Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 8, July, 1836
Author: Various
Language: English
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MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 8, JULY, 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.


{461}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.  RICHMOND, JULY, 1836.  NO. VIII.

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



MSS. OF JOHN RANDOLPH.

[We have obtained, after much difficulty, from a personal friend of 
the late JOHN RANDOLPH of Roanoke, the MSS. of the annexed _Letters_, 
and are permitted to publish them in the Messenger. We know our 
readers will receive them with interest. They throw much novel light 
on the character of a man whose genius, however great, has been mostly 
an enigma, and show his views on the most interesting of subjects in 
the maturity of his life and in the zenith of his reputation.]


LETTER I.

As well as very bad implements and worse eyes will permit me to do it 
by candlelight, I will endeavor to make some return to your kind 
letter, which I received, not by Quashee, but the mail. I also got a 
short note by him, for which I thank you.

       *       *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *

And now, my dear friend, one word in your ear—in the porches of thine 
ear. With Archimedes I may cry Ἑυρηκα. Why, what have you found—the 
philosopher's stone? No—something better than that. Gyges' ring? No. A 
substitute for bank paper? No. The elixir vitæ then? It is; but it is 
the elixir of eternal life. It is that peace of God which passeth all 
understanding, and which is no more to be conceived of by the natural 
heart, than poor St. George[1] can be made to feel and taste the 
difference between the Italian and German music. It is a miracle, of 
which the person upon whom it is wrought alone is conscious—as he is 
conscious of any other feeling—e.g. whether the friendship he 
professes for A or B be a real sentiment of his heart, or simulated to 
serve a turn.

[Footnote 1: His nephew, who is deaf and dumb.]

God, my dear friend, hath visited me in my desolation; in the hours of 
darkness, of sickness, and of sorrow: of that worst of all sickness, 
sickness of the heart, for which neither wealth nor power can find or 
afford a cure. May you, my dear friend, find it, where alone it is to 
be found! in the sacred volume—in the word of God, whose power 
surpasseth all that human imagination (unassisted by his grace) can 
conceive. I am now, for the first time in my life, supplied with a 
motive of action that never can mislead me—the love of God and my 
neighbor—because I love God. All other motives I feel, by my own sad 
experience, in my own person, as well as in that of numerous 
“_friends_,” (so called) to be utterly worthless. God hath at last 
given me courage to confess him before men. Once I hated 
mankind—bitterly hated them—but loved (like that wretched man Swift) 
“John or Thomas.” Now, my regard for individuals is not lessened, but 
my love for the race exalted almost to a level with that of my 
_friends_—I am obliged to use the word. I pretend to no sudden 
conversion, or new or great lights. I have stubbornly held out, for 
more than a Trojan siege, against the goodness and mercy of my 
Creator. Yes—Troy town did not so long and so obstinately resist the 
confederated Greeks. But what is the wrath of the swift-footed 
Achilles to the wrath of God? and what his speed to the vengeance of 
Heaven? and what are these even, to the love of Jesus Christ, thou son 
of David? I had often asked, but it was not with sufficient humility; 
or, perhaps, like the Canaanitish woman, God saw fit to try me. I 
sought, but not with sufficient diligence—at last, deserted in my 
utmost need, (not indeed like Darius, great and good—for I could 
_command_ service, such as we too often pay to God—lip service and eye 
service,) desolate and abandoned by all that had given me reason to 
think they had any respect and affection for me, I knocked with all my 
might. I asked for the crumbs that otherwise might be swept out to the 
dogs, and it was opened to me, the full and abundant treasury of his 
grace. When this happened I cannot tell. It has broken upon me like 
the dawn I see every morning, insensibly changing darkness into light. 
My slavish fears of punishment, which I always knew to be sinful, but 
would not put off, are converted into an humble hope of a seat, even 
if it be the lowest, in the courts of God. Yes, at last I am happy—as 
happy as man can be. Should it please God to continue his favor to me, 
you will see it—not only on my lips, but in my life. Should he 
withdraw it, as assuredly he will, unless with his assistance I humbly 
endeavor by prayer and self-denial, and _doing_ of his word as well as 
hearing it, to obtain its continuance, _mine_ will only be the deeper 
damnation. Of this danger I am sensible, but not afraid. I mean 
slavishly afraid. He that hath not quenched the smoking flax, who has 
snatched me as a brand from the burning, will not, I humbly yet firmly 
trust, cast me back into the furnace. I now know the meaning of words 
that before I repeated, but did not comprehend. I am no Burley of 
Balfour, but I have been, as I thought, on the very verge and brink of 
his disease; but I prayed to God to save me, and not to suffer me to 
fall a prey to the arts and wiles of Satan, at the very moment I was 
seeking his reconcilement.

I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak the words of truth and 
soberness. I have thrown myself, reeking with sin, on the mercy of 
God, through Jesus Christ his blessed Son and our (yes, my friend, 
_our_) precious Redeemer; and I have assurance as strong as that I now 
owe nothing to your Bank, that the debt is paid—and now I love God, 
and with reason. I once hated him, and with reason too, for I knew not 
Christ. The only cause why I should love God is his goodness and mercy 
to me _through Christ_. But for this, the lion and the sea-serpent 
would not be more appalling to my imagination, than a being of 
tremendous and indefinite power, who made me what I am—who wanted 
either the will or the ability to prevent the existence of evil, and 
punishes what is inevitable. This is not a God, but a Devil, and all 
unbelievers in God tremble and believe in this Devil that they 
worship—such worship {462} as it is, in his place. I have been looking 
over some of my marginal pencilled notes on Gibbon, and rubbing them 
out. I had thought to burn the book, but the Quarterly Review and 
Professor Porson have furnished the antidote to his poison, whether in 
the shape of infidelity or obscenity. See Review of Gibbon's 
posthumous works.

  Chains are the portion of revolted man,
  Stripes and a dungeon: and his body serves
  The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul,
  Opprobrious residence he finds them all.
                                     _Cowper's Task_.

God hath called me to come out from among them—worshippers of Mammon 
or of “Moloch-homicide,” or “Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's son,” 
“Peor his other name:”

  “Lust hard by Hate,”

and I will come, so help me God!

Is it madness to prefer your new house in fee simple, to a clay 
cottage, of which I am tenant at will, and may be turned out at a 
moment's warning, and even without it, and out of which _I know_ I 
must be turned in a few years certainly?

It is now midnight. May God watch over our sleep—over our helpless, 
naked condition, and protect us as well from the insect that carries 
death in his sting, as from the more feared but not so obvious dangers 
with which life is beset; and if he should come this night (as come he 
will) like a thief, may we be ready to stand in his presence and plead 
not our merits, but his stripes, by whom we are made whole.

J. R. of R.

P. S. I was not aware of the length to which my sermon would extend. 
Let me entreat you again to read Milton and Cowper. They prepared me 
for the “Sampson” (as Rush would say) among the medicines for the 
soul.

_Roanoke, August 25, 1818_.


LETTER II.

MY GOOD FRIEND—I am sorry that Quashee should intrude upon you 
unreasonably. The old man, I suppose, knows the pleasure I take in 
your letters, and therefore feels anxious to procure his master the 
gratification. I cannot, however, express sorrow, for I do not feel 
it, at the impression which you tell me my last letter made upon you. 
May it lead to the same happy consequences that I have experienced, 
which I now feel in that sunshine of the heart, which the peace of 
God, that passeth all understanding, alone can bestow.

Your imputing such sentiments to a heated imagination, does not 
surprise me, who have been bred in the school of Hobbes, and Bayle, 
and Shaftesbury, and Bolingbroke, and Hume, and Voltaire, and Gibbon; 
who have cultivated the sceptical philosophy from my vain-glorious 
boyhood—I might almost say childhood; and who have felt all that 
unutterable disgust which hypocrisy, and cant, and fanaticism, never 
fail to excite in men of education and refinement, superadded to our 
natural repugnance to Christianity. I am not, even now, insensible to 
this impression; but as the excesses of her friends (real or 
pretended) can never alienate the votary of liberty from a free form 
of government, and enlist him under the banners of despotism, so 
neither can the cant of fanaticism, or hypocrisy, or of both—for so 
far from being incompatible, they are generally found united in the 
same character, (may God in his mercy preserve and defend us from 
both!) disgust the pious with true religion.

Mine has been no sudden change of opinion. I can refer to a record 
showing, on my part, a desire of more than nine years standing to 
partake of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper; although, for two and 
twenty years preceding, my feet had never crossed the threshold of the 
house of prayer. This desire I was restrained from indulging, by the 
fear of eating and drinking unrighteously; and although that fear hath 
been cast out by perfect love, I have never yet gone to the 
altar—neither have I been present at the performance of divine 
service, unless indeed I may so call my reading the Liturgy of our 
Church and some chapters of the Bible to my poor negroes on Sundays. 
Such passages as I think require it, and which I feel competent to 
explain, I comment upon, enforcing as far as possible, and dwelling 
upon those texts especially that enjoin the indispensable 
accompaniment of a good life as the touchstone of the true faith. The 
sermon from the mount, and the Evangelists generally—the Epistle of 
Paul to the Ephesians, chap. vi,—the general Epistle of James, and the 
first Epistle of John—these are my chief texts.

