troy divine;
  Or what (though rare) of later age
  Ennobled hath the buskined stage.

BOREALIS.

_N. Jersey._




SACRED SONG.

BY W. MAXWELL.

  Oh strike the Harp.


  Oh! strike the harp, while yet there lies
  In Music's breath the power to please;
  And if the tears should fill mine eyes,
  They can but give my bosom ease.
  But hush the notes of Love and Mirth,
  Too welcome to my heart before;
  For now those airs that breathe of earth
  Can charm my pensive soul no more.

  Yes, I have loved the world too well,
  And roved in Pleasure's train too long;
  And I have felt her sweetest spell
  In Beauty's smile, and Passion's song.
  But now my soul would break her chains,
  While yet perhaps the grace is given;
  Then strike the Harp in Zion's strains,
  And she shall soar at once to heaven.




A TOUR TO THE ISTHMUS:

_Filled in from the Pencillings of an English Artist,_

BY A YANKEE DAUBER.

                Painting is welcome;—
  The painting is almost the natural man;
  For since dishonor traffics with man's nature,
  He is but outside. These pencilled figures are
  Even such as they give out.
                                      _Timon of Athens._


I.

Chesapeake Bay. Hampton Roads. Old Point. Rip Raps. The Capes.

_Tuesday, May 26, 1835._ Hurrah! there she goes! Free and fast,—free 
and fast! Hurrah! Here am I on the green waters of the Chesapeake,—my 
craft a little clipper, my companion one of the best fellows in 
creation; and his sister, a bright-eyed French girl, whose spirits 
seem to rise with every knot our tight little vessel makes upon the 
dancing waves. Did you ever see a Baltimore clipper under full way? 
Then you have seen a fair sight. I never saw any craft get over the 
waves so fast. Her peculiar build, and her yet more peculiar rig fit 
her for this, and she takes the wind out of any thing and every thing 
she essays to compete with. We have left a steamboat behind since we 
left Baltimore. We are just now entering Hampton Roads, and here we 
are to anchor. “Old Point Comfort,” is the name given to a 
fortification on our right, which, in the dense mirk of the night 
looks like any thing but the abode of comfort. We are riding at anchor 
upon the surging waves, and beneath dark and heavy clouds piled one 
above another in voluminous masses, from which the lightning is 
playing incessantly. It is a most grand and yet most fearful scene. I 
stand, with Mariette, my little French companion, and, as if 
spellbound, look into the depths of cloudland, watching for every 
opening of those yawning chasms disclosed by the perpetual play of the 
lightning, regardless of the warning of the captains, (for we “serve 
two masters”) who are foreboding a fearful night. Excitement! what are 
we not willing to sacrifice for it,—a new scene, something strange,—a 
fresh feeling! Here are we, tempests threatening us from every point, 
the wind veering incessantly from every quarter of the heavens, and 
the chances that we shall be driven ashore increasing with the lapse 
of every moment, and yet all is so new, and so exciting, that we are 
really rather amused than fearful. But then, capitaine, if you 
_insist_ upon it, why, I suppose we must e'en go below!

_28th._ Just returned from a visit to what one of the men who 
accompanied us called “the last post office I ever _did_ see, any 
how!” It is located in the centre of the grand fort, planned by the 
most celebrated engineer of his own and Napoleon's time, General 
Bernard. They mount three hundred guns, and the work, I understand is, 
or is to be the finest piece of military architecture in the United 
States. But it was too dark while we were there to observe any thing 
minutely. We are now approaching blue water very fast. The Rip Raps or 
Fort Calhoun on our left, will soon be lost to our view. This 
fortification is only a few feet above the water as yet, nor will it 
be finished for some years. I do not know who was the projector of it, 
but presume from the name it bears that it was originally projected by 
that celebrated South Carolinian statesman, while he was minister of 
the war department. It is to be built on a similar plan to that of 
Cherbourg in France, by filling large boats or rafts with stone, and 
sinking them. This mass is then covered with loose stone, over all 
which a composition or cement is poured, acting as a binder. This work 
is about gun distance from Old Point Comfort, and the two, by a cross 
fire, form a most admirable barrier to James River, thus protecting 
the ports of Richmond and Norfolk completely. I do not see that 
Baltimore is by any means adequately guarded, its only protection 
being a small fort a dozen miles below the town, which might be very 
easily evaded by a skilful foe.

_29th._ Only think of a stager of my standing and experience being 
sea-sick! I am ashamed of myself, after defying Old Nep. in his very 
lair, in two or three regular marches across his domains, to be here, 
turning pale in the face from encountering the Capes of Virginia. But 
so it is, and as that droll Yankee Liston whom I saw in Boston, but 
whose name I forget,[1] was wont to say, “it can't be any _'tisser_.”

[Footnote 1: My friend means Finn.]

_June 4._ After all, this sea life is an intolerably monotonous and 
stupid way of getting along in the world. I would rather be a dormouse 
or a hedgehog; indeed I might as well be either,—for my only life now 
is lying in the sun all day, eating if my qualms will allow me, and 
drinking whether they will allow me or no,—merely _pour passer le 
temps_: sleeping from seven o'clock, P.M. until seven o'clock, A.M. 
besides taking a nap in {555} the morning, and a siesta to boot. I 
have seen the flying fish, the whale, and the Portuguese man of war, 
which Mariette says is “sans doute le Nautile,”—and now I close my log 
till I shall see a dolphin. “This do I swear, and now let's have a 
song!” as the renowned Artaxomines saith.


II.

Chased by a Pirate. Going ashore. St. Thomas's. Descriptive Sketches.

After a lapse of many days, I resume my sketches, to give you some 
account of my going ashore in the West Indies, after my long and 
tedious voyage. Since I shut up the port-folio nothing worthy of 
remark has occurred. The same succession of two-knot breezes, of lazy 
floating gulf-weed and of flying fish; the same rolling of the vessel 
all the first part of our voyage, to make us sick, and then six days 
of severe squalls, during light and dark, to make us mad, were our 
only amusements. My comrade was on his back, a martyr to this 
combination of horrors. Mariette, poor thing! looks the spectre of 
herself; and as for myself, I have conjugated that bore of a verb 
_ennuyer_ in all its moods and tenses, until I began to fancy myself a 
marine Mazeppa, tied on a seahorse, and doomed to ride the waste of 
waters forever for my sins.

What a relief was it, and how did it stir my sluggish blood, to hear 
the captain say that there was a pirate in full chase of us, one 
squally morning. We were a fore and aft schooner—with a two and a half 
knot wind—while the chase was square rigged, and neared us every 
moment. The wind had not blown from any quarter steadily for six days, 
but was rising and lulling every half hour,—and it was to this 
peculiarity in the weather that we owed our escape, after a smart 
chase of seven hours. Our craft was a very fast vessel on the wind, 
and a breeze springing up, we distanced the enemy in a little time, 
and soon run her clear out of sight. So much for the speed of the far 
famed Baltimore clippers! This sea-devil appears to be well known by 
sailors in these waters; and one of our crew told me that she carries 
no guns, but only small arms, which are easily stowed, or plausibly 
accounted for,—and if she is overhauled by a government vessel, that 
she shows merchants' papers. When she attacks she makes sure work, and 
quiets all babblers: “dead men tell no tales.” Upon our arrival at St. 
Thomas, we heard of preparations being made to pursue this very craft, 
which had been carrying on its bloody trade in the vicinity of that 
island. Arrived at St. Thomas on the last day of June.

This island belongs to the government of Denmark, and its latitude is 
about 18 deg. 30 min. It seems to me one of the most interesting 
places I ever visited, which feeling, in advance of all experience 
upon its shores, must arise from the impression of novelty which every 
thing I see around me has produced. The principal harbor (Porto 
Franco) is one of the loveliest bays in the world; it is round and 
small, and filled with vessels displaying the flags of every nation on 
the globe. Among these I observed that the stars and stripes of your 
free land predominated greatly. Entering this harbor, you see only a 
dense mass of mountain and wood, until within a few miles you see the 
Moro, or fort, on the right, and a dilapidated structure on the left, 
of an entrance scarcely a half mile across. Passing the latter 
fortification, as it is called, the whole town rises grandly before 
you, compactly built on a succession of undulations or spurs of the 
grand hill which composes the island, reaching quite down to the 
water's edge. The wharves are built on piles, as are many of the 
stores or warehouses for the deposit of heavy goods, as tobacco, 
sugar, &c. in which an extensive trade is carried on by the people of 
the island.

The town does not make so imposing an appearance from the harbor as it 
would do were the houses more than one or two stories high; and one is 
disappointed on going ashore, to find a much more dense and extensive 
population than he was prepared to see. The streets are refreshed with 
the shade of banana and cocoa trees, and here and there you meet with 
a market place or parade ground, with these tropical trees growing in 
thick luxuriance around them. I have observed that several parts of 
the town have of late been thickly planted with them, but as they are 
six years in attaining their growth, they are yet very small compared 
with the others I have described.

Many, I may say most of the houses are built of stone, and this 
renders them much cooler and more agreeable places of residence than 
they would otherwise be. Yet the preference of this material arose 
less from choice than necessity. There was a most calamitous fire in 
the island in the year 1832, which devastated nearly the whole town. 
Since that time the government have prohibited the erection of 
buildings from any other material than stone. These are low, but neat 
and commodious enough.

The country around (if that may be called so which is a continued 
ascent to the elevation of about 3,000 feet above the level of the 
sea, rising abruptly from the harbor) is surpassingly rich in verdure, 
every description of tropical shrub and underwood growing 
spontaneously. Many of these, and indeed most of them, are gay and 
brilliant in their flowering, but singly are, like other wild flowers, 
scentless. Yet on the hills, their united or concentrated aroma is 
often overpowering.

In the morning, upon rising and coming on deck, while the heavy dew is 
yet lying upon all around me, I observe that the water outside the 
harbor, being very deep, is of the most intense blue; while inside the 
harbor it is of the brightest green,—brighter than any thing I have 
ever seen, excepting some very light shades of foliage,—and realizing 
the clearness of Claude's water pieces. And when the early sun shines 
upon the waters, they present shades of emerald, which, were I to be 
so daring as to convey them to my canvass, would be invariably 
condemned by all beholders as fictitious. This, by the way, is one of 
the painter's greatest obstacles; to surmount which, indeed, he finds 
it impossible: he must paint nature with art as his model, before he 
can be called natural; yet he knows full well that

  “Laboring art, can never ransom Nature
   From her inaidable estate.”

In the centre of the town is a very substantial fort of dark blue 
stone, an excellent garrison, and paved with a kind of fire-brick or 
tile. The guns are very small but beautifully cast. They are of brass, 
and are handsomely mounted. The men are all clean, well dressed, and 
under admirable discipline. Their light Danish complexion strikingly 
contrasts with the swarthy {556} countenances of the islanders. The 
pale fair faces, flaxen hair, sandy mustachios and light blue eyes of 
the soldiery, mark them at once among the smooth-chinned, black-eyed, 
curly-haired Creoles and natives. The streets are filled with blacks 
of every grade and shade, all thinly clad; and the coquettish manner 
in which the _Madras_ dress their heads in their striped 
handkerchiefs, with the hair long and straight, or braided and hanging 
in clubs around the forehead and temples, and a peculiar style of gait 
in the women, combine to give them a certain air, which at first gives 
you rather a ludicrous idea of them; but as you see more of it, it 
becomes rather pleasing than otherwise. The girls of fifteen or 
sixteen are frequently met walking in pairs, as erectly as possible, 
clad in a single garment, generally of white cotton or linen, either 
falling down to the feet in folds, or tied round the waist; with a 
kerchief, and the folds partially drawn up to this belt, to aid the 
wearer in walking. This gives them a certain air which we sometimes 
call classic, and which is associated rather with the idea of an 
Egyptian or a Hindoo. When young they are mostly beautiful; but age, 
though it does not destroy that erectness of gait which I have 
described, gives them an unsteadiness in their carriage which is quite 
marked and very general. I have observed too, that the old people of 
the laboring classes, are either grossly fat or wretchedly thin and 
emaciated. It is curious to see the precision and ease with which they 
carry their burthens, invariably upon their heads, and which they 
balance, be they ever so heavy, with great nicety. I yesterday saw two 
girls coming from the well with their water pots. These are entirely 
Egyptian in their fashion, being large and round, with long necks, and 
a handle on each side. They are made of red clay, and are very strong. 
I could not but stay to watch the group. The figures of the girls were 
faultless, their faces pleasing, though black; and then their thin 
white flowing draperies setting off their slender graceful forms and 
small neat feet to great advantage. The back ground to this scene was 
formed by a row of latticed houses, shaded by cocoa trees.

The stores for the sale of fancy articles and dry goods are large, 
commodious and cool,—fire proof, by ordinance of the government, with 
large open doorways, displaying the interior almost entirely, and 
attended by the whole family—fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, and 
slaves. Articles of all descriptions are cheaper here than in New 
York, though I confess the currency puzzles me no trifle, the Spanish 
dollar being here worth only seventy-five cents, and that is divided 
into so many “stivers” and “bits,” that a stranger is cheated every 
hour in the day in spite of his teeth.

_July 7th._ I have just returned from one of the most whimsical scenes 
I ever witnessed. About half a mile from the town rises a chain of 
hills, divided by ravines running from the summit to the spot I 
visited, a distance of perhaps two miles. This being the bight of the 
hills, is always moist, even in the hottest weather. A small stream 
which is constantly trickling down, keeps the place cool, and the 
foliage is the richest and purest green I ever witnessed. Tropical 
trees and shrubs of every kind, glow here spontaneously; the lofty 
silk cotton tree,—the mango, with its dense foliage, than which there 
is no shade from the sun, or shelter from the rain more agreeable,—the 
graceful pomegranate,—the quivering tamarind with leaf like the locust 
tree, but more graceful and fragile, and a thousand other plants, all 
in blossom, and bearing ripe fruit and green at the same time. One 
would fancy the place the chosen spot of Oberon, for the scene of his 
fairy revels,—although at present a very different kind of fairies 
were disporting themselves in this lovely wilderness. The spot is 
called by the very unromantic name of “Buck's _Gut_,” from the 
circumstance, I believe, of its being the property of a Mr. Buck. 
However this may be, it is private property, and the owner derives a 
profit from it by farming it out to a tenant, who has built a dam at 
the head of the stream, which is but a little drizzle of water an half 
inch deep or thereabouts. Thus he makes a pool, in which he sells the 
right of washing linen at the rate of ten stivers, or twelve cents 
_per diem_. The parties hiring this privilege, assemble over night and 
form lesser pools, by building smaller dams at intervals from the top 
to the bottom of the ravine, out of stones, mud, and old rags. Round 
these pools congregate persons of every color and shade—but no 
white—dressed in every degree, from the dress in which their Maker 
sent them into the world, to the _fashionable_ muslin slip in which 
“Missy Rosa, lubby fine,” danced with her amiable ebony Adonis last 
evening,—during which pastime his spurs (all ride, and many walk here 
_à la militaire_, with spurs, the shanks of which are of bright brass, 
and six inches long at least) must have caused “that envious rent,” 
through which I perceived the ladies' _flesh_-colored stockings and 
sky-blue shoes with pink rosettes.

The process of washing was curious enough. The pool soon becomes of 
the consistency of _batter_ from the large number of clothes washed in 
it, but still the wretches wash and wash until they only gain in dirt 
instead of losing, until the hour of noon, when you see them in all 
their glory—some on their knees, thumping their duds into very rags 
with a short mallet—others, mid-deep in the pool, more tenderly 
treating their clothes—some lying on the bank, lazily basking in the 
sun, and singing some negro song, in which the whole group at times 
unite in full chorus. One old woman stood among the enormous roots of 
a gigantic silk cotton tree, cooking soup for the good of the 
community, with a half dozen children sitting contentedly around her, 
in primitive nudity. In this latter particular the adults are not much 
better off, however, than the children; for of them not more than a 
twelfth part have any more covering than a single kerchief tied round 
the middle of their persons. Now, though some of these yellow girls 
are straight and well limbed, the generality of them would hardly 
serve as models for a Venus.

But hark! what noise is that! what screaming and shouting! what roar 
of waters! the sluices at the head of the stream are just opened, and 
the fresh water is coming down in all its force. Open gush all the 
pools, to be dammed up again directly, so as to allow the laundresses 
an opportunity to rinse the clothes they have been attempting to wash. 
The water, in its descent, is accompanied by shouts from group to 
group, apprising those below of what is coming—and such an infernal 
hubbub never before did I hear. Having finished my pencilling of the 
scene, I took my leave.

_July 8th._ I took a walk this evening a little way out {557} of the 
town, passing along the sea-side for about two miles, westward. After 
passing through the suburbs, which are composed of houses remaining 
from the recent fires, which are of course old and dirty, I came to 
the burial grounds. That belonging to the Jews is well kept, very 
neat, and surrounded by a high wall strongly built of stone. Every 
tomb is handsome, and some are really elegant. But the English and 
Catholic grounds are very much neglected, the only fence being a hedge 
of aloes, with a prickly pear interspersed here and there. The tombs 
are small and mean, many of the graves being marked only by a wooden 
cross. From this yard you have a fine scope of the whole harbor 
presented to your view, and an admirable panoramic prospect of the 
town; while on the other side of the road the hills rise 
amphitheatrically, covered with perennial green, with a hedge of cocoa 
trees between the burial grounds and their base.

A mile farther on, you come to a walk of cocoas, the road on each side 
being hedged with this beautiful tree. On one side of the road runs a 
small bay of about three miles in circumference, sweeping closely up 
to the road, its tiny waves fairly breaking on the passing traveller. 
Seen through the foliage, this sheet of water is most picturesque. I 
have attempted a sketch of it, which I hope you will recognize among 
those in the port folio. At the end of this walk stands the most 
remarkable curiosity in the island,—a silk cotton tree of such 
gigantic dimensions as literally to astonish all who behold it. The 
trunk at the base occupies ground of at least fifty feet in 
circumference. It is not very high, but spreads abroad its enormous 
limbs until one would imagine that it must fall asunder by its own 
weight. Each branch would form a stately forest tree, if growing 
separately. It extends its foliage-covered boughs far over the way in 
every direction, and on every bend of the limbs you see grasses of 
various descriptions growing; and on one in particular, I noticed a 
vigorous stalk of sugar cane flourishing finely. The foliage hangs 
densely and gracefully from every bough, and is of a deep green teint. 
I assayed a sketch of this wonderful tree, but fear I have given you, 
by the conjoined aid of pen and pencil, but a very inadequate idea of 
its magnificence and rare beauty.

_July 9th._ Started from St. Thomas', with the assurance that our 
little schooner was awaiting us at Chagres. We all longed to see the 
wee craft once more, and to be again with her upon the waves; and 
indeed we regretted her, clipper as she was, with as much fondness as 
if she were the most stately man-of-war. I close my portfolio for the 
present; where I shall open it next, Fate knows, not I. But wherever 
it may be, for your eyes and yours alone, my friend, are these “types 
of travel” recorded. I do not write for the public eye; I leave that 
to your friend N. P. W. and to my friend Mrs. Trollope, content, when 
again we meet, and shake hands once more after my wanderings, to hear 
you say, in the language of Old Will—Well, Ned, “thou didst make 
tolerable vent of thy travel.”

       *       *       *       *       *




Wherever the Inquisition had power, the word _fata_ was not allowed in 
any book. An author wishing to use the word, printed in his book 
_facta_, and put in the errata “for facta read fata.”




LINES.

BY P. P. COOKE.


  I sometime at sweet even go
    Forth to the greenwood tree,
  To watch the day-flush fading slow
    Over the west countrie.

  There, sitting on a gnarled root,
  I place my hand upon my cheek—
  And sitting thus, whole hours, all mute,
  Feeding on thought too rich to speak,
  I hear the ever rushing wings
  Of the many cloudy things
  Which are my brain's imaginings.
  And sometime am quite happy—quite—
  Under the influence, soft and holy,
  Of the eve's bough-broken light,
  (Bough-broken and most melancholy!)
  Quite happy! and my fingers pass
  Over my brow and through my hair,
  In rude—rude mimicry, alas!
  Of the soft fingers slim and fair
  That once were so familiar there—
  But which now death-eaten are.

  So I do sit me down and dream—
  Acquaint with mystery; and seem
  To prying Ouphes a happy mortal,
  And seem aright!—For through the portal
  Of joyful meditation stream
  All bright and lovely things. But then
  These come not to the haunts of men,
  And I, (sad I!) am happy only
  In the old wood, dim and lonely!




THE LEARNED LANGUAGES.

BY MATHEW CAREY.


So much has been written on the advantages and disadvantages of 
studying these languages, and such a diversity of opinions prevails on 
the mode of teaching them, among those who are in favor of the study, 
that little of novelty can be adduced on this mooted subject; and a 
writer can scarcely expect to find readers at all disposed to favor 
his lucubrations with a perusal, or, if they condescend to peruse, 
they will rarely come to the task with unprejudiced minds. This is 
very discouraging, and might well forbid any but a bold writer from 
entering the arena. The importance of the subject induces me, however, 
to venture. If I fail of producing conviction, I shall only share the 
same fate as numbers who have preceded me.

One among the discouragements to the discussion, is the unfair means 
employed by the friends of the prevailing system, to decry their 
antagonists—whom they represent as ignoramuses, incapable of 
appreciating the value of the classics, and therefore, like the fox in 
the fable, depreciating what they have not attained, and cannot 
attain. It requires some courage to incur the risque, indeed the 
certainty, of being classed in the category of idiots or fools.

{558} To enable us to judge correctly of any system, it is necessary 
to be able to form a correct idea of its objects, and the means 
adopted to attain them. These two points I shall touch as briefly as 
possible.

The objects of the system of education, pursued in our academies, 
colleges, and universities, so far as classical learning is concerned, 
are, 1. To acquire a knowledge of the Latin and Greek languages so as 
to be able not only to read and understand them correctly, but to 
write and speak them. 2. To relish their beauties. 3. To be incited by 
emulation to imitate the noble examples scattered through the 
histories of Greece and Rome; and, 4. To instil into the minds of 
youth the sublime principles of morality to be found in their poets.

Having these objects clearly presented to the mind's eye, it remains 
to investigate the means employed to attain them, and to ascertain 
whether there is a due proportion between the means and the end, and 
whether the end, in all its amplifications, is worthy of the means 
employed for its attainment. To simplify the subject, I shall, for the 
present, confine myself to the Latin language. The reasoning will 
apply, with at least equal force, to the Greek. Let it be observed 
that I chiefly refer to the cases of young men intended for active 
business, to which they are generally devoted, from the age of fifteen 
or sixteen. The reasoning is, in a great degree, inapplicable to those 
destined for the learned professions.

Lads usually commence learning the Latin at seven, eight, or nine 
years of age. But to afford the friends of the system the fairest 
chance in the argument, I will date from nine—and suppose them to 
enter college at fourteen. The chief portion of the valuable period 
between those ages, is spent in the dry, irksome, and revolting task 
of learning the grammar; and if translations of the authors studied, 
be excluded, as is the case in many schools, they are engaged for 
tedious hours in hunting in dictionaries for the meaning of the words 
in the books they are studying, and, when they find, as they 
frequently do, ten or a dozen meanings to one word, in deciding on the 
most appropriate one for their purpose. It is difficult to conceive of 
a more irksome or vexatious employment, especially for the lively, 
jocund, and merry-hearted lads on whom this penance is imposed.

When the term of probation at school is completed, the lads are 
transferred to a larger scene of action—a college—where they are 
destined to remain four or five years more, of which term probably a 
third part is consumed in the study of the two languages in question; 
thus making on a fair computation, four or five years employed in 
learning languages of which little use is made in after life.

To facilitate the judgment on this system, I will venture to assume as 
postulates,

1. That the advantages of the acquirement of a foreign language may be 
considered under three points of view—the capacity of correctly 
reading—of writing—or of speaking it.

2. That not one, in one thousand of our citizens, ever has occasion to 
write or speak Latin.

3. That not above one in a hundred of those who learn Latin in this 
country, is capable, were it necessary, of correctly writing or 
conversing in that language.

4. That lads of moderate capacity and no very extraordinary 
application, frequently acquire the French language in twelve or 
eighteen months, so as to be able not merely to read it 
understandingly, but to comprehend it when spoken, and to make 
themselves tolerably well understood in conversation.

5. That sometimes in addition they acquire the Spanish within that 
period.

6. That the Latin language is not more difficult than the 
French—indeed I believe not so difficult. On this point I shall rely 
on the opinion given, and the fact stated, by Locke, to be offered in 
the sequel.

7. That the French being attainable in twelve or eighteen months, and 
the Latin not being more difficult, it follows that it is an error to 
consume three, four, five, or six years in the attainment of the 
latter.

8. That in the common intercourse of life, which “comes home to the 
business and bosoms of men,” the French is more useful than the Latin, 
Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic.

9. That except to the members of the learned professions, and men of 
leisure and curiosity, the learned languages, to the mass of mankind, 
are of no use whatever beyond the ability to understand authors, and 
quotations from them, in those languages.

10. That, therefore, for lads intended for trades or business, all the 
time bestowed on learning Latin, beyond the capacity to read and 
understand it, is literally thrown away.

Some of these assumptions may be questioned, and, perhaps, are 
questionable, without materially affecting the proposed plan. Be this, 
however, as it may, I shall fortify myself with such an array of 
authorities, as, if it do not convince the reader of the soundness of 
the doctrines here advocated, will shield me from the charge of 
empiricism for advancing them.

“_How many years of life are spent in learning Latin? How much labor, 
pain and imprisonment, are endured by the boy? How much anxious 
drudgery by the master? How much disgust of literature is engendered?_ 
How many habits are formed of reluctance to regular employment? In 
short, how much misery has been produced, is being produced, and will 
continue to be produced, in teaching the Latin language? This appears 
to us to be a very important question, and will, we think, appear so 
to our readers, after a little consideration.

“We sometimes figure to ourselves an inhabitant of another world 
coming among us, and examining with an unprejudiced eye the _value_ of 
our pursuits. If this idle speculation could be realized, who, we 
should be glad to know, would be Quixotic enough to undertake a 
defence of the usual course of instruction in Latin? Nobody, 
certainly. For, in the first place, not two boys out of three who 
follow it, ever become able _to read even the easier classic authors 
with fluency_. Of these, perhaps one half, from the painful 
associations which they have attached to Latin books, never open one 
after they leave school. If we add to the account, as Rousseau would, 
the numbers who die during the schoolboy age, we shall find the list 
of those who use the knowledge, gained with so much pain to master and 
scholar, dwindle into a very small one.”—_Essay on Public Education, 
p. 12. London, 1822._

“I object to the practice of sending, almost indiscriminately, every 
male child, whose parents are above the laboring class of the people, 
to undergo the painful {559} drudgery of committing to memory the 
rules of a Latin Grammar, and _to sacrifice four of the years of his 
existence to a pursuit which is ultimately to be of no service to 
him_.”—_Russel's View of the Scotch System of Education, p. 85._

“Does it savor of our characteristic sagacity to send almost every boy 
of a certain age, to a grammar school, to learn the elements of Latin, 
and afterwards to enter him to business, with no other qualifications 
for it than those which he may have derived from a partial and 
ill-directed attention to writing and accounts?”—_Idem, p. 79._

“Many children are whipped into Latin, and made to spend many of their 
precious hours uneasily on it, who, after they are once gone from 
school, are never to have more to do with it as long as they live. Can 
there be any thing more ridiculous, than that a father should waste 
his own money, and his son's time, in setting him to learn the Roman 
language, when at the same time he designs him for a trade, wherein 
he, having no use of Latin, fails not to forget that little which he 
brought from school, and which it is ten to one he abhors, from the 
ill usage it procured him? Could it be believed, unless we had every 
where amongst us examples of it, that a child should be forced to 
learn the rudiments of a language, which he is never to use in the 
course of life that he is designed for, and neglect all the while,” 
&c.—_Locke on Education, p. 289._

“The themes are written in Latin, a language foreign to their country, 
and long since dead every where—a language which your son, 'tis a 
thousand to one, shall never have occasion to make a speech in, as 
long as he lives, after he comes to be a man—a language, wherein the 
manner of expressing one's self is so far different from ours, that to 
be perfect in that would very little improve the purity and facility 
of his English style.”—_Idem, p. 308._

“A young Englishman goes to school at six or seven years old; and 
remains in a course of education till twenty-three or twenty-four 
years of age. _In all this time his sole and exclusive occupation is 
learning Latin and Greek;_ he has scarcely a notion that there is any 
other kind of excellence, unless he goes to the University of 
Cambridge, and then _classical studies occupy him about ten years_, 
and divide him with mathematics for four or five more.”—_Edinburgh 
Review, Vol. XV. p. 45._

In a letter prefixed to the Port Royal Latin Grammar, is the following 
complaint. “The grammar which is in use in all our schools, has been, 
it is true, compiled by a learned man—but is so prolix, that _boys can 
scarcely learn it in four years_.”

The friends of classical learning in Great Britain assume, that the 
illustrious men whose education has been completed at either of the 
universities, and who reflect honor on the nation, have owed their 
celebrity and the development of their talents to those great 
establishments. The Edinburgh Review repudiates this idea as destitute 
of truth.

“It is in vain to say we have produced great men _under this system_. 
We have produced great men under all systems. _Every Englishman must 
pass half his life in learning Latin and Greek—and classical learning 
is supposed to have produced the talents_, WHICH IT HAS NOT BEEN ABLE 
TO EXTINGUISH.”—_Edinburgh Review, No. XXIX, p. 50._

Having offered some of the arguments against the prevailing system of 
classical education, it is but fair to exhibit some of those of its 
advocates.

“I believe I may say, though not without danger of offending the 
conductors of English academies, that _no man who does not understand 
Latin, can understand English!_”—_Knox on Education, p. 82._

“Latin themes, Latin declamations and Latin lectures are constantly 
required of academical students.”—_Idem, p. 78._

“Another argument in favor of the Latin exercises in our seminaries, 
is, that _it has a natural tendency to improve the student in English 
composition_.”—_Idem, p. 79._

“To write Latin in youth is an excellent preparation for that 
vernacular composition which some of the professions require.”—_Idem, 
p. 79._

“As soon as the grammar is perfectly learned by heart, [_perfectly 
learned by heart!!_] I advise that the practice of our ancient schools 
should be universally adopted—and that passages of the best classics, 
construed as a lesson in the day, should be given as a task to be 
learned memoriter at night.”—_Idem, p. 101._

“I recommend that the scholar's week shall be thus employed: Monday 
evening, in Latin themes; Tuesday evening, in Latin verse; Wednesday 
evening, in English or Latin letters; Thursday evening, in English 
verse; Friday evening, in Latin verse, or in translating English into 
Latin; and the interval, from Saturday to Monday, in a Latin or an 
English theme.”—_Idem, p. 59._

This is the “_toujours perdrix, toujours perdrix_” of the king of 
France.

“The exercise of mind, and the strength of mind acquired in 
consequence of that exercise, are some of the most valuable effects of 
a strict, a long, and a laborious study of the grammar, at the puerile 
age.”—_Idem, p. 46._

“Exercises in Latin verse, and in Latin prose, are usual in our best 
schools, and at the university. They are attended with very desirable 
effects, and pave the way for improvement in every kind of vernacular 
composition.”—_Idem, p. 99._

“A boy will be able to _repeat his Latin grammar over_ two or three 
years before his understanding is open enough to let him into the 
reason of the rules; and when this is done, sooner or later it ceases 
to be jargon, so that all this clamor is wrong-founded—and therefore I 
am for the old way in schools, since children _will be supplied with a 
stock of words, at least, when they come to know how to use 
them_.”—_Felton._

Muretus, a name of considerable celebrity in his day, goes far beyond 
all the other advocates of classical education. He appears to believe 
that every thing good or great, in art or science, depends on a 
thorough knowledge of the Greek. It is observable that Vicesimus Knox 
quotes him as one of his authorities.

“In the first place I would inform the gentlemen who have conceived a 
dislike to Greek, that all elegant learning, all knowledge worthy the 
pursuit of a liberal man, in a word, _whatever there is of the politer 
parts of literature is contained in no other books than those of the 
Greeks!!!_”—Muretus, quoted by Knox, p. 109.

“I may venture to predict, that if our countrymen should go on a 
little longer in the neglect of the Greek, _inevitable destruction 
awaits all valuable arts!_”—_Idem, p. 140._

{560} The system of classical education at present in use, has by no 
means improved with the general improvement of society. Classical 
studies occupy nearly as much of the invaluable time of a student, as 
they did two hundred years ago, when the Latin language was, if not 
the sole, at least the chief medium of communication between the 
literati throughout Christendom. At that period, it was nearly as 
necessary to study that language as it is now to study the vernacular 
tongue.

Again. Within that period, knowledge, of various kinds, has greatly 
expanded. Branches are now cultivated extensively that were only 
superficially attended to at that period. Political economy and 
politics are among these, as are chemistry, botany, and mineralogy. 
Geology may be almost said to be a new science altogether, as all that 
was then known of it, compared with its present state, is only as the 
Hill of Howth to Mount Caucasus. While such an extension of human 
knowledge has taken place, requiring long periods of devotion to new 
studies, ought not such portions of the old system as require, and 
will admit of, pruning, to experience a salutary curtailment?

I proceed to show how two of the great advantages of a classical 
education, stated in the fifth paragraph of this essay, (No. 3. and 
4.) may be secured by this system to at least as great an extent as by 
the prevailing one; that is, No. 3, the familiarity with the 
illustrious examples of patriotism, public spirit, magnanimity, 
bravery, generosity, and other virtues, to be found scattered through 
the Grecian and Roman histories—the effect of which, on the youthful 
mind, has always proved eminently beneficial, and led to some of the 
most noble efforts of the elite of mankind; and No. 4, the impressing 
on the minds of the students the sublime moral lessons to be found in 
their poets.