The consummation of my _conversion_—I use the word in its strictest 
sense—is owing to a variety of causes, but chiefly to the conviction, 
unwillingly forced upon me, that the very few friends which an 
unprosperous life (the fruit of an ungovernable temper) had left me, 
were daily losing their hold upon me in a firmer grasp of ambition, 
avarice, or sensuality. I am not sure that to complete the 
anti-climax, avarice should not have been last; for although, in some 
of its effects, debauchery be more disgusting than avarice, yet as it 
regards the unhappy victim, this last is more to be dreaded. 
Dissipation, as well as power or prosperity, hardens the heart, but 
avarice deadens it to every feeling but the thirst for riches. Avarice 
alone could have produced the slave trade. Avarice alone can drive, as 
it does drive, this infernal traffic, and the wretched victims of it, 
like so many post-horses whipped to death in a mail-coach. Ambition 
has its cover-sluts, in the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious 
war; but where are the trophies of avarice? The handcuff, the manacle, 
and the blood-stained cowhide! What man is worse received in society 
for being a hard master? Who denies the hand of a sister or daughter 
to such monsters?—nay, they have even appeared in “the abused shape of 
the vilest of women.” I say nothing of India, or Amboyna—of Cortes, or 
Pizarro.

When I was last in your town I was inexpressibly shocked, (and perhaps 
I am partly indebted to the circumstance for accelerating my 
emancipation,) to hear, on the threshold of the temple of the least 
erect of all the spirits that fell from heaven, these words spoken:

“I don't want the Holy Ghost (I shudder while I write,) or any other 
spirit in me. If these doctrines are true, [St. Paul's] there was no 
need for Wesley and Whitfield to have separated from the church. The 
Methodists are right, and the Church wrong. I want to see the old 
church,” &c. &c.—that is, such as this diocese was under Bishop 
_Terrick_, when wine-bibbing {463} and buck-parsons were sent out to 
preach “a dry clatter of morality,” and not the word of God, for 
sixteen thousand pounds of tobacco. When I speak of _morality_, it is 
not as condemning it. Religion includes it, but much more. Day is now 
breaking, and I shall extinguish my candles, which are better than no 
light—or if I do not, in the presence of the powerful king of day they 
will be noticed only by the dirt and ill-savor that betray all human 
contrivances—the taint of humanity. Morality is to the Gospel not even 
as a farthing rush-light to the blessed sun.

By the way, this term Methodist in religion is of vast compass and 
effect—like _Tory_ in politics—or _Aristocrate_ in Paris, “with the 
lamp-post for its second,” some five or six and twenty years ago. _Dr. 
Hoge?_—“a Methodist parson.” _Frank Key?_—“a fanatic,” (I heard him 
called so not ten days ago,) “a Methodistical whining,” &c. &c. 
_Wilberforce?_—“a Methodist.” _Mrs. Hannah More?_—“ditto.” It ought 
never to be forgotten, that real converts to Christianity on opposite 
sides of the globe, agree at the same moment to the same facts. Thus 
Dr. Hoge and Mr. Key, although strangers, understand perfectly what 
each other feels and believes.

If I were to show a MS. in some unknown tongue to half a dozen 
persons, strangers to each other, and natives of different countries, 
and they should all give me the same translation, could I doubt their 
acquaintance with the strange language? On the contrary, can I, who am 
but a smatterer in Greek, believe an impostor, who pretends to a 
knowledge of that tongue, and who yet cannot tell the meaning of 
τυπτο?

I now read with relish and understand St. Paul's Epistles, which not 
long since I could not comprehend, even with the help of Mr. Locke's 
Paraphrase. Taking up, a few days ago, at an “Ordinary,” the Life of 
John Bunyan, which I had never before read, I find an exact 
coincidence in our feelings on this head, as well as others.

Very early in life I imbibed an absurd prejudice in favor of 
Mahomedanism and its votaries. The Crescent had a talismanic effect on 
my imagination, and I rejoiced in all its triumphs over the Cross, 
(which I despised,) as I mourned over its defeats; and Mahomet the 2d 
himself did not more exult than I did when the Crescent was planted on 
the dome of St. Sophia, and the Cathedral of the Constantines was 
converted into a Turkish Mosque. To this very day I feel the effects 
of Peter Randolph's Zanga on a temper naturally impatient of injury, 
but insatiably vindictive under insult.

On the night that I wrote last to you, I scribbled a pack of nonsense 
to Rootes, which serves only to show the lightness of my heart. About 
the same time, in reply to a question from a friend, I made the 
following remarks, which, as I was weak from long vigilance, I 
requested him to write down, that I might, when at leisure, copy it 
into my diary. From it you will gather pretty accurately the state of 
my mind.

“It is my business to avoid giving offence to the world, especially in 
all matters merely indifferent. I shall therefore stick to my old 
uniform, blue and buff, unless God see fit to change it for black. I 
must be as attentive to my dress and to household affairs, as far as 
cleanliness and comfort are concerned, as ever—and indeed more so. Let 
us take care to drive none away from God, by dressing Religion in the 
garb of Fanaticism. Let us exhibit her as she is, equally removed from 
superstition and lukewarmness. But we must take care, that while we 
avoid one extreme, we fall not into the other—no matter which. I was 
born and baptized in the Church of England. If I attend the Convention 
at Charlottesville, which I rather doubt, I shall oppose myself then, 
and always, to every attempt at encroachment on the part of the 
Church—the Clergy especially—on the rights of conscience. I attribute, 
in a very great degree, my long estrangement from God, to my 
abhorrence of Prelatical pride and Puritanical preciseness; to 
Ecclesiastical tyranny, whether Roman Catholic or Protestant—whether 
of Harry V, or Harry VIII—of Mary or Elizabeth—of John Knox, or 
Archbishop Laud—of the Cameronians of Scotland, the Jacobins of 
France, or the Protestants of Ireland. Should I fail to attend, it 
will arise from a repugnance to submit the religion, (or church) any 
more than the liberty of my country, to foreign influence. When I 
speak of my country, I mean the Commonwealth of Virginia. I was born 
in allegiance to George III—the Bishop of London (_Terrick!_) was my 
diocesan. My ancestors threw off the oppressive yoke of the mother 
country, but they never made me subject to _New_ England in matters 
spiritual or temporal—neither do I mean to become so, voluntarily.”

I have been up long before day, and write with pain from a sense of 
duty to you and Mrs. B., in whose welfare I take the most earnest 
concern. You have my prayers. Give me yours, I pray you. Adieu!

J. R. of R.

P. S. You make no mention of Leigh. I was on the top of the pinnacle 
of Otter this day fortnight—a little above the Earth, but how far 
beneath Heaven!

_Roanoke, Sept. 25, 1818_.


LETTER III.

Your obliging promptitude deserved my speedier thanks, but you will 
excuse me I am sure, my dear sir, when you learn that I have been for 
several days confined to my chamber by something very like _angina 
pectoris_. It is the most distressing sensation I ever felt, although 
not the most painful. It is during a remission of its attack that I 
take up my pen to put some of my nothings upon paper.

Yesterday was a sore day (as I hear) for the War Department. The 
official statements from that bureau were exposed in a most mortifying 
manner, and on the question in committee of the whole to strike out 
the first section of the obnoxious bill [i.e. to reject it] the court 
mustered but five or seven affirmatives—and this after the combined 
exertions of several of the leading members, as they are called, in 
favor of the motion.

My question to Mrs. B. related to a book that I had lately read with 
some amusement—Melincourt. It is not new, but I had not happened to 
meet with it before. I have been trying to read Southey's Life of 
Wesley for some days. Upon the whole, I find it a heavy work, although 
there are some very striking passages, and it abounds in curious 
information. From 279 to 285, inclusive, of the second volume is very 
fine. Yesterday I was to have dined with Frank Key, but was not well 
enough to go. He called here the day before, and we {464} had much 
talk together. He perseveres in pressing on towards the goal, and his 
whole life is spent in endeavors to do good for his unhappy fellow 
men. The result is, that he enjoys a tranquillity of mind, a sunshine 
of the soul, that all the Alexanders of the earth can neither confer 
nor take away. This is a state to which I can never attain. I have 
made up my mind to suffer like a man condemned to the wheel or the 
stake—and, strange as you may think it, I could submit without a 
murmur to pass the rest of my life “in some high, lonely tower, where 
I might outwatch the Bear with thrice great Hermes;” and exchange the 
enjoyments of society for an exemption from the plagues of life. These 
press me down to the very earth, and to rid myself of them I would 
gladly purchase an annuity and crawl into some hole, where I might 
commune with myself and be still.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am glad that the pretty Mrs. F——h is so comfortably established at 
Mrs. Kemp's. Do I understand you correctly that the C——'s, Rootes, 
Gilmer, and Mr. Burwell are of the same party? I should like very much 
to join it, for (to say nothing of the ladies) R. and G. are two of my 
favorites. I could be somewhat less miserable there, I am sure, than I 
find myself here.

       *       *       *       *       *

If I possessed a talent that I once thought I had, I would try and 
give you a picture of Washington. The state of things is the strangest 
imaginable, but I am like a speechless person who has the clearest 
conception of what he would say, but whose organs refuse to perform 
their office. There is one striking fact that one can't help seeing at 
the first glance—that there is no faith among men: the state of 
political confidence may be compared to that of the commercial world 
within the last two or three years.

I read Mr. Roane's letter with the attention that it deserves. Every 
thing from his pen on the subject of our laws and institutions excites 
a profound interest. I was highly gratified at the manner in which it 
was spoken of in my hearing by one of the best and ablest men in our 
house. It is indeed high time that the hucksters and money-changers 
should be cast out of the Temple of Justice. The tone of this 
communication belongs to another age; but for the date, who could 
suppose it to have been written in this our day of almost universal 
political corruption? I did not read the report on the lottery case. 
The print of the Enquirer is too much for my eyes: and besides I want 
no argument to satisfy me that the powers which Congress may exercise 
where they possess exclusive jurisdiction, may not be extended to 
places where they possess only a limited and concurrent jurisdiction. 
The very statement of the question settles it, and every additional 
word is but an incumbrance of help.

And now, my dear sir, you may be glad to come to an end of this almost 
interminable epistle. Shut up in my little “chair-lumbered closet” 
this cold day, without a soul to speak to or a book to read, you have 
become the victim of my desolate condition. Indeed, if I had a book I 
could not read it, having exercised my eyes so unmercifully on John 
Wesley, that I do not see what I am writing—at least not distinctly. 
My best regards to Mrs. B. I wish I could provoke her to talk. When 
you see Dudley, tell him I have been trying to write to him for 
several days; and when you see Mr. Cunningham, present me most kindly 
to him and _his house_.

  Sincerely yours,
           J. R. of R.

_Washington, January, 1821_.



TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

BY J. DOGGETT, Jr.


  Bright auburn lock! which like the wing
  Of some kind angel sweeping by,
  Shinest in the sun a glossy thing,
  As soft as beams from beauty's eye,
  Thou dost recall, sweet lock, to me,
  All of the heaven of memory.

  Thou once did'st shade a marble brow,
  Where beauty raised her polish'd throne;
  Methinks I gaze upon it now
  And listen to a silver tone—
  Which floats from lips in notes as sweet
  As angel's greetings when they meet.

  Fair lock! I'd rather hold with thee
  A silent, blissful, strange commune,
  Than join that boisterous gaiety
  Which seems of happiness the noon:
  For thou dost whisper, shining hair,
  Peace comes not, rests not, _is_ not there.

_Philadelphia, June, 1836_.



EXAMPLE AND PRECEPT.

BY J. K. PAULDING.


A fine fashionable mother, one beautiful spring morning, walked forth 
into the city, leading by the hand a little child of five or six years 
old. The former was dressed in all the fantastic finery of the times; 
she had a pink bonnet, ornamented with a bird of paradise, shaded with 
huge bows of wide ribbon; sleeves which caused her taper waist to 
appear like lean famine supported on either side by overgrown plenty; 
her gown was of such redundancy of plaits and folds, that a whole 
family might have been clothed from its superfluities; and while with 
one hand she led the little girl along, in the other she held a 
cambric handkerchief worked with various devices, and bordered with 
rich lace, reported to have cost fifty dollars. The little child was 
dressed as fine as its mother, for she unfortunately had light curly 
hair, and was reckoned a beauty.

They passed a toy-shop, and the child insisted on going in, where she 
laid out all the money she had in various purchases that were of no 
use whatever, in spite of the advice of her mother, who alternately 
scolded and laughed at her for thus wasting her allowance on things so 
useless. The child seemed to reflect for a few moments, and thus 
addressed her mother:

“Mother, what is the use of those great sleeves you wear?”

The mother was silent, for the question puzzled her.

“Mother, what is the use of that fine bird on your hat?”

The mother was still more at a loss for a reply.

{465} “Mother, what is the use of having a worked handkerchief, 
bordered with lace, to wipe your nose?”

“Come along,” cried the mother somewhat roughly, as she dragged the 
little girl out of the toy-shop, “come along, and don't ask so many 
foolish questions.”



MISERIES OF BASHFULNESS.

A modest woman dressed out in all her finery is the most tremendous 
object of the whole creation.—_She Stoops to Conquer_.


Of all the evils which harass the human family, none is perhaps more 
tormenting or more difficult to be removed, than bashfulness—a feeling 
sufficient in itself to blast the most promising hopes, and render 
comparatively useless the most brilliant abilities. To this evil, from 
earliest recollection, I have been painfully subject, and to its 
influence upon my character and habits, may be traced the many 
difficulties I have met with in my passage through life. Gifted by 
nature with a mind of no ordinary caste, which my modest and retiring 
disposition, while it precluded me from the enjoyment of society, 
induced me to cultivate, at an early age I had acquired a large fund 
of useful and polite information. This circumstance induced my parents 
to send me to the University of ——, then the most flourishing 
institution in the country. The first term after my arrival passed off 
drearily enough, but after becoming familiarized to the habits of my 
fellow students, and to the customs of the institution, I became 
better satisfied with my situation. Nothing of importance occurred 
until the time appointed for the examinations came on. I had applied 
myself with assiduity and vigilance, and flattered myself that I had 
completely mastered the exercises appointed for the occasion. Among 
the candidates for graduation there was an individual whom I shall 
designate by the name of C——, and whose connection with my narration 
compels me to mention him. He was the son of a southern planter, of 
immense fortune, and to a person of almost faultless beauty united 
great liberality, which his princely fortune enabled him to stretch to 
its farthest limits. As may be imagined he was quite a lion among the 
students and ladies.

Towards this individual I conceived a certain feeling of dislike from 
my first introduction, which a more intimate acquaintance with his 
character ripened into hatred. He was proud and overbearing in his 
deportment towards his inferiors, and even amidst his immediate 
friends and acquaintance he possessed a certain haughty and imperious 
bearing, indicative of the exalted opinion he entertained respecting 
his own merits. His mind was not remarkable for strength, nevertheless 
he had some shrewdness or cunning, which the vulgar are apt to mistake 
for talents. As I have before observed, the time for the annual 
examination had arrived, and no culprit in the gloomy walls of Newgate 
dreaded the fatal toll of St. Sepulchre's bell—the gloomy herald of 
many a sinner's entrance into eternity—more than I did the arrival of 
the hour when our exercises were to commence. A large number of ladies 
and gentlemen had been invited, and among the number was my father.

At length the University bell tolled the appointed hour, and we were 
drawn up on a stage in front of the assembly, from which we were 
concealed by a curtain, as yet down. At a given signal the curtain 
rose and presented to our view a numerous concourse of both sexes, 
among whom I distinguished my father seated on the front row of seats, 
prepared no doubt to witness his son's triumph. A sight of his 
countenance served to increase the confidence I had in my powers, and 
to dispel the embarrassment I felt on the occasion. The student at the 
head of the class answered the question put to him with perfect ease 
and composure—so did the second. I stood third; as soon as my name was 
called by the examining professor, I felt the blood rush with such 
velocity to my face as nearly to cause blindness—my brain reeled—my 
eyes swam—and although I perfectly understood the question, my 
confusion was so great as to hinder utterance. The question was passed 
to the next, who was C——; he answered it. The mingled shame, 
mortification, and rage I suffered, are indescribable. I retired from 
the contest, and the prize which I could have gained was awarded to my 
abominated enemy. I returned home with my mortified father, who 
persuaded me to endeavor to overcome the painful and unfortunate 
failing, which he perceived would blight my future prospects, by 
mixing largely in society. In pursuance of this advice, soon after my 
arrival in my native town, I determined to attend a large party, at 
the residence of one of my mother's fashionable friends. I suffered 
acutely from the time I received the invitation till the appointed 
night. At length it arrived, and I, attired in my best suit, with no 
aristocratic touch, rung the door bell. The servant ushered me into a 
large and splendidly furnished room but partially filled. The courage 
I had summoned for the occasion, like Bob Acre's, “oozed as it were 
from the palms of my hands,” and I remained standing in the door-way 
as immovable as if (instead of the gay and fashionable assembly who 
were gazing at my strange appearance with so much astonishment,) the 
Gorgon Medusa had turned upon me her petrifying look. The harmonious 
note which at that moment stole from Bennett's eloquent cremona, 
diverted their attention from my person and restored me to something 
like consciousness. I advanced into the room, and was cordially 
greeted by mine host and his lady, who were old friends of my family. 
The dancing now commenced, and the rooms gradually filling placed me 
in a rather more comfortable situation. I was, however, far from being 
easy. In order, as I thought, to calm my perturbed spirits, I seated 
myself on a sofa, situated in a corner of one of the rooms. I had 
remained there but a short time, when the voice of some one engaged in 
earnest conversation striking upon my ear, I turned my attention in 
that direction and perceived my late triumphant enemy C——, conversing 
in an animated strain with Miss ——, the only daughter of the wealthy 
and hospitable owner of the mansion in which we were passing the 
afternoon. Miss —— was evidently much pleased with the subject as well 
as the manner of the speaker, and he seemed inclined to make the best 
possible use of the advantage he had gained. They were however joined 
by a large number of ladies, who in their anxiety to reach Miss —— 
completely surrounded me. Yes—I who would sooner march to the cannon's 
mouth, or attempt to scale the fortress of Gibraltar, than face a 
female, was literally blockaded—totally {466} surrounded by decidedly 
“the most awful things in nature,” a company of full dressed women. 
C—— was perfectly at ease, and enjoyed heartily the dismay and 
confusion under which I labored. Perceiving that the only possible 
chance of escaping, would be speedy action, I endeavored instinctively 
to effect a retreat, but in vain. As I arose, I encountered the huge 
sleeve of a female attired “in all the glaring impotence of dress,” 
which impeded my egress. On attempting to return, I ran foul of a 
talkative little creature, and left her minus of about half of her 
head dress. The little lady was in a rage; however, there was no time 
for delay—so I gave her no apology. At length I reached my seat on the 
sofa, on which several ladies had seated themselves. After some time, 
I endeavored to enter into conversation with the damsel who sat next 
me, hoping that it would afford me some alleviation; but the attempt 
was abortive. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, and refused 
to utter whatever ideas I might have had in my brain—through which 
passed in rapid succession, the last opera—the fancy 
ball—Shakspeare—Moliere, &c. &c., without affording its wretched owner 
a theme on which to commence a conversation. In vain I made strenuous 
exertions to collect my scattered thoughts—the attempt increased my 
confusion. At last the approach of a servant with a waiter of 
refreshments opened a passage through which I dashed. The exulting 
laugh of C—— reached my ear, as I cleared the little crowd collected 
around him. In my passage through the room I met a servant bearing a 
freshly opened bottle of Champaigne. Seizing a glass brimfull with the 
sparkling liquor I tossed it off—another, and another—and then “a 
change came o'er the spirit of my dream.” I was immediately changed 
from the bashful and timid character in which I had hitherto appeared, 
to the bold, impudent, easy man of the world. An almost irresistible 
desire to make female acquaintances seized me, and I was determined to 
indulge it. Meeting a friend at the moment, I requested him to give me 
an introduction to every lady in the house. At this sweeping request 
my friend was surprised beyond measure, knowing well my former 
disposition. However, not being able to refuse, he led me up to a 
fresh, rosy-looking Miss, and gave the necessary introduction. I 
bowed, and in doing so nearly lost my equilibrium. I, however, 
succeeded in gaining my footing, and commenced conversing. By this 
time, I had given such unequivocal indications of the effect my 
Champaigne potation had produced, as to induce my friend to withdraw 
me from my fair acquaintance and insist upon my taking leave of the 
“festive scene.” But what man has been known to take good advice when 
he is at all inebriated. I refused to retire, and to disprove the 
suspicions of my friend, I determined to dance the next cotillion. In 
accordance with this resolve I wended my way through the crowd till I 
discovered the lady to whom I had been introduced, and solicited the 
pleasure of her hand. We stood up to a double cotillion, and at that 
moment the music struck up. The animating and delightful sensations 
produced by the wine began to subside, and my mind commenced gradually 
to comprehend the almost insurmountable difficulties of the situation 
in which my rashness had placed me. I had no more idea of dancing than 
a bear just caught from the woods, and as for the figure of the dance, 
I would sooner have attempted to solve the hieroglyphics inscribed 
upon an Egyptian obelisk. Every moment developed new difficulties, and 
fresh obstacles were cast in my way by every second's reflection. Oh! 
how bitterly did I repent the many opportunities I had omitted of 
learning the trifling (in the abstract, yet important in reality,) 
accomplishment which I so much needed then. However, it was now too 
late to retreat, and I was about to dash forth and perform some random 
capers, when my companion checked me with the information that my time 
to dance had not yet come on. To increase the awkwardness of my 
situation, I discovered myself to be corporeally tipsy, though 
mentally sober. I was therefore afraid to move, lest I should evince 
my unlucky and disagreeable situation. As a _dernier resort_, I 
resolved to watch the graceful and easy movements of my companions in 
the dance, and, if possible, to gain some slight information 
concerning my unenviable employment. At last my turn came round, and 
with bent knees and clenched hands I advanced. In attempting to make a 
flourish which was to have been followed by a bow, I lost my balance, 
and tumbled at full length upon the floor. The roar of laughter which 
this feat called forth still rings in my ears, and a recollection of 
the scene always covers my cheeks with blushes. I arose from my 
incumbent posture and hastily excusing myself to my partner, rushed 
from the house, heartily wishing for “a lodge in some vast 
wilderness.”