If the question at issue were, whether we were to give up those 
advantages, of to give up the present system of classical education, 
the decision might be attended with some difficulty. But, fortunately, 
that is not the alternative. The system need not be absolutely 
abandoned in order to remove the solid objections to it, and to secure 
all its advantages. It only requires to be modified and rendered more 
conformable with the present state of society, the extension of human 
knowledge, and the wants of the students. It is merely proposed to 
circumscribe that study to the all-important capacity to read those 
languages with facility and correctness—in a word, to prune off, as 
worthless for the present purposes of society, those portions of the 
study which appear to demand a capacity to speak and write them—a 
capacity which is never required, and never employed, by above one man 
in five thousand of the inhabitants of the British dominions and of 
this country. The case is different with some of the inhabitants of 
the Continent of Europe. “But that is none of our concern.”

The major part, perhaps I might say nearly the whole, of the heroic 
deeds, which shed such a glorious lustre on the Grecian and Roman 
histories, are most judiciously collected in the “_Selectæ e 
profanis_,” one of the best books ever produced by human industry, 
compiled with nice tact and discrimination. They are accompanied by 
applications and moral reflections calculated to make a deep and 
lasting impression on the minds of the young. I think I risque but 
little in stating an opinion, that thus concentrated and enforced, 
they are likely to produce more powerful and lasting effects than when 
scattered through the original histories, where a large portion of 
them never meets the eye of a student.

It is greatly to be regretted that this admirable book, calculated as 
it is to produce the most salutary consequences on society, has 
through the prurient desire of novelty, been injudiciously excluded 
from many schools, and has given way to substitutes incomparably 
inferior.

The fourth advantage is impressing on the minds of youth the splendid 
moral maxims to be found in the Latin poets. No man can have a higher 
opinion of the excellence of those effusions than I have. But though I 
believe their intrinsic value cannot easily be overrated, yet, I am 
persuaded, their amount is. Horace has more of those than any other 
Latin author—yet in a judicious selection of the ethics of this poet 
and others, it appears that he has only three hundred and seventeen 
lines of that character, a great part of which, and of those of other 
Latin poets, are introduced into the Latin primer to illustrate the 
rules of the grammar.

One of the advantages of the proposed system, and by no means an 
inconsiderable one, assuming that to read the Latin language may be 
acquired in twelve or eighteen months, would be, that the door of that 
language might be advantageously opened to nearly all the lads in our 
public schools, possessed of talent and application, and without 
interfering with their other studies. Thus, instead of circumscribing 
the acquisition of that language, it would be immensely extended—and 
being learned when the memory was strong, would greatly facilitate at 
a future day the acquisition of the French, Spanish, and Italian, 
which have borrowed so largely from the Latin.

Young men intended for the learned professions, after acquiring the 
Latin on this plan, would find the study of the grammar incomparably 
easier than on the existing system, and probably make more progress in 
it, in one year, when its extreme irksomeness would be done away, than 
on the present system in two or three.

It now remains to state what substitute is proposed for, or rather 
what modification of, the system at present universally prevalent.

Of the grammar, to which so much time and mental labor are now 
devoted, nearly all that is necessary to be studied on the proposed 
plan, is the declensions of nouns and conjugations of verbs, which can 
be committed to memory in a week or two. And the study of Clarke's 
Cordery, Æsop's Fables, and Erasmus, with literal translations, and 
afterwards Clarke's Justin and Mair's Cæsar should proceed regularly. 
When these works, or such parts of each as may be judged necessary, 
are carefully studied, the student will have acquired a sufficient 
supply of words to enable him, with slight occasional aid from a 
dictionary, to read understandingly the higher authors. The very day 
on which a lad commences with the declensions and conjugations, 
Cordery may be put into his hands, which will be a relief from the 
task of committing them to memory.

There is an objection zealously enforced by men of great weight, 
against the use of translations, that they encourage idleness and 
indolence in the student, by the facility they afford, of attaining 
his task; whereas they say that explanations sought in a Dictionary, 
make an indelible impression on the mind.

This objection was fully obviated a century since, by {561} John 
Clarke, who translated a number of the lower Latin school books. He 
advises, when a translation is allowed, to double the number of lines 
that is regarded as a task without a translation. His reasoning on the 
subject is irrefutable—and further, that the student be obliged, not 
merely to translate the Latin into English, but the latter into the 
former, and, if necessary, twice over. This will as effectually fix 
the meaning in his mind as if he had spent his precious time in poring 
over a Dictionary.

On the subject of the extreme facility of learning Latin, the 
testimony of Locke is conclusive.

“Whatever stir there is made about Latin, as the great and difficult 
business, his mother may teach it him herself, if she will but spend 
two or three hours in a day with him, and make him read the 
Evangelists in Latin to her: for she need but buy a Latin Testament, 
and having got somebody to mark the last syllable but one, where it is 
long, in words above two syllables (which is enough to regulate her 
pronunciation and accenting the words) read daily in the Gospels, and 
then let her avoid understanding them in Latin if she can. And when 
she understands the Evangelists in Latin, let her, in the same manner, 
read Æsop's Fables, and so proceed on to Eutropius, Justin, and other 
such books. _I do not mention this, as an imagination of what I fancy 
may do, but as of a thing I have known done, and the Latin tongue with 
ease got in this way._”—_Locke, p. 319._

Philadelphia, August, 1836.

P. S. May I not assume that the knowledge of Greek and Latin, acquired 
by lads in Grammar schools, before they go to college, is superficial 
and of little use in after life? If this be granted, as I presume it 
will, it follows as the whole number of students in all the colleges 
in the United States is only about five thousand;[1] that the time 
devoted to those languages, by all the other scholars, who never enter 
a college, might be much better employed.

[Footnote 1: See American Almanack for 1836, p. 11.]




FOURTH LECTURE

Of the Course on the Obstacles and Hindrances to Education, arising 
from the peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers and Scholars, and that 
portion of the Public immediately concerned in directing and 
controlling our Literary Institutions.

BY JAMES M. GARNETT.


_The Faults of Scholars._

On the present occasion, I shall attempt to expose the obstacles to 
all correct education, arising from the peculiar faults of youth, 
during the period of their pupilage.

In all schools having a sufficient number of scholars to embrace much 
variety of character, the pupils may be divided into four distinct 
classes or castes, which may be thus described. The first, not content 
with doing merely what is required of them, in a manner barely 
sufficient to avoid a violation of the rules established for their 
government, exert every faculty, at all times, to do their best. They 
love knowledge and virtue for their own sakes—not from merely selfish 
considerations; and their earnest desire to obtain them for the sake 
also of their fellow creatures, gives additional power and efficacy to 
their efforts. Their constant study is, to please all with whom they 
are connected or concerned: they sedulously cultivate every source of 
moral and intellectual improvement, and they ardently desire to secure 
their own happiness by promoting that of other people. In a word, they 
constitute spectacles in the moral world, as refreshing and delightful 
to the eyes of the mind, as those enchanting spots of the physical 
world, found only in the great desarts of Africa, are to the eyes of 
the exhausted traveller perishing with intolerable heat, thirst and 
hunger. They console us for much of the evil which we anticipate, in 
beholding the many thousands of the rising generation growing up in 
ignorance and all its consequent vices: they encourage our efforts to 
labor in the noble cause of education, while they cheer our hearts and 
animate our hopes in pursuing that course which we believe to be the 
only available one for permanently promoting human happiness. The 
pride and joy of their parents' hearts—the highly prized objects of 
warmest affection among all their other relatives, and of esteem and 
regard to every one who knows them—they constitute, in fact, our 
country's only sure reliance for the preservation of its honor—the 
promotion of its welfare—the security of its happiness. How supremely 
important then, is it to increase their number! But my present object 
being rather to expose faults, than to eulogize good qualities, I 
shall say no more of this first class, than to wish them, from my 
inmost soul, every blessing to be enjoyed in the present life, and all 
the felicity of the life to come.

The second class consists of those who always keep within the strict 
letter of the law, leaving its spirit for other people to regard, who 
may have any such fancy. To go a single hair's breadth beyond the 
exact words of whatever requisition may be made of them, would be 
deemed, not only a great waste of time, but a grievous breach of duty 
to themselves. They acknowledge the authority under which they are 
placed, and will do nothing which can fairly be ascribed to a spirit 
of insubordination. But the performance of what might be called extra 
duty, however beneficial to themselves, they would consider a very 
unwise thing, if not the extremity of folly. All, over and above the 
most scanty compliance with the demands of their teachers; every thing 
more than is barely necessary to save appearances, would be shunned 
with infinitely more care, than they are capable of exerting in any 
voluntary act of real praise-worthy conduct. Whatever they do, is 
done—_because it is required by their laws_—not because they desire to 
do it on account of its being right in itself, or for the pleasure it 
might give their instructers, who are no more the objects of their 
regard, than would be so many men or women in the moon. The scholars 
of this class all die, as they have lived—by none respected—by none 
beloved: no regret will be felt for their loss, and a few days will 
suffice to extinguish the remembrance of them forever in every bosom 
but that of their unfortunate parents. Like horses in a bark-mill, 
they will have travelled their appointed time, and will have performed 
with equal exactness their regular, daily task; but beyond this the 
record of their lives will be as entirely blank, as if they had always 
continued to form component parts of their elemental and kindred dust. 
If the whole mass of mankind had always {562} consisted of such 
people, the world would have remained to this hour as stationary and 
immovable, in regard to improvement of all imaginable kinds, as the 
central point of the universe.

The third class, although distinguished by general habits of 
insubordination, utter idleness and frivolity, are subject to 
occasional spasms of good intention. By fits and starts they will make 
a great show of exerting themselves. But these convulsive movements 
soon cease; and being unnatural, unsustained by any fixed principle of 
rectitude, produce only something of no real use, and are succeeded by 
increased incapacity for performing even _that something_, which they 
had vainly persuaded themselves might procure for them the praise of 
well directed—well sustained effort.

The fourth and last class are entirely destitute of every thing—even 
approaching towards what is called laudable ambition. Altogether 
reckless in regard to the consequences of their conduct, they are deaf 
to advice—hardened against reproof—utterly averse to all 
learning—cursed with an ever restless propensity to mischief, and 
incapable of taking pleasure in any thing but the doing of what they 
are forbid to do. Their condition resembles in one striking 
particular, that of persons infected with some dangerous disease—being 
objects of careful avoidance to all who feel at liberty to keep out of 
their way—objects whose cure is far beyond the reach of any thing but 
the special mercy of God.

Although all the classes might deserve to be ranked with the first, if 
they would only strive “in spirit and in truth” to gain a station so 
truly noble and glorious, yet those who really belong to it, are, 
comparatively speaking, (if I may borrow the language of a Latin poet 
in an English dress,) “scarcely as numerous as the gates of Thebes, or 
the mouths of the fertile Nile.” Among the remaining classes, the 
third is beyond comparison the largest; and the reason seems to be, 
that their occasional efforts to do right, being strong in proportion 
to their spasmodic and evanescent character, have the effect, for the 
time, of completely deceiving the actors themselves, as well as many 
of their friends, into a belief that what appears to be so vividly 
felt, must be the result of motives, at once highly laudable and 
permanent; although, in fact, it is nothing better than the fruitless 
whim or impulse of the moment. But persons of much experience in life 
always distrust these very fitful people, and never calculate upon 
their exertions producing much good, simply because they exceed the 
common and natural measure of effort used by those who earnestly 
intend to do their duty _well_, and to do it _long_.

Having done with the classification of scholars, let me now proceed 
with the exposure of their prevalent faults. By far the most common, 
and probably most pernicious in the end, is aversion to learning. This 
continually prompts them to act in regard to their school—wheresoever 
that may be—as if the word still retained the meaning of its primitive 
Latin—schola, _a loitering place_, from the Greek skole—_leisure_. If 
we trace this aversion to its origin, we shall find that in almost 
every case, it is attributable chiefly to the circumstance, that “to 
learn their book” (according to the common phrase,) has been generally 
inflicted on them as a punishment, instead of being invariably 
recommended with suitable earnestness and zeal, as a pleasurable 
occupation. Hundreds of times have I heard a sharp, angry, parental 
reprimand for misconduct, wound up by some such order as the 
following: “sit down instantly to your book, you good for nothing 
thing, and don't let me see you stir from your seat for the rest of 
the day, or you shall be well whipt, as sure as you live. Not many 
days more shall pass over _your_ head, before I pack you off to 
school.” When, to this hopeful discipline are added the real 
difficulties of learning many things of which they were before 
ignorant, and which they are often required to learn, without either 
aid or encouragement from the teacher, it is no wonder that scholars 
should so frequently be found, not only destitute of all inclination 
to acquire knowledge, but hating every object connected in any way 
with the attempt. At the head of these stand the teachers themselves, 
and very naturally, if not deservedly too, especially when _they also_ 
proceed upon the plan of prescribing study as a punishment, and tasks 
in their books as the penalties to be paid by their scholars, for 
misconduct of almost every kind. Hence, all school exercises are taken 
rather as physic than food, and the unfortunate young patients of such 
mental doctors, instead of being led to think with the admirable 
Milton, that “a good book is the precious life-blood of a master 
spirit, embalmed and treasured up for a purpose to a life beyond 
life,” they learn to loathe books of every kind with unconquerable 
aversion and disgust. But there is still another cause for the hatred 
of mismanaged children to school, which is very different from the 
last, as it may be said to arise rather from the merit, than the 
demerit of the teachers. For example, many young persons dislike 
school for the same reason that many of the parents who have spoiled 
them dislike church—because they are there forced to behold a picture 
of themselves so unlike the one which their own self-love, the 
overweening partiality of their parents, or the flattery of others has 
drawn for them, that they cannot bear the sight. The veil of 
self-delusion is there most painfully torn from their eyes—their 
foibles, faults and vices, are made to appear in their own native 
deformity; and all their pride and vanity must be prostrated at the 
shrine of truth, before any thing like reformation can be effected. 
Such clearing of the mental vision—such purification of the heart 
_must_ be made in regard to all spoiled children, and it requires all 
the skill and all the prudence of the wisest, most experienced 
teachers, to make it in such a manner as not to defeat their own 
object. This process, however managed, is too humiliating to be easily 
borne, especially by those who have never been taught the 
indispensable duties of self-examination and self-control; and it is 
one great cause, in addition to the first mentioned, of the repugnance 
so often manifested by children to scholastic institutions of every 
grade and character. The worst of it too, is, that this repugnance 
will always be found greatest among those who most need the 
instruction to be derived from them.

Another great fault of scholars is, that they generally look upon 
their teachers as far inferior to their parents in every way whatever. 
Of course they treat them with less respect, less deference, less 
obedience, and consequently listen, (if they do at all) with very 
inadequate regard either to their commands or persuasions. It matters 
not a straw whether their instructers deserve {563} this disregard or 
not; the effect on the scholar's mind is nearly the same in both 
cases, and insubordination, not unfrequently accompanied by 
ill-concealed contempt, is the sure consequence.

Another fault of almost universal prevalence among wrong-doers at 
school, is the constant and laborious effort to put their teachers _in 
the wrong_, instead of laboring to preserve themselves _in the right_, 
and to exult, in utter recklessness of consequences, when they believe 
they have been successful. Such pupils never make any allowance for 
infirmities of temper or error of judgment in their teachers. Hence a 
single instance of either kind, when detected by themselves, becomes 
in their eyes a perpetual justification of all their own faults.

Another fault, common in both boys and girls, is to behave towards the 
masters and mistresses of boarding schools, as if the payment of a 
pecuniary compensation for board and tuition actually absolved the 
payers not only from all obligation to observe the ordinary rules of 
civility and politeness towards the receivers, but also purchased the 
privilege of using or abusing, at their pleasure, every species of 
property possessed by the latter. In the school-creed of all such 
pupils, it would really appear to be an established article, either 
that there could not well be any manner too rude, nor any conduct too 
unjust to be exercised towards the keepers of boarding schools; or, 
that the nature both of justice and politeness changed according to 
the characters and occupations of the persons with whom they had 
intercourse—having nothing in itself, invariably either right or 
wrong. The greatest evil of this juvenile, but highly culpable 
practice, is, that either rudeness or injustice indulged in early 
life, even although confined at first to keepers of boarding schools, 
is apt to become habitual, and deeply to injure both the manners and 
principles of youth in regard to all other persons, after these 
thoughtless offenders arrive at years of maturity. They should ever 
bear it in mind, that politeness is not a holiday-suit, to be put on 
for particular occasions only; but is a decent, becoming, most 
appropriate every-day dress, without which they should never appear, 
either at school, at home, or in general society.

There is still another fault of a similar character, which defeats, 
while it lasts, nearly every effort to instruct—especially in moral 
duty—let the teachers themselves possess what qualifications they may. 
This is, the very prevalent notion (if we can infer what they believe 
from what they do,) that if rules of moral conduct for pupils do not 
actually exist, of a nature far less rigorous than such as are to 
govern grown persons—yet that these last moral regulations were never 
designed for youth, who therefore cannot suffer any of the 
consequences of their violation. Hence they very often act as if they 
thought no fault too great, nor scarcely any vice too dangerous for 
them to commit with impunity while at school. They are, apparently, at 
least altogether unconscious, that although they may escape legal 
punishment, they frequently acquire characters for worthlessness, 
which they never can shake off in after life. Lying and pilfering, for 
example, are among the vices which, if known to be committed in youth, 
will indelibly blacken the reputation of the perpetrators to the 
latest hour of their existence. Yet both boys and girls often violate, 
not only their obligations “to speak truth at all times,” but also 
that of holding sacred all the rights of property. This too is done 
without the slightest apparent conviction, that they are identically 
the same vices which bring adults either to penitentiaries or the 
gallows, or degrade them forever in the estimation of all the honest, 
virtuous part of mankind. The robbing of orchards, gardens, 
melon-grounds, and even poultry yards, are often considered by boys as 
mere frolicks and peccadillos, serving only to form good stories in 
after life, for the amusement of their friends, to be laughed at and 
enjoyed—most strange to say, even by the parents and near connections 
of the offending parties. I have sometimes heard, and from the parties 
themselves too, of actions nearly, if not quite as bad, achieved by 
girls at school, which have furnished high entertainment for years, to 
a certain class of mothers and grave matrons, whose only comment, even 
in the presence of their daughters, probably would be—“ah! to be sure, 
they were sad, wild girls, and deserved to be well whipt for their 
pranks; but we should remember that _we_ were so too, at _their_ age, 
yet have we gone on pretty well since.” And so have many children 
_also gone on pretty well_, after being almost miraculously rescued 
from deep waters and blazing fires into which they had fallen. But 
would not any parents be thought stark mad who would venture, for such 
a reason, to throw their offspring into rivers and furnaces? The truth 
is, that neither folly, vice, nor crime can be altered, either in 
their nature or consequences, simply by the age of the perpetrators, 
provided only that they be old enough to know thoroughly the 
difference between right and wrong. Infection, contagion, and death by 
bodily diseases, never spare _young victims_ any more than _old ones_; 
and the only difference between them and moral diseases, is altogether 
in favor of the first—since _they_ can only destroy our perishable 
bodies a few days, weeks, or months, before they must naturally and 
inevitably decay; whereas _the last_ may bring everlasting misery on 
our immortal souls. Terrific and intolerable as would be the pangs and 
agonies of mortal maladies in their utmost extremity, yet would they 
be beyond all powers of calculation or comprehension better, than to 
remain for endless ages under all the threatened torments of the 
damned. But where, I would anxiously inquire, where is the hope or 
prospect of escape for our children, if we suffer them to wander 
unrestrained through all the various paths of temptation, which, 
although they have some few stopping places in them, as certainly lead 
us more and more rapidly towards the commission of criminal and 
unpardonable deeds, as that time leads us to death. Let no one then, 
for a moment, incur the deadly hazard of regarding this language as a 
mere exaggeration, for it expresses no more, although in very far 
inferior language, than the blessed gospel itself. And let all such 
parents as I have just alluded to, as well as their poor, thoughtless, 
but not less guilty children, forever bear in mind, that few miracles 
would be greater, than for either boys or girls to become men and 
women without the least moral taint whatever, if from infancy to adult 
age they had been almost continually exposed to the atmosphere of 
vice, and the contagion of vicious example. Almighty power might 
achieve such a work, but it is as far beyond all human means, as would 
be the creation of man himself.

Another fault of scholars which does infinite mischief, {564} is that 
of believing, or at least acting as if they believed any other time 
better than the present, for increasing their knowledge and improving 
their morals. Hence their innumerable little tricks to avoid their 
school exercises—their continual efforts to escape from study, and 
their passion for holidays. The possession of life is viewed—if not as 
a perpetuity—at least, as an estate to be enjoyed for a very long 
period, the first part of which is the only season for the enjoyment 
of vivid, highly exciting and never to be neglected or rejected 
pleasures. As a season of preparation and _the only one_—not only for 
the faithful performance of all the duties of the present life, but 
for securing an inheritance in the life to come, it is rarely ever 
viewed by young persons at school. If a human being leaves an estate 
in trust to other beings like himself, for beneficent uses, the whole 
world is ready to cry out “shame—shame!” should these trustees violate 
their trusts. Yet is this same world either entirely silent, or takes 
little notice of the infinitely more criminal breach of trust 
committed towards the God of the universe, by every individual in 
regard to his own soul, whenever he neglects to exercise _its_ powers 
as he has been ordered, by one having supreme authority to command, 
and unlimited power to punish eternally, for disobedience. It would 
seem as if each person really believed his life and all his faculties 
actually constituted a kind of estate, for which he was indebted to no 
one, and which he had a full and perfect right to use or abuse as he 
pleases. But _would this be so_—_could it possibly happen_, almost as 
a matter of course, if the first and the last lessons which our youth 
received at every place of instruction from the nursery to the 
college, were accompanied and fortified by this most momentous truth, 
presented to them in all its terrors, when necessary—or recommended, 
where this seemed best, in all its attractions? Would they not first 
fear to neglect their moral and religious duty—then love it—then 
cherish a sense of it in their hearts, as their vital blood—and 
lastly, make it the governing motive of their whole lives? Religious 
and moral principles should be the paramount objects of all 
instruction, and their constant inculcation the imperative duty of all 
instructers, from the humble teachers of our alphabet, to the most 
learned and dignified professors of our colleges and universities. As 
to the moral malady, procrastination—which led to the preceding 
remarks, it is certainly not peculiar to scholars, for it afflicts the 
old as well as the young. But it is equally certain, that unless it be 
contracted in youth, it rarely, if ever, appears in after life. Every 
scholar then, who feels the slightest symptom of this disease, should 
apply as a remedy, the cardinal rule—“obsta principiis”—“resist 
beginnings;” and he should strive with might and main to guard against 
the first approaches, if he wishes his old age to be exempt from a 
malady, at once so distressing and so fatal. To postpone any useful 
act, any thing from which we ourselves, or others, may derive the 
least benefit, is bad enough; but to defer so essential a duty as 
constant attention to our scholastic studies, in the vain expectation 
that some future day will answer as well as the present, is like 
drawing a pecuniary order on an unknown person, without naming any 
time, and for money to which we have not even the shadow of right or 
title. The resemblance holds good, too in another important 
particular: neither the person, we know, nor the future day, will ever 
answer the draft, for the first is not under the smallest obligation 
to do so, and the last has no power to change, even to accommodate 
idlers, that irreversible law of nature, which assures us that _time 
once abused is lost forever_. It may be said, perhaps by some, that 
this is a truism odiously trite and wearisome. But let the young and 
the old, too, beware how they neglect or despise it on this account. 
Education and all its blessings, great and glorious as they most 
assuredly are, depend entirely upon the strictest regard being paid to 
this truism: nor can either the scoffs of the idle, the taunts of the 
infidel, or the lamentations of sufferers abate one tittle—one jot of 
the fatal consequences which inevitably follow, when we disregard or 
contemn it.

In close connexion with this fault of procrastination, is that of 
disobedience in general, for the last is the offspring of the first. 
Whether it arises in all those cases where it exists, from utter 
incapacity to comprehend the true grounds of the sacred obligation, 
“to obey those who have the rule over them,” or from unconquerable 
aversion to do what they believe to be right and necessary, is more 
than I can tell. But the fact of general disobedience is 
unquestionable, to the woeful experience of all who have had any thing 
to do with the government of children, in any way whatever, requiring 
authority to be exercised over them. It is true, we have the often 
quoted “video meliora, proboque, deteriora sequor” of a Latin poet, to 
prove that we may _see, approve, and yet fail to do our duty_; but I 
have always doubted its general applicability to disobedient children. 
Most of them appear to have neither eyes nor brains to check their 
culpable inclinations, or to prevent their vicious deeds; but awful 
indeed, is the inquiry, how this has happened. Parents and teachers 
alike, are utterly disregarded by them, when out of sight, unless from 
a principle of fear; and that is of no more efficacy in relation to 
their moral improvement, than would be the ringing of bells in their 
ears. Even the devils, it is said, “fear and tremble,” but we are not 
any where told, that such tremors and fears can work any reformation. 
No, never—for _this_ to be effectual, must be the joint effort of the 
heart and understanding, aided by “the Spirit of God, working with our 
spirits both to will and to do of his good pleasure.” Unless the minds 
of children can be first thoroughly and deeply impressed with this 
truth, and with their solemn, sacred obligation to regard it as of 
vital importance, it is labor completely thrown away to try to control 
them effectually, except on account of guarding other people from 
being injured by them. It is true, they will not be quite so expert in 
mischief, if you can so manage as to keep them a long time out of 
practice, “the having one's hand in” being a great matter. But the 
inclination “_to keep it in_” will still remain, nor can it ever be 
entirely eradicated without some much more active medicine than mere 
abstinence. The seat of the disease lies too deep—its action on the 
heart is too constant, to yield to such regimen alone—excellent, as it 
confessedly is, when made to co-operate with powerful moral remedies. 
Teachers and parents too, may labor this matter as long as they 
please; they may even wear out their lungs, if they fancy such an 
experiment, with scolding, reproaching and threatening, but all will 
prove far worse than useless to accomplish their object, unless {565} 
they adopt an entirely different course from the most common one, and 
pursue it, both with body and soul. They _must_ learn to consider 
children—not as machines and spinning tops, to be governed by whips, 
cords, springs, pullies and levers—not as mere living animals, 
incapable of any other impulse than fear or ambition, but as rational 
beings, made after God's own image, and gifted by him with immortal 
souls, whose appropriate regulators are the high, celestial, ever 
glorious attributes of reason, judgment, and understanding—all which 
are to be kept in continual exercise by the ardent love of truth, 
wisdom, knowledge, and virtue. The faults of children will all 
continue to grow with their growth, and strengthen with their 
strength; nay, they will live and die with them, as surely as that 
death itself will come to them all, unless their treatment in all 
future time, be made to conform, from the nursery even unto the 
college, to the principles just stated. This is not said in any spirit 
of presumptuous dictation; for neither is the principle itself any 
discovery of my own, nor have there been wanting many writers of great 
ability and experience in teaching, to recommend it most earnestly and 
zealously. But it is a thing of such deep and universal importance to 
the happiness—not only of the present generation, but to that of 
millions yet unborn, that it cannot be too frequently insisted 
upon—especially while so many parents and teachers are to be found, 
who appear almost entirely to disregard it. If this were not strictly 
true, could we possibly find either so many private families or 
schools as we do find, wherein it is manifest, that unpolished manners 
and awkwardness of person appear to be infinitely more dreaded, than 
deformities of mind or diseases of temper; where external attractions 
are evidently prized far above all intellectual acquirements, and 
where children in fact are educated much more assiduously for all the 
purposes of the present life, than for any of that everlasting life 
which is to come?

Having now finished the particular examination of the faults and vices 
most common among parents, teachers and scholars, which form the mass 
of obstacles to education, there are many general reflections that 
suggest themselves as proper to be stated—so many indeed, that the 
present lecture cannot embrace them all, without trespassing too far 
on your time. A few of them however, I beg leave to present on the 
present occasion. To describe in general terms all the hindrances 
heretofore attributed to the three great classes who establish, fill, 
and regulate schools, we may say, that there is not, in the first 
place, sufficient care, either in the selection of suitable means, nor 
subsequently, in regard to the best means of applying them. Parents 
themselves are too often badly educated, or not at all. They are too 
frequently incompetent, either from sheer ignorance—from defects in 
temper and principle—or from utter blindness to their children's 
faults, to direct in the great business of their education. Teachers 
are much too often suffered to decide on their own qualifications, and 
are encouraged to proceed in the vital undertaking, without any thing 
like an examination into their fitness by competent judges. Scholars 
too, are not unfrequently suffered to choose for themselves, not only 
_what_, but _where_, and _how_ they shall learn, as well as to decide 
on the time to be devoted to scholastic pursuits; although it is most 
manifest, on a moment's reflection, that none are competent to form a 
correct judgment on all these important points, but those who have 
already received a liberal education, and have some experience in the 
ways of the world, as well as knowledge of the various advantages and 
disadvantages of its chief callings, trades and professions. Upon the 
prevalent let-alone-plan, boys and girls are often left to do, as 
their immature judgments may direct, what their criminally neglectful 
fathers and mothers ought to do for them; and an inverse order of 
proceeding is thus established, which cannot possibly end in any thing 
but “confusion worse confounded.” A still more fatal error than this 
transfer of the right and duty of judging for their children to the 
children themselves is, that the religious principles (I do not mean 
sectarian opinions,) of their teachers are rarely ever made a subject 
of inquiry, much less of anxious solicitude. They may be heathens, or 
confirmed infidels, for aught that is known or cared about them; 
neither is any concern felt or taken to know what particular provision 
is made in schools for the moral and religious instruction of the many 
thousand children, who are there to form their principles of conduct 
for all future time. Yet, if the question were asked, whether any 
thing in the whole circle of sciences and the arts, be at all 
comparable in importance _with these principles_, a negative answer 
would assuredly be given, even by the most careless of all those 
persons who have the control of the whole subject of education in all 
its parts. That the peace, comfort, prosperity, and happiness of all 
orders in society, depend upon the soundness of their moral and 
religious principles, none, I believe, will be either so foolish or 
wicked as to deny. And yet, where shall we find the schools in which 
the acquisition of knowledge in various other matters, such as 
physical science, foreign languages, and what are called polite 
accomplishments, is not made the chief, if not the sole object of 
pursuit? The great springs of all human action—the powerful regulators 
of all human conduct—such as it ought to be, are either not thought of 
at all, or it is taken for granted that the whole have been so 
carefully adjusted while the poor children were taking pap in their 
nurseries, or conning over their alphabet, while under their good 
mother's supervision, as to require no farther care.

When we consider well the nature, tendency, and general prevalence of 
the faults which I have enumerated among all the parties concerned in 
the great business of education, together with the errors so commonly 
committed in regard to its chief ends and purposes, or rather in the 
choice of means for their attainment, and then endeavor to measure the 
destructive power of their combined influence, the contemplation is 
truly appalling. It is in vain to turn our eyes to the bright region 
of science and the arts, displaying all their glories, and diffusing 
their innumerable blessings over the whole face of our happy country. 
None can rejoice in such a delightful prospect, nor give more 
heartfelt thanks to God for it, than I do. But alas! I cannot always 
avoid the sight of the dark, portentous, and terrific clouds of vice 
and crime which always obscure, in some direction or other, and often 
threaten to destroy this heavenly view. I cannot avoid asking myself 
why these things should be; nor have I the power to shut the eyes of 
my understanding against the soul-sickening {566} conviction, that we 
have abundant means at our command of making a glorious change, but 
will not use them. These means, I am most thoroughly persuaded, are 
neither more nor less, than _to require_ and _to see_, that in all 
places of instruction, from the lowest to the highest, the moral and 
religious principles of the students be made the chief—the paramount 
objects of pursuit. But what proportion of our schools, either public 
or private, will the most partial advocate of modern improvements in 
education say, that we shall find to be conducted on these principles? 
The whole number taken together, counting all kinds, will constitute a 
mere drop compared to the entire aggregate. For, let any individual 
try the experiment, by naming to himself all that he knows or has 
heard of, wherein the true motives and means to mental improvement are 
uniformly inculcated. Their great scarcity, I will venture to assert, 
would surprise him very much. Temporal riches—temporal honors—temporal 
fame, will be found, in a vast majority of them, to be the ends 
continually kept in view; and the fear of temporal punishment, or the 
desire to surpass others in science and literature, the means relied 
upon to insure the great literary acquirements which are to serve as 
so many stilts to ascend the various eminences aimed at. But let all 
these advantages be appreciated at ten thousand times their real 
intrinsic value, and what must be the final judgment pronounced upon 
them by reason and common sense? Why, that they are all utterly 
worthless, when compared with the true uses and ultimate objects of 
moral and religious cultivation. The sum and substance of all our 
sober reflections and reasonings upon this deeply interesting topic 
will be, that all superstructures of education, either under the 
parental roof, or elsewhere, not built upon the everlasting 
foundations of the Gospel of Christ, can be but little better than so 
many toy houses erected upon sand. They must all soon fall, although 
the best of them may possibly attain a considerable degree of 
elevation, splendor and magnificence. What are these indestructible 
foundations, the grand architect of which was no other than the Savior 
of the World? Neither more nor less than the love and practice of 
_all_ our duties, of every nature and kind whatever, springing from 
the love of God—from full faith in his promises—and entire reliance on 
his justice, his wisdom, his power, and his mercy. If we do what 
appears to be right, from any other motive, it is not worth a rush; 
and yet, almost the constant aim in a vast majority of schools is, to 
secure at least the appearance of right conduct by a much shorter and 
more practicable process. This is to manage them chiefly, by the 
instrumentality of a sentiment, continually at war with every 
principle and precept of Christianity in relation to the proper 
motives of human conduct. I have before noticed it; but its influence 
is so pernicious, so utterly destructive, as I most conscientiously 
believe to all just principles of education, that I can never suffer 
any suitable occasion to pass without raising my humble voice against 
it. The sentiment is—_emulation_, than which nothing can well be worse 
as regards the heart, which many believe to be the source of all 
motives. It is true, that like the physical power of steam, emulation 
is capable of producing truly wonderful effects; for by its operation 
alone, that matchless machine—man, may be propelled to the performance 
of almost incredible deeds. But the great question with all who 
believe in a future state of rewards and punishments is, how far will 
the most marvellous of those deeds—proceeding as they do from the 
usual worldly motives—go towards the procurement of eternal salvation? 
Not the length or breadth of a mathematical point,—if there be any 
truth in Scripture,—any reliance on the conclusions of right 
reason,—any trust to be reposed in the word of that holy immaculate 
Being, who is truth itself. Can it then be consistent with common 
sense, and a due regard to the safety of our immortal souls, any 
longer to neglect at least an effort to reform our prevailing systems 
of education: such an effort too as shall be sufficiently earnest, 
zealous and persevering to afford some rational prospect of success? 
Indeed, my friends, is it any thing short of actual madness, to delay 
for an instant so momentous a work, when we have every reason to 
believe that God has placed the remedy in our own hands, for a very 
great portion of the vice and consequent misery which we see in our 
country? The reform of which I speak, regards more _the motives_ to 
study and mental culture, than _the things_ generally taught. In these 
last, I am not disposed, were it in my power, to make much change: 
languages, the sciences and arts, with all kinds of accomplishments, 
are well taught in a large portion of our schools. But in relation to 
motives, every reflecting person must be convinced of the necessity of 
a radical change, who considers but a moment the incentives to 
application which are almost universally held out to our youth—even 
from the schools of the lowest grade to the universities themselves. 
These are so far from having any intimate connexion with religious 
principles, that they are in direct hostility to them. Thus, instead 
of genuine Christian humility, we have insatiate worldly ambition; in 
place of a permanent and ardent desire to promote the happiness of the 
whole human race, we have the selfish passion of seeking our own—even 
at the expense of others—if it cannot be otherwise obtained; and in 
lieu of the love of God, we are taught to estimate the love and 
admiration of his creatures, as the chief object of pursuit in this 
life. Our sons are educated to make money and acquire distinction by 
professions; and our girls, to get rich husbands, if they get nothing 
else. The great concerns of eternity, are postponed to a less busy 
time; a time that may never arrive to a vast majority of mankind, and 
which—if it does come—will probably find them as destitute of the 
efficient inclination to repent, as they will generally be of the 
power any longer to commit most of the sins which rendered repentance 
necessary. But even suppose life may last so long, and the inclination 
really _may_ come, just as the wretched victims of such a system are 
sinking into their graves; the only offering they can _then_ make to 
their God will be, “of the Devil's leavings;” and no great prophetic 
skill will be required to conjecture what will be the chance of 
acceptance.