MARLOW.



FIRST LOVE.

BY J. C. McCABE.


  There is a thought, still beautiful, though years have roll'd along,
  Which stirs the wave of memory, and wakes her wonted song—
  Which rustles 'mid the heart's dead flowers like midnight's mournful
      breeze,
  And dove-like spreads its soothing wing o'er passion's stormy seas.
  No crime can dim its purity—no cloud obscure its ray;
  But like the temple's altar light, its steady beams will play,
  All sweetly hovering o'er the soul, like spirit from above——
  O, 'tis the thought—the holy thought—of boyhood's early love!

  When years have wrinkled o'er his brow, and furrows traced his
      cheek,
  And his once glad voice is trembling now in lapses faint and weak;
  How thoughtful is his glance, as on his slowly rolling tears,
  There floats along that fairy form he loved in boyhood's years.
  And then—O then, that heart (like harp hung up in ruined hall,
  Untouch'd, save when the night-winds sweep along the mould'ring
      wall,)
  It gives a wild tone from its chords, the pilgrim lone to tell,
  Though desolate it still can yield to melody's sweet spell.   {467}

  Oh, cast him on the stormy sea, when Death rides on the surge,
  And sea-nymphs chant around his head a melancholy dirge,
  While struggling with the giant waves, from their embrace to flee,
  That lov'd one's voice is whispering of halls beneath the sea.
  And as far down he swiftly sinks, and billows o'er him foam,
  A thousand phantasies appear, and o'er his vision come;
  But _one will_ keep its vigil there, though storm and tempest sweep,
  Unmoved, though burst upon by all the billows of the deep.

  Go place him in the battle's front, where death and carnage meet,
  And his country's flag unsullied is his warrior-winding sheet;
  When from his heart is oozing fast the darkly purple tide,
  And victory's shout a moment fills his dying eye with pride—
  The wild and lingering look he casts, as heaven's own arch of blue,
  Like the vision of a summer dream, fades slowly from his view,
  Speaks—clearly speaks—of vision'd joys—of home beheld once more—
  Of the image of the one-loved form in sorrow bending o'er.



EROSTRATUS.


I.

Early in the afternoon of an autumn day, in the first year of the 
hundred and fifth Olympiad, the keeper of the light-house which then 
marked the entrance of the harbor of Ephesus, announced the approach 
of a vessel, which, from its size and proportions, he decided to be 
from Corinth or Athens. Crowded, as the port of Diana's favorite city 
at that time was, with sails from every maritime town in the 
Mediterranean, where commerce was cultivated, the arrival of a vessel 
was an event of hourly occurrence, yet the news of the approach of 
this spread rapidly through the city. The magistrate left the bench, 
the merchant forsook his warehouse, and the mechanic dropped his 
tools. All hastened to the quay. It was expected that this vessel 
brought the news of the results of the Olympic games. With such 
rapidity the lusty rowers plyed their oars, that the most experienced 
eye could scarcely decide whether the approaching bark carried three 
or four banks. The helms-man was singing the prize verses of the 
games, in which all the oars-men joined at intervals as a chorus. Soon 
she neared sufficiently for the pilots, who stood upon an eminence, to 
decide that she was the Sphynx of Corinth. She presently came within 
speaking distance, and the name of the victor in the poetic contest 
was demanded. “Leonidas of Mægara,” was the reply. Other questions 
succeeded until the Sphynx was moored in the harbor, and then 
followed, amidst the embraces of friends and relatives, more minute 
inquiries and particular replies touching the events of the games, 
which then excited an interest in every land where the Greek tongue 
was spoken, of which the moderns can form but little conception. 
Preparations for the customary sacrifices to Diana of the Ephesians, 
Neptune, and the Winds, in grateful return for the prosperous voyage, 
were quickly made.


II.

The crowds which shortly before covered the spacious quays had nearly 
all dispersed, when a young man for whom no one appeared to wait, and 
who had sought no one in the joyful multitude, stepped on shore, 
bearing all his baggage in a small scrip. His countenance wore an 
expression of the deepest melancholy, which could not have escaped 
notice, had not the sighs which broke from his breast, and the half 
dried tears which stained his cheeks, sufficiently testified that his 
bosom shared none of the general joy. Instead of seeking his home, he 
bent his steps along the quays, and shortly gained the suburbs, 
passing rapidly through which, he sought the open country. Here 
throwing himself upon the ground, he gave way to the most passionate 
expressions of sorrow. “Cursed folly” he exclaimed “that induced me to 
believe that glory was to be obtained by merit, and that the applauses 
of the crowd could be won by him who has no gold in his purse to 
purchase their praises. Cursed be the books of the Philosophers which 
teach”—“Erostratus,” exclaimed a young man who, unobserved, had 
approached and gazed on him with astonishment, “what mischance has so 
disordered you, that instead of seeking your friend's house, I find 
you embracing our mother earth, and outshining our first tragedians? 
Is this a specimen of some successful drama which you have been 
composing, or”—“Metazulis,” said Erostratus, “cease these ill-timed 
pleasantries. I have just returned from the Olympic games”—“I know 
it,” interrupted Metazulis. “I was from home when the Sphynx arrived, 
and had I not learned from our neighbor Polisphercon that you and he 
had been fellow passengers, I should have assured myself that the 
charms of Corinth had proved stronger than your patriotism. Excuse my 
interruption, and pardon a friend's inquiring why these tears? why 
this anguish? Have you returned without that heart, which you once 
vowed to Diana should never leave your keeping, and without the 
blue-eyed maiden who has robbed you of it?” “No Metazulis,” replied 
his friend, forcing a melancholy smile, “my heart is safe as though 
blue-eyed maidens had never been—but I went to Olympia, puffed up with 
the senseless expectation of gracing my brow with the wreath of 
poetry, which now encircles the head of a wealthy churl who feasted 
the judges. _His_ name is celebrated through the cities of Greece; 
_mine_ is unmentioned, save as that of the deluded Ephesian who dared 
to put his doggrel in competition with the rich strains of the rich 
Leonidas. But I forever forswear”—“Forswear nothing” cried Metazulis. 
“Be not discouraged by a single failure. The next judges may be 
honester, and in four years the strengthened wings of your muse will 
achieve higher flights.” “And Leonidas may become richer,” said 
Erostratus. “How often, how often,” {468} said Metazulis, “have I had 
to censure my friend's faint heart, discouraged at the slightest 
disappointment! Who ever swam a river at a single stroke? Make my 
house your home. Let poetry continue your study. My sister's lyre 
shall accompany your odes. We will strive to put off the partiality of 
friends, and play the critics upon your works. I warrant not a spot 
shall meet the eye in the next production you lay before the Olympic 
Judges.” Putting his arm into that of Erostratus, who offered no 
resistance, he led him to the city.


III.

Henceforth the streets of Ephesus rarely echoed to the footsteps of 
Erostratus. Immured in the house of the friendly Metazulis, his whole 
soul was occupied with the ardent hope of gaining the prize for poetry 
at the next Olympic games. The encouragement of Metazulis and Lesbia, 
had fanned into a flame the spark of ambition not to be extinguished 
in his breast. Every day did his impatience increase, and nightly, 
upon retiring to his couch, would he reckon that a day less was 
between him and immortal glory. The poems and odes which fell from his 
pen, fell not faster than they were wedded to music by the 
enthusiastic Lesbia. Unhappy Lesbia! it was not in thy nature to 
behold such kindred genius and remain unmoved! A fire was in thy 
breast, bright and unquenchable, save by death! Poor Lesbia! Her 
admiration of the poet blinded her to the most glaring defects of the 
poetry, and the living Erostratus, whom she daily saw, seemed to her 
superior to all the poets who had sung since the days of Deucalion.

Four years rolled by in poetry, music, and, though neither seemed 
conscious of it, in—love. The hymn to Ceres, upon which Erostratus now 
builds his hopes, is completed, and pronounced perfect by Metazulis, 
and Lesbia. Lesbia gives her brother and his friend the parting 
embrace, and with her scarf, waves them again and again farewell from 
the terraced roof. She is not to see Erostratus again until his brows 
are shaded with the crown of victory. Prosperous winds wafted on their 
course Erostratus and his friend, who had left his home and his 
sister, to share with his adopted brother the first triumphs of 
success. A few days were spent in luxurious Corinth by the travellers, 
and postponing a more ample view until their return, they departed for 
Olympia, where they arrived after a journey, which to Erostratus 
seemed to occupy an age.


IV.

With the usual ceremonies the games were opened, and the first, 
second, and third days devoted to chariot races and the athletic 
exercises. The fourth day was assigned to the claimants of the palm 
for poesy. Erostratus was the first competitor who rose. His feelings 
at first overpowered him, but a look from Metazulis, a burst of 
applause from the countless multitude, and more than all, a thought of 
the moment when he should lay the meed of victory at the feet of 
Lesbia, encouraged him. His voice was at first low and indistinct, but 
as the plaudits increased, he became more animated, and towards the 
close, the delivery was worthy of the poem. The hymn being ended, the 
lengthened shouts dispelled all fear of failure from his mind, and he 
fancied he already felt the olive wreath upon his temples. A single 
competitor appeared to contest with him the prize, many having 
withdrawn upon the conclusion of his ode. Cratinus of Platæa arose, as 
soon as the applause began to subside. Four times had the crown been 
decreed to Cratinus, and he now aspired the fifth time to that honor. 
The hitherto unconquered Cratinus began, and scarcely had he recited 
twenty lines, when even Metazulis admitted in his heart the 
superiority of this poem to that of his friend. Cratinus was loudly 
cheered, and in justice would have been more so, had not a large 
proportion of the audience been prepossessed in favor of Erostratus. 
Applause well merited followed the conclusion of the Judgment of 
Paris, (such was the theme of Cratinus) and then a breathless silence 
succeeded, whilst the judges compared their opinions. We cannot 
describe the anxiety of Erostratus in this interval. He trembled, a 
cold sweat bedewed his body, and leaning upon the breast of his 
friend, his life seemed to hang upon the decision. The presiding judge 
at length arose and delivered the award. The crown was decreed to 
Cratinus; and Erostratus fell senseless in Metazulis' arms. For a long 
time he remained insensible, and his friend was beginning to fear that 
his hopes and his life had terminated together, when he began to 
revive; but having murmured “the crown, the crown,” he fell into a 
second swoon. So great an effect had the destruction of his long 
cherished hopes produced upon him, that for some days there appeared 
scarcely a possibility of his recovery. During this time Metazulis 
wrote to his sister the following letter.

“Weep with me Lesbia. Our friend has failed, Cratinus, of Platæa has 
obtained the prize, Erostratus is dangerously ill. The physicians bid 
me hope—I have none. Should he recover from the fever which now 
threatens to terminate his life, what a life will be his! If, contrary 
to my expectations, he should survive this shock, may our love to him 
be redoubled! Let it be our care to smooth his path to the grave, 
which, broken hearted as he is, can be but short. Farewell.”


V.

The medical attendants were not disappointed. A month having elapsed, 
Erostratus left the couch of sickness; but another passed by before 
Metazulis thought his strength sufficient to warrant his proposing 
their return. Erostratus made no opposition. The love he felt for 
Lesbia, (with which the ravings of his delirium had acquainted 
Metazulis,) urged his return, although he felt that he scarcely dared 
appear before her. The task of diverting his mind from the sad 
recollections which occupied it, was painful and difficult. Metazulis 
proposed visiting the curiosities of nature, and the celebrated works 
of art, which lay contiguous to their route. To this Erostratus made 
no objection, but his eye, ones so delighted with all that was 
beautiful and sublime, now gazed upon them without pleasure. Metazulis 
left Corinth in the first vessel which departed, anxious to see his 
sister, and to bear his friend from Greece, where every thing 
conspired to bring to his mind his failures. Far different were the 
feelings with which Erostratus had entered Corinth, and now bade it a 
final farewell. They reached Ephesus. Metazulis found none of his 
domestics awaiting his return; but what was their anxiety, their 
horror, upon finding the house closed, and the door-posts marked with 
the insignia of death! They hastily opened the door. All is silence 
and desolation. Erostratus rushes to the sitting room, where he had 
{469} parted from Lesbia. Mctazulis following, arrives to see him fall 
senseless upon the couch, whereon reposed the dead body of his sister, 
at whose head sat the motionless domestics, murmuring the prayers for 
the departed.


VI.

In a month after the ashes of Lesbia had been consigned to the tomb, 
those of Metazulis were laid beside them. The wealth of Metazulis was 
now the property of Erostratus, but could gold purchase peace for his 
anguished soul? Never was he seen to smile, and his solitary hours 
(and how few of his hours were not solitary?) were passed in grief and 
lamentation. The love of immortality remained inextinguishable in his 
breast, and he resolved upon an achievement which should give his name 
a place in the page of history; and in the moments of his phrenzy, he 
imagined that the name of Lesbia would appear in the record with his, 
and that this would be accepted by her shade as an atonement on his 
part, for the fate in which her love for him had involved her. In the 
middle of a dark and tempestuous night, he applied a torch to that 
temple, the boast of Ephesus, the wonder of the world! The Greek 
historians of after days asserted that the goddess was in Macedon 
attending to the birth of Alexander. Her fane was destroyed and 
reduced to a mass of blackened ruin. Erostratus unhesitatingly avowed 
himself the incendiary, and the rack could force no reply from him but 
the cry “I did it for immortality.” He was condemned to be burnt to 
death, and expired in the most dreadful torture, with a smile upon his 
countenance and the name of Lesbia upon his lips. The magistrates, 
lest his desire of an immortal memory should be gratified, denounced 
death upon all who should pronounce his name, that it might be blotted 
out forever.

       *       *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *

About twenty years subsequently, a citizen of Ephesus, and his friend 
from Athens, were walking upon the shore of the sea, a few miles from 
the former city. There were a number of young Ephesians exercising 
themselves in athletic sports upon the sands, at whom they looked for 
a while, and then passed on. After a few steps they stopped to examine 
something over which the sea was breaking near the shore. A few human 
bones blackened and mouldering met their gaze. “Near this spot,” said 
the Ephesian, “we burnt Erostratus.” “Who was he?” replied the 
Athenian, “I do not remember to have ever heard of him.” The Ephesian 
made no reply but hurried his friend on board a small fishing boat, 
and put to sea. It was long before the Athenian could obtain an 
explanation of this singular conduct from his agitated friend. The 
Ephesian at length reminded him of the edict, and avowed that the 
forbidden name had escaped his lip, and been overheard by the youths 
who were near them. A vessel bound to Greece picked them up. The 
Ephesian settled in Attica, never daring to return to his native 
country. The greater portion of the incidents recorded above were 
communicated by him to his friend, and the tale, corroborated by 
others, became well known throughout Greece; but at Ephesus, no one 
for centuries dared to utter the forbidden name of Erostratus.



BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

[We have rather accidentally met with these two poems, _The Belles of 
Williamsburg_, and the _Sequel to the Belles of Williamsburg_, both 
written and circulated in that place in 1777. These pieces are 
believed to have been either composed by two different gentlemen, or 
to have been the joint production of both. As we cannot, however, 
assign to each his due share, we do not think ourselves at liberty to 
mention their names—which (although the authors in question are now no 
more,) are still distinguished names in Virginia.]


THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

  Wilt thou, advent'rous pen, describe
  The gay, delightful, silken tribe,
    That maddens all our city;
  Nor dread, lest while you foolish claim
  A near approach to beauty's flame,
    Icarus' fate may hit ye.

  With singed pinions tumbling down,
  The scorn and laughter of the town,
    Thou'lt rue thy daring flight;
  While every miss with cool contempt,
  Affronted by the bold attempt,
    Will, tittering, view thy plight.

  Ye girls, to you devoted ever,
  The object still of our endeavor
    Is somehow to amuse you;
  And if instead of higher praise,
  You only laugh at these rude lays,
    We'll willingly excuse you.

  Advance then each illustrious maid,
  In order bright to our parade,
    With beauty's ensigns gay;
  And first, two nymphs who rural plains
  Forsook, disdaining rustic swains,
    And here exert their sway.

  Myrtilla's beauties who can paint?
  The well turned form, the glowing teint,
    May deck a common creature;
  But who can make th' expressive soul
  With lively sense inform the whole,
    And light up every feature.

  At church Myrtilla lowly kneels,
  No passion but devotion feels,
    No smiles her looks environ;
  But let her thoughts to pleasure fly,
  The basilisk is in her eye
    And on her tongue the Syren.

  More vivid beauty—fresher bloom,
  With teints from nature's richest loom
    In Sylvia's features glow;
  Would she Myrtilla's arts apply,
  And catch the magic of her eye,
    She'd rule the world below.