To recommend, in detail, any effectual means for removing all the 
foregoing obstacles to education; to effect a radical cure of all such 
deadly evils, is very far beyond my ability. Indeed I have given no 
promise—even to make the attempt: my only effort has been, so to 
describe the symptoms of the various moral diseases now working so 
much mischief among us, that other more able moral physicians might 
devise the necessary {567} remedies. But I would respectfully suggest, 
that the prevalent—I may almost say, total—unconcern in regard to the 
principles of conduct taught, and left _un_taught in our schools; the 
minutiæ of their moral discipline; the reciprocal deception and 
counteraction between parents, teachers, and scholars: the directing 
almost all efforts to the excitement of wrong and highly culpable 
motives for study, must be entirely abandoned, or all the movements of 
pupils in pursuit of knowledge and virtue, will be departures, more 
and more remote from the true course,—and leading to endless mischief. 
Not only must universal education become the grand, the vital object 
of pursuit to all classes of our citizens; but the true means of 
making it what it should be, must also become objects of equal 
solicitude, of ceaseless, zealous, and ardent investigation.

But I must postpone to another opportunity, many views of this 
all-important subject, which I wish still to present by way of 
recapitulation, as well as to supply several omissions. Before I 
conclude however, suffer me to address a few remarks to you on our 
approaching Anniversary, as it will not be in my power—much as I wish 
it—to attend on that interesting occasion.

Some notice, I believe, having been given of such remarks being 
intended for our present meeting, I hope its unusual size will justify 
me in concluding, not only that none of our first members have become 
weary of their membership, but that many others who have not yet 
united with us, have now determined to join this Lyceum. Is any old 
member then ready to join me in expressing this hope, I will not say 
to him as Henry the 5th did to Westmoreland before the battle of 
Agincourt: “Wish not, good cousin, one man more;” much rather would I 
wish for as many more as the largest room in your town could contain. 
Neither can I quote Henry's language in regard to any who may be 
disposed to quit us, (if there are any such,) by adding,

  “Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
   And crowns for convoy put into his purse.”

In truth we have _no_ crowns to spare for any such self-destructive 
purpose. It accords much better with my feelings, as well as with the 
confidence I have in the intelligence and public spirit of the 
citizens of Fredericksburg, to believe that our funds will be 
increased rather than diminished; that all of you desire to cherish 
this social institution; and that even those who make the lowest 
estimate of its benefits to themselves and others, still rate them as 
cheaply purchased by their very moderate annual subscription, the 
amount of which is daily lavished by hundreds of us for that which has 
really as little substantial good in it, as the mere “shadow of a 
shade.” I would assert the cheapness of the purchase in regard to 
every one who had acquired the knowledge only of one single useful 
fact, which he had not known before; and who is there among us who can 
truly say, that he has made no such acquisition? Much more, then, may 
it be urged in regard to all who feel that they now know many more 
such useful facts, of which twelve months ago they were entirely 
ignorant. The pleasure alone of witnessing once a week the highly 
gratifying proof, that so many of you as here meet together, are 
cordially united for mutual improvement, is worth incalculably more 
than is given for it. In this behalf, I would respectfully say to each 
member, are you a father, and yet unconcerned about increasing your 
own knowledge for the sake of augmenting that of your own offspring, 
yet ignorant that it is a most sacred duty? Are you a mother, and can 
you be destitute of that never-dying affection for the children of 
your bosom, which should impel you with resistless power to seek every 
opportunity of hearing something, be it ever so little, which you can 
apply for their benefit? Are you a son, a daughter, a brother, or a 
sister, and yet so regardless of the welfare and happiness of all 
connected with you, so destitute of the love of kindred, nay of 
self-love itself, in its only laudable form, as to have no taste, no 
desire, no anxiety, for moral and intellectual culture? I will not for 
a moment, suffer myself even to suspect that these questions could be 
answered in the affirmative by any to whom I now address myself. 
Rather let me continue to believe, even if in error, that I behold in 
all of the present assembly, ardent and zealous friends to all the 
objects of our association; friends, not for fashion sake, nor 
novelty, nor idle curiosity, nor a mere time killing purpose, but 
true, earnest, abiding friends to the great cause of mutual 
improvement. And by what means, I would confidently ask, so cheap, so 
convenient, so gratifying, as nightly meetings once a week, for an 
hour or two, could this cause be better promoted by persons occupied, 
as most of us are, in daily business and daily duties of indispensable 
obligation? Whatever is calculated to strengthen our convictions of 
the superiority of intellectual and moral enjoyments to such 
gratifications as are merely physical and sensual; whatever can 
elevate our minds so far above our animal appetites as to assure us 
that they were never given to be our _masters_; whatever can lead us 
to look beyond the present life for the final consummating of all our 
aspirations after happiness, and the fulfilment of our present duties 
to God, to man, and to ourselves, as the sole means of attaining this 
happiness—all these together, constitute the proper objects of 
education. And the more we study, the more we love, the more we strive 
to attain them, the greater share shall we _here_ gain of every 
earthly blessing—the larger portion shall we enjoy _hereafter_ of 
every felicity that an all-bounteous God hath promised to the most 
faithful of his children in the life to come. These momentous 
considerations, my friends, require us to devote to them all our 
thoughts and all our time not devoted to other equally indispensable 
duties; and I am ignorant of any associations that might lead us to 
engage in them more advantageously, during what are called our leisure 
hours, than Lyceums for mutual improvement, would we only avail 
ourselves of them, as we well might do. To effect this, all should be 
“_hearers_” in the cause, but many should be “_doers_” also. The 
exercises of such associations should never be left to be performed by 
only a very few of the members. They should not be so very diffident 
of their own powers, as always to be mere listeners; for a large 
portion usually have some that might be beneficially exerted. The 
merit of good intentions would always be awarded to them, and that 
should suffice, even where their efforts fell short of their own 
wishes. But the great means to preserve, as well as to establish 
associations like ours, are for their members to cherish for each 
other benevolence, sympathy, and brotherly love. Such a bond of union 
wants nothing to make it indissoluble (for it already possesses all 
the other {568} elements of perpetuity) but christianity. This 
connects and surrounds these endearing sentiments with associations 
which diffuse over them a brighter light, and give them an infinitely 
higher value than they could have without it. “Christianity not only 
reveals to us the Infinite One, the great Supreme, as the Father alike 
of all men; it not only instructs all whom it addresses in looking 
_over_, and as far as we may, in looking _into_, and _through_ the 
mighty universe, to say and to feel ‘our Father made it all;’ it not 
only says to each individual, and to all the race, ‘all ye are 
brethren;’ and requires each one to cherish for the rest a brother's 
interest, and sympathy, and affection; but it requires us also, when 
we pray, to carry with us these sympathies and affections to the 
throne of infinite mercy and love, and there to strengthen and hallow 
the feeling of our connexion with our fellow-men, through our common 
relation to God, by addressing him as—not _my_, but ‘_our_ Father who 
art in Heaven.’ Who, indeed, can feel that he is a child of God—that 
he has an immortal nature—that in his intellectual and moral powers, 
and in his capacity of eternal progress, he has also the capacity of 
an eternal advancement in likeness to God himself, and therefore in 
all which can forever exalt his nature, and secure and increase his 
happiness; who can feel all this, and at the same time, (what it is 
equally important we should feel,) that the most untaught, the 
poorest, and most degraded of our race, possesses the principles of a 
common nature with ourselves, and is equally a child of God, and as 
such, _our brother_;—who can thus comprehend his own soul, and thus 
feel his relation to his fellow-man, without feeling his heart drawn 
out in sympathy with human weakness, and ignorance, and want, and 
wretchedness, and sin?”

With these convictions deeply, and I hope indelibly engraven on my 
heart, I cannot bid adieu to you on the present occasion, without most 
earnestly entreating you to make them your own as speedily as 
possible, if this has not already been done. In making this request, I 
address myself principally to such of my auditors, of both sexes, as 
are still the subjects of scholastic instruction and discipline. Upon 
you, and others of your age, will chiefly depend the welfare and 
happiness of yourselves and the next generation—nay, I may add, of all 
future generations, since each age is most materially affected by that 
which has immediately preceded it. The hope of rendering _you_, my 
young friends, some small service, was my chief object in coming here 
this evening; and could I depart with the confident expectation that 
my humble efforts might contribute in any degree towards leading even 
one of you to your God, it would afford me a gratification—a joy which 
I have no language to express. Few are the enjoyments left, in a great 
majority of cases, to those who, like myself, are fast approaching the 
verge of their graves; but it is in the power of the young to multiply 
these enjoyments far beyond what they themselves are able to conceive. 
It is in the power of such as _you_, my youthful hearers, to furnish 
the generally gloomy and painful close of long protracted life with 
intellectual repasts infinitely more delightful than can possibly be 
afforded by the sensual gratifications of the most ardent of all the 
sinful passions of youth. It is in the power of such as yourselves to 
invigorate with unspeakable pleasure the feebleness of old age—to 
raise their sinking hearts with the most animating anticipations of 
your future prosperity, fame and happiness—to banish forever from 
their minds the utter misery of leaving you in the broad road to 
destruction—and even to surround the bed of a beloved and aged 
parent's death with joys and foretastes of future felicity to each, 
such as none but a mother's or father's imagination can possibly 
conceive. Leave not this room then, leave it not, I beseech you, 
without an unalterable determination to exert this power from the 
present moment to the end of your lives. Let your temporal destiny 
then be what it may,—no earthly bereavement—none of what are called 
the calamities and miseries of life, can possibly deprive you of that 
greatest of all earthly blessings—conscious rectitude; nor of that 
last, that highest reward of all christian hope—a never fading 
inheritance in a world of endless duration and perfect beatitude.




A CASE

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS.


Barney Cunningham was dancing with all his might, while Pat O'Leary 
was playing Paddy Carey on his Jews Harp, and Jemmy Callahan sitting 
quietly looking on, smoking his pipe on the head of an empty whiskey 
barrel. All of a sudden the Divil got into Pat, who changed the tune 
to Molly put the kettle on, which, as it were, brought Barney up all 
standing, and caused him to bite his tongue almost through. Upon this, 
Barney, without saying a word, quietly marches up to Pat and gives him 
a black eye, and upon that Pat appeals to Jemmy Callahan whether this 
was not offending against good manners. Whereupon Jemmy decides, that 
Pat had no right to change the tune without giving the gentleman 
notice, and so the matter was settled to the satisfaction of all 
parties.




MSS. OF JOHN RANDOLPH.[1]

[Footnote 1: We are indebted for the letters now published, to the 
same personal friend of Mr. Randolph, who furnished us those for the 
July number of the Messenger. We hope to be able to procure others for 
September.]


LETTER IV.

GEORGE TOWN, Dec. 31,[2] 1811.

[Footnote 2: Five days after the Richmond Theatre was burnt.]

_My Dear Madam_,—Under that most severe visitation of Divine 
Providence, which it is your fate to suffer, I well know how worse 
than useless—how almost cruel and insulting may appear any mention of 
comfort, or consolation on the part of a friend. I have none such to 
offer: yet I cannot resist the feeling which impels me, at this awful 
moment, to speak to you: to remind you that our Heavenly Father 
chasteneth whom he loveth; that_ his_ eye is upon us, who died for our 
sins; who, having partaken of our nature, looks with pity upon its 
errors and its sufferings, and offers to our acceptance a sure and 
eternal refuge from the calamities of this life and of the next. It is 
he who calls upon us to endure, {569} not with stoical apathy, but 
with meek and Christian fortitude, the miseries inseparable from our 
mortal condition—to endure them, _for his sake!_ Can we resist this 
appeal to our gratitude, made by him, who writhed upon the cross, that 
we might escape the eternal wrath of God? In him alone is our 
trust:—and when the troubled dream of life is past, let us humbly 
hope, that we shall awake to everlasting joy through his all atoning 
merits; that we shall be re-united (never more to part) to those who 
have preceded us in the voyage of eternity. They are released from 
those duties, which we are yet called upon to perform—upon the 
faithful discharge of which must depend our becoming acceptable in the 
sight of him who made us: our duty towards God; and our duty towards 
our neighbor;—our fellow sufferers in humanity. The wide-spread 
desolation that hath overwhelmed your house, hath yet left connexions 
the most sacred and most dear, who call for the exercise of all the 
charities of life. Fix your eye alone upon the survivors, and put your 
trust in God! It is my present sense of duty to Him, that alone hath 
emboldened me to hold this language to you. I almost shudder at my own 
rashness—may he whose grace “surpasseth all human understanding” 
support, comfort and bless you! All other hope is vain. It is from 
him, and him only, that we can receive strength in this life, or mercy 
in the life to come. Human learning and human devices avail nought. 
But where am I rambling? My dear madam, I would, but cannot express my 
sensations. I turn away my eyes from this world, and endeavor to fix 
them upon the next, as the only remedy against that stupefaction of 
grief, that at times overcomes me; and yet addressing myself to you, 
shall I dare to talk of my grief? May God, in his mercy, restore and 
comfort you! So prays, dear madam,

    Your fervent friend,
        JOHN RANDOLPH, of Roanoke.


LETTER V.

ROANOKE, June 2d, 1813.

I did not receive your letter of the 26th until last evening, and then 
I was obliged for it to my good old neighbor Col. Morton, who never 
omits an occasion of doing a favor however small. The gentleman by 
whom you wrote is very shy of me, nor can I blame him for it: no man 
likes to feel the embarrassment which a consciousness of having done 
wrong to another is sure to inspire, and which the sight of the object 
towards whom the wrong has been done never fails to excite in the most 
lively and painful degree. My neighbor Col. C., who goes down to 
Petersburg and Richmond tomorrow, enables me to answer (after a 
fashion) your question—“how and where I shall pass the summer months?” 
To which I can only reply—_as it pleases God!_ If I go to any watering 
place it will be to our Hot Springs, for the purpose of stewing the 
rheumatism out of my carcase, if it be practicable.

It would have been peculiarly gratifying to me to have been with you 
when Leigh, Garnett, W. Meade and I must add M——, were in Richmond. If 
we exclude every “party man and man of ambition” from our church, I 
fear we shall have as thin a congregation as Dean Swift had when he 
addressed his clerk “Dearly beloved Roger!” What I like M. for, is 
neither his _courtesy_ nor his _intelligence_, but a certain 
warm-heartedness, which is, now-a-days, the rarest of human qualities. 
His manner I think peculiarly unfortunate. There is an ostentation of 
ornament (which school boys lay aside when they reach the senior 
class) and a labored infelicity of expression that is hurtful to one's 
feelings—we are in terror for the speaker—but this fault he has 
already in some degree corrected, and by the time he is as old as you 
or I, it will have worn off. I was greatly revolted by it, on our 
first acquaintance, and even now, am occasionally offended—but the 
zeal with which he devotes himself to the service of his friends and 
of his country makes amends for all. It is sometimes a bustling 
activity of little import to its _object_, but which is to be valued 
in reference to its motive.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am not surprised at what you tell me of our friend. We live in 
fearful times, and it is a perilous adventure that he is about to 
undertake. In a few years more, those of us who are alive will have to 
move off to _Kaintuck_ or the _Massissippi_, where corn can be had for 
sixpence a bushel, and pork for a penny a pound. I do not wonder at 
the rage for emigration—what do the bulk of the people get here, that 
they cannot have for one-fifth of the labor in the western country? 
Surely that must be the Yahoo's paradise where he can get dead drunk 
for the hundredth part of a dollar.

What you tell me of Milnor is quite unexpected. He was one of the last 
men whom I should have expected to take orders—not so much on account 
of his quitting a lucrative profession as from his fondness for gay 
life. I am not sure that it is the safest path—The responsibility is 
awful—it is tremendous.

Thanks for your intelligence respecting my poor sister. If human skill 
could save her, Dr. Robinson would do it: but there is nothing left to 
smooth her path to that dwelling whither we must all soon follow her. 
I can give Mrs. B. no comfort on the subject of ——. For my part, it 
requires an effort to take an interest in any thing—and it seems to me 
strange, that there should be found inducements strong enough to carry 
on the business of the world. I believe you have given the true 
solution of this problem, by way of corollary from another—when you 
pronounce that free will and necessity are much the same. I used 
formerly to puzzle myself, as abler men have puzzled others, by 
speculations on this opprobrium of philosophy. If you have not untied 
the Gordian knot, you have cut it, which is the approved methodus 
medendi of this disease.

My neighbor C., who is the bearer of this, is called by the world a 
_hard man_—but I like him because he has a manliness of character—not 
common in this age of base compliance with what is and what is not 
(but supposed to be) the ruling opinions.

Write to me when you can do no better. Worse you cannot do for 
yourself, nor better for me. You can't imagine what an epoch in my 
present life a letter from you or Leigh constitutes. If I did not know 
that you could find nothing here beyond the satisfaction of mere 
animal necessity, I should entreat Mrs. B. and yourself to visit my 
solitary habitation. May every blessing attend you both.

    Your's unchangeably,
        JOHN RANDOLPH, of Roanoke.


{570} LETTER VI.

ROANOKE, July 15, 1814.

I had begun to fear that my long visitation of last winter and spring, 
had put you so much out of the habit of writing to me, that you would 
never resume it—but your letter of the sixth (just received) 
encourages me to hope that I shall hear from you as formerly. It was a 
sensible relief to me—but I will say nothing about my situation.

Poor St. George continues quite irrational. He is however very little 
mischievous, and governed pretty easily. His memory of persons, 
things, events and words, is not at all impaired—but he has no power 
of _combination_, and is entirely incoherent. _His_ going to the 
Springs is out of the question—and mine, I fear, equally so—although 
my rheumatism requires the warm bath. By this time, you are on your 
way thither—except that it is too _cold_, the weather could not have 
been finer. What a climate we live under!

       *       *       *       *       *

As to peace, I have not a doubt that we shall have it forthwith. Our 
folks are prepared to say that the pacification of Europe has swept 
away the _matters in contestation_, as M. the Secretary of State has 
it. All that we see in the government prints, is to reconcile us the 
better to the terms which they must receive from the enemy. From the 
time of his flight from Egypt, my opinion of the character of 
Bonaparte has never changed, except for the worse. I have considered 
him from that date a coward, and ascribed his success to the deity he 
worships—Fortune. His insolence and rashness have met their just 
reward. Had he found an efficient government in France on his 
abandonment of his brave companions in arms in Egypt, and return to 
Paris, he would have been cashiered for ruining the best appointed 
armament that ever left an European port. But all was confusion and 
anarchy at Paris, and, instead of a coup de fusil, he was rewarded 
with a sceptre. He succeeded in throwing the blame of Aboukir on poor 
Brueys. He could safely talk of “his orders to the admiral,” after 
L'Orient had blown up. His Russian and German campaign is another such 
commentary on his character; it is all of a piece.

If the Allies adhere to their treaty of Chaumont, the peace of Europe 
will be preserved—but in France I think the seeds of disorder must 
abound. Instead of the triple aristocracy of the Noblesse, the Church 
and the Parliaments, I see nothing but janissaries and a divan of 
ruffians: Algiers on a great scale. Moral causes I see none—and I am 
well persuaded that these are not created in a day. Matters of 
inveterate opinion, when once rooted up, are _dead_ never to revive: 
_other_ opinions must succeed them. But I am prosing—uttering a string 
of common place, that every one can write, and no one can deny. But 
you brought it on yourself—you expected I would say something, and I 
resolved to try. I can bear witness to the fact of Mrs. B's prediction 
respecting Bonaparte's retirement. I wish I were permitted to name 
five ladies who should constitute the Cabinet of this country: our 
affairs would be conducted in another guess manner. This reminds me of 
Mrs. G., of whom I have at last heard. Mr. G. wrote me late in 
February from London. They were going to Bath, and “if circumstances 
on the continent would permit, meant to take a tour through France.” 
How well timed their trip to Europe has been.

I am here completely _hors du monde_. My neighbor Clark, with whom I 
have made a violent effort to establish an intercourse, has been here 
_twice by invitation_. W. Leigh as often, on his way to court, and on 
Saturday I was agreeably surprised by stumbling on Frank Gilmer, who 
was wandering to and fro in the woods, seeking my cabin. He left me on 
Tuesday for his brother's in Henry. Except my standing dish, you have 
my whole society for _nine weeks_. On the terms by which I hold it, 
life is a curse, from which I would willingly escape, if I _knew where 
to fly_. I have lost my relish for reading—indeed I could not devour 
even the Corsair[3] with the zest that Lord Byron's pen generally 
inspires. My plantation affairs always irksome are now revolting. I 
have lost ¾ of the finest and largest crop I ever had.

[Footnote 3: It is very inferior to the Giaour or the Bride. The 
character of Conrad is unnatural. Blessed with his mistress, he has no 
motive for desperation.]

    My best respects and regards to Mrs. B.
        I am as ever, yours,
            JOHN RANDOLPH, of Roanoke.

Dr. Dudley is (as you may suppose) a treasure to me above all price. 
Without him what should I do? He desires his respects to you both.

As to an English constitution for France, they will have one when they 
all speak the English language, and not before. Have you read Morris's 
oration on the 29th of June? His description of Bonaparte's “taking 
money for his crown” is very fine. It is a picture. I see him. There 
are some cuts in the same page that our _fulminating_ statesman will 
not like.


SUNDAY, the 17th.

I am compelled to be at Prince Edward Court tomorrow, and the weather 
is _now_ so intensely hot that I shall go a part of the way this 
afternoon, and put my letter in the Farmville P. O. whence it will go 
direct to Richmond, instead of waiting five days on the road. Our 
crops lately drowned, are now burning up, and I begin to feel the 
effects of the fresh in my _health_ as well as my purse. Dudley and 
myself have both experienced the ill consequences of our daily visits 
to the low grounds. The negroes, however, continue healthy: out of 
more than 200, not a patient since I came home. Who is it that says 
“il-y-a tant de plaisir à bavarder avec un ami!” Perhaps you will 
reply that the pleasure is not so great _etre bavardè_.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Charlotte Court House yesterday, I saw Dr. Merry, who told me that 
your trip to the Springs was postponed. Pray let me hear from you. If 
you write by Saturday morning's post, address your letter to this 
place—otherwise, to Roanoke. We hear that you are in great 
consternation at Richmond, in consequence of Cochrane's appearance in 
the Chesapeake. Not a week ago it was ostentatiously announced that 
Porter was master of the South Pacific! The mail will arrive in less 
than half an hour, which brings the official account of his capture.

Again my best wishes and respects to Mrs. B., with whom, I fear, I 
have fallen out of favor. Compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Wickham.

{571} 18me May 1804.

_Messieurs_,—Vous étes priés d'assister au convoi et enterrement de la 
trés haute et trés illustre et trés puissante Citoyenne République 
Française; une, indivisible et iméprissable, décédée le 28me Floreal 
(18 May) en son Palais Conservateur—et á son service, qui se sera le 
14me Juillet prochain.

REQUIESCAT IN PACEM!

  “Citoyens! freres et amis
  Partisans de la République,
  Grands raisonneurs en politique,
  Venez d'assister, en famille,
  Au grand convoi de votre fille,
  Morte en couche d'un Empereur.
  L' indivisible Citoyenne
  N' a pû supporter, sans mourir,
  L' Opération Cœsarienne;
  Mais vous ne perdrez presque rien,
  Vous tous qui cet accident touche;
  Car si la mere est morte en couche,
  Le Fils au moins se porte bien.”

N. B. “Le Fils” ne se porte pas bien aujourdhui. 18me juin, 1815.

J. R. of R.




A POLITE STRUGGLE.


Terence Brannagan and Davy Dougherty were sworn brothers, and reckoned 
very much of the gentlemen, and happening to run against each other in 
turning a corner, stopped to make apologies.

“It was all my fault Davy my jewel,” says Terence.

“By St. Dan O'Connell, but it was all mine,” says Davy.

“By the honor of a gentleman, it was mine,” says Terence.

“By the Holy Poker, I say it was mine,” says Davy.

“Do you doubt the honor of a gentleman? I thought you had more 
politeness. Better manners to you say I,” says Terence.

“Do you reflect on my manners you spalpeen? If you wont take a genteel 
apology, take that,” says Davy, hitting Terence a click aside of his 
pate, which Terence returned with interest, and so they had a bloody 
battle all about politeness.




A PROFESSION FOR LADIES.

BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.


Many good men, who really feel solicitous for the improvement and 
elevation of the female sex, doubt the expediency of bestowing on 
young ladies a regular scientific education. They doubt this, because 
there is no profession in which the talents of women may be employed 
without injury to the female character—to that retiring modesty which 
should ever

  “Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.”

No person of reflection and good judgment, who wishes to promote the 
happiness and respectability of woman, would seek to place her in the 
lecture room of the physician—in the forum—the desk—or the halls of 
legislation. The attempt to inspire our sex with the ambition to 
appear like men, is too absurd to merit discussion. Would any lady 
consider herself competent to direct the management of a ship in a 
storm, or a fire-engine at a conflagration? The storms of the 
political ocean, and the fires of party spirit, would as little accord 
with her moral delicacy of mind and feeling. Still she was not formed 
to be a trifler on earth. She has mental powers which, if not equal 
with those of man, are yet far too precious to be wasted in indolence, 
or allowed to rest in ignorance of their duties. Women have a vast 
influence on society, which nothing can prevent; this influence will 
be beneficial or deleterious in proportion to the reasonable and 
enlightened manner in which it is exerted. To secure it on the side of 
virtue and intelligence, should be the aim of every person who wishes 
to promote individual and social improvement and happiness, and our 
national prosperity and glory. There is no country where the right 
direction of female influence is so necessary as in America, because 
here the popular breath guides and impels as it were, the bark of 
state. Our people must, therefore, be educated—not made learned in 
ancient lore merely, or even instructed deeply in modern sciences, but 
trained to the love of excellence, and habituated to the control of 
the passions. The heart and the understanding must alike be 
cultivated, and this can never be effected without the co-operation of 
women.

It is in the department of _teaching_, that women exert their greatest 
power. Important as is their influence in the nursery, the task of 
education is but commenced there. Females might be extensively 
employed in school keeping. Why should not a department so peculiarly 
fitted to their talents, feelings and station, be more generally 
appropriated to them? In New England, it is true, this has partially 
been done; and to that, more than to any other single cause, may be 
traced the general diffusion of learning among all classes of our 
people. Had only men been permitted to teach a common or district 
school, the expense would have prevented schools from being continued 
in our thinly settled towns, except for a small part of each year. 
Then, it is a truth, which few will feel disposed to question, that 
the young imbibe instruction more readily from female teachers than 
from those of the other sex. Another, and very important 
consideration, is the effect which the employment has had on those 
females engaged in it. Their own minds have been disciplined and 
strengthened, and when married, they have carried into their own 
families those habits of attention to intellectual improvement, which 
have qualified them to judge of the talents and to direct the studies 
of their own children. Thus, their influence on society has been 
continually active in promoting the _fashion_ of learning,—that 
peculiar mode of thinking, which, even among our poorest class, 
attaches infamy to ignorance, and incites the dullest laborer to 
consider himself disgraced if his children cannot at least read and 
write.

Here, then, is the _profession_ to which I would direct the talents 
and energies of my own countrywomen. The field is wide enough for the 
display of all their genius, and there are laurels sufficient to 
satisfy the most ambitious. Many distinguished female writers have 
likewise been distinguished as teachers of children and youth. Mrs. 
Hannah More was greatly indebted to her situation as an instructress 
for the cultivation and {572} development of her extraordinary 
talents. Mrs. Barbauld owed much of her literary excellence to the 
necessity she felt of assisting her husband in the education of his 
pupils. Miss Edgeworth, though not ostensibly a teacher, was 
nevertheless stimulated in her literary career—first entered upon to 
promote education—by the practical illustrations of its benefits, 
which she daily witnessed while assisting her father in the 
instruction of his numerous family. Among the French ladies, Madame de 
Genlis, and Madame Campan, were distinguished for their skill in 
teaching youth; and the genius and writings, of the first especially, 
are well known. The present king of the French was her pupil, and to 
her wise and efficient management, owes much of that practical 
knowledge and energy of character which has distinguished his career.

Indeed, there is no method by which a lady can, with safety and credit 
to herself, so surely and speedily acquire that very necessary 
knowledge for a popular writer—the knowledge of the human heart—as by 
becoming an instructress of the young. Let American ladies, who wish 
for literary distinction, if such there are, enter the school-room as 
their temple of fame—and then they will be useful if they are not 
celebrated. I shall be told that they cannot do this—that men have 
engrossed the employment of school-keeping, as well as that of every 
other, by which _money_ can be acquired; and that female teachers are 
excluded from all schools excepting those of the very youngest 
scholars. This is too true. Ought it thus to be?—Is it for the public 
benefit, to employ men to teach schools, when women could do that duty 
better,—even were the same compensation to be allowed to the female as 
to the male?

It has become a proverb, that none but a man of inferior abilities, 
will keep a school from choice—that it is a drudgery, in which no man 
of genius will engage, but from necessity,—or persevere in, but from 
pecuniary motives. Allow this repugnance to the business of 
instruction to proceed, as perhaps it does, from man's superior 
talents,—say, that it is not in accordance with the strong powers and 
stirring energies of his mind, to rest contented in the prison of a 
school-room; yet to women, less gifted with confidence in their own 
abilities, and having so few objects of pursuit, it would furnish an 
employment congenial as well as honorable. There is no branch of 
learning taught in our common schools which females would not be 
capable of teaching. They should also be employed, as assistants, in 
every school and seminary, where there are pupils of their own sex. 
One very important object to be effected by this arrangement, would be 
the saving of expense. Women can afford to teach for a less reward 
than men, even should they prove, as they often doubtless would prove, 
the more capable instructors. To make education universal, it must be 
afforded _cheap_. It is a false principle, which estimates the 
benefits of a privilege by the money it costs. If it were true, our 
Republican government would be a miserable one, in comparison with 
those of royal magnificence. It is, usually, the _abuses_ of our 
privileges, which form the largest item in their expense. Our nation 
has need of all the talents of its citizens, exerted in the most 
beneficial manner, to keep pace with the spirit of the age. Why then, 
refuse the assistance of female intellect, when it might be so 
usefully and appropriately exerted?—There are now, as it is reported, 
about ten thousand schoolmasters in the State of New York. One half of 
that number might, undoubtedly, be employed more profitably to the 
country, and pleasantly to themselves, in other business, and their 
duties, as teachers, better as well as cheaper, performed by 
intelligent women. There are many such to whom even a moderate 
compensation would be wealth, and would stimulate to unwearied 
exertion.

But above all, women should be at the head of establishments for the 
education of their own sex. If it be found necessary, let gentlemen be 
employed as teachers and lecturers occasionally,—but a lady should 
always preside as directress. This is invariably practised in every 
country, save America; and such a preposterous fashion, as that of 
committing the scientific education of young girls, mostly to men, 
cannot much longer continue here. Women will feel what is due to their 
own character and dignity, sufficiently to rouse themselves to the 
education, at least, of their own sex. The example of Mrs. Willard, 
Principal of the Troy Female Seminary, and that of Miss Catharine 
Beecher, not to mention others, demonstrate that ladies are capable of 
understanding the philosophy of the human mind, and of preparing works 
which facilitate the acquisition of knowledge. And then a lady, with 
talents and energy, unites those feminine accomplishments which men 
cannot know or teach.

In short, though there should be no encroachment on the prerogative or 
duties of the men, yet women should remember that they too have 
duties,—which they ought not, which they cannot, consistently with 
duty and delicacy, surrender. One of these duties, is the 
superintending the education of their own sex. This must not be 
abandoned. Then, should men commit to their care the tuition of boys, 
till the age of ten, twelve, or even later, they would probably find 
the effect very beneficial. The influence of a sensible, intelligent 
and pious woman, has a tendency to soften the turbulent dispositions, 
and foster the kindly affections of boys—to instil the love of virtue, 
and a horror of vice. Remember, the culture of the _heart_, as well as 
the _head_, is essentially necessary to make men good citizens of a 
Republic. A strong argument in favor of employing ladies as 
instructors of children, may be found in their purity of principles 
and feelings. A female advocating infidelity, or endeavoring to weaken 
the bonds of moral and social order, is a phenomenon. Can the same be 
said of the other sex?




Swift's “Liliputian Ode” is an imitation from Scarron. The French poet 
concludes a long tri-syllabic poetical epistle to Sarrazin, who had 
failed to pay him a visit, in the following words.

  Mais pourtant
  Repentant
  Si tu viens
  Et te tiens
  Seulement
  Un moment
  Avec nous,
  Mon corroux
  Finira
  Et cætera.


{573}


_Editorial._


RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION.

In the article published by us this month, on the _Right of 
Instruction_, Judge Hopkinson has alluded to some opinions of Edmund 
Burke. It may perhaps be as well to copy here one or two of the 
paragraphs to which we suppose allusion is made.

In his speech in 1780, at the Guildhall in Bristol, _upon certain 
points relative to his parliamentary conduct_, we have what follows.


Let me say with plainness, I who am no longer in a public character, 
that if by a fair, by an indulgent, by a gentlemanly behavior to our 
representatives, we do not give confidence to their minds, and a 
liberal scope to their understandings; if we do not permit our members 
to act upon a _very_ enlarged view of things, we shall at length 
infallibly degrade our national representation into a confused and 
scuffling bustle of local agency.


Again, in the same speech—


What, gentlemen, was I not to foresee, or, foreseeing, was I not to 
endeavor to save you from all these multiplied mischiefs and 
disgraces? Would the little, silly, canvass prattle of obeying 
instructions, and having no opinions but yours, and such idle, 
senseless tales which amuse the vacant ears of unthinking men, have 
saved you from the “pelting of that pitiless storm” to which the loose 
improvidence, the cowardly rashness of those who dare not look danger 
in the face, so as to provide against it in time have exposed this 
degraded nation?


Again—


I did not obey your instructions. No—I conformed to the instructions 
of truth and nature, and maintained your interest against your 
opinions, with a constancy that became me. A representative worthy of 
you ought to be a person of stability. I am to look indeed to your 
opinions; but to such opinions as you and I must have five years 
hence. I was not to look to the flash of the day. I knew that you 
chose me, in my place, along with others, to be a pillar of the state, 
and not a weathercock on the top of the edifice, exalted for my levity 
and versatility, and of no use but to indicate the shiftings of every 
fashionable gale.


And farther—


As to the opinion of the people which some think, in such cases, is to 
be implicitly obeyed; near two years tranquillity, which followed the 
act, proved abundantly that the late horrible spirit was, in a great 
measure, the effect of insidious art, and perverse industry and gross 
misrepresentation. But suppose that the dislike had been much more 
deliberate, and much more general than I am persuaded it was.—When we 
know that the opinions of even the greatest multitudes are the 
standard of rectitude, I shall think myself obliged to make those 
opinions the masters of my conscience. But if it may be doubted 
whether Omnipotence itself is competent to alter the essential 
constitution of right and wrong, sure I am that such _things_ as they 
and I, are possessed of no such power. No man carries farther than I 
do the policy of making government pleasing to the people. But the 
widest range of this politic complaisance is confined within the 
limits of justice.... “But if I profess all this impolitic 
stubbornness I may chance never to be elected into Parliament.” It is 
certainly not pleasing to be put out of the public service. But I 
wish, in being a member of Parliament, to have my share of doing
good and resisting evil. It would therefore be absurd to renounce my 
objects in order to obtain my seat.


In his speech, upon his arrival at Bristol, and at the conclusion of 
the poll in 1774, he says—


I am sorry I cannot conclude without saying a word on a topic touched 
upon by my worthy colleague. I wish that topic had been passed by, at 
a time when I have so little leisure to discuss it. But since he has 
thought proper to throw it out, I owe you a clear explanation of my 
poor sentiments on that subject. He tells you that the “topic of 
instructions has occasioned much altercation and uneasiness in this 
city,” and he expresses himself (if I understand him rightly) in favor 
of the coercive authority of such instructions. Certainly, gentlemen, 
it ought to be the happiness and glory of a representative, to live in 
the strictest union, the closest correspondence, and the most 
unreserved communication with his constituents. Their wishes ought to 
have great weight with him; their opinion high respect; their business 
unremitted attention. It is his duty to sacrifice his repose, his 
pleasures, his satisfactions to theirs; and, above all, ever and in 
all cases, to prefer their interest to his own. But his unbiassed 
opinion, his mature judgment, his enlightened conscience, he ought not 
to sacrifice to you, to any man, or to any set of men living. These he 
does not derive from your pleasure—no, nor from the law and the 
constitution. They are a trust from Providence, for the abuse of which 
he is deeply answerable. Your representative owes you not his industry 
only, but his judgment, and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he 
sacrifices it to your opinion. My worthy colleague says his will ought 
to be subservient to yours. If that be all the thing is innocent. If 
government were a matter of will upon any side, yours, without 
question, ought to be superior. But government and legislation are 
matters of reason and judgment, and not of inclination—and what sort 
of reason is that in which the determination precedes the discussion; 
in which one set of men deliberate and another decide; and where those 
who form the conclusion are perhaps three hundred miles distant from 
those who hear the arguments?


PINAKIDIA.

Under the head of “_Random Thoughts_,” “_Odds and Ends_,” “_Stray 
Leaves_,” “_Scraps_,” “_Brevities_,” and a variety of similar titles, 
we occasionally meet, in periodicals and elsewhere, with papers of 
rich interest and value—the result, in some cases, of much thought and 
more research, expended, however, at a manifest disadvantage, if we 
regard merely the estimate which the public are willing to set upon 
such articles. It sometimes occurs that in papers of this nature may 
be found a collective mass of general, but more usually of classical 
erudition, which, if dexterously besprinkled over a proper surface of 
narrative, would be sufficient to make the fortunes of one or two 
hundred ordinary novelists in these our good days, when all heroes and 
heroines are necessarily men and women of “extensive acquirements.” 
But, for the most part, these “_Brevities_,” &c. are either piecemeal 
cullings at second hand, from a variety of sources hidden or supposed 
to be hidden, or more audacious pilferings from those vast storehouses 
of brief facts, memoranda, and opinions in general literature, which 
are so abundant in all the principal libraries of Germany and France. 
Of the former species, the _Koran_ of Lawrence Sterne is, at the same 
time, one of the most consummately impudent and silly; and it may well 
be doubted whether a single paragraph of any merit in the whole of it 
may not be found, _nearly verbatim_, in the works of some one of his 
{574} immediate cotemporaries. If the _Lacon_ of Mr. Colton is any 
better, its superiority consists altogether in a deeper ingenuity in 
disguising his stolen wares, and in that prescriptive right of the 
strongest which, time out of mind, has decided upon calling every 
Napoleon a conqueror, and every Dick Turpin a thief. Seneca; 
Machiavelli;[1] Balzac, the author of “La Maniere de bien Penser;” 
Bielfeld, the German, who wrote, in French, “Les Premiers Traits de 
L'Erudition Universelle;” Rochefoucault; Bacon; Bolingbroke; and 
especially Burdon, of “Materials for Thinking” memory, possess, among 
them, indisputable claims to the ownership of nearly every thing worth 
owning in the book.

[Footnote 1: It is remarkable that much of what Colton has stolen from 
Machiavelli, was previously stolen by Machiavelli from Plutarch. A MS. 
book of the _Apophthegms of the Ancients_, by this latter writer, 
having fallen into Machiavelli's hands, he put them nearly all into 
the mouth of his hero, Castrucio Castricani.]

Of the latter species of theft, we see frequent specimens in the 
continental magazines of Europe, and occasionally meet with them even 
in the lower class of periodicals in Great Britain. These specimens 
are usually extracts, by wholesale, from such works as the 
“Bibliotheque des Memorabilia Literaria,” the “Recueil des Bons 
Pensées,” the “Lettres Edifiantes et Curieuses,” the “Literary 
Memoirs” of Sallengré, the “Melanges Literaires” of Suard and André, 
or the “Pieces Interressantes et peu Connues” of La Place. D'Israeli's 
“Curiosities of Literature,” “Literary Character,” and “Calamities of 
Authors,” have, of late years, proved exceedingly convenient to some 
little American pilferers in this line, but are now becoming too 
generally known to allow much hope of their good things being any 
longer appropriated with impunity.

Such collections, as those of which we have been speaking, are usually 
entertaining in themselves, and, for the most part, we relish every 
thing about them save their pretensions to originality. In offering, 
ourselves, something of the kind to the readers of the Messenger, we 
wish to be understood as disclaiming, in a great degree, every such 
pretension. Most of the following article is original, and will be 
readily recognized as such by the classical and general reader—some 
portions of it may have been written down in the words, or nearly in 
the words, of the primitive authorities. The whole is taken from a 
confused mass of marginal notes, and entries in a common-place-book. 
No certain arrangement has been considered necessary; and, indeed, so 
heterogeneous a farrago it would have been an endless task to 
methodize. We have chosen the heading _Pinakidia_, or Tablets, as one 
sufficiently comprehensive. It was used, for a somewhat similar 
purpose, by Dionysius of Harlicarnassus.

       *       *       *       *       *

The whole of Bulwer's elaborate argument on the immortality of the 
soul, which he has put into the mouth of the “Ambitious Student,” may 
be confuted through the author's omission of one particular point in 
his summary of the attributes of Deity—a point which we cannot believe 
omitted altogether through accident. A single link is deficient in the 
chain—but the chain is worthless without it. No man doubts the 
immortality of the soul—yet of all truths this truth of immortality is 
the most difficult to prove by any mere series of syllogisms. We would 
refer our readers to the argument here mentioned.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The rude rough wild waste has its power to please,

a line in one Mr. Odiorne's poem, “The Progress of Refinement,” is 
pronounced by the American author of a book entitled “Ante-Diluvian 
Antiquities,” “the very best alliteration in all poetry.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Turkish Spy_ is the original of many similar works—among the best 
of which are Montesquieu's _Persian Letters_, and the _British Spy_ of 
our own Wirt. It was written undoubtedly by John Paul Marana, an 
Italian, _in_ Italian, but probably was first published in French. Dr. 
Johnson, who saw only an English translation, supposed it an English 
work. Marana died in 1693.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The hunter and the deer a shade

is a much admired line in Campbell's _Gertrude of Wyoming_—but the 
identical line is to be found in the poems of the American Freneau.

       *       *       *       *       *

Corneille's celebrated _Moi_ of Medea is borrowed from Seneca. Racine, 
in Phœdra, has stolen nearly the whole scene of the declaration of 
love from the same puerile writer.

       *       *       *       *       *

The peculiar zodiac of the comets is comprised in these verses of 
Cassini—

  Antinous, Pegasusque, Andromeda, Taurus, Orion,
  Procyon, atque Hydrus, Centaurus, Scorpius, Arcus.

       *       *       *       *       *

Speaking of the usual representation of the banquet-scene in Macbeth, 
Von Raumer, the German historian, mentions a shadowy figure thrown by 
optical means into the chair of Banquo, and producing intense effect 
upon the audience. Enslen, a German optician, conceived this idea, and 
accomplished it without difficulty.

       *       *       *       *       *

A religious hubbub, such as the world has seldom seen, was excited, 
during the reign of Frederic II, by the _imagined_ virulence of a book 
entitled “The Three Impostors.” It was attributed to Pierre des 
Vignes, chancellor of the king, who was accused by the Pope of having 
treated the religions of Moses, Jesus, and Mahomet as political 
fables. The work in question, however, which was squabbled about, 
abused, defended, and familiarly _quoted_ by all parties, is well 
proved never to have existed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The word Τυχη, or Fortune, does not appear once in the whole Iliad.

       *       *       *       *       *

The “Lamentations” of Jeremiah are written, with the exception of the 
last chapter, in acrostic verse: that is to say, every line or couplet 
begins, in alphabetical order, with some letter in the Hebrew 
alphabet. In the third chapter each letter is repeated three times 
successively.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fullest account of the Amazons is to be found in Diodorus Siculus.

       *       *       *       *       *

Theophrastus, in his botanical works, anticipated the {575} sexual 
system of Linnæus. Philolaus of Crotona maintained that comets 
appeared after a certain revolution—and Æcetes contended for the 
existence of what is now called the new world. Pulci, “the sire of the 
half-serious rhyme,” has a passage expressly alluding to a western 
continent. Dante, two centuries before, has the same allusion.

  De vostri sensi ch è del rimanente
  Non vogliate negar l'esperenza
  Diretro al sol, del mondo sensa gente.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cicero makes _finis_ masculine, Virgil feminine. Usque ad eum 
finem—_Cicero_. Quæ finis standi? Hæc finis Priami fatorum—_Virgil_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dante left a poem in three languages—Latin, Provençal, and Italian. 
Rambaud de Vachieras left one in five.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marcus Antoninus wrote a book entitled Των εις εαυτον—Of the things 
which concern himself. It would be a good title for a Diary.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lipsius, in his treatise “De Supplicio Crucis,” says that the upright 
beam of the cross was a _fixture_ at the place of execution, whither 
the criminal was made to bear only the transverse arm. Consequently 
the painters are in error who depict our Savior bearing the entire 
cross.

       *       *       *       *       *

The stream flowing through the middle of the valley of Jehoshaphat, is 
called, in the Gospel of St. John, “the brook of cedars.” In the 
Septuagint the word is κεδρον, darkness, from the Hebrew Kiddar, 
black, and not κεδρων, of cedars.

       *       *       *       *       *

Seneca says that Appion, a grammarian of the age of Caligula, 
maintained that Homer himself made the division of the Iliad and 
Odyssey into books, and evidences the first word of the Iliad, Μηνιν, 
the Μη of which signifies 48, the number of books in both poems. 
Seneca however adds, “Talia sciat oportet qui multa vult scire.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The tale in Plato's “Convivium,” that man at first was male and 
female, and that, though Jupiter cleft them asunder, there was a 
natural love towards one another, seems to be only a corruption of the 
account in Genesis of Eve's being made from Adam's rib.

       *       *       *       *       *

Corneille has these lines in one of his tragedies;

  Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau—
  La moitié de ma vie a mis l'autre au tombeau

which may be thus translated,

  Weep, weep, my eyes! it is no time to laugh
  For half myself has buried the other half.

       *       *       *       *       *

Over the iron gate of a prison at Ferrara is this 
inscription—“Ingresso alla prigione di Torquato Tasso.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Hedelin, a Frenchman, in the beginning of the 18th century, denied 
that any such person as Homer ever existed, and supposed the Iliad to 
be made up ex tragediis, et variis canticis de trivio mendicatorum et 
circulatorum—à la maniere des chansons du Pontneuf.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rabbi Manasseh published a book at Amsterdam entitled “The Hopes 
of Israel.” It was founded upon the supposed number and power of the 
Jews in America. This supposition was derived from a fabulous account 
by Montesini of his having found a vast concourse of Jews among the 
Cordilleras.

       *       *       *       *       *

The word _assassin_ is derived according to Hyle from Hassa, to kill. 
Some bring it from Hassan, the first chief of the association—some 
from the Jewish Essenes—Lemoine from a word meaning “herbage”—De Sacy 
and Hammer from “hashish” the opiate of hemp leaves, of which the 
assassins made a singular use.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Defuncti injuriâ ne afficiantur” was a law of the twelve tables.

       *       *       *       *       *

The origin of the phrase “corporal oath” is to be found in the ancient 
usage of touching, upon occasion of attestation, the _corporale_ or 
cloth which covered the consecrated articles.

       *       *       *       *       *

Montgomery in his lectures on _Literature_ (_!_) has the 
following—“Who does not turn with absolute contempt from the rings and 
gems, and filters, and caves and genii of Eastern Tales as from the 
trinkets of a toyshop, and the trumpery of a raree-show?” What man of 
genius but must answer “Not I.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Abbè de St. Pierre has fixed in his language two significant 
words, viz: _bienfaisance_, and the diminutive _la gloriole_.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no particular air known throughout Switzerland by the name of 
the Ranz des Vaches. Every canton has its own song varying in words, 
notes and even language. Mr. Cooper, the novelist, is our authority.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Incidis in Scyllam cupiens vitare Charybdim

is neither in Virgil nor Ovid, as often supposed, but in the 
“Alexandrics” of Philip Gualtier a French poet of the thirteenth 
century.

       *       *       *       *       *

Under a portrait of Tiberio Fiurilli who invented the character of 
Scaramouch, are these verses,

  Cet illustre Comedien
  De son art traca la carriere:
  Il fut le maitre de Moliere
  Et la Nature fut le sien.

       *       *       *       *       *

A curious passage in a letter from Cicero to his literary friend 
Papyrius Pætus, shows that our custom of annexing a farce or pantomime 
to a tragic drama existed among the Romans.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Cary's “Dante” is the following passage—

  And pilgrim newly on his road with love
  Thrills if he hear the vesper bell from far
  That seems to mourn for the expiring day.

Gray has also

  The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marmontel in the “Encyclopedie” declares that the Italians did not 
possess a single comedy worth reading—therein displaying his 
ignorance. Some of the greatest {576} names in Italian Literature were 
writers of comedy. Baretti mentions a collection of four thousand 
dramas made by Apostolo Zeno, of which the greater part were 
comedies—many of a high order.

       *       *       *       *       *

A comedy or opera by Andreini was the origin of “Paradise Lost.” 
Andreini's Adamo was the model of Milton's Adam.

       *       *       *       *       *

Milton has the expression “Forget thyself to marble.” Pope has the 
line “I have not yet forgot myself to stone.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The noble simile of Milton, of Satan with the rising sun in the first 
book of the Paradise Lost, had nearly occasioned the suppression of 
that epic: it was supposed to contain a treasonable allusion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Campbell's line

  Like angel visits few and far between,

is a palpable plagiarism. Blair has

                       Its visits
  Like angel visits short and far between.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Hudibras are these lines—

  Each window like the pillory appears
  With heads thrust through, nailed by the ears.

Young in his “Love of Fame” has the following—

  An opera, like a pillory, may be said
  To nail our ears down and expose our head.

       *       *       *       *       *

Goldsmith's celebrated lines

  Man wants but little here below
  Nor wants that little long,

are stolen from Young; who has

  Man wants but little, nor that little long.

       *       *       *       *       *

The character of the ancient Bacchus, that graceful divinity, seems to 
have been little understood by Dryden. The line in Virgil

  Et quocunque deus circum caput egit _honestum_

is thus grossly mistranslated,

  On whate'er side he turns his _honest_ face.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are about one thousand lines identical in the Iliad and Odyssey.

       *       *       *       *       *

Macrobius gives the form of an imprecation by which the Romans 
believed whole towns could be demolished and armies defeated. It 
commences “Dis Pater sive Jovis mavis sive quo alio nomine fas est 
nominare,” and ends “Si hæc ita faxitis ut ego sciam, sentiam, 
intelligamque, tum quisquis votum hoc faxit recte factum esto, ovibus 
atris tribus, Tellus mater, teque Jupiter, obtestor.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The “Courtier” of Baldazzar Castiglione, 1528, is the first attempt at 
periodical moral Essay with which we are acquainted. The Noctes Atticæ 
of Aulus Gellius cannot be allowed to rank as such.

       *       *       *       *       *

These lines were written over the closet door of M. Menard,

  Las d'esperer, et de me plaindre
  De l'amour, des grands, et du sort
  C'est ici que J'attends la mort
  Sans la desirer ou la craindre.

       *       *       *       *       *

Martin Luther in his reply to Henry VIIIth's book by which the latter 
acquired the title of “Defender of the Faith,” calls the monarch very 
unceremoniously “a pig, an ass, a dunghill, the spawn of an adder, a 
basilisk, a lying buffoon dressed in a king's robes, a mad fool with a 
frothy mouth and a whorish face.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Psalter of Solomon, which contains 18 psalms, is a work which was 
found in Greek in the library of Ausburg, and has been translated into 
Latin by John Lewis de la Cerda. It is supposed not to be Solomon's, 
but the work of some Hellenistical Jew, and composed in imitation of 
David's Psalms. The Psalter was known to the ancients, and was 
formerly in the famous Alexandrian MS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  An unshaped kind of something first appeared,

is a line in Cowley's famous description of the Creation.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is probable that the queen of Sheba was Balkis—that Sheba was a 
kingdom in the Southern part of Arabia Felix, and that the people were 
called Sabæans. These lines of Claudian relate to the people and 
queen,

  Medis, levibusque Sabæis
  Imperat hic sexus; reginarumque sub armis
  Barbariæ magna pars jacet.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sheridan declared he would rather be the author of the ballad called 
Hosier's Ghost, by Glover, than of the Annals of Tacitus.

       *       *       *       *       *

The word Jehovah is not Hebrew. The Hebrews had no such letters as J 
or V. The word is properly Iah-Uah—compounded of Iah Essence and Uah 
Existing. Its full meaning is the self-existing essence of all things.

       *       *       *       *       *

The “Song of Solomon” throwing aside the heading of the chapters, 
which is the work of the English translators, contains nothing which 
relates to the Savior or the Church. It does not, like every other 
sacred book, contain even the name of the Deity.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Vatican is an ancient picture of Adam, with the Latin 
inscription “Adam divinitus edoctus, primus scientiarum et literarum 
inventor.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The word translated “_slanderers_” in I Timothy iii, 2, and that 
translated “_false accusers_” in Titus ii, 3, are “_female devils_” in 
the original Greek of the New Testament.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Hebrew language contains no word (except perhaps Jehovah) which 
conveys to the mind the idea of Eternity. The translators of the Old 
Testament have used the word Eternity but once.

       *       *       *       *       *

“The slipper of Cinderella,” says the editor of the new edition of 
Warton “finds a parallel in the history of the celebrated Rhodope.” 
Cinderella is a tale of universal currency. An ancient Danish ballad 
has some of the incidents. It is popular among the Welch—also among 
the Poles—in Hesse and Swerhn. Schottky found it among the Servian 
fables. Rollenbagen in his Froschmauseler speaks of it as the tale of 
the despised {577} Aschen-possel. Luther mentions it. It is in the 
Italian Pentamerone under the title of Cenerentola.

       *       *       *       *       *

Porphyry, than whom no one could be better acquainted with the 
theology of the ancients, acknowledged Vesta, Rhea, Ceres, Themis, 
Priapus, Proserpina, Bacchus, Attis, Adonis, Silenus, and the Satyrs 
to be one and the same.

       *       *       *       *       *

Servius on Virgil's Æneid speaks of a _bearded_ Venus. The poet Calvus 
in Macrobius speaks of Venus as masculine. Valerius Soranus among 
other titles calls Jupiter the _Mother_ of the Gods.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Suidas is a letter from Dionysius, the Areopagite, dated 
Heliopolis, in the fourth year of the 202d Olympiad (the year of 
Christ's crucifixion) to his friend Apollophanes, in which is 
mentioned a total eclipse of the sun at noon. “Either,” says Dionysius 
“the author of nature suffers, or he sympathizes with some who do.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The most particular history of the Deluge, and the nearest of any to 
the account given by Moses is to be found in Lucian (De Dea Syria.)

       *       *       *       *       *

The Greeks had no historian prior to Cadmus Milesius, nor any public 
inscription of which we can be certified, before the laws of Draco.

       *       *       *       *       *

So great is the uncertainty of ancient history that the epoch of 
Semiramis cannot be ascertained within 1535 years, for according to

  Syncellus, she lived before Christ 2177,
  Patavius,   '    '     '      '    2060,
  Helvicus,   '    '     '      '    2248,
  Eusebius,   '    '     '      '    1984,
  Mr. Jackson,     '     '      '    1964,
  Archbishop Usher,      '      '    1215,
  Philo-Biblius from Sanconiathon,   1200,
  Herodotus about  '     '      '     713.

       *       *       *       *       *

The book of Jasher, said to have been preserved from the deluge by 
Noah, but since lost, was extant in the time of Joshua, and in the 
time of David. Mr. Bryant thinks, however, very justly, that the ten 
tables of stone were the first written characters. The book of Jasher 
is mentioned Joshua x. 13, and 2 Samuel i. 18.

       *       *       *       *       *

Andrè Chenier, imprisoned during the French Revolution, began thus 
some lines on his unhappy situation,

  Peut-être avant que l'heure en cercle promenée
    Ait posè sur l'email brillant
  Dans les soixante pas ou sa route est bornèe
    Son pied sonore et vigilant,
  Le sommeil du tombeau pressera ma paupiere—

At this instant Andrè Chenier was interrupted by the officials of the 
guillotine.

       *       *       *       *       *

Archbishop Usher, in a MS. of St. Patrick's life, said to have been 
found at Louvain as an original of a very remote date, detected 
several entire passages purloined from his own writings.

       *       *       *       *       *

An extract from the “Mystery of St. Denis” is in the “Bibliotheque du 
Theatre Francois, depuis son origine, Dresde. 1768.” In this serious 
drama, St. Denis, having been tortured and at length decapitated, 
rises very quietly, takes his head under his arm and walks off the 
stage in all the dignity of martyrdom.

       *       *       *       *       *

The idea of “No light but rather darkness visible” was perhaps 
suggested to Milton by Spenser's

  A little glooming light much like a shade.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Dutch Vondel's tragedy “The Deliverance of the Children of 
Israel” one of the principal characters is the Divinity himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Darwin is indebted for a great part of his “Great poem” to a Latin one 
by De La Croix, published in 1727 and entitled “Connubia Florum.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Bryant in his learned “Mythology” says that although the Pagan 
fables are not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually and make 
inferences from them as existing realities.

       *       *       *       *       *

The shield of Achilles in Homer seems to have been copied from some 
Pharos which the poet had seen in Egypt. What he describes on the 
central part of the shield is a map of the earth and of the celestial 
appearances.

       *       *       *       *       *

Anaxagoras of Clazomenæ is said to have prophecied that a stone would 
fall from the sun. This is a mistake of the learned. All that 
Anaxagoras averred may be seen in the Scholiast upon Pindar (Olymp. 
Ode. 1.) It amounts only to this, that Petros was a name of the sun.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Hebrew language has lain now for two thousand years mute and 
incapable of utterance. The “Masoretical punctuation” which professes 
to supply the vowels was formed a thousand years after the language 
had ceased to be spoken, and disagrees in many instances with the 
Seventy, Origen and other writers.

       *       *       *       *       *

James Montgomery thinks proper to style M'Pherson's Ossian, a 
collection “of halting, dancing, lumbering, grating, nondescript 
paragraphs.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The paucity of spondees in the English language, is the reason why we 
cannot tolerate an English Hexameter. Sir Philip Sidney, in his 
Arcadia, thus speaks of Love in what is meant for Hexameter verse:

  So to the woods Love runnes, as well as rides to the palace:
  Neither he bears reverence to a prince, nor pity to a beggar;
  But, like a point in the midst of a circle, is still of a nearnesse.

       *       *       *       *       *

      His form had not yet lost
  All _her_ original brightness,

is a very remarkable passage in Milton's Paradise Lost, wherein a 
_person is personified_.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is certain that Hebrew verse did not include rhyme: the 
terminations of the lines where they are most distinct, never showing 
any thing of the kind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Francis le Brossano engraved these verses upon a marble tomb which he 
erected to Petrarch at Arqua. {578}

  Frigida Francisci tegit hic lapis ossa Petrarcæ.
  Suscipe, virgo parens, animam: sate virgine, parce,
  Fessaque jam terris, cœli requiescat in arce.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Statua Statuæ” was an inscription handed about at Paris for the 
equestrian statue of Louis XV, begun by Bouchardon and finished by 
Pigal. The following also,

  Bouchardon est un animal
    Et son ouvrage fait pitié:
  Il place les vices à cheval
    Et les vertus à pied.

And another,

  Voila notre roi comme il est à Versailles
  Sans foi, sans loi, et sans entrailles.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bochart derives Elysium from the Phœnician Elysoth, joy, through the 
Greek Ἠλυσιον. Circe from the Phœnician Kirkar, to corrupt—Siren from 
the Phœnician Sir, to sing—Scylla from the Phœnician Scol, 
destruction—Charybdis from the Phœnician Chor-obdam, chasm of ruin.

       *       *       *       *       *

Attrogs, a fruit common in Palestine, is supposed to have been “the 
forbidden.” It has a rough rind, and resembles a citron or lemon.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following quaint sentence is found in Saint Evremond. “I own I do 
not envy him, when I consider that there are in the next world such 
people as Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Eacus.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The standard of Judas Maccabæus displayed the words “Mi camoca baelim 
Jehovah”—Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the Gods? This being 
afterwards intimated by the first letter of each word, in the manner 
of the S. P. Q. R., gave rise to the surname Maccabæus—for the 
initials in Hebrew form “Maccabi.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Josephus, with Saint Paul and others, supposed man to be compounded of 
body, soul, and spirit. The distinction between soul and spirit is an 
essential point in ancient philosophy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Lyttleton acknowledged the authorship of two dialogues, in the 
first of which the personages were the Savior and Socrates, in the 
second king David and Cæsar Borgia.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dante gives the name of _sonnet_ to his little canzone or ode 
beginning

  O voi che per la via d'Amor passate.

       *       *       *       *       *

Boileau is mistaken in saying that Petrarch ‘qui est regardé comme le 
pere du sonnet’ borrowed it from the French or Provençal writers. The 
Italian sonnet can be traced back as far as the year 1200. Petrarch 
was not born until 1304.

       *       *       *       *       *

The learned Menage has this epitaph on Sannazarius

  Ci git, dont l'esprit fût si beau,
    Sannazar, ce poete habile,
    Qui par ses vers divins approche de Virgile,
  Plus encore que par son tombeau.

       *       *       *       *       *

The two reprehensible lines in Pope's Eloisa,

  Not Cæsar's empress would I deign to prove;
  No—make me mistress to the man I love

are to be found in the original letters of Eloisa—at least the 
thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mercier, in “L'an deux mille quatre cents quarante” seriously 
maintains the doctrines of the Metempsychosis, and J. D'Israeli says 
there is no system so simple, and so little repugnant to the 
understanding.

       *       *       *       *       *

One of the best epigrams affixed to the statue of Pasquin was the 
following upon Paul III,

  Ut canerent data multa olim sunt vatibus æra
  Ut taceam quantum tu mihi, Paule, dabis?

       *       *       *       *       *

Milton in Paradise Lost, has this passage,

        ——when the _scourge_
  Inexorably, and the _torturing hour_
  Call us to penance.

Gray, in his Ode to Adversity, has

  Thou tamer of the human breast
  Whose iron _scourge_, and _torturing hour_
  The bad affright.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gray tells us that the image of his bard, where

  Loose his beard, and hoary hair
  Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air

was taken from a picture by Raphael: yet the beard of Hudibras is also 
likened to a meteor,

  This hairy meteor did denounce
  The fall of sceptres and of crowns.

       *       *       *       *       *

The lines

  For he that fights and runs away
  May live to fight another day,
  But he that is in battle slain
  Will never rise to fight again

are not to be found, as is thought, in Hudibras. Butler's verses ran 
thus;

  For he that flies may fight again
  Which he can never do that's slain.

The former are in a volume of ‘Poems’ by Sir John Mennes, reign of 
Charles II. The original idea is in Demosthenes. Ανερ ο φεογων και 
παλιν μαχησεται.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Semel insanivimus omnes” is not from Horace but from Mantuanus, an 
Italian. In a work entitled “De honesto amore” is this line,

  Id commune malum, semel insanivimus omnes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dryden in ‘Absalom and Achitophel’ has these lines,

  David for him his tuneful harp had strung
  And heaven had wanted one immortal song.

Pope in his Epistle to Arbuthnot has

  Friend of my life which did not you prolong
  The world had wanted many an idle song.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tickell's lines

  While the charmed reader with thy thought complies
  And views thy Rosamond with Henry's eyes,

are evidently borrowed from those of Boileau,

  En vain contre ‘Le Cid’ un ministre se ligue;
  Tout Paris pour Chimene a les yeux de Rodrigue.

       *       *       *       *       *

The expression, ‘nemorumque noctem’ occurring in one of Gray's Latin 
odes, has been repeatedly found fault with—yet Virgil has ‘medio 
nimborum in nocte.’

       *       *       *       *       *

{579} Selden observes of Henry VIII, that he was a king with a pope in 
his belly.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the ‘Nubes’ of Aristophanes, there are several Greek verses in 
_rhyme_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of the ten tragedies which are attributed to Seneca, (the only Roman 
tragedies extant,) nine are on Greek subjects.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ariosto says of one of his heroes, that, in the heat of combat, not 
perceiving that he was a dead man, he continued to fight valiantly, 
dead as he was.

  Il pover' huomo che non s'en era accorto,
  Andava combattendo, e era morto.

       *       *       *       *       *

The author of ‘La Maniere de bien Penser’ speaks of a French divine 
who, to prove that young persons sometimes die before old ones, cited 
the text, ‘Prœcucurrit citius Petro Johannes et venit primus ad 
monumentum.’

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no passage among all the writings of antiquity more sublime 
than these lines of Silius Italicus. The words are addressed to a 
young man of Capua, who proposed to assassinate Hannibal at a banquet.

  Fallis te mensas inter quod credis inermem,
  Tot bellis quæsita viro, tot cœdibus armat
  Majestas eterna ducem: si admoveris ora
  Cannas et Trebium ante oculos, Trasymenaque busta,
  Et Pauli stare ingentum miraberis umbram.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Giace l'alta Cartago: à pena i segni
  De l'alte sui ruine il lido serba:
  Muoino le città, muoino i regni;
  Copre i fasti e le pompe arena et herba:
  E l'huom d'esser mortal per che si sdegni.