  See Laura, sprightly nymph, advance,
  Through all the mazes of the dance,
    With light fantastic toe;           {470}
  See laughter sparkle in her eyes—
  At her approach new joys arise,
    New fires within us glow.

  Such sweetness in her look is seen,
  Such brilliant elegance of mien,
    So jauntie and so airy;
  Her image in our fancy reigns,
  All night she gallops through our veins,
    Like little Mab the fairy.

  Aspasia next, with kindred soul,
  Disdains the passions that control
    Each gentle pleasing art;
  Her sportive wit, her frolic lays,
  And graceful form attract our praise,
    And steal away the heart.

  We see in gentle Delia's face,
  Expressed by every melting grace,
    The sweet complacent mind;
  While hovering round her, soft desires,
  And hope gay smiling fan their fires,
    Each shepherd thinks her kind.

  The god of love mistook the maid,
  For his own Psyche, and 'tis said
    He still remains her slave;
  And when the boy directs her eyes
  To pierce where every passion lies,
    Not age itself can save.

  With pensive look and head reclined,
  Sweet emblems of the purest mind,
    Lo! where Cordelia sits;
  On Dion's image dwells the fair—
  Dion the thunderbolt of war,
    The prince of modern wits.

  Not far removed from her side,
  Statira sits in beauty's pride,
    And rolls about her eyes;
  Thrice happy for the unwary heart,
  That affectation blunts the dart
    That from her quiver flies.

  Whence does that beam of beauty dawn?
  What lustre overspreads the lawn?
    What suns those rays dispense?
  From Artemisia's brow they came,
  From Artemisia's eyes the flame
    That dazzles every sense.

  At length, fatigued with beauty's blaze,
  The feeble muse no more essays
    Her picture to complete;
  The promised charms of younger girls,
  When nature the gay scene unfurls,
    Some happier bard shall treat.


SEQUEL TO THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

  Ye bards that haunt the tufted shade,
  Where murmurs thro' the hallowed glade,
    The Heliconian spring—
  Who bend before Apollo's shrine,
  And dance and frolic with the nine,
    Or touch the trembling string—

  And ye who bask in beauty's blaze,
  Enlivening as the orient rays
    From fair Aurora's brow,
  Or those which from her crescent shine,
  When Cynthia with a look benign,
    Regards the world below—

  Say, why, amidst the vernal throng,
  Whose virgin charms inspired your song
    With sweet poetic lore,
  With eager look th' enraptured swain,
  For Isidora's form in vain,
    The picture should explore.

  Shall sprightly Isidora yield,
  To Laura the distinguished field,
    Amidst the vernal throng?
  Or shall Aspasia's frolic lays
  From Leonella snatch the bays,
    The tribute of the song?

  Like hers I ween the blushing rose,
  On Sylvia's polished cheek that glows,
    And hers the velvet lip,
  To which the cherry yields its hue,
  Its plumpness and ambrosial dew
    Which even Gods might sip.

  What partial eye a charm can find,
  In Delia's look, or Delia's mind,
    Or Delia's melting grace,
  Which cannot in Miranda's mien,
  Or winning smile or brow serene,
    A rival beauty trace?

  Sweet as the balmy breath of spring,
  Or odors from the painted wing
    Of Zephyr as he flies,
  Brunetta's charms might surely claim,
  Amidst the votaries of fame,
    A title to the prize.

  What giddy raptures fill the brain,
  When tripping o'er the verdant plain,
    Florella joins the throng!
  Her look each throbbing pain beguiles,
  Beneath her footsteps Nature smiles,
    And joins the poet's song.

  Here even critic Spleen shall find,
  Each beauty that adorns the mind,
    Or decks the virgin's brow;
  Here Envy with her venomed dart,
  Shall find no vulnerable part,
    To aim the deadly blow.

  Could such perfection nought avail?
  Or could the fair Belinda fail
    To animate your lays?
  For might not such a nymph inspire
  With sportive notes the trembling lyre
    Attuned to virgin praise?

  The sister graces met the maid,
  Beneath the myrtle's fragrant shade,
    When love the season warms;
  Deluded by her graceful mien,
  They fancied her the Cyprian queen,
    And decked her with their charms.    {471}

  Say then why thus with heedless flight,
  The panegyric muse should slight
    A train so blythe and fair,
  Or why so soon fatigued, she flies
  No longer in her native skies,
    But tumbles through the air.



BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835.

NO. I.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.[1]

[Footnote 1: Translated from a number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_.]


The chambers in which the British Parliament are accustomed to 
assemble, have nothing of the theatrical aspect of the halls for 
political exhibition built in France for the representations of its 
representative government.

Let us enter the chamber of the Commons. Here you see no amphitheatre 
for the ladies, no boxes for the Peers, nor for the _corps 
diplomatique_. A narrow gallery, only, is reserved for the reporters, 
and another, more spacious, is open to the public. Here are no costly 
marbles, no statues, no gilding. It is truly nothing but a chamber—a 
vast apartment, of greater length than width, without ornaments of any 
sort—indeed, perfectly naked.

Conceive that we are looking from the public gallery.

Directly before us, at the bottom, is a sort of sentry-box, surmounted 
by the royal arms. There, in an arm chair covered with green leather, 
sits the speaker, in his black robe and greyish mittens, solemnly 
dressed out in an immense wig, the wings of which fall to his waist.

At his feet is a narrow table, at which the principal clerk is seated, 
supporting on his two hands a large face, smiling impurturbably under 
a little _perruque_ that hangs over his head in the form of a 
horse-shoe.

The benches on which the members sit, are ranged rectilinearly in 
different divisions, to the right and left, and in front of the 
speaker. Every one places himself in the position that is most 
agreeable to himself, and sits, or stands, at his pleasure. Every 
member wears his hat, except when addressing the speaker. Every one 
speaks from the place in which he finds himself at the moment. It is 
not to the house, however, but to the speaker that they must address 
themselves.

The simple and country-like habits of the house are well suited to the 
character of representatives of the people. It proves that the Commons 
meet not to take part in a show, but to discharge the business of the 
country.

At three o'clock the speaker enters the chamber, preceded by the chief 
of the ushers, the mace on his shoulder, and followed by a 
sergeant-at-arms, with a sword at his side, and dressed in black after 
the French fashion. Arrived at his chair, the speaker first counts the 
members present. If there be forty, the session is opened, and the 
chaplain repeats his prayers, to which every member listens, standing 
and uncovered, with his face towards the back of his bench.

Generally the first hours are consumed in matters of minor importance. 
Local and private bills are discussed. The benches begin to be filled 
between eight and nine in the evening. The house is rarely full before 
midnight. From this period till two in the morning, they discuss great 
questions, such as are likely to bring on an important vote.

Such are the English. They distrust, beyond all reason, the frivolity 
of their own minds. They consider it always dangerous to embark in 
grave affairs, if their dinner has not been stored away to serve as 
ballast. It is indispensable that they should meditate and mature 
their opinions and their eloquence, while engaged in drinking their 
wine and grog.

When simple Mr. Brougham (the period of his greatest glory) Lord 
Brougham never came to the House of Commons until he had emptied three 
bottles of Port. It was at the bottom of his glass that he found 
calmness, wisdom, and discretion. But since his elevation to the House 
of Lords, his lordship is forced to speak fasting. It is in 
consequence of this change that he is now always intoxicated. The 
sobriety of his stomach produces the intemperance of his tongue and of 
his brain.

The invariable prolongation of its sittings late into the night, is 
the cause that the House of Commons never assembles on Saturday. 
Encroachment on the Sabbath would otherwise be an inevitable 
legislative sacrilege; and we must admit, that it would be with but 
bad grace that the Parliament alone should violate the Puritanical 
laws which it so rigorously maintains, and which prescribe, during the 
twenty-four hours of that sacred day, the most absolute and universal 
idleness.

Two words of personal statistics at present.

The House of Commons contains four hundred and seventy-one members for 
England, twenty-nine for Wales, fifty-three for Scotland, and a 
hundred and five for Ireland—in all, six hundred and fifty-eight. On 
important occasions, very few fail to appear at their posts. Six 
hundred and twenty-two voted, at the commencement of this session, on 
the election of the present speaker. Mr. Abercromby, elected by the 
opposition, obtained a majority of but eight votes over Sir Charles 
Manners Sutton, the candidate of the then ministry.

You observe that the chamber is divided into two parts, almost equal 
in size. On one side, the ministry and the reformers; on the other, 
the conservatives, forming the present opposition.

Each of these grand divisions may perhaps be subdivided. Among the 
reformers or whigs, radical reformers, pure radicals, and 
repealers;[2] among the conservatives, the old tories and the 
demi-conservatives. Such subdivisions, however, are useless. It is no 
easy thing to distinguish these different shades of opinion. Besides, 
they are every day becoming gradually less distinct, and will soon 
present but two parties.

[Footnote 2: The _repealers_ are Irish members advocating the repeal 
of the union between Ireland and England.]

In the first place, are there any whigs? Are the whigs a party? I 
answer, no. There are some great noblemen, some minister-lords, whose 
ancestors were whigs, but they themselves are not. To continue the 
leaders of a true political party, they have been forced to become 
radicals, and to make themselves interpreters and advocates of the 
popular wants. What has been {472} the result? The whigs and the 
radicals are absorbed, the one in the other. Seeing so many liberal 
concessions obtained by England, the Irish Catholics have followed the 
example of the liberals; they have put off their extreme demands; they 
have ceased to contend for the repeal of the union. Under the orders 
of O'Connell, they march behind the ministerial troops, and sustain 
them so as to prevent their falling back, come what may.

In the camp of the opposition there is the same fusion. Sir Robert 
Peel has dressed all the tories in the uniform of conservatives. Even 
the little irresolute batallion of Lord Stanley, has recently, with 
its chief, assumed the new livery of the defenders of the church and 
of the throne. The _tiers-parti_ has not been more successful on the 
side of the Manche than on the Parisian.

The question, then, is simply and plainly raised. It is the great 
question that is to be decided between the old society and the new, 
the same that was raised in France in 1789; only, if the throne is 
wise, here the whole war may be finished on the floors of Parliament.

The field of battle is now before the reader. You have the army of 
reformers and that of the conservatives in the presence of each 
other—each recognizing but one watchword, but one standard; the first, 
stronger and bolder, but having too many leaders, and a rear guard 
more impatient to arrive in action than the principal body; the 
second, more compact, better disciplined, and more obedient to its 
only chief.

Great as may be the exasperation on each side, you will rarely ever 
observe the belligerent parties, even in their hostilities, depart 
from their habits of chivalrous loyalty.

There is a sort of Parliamentary law of nations established in the 
house.

The opposition never takes advantage of the absence of a minister to 
interrogate his colleagues on matters foreign to their own 
departments.

Nor will a minister ever introduce a bill without notice; the 
courtesy, in this respect, is extremely great between the two parties. 
Challenges are regularly exchanged; the day and the hour are both 
fixed. If any member mentions his inability to attend at the appointed 
time, the motion is hurried or delayed to suit his convenience.

If the question should be one of importance, and the decision 
doubtful, whatever urgent business may call a member away, he will not 
desert his post, unless he is enabled to find among his adversaries 
some one equally desirous to absent himself. They make an arrangement 
then that both shall stay away, and this double contract is always 
held sacred.

In their struggles, though often violent, the blows are always 
generous, and aimed in front. However, the noise of the interruptions 
by which approbation or discontent is expressed, would astonish and 
terrify a stranger—above all, one unaccustomed to the discordance of 
English pronunciation. The sound is unusual, striking, and the more 
astonishing, as at first you are unable to tell whence it proceeds. 
There are six hundred men, seated, uttering savage cries of joy or 
anger, their bodies all the while remaining immovable, their features 
preserving their usual phlegmatic and calm expression. These tumults 
produce quite a fantastic effect. _Hear! hear!_ is the cry of 
satisfaction and encouragement. Listen to the speaker!—his discourse 
penetrates and touches the soul of the question; let us listen to 
him—hear him. _Spoke!—spoke!_ indicates impatience, ennui, lassitude. 
You abuse your privilege—you have said enough—you have spoken! This 
reproach is imperative—it is rarely resisted. _Order! order!_ is the 
call to order; it is a summons to the speaker to notice and reprimand 
the offending member who has passed the boundaries of propriety—for, 
to the speaker alone belongs the right to pronounce judgment on such 
occasions.

The speaker centres in himself the omnipotence of the chamber of which 
he is the representative. His authority is supreme, within as well as 
without the walls of the Parliament house. His situation renders him a 
personage of very high importance. He has his official palace, he 
holds his _levees_, to which none are admitted unless in court dress. 
Singular inconsistency! the very same Commoners who enter booted, 
spurred, with their over-coats and their hats on, into their own hall, 
would find the doors of their own speaker closed against them, if they 
should present themselves without ruffles and dressed _à la 
Française_. This rigorous particularity is unreasonable. Mr. Hume, 
however, in a recent attack upon this absurd etiquette, found himself 
unable to succeed against the powerful prejudice by which it is 
upheld. The sound sense of his objections only passed for radical 
folly. Thus it is that with the English the ancient forms of etiquette 
have deeper root than even their old abuses. You may be certain that 
they will have reformed the church, the aristocracy, and perhaps the 
crown itself, before the grotesque wigs of their magistrates. Their 
entire revolution will have been completed, while their new liberty 
will be still distinguished by the manners and dress of the _ancien 
regime_.

In England, the real and undeniable sovereignty is in the House of 
Commons. The British peerage is a mere phantom, a little more 
respectably clothed than that of France, but quite as much of a 
phantom. Still this very British Peerage, which is condemned to obey 
the Commons and register their edicts, preserves all the appearances 
of supremacy! It continues to command the Commons to appear at its 
bar, who regularly obey this summons, preceded by their speaker! And 
when the Lords, seated in their own chamber, have signified the royal 
assent to the wishes of the Commons, the latter withdraw, bowing as 
they go out! The real upper or superior chamber consents to be called 
and to appear always as the inferior.

How much do I prefer to these ceremonious _levees_ of the British 
speaker, the popular balls of the president of the French Chamber of 
Deputies, where no orders are given to the guards to prevent the entry 
of persons not in costume! Above all, I like those numbered letters of 
invitation—the four hundred and fifty-nine first for the 
representatives of the people, and then the four hundred and sixtieth 
for the Duke of Orleans, as the first peer of the realm, and so on for 
the rest. In France the peerage comes after the people!

It is much to be regretted that the French do not remove the abuses 
themselves, as they do their names and customs. Their system is 
different from the English, but it is very doubtful if it be the best. 
The latter are always very respectful subjects; they kneel {473} down 
at the feet of royalty in supplicating it to take their will for its 
pleasure. The former hold themselves erect and firm before their 
monarch, who leads them by the nose, suffering them all the while to 
proclaim themselves at their ease, the true sovereigns of the kingdom.

Mr. Abercromby, the present speaker, by no means solicited the honor 
of the chair which, at the opening of the session, was decreed him by 
the first act of the reformers. Constrained to maintain, in the name 
of the house, the privileges of that body, he represents that assembly 
with all the dignity that his grotesque wig will permit. Happily he 
has thick grey eye-brows, which harmonize extremely well with his 
light-colored official _perruque_. In spite of the enormous quantity 
of hair that overshadows his person, there is nothing savage in his 
appearance; on the contrary, a mild and affable dignity eminently 
distinguishes him; his manners are marked by a noble ease; he also 
speaks well, and his full and sonorous voice is admirably suited to 
the station which he occupies as president of a large and popular 
assembly.

The conservatives will never forgive him for having, even 
involuntarily, dethroned their candidate. They regret the airs of a 
superannuated dandy, and the old-fashioned elegance of Sir Charles 
Manners Sutton, who, having grown old in the chair, had been long 
accustomed to regard toryism with a favorable eye. It is true that Mr. 
Abercromby, an avowed partizan of the reformers, has not, in 
consequence of his acceptance of the speakership, become the 
inexorable censor of his radical friends. So that when O'Connell, 
provoked by some imprudent noblemen, branded them with epithets never 
to be effaced, Mr. Abercromby was guilty of the heinous crime of not 
interposing to check the vengeance of the outraged orator. 
Impartiality, according to the tories, would consist in permitting 
their attacks, without allowing the insulted or injured party the 
rights of defence.

I have now given you a general and hasty sketch of the leading 
characteristics of the house; it only remains for me to carry you to 
one of its sittings. We will select the occasion of the presentation 
of the bill for the reform of the English and Welch Corporations, 
which was, after a month of argument, finally voted. On the evening of 
the 5th of June, then, it was known that Lord John Russell was to 
introduce his bill in the Commons. What was to be the nature of this 
measure, so long promised and so impatiently expected on one side, and 
so much feared on the other? Curiosity in London was at its height; it 
was the third day of the Epsom races! No matter! Every one returned to 
the city—horses were abandoned for politics. As early as twelve the 
crowd began to encumber the environs of Westminster, pressing towards 
the gates of the palace of the Parliament. With great difficulty I 
succeeded in squeezing myself into the public gallery.

At three, prayers being said, the speaker having counted with the end 
of his little flat three-cornered hat the members in attendance, and 
more than forty being present, the session opened.

There was at first a long discussion of a bill regulating the 
distribution of water in the parish of _Mary-le-bone_; the debate was 
of but little interest, though Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer, Mr. Hume, and 
Sir Francis Burdett look frequent part in it. My attention was fixed 
on their persons, if not on their discourses.

Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer is a young radical who leads a life altogether 
aristocratic. He is renowned for the elegance of his grooms and of his 
vehicles. Nobody wears a black frock so short and so tight. He speaks 
well and easily, with a voice somewhat unpleasant, his head elevated 
and thrown back after the fashion of men of small stature. He is the 
elder brother of the novelist, and is himself the author of a work on 
France, in which he judges of French manners, society, politics and 
literature with a degree of insane ignorance hardly less disgusting 
than the _naïve_ buffoonery of Lady Morgan. It is a distinguishing 
characteristic of the English, to write without knowledge, observation 
or study on every country they pass through. It is a pity that a man 
of common sense and intelligence such as Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer, 
should have made his literary _debut_ by so vulgar a piece of national 
_gaucherie_.

There is nothing about the person of Mr. Hume that would strike you; 
he looks like a good-natured, unaffected, broad-shouldered countryman, 
independent in his character, and utterly careless of fashion. His 
mere manner, to say nothing of his words, expresses invincible 
aversion to all ceremony. His appearance does not belie his character. 
His enunciation has all the ease, firmness, and roughness of his 
opinions. One of the chief priests of radicalism—an inexorable and 
incorruptible reformer, he has sworn never to sit, but on the benches 
of the opposition; it is from fidelity to his oath, not from sympathy, 
as you might well conclude, that he now sits in the ranks of the 
conservatives.