These lines of Tasso are a curious specimen of literary robbery—being 
made up entirely of passages from Lucan and Sulspicius. Lucan says of 
Troy

      Jam tota teguntur
  Pergama dumetis: etiam perire ruinæ:

and Sulspicius in a letter to Cicero says of Megara, Egina, Corinth, 
&c.—“Hem! nos homunculi indignamur si quis nostrum interiit, quorum 
vita brevior esse debet, cum uno loco tot oppidorum cadavera projecta 
jaceant.”

       *       *       *       *       *

An epigram upon the subject of Francois de Bassompiere being released 
from the Bastille upon the death of Richelieu, is a strange mixture of 
lofty thought and puerile conceit.

    Enfin dans l'arriere saison
  La fortune d'Armand s'accorde avec la mienne:
    France, Je sors de ma prison
  Quand son ame sort de la sienne.

The line, “France, Je sors de ma prison,” is the anagram of Francois 
de Bassompiere.

       *       *       *       *       *

The epigrams of the Greek Anthology are characterized more by 
_náiveté_ than point. They are for the most part insipid.

       *       *       *       *       *

Longinus calls pompous and inflated thoughts, “reveries of 
Jupiter”—insomnia Jovis.

       *       *       *       *       *

A French writer of celebrity dedicated a book to Richelieu in terms of 
the most blasphemous flattery. But being disappointed in his 
expectations, he suppressed all his praises in a second edition, and 
re-dedicated his volume “_á Jesus Christ_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The following inscription intended for the Louvre, possesses both 
simplicity and dignity:

  Pande fores populis, sublimis Lupara: non est
  Terrarum imperio dignior ulla domus.

       *       *       *       *       *

Under a fine painting of St. Bruno in solitude, some Italian wrote 
these words, “Egli è vivo, e parlerebbe se non osservasse la rigola 
del silentio.” Malherbe has taken the hint in his epigram upon a 
picture of Saint Catherine.

       *       *       *       *       *

A fine sample of _galimatias_ is to be found in an epigram of Miguel 
de Cervantes:

  Van muerte tan escondida,
    Que no te sienta venir;
  Porque el plazer del morir
    No me torne à dar la vida.

       *       *       *       *       *

Quintillian mentions a pedant who taught obscurity, and who was wont 
to say to his scholars, “This is excellent—I do not understand it 
myself.”

       *       *       *       *       *

An Italian metaphysician to disprove that greatness of mind is 
proportioned to the size of the skull, argues thus: “Non sano, che la 
mente è il centro del capo; e il centro non cresce per la grandezza 
del circolo.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A horse is often seen on ancient sepulchral monuments. Caylus quotes a 
passage from Passeri, “de animæ transvectione,” implying that the 
horse designates the passage of the soul to Elysium.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Satyre Menippée of the French is, in prose, the exact counterpart 
of Hudibras in rhyme.

       *       *       *       *       *

A remarkable instance of concord of sound and sense is to be seen in 
the following stanza by M. Anton. Flaminius:

  Ast amans charæ thalamum puellæ
  Deserit flens, et tibi verba dicit
  Aspera amplexu teneræ cupito a—
                     —vulsus amicæ.

       *       *       *       *       *

Voltaire's ignorance of antiquity is laughable. In his Essay on 
Tragedy, prefixed to Brutus, he actually boasts of having introduced 
the Roman senate on the stage in red mantles. “The Greeks,” as he 
asserts, “font paraitre ses acteurs (tragic) sur des especes 
d'echasses, le visage couvert d'un masque qui exprime la douleur d'un 
coté et la joye de l'autre!” The only circumstance upon which he could 
possibly have founded such an accusation is, that in the _new comedy_ 
masks were worn with one eyebrow drawn up and the other down, to 
denote a busy-body or inquisitive medler.

       *       *       *       *       *

Several ancient tragedies, viz: Eumenides, Philoctetes, and Ædipus et 
Colonos, besides many pieces of Euripides, have a happy and enlivening 
termination.

       *       *       *       *       *

The only historical tragedies by Grecian authors {580} were The 
Capture of Miletus by Phrynicus and the Persians of Æschylus.

       *       *       *       *       *

The foundation of all the erroneous opinions on the subject of the old 
Greek comedy (Voltaire's opinion particularly) may be found in the 
comparison between Aristophanes and Menander, in Plutarch.

       *       *       *       *       *

Schlegel says justly, that Harlequin and Pulcinello descend in a 
direct line from the buffoons of the ancient Romans. On Greek vases 
are seen also dresses like theirs—long breeches and waistcoats with 
arms, articles worn by neither Greeks nor Romans except upon the 
stage. At present Zanni is one of the names of Harlequin, and Sannio 
in the Latin farces was a buffoon who had a shaven head, and a dress 
patched together of all colors.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Racine's _Berenice_ Antiochus says to the queen

      ——Je me suis tû cinq ans
  Madame, et vais encore me taire plus long tems,

and to give a direct proof of his intention, recites immediately no 
less than fifty verses in a breath.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Voltaire's scruples about unity of place he has committed a 
thousand blunders. In the Mort de Cæsar the scene is in the Capitol, 
but the people seem not to know their precise situation. On one 
occasion Cæsar exclaims, “Courons au Capitole!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Denis de Sallo's “Journal des Sçavans,” in 1665 may be considered as 
the origin of Literary Journals or Reviews.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Sous ce tombeau git Le Sage abattu
  Par le ciseau de la Parque importune,
  S'il ne fut pas ami de la fortune
  Il fut toujours ami de la vertu,

was Le Sage's epitaph.

       *       *       *       *       *

These lines although extremely French are forcible,

  Et comme un jeune cœur est bientot enflammé
  Il me vit, il m'aima, je le vis, je l'aimai.

       *       *       *       *       *

On Cardinal Richelieu, Benserade made the following epitaph:

  Cy gist—ouy gist par la mort bleu
  Le Cardinal de Richelieu,
  Et ce qui cause mon ennuy
  Ma pension avec lui.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Jesuits called Crebillon ‘Puer ingeniosus, sed insignis nebulo.’

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. E. Young published “A true Estimate of Human Life, Part I,” 
dedicated to Queen Anne, and describing the _shades_ of existence. The 
second part, however, which should have contained the lights never 
appeared.

       *       *       *       *       *

The “Batrachomyomachia,” is nothing more than a burlesque poem, much 
in the manner of Aristophanes, and doubtfully attributed to Homer. 
Philip Melancthon however, wrote a commentary to prove the poet's 
object was to excite a hatred for tumults and sedition. Pierre La 
Seine going a step farther, thinks the intention was to recommend to 
young men temperance in eating and drinking.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Amare et sapere vix Deo conceditur,” is not Seneca's as generally 
supposed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The heathen poets are mentioned three times in the New Testament. 
Aratus in the seventeenth chapter of Acts—Menander in the fifteenth 
chapter of I Corinthians—also Epimenides.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “Semper sub Sextis perdita Roma fuit,”

was a line written during the pontificate of Alexander VI. Sextus 
Tarquinius provoked by his tyranny the expulsion of the kings of Rome. 
Urban VI began the great schism of the West. Alexander VI astonished 
the world by the enormity of his crimes, and Pius VI did not falsify 
the saying.

       *       *       *       *       *

A letter was once addressed from Rome “Alla sua Excellenza 
Seromfidevi,” in London. It caused much perplexity at the Post-office 
and British Museum, and after foiling the acumen of a minister of 
state, was found to be intended for Sir Humphrey Davy.

       *       *       *       *       *

The vulgar Christian era is the invention of Dionysius Exiguus.

       *       *       *       *       *

The book of Judith was originally written in Chaldee, and thence 
translated into Latin by St. Jerom. There are several particulars in 
our English version which are not to be found in St. Jerom's, and 
which seem to be those readings which he professes to omit as vicious 
corruptions.

       *       *       *       *       *

The proverb, “Evil communications corrupt good manners,” which is 
found in Corinthians, is a quotation, intended as such, from 
Euripides.

       *       *       *       *       *

Varro reckons three epochs: the first from the beginning of the world 
to the first flood, which he calls _uncertain_; the second from the 
flood to the first Olympiad, _fabulous_; the third from the first 
Olympiad to his own time, _historical_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Politian, the poet and scholar, was an admirer of Alessandra Scala, 
and addressed to her this extempore:

  To teach me that in hapless suit
    I do but waste my hours,
  Cold maid, whene'er I ask for fruit,
  Thou givest me naught but flowers.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Latin version of Herodotus, the lowest of the towers forming 
the temple of Belus, is said to be a furlong thick and a furlong high; 
and some writers concluding each of the eight to be as high, make the 
whole one mile in height. In the Greek text, however, the lowest tower 
is merely said to be a furlong _through_—nothing is said of its 
height. Strabo makes the temple a furlong altogether in altitude.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jacobus Hugo was of opinion that by the Harpies Homer intended the 
Dutch; by Euenis, John Calvin; by Antinous, Martin Luther; and by the 
Lotophagi, Protestants in general.

       *       *       *       *       *

{581} “Impune quæ libet facere id est esse regem,” is a definition of 
a king to be found in Sallust.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first collection of the Iliad was by Pisistratus, or some of the 
Pisistratidæ. There were, after this, innumerable editions—but 
Aristarchus in the reign of Ptolemy Philometer, B.C. 150, published 
from a collection of all the copies then existing, a new edition, the 
text of which has finally prevailed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some one after the manner of Santeuil, composed the following quatrain 
for the gates of the market to be erected on the site of the famous 
Jacobin Club at Paris,

  Impia tortorum longas hic turba furores
  Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.
  Sospite nunc patriâ, fracto nunc funeris antro,
  Mors ubi dira fuit, vita salusque patent.

       *       *       *       *       *

A version of the Psalms was published in 1642 by William Slatyer, of 
which this is a specimen:

  The righteous shall his sorrow scan
  And laugh at him, and say ‘Behold!
  What hath become of this here man
  That on his riches was so bold.’

       *       *       *       *       *

At the bottom of an obelisk which Pius VI was erecting at great 
expense near the entrance of the Quirinal Palace in 1783, while the 
people were suffering for bread, were found written these words,

  Signore, di a questa pietra che divenga pane.
  Lord, command that these stones be made bread.

       *       *       *       *       *

Constantine Koliades wrote a book to prove that Homer and Ulysses were 
one and the same—but Joshua Barnes attributes the authorship of the 
Iliad to Solomon.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Σ. xviii. 192, of the Iliad, Achilles says none of the armor of the 
chieftains will fit him except the shield of Ajax: how then did his 
own armor fit Patroclus?

       *       *       *       *       *

In the reign of Edward VI, Dr. Christopher Tye turned the Acts of the 
Apostles into rhyme. They begin thus,

  In the former epistle to thee
    Dear friend Theophilus
  I have written the veritie
    Of the Lord Christ Jesus.

       *       *       *       *       *

Empedocles professed the system of four elements, and added thereto 
two principles which he called ‘principium amicitiæ and principium 
contentionis.’ What are these but attraction and repulsion?

       *       *       *       *       *

The Count Bielfeld's definition of poetry is ‘L'art d'exprimer les 
pensées par la fiction.’ The German terms Dichtkunst, _the art of 
fiction_, and Dichten to _feign_, which are used for _Poetry_, and _to 
make verses_, are in full accordance with his definition.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Germans have epic poems composed in metre of sixteen and seventeen 
syllables.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following Vaudeville is one of the drollest of its kind:

  Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac
  Je suis plus savant que Balzac—
  Plus sage que Pibrac.
  Mon bras seul faisant l'attaque
  De la nation Cossaque
  La mettroit au sac.
  De Charon Je passerois le lac
  En dormant dans son bac.
  J'irois au fier Eac
  Sans que mon cœur fit tic ni tac
  Présenter du tabac.

       *       *       *       *       *

On ancient monuments are often found the letters A. E. R. A. meaning 
Annus erat Regni Augusti. The ignorance of copyists may probably have 
formed of these letters the single word ÆRA. Would it not be a better 
derivation than the Latin ÆS?

       *       *       *       *       *

The work of John Albert Fabricius, the Hamburg professor, entitled 
Bibliotheca Græca, in which his sole object is to render an account of 
the _Greek_ authors _extant_, occupies fourteen thick volumes in 
quarto.

       *       *       *       *       *

The usual derivation of the word Metaphysics is not to be sustained. 
_Meta physicam_ is tortured into meaning _super physicam_, and the 
science is supposed to take its name from its superiority to physics. 
The truth is, that Aristotle's treatise on Morals is next in 
succession to his Book of Physics, and this order he considers the 
rational order of study. His Ethics consequently commence with the 
words Μετα τα φυσικα, &c. from which the word Metaphysics.

       *       *       *       *       *

The commentators upon Mr. Beckford's Vathek say that the _locusts_ 
derive their name from having been so called by the first English 
settlers in America. The word comes evidently from _loco usto_, the 
havoc they made wherever they passed leaving the appearance of a place 
desolated by fire.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. Patru was convinced that in all his prose writings no sentence or 
part of a sentence could be found so _cadenced_ as to form a verse. A 
friend, however immediately pointed out to him the words in his 
‘Plaidoyers’

  Septième plaidoyer pour un jeune Allemand.

       *       *       *       *       *

Despreaux speaking of the cæsura in French versification, asserts,

  Que toujours dans nos vers—le sens coupant les mots,
  Suspende l'hemistiche—en marquant le repos.

M. Despreaux seems to have forgotten that hemistich is a composite 
Greek word signifying a demi-line, and that consequently his own 
admired verses have no meaning at all.

       *       *       *       *       *

Every one is acquainted with the excellent _commencement_ of the 
Annals of Tacitus. From this, principally he has acquired his 
reputation for concision. It is singular that no notice has ever been 
taken of the extreme prolixity of their _conclusion_.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a dissertation upon Hebrew, or Samaritan medals by Père 
Soucier, in which he proves the existence of Hebrew money struck by 
the Jews upon the model of the coins current before the captivity. All 
the Hebrew medals, however, bearing a head of Moses or of Christ, are 
manifestly forgeries.

       *       *       *       *       *

{582} There is a book by a Jesuit, Père Labbe, entitled La 
Bibliothèque des Bibliothèques. It is a catalogue of all authors in 
all nations who have written catalogues of books.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lucretius, lib. v. 93, 96, has the words,

      ——terras—
  Una dies dabit exitio.

Ovid the lines,

  Carmine sublimis tunc sunt peritura Lucreti
  Exitio terras cum dabit una dies.

       *       *       *       *       *

Albert in his Hebrew Dictionary, pretends to discover in each word, in 
its root, in its letters, and in the manner of pronouncing them, the 
reason of its signification. Loescher in his treatise De causis Linguæ 
Hebreæ, carries the matter even farther.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Judges is this expression, ‘And he smote them hip and thigh with a 
great slaughter.’ The phrase ‘to smite hip and thigh’ arises from 
these words. No meaning, however, can be attached to them as they 
stand—but the original will admit of a different signification, viz: 
‘He smote them with his leg on the thigh,’ and alludes to the 
wrestling matches which were common in the east. In this sense the 
phrase exactly answers to the ‘crus femori impingere’ and the 
σκελιξειν or αποσκελιξειν of the ancients.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is a remarkable fact, that during the whole period of the middle 
ages, the Germans lived in utter ignorance of the art of writing.

       *       *       *       *       *

The silver shekel of the Hebrews has on its face the rod of Aaron with 
the inscription, Jeruschalaim Hakkedoucha, Jerusalem the Holy, and on 
the reverse a cup with the words Chekel Ischrael, money of Israel.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Masoretical punctuation is a kind of critique upon the Hebrew text 
invented by the Jewish teachers to prevent its alteration. The first 
original being lost, recourse was had to the Masore as an infallible 
method of fixing the text. The verses, words, and even letters are 
there counted, and all their variations recorded.

       *       *       *       *       *

Among the Hebrew text of the Old Testament are mingled a few passages 
of Chaldaic. _All the characters_ as we have them now, are properly 
speaking Chaldaic.

       *       *       *       *       *

A version of the Psalms in 1564, by Archbishop Parker, has the 
following—

  Who sticketh to God in stable trust
  As Sion's mount he stands full just
  Which moveth no whit, nor yet can reel,
  But standeth for ever as stiff as steel.

       *       *       *       *       *

A part of the 137th Psalm runs thus: ‘If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, 
may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my tongue cleave to the 
roof of my mouth,’ which has been thus paraphrased in a version of the 
Psalms,

  If I forget thee ever
  Then let me prosper never,
  But let it cause
  My tongue and jaws
  To cling and cleave together.




CRITICAL NOTICES.


THE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW.

_The Old World and the New; or, a Journal of Reflections and 
Observations made on a Tour in Europe. By the Reverend Orville Dewey. 
New York: Harper & Brothers._

Mr. Dewey assures us, in the beginning of his _Preface_, that his 
volumes are not offered to the public as an itinerary—but it is 
difficult to say in what other light they should be regarded. To us 
they appear as strictly entitled to the appellation as any book of 
travels we have perused. They are indeed an itinerary of the most 
inartificial character—a journal in which unconnected remarks follow 
one upon another—object upon object—day upon day—and all with a 
scrupulous accuracy in regard to dates. Not that we have much 
objection to this methodical procedure, but that we cannot understand 
Mr. Dewey in declaring his book not to be what it most certainly is, 
if it is any thing at all. His subsequent remark, that every American 
traveller to the old world enjoys a vantage ground for surveying the 
institutions, customs, and character of his own country is what we can 
readily appreciate. We think, also, that in many respects our author 
has made excellent use of this advantage. But we would be doing our 
conscience a great wrong in recommending the work before us _as a 
whole_. Here is some amusement—great liberality—much excellent sense—a 
high spirit of sound morality and genuine philanthropy; but indeed 
very little, so we think, of either novelty or profundity. These two 
latter qualities are, however, of a nature so strictly relative, and 
liable to so many modifications from the acquirements or character of 
the reader, that we feel some hesitation in what we say—and would 
prefer leaving a decision where it _must_ finally be left—to the voice 
of the public opinion.

One remarkable feature in the _Old World and the New_, is its amusing 
_naiveté_ of manner—a feature which will immediately arrest the 
attention of every reader. We cannot do better than give a few 
specimens.


What a pity it is [says Mr. D., and so it is undoubtedly] that cities, 
or at least streets in cities, could not, like single edifices, be 
built upon some regular and well considered plan! Not that the result 
should be such regularity as is seen in Philadelphia or Dublin; the 
plan indeed would embrace irregularity. But there might be an 
arrangement, by which a block of buildings, a street, or indeed a 
whole city, might stand before us as one grand piece of architecture. 
If single specimens of architecture have the effect to improve, 
humanize, and elevate the ideas of a people; if they are a language, 
and answer a purpose kindred to that of literature, poetry and 
painting, why may not a whole city have this effect? To secure this 
result, there must, I am afraid, be a power like that of the autocrat 
of Russia, who, I am told, when a house is built in his royal city of 
St. Petersburg which does not conform to his general plan, sends word 
to the owner that he must remove that building and put up another of a 
certain description.


And again, speaking of the Menai bridge—


A celebrated lady (since dead) in speaking of this stupendous work, 
said that she first saw it from the Isle of Anglesea, so that it was 
relieved against the lofty mountains of North Wales; and she added in 
a strain {583} of eloquent and poetical comparison familiar to her, 
that Snowdon seemed to her a fit back ground for the Menai Bridge.


All this may be very true, but then only think of the _eloquent and 
poetical comparison_ of Snowdon being a back ground for the Menai 
Bridge!

Mrs. Hemans and our author go to church together.


She spoke (says he) of the various accompaniments of the service, and 
when she came to the banners she said ‘they seemed to wave as the 
music of the anthem rose to the lofty arches!’ I ventured here to 
throw in a little dash of prose—saying that _I was afraid that they 
did not wave, that I wished they might, and looked up to see if they 
did, but could not see it._


Mr. Dewey does not like oatmeal cake.


In good truth I should never desire to have any thing to do with it 
save as a specimen; for of all the stuff that ever I tasted, it was 
the most inedible, impracticable, insufferable, dry, hard, coarse, 
rasping, gritty, chaffy: I _could_ not eat it, and it seemed to me 
that if I could, it would be no more nourishing than gravel kneaded 
into mud, and baked in a lime-kiln. As to drink—whiskey! whiskey! the 
boatman said was the only thing, and the thing indispensable. I tasted 
of it—_and truly it had not the usual odious taste of our American 
whiskey!_


We quote these passages merely as specimens of the singular 
simplicity—more properly _naiveté_—which is the prevailing feature of 
the book.

Mr. Dewey left New York for England on the 8th June 1833, and arrived 
in St. George's channel _on the 24th of the same month_, having a fair 
wind and smooth sea during the entire passage. Leaving England, he 
visited Wales, Ireland, Scotland, France, Belgium, Prussia, 
Switzerland, and Italy. Returning by way of Liverpool, he reached home 
on the 22d of May, 1834.


RICHARDSON'S DICTIONARY.

_A New Dictionary of the English Language: By Charles Richardson. 
London: William Pickering—New York: William Jackson._

The _periodical_ nature of this publication absolves us from what 
would otherwise be a just charge of neglect in not speaking of it 
sooner. Five numbers have been issued, and twenty-five more are to be 
added, at intervals of a fortnight. These numbers are of quarto form, 
and contain eighty pages in triple columns. The paper is excellent, 
and the matter beautifully stereotyped. The whole will form, when the 
publication is completed, two very large quarto volumes, of which the 
entire cost will have been fifteen dollars. We say when the 
publication is completed—the work itself is already so—a consideration 
of great importance, and sure to be appreciated by the thousands of 
subscribers to the many costly periodicals which have failed in 
completing their issue, and thus thrown a number of odd volumes upon 
the hands of the public. In what farther we have to say of this 
Dictionary, we shall do little more than paraphrase the very 
satisfactory prospectus of Mr. Richardson himself.

When Dr. Johnson, in 1747, announced his intention of writing a 
Dictionary of the English language, he communicated the _plan_ of his 
undertaking in a letter to Lord Chesterfield. The plan was as follows. 
He would give, first—the natural and primitive meaning of words; 
secondly, the consequential—and thirdly the metaphorical, arranging 
the quotations chronologically. The book, however, was published in 
1755, _without the plan_, and strange to say, in utter disregard of 
the principles avowed in the letter to the Earl of Chesterfield. That 
these principles were well-conceived, and that if followed out, they 
would have rendered important service to English lexicography, was not 
doubted at the time, and cannot be doubted now. Moreover, the 
necessity for something of the kind which was felt _then_, is more 
strongly felt now, for no person has as yet attempted to construct a 
work upon the plan proposed, and the difficulties which were to have 
been remedied, are greatly aggravated by time. Eighty years have 
passed, and not only has no new work been written upon the plan of Dr. 
Johnson—but no systematic work of reform upon the old basis.

The present Dictionary of Mr. Richardson is, distinctly, a _new work_, 
upon a system never attempted before—upon the principles of Horne 
Tooke, the greatest of philosophical grammarians, and whose 
developments of an entirely novel theory of language have excited the 
most profound interest and respect in the minds of all who think.

In the _Diversions of Purley_, it is positively demonstrated that a 
word has one meaning and one only, and that from this one meaning all 
the _usages_ of the word must spring. “To discover this meaning,” says 
Mr. Richardson, “etymological research was indispensable, and I have 
stated the results of such research with conciseness, it is true, yet 
with a fullness that will enable the more learned reader to form a 
judgment for himself, and the path of deeper investigation is 
disclosed to the pursuit of the curious inquirer.” In tracing the 
_usages_ of words, Mr. R. has availed himself of the materials 
collected by Johnson and his editors, “the various supplements and 
provincial vocabularies, the notes of editors and commentators upon 
our older poets, and of abundant treasures amassed for his own 
peculiar use.” The quotations are arranged chronologically, and 
embrace extracts from the earliest to the latest writers of English. 
The etymology is placed distinctly by itself for the convenience of 
hasty reference. As an example of the arrangement of the work, we will 
give the word _Calefy_.


  CA´LEFY       | Lat. _Calefieri_, to be or become hot.
  CALEFA´CTION  | Calere, Vossius deduces from the Doric
  CALI´DITY     | Καλεος for Κηλεος, burning.
  CA´LIDUCT     |

  To heat, to be, become, or cause to be hot.

  But crystal will _calefie_ into electricity; that is, a power to
  attract straws or light bodies and convert the needle freely
  placed.—_Brown. Vulgar Errours_, b. ii. c. 1.

  As [if] the remembrance of _calefaction_ can warm a man in a cold
  frosty night.—_More. Philos. Poems_, c. 2, _Pref._

  But ice will dissolve in any way of heat; for it will dissolve with
  fire; it will colliquate in water, or warm oyl; nor doth it onely
  submit unto an actual heat, but not endure the potential _calidity_
  of many waters.—_Brown. Vulgar Errours_. b. ii. c. 1.

  Since the subterranean _caliducts_ have been introduced. _Evelyn_.


In his prospectus, Mr. Richardson has had occasion to speak in no 
measured terms of the Dictionary of Dr. Webster. We here repeat his 
observations because we think them entirely just.


{584} The author is conscious that he should be chargeable with great 
want of courtesy if he passed unnoticed the American Dictionary of Dr. 
Webster. His _censure_ however must be short. Dr. Webster disarmed and 
stripped himself for the field, and advanced unaided and unshielded to 
the combat. He abjured the assistance of Skinner and Vossius, and the 
learned elders of lexicography; and of Tooke he quaintly says, ‘I have 
made no use of his writings.’ There is a display of oriental reading 
in his Preliminary Essays, which as introductory to a Dictionary of 
the English Language, seems as appropriate and useful as a reference 
to the code of Gentoo laws to decide a question of English 
inheritance. Dr. Webster was entirely unacquainted with our old 
authors.


We believe the North American Review has remarked of the work before 
us, that its definitions are in some measure too scanty, and not 
sufficiently compact. This defect, which cannot altogether be denied, 
and which is, to say the truth, of more importance to the mass of 
readers than to the philologist, will be found, upon examination, a 
defect inseparable from the plan originally proposed, and which 
insists upon an arrangement of derivatives under primitives. We are 
not tempted, however, to wish any modification of the principal 
design, for the sake of a partial, and not very important amendment.

We conclude in heartily recommending the work of Mr. Richardson to the 
attention of our readers. It embraces we think, every desideratum in 
an English Dictionary, and has moreover a thousand negative virtues. 
Messrs. Mayo and Davis are the agents in Richmond.


BOOK OF GEMS.

_The Book of Gems. The Poets and Artists of Great Britain. Edited by 
S. C. Hall. London and New York: Saunders and Otley._

This work combines the rich embellishments of the very best of the 
race of Annuals, with a far higher claim to notice than any of them in 
its strictly literary department. If we regard this volume as the only 
one to appear, the title will convey no idea of the design—but we are 
promised a continuation. The whole, if we comprehend, will contain 
specimens of _all_ the principal poets and artists of Great Britain. 
In the present instance we have the poets as far as Prior, including a 
period of about four hundred years, with extracts from Chaucer, 
Lydgate, James I, Hawes, Carew, Quarles, Shirley, Habington, Lovelace, 
Wyatt, Surrey, Sackville, Vere, Gascoigne, Raleigh, Spenser, Sidney, 
Brooke, Southwell, Daniel, Drayton, Shakspeare, Walton, Davies, Donne, 
Jonson, Corbet, Phineas Fletcher, Giles Fletcher, Drummond, Wither, 
Carew, Browne, Herrick, Quarles, Herbert, Davenant, Waller, Milton, 
Suckling, Butler, Crashaw, Denham, Cowley, Marvell, Dryden, Roscommon, 
Dorset, Sedley, Rochester, Sheffield, and Prior. Of these, all the 
autographs have been obtained and are published collectively at the 
end of the book, with the exception of the nine first mentioned. The 
work is illustrated by fifty-three engravings, each by different 
artists. A sea-side group by Harding, and L'Allegro and Il Penseroso 
by Parris, are particularly good—but all are excellent.

We had prepared some observations in regard to the book itself, (over 
which we have been poring for many days with intense delight) and in 
regard more especially to the character and justice of that deep 
feeling with which most men, having claim to taste, are wont to look, 
even through a veil of exceedingly troublesome obscurity and 
antiquity, upon the writings of the elder poets and dramatists of 
Great Britain. But we have been so nearly anticipated in our design by 
a paper in the American Monthly Magazine for July, that what we should 
now say, and say _con amore_, would be looked upon as little better 
than a _rifacimento_ of the article we mention. At the same time it 
would be an ill deed to remodel our thoughts, and proceed to think 
falsely, for the mere purpose of proving that we can think originally. 
In this dilemma then, we will merely express our general accordance in 
the opinions of the Northern Magazine, copy, of its _critique_, a 
portion which seems to embody, in little compass, much of what we have 
said less forcibly and more diffusely, and add some few additional 
observations which have lately suggested themselves.

“Among the early English poets, so called,” says the American Monthly, 
“there is combined with marked individuality, a sort of general 
resemblance, not easily defined, but readily perceived by a 
discriminating reader. They lived in an age of invention, and wrote 
from a pleasurable impulse which they could not resist. They did not 
borrow from one another, or from those who had gone before them, nor 
pass their time in pouring from one vessel into another. Thus, however 
different their styles, however various their subjects, whether the 
flight of their genius be high or low, there is the same aspect of 
truth and naturalness in the poetry of them all; as we can trace a 
common likeness in all faces which have an open, ingenuous expression, 
however little resemblance there may be in the several features. Most 
of them were well acquainted with books, and many of them were deeply 
learned; and an air of ripe scholarship sometimes degenerating into 
pedantry, pervades every thing they wrote. As a class too, they are 
remarkable for a healthy, intellectual tone, defaced neither by moody 
misanthropy, nor mawkish sentimentality. The manly Saxon character 
beams out from every line; and that vigorous good sense, so 
characteristic of the English stock, every where leaves its impress. 
Another trait which, with a few exceptions, honorably distinguishes 
them, is the purity of their sentiments, and their high moral feeling, 
especially in all that touches the relation of the sexes. We shall 
find many coarse expressions, such as a man would not read aloud to 
his family; but very rarely any thing bordering upon heartless 
profligacy, or studied licentiousness, or any intimation of a want of 
respect for the great principles of the moral law. Due reverence is 
always shown for those high personal qualities which constitute the 
best security for the greatness and prosperity of a people. Homage is 
always paid to honor in man, and chastity in woman. The passion of 
love, in its multitudinous forms and aspects, supplies a large 
proportion of their themes, and it is treated with equal delicacy and 
beauty. In the amatory strains of the old English poets, we perceive a 
romantic self-forgetfulness, an idealization of the beloved object, a 
tenderness and respectfulness of feeling, in which the passion is 
almost wholly swallowed up in the sentiment, and a wooing with the 
best treasures of the intellect as well {585} as the heart, such as 
can be found in no other class of poets.”

Notwithstanding the direct truth of what has been here so well 
advanced, it cannot, we think, be a matter of doubt with any 
reflecting mind, that at least one-third of the _reverence_, or of the 
_affection_, with which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain, 
should be credited to what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry—we 
mean to the simple love of the antique—and that again a third of even 
the proper _poetic sentiment_ inspired by these writings should be 
ascribed to a fact which, while it has a strict connection with poetry 
in the abstract, and also with the particular poems in question, must 
not be looked upon as a merit appertaining to the writers of the 
poems. Almost every devout reader of the old English bards, if 
demanded his opinion of their productions, would mention vaguely, yet 
with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy, wild, indefinite, and he 
would perhaps say, undefinable delight. Upon being required to point 
out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he would be apt to speak 
of the quaint in phraseology and of the grotesque in rhythm. And this 
quaintness and grotesqueness are, as we have elsewhere endeavored to 
show, very powerful, and if well managed, very admissible adjuncts to 
Ideality. But in the present instance they arise independently of the 
author's will, and are matters altogether apart from his intention. 
The _American Monthly_ has forcibly painted the general character of 
the old English Muse. She was a maid, frank, guileless, and perfectly 
sincere, and although very learned at times, still very learned 
without art. No general error evinces a more thorough confusion of 
ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the 
sense wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With the two former 
ethics were the end—with the two latter the means. The poet of the 
_Creation_ wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he 
considered moral truth—he of the _Auncient Mariner_ to infuse the 
_Poetic Sentiment_ through channels suggested by mental analysis. The 
one finished by complete failure what he commenced in the grossest 
misconception—the other, by a path which could not possibly lead him 
astray, arrived at a certainty and intensity of triumph which is not 
the less brilliant and glorious because concentrated among the very 
few who have the power to perceive it. It will now be seen that even 
the “metaphysical verse” of Cowley is no more than evidence of the 
straight-forward simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And he 
was in all this but a type of his _school_—for we may as well 
designate in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are 
bound up in the volume before us, and throughout all of whom runs a 
very perceptible general character. They used but little art in 
composition. Their writings sprang immediately from the soul—and 
partook intensely of the nature of that soul. It is not difficult to 
perceive the tendency of this glorious _abandon_. To elevate 
immeasurably all the energies of mind—but again—so to mingle the 
greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good things, with the 
lowest possible bathos, baldness, and utter imbecility, as to render 
it not a matter of doubt, but of certainty, that the average results 
of mind in such a _school_, will be found inferior to those results in 
one (ceteris paribus) more artificial. Such, we think, is the view of 
the older English Poetry, in which a very calm examination will bear 
us out. The quaintness in manner of which we were just speaking, is an 
adventitious advantage. It formed no portion of the poet's intention. 
Words and their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to day with 
a vivid delight, and which delight in some instances, may be traced to 
this one source of grotesqueness and to none other, must have worn in 
the days of their construction an air of a very common-place nature. 
This is no argument, it will be said, against the poems _now_. 
Certainly not—we mean it for the poets _then_. The notion of _power_, 
of excessive _power_, in the English antique writers should be put in 
its proper light. This is all we desire to see done.

We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the selections made use of 
in the _Book of Gems_, are such as will impart to a poetical reader 
the highest possible idea of the beauty of the _school_. Better 
extracts might be made. Yet if the intention were merely to show the 
_character_ of the school the attempt is entirely successful. There 
are long passages now before us of the most utterly despicable trash, 
with no merit whatever beyond their simple antiquity. And it is almost 
needless to say that there are many passages too of a glorious 
strength—a radiant loveliness, making the blood tingle in our veins as 
we peruse them. The criticisms of the Editor do not please us in a 
great degree. He seems to have fallen into the common cant in such 
cases. In one instance the American Monthly accords with him in an 
unjust opinion touching some verses by Sir Henry Wotton, on the Queen 
of Bohemia, daughter of James I, and about which it is said that 
“there are few finer things in our language.” Our readers will agree 
with us, we believe, that this praise is exaggerated. We quote the 
lines in full.

  You meaner beauties of the night
  That poorly satisfy our eyes,
  More by your number than your light,
  You common people of the skies
    What are you when the sun shall rise?

  You curious chaunters of the wood
  That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
  Thinking your passions understood
  By your weak accents; what's your praise
    When Philomel her voice shall raise?

  You violets, that first appear
  By your pure purple mantles known,
  Like the proud virgins of the year
  As if the spring were all your own,
    What are you when the rose is blown?

  So, when my mistress shall be seen
  In sweetness of her looks and mind,
  By virtue first, then choice a queen,
  Tell me if she were not designed
    Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

In such lines we can perceive _not one_ of those higher attributes of 
the Muse which belong to her under all circumstances and throughout 
all time. Here everything is art—naked or but awkwardly concealed. No 
prepossession for the mere antique (for in this case we can imagine no 
other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name 
of Poesy, a series such as this, of elaborate and threadbare 
compliments, (threadbare even at the time of their composition) 
stitched apparently together, without fancy, without {586} 
plausibility, without adaptation of parts—and it is needless to add, 
without a jot of imagination.

We have been much delighted with the _Shepherd's Hunting_, by Wither—a 
poem partaking, in a strange degree, of the peculiarities of the 
Penseroso. Speaking of Poesy he says—

  By the murmur of a spring
  Or the least boughs rusteling,
  By a daisy whose leaves spread
  Shut when Tytan goes to bed,
  Or a shady bush or tree
  She could more infuse in me
  Than all Nature's beauties can
  In some other wiser man.
  By her help I also now
  Make this churlish place allow
  Something that may sweeten gladness
  In the very gall of sadness—
  The dull loneness, the black shade
  That these hanging vaults have made,
  The strange music of the waves
  Beating on these hollow caves,
  This black den which rocks emboss
  Overgrown with eldest moss,
  The rude portals that give light
  More to terror than delight,
  This my chamber of neglect
  Walled about with disrespect—
  From all these and this dull air
  A fit object for despair,
  She hath taught me by her might
  To draw comfort and delight.

But these verses, however good, do not bear with them much of the 
general character of the English antique. Something more of this will 
be found in the following lines by Corbet—besides a rich vein of humor 
and sarcasm.

  Farewell rewards and fairies!
    Good housewives now you may say,
  For now foul sluts in dairies
    Do fare as well as they:
  And though they sweep their hearths no less
    Than maids were wont to do,
  Yet who of late for cleanliness
    Finds sixpence in her shoe?

  Lament, lament, old Abbies,
    The fairies' lost command,
  They did but change priests' babies,
    But some have changed your land;
  And all your children stolen from thence
    Are now grown Puritanes,
  Who live as changelings ever since
    For love of your demaines.

  At morning and at evening both
    You merry were and glad,
  So little care of sleep and sloth
    These pretty ladies had:
  When Tom came home from labor
    Or Ciss to milking rose,
  Then merrily went their tabor
    And nimbly went their toes.

  Witness those rings and roundelays
    Of theirs which yet remain,
  Were footed in Queen Mary's days
    On many a grassy plain;
  But since of late Elizabeth
    And later James came in,
  They never danced on any heath
    As when the time hath bin.

  By which we note the fairies
    Were of the old profession,
  Their songs were Ave Marys,
    Their dances were procession;
  But now alas they all are dead
    Or gone beyond the seas,
  Or farther for religion fled—
    Or else they take their ease.

  A tell-tale in their company
    They never could endure,
  And whoso kept not secretly
    Their mirth was punished sure;
  It was a just and christian deed
    To pinch such black and blue—
  O how the commonwealth doth need
    Such justices as you!

  Now they have left our quarters
    A register they have,
  Who can preserve their charters—
    A man both wise and grave.
  An hundred of their merry pranks
    By one that I could name
  Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
    To William for the same.

  To William Churne of Staffordshire
    Give laud and praises due,
  Who every meal can mend your cheer
    With tales both old and true.
  To William all give audience
    And pray you for his noddle,
  For all the fairies evidence
    Were lost if it were addle.

The _Maiden lamenting for her Fawn_, by Marvell, is, we are pleased to 
see, a favorite with our friends of the American Monthly. Such portion 
of it as we now copy, we prefer not only as a specimen of the elder 
poets, but, in itself, as a beautiful poem, abounding in the sweetest 
pathos, in soft and gentle images, in the most exquisitely delicate 
imagination, and in _truth_—to any thing of its species.

  It is a wondrous thing how fleet
  'Twas on those little silver feet,
  With what a pretty skipping grace
  It oft would challenge me the race,
  And when 't had left me far away
  'Twould stay and run again and stay;
  For it was nimbler much than hinds,
  And trod as if on the four winds.
  I have a garden of my own,
  But so with roses overgrown,
  And lilies that you would it guess
  To be a little wilderness,
  And all the spring-time of the year
  It only loved to be there.
  Among the beds of lilies I
  Have sought it oft where it should lie,
  Yet could not till itself would rise
  Find it although before mine eyes.
  For in the flaxen lilies shade,
  It like a bank of lilies laid,
  Upon the roses it would feed
  Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
  And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
  And print those roses on my lip,
  But all its chief delight was still
  On roses thus itself to fill,
  And its pure virgin limbs to fold
  In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
  Had it lived long it would have been
  Lilies without, roses within.

How truthful an air of deep lamentation hangs here upon every gentle 
syllable! It pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the 
words, over the gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little 
maiden herself, {587} even over the half-playful, half-petulant air 
with which she lingers on the beauties and good qualities of her 
favorite—like the cool shadow of a summer cloud over a bed of lilies 
and violets, and “all sweet flowers.”

The whole thing is redolent with poetry of the _very loftiest order_. 
It is positively crowded with _nature_ and with _pathos_. Every line 
is an idea—conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or 
the artlessness of the maiden, or the love of the maiden, or her 
admiration, or her grief, or the fragrance and sweet warmth, and 
perfect _appropriateness_ of the little nestlike bed of lilies and 
roses, which the fawn devoured as it lay upon them, and could scarcely 
be distinguished from them by the once happy little damsel who went to 
seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile upon her face. Consider the 
great variety of _truth_ and delicate thought in the few lines we have 
quoted—the _wonder_ of the maiden at the fleetness of her favorite—the 
“_little silver feet_”—the fawn challenging his mistress to the race, 
“with a pretty skipping grace,” running on before, and then, with head 
turned back, awaiting her approach only to fly from it again—can we 
not distinctly perceive all these things? The exceeding vigor, too, 
and beauty of the line

  _And trod as if on the four winds,_

which are vividly apparent when we regard the artless nature of the 
speaker, and the _four feet_ of the favorite—_one for each wind_. Then 
the garden of “_my own_,” so overgrown—entangled—with lilies and roses 
as to be “a little wilderness”—the fawn loving to be there and there 
“_only_”—the maiden seeking it “where it _should_ lie,” and not being 
able to distinguish it from the flowers until “itself would rise”—the 
lying among the lilies “like a bank of lilies”—the loving to “_fill_” 
itself with roses,

  And its pure virgin limbs to fold
  In whitest sheets of lilies cold,

and these things being its “_chief_” delights—and then the pre-eminent 
beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines—whose very outrageous 
hyperbole and absurdity only render them the more true to nature and 
to propriety, when we consider the innocence, the artlessness, the 
enthusiasm, the passionate grief, and more passionate admiration of 
the bereaved child.

  _Had it lived long it would have been
   Lilies without—roses within._


SOUTH-SEA EXPEDITION.

_Report of the Committee on Naval Affairs, to whom was referred 
memorials from sundry citizens of Connecticut interested in the whale 
fishing, praying that an exploring expedition be fitted out to the 
Pacific Ocean and South Seas. March 21, 1836._

That a more accurate, defined, and available knowledge than we at 
present possess, of the waters, islands, and continental coasts of the 
great Pacific and Southern Oceans, has long been desirable, no 
unprejudiced individual conversant with the subject, is likely to 
deny. A portion of the community unrivalled in activity, enterprise 
and perseverance, and of paramount importance both in a political and 
commercial point of view, has long been reaping a rich harvest of 
individual wealth and national honor in these vast regions. The 
Pacific may be termed the training ground, the gymnasium of our 
national navy. The hardihood and daring of that branch of our 
commercial marine employed in its trade and fisheries, have almost 
become a proverb. It is in this class we meet with the largest 
aggregate of that cool self-possession, courage, and enduring 
fortitude, which have won for us our enviable position among the great 
maritime powers; and it is from this class we may expect to recruit a 
considerable proportion of the physical strength and moral 
intelligence necessary to maintain and improve it. The documentary 
evidence upon which the report before us is based, forms an appendix 
to it, and is highly interesting in its character. It awakens our 
admiration at the energy and industry which have sustained a body of 
daring men, while pursuing a dangerous and arduous occupation, amid 
the perils and casualties of an intricate navigation, in seas 
imperfectly known. It enlists our sympathies in the hardships and 
difficulties they have combatted, places in strong relief the justice 
of their claims upon the nation for aid and protection, and shows the 
expediency of the measure which has at last resulted from their 
representations. The report itself is clear, manly, decided—the 
energetic language of men who, having examined the data submitted to 
them with the consideration the interests it involved seemed to 
require, are anxious to express their sentiments with a force and 
earnestness suited to their views of the urgent occasion and of the 
course they recommend.

It is a glorious study to contemplate the progress made by human 
industry, from stage to stage, when engaged in the prosecution of a 
laudable object. Little more than a century ago, only the crews of a 
few miserable open boats, too frail to venture far from land, waged a 
precarious warfare with the great leviathans of the deep, along the 
shores of Cape Cod and Nantucket—then occupied, at distant intervals, 
by a few inconsiderable fishing stations. The returns even of these 
first efforts were lucrative, and more appropriate vessels for the 
service were fitted out. These extended their cruises northward to 
Labrador, and southward to the West Indies. At length the adventurers, 
in vessels of yet greater capacity, strength and durability, crossed 
the Equator and followed their hardy calling along the Eastern Shore 
of the Southern Peninsula and on the Western and North Western coast 
of Africa. The Revolution of course operated as a temporary check to 
their prosperity, but shortly thereafter these dauntless mariners 
doubled Cape Horn, and launched their daring keels into the 
comparatively unknown waste beyond, in search of their gigantic prey. 
Since that fortunate advent, the increase in the shipping, extent, and 
profits of the fishery, has been unprecedented, and new sources of 
wealth the importance of which it is at present impossible to 
estimate, have been opened to us in the same quarter. The trade in 
skins of the sea-otter and seal, in the fur of land animals on the 
North West coast, &c. has been extensive in extent and avails. The 
last mentioned animal, besides the valuable ivory it affords, yields a 
coarse oil which, in the event of the whale becoming extinct before 
the perpetual warfare of man, would prove a valuable article of 
consumption. Of the magnitude of the commercial interest involved in 
different ways in the Pacific trade, an idea may be gathered in the 
following extract from the main subject of our review. Let it be {588} 
borne in mind, that many of the branches of this trade are as yet in 
their infancy, that the natural resources to which they refer are 
apparently almost inexhaustible; and we shall become aware that all 
which is _now_ in operation, is but as a dim shadow to the mighty 
results which may be looked for, when this vast field for national 
enterprise is better known and appreciated.


“No part of the commerce of this country is more important than that 
carried on in the Pacific Ocean. It is large in amount. Not less than 
$12,000,000 are invested in and actively employed by one branch of the 
whale fishery alone; in the whole trade there is directly and 
indirectly involved not less than fifty to seventy millions of 
property. In like manner from 170 to 200,000 tons of our shipping, and 
from 9 to 12000 of our seamen are employed, amounting to about 
one-tenth of the whole navigation of the Union. Its results are 
profitable. It is to a great extent not a mere exchange of 
commodities, but the creation of wealth by labor from the ocean. The 
fisheries alone produce at this time an annual income of from five to 
six millions of dollars; and it is not possible to look at Nantucket, 
New Bedford, New London, Sag Harbor and a large number of other 
districts upon our Northern coasts, without the deep conviction that 
it is an employment alike beneficial to the moral, political, and 
commercial interests of our fellow-citizens.”


In a letter from Commodore Downes to the Honorable John Reed, which 
forms part of the supplement to the report, that experienced officer 
observes—


“During the circumnavigation of the globe, in which I crossed the 
equator six times, and varied my course from 40 deg. North to 57 deg. 
South latitude, I have never found myself beyond the limits of our 
commercial marine. The accounts given of the dangers and losses to 
which our ships are exposed by the extension of our trade into seas 
but little known, so far, in my opinion from being exaggerated, would 
admit of being placed in bolder relief, and the protection of 
government employed in stronger terms. I speak from practical 
knowledge, having myself seen the dangers and painfully felt the want 
of the very kind of information which our commercial interests so much 
need, and which, I suppose, would be the object of such an expedition 
as is now under consideration before the committee of Congress to 
give.

       *       *       *       *       *

“The commerce of our country has extended itself to remote parts of 
the world, is carried on around islands and reefs not laid down in the 
charts, among even groups of islands from ten to sixty in number, 
abounding in objects valuable in commerce, but of which nothing is 
known accurately; no not even the sketch of a harbor has been made, 
while of such as are inhabited our knowledge is still more imperfect.”


In reading this evidence (derived from the personal observation of a 
judicious and experienced commander) of the vast range of our commerce 
in the regions alluded to, and of the imminent risks and perils to 
which those engaged in it are subjected, it cannot but create a 
feeling of surprise, that a matter of such vital importance as the 
adoption of means for their relief, should so long have been held in 
abeyance. A tabular view of the discoveries of our whaling captains in 
the Pacific and Southern seas, which forms part of another document, 
seems still further to prove the inaccuracy and almost utter 
worthlessness of the charts of these waters, now in use.

Enlightened liberality is the truest economy. It would not be 
difficult to show, that even as a matter of pecuniary policy the 
efficient measures at length in progress to remedy the evils 
complained of by this portion of our civil marine, are wise and 
expedient. But let us take higher ground. They were called 
for—_Firstly_: as a matter of public justice. Mr. Reynolds, in his 
comprehensive and able letter to the chairman of the committee on 
Naval Affairs, dated 1828, which, with many other conclusive arguments 
and facts furnished by that gentleman, forms the main evidence on 
which the late committee founded their report—observes, with reference 
to the Pacific;


“To look after our merchant there—to offer him every possible 
facility—to open new channels for his enterprise, and to keep up a 
respectable naval force to protect him—is only paying a debt we owe to 
the commerce of the country: for millions have flowed into the 
treasury from this source, before one cent was expended for its 
protection.”


So far, then, we have done little as a nation to facilitate, or 
increase, the operations of our commerce in the quarter indicated; we 
have left the adventurous merchant and the hardy fisherman, to fight 
their way among reefs of dangerous rocks, and through the channels of 
undescribed Archipelagos, almost without any other guides than their 
own prudence and sagacity; but we have not hesitated to partake of the 
fruits of their unassisted toils, to appropriate to ourselves the 
credit, respect and consideration their enterprise has commanded, and 
to look to their class as the strongest support of that main prop of 
our national power,—a hardy, effective, and well disciplined national 
navy.

_Secondly_. Our pride as a vigorous commercial empire, should 
stimulate us to become our own pioneers in that vast island-studded 
ocean, destined, it may be, to become, not only the chief theatre of 
our traffic, but the arena of our future naval conflicts. Who can say, 
viewing the present rapid growth of our population, that the Rocky 
Mountains shall forever constitute the western boundary of our 
republic, or that it shall not stretch its dominion from sea to sea. 
This may not be desirable, but signs of the times render it an event 
by no means without the pale of possibility.

The intercourse carried on between the Pacific islands and the coast 
of China, is highly profitable, the immense returns of the whale 
fishery in the ocean which surrounds those islands, and along the 
continental coasts, have been already shown. Our whalers have 
traversed the wide expanse from Peru and Chili on the west, to the 
isles of Japan on the east, gathering national reverence, as well as 
individual emolument, in their course; and yet until the late 
appropriation, Congress has never yielded them any pecuniary 
assistance, leaving their very security to the scientific labors of 
countries far more distant, and infinitely less interested, than our 
own.

_Thirdly_. It is our _duty_, holding as we do a high rank in the scale 
of nations, to contribute a large share to that aggregate of useful 
knowledge, which is the common property of all. We have astronomers, 
mathematicians, geologists, botanists, eminent professors in every 
branch of physical science—we are unincumbered by the oppression of a 
national debt, and are free from many other drawbacks which fetter and 
control the measures of the trans-Atlantic governments. We possess, as 
a people, the mental elasticity which liberal institutions inspire, 
and a treasury which can afford to remunerate scientific research. 
Ought we not, therefore, to be foremost in the race of philanthropic 
discovery, in every {589} department embraced by this comprehensive 
term? Our national honor and glory which, be it remembered, are to be 
“transmitted as well as enjoyed,” are involved. In building up the 
fabric of our commercial prosperity, let us not filch the corner 
stone. Let it not be said of us, in future ages, that we ingloriously 
availed ourselves of a stock of scientific knowledge, to which we had 
not contributed our quota—that we shunned as a people to put our 
shoulder to the wheel—that we reaped where we had never sown. It is 
not to be controverted that such has been hitherto the case. We have 
followed in the rear of discovery, when a sense of our moral and 
political responsibility should have impelled us in its van. Mr. 
Reynolds, in a letter to which we have already referred, deprecates 
this servile dependence upon foreign research in the following nervous 
and emphatic language.


The commercial nations of the earth have done much, and much remains 
to be accomplished. We stand a solitary instance among those who are 
considered commercial, as never having put forth a particle of 
strength or expended a dollar of our money, to add to the accumulated 
stock of commercial and geographical knowledge, except in partially 
exploring our own territory.

When our naval commanders and hardy tars have achieved a victory on 
the deep, they have to seek our harbors, and conduct their prizes into 
port by tables and charts furnished perhaps by the very people whom 
they have vanquished.

Is it honorable in the United States to use, forever, the knowledge 
furnished by others, to teach us how to shun a rock, escape a shoal, 
or find a harbor; and add nothing to the great mass of information 
that previous ages and other nations have brought to our hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

The exports, and, more emphatically, the imports of the United States, 
her receipts and expenditures, are written on every pillar erected by 
commerce on every sea and in every clime; but the amount of her 
subscription stock to erect those pillars and for the advancement of 
knowledge is no where to be found.

       *       *       *       *       *

Have we not then reached a degree of mental strength, which will 
enable us to find our way about the globe without leading-strings? Are 
we forever to take the highway others have laid out for us, and fixed 
with mile-stones and guide boards? No: a time of enterprise and 
adventure must be at hand, it is already here; and its march is 
onward, as certain as a star approaches its zenith.


It is delightful to find that such independent statements and opinions 
as the above, have been approved, and acted upon by Congress, and that 
our President with a wisdom and promptitude which do him honor, is 
superintending and facilitating the execution of legislative design. 
We extract the following announcement from the Washington Globe.


_Surveying and Exploring Expedition to the Pacific Ocean and South 
Seas._—We learn that the President has given orders to have the 
exploring vessels fitted out, with the least possible delay. The 
appropriation made by Congress was ample to ensure all the great 
objects contemplated by the expedition, and the Executive is 
determined that nothing shall be wanting to render the expedition in 
every respect worthy the character and great commercial resources of 
the country.

The frigate Macedonian, now undergoing thorough repairs at Norfolk, 
two brigs of two hundred tons each, one or more tenders, and a store 
ship of competent dimensions, is, we understand, the force agreed 
upon, and to be put in a state of immediate preparation.

Captain Thomas A. C. Jones, an officer possessing many high qualities 
for such a service, has been appointed to the command; and officers 
for the other vessels will be immediately selected.

The Macedonian has been chosen instead of a sloop of war, on account 
of the increased accommodations she will afford the scientific corps, 
a department the President has determined shall be complete in its 
organization, including the ablest men that can be procured, so that 
nothing within the whole range of every department of natural history 
and philosophy shall be omitted. Not only on this account has the 
frigate been selected, but also for the purpose of a more extended 
protection of our whalemen and traders; and to impress on the minds of 
the natives a just conception of our character, power, and policy. The 
frequent disturbances and massacres committed on our seamen by the 
natives inhabiting the islands in those distant seas, make this 
measure the dictate of humanity.

We understand also, that to J. N. Reynolds, Esq. the President has 
given the appointment of Corresponding Secretary to the expedition. 
Between this gentleman and Captain Jones there is the most friendly 
feeling and harmony of action. The cordiality they entertain for each 
other, we trust will be felt by all, whether citizen or officer, who 
shall be so fortunate as to be connected with the expedition.


Thus it will be seen, steps are being taken to remove the reproach of 
our country alluded to by Mr. Reynolds, and that that gentleman has 
been appointed to the highest civil situation in the expedition; a 
station which we know him to be exceedingly well qualified to fill. 
The liberality of the appropriation for the enterprise, the strong 
interest taken by our energetic chief magistrate in its organization, 
the experience and intelligence of the distinguished commander at its 
head, all promise well for its successful termination. Our most 
cordial good wishes will accompany the adventure, and we trust that it 
will prove the germ of a spirit of scientific ambition, which, 
fostered by legislative patronage and protection, shall build up for 
us a name in nautical discovery commensurate with our moral, 
political, and commercial position among the nations of the earth.


ELKSWATAWA.

_Elkswatawa; or the Prophet of the West. A Tale of the Frontier. New 
York: Harper and Brothers._

This novel is written by Mr. James S. French, of Jerusalem, 
Virginia—the author, we believe, of “_Eccentricities of David 
Crockett_,” a book of which we know nothing beyond the fact of its 
publication. The plot of _Elkswatawa_ is nearly as follows. About the 
period when rumors were abroad in our frontier settlements, and 
elsewhere, of contemplated hostilities by the Indians under Tecumseh, 
one Mr. Richard Rolfe, “a high-toned and chivalrous Virginian,” is a 
resident of Petersburg. He is left an orphan in early life—is educated 
under the guidance of an uncle, completes a course of studies at 
William and Mary, and finally practises law. His uncle now dying, he 
is left pennyless; and his want of perseverance precludes any hope of 
professional advancement. In this dilemma he falls in love. The young 
lady is “a gentle, quiet, little creature,” has hazel eyes, auburn 
hair, and “the loveliest face my eyes ever beheld.” Moreover, she is 
“intellectual without being too much book-learned, kind without 
seeming to intend it, and artless without affectation.” “Not a dog” 
says Mr. French, “but read her countenance aright, and would follow 
her until he obtained his dinner.” Besides all this, she has some 
little {590} property, a penchant for Mr. Richard Rolfe, and a very 
pretty appellation, which is Gay Foreman. But that the course of true 
love may not run altogether smooth, the young lady's father “knows a 
thing or two,” and will have nothing to do with our hero. The damsel 
too refuses to run away with him, and so he is forced to run away by 
himself. In a word, he resolves “to leave the scene of his unhappiness 
and seek a home in the western wilds.” “Oh poverty! poverty!” says Mr. 
Richard Rolfe, in throwing his leg over the saddle, “how often hast 
thou been sketched in some humble sphere, as fascinating in the 
extreme—and indeed lovely art thou—_in the abstract!_”—a very neat and 
very comfortable little piece of positive fact, or as Ben D'Israeli 
would call it—of æsthetical psychology.

Our hero is next seen in Kentucky, where we find him, on the night of 
the 10th of August 1809, in the woods, on the banks of the Ohio, in 
company with one Mr. Earthquake, a hunter. A cry is suddenly heard 
proceeding from the river. Stealthily approaching the banks, Mr. R. 
and his friend look abroad and discover—nothing. Earthquake, however, 
(whom our hero calls Earth for brevity) is of opinion that the Indians 
have been murdering some emigrant family. While deliberating, a light 
is discovered on the Illinois bank of the river, and presently a band 
of Indian warriors become visible. They are dancing a war-dance, with 
a parcel of bloody scalps in their hands, and (credat Judæus!) with 
Mr. Rolfe's very identical little sweetheart in their abominable 
clutches! “Is there a human bosom callous to the appeals of pity?” 
here says Mr. Richard Rolfe, attorney at law, placing his hand upon 
his heart. Mr. Earthquake, unfortunately, says nothing, but there can 
be no doubt in any reasonable mind, that had he opened his mouth at 
all, “Humph! here's a pretty kettle of fish!” would have come out of 
it.

It appears that Mr. Rolfe having decamped from Petersburg, old Mr. 
Foreman, as a necessary consequence, becomes unfortunate in business, 
fails, and goes off to Pittsburg—or perhaps goes to Pittsburg first 
and then fails—at all events it is incumbent upon him to emigrate and 
go down the Ohio in a flat-boat with all his family, and so down he 
goes. He arrives, of course, before any accident can possibly happen 
to him, exactly opposite the spot where that ill-treated young 
attorney, Mr. Rolfe, is sitting as aforesaid, with a very long face, 
in the woods. But having got so far, it follows that he can get no 
farther. The Indians now catch him—(what business had he to reject Mr. 
Rolfe?) they give him a yell—(oh, the old villain!) they kill 
him—(quite right!) scalp him, and throw him overboard, him and all his 
family, with the exception of the young lady. Her they think it better 
to carry across to the Illinois side of the river, and set her up on 
the top of a rock just opposite our hero, with a view, no doubt, of 
letting that interesting young gentleman behold her to the greatest 
possible advantage.

But the glaring improbability of this _rencontre_ (an incident upon 
which the whole narrative depends) is perhaps the worst feature in Mr. 
French's novel. Matters now proceed in a more rational manner. The 
Indians, eight in number, having finished their war-dance, make off 
with their prey. The two hunters (for Mr. R. has turned hunter) swim 
the river and proceed to follow in pursuit, with the view of seizing 
any favorable opportunity for rescuing the young lady. There are now 
some points of interest. At one time, our friends, hiding in the trunk 
of a tree, are near being discovered by the red men, when these latter 
are turned from the path by the rattling of a snake. This is a 
manœuvre on the part of Earthquake, who carries the rattles about his 
person. Something of the same kind, however, is narrated by Cooper. At 
another period, one of the eight becoming separated from the party, is 
waylaid and dexterously slain. Mr. Rolfe too, manages to obtain a 
glimpse of the face of the captive, and is convinced of her being his 
inamorata. The pursuit, however, is unsuccessful, and the maiden is 
carried to the camp of Tecumseh.

We have now a description of this warrior—of his brother Elkswatawa, 
the Prophet—of Net-nok-wa, the female chief of the Ottawas—and of 
Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa her daughter. The two latter are on a visit to 
Tecumseh, who refuses, for state reasons, the proffered hand of 
Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa. This princess, becoming interested in the fate of 
our heroine, begs her of the Prophet as a slave. The Prophet yields, 
and Miss Foreman is carried by Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa to visit some of the 
latter's friends on the Wabash, before setting off for the more 
distant regions of her tribe. In the meantime, our hunters, arriving 
at the camp, and having reconnoitred it in vain for any traces of the 
captive, boldly enter the camp itself, and demand the maiden at the 
hands of the Prophet. His hostile intentions not being yet 
sufficiently ripe, Elkswatawa receives them with kindness, and gives 
them fair words, but disclaims any knowledge of Miss Foreman. Being 
desired, however, to aid the search by means of his power as a 
Prophet, the Indian finally points out the true route of 
Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa's party, and our hunters taking leave, determine, as 
nothing better can be done, to return home for assistance. On their 
way they come across the body of the Indian, who, it will be 
remembered, was separated from his party and killed by our friends. 
Upon his person they find, among other articles, a handkerchief marked 
with the letters _R. Rolfe_, in the hand-writing of our hero. He 
remembers having exchanged handkerchiefs with Miss F. on the day of 
his leaving Petersburg, and his doubts are now, consequently, resolved 
into certainty. This incident determines Rolfe to proceed immediately 
up the Wabash. Here, too, he fails in the object of his search, and 
the hunters commence their return. On the route an Indian woman is 
discovered, bearing a torch, and looking for her son whom she supposes 
to have been murdered by the whites. Touched with pity, our friends 
aid her in the search, and the son is found, grievously wounded, but 
not dead. In her lamentations, the mother drops some few words about a 
white maiden who has taken shelter in her wigwam, and the hopes of 
Rolfe are rekindled. They bear the wounded man to the hut, and the 
white maiden, who is found dead, proves _not_ to be Gay Foreman. But 
the kindness of Rolfe and his companion have excited a deep gratitude 
in the breasts of the Indian mother and son—the latter is called 
Oloompa. They pledge their aid in recovering the lady—and, Rolfe 
having entrusted Oloompa with a letter for his mistress, the hunters 
resume their journey. Reaching Indiana, they find that, owing to the 
unsettled state of Indian affairs, no assistance can be rendered them 
in regard {591} to the rescue of Miss Foreman. They proceed to 
Kentucky. Earthquake is made sheriff. Rolfe practises law, and having 
written to Petersburg in relation to Miss F. receives an answer 
inducing him to believe himself mistaken in regard to the identity of 
the captive. In the meantime Netnokwa, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa and Miss 
Foreman are living on the banks of the Red River. The lady is, in some 
measure, reconciled to her fate by the kind attentions of her Indian 
friends—who are only prevented from restoring her to the settlements, 
through dread of the Prophet's resentment. Elkswatawa and Tecumseh are 
busied in uniting the Indian tribes with the view of a general attack 
upon the whites. An emissary is thus sent to the wigwam of Netnokwa. 
Influenced by Miss Foreman the princesses treat the messenger with 
contempt and laugh at the pretensions of the Prophet. He returns home 
vowing vengeance, and Elkswatawa is induced to send a party of six 
warriors for the purpose of bringing all the inmates of Netnokwa's 
cabin to his camp.

The friendly Indian, Oloompa, determines, in the meantime, to redeem 
his promise made to the two hunters, finds out the wigwam of Netnokwa, 
delivers the letter of Rolfe, receives an answer from Miss Foreman, 
proceeds with it to Kentucky, searches out our hero, and returns with 
him as a guide to the dwelling of the Indian princess. Earth 
accompanies them. The cabin is found deserted—the inmates having been 
carried off the day before in the direction of the Prophet's camp. But 
the ingenuity of Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa has contrived to leave, on a shelf 
of the cabin, a letter for the perusal of Oloompa—whose return was, of 
course, expected. This letter consists of a parcel of little clay 
figures, representing Netnokwa, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, and Miss Foreman, 
driven by six Indians in the direction of the camp of the Prophet. 
Upon this hint our hero starts with his two companions in pursuit. 
They fail, however, in overtaking the Indians in time to accomplish a 
rescue. The captive with her friends is carried to Tippecanoe, where 
the Prophet (Tecumseh having gone to the South) is expecting an attack 
from the American army under General Harrison. Entering the camp, 
Oloompa mingles with the Indians and finally discovers the tent in 
which are the princesses and Miss Foreman. Learning that the Prophet 
has granted to Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa the privilege of passing in and out 
of the tent at pleasure, restricting her only to the limits of the 
camp, he obtains an interview with her, and prevails upon her to 
disguise Miss Foreman to represent herself, (the princess) and thus 
enable the captive to pass out. The scheme succeeds, and our heroine 
is restored to the arms of Mr. Rolfe, who is awaiting her beyond the 
lines. In the meantime, the impatient Indians urge the Prophet to a 
night attack upon Gen. Harrison. They are repulsed, and at the 
conclusion of the battle, our friends make their way into the American 
army. All difficulties now vanish. The lovers are married, and the 
narrative is brought to a conclusion.

The dry compendium we have given will of course do little more than 
afford some idea of the _plan_ of the novel. Its chief interest 
depends upon matters which we have avoided altogether, as being 
independent of this plan, and as forming a portion of our Indian 
history. Here Mr. French has been very successful. The characters of 
Tecumseh and of Elkswatawa appear to us well drawn, and the manœuvres 
skilfully detailed by means of which the vast power of the Prophet was 
attained. It is possible however, that the bear, tiger, Indian, and 
snake stories of our friend Earthquake, (with which the volumes are 
plentifully interlarded,) will be considered as forming the better 
portions of _Elkswatawa_. We have already adverted to the gross 
improbability of the main incident upon which the narrative is hinged. 
In the entire construction of the tale Mr. French has fallen too 
obviously, we think, into some mannerisms of Sir Walter Scott.

In him (Sir Walter) these _mannerisms_, until the frequency of their 
repetition entitled them to such appellation, being well managed and 
not over-done, were commendable. They added great force and precision 
to the development of his stories. They should now be avoided—as a 
little too much of a good thing. And to a man of genius the world of 
invention is _never_ shut. There is always something new under the 
sun—a fact susceptible of positive demonstration, in spite of a 
thousand dogmas to the contrary. The mannerisms we particularly allude 
to in Mr. French, are involved in what he so frequently calls the 
“_bringing up_” of his narrative. Fixing in his mind, every now and 
then, some particular epoch of his tale, he deems it of essential 
importance (when it is by no means so) that the action of his various 
characters should be “brought up,” with entire regularity, to this 
epoch. The attention is no sooner engaged in one train of adventure, 
than a chapter closes with some such sentence as the following. 
“_Leaving_ him to prosecute his journey, and the hunters with a 
perfect knowledge of the route he had taken, we return to the camp of 
the Prophet,” see chapter 21—or with “_Leaving_ the hunters to hover 
about the temporary camp of the Indians, we must bring _forward other 
parts of our story_,” see chapter 3—or with “Thus amusing themselves, 
they continued their journey, to perform which we must leave them, 
while we _bring forward other parts of our story_,” see chapter 8—or 
“And now having _brought up_ the history of the Prophet to the period 
of which we are writing we will proceed with our narrative,” see 
chapter 14—or “_Leaving_ Rolfe to attend to his profession, and 
Earthquake to discharge the duties of the office which had just been 
conferred on him, let us _proceed with other parts of our story_,” see 
chapter 15. Many of the chapters commence in a similar strain, and 
even in the middle of some of them the same interruptions occur. And 
this adjustment of the date is so frequently repeated that Mr. 
French's readers are kept in a constant state of chronological 
hornpipe.

There are some _inadvertences_ to which the author's attention should 
be called. When Rolfe, and his companion Earthquake, are in the woods 
on the banks of the Ohio, at the time of the murder of Mr. Foreman's 
family, they are represented (see page 32, vol. i,) as hearing a 
sudden cry—upon which, proceeding to the river bank, they look around 
and see—nothing. The boat containing the family had sunk before their 
appearance and no traces remained. Yet on page 113 of the same volume, 
we find the hunters giving to the Prophet a detailed account of the 
massacre and burning—things of which they could know nothing 
whatsoever.

When Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa (that acute young lady) is about leaving her 
wigwam on the Red River—forced {592} away by the six Indians of the 
Prophet, she goes to much trouble in making little dirt babies as a 
means of informing Rolfe and Oloompa, when they shall arrive, of the 
disaster which has befallen her. The six Indians, it is possible, 
would have taken notice of the dirt babies and destroyed them before 
their departure—for we are told they were set upon a shelf in the 
wigwam. At all events, the young princess should have had a less 
opinion of her own ingenuity, and have requested Miss Foreman to write 
a bona fide epistle to her lover. In this manner she would have saved 
herself no little dabbling in the mud.

In his _dialogues_, our author will observe that he makes a far too 
frequent use of the _names_ of the speakers. Earthquake, for example, 
cannot say a word to Rolfe, without calling him _Rolfe_, to commence 
with—and Rolfe does nothing but _Earth_ Mr. Earthquake to the end of 
the chapter. This has the most ludicrous effect imaginable. The 
colloquy might as well proceed, too, without so excessive an use of 
the word “said.” The “said Earths” and “said Rolfes” have put us in a 
positive fever. The general _style_ of Mr. French is intrinsically 
good—but has a certain air of _rawness_ which only time and 
self-discipline will enable him to mellow down. In depicting 
_character_, the novelist is unequal. Earth is natural, and although 
drawn with force, still free from the usual exaggerations. We have 
already spoken of Elkswatawa and Tecumseh. Oloompa is a bold and 
chivalrous Indian, with a fine ideal elevation of manner. Miss Foreman 
we dislike, because we cannot comprehend her. In vain we endeavor to 
form of her, from the portrait before us, any definite image. She is a 
young lady—and we are told a very pretty one—but Mr. F. must pardon us 
for saying that she has—no character whatsoever.

Upon the whole we think highly of “_Elkswatawa_,” as evincing a 
capacity for better things. But if the question were demanded—What has 
Mr. French here done for his reputation?—we would reply possibly, upon 
the spur of the moment—“very little.” Upon second thoughts we should 
say—“just nothing at all.”


THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS.

_Letters Descriptive of the Virginia Springs—the Roads leading thereto 
and the Doings thereat. Collected, Corrected, Annotated and Edited by 
Peregrine Prolix. With a Map of Virginia. Philadelphia: Published by 
H. S. Tanner._

In our late notice of a _Pleasant Peregrination through the Prettiest 
Parts of Pennsylvania_, we had occasion to mention in high terms of 
commendation these _Letters Descriptive of the Virginia Springs_. 
Seeing them now advertised (very opportunely) as for sale in the city 
of Richmond, we take the liberty of calling attention more 
particularly to their merits. Every person about to pay a visit to our 
Springs, should read the book of course—and every person not about to 
pay them a visit, should most especially read it that he may have the 
pleasure of changing his mind. The volume is a very small one—a 
duodecimo of about 100 pages—but is replete with information of the 
most useful and the most enticing nature to the tourist. It is 
moreover, as the title implies, increased in value by the addition of 
a Tanner's Map of Virginia, in which the usual routes to the Springs 
are marked in colored lines. The volume has already been so freely 
quoted by all parties, that we can do no more than just copy a few 
words in relation to the Red Sulphur Springs of our old and highly 
esteemed friend, Mr. Burke, and to the Grey Sulphur of Mr. Legare.


The distance to the Red Sulphur (from the Salt Sulphur) is eighteen 
miles over a mountainous and woody region, which grows wilder and more 
romantic as you proceed. You pass two or three little valleys, into 
which the sun's rays penetrate between the branches and trunks of the 
gigantic trees, which have been robbed of their leafy honors by the 
process of girdling: the ground below being occupied by Indian corn. 
After ascending several successive elevations, the road reaches the 
top of a narrow mountain ridge, along which it runs for several miles, 
and affords a prospect into the deep and precipitous valley on either 
side. After descending from this ridge the road follows for several 
miles the bank of a beautiful creek, and brings you to the Red Sulphur 
Spring. This is one of the most beautiful and interesting objects in 
the Virginia Mountains. It flows from the rock into a quadrangular 
reservoir, composed of four slabs of white marble, the lower edges of 
which rest on the rock from which the water gushes. The reservoir is 
about six feet long, five wide, and four and a half deep; and a 
beautiful red and mysterious substance covers the bottom, which 
extending some distance up the sides, sheds through the transparency 
of the water its own lovely hue. The water is clear and cool, (its 
temperature being fifty-four of Fahrenheit,) is very strongly charged 
with sulphuretted hydrogen gas, and contains portions of several 
neutral salts. It possesses in a high degree the valuable property of 
lowering an exalted pulse, and is generally diuretic and aperient. To 
a Philadelphian palate its coolness is very gratifying. The spring is 
situated near one side of a little triangular plain, almost buried in 
mountains, and therefore cut short of its fair proportion of sunshine. 
The buildings, consisting of two large and commodious hotels, and 
three rows of cabins, are conveniently arranged upon the plain. The 
best row of cabins is called Philadelphia row, and is built of brick, 
each cabin containing two good rooms, in one of which is a fire-place. 
The table and other accommodations are very good, and Mr. Burke, the 
proprietor, is making every effort by new and expensive improvements 
to increase the comforts of his future guests.


We have only to add, that Mr. B. has since been successful in making 
the _Red Sulphur_ every thing which the tourist or the valetudinarian 
could desire.


At 10 A.M. on the 10th September, [says Mr. Prolix] we left the Red 
Sulphur Spring in a private carriage, to pay a visit to the Gray 
Sulphur, situated at the distance of nine miles in a south-west 
direction, just within the border of Giles county.

This is a new establishment, grown up by magic since the first of June 
last. It belongs to John D. Legare, Esq. of South Carolina, a 
gentleman of established literary talent, who by his great enterprise 
and good taste, has made this lovely wilderness blossom like the rose, 
and bring forth the fruits of civilization and comfort. There is a 
comfortable new brick house standing near the middle of a gently 
sloping plain of about twenty acres, nearly cleared of trees, and 
entirely surrounded by forest-covered mountains, between whose base 
and the house are several beautiful conical hills, rendering the view 
from the portico exceedingly pleasing. Every thing here is conducted 
after the polished and agreeable manner of South Carolina. All is 
redolent of the Palmetto, and a little pleasant circle from that 
state, may generally be found here.

There are two springs under the same cover, within ten feet of each 
other; one containing, inter alia, bicarbonate of soda, which is an 
excellent anti-dyspeptic, {593} and is well taken an hour after 
dinner, which is always so good here that every body eats too much. 
The other contains some sulphuretted hydrogen and several neutral 
salts, rendering it aperient and diuretic. It should be taken an hour 
before breakfast. The breakfasts and suppers are capital, furnished 
forth with various cakes, in form and color new to the northern eye, 
of rice, of corn and wheat; and in discussing these interesting 
subjects, a quiet deliberation reigns, affording the epicure the 
double opportunity of curing hunger and gratifying taste. The wine is 
so good, that he who drinks it, falsifies the old adage, that _omnes 
errorem bibunt_,—there is no mistake about it.


A YEAR IN SPAIN.

_A year in Spain. By a Young American. Third Edition, enlarged. New 
York. Harper and Brothers._

We have more than once recorded in the Messenger the high pleasure 
afforded us by the pages of Lieutenant Slidell. The “_Year in Spain_” 
with the exception of its third volume, is no novelty, we are sure. 
Its well-limned natural scenery—its exceedingly happy groups of 
banditti, and boleros, and mouse-colored asses, and muleteers, and 
modern Sancho Panzas, and Sangrados, and primitive Alcaldes, and 
pallazzos, and plazas, and posadas, are still passing before the eyes 
of a great majority of our readers in a Kaleidescopal freshness and 
variety, unimpaired, and unimpairable. It would hardly be worth our 
while then to tell the public what the public know quite as well as 
ourselves—that the book has a vigorous interest—has received a great 
deal of commendation—and deserves it. The third volume in the present 
edition is superadded to the English _imprimatur_, and embodies what 
we consider the most effective portion of the narrative—an account of 
the author's visit to Grenada. The mechanical execution of the book is 
honorable to the Messieurs Harpers. The vignettes in each of the 
volumes, are particularly good. We would sincerely recommend our 
friends to procure a copy of the work forthwith—to give it a niche in 
their libraries—and to remember that it may safely be referred to upon 
occasion, as a most creditable specimen of American talent.


ADVENTURES IN SEARCH OF A HORSE.

_The Adventures of a Gentleman in Search of a Horse. By Caveat Emptor, 
Gent. One, Etc. Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea and 
Blanchard._

This book, to say nothing of its peculiar excellence and general 
usefulness, is remarkable as being an anomaly in the literary way. The 
first 180 pages are occupied with what the title implies, the 
adventures of a gentleman in search of a horse—the remaining 100 
embrace, in all its details, difficulties, and intricacies, a profound 
treatise on the English _law of horse-dealing warranty!_—and this too, 
strange as it may seem, appears to be the first and only treatise upon 
a subject so interesting to a great portion of the English gentry. 
Think of _law_, serviceable law too, intended as a matter of 
reference, compiled by a well known attorney, and dedicated to Sir 
John Gurney, one of the Barons of his Majesty's Court of 
Exchequer—think of all this done up in a green muslin cover, and 
illustrated by very laughable wood-cuts. Only imagine the stare of old 
Coke, and of the other big wigged tribe in white calf and red-letter 
binding, as our friend in the green habit shall take his station by 
their side upon the book shelf!

The _adventurous_ portion of the book is all to which we have 
attended, and so far we have found much fine humor, good advice, and 
useful information in all matters touching the nature, the management, 
and especially the purchase of a horse. We would advise all amateurs 
to look well, and look quickly into the pages of Caveat Emptor.


LAFITTE.

_Lafitte: the Pirate of the Gulf. By the author of the South-West. New 
York: Harper and Brothers._

The “author of the _South-West_” is Professor Ingraham. We had 
occasion to speak favorably of that work in our Messenger for January 
last. “_Lafitte_,” the book now before us, may be called an historical 
novel. It is based, in a great degree, upon a sketch in Mr. Flint's 
“_Valley of the Mississippi_,” of the great Baratarian outlaw; and 
many of the leading incidents narrated may be found in the 
“_Louisiana_” of Marboi, and the “_Memoirs_” of Latour. We are not, 
however, to decide upon the merits of the story—which runs nearly 
thus—by any reference to historical truth.

An expatriated Frenchman resides upon the banks of the Kennebeck. He 
has two sons—twins—their mother having died in their infancy. Their 
names are Achille and Henri—the former proud, impetuous and 
ambitious—the latter of a more gentle nature. We are introduced to 
this little family when the boys are in their fifteenth year. At this 
epoch a jealousy of his brother, never felt before, and founded on the 
obvious preference of the father for Henri, arises in the bosom of 
Achille. Gertrude, now, a niece and ward of the old gentleman, becomes 
an inmate of the house. She is beautiful, is beloved by both the sons, 
but returns only the affection of Henri. Jealousy thus deepens into 
hatred on the part of Achille. This hatred is still farther embittered 
by an accident. Henri saves the life of his mistress, and, in so 
doing, rejects the proffered assistance of Achille. The lovers meet 
too by moonlight, and are overheard by the discarded brother, who in a 
moment of phrensy, plunges a knife in the bosom of Henri, hurries to 
the sea-coast, and, seizing the boat of a fisherman, pushes out 
immediately to sea. Upon the eve of being lost, he is picked up by a 
merchant vessel, and proceeds with her on a voyage to the 
Mediterranean. The vessel is captured by the Algerines—our hero is 
imprisoned—escapes by the aid of a Moorish maiden, whom he dishonors 
and abandons—is recaptured—escapes again in an open boat for Ceuti—is 
again captured by Algerines—unites with them, and subsequently 
commands them—is taken by the Turks—is promoted in their navy—turns 
Mussulman—becomes the chief of an armed horde—combats in the Egyptian 
ranks—becomes again a pirate—is taken by the Spaniards—is liberated 
and becomes a corsair again, and again. His adventures so far, 
however, from the period of his attack upon Henri—adventures occupying 
a period of fifteen years—are related by the novelist in language very 
little more diffuse than our own. We are now introduced, at full 
length to Achille, in the character of Lafitte. The scene is Jamaica, 
and we find the freebooter planning a descent upon the house of a 
{594} wealthy Mexican exile, Velasquez. He has a daughter, Constanza, 
very beautiful, and a nephew, very much of a rascal. The nephew is in 
league with the robbers, and admits them to the house for the sake of 
sharing the booty. The adventure ends in the death of the traitor by a 
pistol-shot from the hands of Velasquez—the death of the old man 
himself through agitation—and the carrying off of the maiden, and much 
booty, by Lafitte. The lady however, is treated with great deference 
by that noble-spirited and fine-looking young man the cut-throat, who 
wears a grey cloak with a velvet collar, folds his arms, gnashes his 
teeth, and has, we must admit it, a more handsomely furnished cabin 
than even the Red Rover himself. We are assured that his only object 
in carrying the damsel off at all, was to shield his person by means 
of her own, from the shots of his pursuers. Accordingly, a 
merchantman, bound for Kingston, heaving in sight, Constanza is set at 
liberty and put on board of it, with an old negro wench Juana (all 
lips) and a young pirate boy Theodore, (all sentiment) to attend upon 
her orders and convoy her safely into port. We now have a storm (in 
the usual manner) a wreck, and a capture. The dismasted vessel is 
taken by one of the galleys of Lafitte, and the lady again falls into 
the clutches of the buccaneers, who carry her to one of their 
rendezvous, a very romantic cavern, at the head of the bay of 
Gonzales, in the island of St. Domingo.

In the meantime the lover of the fair Constanza, one Count D'Oyley, 
commander of the French frigate, Le Sultan, going to visit his 
mistress at her paternal residence, is made aware of her disaster, 
follows immediately with his frigate's tender in pursuit of Lafitte, 
and fails in meeting him, but has the satisfaction of being taken 
prisoner by one of the freebooter's small vessels, and carried to the 
identical rendezvous in which lies the object of his search. The 
lovers repose in different caverns, and are totally unsuspicious of 
the so near presence of each other. But the maiden, of course, sings a 
song, made on purpose improviso, and all about love and the moon, and 
the lover, hearing every word of it, breaks through the wall (also of 
course) and—clasps her in his arms! But we are growing scurrilous. 
Lafitte arrives, and promises the two captives their freedom and a 
passage to Port-au-Prince in the morning. Count D'Oyley, however, 
having dreamed in succession four very ugly dreams, thinks it better 
to put no faith in the freebooter, and getting up in the middle of the 
night, makes his escape from the rendezvous with his mistress and 
Juana. In so doing he has only to dress his mistress as a man, and 
himself as a woman, to descend a precipice, to make a sentinel at the 
mouth of the cave drunk, and so walk over him—make another drunk in 
Lafitte's schooner, and so walk over him—walk over some forty or fifty 
of the crew on deck—and finally to walk off with the long-boat. These 
things are trifles with a man of genius—and an author should never let 
slip an opportunity of displaying his invention. D'Oyley's frigate 
happens just precisely at the right moment to be in the offing, and 
has no difficulty whatever in picking up all hands.

We are now brought to Barataria—and some scenes follow of historical 
interest. An offer on the part of the British is made to Lafitte. He 
demands time for reflection, and proceeds to lay the pacquet of 
proposals before the Governor of Louisiana, demanding a free pardon 
for himself and associates as the reward of his information, and the 
price of his adherence to the States. After some trouble he succeeds 
in his application. He is present, and fights valiantly, at the battle 
of New Orleans. In the heat of the contest he is attacked pointedly 
and with vehemence by an individual in the uniform of a British naval 
officer—is wounded, and carried to the hospital. Here he discovers, as 
a nun, his cousin Gertrude, who after the attack by Achille upon 
Henri, has taken the veil, by way of atonement for her share in the 
disaster. Henri, she informs Lafitte, is not killed, but gone to 
France with his father. Our hero now, having recovered of his wound, 
vows to devote to penitence, among the monks of St. Bernard, the 
remainder of his life. His first object, however, being to restore, as 
far as possible, his ill-gotten wealth to the proper owners, he finds 
it necessary to purchase a vessel with the view of collecting his 
treasures. He does so, and proceeds to accomplish his purpose.

The naval officer who attacked him so fiercely on the ramparts at 
Orleans is now discovered to be D'Oyley, although it does seem a 
little singular that Lafitte, who knew D'Oyley well, should not have 
discovered this matter before. The Frenchman, it appears, having 
rescued his mistress from the cavern, as before shown, and having 
reached his frigate in safety, can think of no more commendable course 
than that of returning for the purpose of dispersing the pirates, and 
hanging the preserver of his own life, and of the life and honor of 
his mistress. With this laudable design, he drops anchor at the mouth 
of the cavern. In the night time, however, the poor tossed-about lady 
is carried off thro' a port-hole, by Cudjo, an old negro, for some 
wise purposes of his own. Upon learning this occurrence the Count is 
very angry, and just then perceiving a schooner making her way out of 
the harbor, jumps at once to the conclusion that his lady is on board, 
and that Lafitte is the person who put her there. It is really 
distressing to see what a passion the Count is in upon this occasion. 
“Lafitte,” says he, “thou seared and branded outlaw!—cursed of God and 
loathed of men!—fit compeer of hell's dark spirits!—blaster of human 
happiness!—destroyer of innocence! Guilty thyself, thou would'st make 
all like thee! Scorner of purity, thou would'st unmake and make it 
guilt! Like Satan, thou sowest tares of sorrow among the seeds of 
peace!—thou seekest good to make it evil! Renegade of mankind!—thou 
art a blot among thy race—the living presence of that moral pestilence 
which men and holy writ term _sin!_” The beauty and vigor of all this 
are not at all diminished by the fact that the “scorner of purity” and 
“renegade of mankind” was necessarily deprived of the pleasure of 
hearing a word of it, being otherwise busily engaged in the State of 
Louisiana.

The Count, having overtaken the schooner, and found out his mistake, 
goes to Barataria, and thence, proceeding to New Orleans, arrives on 
the day of the battle. Lafitte is there discovered upon the ramparts, 
and the combat ensues as heretofore described. D'Oyley imagines that 
Lafitte is mortally wounded. In a few days, however, the 
newly-purchased vessel of the corsair, with the corsair on board, is 
pointed out to him as it is leaving the harbor, and he again starts 
with his frigate in pursuit. Lafitte meanwhile has proceeded to the 
{595} rendezvous at which we left Constanza in the clutches of Cudjo, 
rescues her, and placing her safely in his vessel, determines to put 
her forthwith in the hands of her lover. He is met, unfortunately, by 
the frigate of the enraged D'Oyley. The vessels are thrown together, 
and the Count springs with his boarders on the deck of the 
schooner—turning a deaf ear to explanation. The corsair is mortally 
wounded by the Count. The cap of the latter falling off in the tumult, 
he is discovered to be Henri—the brother of Achille, or Lafitte. An 
old man on board, called Lafon, is at the same moment opportunely 
discovered to be the father. Explanations ensue. Lafitte dies—the 
lovers are happy—and the story terminates.

It must not be supposed that the absurdities we have here pointed out, 
are as obtrusive in the novel of Professor Ingraham as they appear in 
our naked digest. Still they are sufficiently so. “_Lafitte_,” like 
the “Elkswatawa” of Mr. French, is most successful, we think, in its 
historical details. Commodore Patterson and General Andrew Jackson are 
among the personages who form a portion of the story. The portrait of 
the President seems to us forcibly sketched. But our author is more 
happy in any respect than in delineations of character. Some 
descriptive pieces are well-drawn, and admirably colored. We may 
instance the several haunts of the pirates, the residence of 
Velasquez, the house of the council at New Orleans, and the private 
cabin allotted by the corsair to Constanza. The whole book possesses 
vigor, and a certain species of interest—and there can be little doubt 
of its attaining popularity. The chronological mannerism noticed in 
“Elkswatawa” is also observable in “Lafitte.” Some other mannerisms 
referrible to the same sin of imitation are also to be observed. As a 
general rule it may be safely assumed, that the most simple, is the 
best, method of narration. Our author cannot be induced to think so, 
and is at unnecessary pains to bring about artificialities of 
construction—not so much in regard to particular sentences, as to the 
introduction of his incidents. To these he always approaches with the 
gait of a crab. We have, for example, been keeping company with the 
buccaneers for a few pages—but now they are to make an attack upon 
some old family mansion. In an instant the buccaneers are dropped for 
the mansion, and the definite for the indefinite article. In place of 
_the_ robbers proceeding in the course wherein we have been bearing 
them company, and advancing in proper order to the dwelling, they are 
suddenly abandoned for _a_ house. _A_ family mansion is depicted. _A_ 
man is sitting within it. _A_ maiden is sitting by his side, and _a_ 
quantity of ingots are reposing in the cellar. We are then, and not 
till then, informed, that the family mansion, the man, the maiden and 
the ingots, are the identical mansion, man, maiden and ingots, of 
which we have already heard the buccaneers planning the attack.—Thus, 
at the conclusion of book the 4th, Count D'Oyley has rescued his 
mistress from the cavern, and arrived with her, in safety, upon the 
deck of his frigate. He has, moreover, decided upon returning with the 
frigate to the cavern for the laudable purpose, as aforesaid, of 
hanging his deliverer. We naturally expect still to keep company with 
_the_ ship in this adventure; and turn over the page with a certainty 
of finding ourselves upon her decks. But not so. She is now merely _a_ 
frigate which we behold at a distance—_a_ stately ship arrayed in the 
apparel of war, and which “sails with majestic motion into the bay of 
Gonzales.” Of course we are strongly tempted to throw the book, ship 
and all, out of the window.

The novelist is too minutely, and by far too frequently _descriptive_. 
We are surfeited with unnecessary detail. Every little figure in the 
picture is invested with all the dignities of light and shadow, and 
chiaro 'scuro. Of mere outlines there are none. Not a dog yelps, 
unsung. Not a shovel-footed negro waddles across the stage, whether to 
any ostensible purpose or not, without eliciting from the author a 
_vos plaudite_, with an extended explanation of the character of his 
personal appearance—of his length, depth, and breadth,—and, more 
particularly, of the length, depth, and breadth of his shirt-collar, 
shoe-buckles and hat-band.

The English of Professor Ingraham is generally good. It possesses 
vigor and is very copious. Sometimes, however, we meet with a sentence 
without end, involving a nominative without a verb. For example,

“As the men plied their oars, and moved swiftly down the bayou, the 
Indian, who was the last of his name and race, with whom would expire 
the proud appellation, centuries before recognized among other tribes, 
as the synonyme for intelligence, civilization, and courage—THE 
NATCHEZ!—the injured, persecuted, slaughtered and unavenged 
Natchez—the Grecians of the aboriginal nations of North America!” See 
p. 125. Vol. 2.

Many odd words, too, and expressions, such as “revenge you,” in place 
of “avenge you”—“Praxitiles,” instead of “Praxiteles”—“assayed” in 
lieu of “essayed,” and “denouément” for “dénouement”—together with 
such things as “frissieur,” “closelier,” “self-powered,” “folden,” and 
“rhodomantine” are here to be found, and, perhaps, may as well be 
placed at once to the account of typographical errors.

Our principal objection is to the tendency of the tale. The 
pirate-captain, from the author's own showing, is a weak, a 
vaccillating villain, a fratricide, a cowardly cut-throat, who strikes 
an unoffending boy under his protection, and makes nothing of hurling 
a man over a precipice for merely falling asleep, or shooting him down 
without any imaginable reason whatsoever. Yet he is never mentioned 
but with evident respect, or in some such sentence as the following. 
“I could hardly believe I was looking upon the celebrated Lafitte, 
when I gazed upon his elegant, even noble person and fine features, in 
which, in spite of their resolute expression, there is an air of 
frankness which assures me that _he would never be guilty of a mean 
action_,” &c. &c. &c. In this manner, and by these means, the total 
result of his portraiture as depicted, leaves upon the mind of the 
reader no proper degree of abhorrence. The epithet “impulsive,” 
applied so very frequently to the character of this scoundrel, as to 
induce a smile at every repetition of the word, seems to be regarded 
by the author as an all-sufficient excuse for the unnumbered legion of 
his iniquities. We object too—decidedly—to such expressions on the 
lips of a hero, as “If I cannot be the last in Heaven, I will be the 
first in Hell”—“Now favor me, Hell or Heaven, and I will have my 
revenge!”—“Back hounds, or, by the holy God, I will send one of you to 
breakfast in Hell,” &c. &c. &c.—expressions with which the volumes 
before us are too plentifully besprinkled. {596} Upon the whole, we 
could wish that men possessing the weight of talents and character 
belonging to Professor Ingraham, would either think it necessary to 
bestow a somewhat greater degree of labor and attention upon the 
composition of their novels, or otherwise, would _not_ think it 
necessary to compose them at all.


DRAPER'S LECTURE.

_Introductory Lecture to a Course of Chemistry and Natural Philosophy. 
Delivered in Hampden Sidney College. By John W. Draper, M.D. Richmond: 
T. W. White._

Mr. Draper's peculiar reputation is well known—and deservedly 
acquired. In this Introductory Lecture he has given direct evidence of 
scientific attainment—of comprehensiveness of mind, and of a thorough 
acquaintance with the philosophy of instruction. He has inspired us, 
and we have no doubt that he has succeeded in inspiring all his 
hearers, with an earnest desire to hear what farther he shall say in 
the lectures which are to come. We take the liberty of copying a 
passage of unusual interest and beauty from the pages now before us.


Knowledge, like wealth hoarded up, has its compound interest, 
increasing in an almost geometrical ratio. A single discovery in one 
science sheds a light on all kindred knowledge, which is reflected 
back again. It is thus that modern discovery proceeds with such rapid 
steps. A first investigator, groping his way in the dark, cannot form 
a just idea of the nature and position of objects he may encounter, 
until time and circumstances make them more familiar. Change of 
opinion is often produced by more extensive information, and the 
possession of one new fact at variance with received theories, often 
leads to an entire reformation of scientific faith. But though our 
theories alter, our facts remain unchanged; and hence we ought not to 
be discouraged, remembering that theory is only useful so far as it 
enables us to collate and reason upon fact.

How many are the triumphs which the world of science can boast of, 
even in our recollection! How much increased is the amount of all 
knowledge within the present century! We have a new chemistry, a new 
science of light, that has almost furnished us with one sense more 
than nature intended we should have. Astronomy has had its Laplace. 
Mechanics has produced its steam boats and rail roads. Many of the 
most interesting geographical problems have received their 
solution—the Niger has been navigated—and the British standard planted 
on the magnetic pole. The magnet, that riddle of antiquity, has been 
made to tell its secret in characters of fire. Electricity has 
furnished its galvanic battery. Physiology has developed more of the 
nervous structure of man than all the dreams of metaphysicians could 
have painted. Geology has sprung from the dust and given us animals 
and plants, the earliest tenants of this earth. New planets have been 
found, and the periods and orbits of new comets determined. The laws 
of the elementary constitution of bodies have been fixed, and the 
relative weight of their _ultimate_ atoms assigned. Botany, 
mineralogy, and indeed every science, has advanced with rapid steps, 
and the last half century has added more to human acquirements than 
the preceding thousand years.

On every hand philosophy still continues to push her conquests, and 
discoveries crowd upon us. EHRENBERG has opened to us a new world in 
his use of the microscope; those little insects, thousands of which 
might stand on a needle's point, show to us how multiplied and how 
minute the mechanism of the parts of living things may be. By feeding 
these creatures on the purest carmine, and then bathing them in 
distilled water, he has seen through their transparent bodies parts 
which might rival for complexity the organs of the largest animals. In 
another branch, FARADAY has explained all the phenomena of voltaic 
electricity, in a series of experimental researches, unrivalled since 
the time when Davy demonstrated that the alkalies and earths were 
metallic oxides. In France, DUTROCHET has built up the doctrine of 
Endosmose and capillary attraction, which has been extended in this 
country, and furnished some remarkable results. The newly detected 
facts of esormorphism and plescomorphism, are shaking chemistry and 
mineralogy to their very foundation. The discovery of the mode of 
polarising light—a subject upon which I propose to dwell at some 
length, if time permits—has given us, to use the words of an eloquent 
writer, new and infinitely refined perceptions of touch. We are 
enabled, with mathematical precision, and demonstrative certainty, to 
assign the exact form of atoms, millions of times beyond microscopic 
power. We tremble upon the brink of discovering the elementary 
constitution of the material world. We can feel as it were the 
molecules of light itself, that most subtle of all fluids. We can 
almost perceive their sides and their ends, and can actually control, 
regulate and arrange the constituent parts of a _sunbeam_!


LIEBER'S MEMORIAL.

_Memorial of Francis Lieber, Professor of History and Political 
Economy in the South Carolina College, relative to Proposals for a 
Work on the Statistics of the United States._

This is a Congressional Document of about seventeen pages, and should 
be read by all who feel an interest in the welfare of America. 
Professor Lieber has herein laid before the Federal Legislature, with 
remarkable clearness of thought, and force of lucid arrangement, the 
plan of a proposed work on the Statistics of the Union—the word 
Statistics to be understood in its truest and most expanded 
acceptation, as a view of the _actual state_ of the country. In the 
pages before us, a most comprehensive exhibition is afforded of all 
the _points of interest_ to the student of political philosophy. 
Should Congress do nothing in the matter, the author of the Memorial 
(of which twice the usual number of copies have been printed,) will 
still have rendered his adopted country a service of no common value, 
in diffusing among our citizens, by means of the document itself, a 
vast amount of needful and accurate knowledge on a subject of 
pre-eminent interest. Should, however, the proposals so ably presented 
for consideration, be finally adopted, a consummation to be expected 
as well as desired, America will have the honor of taking the most 
important step ever yet taken in aid of the most important of 
sciences. There can be no doubt of this, we think, in the mind of any 
person at all conversant with the subject, who will examine the 
well-arranged and extensive plan of the work in contemplation.

Professor Lieber is well known as a writer of untiring industry, great 
mental activity, and extensive attainments. His first work, we 
believe, was entitled “_Journal of my Residence in Greece_,” written 
at the instigation of the historian Niebuhr, and issued at Leipzig in 
1823. Since then he has published “_The Stranger in America_,” a 
piquantly written work, abounding in various information relative to 
the States—and a volume on the subject of _Education_, which was 
submitted to the Trustees of the College of Girard, and which evinces 
a well-grounded and philosophical knowledge of the {597} science of 
instruction. We had nearly forgotten the interesting “_Reminiscences 
of Niebuhr_,” lately published. Dr. Lieber, however, is still more 
widely and more favorably known as Editor of the Encyclopædia 
Americana, a monument, which will not readily decay, of great 
enterprize, industry, and erudition.


HISTORY OF TEXAS.

_The History of Texas: or the Emigrant's, Farmer's, and Politician's 
Guide to the Character, Climate, Soil, and Productions of that 
Country; Geographically Arranged from Personal Observation and 
Experience. By David B. Edward, formerly Principal of the Academy, 
Alexandria, Louisiana; Late Preceptor of Gonzales Seminary, Texas. 
Cincinnati: J. A. James & Co._

This should be classed among useful oddities. Its style is somewhat 
_over-abundant_—but we believe the book a valuable addition to our 
very small amount of accurate knowledge in regard to Texas. The 
author, who is one of the Society of Friends, assures us that he has 
no lands in Texas to sell, although he has lived three years in the 
country, and that, too, on the frontiers—that he made one of a party 
of four who explored the province in 1830, from side to side, and from 
settlement to settlement, during the space of six months,—and that, in 
1835, he had the curiosity to spend six months more in examining the 
improvements made throughout every locality, “in order that none 
should be able to detect a falsehood, or prove a material error which 
could either mislead, or seriously injure those who may put confidence 
in this work.” For ourselves we are inclined to place great faith in 
the statements of Mr. Edward, and regard his book with a most 
favorable eye. It is an octavo of 336 pages, embracing, in detail, 
highly interesting accounts of the People, the Geographical Features, 
the Climate, the Savages, the Timber, the Water, &c. of Texas. Much 
information in regard to Mexico, is included in the body of the work, 
and, in an Appendix, we have a copy of the Mexican Constitution. We 
give, by way of extract, a flattering little picture of Texian comfort 
and abundance.


The people _en masse_ can have a living, and that plentifully too, of 
animal food, both of beef and pork, of venison and bear meat, besides 
a variety of fish and fowl, upon easier terms at present, especially 
the wild game, than any other people, in any other district of North 
America; which must continue to be the case, for one of the best 
reasons in the world—at least in Texas: as the wild animals decrease, 
the domesticated ones will increase!

And, as they have not commenced, except in a few cases (comparatively 
speaking) upon the border lands of the Gulf, to export corn, they have 
by just dropping the seed and afterwards stowing away the increase, 
more bread stuff than they well know sometimes what to do with, it 
being out of the question to feed their hogs on it, except they were 
to raise them on such food altogether, which would be a pity, while 
they have so much mast in the woods, and so many roots in the 
prairies.

And, as their milch cattle increase in numbers, and that very 
frequently too faster than they can attend to their milking, they have 
more, as to family use, much more milk, than they know how to dispose 
of, except they are well stocked with farrow sows, or have around them 
pet mustang colts.

With these three main stays of a farmer's life, come, by very little 
more exertion than just the picking and gathering in, those condiments 
and relishes, which not only garnish the table, but replenish the 
appetite, from a source of such plentiful variegation, as the gardens 
and the fields, the woods and the waters, of a Texas country!


INKLINGS OF ADVENTURE.

_Inklings of Adventure. By the Author of Pencillings by the Way. New 
York: Saunders and Otley._

These volumes are inscribed “to the distinguished American orator and 
statesman, Edward Everett,” and are introduced by a Preface over the 
signature of N. P. Willis, in which “the papers which are to follow,” 
are said to record some passages in the life of a certain Philip 
Slingsby. Mr. W. assures us that although his name stands in the 
title-page of the book as its author, (which, upon reference, we find 
not to be the case) he can only take to himself that share of the 
praise or blame which may attach [be attached] to it as a literary 
composition. Most assuredly (setting all this _badinage_ aside, which 
may possibly have a fuller meaning than lies upon its surface) we can 
see no reason for praising or blaming Mr. Willis _except_ in his 
character of literateur, for any thing to be found in the volumes 
before us. We cannot sufficiently express our disgust at that 
unscrupulous indelicacy which is in the habit of deciding upon the 
literary merits of this gentleman by a reference to his private 
character and manners, and feel, indeed, a species of indignation in 
the thought, that when we propose to say a few words, without any such 
reference, about the present “_Inklings of Adventure_,” we are 
proposing a course of indisputable originality.

Subjoined is the Table of Contents. Pedlar Karl—Niagara; Lake Ontario; 
The St. Lawrence—The Cherokee's Threat—F. Smith—Edith Linsey 
(including Frost and Flirtation; Love and Speculation; A Digression; 
and Scenery and a Scene)—Scenes of Fear (containing the Disturbed 
Vigil; the Mad Senior; and the Lunatic's Skate)—Incidents on the 
Hudson—The Gipsey of Sardis—Tom Fane and I—Larks in Vacation 
(embracing Driving Stanhope _pro. tem._; Saratoga Springs; and Mrs. 
Captain Thompson)—A Log in the Archipelago—and Miscellaneous Papers 
(being the Revenge of the Signor Basil; Love and Diplomacy; Minute 
Philosophies; and the Mad-house of Palermo.)

It will be seen that a great many of these papers (we believe all of 
them) have been published before. It is not our design, therefore, to 
speak of them in detail. Perhaps an outline of some individual sketch, 
with an occasional reference to others, will be found to impart a 
sufficient idea of the general character of the whole. We open the 
book at random, and here are six or seven pages with the running title 
of _Niagara_. It will be a matter of some interest to see how a poet 
(one whom we _know_ to be such) will think it proper to handle a 
subject so momentous.

Mr. Willis—Mr. Slingsby we mean—commences by _dating_ his visit to the 
Falls, with reference not to any positive or acknowledged æra, but, 
relatively, to an æra in his personal experience. He does not say I 
went in 1810—or in 1820. “It was in my senior vacation,” says he, “and 
I was bound to Niagara for the first time.” We are thus slyly made 
acquainted with a trio of items, which, when duly considered, are to 
give weight and character to the subsequent details. We are informed, 
firstly—that Mr. Slingsby has been to college—secondly, and 
presumptively, that he {598} graduated, (it is his senior vacation) 
and thirdly, that he has since paid other visits to Niagara, (he is on 
his way thither for the _first_ time.) But in the narration of a trip 
to the great waterfall, some wit, some repartee, has been thought 
indispensable, and wit cannot so effectively be displayed, as by means 
of a foil. Our author, therefore, has a companion, and describes him. 
He is an ugly fellow, of course—seven feet high, ill-dressed, solemn, 
and sensible. We now see the advantage of all this—and are prepared 
for the Rembrandtities of contrast. To enjoy them in perfection we 
must imagine Mr. Slingsby (whom we never saw) as a delicate little 
gentleman, with a pretty face and figure—fair, funny, fanciful, 
fashionable, and frisky.

The friends leaving Buffalo cross the outlet of Lake Erie at the 
ferry, and take horses on the northern bank of the Niagara for the 
Falls. Mr. Slingsby during the ride, is now lost in admiration of the 
“noble stream hurrying on headlong to its fearful leap, as broad as 
the Hellespont, and as blue as the sky,” and now excessively merry at 
the expense of his ally and foil, “who rides along,” we are told, 
“like the man of rags you see paraded on an ass in the carnival.” Thus 
the narrative proceeds in a vein of mingled sentiment and 
_very-good-joke_. Let us give another example of this. “The river,” 
says Mr. Slingsby, “now broke into rapids foaming furiously, and the 
subterranean thunder increased like a succession of earthquakes, each 
louder than the last. [A bull.] I had never heard a sound so broad and 
universal. It was impossible not to suspend the breath, and feel 
absorbed, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, in the great 
phenomenon with which the earth seemed trembling to its centre. A tall 
misty cloud, changing its shape continually, as it felt the shocks of 
the air, rose up before us, and with our eyes fixed upon it, and our 
horses at a hard gallop, we found ourselves unexpectedly in front of a 
large white——hotel!”

Having eaten dinner at the large white hotel, Job Smith, the foil, is 
made to utter some of his solemn drolleries, forcing Mr. Slingsby [oh 
the quiz!] to leave the table and walk with a smile towards the 
window. A belle, Miss ——, is thus discovered, and introduced. Of her, 
“every soul of the fifteen millions of inhabitants between us and the 
Gulf of Mexico have heard.” She is, moreover, “one of those miracles 
of nature that occur, perhaps, once in the rise and fall of an 
empire.” Besides all this, she is “kind, playful, unaffected, and 
radiantly, gloriously beautiful.” Mr. Slingsby, therefore, adopts her 
as foil No. 2, for a species of sentimental gallantry—Job Smith being 
only foil No. 1, for light wit. It must now be seen at a glance that 
our author can hardly fail to make a decided hit of his visit to 
Niagara.

Having made an appointment with Miss —— to accompany her in the 
morning behind the sheet of the Fall, Mr. Slingsby goes to bed. 
Getting up at daybreak, however, he determines upon paying a solitary 
visit to the cataract. But Job (that droll fellow!) has anticipated 
him in this manœuvre, and “the angular outline of his tall gaunt 
figure, stretching up from Table Rock in strong relief against the 
white body of the spray,” is the first object that meets Mr. Slingby's 
eye as he descends. We have now his first impressions of Niagara. 
These are, in general terms, awe, and intense admiration, mingled with 
a little disappointment. We cut short the impressions (herein 
following the author's example) for the sake of some witticisms at the 
expense of Mr. Smith. It may be best to copy a page or two with a view 
of showing the pervading air with which the narrative is conducted.


“A _nice_ fall, as an Englishman would say, my dear Job.”

“Awful!”

Halleck the American poet (a better one never “strung pearls”) has 
written some admirable verses on Niagara, describing its effect on the 
different individuals of a mixed party, among whom was a tailor. The 
sea of incident that has broken over me in years of travel, has washed 
out of my memory all but the two lines descriptive of its impression 
upon Snip:

  “The tailor made one single note—
   Gods! what a place to sponge a coat!”

“Shall we go to breakfast, Job?”

“How slowly and solemnly they drop into the abysm!”

It was not an original remark of Mr. Smith's. Nothing is so surprising 
to the observer as the extraordinary deliberateness with which the 
waters of Niagara take their tremendous plunge. All hurry and foam and 
fret, till they reach the smooth limit of the curve,—and then the laws 
of gravitation seem suspended, and, like Cæsar, they pause and 
determine, since it is inevitable, to take the death leap with 
becoming dignity.

“Shall we go to breakfast, Job?” I was obliged to raise my voice to be 
heard, to a pitch rather exhausting for a empty stomach.

His eyes remained fixed upon the shifting rainbows bending and 
vanishing in the spray. There was no moving him, and I gave in for 
another five minutes.

“Do you think it probable, Job, that the waters of Niagara strike on 
the axis of the world?”

No answer.

“Job!”

“What?”

“Do you think his Majesty's half of the cataract is finer than ours?”

“Much.”

“For _water_, merely, perhaps. But look at the delicious verdure on 
the American shore, the glorious trees, the massed foliage, the 
luxuriant growth even to the very rim of the ravine! By Jove! it seems 
to me things grow better in a republic. Did you ever see a more barren 
and scraggy shore than the one you stand upon?”

“How exquisitely” said Job, soliloquizing “that small green island 
divides the fall! What a rock it must be founded on, not to have been 
washed away in the ages that these waters have split against it!”

“I'll lay you a bet it is washed away before the year two 
thousand—payable in any currency with which we may then be 
conversant.”

“Don't trifle!”

“With time or geology do you mean? Is'nt it perfectly clear, from the 
looks of that ravine, that Niagara has _backed up_ all the way from 
Lake Ontario? These rocks are not adamant, and the very precipice you 
stand on has cracked, and looks ready for the plunge. It must 
gradually wear back to Lake Erie, and then there will be a sweep I 
should like to live long enough to see. The instantaneous junction of 
two seas, with a difference of two hundred feet in their levels will 
be a spectacle—eh, Job?”

“Tremendous!”

“Do you intend to wait and see it, or will you come to breakfast?”

He was immovable. I left him on the rock, went up to the hotel and 
ordered mutton-chops and coffee, and when they were on the table, gave 
two of the waiters a dollar each to bring him up _nolens-volens_. He 
arrived in a great rage, but with a good appetite, and we finished our 
breakfast just in time to meet Miss ——, as she stepped like Aurora 
from her chamber.


{599} The adventure beneath the sheet is now detailed. The party 
descend to the bottom of the precipice at the side of the Fall—equip 
themselves in dresses of coarse linen—and proceed. The guide going 
first, takes the right hand of Miss ——, Mr. Slingsby is honored
with the left, and Job brings up the rear. The usual difficulties of 
wind and water are encountered and surmounted, and the chamber behind 
the sheet finally attained in safety. The same medley of tone, 
however, still prevails. For example—“Whatever sister of Arethusa 
inhabits there,” says Mr. Slingsby, “we could but congratulate her on 
the beauty of her abode. A lofty and well lighted hall, shaped like a 
long pavilion, extended as far as we could see through the spray, and 
with the two objections, that you could not have heard a pistol at 
your ear for the noise, and that the floor was somewhat precipitous, 
one could scarce imagine a more agreeable retreat for a gentleman who 
was disgusted with the world, and subject to dryness of the skin. In 
one respect it resembled the enchanted dwelling of the Witch of Atlas, 
where Shelley tells us,

  Th' invisible rain did ever sing
  A silver music on the mossy lawn.

It is lucky for Witches and Naiads that they are not subject to 
rheumatism.”

It will not be difficult to foretell, from the general air of the 
narration (as observed up to this date) in what manner Mr. Slingsby 
will think it incumbent upon him to wind it up. He will give it a 
melo-dramatic finale? Most assuredly. The lady is adventurous, and has 
walked over a narrow ledge, which has broken with her weight. The 
guide seizes Mr. Slingsby by the shoulder. He turns—and “what is his 
horror” at beholding Miss —— standing far in behind the sheet, upon
the last visible point of rock, with the water pouring over her in 
torrents, and a “gulf of foam” between the lady and the gentleman, 
which the gentleman “can in no way understand how she has passed 
over.” This gulf is six feet across, and, of course, says Mr. 
Slingsby, “it was impossible to jump it.” [We have jumped one and 
twenty feet six inches ourselves, but then we are no Mr. Slingsby, and 
never could make a joke about Niagara.] That gentleman does not jump, 
but he does something nevertheless. He “fixes his eyes upon the lovely 
form standing like a spirit in the misty shroud of the spray,” and 
endeavors “to sustain her upon her dangerous foot-hold—_by the 
intensity of his gaze_.” He may possibly, however, with this end in 
view, have made use of an eye-glass.

There being nothing better to be done, the guide having absconded, and 
the lady being upon the eve of destruction, our friend Job, and his 
legs, are brought into requisition. He stands upon one edge of “the 
foaming gulf,” and stretches himself across to the other. Miss —— is 
so kind as to make use of him as a bridge. The guide returns with a 
rope, pulls up the bridge by means of a running-noose around one of 
its legs—and the “Visit to _Niagara_” terminates with an Io Pean in 
honor of the “foaming gulf,” the “supernatural strength” of Mr. Smith, 
and the “intensity of the gaze” of the devoted Mr. Slingsby.

The paper of which we have just given an outline will afford a very 
fair conception of the usual merits and demerits of the sketches of 
Mr. Willis. Here are many comparatively long passages of a force, or 
delicacy, or beauty—shall we say unsurpassed by any similar passages 
in any writer of English? We shall not say too much if we do. The 
bantering humor interspersed is of the best order. Who can read the 
endeavor (quoted above) of Mr. Slingsby to get Mr. Smith to his 
breakfast, without feeling at once impressed with a keen sense of the 
mingled wit, broad drollery, dramatic effect, and gentlemanly 
_insouciance_ of the whole affair? The final question of Mr. S. (after 
amusing his friend with the idea of a junction, some hundred years 
hence, between Ontario and Erie)—“Do you intend to wait and see it, or 
will you come to breakfast?”—is inimitably brought about—very quiet, 
and very quizzical. The catastrophe of the two waiters, and the 
arrival in a great rage, but with a good appetite, of Mr. Smith, is a 
palpable hit not to be attained, and not to be appreciated by the 
rabble. Of force, we have abundant specimens in such sentences, as 
“Job flounced up, like a snake touched with a torpedo, and sprang to 
the window”—“I can imagine the surprise of the gentle element, after 
sleeping away a se'nnight of moonlight in the peaceful bosom of Lake 
Erie, at finding itself of a sudden in such a coil”—or “As far down 
towards Lake Ontario as the eye can reach, the immense volumes of 
water rise like huge monsters to the light, boiling and flashing out 
in rings of foam, with an appearance of vexation and rage that I have 
seen in no other cataract of the world.” The little sentence, 
“Whatever sister of Arethusa inhabits there, we could but congratulate 
her upon the beauty of her abode,” is, among many other similar 
things, sufficient evidence of a rare delicacy of expression—and we 
feel at once that writer to be a poet—an Idealist—who tells us “that 
Miss —— in her uncouth habiliments, looked like a fairy in
disguise,” and that the sheet of Niagara is “what a child might 
imagine the arch of the sky to be where it bends over the edge of the 
horizon.”

The minor defects are few. Among these few it is sufficient to specify 
a too frequent allusion to the “axis of the world,” and the 
absurdities, gravely narrated, which go to make up the catastrophe of 
the sketch, in the rescue of the young lady. Upon the whole, we may 
speak of the mere wording as in every respect worthy of a man of taste 
and a scholar. With the exception of “_soubriquet_,” written for 
_sobriquet_, (a very common error) it would be difficult to find any 
verbal fault, in the present instance, to which a critic would be 
pardoned for alluding.

But the whole narrative is disfigured, and indeed utterly ruined, by 
the grievous sin of affectation. It is this sin, and not, we are 
convinced, any imbecility in the conceptions of Mr. Willis, (with our 
readers' leave we will drop Mr. Slingsby) which has beguiled him into 
the egregious folly of writing a long article, in a jocular manner, 
about the cataract of Niagara. He may say, a pleasant sketch is 
intended, no more—and that the intention is fulfilled. But the utter 
want of keeping, consequent upon handling such subject in such manner, 
is sufficient to convince us at a glance, that his intention, even 
such as it is, is _not_, in any due degree, fulfilled. The question is 
not whether the thing pleases, (one who writes as well as Mr. Willis 
will please _in spite_ of a thousand faults,) but whether, if 
otherwise handled, it might not have pleased the more. While laughing 
at the mystification of our friend Job, we are in no proper {600} 
frame of mind for the grandeur of the fall—and while absorbed in the 
majesty of the monarch of cataracts, we are aware of an oppressive 
revulsion of feeling if disturbed for the absurd fripperies and 
frivolities, or the still more absurd melo-dramatic adventures, of the 
fop and the woman of fashion. This matter is too obvious for denial. A 
writer, then, who, in despite of common sense, shall be continually 
endeavoring to reconcile these obstinate oils and waters of the soul, 
will be continually laboring at a disadvantage—and this latter point, 
neglected by gentlemen who should know better, is a point to which the 
most dunder-headed artizan would not forget to give a proper attention 
in the making of a pair of breeches, or the building of a pig-stye. If 
all ethics be not at fault, those mental impressions, however vivid, 
will be necessarily evanescent, which are deficient in unity. In a 
word, it may safely be asserted, that a writer neglectful of the 
_totality of effect_, will fall short of his end, if that end be a 
remembrance in the “language of his land.” Compositions grossly 
failing in this essential, have been habitually discharged from the 
memory of man. And in this essential Mr. Willis invariably fails—we 
should rather say, this essential Mr. Willis invariably disregards. He 
seems especially to have fallen into that heresy (now common in 
literary, although deduced from mere fashionable life) which would 
brand as a species of Rosa-Matilda-ism any sustained and unmingled 
severity of sentiment. Never, surely, in whatever light we regard it, 
was a heresy more untenable. When applied to the brief essay, or short 
tale, it is ridiculous—and Mr. Willis should remember that he is an 
essayist, or nothing.

In the particular here pointed out, we have accused our author of 
affectation. It is a sin of which the public _loudly_ accuse him, and 
in general terms. When we say the accusation is just, we wish to be 
understood as speaking positively. In a relative view, the case is 
different. Mr. Willis is not a jot more entitled to be called 
“affected,” than nine-tenths of the gentlemen who are in the habit of 
so calling him—than nine-tenths of the most popular writers in our 
land. But his affectation, differing from the tone of their own, is in 
some measure more readily perceptible. It is, however, a positive 
folly, no doubt, which induces so clever a writer so frequently to 
disclaim all knowledge of geography and “figures”—to speak bad French 
in preference to good English—to talk about Niagara being “as _fine a 
thing_ as I have seen in my travels,” and about having “pic-nic'd from 
the Simplegades westward”—to think “gave upon the bay” a forcible 
phrase, merely because it is a Gallicism—to begin a quotation with 
“Saith well an American poet,” &c. &c.—to delight in such inversions 
as “She looked loveliest when driving, did Blanche Carroll”—to inform 
us that “he never looks back in composition,” and to make use of such 
pretty little expressions on his title-pages as _Pencillings by the 
Way_, and _Inklings of Adventure_.

_Niagara_ is by no means the best of the sketches before us—it may, 
very possibly, be the worst. None of them are entitled to the merit of 
_plot_. And indeed it appears an idiosyncrasy in Mr. Willis that he 
has little feeling for _incident_. In an exceedingly delicate vein of 
sentiment he is peculiarly at home. _Edith Linsey_ is thus, we think, 
the happiest effort of his pen. Here is indeed some very beautiful 
writing. The imitation of Elia is not only an exquisite imitation, but 
evinces a close affinity of intellect between the imitator and the 
imitated. We are quite sure no man in America can, more fully than Mr. 
Willis, enter into the soul of Charles Lamb. In a graceful _badinage_ 
our author pre-eminently excels. To originality he has little 
claim—his _manner_—the touchstone of the essayist—is not peculiarly 
his own. His scholarship is sufficient and available—his command of 
language very great. In a vigorous figurative expression—a quality 
seldom allowed him—he has indeed few equals. As this point is 
disputed, we will adduce from the volumes before us one or two 
instances, more to show what we mean by vigor of expression, than to 
prove our position by a number of quotations.


“You ask, in England, who has the privilege of this water?—or you say 
of an oak, that it stood in such a man's time; but with us water is an 
element unclaimed and unrented, _and a tree dabbles in the clouds as 
they go over, and is like a great idiot, without soul or 
responsibility._”

“As you walk in the long porticoes of the hotel, the dark forest 
mounts up before you like a leafy wall, and the clouds seem just to 
clear the pine-tops, _and the eagles sail across from horizon to 
horizon, without lifting their wings as if you saw them from the 
bottom of a well_.”

“As far down towards Lake Ontario as the eye can reach, the immense 
volumes of water _rise like huge monsters to the light, boiling and 
flashing out in rings of foam, with an appearance of vexation and 
rage_ that I have seen in no other cataract of the world.”

“He who has soiled his bright honor with the tools of ambition—he who 
has leant his soul upon the charity of a sect in religion—he who has 
loved, hoped, and trusted in the greater arena of life and 
manhood—must look back on days like these, _as the broken-winged eagle 
to the sky—as the Indian's subdued horse to the prairie_.”

“_The chain of the Green Mountains, after a gallop of some hundred 
miles from Canada to Connecticut, suddenly pulls up on the shore of 
Long Island Sound, and stands rearing with a bristling mane of pine 
trees, three hundred feet in air, as if checked in mid career by the 
sea._”

“Next to their own loves ladies like nothing on earth like mending or 
marring the loves of others; and while the violets and 
already-drooping wild flowers were coquettishly chosen or rejected by 
those slender fingers, _the sun might have swung back to the east like 
a pendulum_, and those seven and twenty Misses would have watched 
their lovely school-fellow the same.”

An autumn forest—“_It is as if a myriad of rainbows were laced through 
the tree-tops—as if the sunsets of a summer—gold, purple and 
crimson—had been fused in the alembic of the west, and poured back in 
a new deluge of light and color over the wilderness._”

“_The gold of the sunset had glided up the dark pine-tops, and 
disappeared, like a ring taken slowly from an Ethiop's finger._”

“Just above, there is a sudden turn in the glen, which sends the water 
like a catapult against the opposite angle of the rock, and, in the 
action of years, it has worn out a cavern of unknown depth, into which 
_the whole mass of the river plunges with the abandonment of a flying 
fiend into hell, and, re-appearing like the angel that has pursued 
him, glides swiftly, but with divine serenity, on his way._”


We believe that the high powers of Mr. Willis are properly estimated 
by the judicious among his countrymen. His foibles, his faults, and 
his deficiencies—let us not forget to say, his merits—are quite as 
well known to himself as to us. His intellect, if not of the loftiest 
order, very closely approaches it—and he has stepped upon the 
threshhold of nearly every species of literary excellence.


{601}


AUTOGRAPHY[1]

[Footnote 1: See Messenger for February last.]


Our friend, Joseph A. B. C. D. &c. Miller, has called upon us again, 
in a great passion. He says we quizzed him in our last article—which 
we deny positively. He maintains, moreover, that the greater part of 
our observations on mental qualities, as deduced from the character of 
a MS., are not to be sustained. The man is in error. However, to 
gratify him, we have suffered him, in the present instance, to play 
the critic himself. He has brought us another batch of autographs, and 
will let us have them upon no other terms. To say the truth, we are 
rather glad of his proposal than otherwise. We shall look over his 
shoulder, however, occasionally. Here follow the letters.


LETTER XXV.

_Dear Sir_,—Will you oblige me by not writing me any more silly 
letters? I really have no time to attend to them.

Your most obedient servant,

[Illustration: Jared Sparks]

JOSEPH A. MILLER, Esq.


Mr. Sparks' MS. has an odd appearance. The characters are large, 
round, black, irregular and perpendicular. The lines are close 
together, and the whole letter wears at first sight an air of 
confusion—of chaos. Still it is not very illegible upon close 
inspection, and would by no means puzzle a regular bred devil. We can 
form no guess in regard to any mental peculiarities from this MS. From 
its tout-ensemble, however, we might imagine it written by a man who 
was very busy among a great pile of books and papers huddled up in 
confusion around him. Paper blueish and fine—sealed, with the initials 
J. S.


LETTER XXVI.

_My Dear Sir_,—It gives me great pleasure to receive a letter from 
you. Let me see, I think I have seen you once or twice in——where was 
it? However, your remarks upon “Melanie and other Poems” prove you to
be a man of sound discrimination, and I shall be happy to hear from 
you as often as possible.

Yours truly,

[Illustration: Willis]

JOSEPH B. MILLER, Esq.


Mr. Willis writes a very good hand. What was said about the MS. of 
Halleck, in the February number, will apply very nearly to this. It 
has the same grace, with more of the picturesque, however, and, 
consequently, more force. These qualities will be found in his 
writings—which are greatly underrated. Mem. Mr. Messenger should do 
him justice. [Mem. by Mr. Messenger. I have.] Cream colored 
paper—green and gold seal—with the initials N. P. W.


LETTER XXVII.

_Dear Sir_,—I have to inform you that “the pretty little poem” to 
which you allude in your letter is not, as you suppose, of my 
composition. The author is unknown to me. The poem _is_ very pretty.

Yours, &c.

[Illustration: H. F. Gould]

JOSEPH C. MILLER.


The writing of Miss Gould resembles that of Miss Leslie very nearly. 
It is rather more _petite_—but has the same neatness, picturesqueness 
and finish without over-effeminacy. The literary style of one who 
writes thus is sure to be forcibly epigrammatic—either in detached 
sentences—or in the _tout ensemble_ of the composition. Paper very 
fine—wafered.


{602} LETTER XXVIII.

_Dear Sir_,—Herewith I have the honor of sending you what you desire. 
If the Essay shall be found to give you any new information, I shall 
not regret the trouble of having written it.

Respectfully,

[Illustration: T. R. Dew]

JOSEPH D. MILLER, Esq.


The MS. of Professor Dew is large, bold, very heavy, abrupt, and 
illegible. It is possible that he never thinks of mending a pen. There 
can be no doubt that his chirography has been modified, like that of 
Paulding, by strong adventitious circumstances—for it appears to 
retain but few of his literary peculiarities. Among the few retained, 
are _boldness_ and _weight_. The abruptness we do not find in his 
composition—which is indeed somewhat diffuse. Neither is the 
illegibility of the MS. to be paralleled by any confusion of thought 
or expression. He is remarkably lucid. We must look for the two last 
mentioned qualities of his MS. in the supposition that he has been in 
the habit of writing a great deal, in a desperate hurry, and with a 
stump of a pen. Paper good—but only a half sheet of it—wafered.


LETTER XXIX.

_Dear Sir_,—In reply to your query touching the “authenticity of a 
singular incident,” related in one of my poems, I have to inform you 
that the incident in question is purely a fiction.

With respect, your obedient servant,

[Illustration: G. Mellen]

JOSEPH E. F. MILLER, Esq.


The hand-writing of Mr. Mellen is somewhat peculiar, and partakes 
largely of the character of the signature annexed. It would require no 
great stretch of fancy to imagine the writer (from what we see of his 
MS.) a man of excessive sensibility, amounting nearly to disease—of 
unbounded ambition, greatly interfered with by frequent moods of doubt 
and depression, and by unsettled ideas of the beautiful. The formation 
of the G in his signature alone, might warrant us in supposing his 
composition to have great force, frequently impaired by an undue 
straining after effect. Paper excellent—red seal.


LETTER XXX.

_Dear Sir_,—I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but thank 
you for the great interest you seem to take in my welfare. I have no 
relations by the name of Miller, and think you must be in error about 
the family connection.

Respectfully,

[Illustration: W. Gilmore Simms]

JOSEPH G. H. MILLER, Esq.


The MS. of Mr. Simms resembles, very nearly, that of Mr. Kennedy. It 
has more slope, however, and less of the picturesque—although still 
much. We spoke of Mr. K.'s MS. (in our February number) as indicating 
“the eye of a painter.” In our critique on the _Partisan_ we spoke of 
Mr. Simms also as possessing “the eye of a painter,” and we had not 
then seen his hand-writing. The two MSS. are strikingly similar. The 
paper here is very fine and wafered.


{603} LETTER XXXI.

_Dear Sir_,—I have received your favor of the —— inst. and shall be 
very happy in doing you the little service you mention. In a few days 
I will write you more fully.    Very respectfully,

Your most obedient servant,

[Illustration: Alexander Slidell]

JOSEPH I. K. MILLER, Esq.


Lieutenant Slidell's MS. is peculiar—very neat, very even, and 
tolerably legible, but somewhat too diminutive. _Black lines_ have 
been, apparently, used. Few tokens of literary manner or character are 
to be found in this writing. The _petiteness_, however, is most 
strikingly indicative of a mental habit, which we have more than once 
pointedly noticed in the works of this author—we mean that of close 
observation in detail—a habit which, when well regulated, as in the 
case of Lieut. Slidell, tends greatly to vigor of style. Paper 
excellent—wafered.


LETTER XXXII.

_Dear Sir_,—I find upon reference to some MS. notes now lying by me, 
that the article to which you have allusion, appeared originally in 
the “_Journal des Sçavans_.”

Very respectfully,

[Illustration: Chas. Anthon]

JOSEPH L. M. MILLER, Esq.


The writing of Professor Anthon is remarkably neat and beautiful—in 
the formation of particular letters as well as in the tout-ensemble. 
The perfect regularity of the MS. gives it, to a casual glance, the 
appearance of print. The lines are quite straight and at even 
distances—yet they are evidently written without any artificial aid. 
We may at once recognise in this chirography the scrupulous precision 
and finish—the love of elegance—together with the scorn of all 
superfluous embellishment, which so greatly distinguish the 
compilations of the writer. The paper is yellow, very fine, and sealed 
with green wax, bearing the impression of a head of Cæsar.


LETTER XXXIII.

_Dear Sir_,—I have looked with great care over several different 
editions of Plato, among which I may mention the Bipont edition, 
1781-8, 12 vols, oct.; that of Ast, and that of Bekker, reprinted in 
London, 11 vols. oct. I cannot, however, discover the passage about 
which you ask me—“is it not very ridiculous?” You must have mistaken 
the author. Please write again.

Respectfully yours,

[Illustration: Francis Lieber]

JOSEPH N. O. MILLER, Esq.


The MS. of Professor Lieber has nearly all the characteristics which 
we noticed in that of Professor Dew—besides the peculiarity of a wide 
margin left at the top of the paper. The whole air of the writing 
seems to indicate vivacity and energy of thought—but altogether, the 
letter puts us at fault—for we have never before known a man of minute 
erudition (and such is Professor Lieber,) who did not write a very 
different hand from this. We should have imagined a petite and careful 
chirography. Paper tolerable and wafered.


LETTER XXXIV.

_Dear Sir_,—I beg leave to assure you that I have _never_ received, 
for my Magazine, _any_ copy of verses with so ludicrous a title as 
“The nine and twenty Magpies.” Moreover, if I had, I should certainly 
have thrown it into the fire. I wish you would not worry me any 
farther about this matter. The verses, I dare say, are somewhere among 
your papers. You had better look them up—they may do for the Mirror.

[Illustration: Sarah J. Hale]

Mr. JOSEPH P. Q. MILLER.


Mrs. Hale writes a larger and bolder hand than her sex generally. It 
resembles, in a great degree, that of Professor Lieber—and is not 
easily decyphered. The whole MS. is indicative of a masculine 
understanding. Paper very good, and wafered.


{604} LETTER XXXV.

_Dear Sir_,—I am not to be quizzed. You suppose, eh? that I can't 
understand your fine letter all about “things in general.” You want my 
autograph, you dog—and you sha'nt have it.

Yours respectfully,

[Illustration: M. M. Noah]

JOSEPH R. S. MILLER, Esq.


Mr. Noah writes a very good running hand. The lines, however, are not 
straight, and the letters have too much tapering to please the eye of 
an artist. The long letters and capitals extend very little beyond the 
others—either up or down. The epistle has the appearance of being 
written very fast. Some of the characters have now and then a little 
twirl, like the tail of a pig—which gives the MS. an air of the 
quizzical, and devil-me-care. Paper pretty good—and wafered.


LETTER XXXVI.

Mister—I say—It's not worth while trying to come possum over the 
Major. Your letter's no go. I'm up to a thing or two—or else my name 
isn't

[Illustration: Jack Downing]

Mr. JOSEPH T. V. MILLER.


The Major writes a very excellent hand indeed. It has so striking a 
resemblance to that of Mr. Brooks, that we shall say nothing farther 
about it.


LETTER XXXVII.

_Dear Sir_,—I am exceedingly and excessively sorry that it is out of 
my power to comply with your rational and reasonable request. The 
subject you mention is one with which I am utterly 
unacquainted—moreover it is one about which I know very little.

Respectfully,

[Illustration: W. L. Stone]

JOSEPH W. X. MILLER, Esq.


Mr. Stone's MS. has some very good points about it—among which is a 
certain degree of the picturesque. In general it is heavy and 
sprawling—the short letters running too much together. From the 
chirography no precise opinion can be had of Mr. Stone's literary 
style. [Mr. Messenger says no opinion can be had of it in any way.] 
Paper very good and wafered.


LETTER XXXVIII.

_My Good Fellow_,—I am not disposed to find fault with your having 
addressed me, although personally unknown. Your favor (of the —— 
ultimo) finds me upon the eve of directing my course towards the 
renowned shores of Italia. I shall land (primitively) on the 
territories of the ancient Brutii, of whom you may find an account in 
Lempriére. You will observe (therefore) that, being engrossed by the 
consequent, necessary, and important preparations for my departure, I 
can have no time to attend to your little concerns.

Believe me, my dear sir, very faithfully your

[Illustration: Theo. S. Fay]

JOSEPH Y. Z. MILLER, Esq.


Mr. Fay writes a passable hand. There is a good deal of spirit—and 
some force. His paper has a clean appearance, and he is scrupulously 
attentive to his margin. The MS. however, has an air of _swagger_ 
about it. There are too many dashes—and the tails of the long letters 
are too long. [Mr. Messenger thinks I am right—that Mr. F. shouldn't 
try to cut a dash—and that _all_ his tales are too long. The swagger 
he says is respectable, and indicates a superfluity of thought.]






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