Sir Francis Burdett differs from Mr. Hume both in his air, height, and 
figure. Picture to yourself a long body, about five feet ten inches, 
in white velvet breeches, with boots turned down at the top, and a 
blue frock. A white vest, a white cravat, a little bald, flat head, 
well powdered, will complete the portrait. The fate of public men who 
outlive themselves, is often singular. Sir Francis Burdett, ten years 
since, was as fashionable as his dress. He was the favorite of 
Westminster—the popular orator of the House of Commons. He caused 
himself to be imprisoned in the Tower, for having dared to speak too 
boldly against royalty. Now he is suspected by the people—they suspect 
him of voting with toryism. They despise him, they accuse him of 
versatility. “But,” he replies, “it is you, perhaps, who have changed. 
Reformers formerly, you are now radicals! Tories in my day, you are 
now reformers! I have preserved my opinions and my dress!” Well! the 
error is with you, Sir Francis Burdett; you should have changed also, 
or not have lived to become old. If you had died at the proper time, 
perhaps you might now have your statue of bronze near that of Canning, 
in Westminster square. Who knows if to-morrow the same people who 
formerly carried you in triumph, may not ornament your white breeches 
with the mud of the streets leading to the Parliament house?

At last the discussion touching the waters of Mary-le-bone draws to a 
close. The house having to vote on this unlucky bill, the galleries 
for the reporters and the public were cleared. This is the custom of 
Parliament; decisions never take place but with closed doors.

When I returned to the gallery, the hall presented {474} quite an 
altered appearance. The less piece was finished—the great one was 
about to commence. The ranks on the right and left grew thicker every 
moment—each member hastened to his post.

Lord John Russell, the official commander in chief of the reformers, 
had appeared on the ministerial benches, to the right of the speaker. 
By his side, you observed his principal aides-de-camp, the Chancellor 
of the Exchequer, Mr. Spring Rice, with a large bald forehead, and the 
countenance of a Satyr, the most ready, if not the ablest speaker in 
the cabinet; Lord Morpeth, secretary for Ireland, a large young man 
whose premature grey hairs, appear at a distance to be of a light 
yellow, looking like a timid and blushing youth; Lord Palmerston, an 
old bloated dandy, whose fat face seems to swell itself out between 
his thick whiskers with more satisfaction since he is no longer led by 
the nose by Talleyrand—Lord Palmerston, who has not wished to be made 
a peer since his last return to power, pretending that his eloquence 
has a more open field in the Commons than it could have in the House 
of Lords.

In front of the ministerial group, and separated from it only by the 
table of the clerks, sits Sir Robert Peel, surrounded also by his 
conservative aids, among whom you may distinguish Lord Granville 
Somerset the quasimodo of Westminster, whose double hump does not 
prevent him from being one of the most alert to sound the Protestant 
tocsin against Popery.

Here and there you may have observed other distinguished members of 
the house; Daniel O'Connell, the great O'Connell, calm and absorbed in 
the reading of some new book, of which he is cutting open the leaves, 
in the midst of his sons, his nephews, and his Irish Catholics, who 
form what is called _his tail_; a tail, if you please, but one which 
leads the head of the state. After them, Lord Stanley, the young heir 
of the house of Derby, that ambitious and disappointed _elegant_, who 
has yet only in heart deserted the benches of the reformers.

Next you have remarked two young men standing up, and differing as 
much in their height and figure as in their opinions; but equally 
celebrated, each one in his own way, in the world, and who, in 
consequence, deserve to be described.

The first is Viscount Castlereagh, son of the Marquis of Londonderry, 
a mad conservative like his father, but less simple and possessed of 
much more discretion. Thin and pitiful in his person, without figure 
and without talent, it is not in the house that he really exists; in 
the saloons of the west end is his true atmosphere—it is there alone 
that his stupidity finds the air that it can respire. Lord Castlereagh 
is one of the chiefs of the new school which has regenerated English 
fashion. This school is entirely different from that of Brummell, 
which founded its distinction upon dress. The new fashionables of the 
sect of the noble lord, affect, on the contrary, entire negligence in 
the dress, and the greatest freedom of manners. Nothing is brilliant 
in their equipages, nor in the style of their servants. Their vehicles 
are of dark colors and sombre liveries; for themselves extreme 
simplicity in appearance. No flowered vests; no gold or silver lacing 
about them; no jewels; at the most the end of a gold chain at the 
button of a black coat; an engraved ring betraying some mysterious 
sentiment known to the whole city. Add to this the most refined 
impertinence of vanity, a sublime contempt for every one not of the 
exclusive circle into which they alone find admission, and an 
ambitious senseless jargon. Lord Castlereagh is the perfect type of 
this first and principal class of London fashionables.

The second, Mr. Edward Lytton Bulwer, the well known author of 
_Pelham_ and other novels, is, like his brother, an avowed radical. He 
is large, and would, did he not stoop and hold himself in other 
respects badly, appear to advantage. His hair is thick, light, and 
curly. His long inexpressive countenance, and his large moist and 
fixed eyes, scarcely reveal the writer of genius. I suppose it is in 
some measure the incontestible success of his writings that has opened 
to him the doors of that exclusive society, with which he is very much 
at home. For the style of his costume he is indebted to old 
traditionary fashions. You will rarely ever meet him but with his 
bosom open, the skirts of a luxuriant surtout lined with velvet or 
silk floating to the wind, with the rest of his dress of clear 
brilliant shades, and varnished boots, brandishing some cane encrusted 
with a rich head. He would remind you of those _parvenus_ of bad taste 
who encumber the _avant_ scenes of the opera at Paris. I do not deny 
the really interesting character of some of the novels of Mr. Bulwer, 
though they are in other respects so wretchedly written; but it seems 
to be that he acted very ridiculously in endeavoring to exaggerate 
their real value, at the expense of exhibiting the absurd vanity 
betrayed in every page of the sad rhapsodies he has recently published 
under the title of the _Student_. I would however sooner pardon him 
for this last work, than an act of his of which I have been informed. 
A young American called on him the other day, with letters of 
introduction. “I am delighted to see you, sir,” said Mr. Bulwer, “but 
I will tell you beforehand that it will be difficult for me often to 
have that honor; I have already more acquaintances than my leisure 
will allow me to cultivate, and, in conscience, it is to them that I 
owe the moments at my disposal.” Do you not discover in this piece of 
politeness something that even surpasses the characteristic amiability 
of the English? The English do not ruin themselves by hospitality. If 
a stranger is introduced to them by letters of introduction, they give 
him a heavy and long dinner, with a supper for dessert; then, having 
stuffed him with roast beef and filled him with Port and grog, and 
having spared no pains to cram him, they take their leave of him; and 
if the unfortunate individual survives this cheer, their doors are 
afterwards closed against his entrance. Sir Walter Scott, who was 
perhaps as great a novelist as Mr. Bulwer, did not consider himself 
exempt from the common duties of politeness and attention to visitors 
who happened to be introduced to him. So far from it, he treated them 
with much more hospitality than is the custom in England; it is true, 
however, that Sir Walter, though a great novelist, was not a great 
_fashionable_.

There also you may have recognized Doctor Bowring searching about, 
running up and down, from one bench to another, shaking the hand of 
every member who will allow him to do so. The doctor is well known in 
Paris; and as he did not quite waste his time in promenading the 
streets of that capital, he soon discovered that charlatanism was one 
of the most powerful means of success. {475} He took the most direct 
route to attain his end, and proceeded straight to the journals. The 
French journalists, when one knows how to deal with them, are 
complacency itself. In a short time no one was talked of but Doctor 
Bowring. The doctor did not take a single step that was not duly 
registered; it was Doctor Bowring here, and Doctor Bowring there, 
every where the doctor; and the honest public of the French capital, 
deafened by these trumpet-tongued praises, took him for some 
extraordinary important personage. On this side of the channel we 
better understand the puffs of the press, so that every body laughed, 
I assure you, when this Doctor Bowring was strutting through France, 
so splendidly decked out with the importance which he had purchased 
from the newspapers of Paris. He returned to London, but without this 
glorious mantle. That had been detained at the custom house as a sort 
of prohibited French merchandise. In fine, the doctor remains just 
what he was before, that is to say a reformer, anxious to profit by 
reform, a pale disciple of the utilitarian school of Lord Brougham; a 
sort of travelling clerk of the foreign office, speaking sufficiently 
well three or four living languages; a poet, who furnishes some 
stanzas of ordinary poetry to the magazines; as for the rest, the very 
best physician in the world.

It was now near six; no one remained to be heard; the moment had 
arrived for opening the lists. According to the order of the motions 
for the day, the speaker gave the floor to the minister of the home 
department. Suddenly the waves of the assembly subsided; a profound 
silence ensued; Lord John Russell rose to speak.

Lord John Russell, third son of the Duke of Bedford, is extremely 
small, scarcely five feet high; the smallness of his person almost 
renews his youth; one would hardly suppose him forty-five years of 
age, as he really is. A head large about the forehead, and small 
towards the chin, forming a sort of triangle; chesnut-colored hair, 
short and thin; large eyes surmounted by well arched brows; a 
countenance pale, calm, soft and phlegmatic, marked by a sort of 
half-concealed cunning, are the features that would alone strike you. 
His manner of speaking is in perfect harmony with his modest and quiet 
exterior. His voice is weak and monotonous, but distinct. In speaking, 
his body is scarcely more animated than his discourse. All his action 
consists in gliding his left hand behind his back, seizing the elbow 
of his right arm, and balancing himself indefinitely in that position.

Lord John Russell expresses himself plainly and without effort; his 
language is cold and dry, but clear and concise. An author more 
concise than elegant, his style of writing exhibits itself in his 
off-hand speeches. He has nothing of the tiresome volubility of 
Thiers, who is minister of the home department in France; he says no 
more than is necessary, while he says every thing that he wishes. His 
sarcasm though frozen, is not the less sharp. The blade of his 
poignard does not require to be made red hot to inflict a deep wound. 
He has none of those sudden flashes which electrify and inflame an 
assembly; his light is of that peaceable and steady nature that 
illuminates and guides. His mind is a serious one, full of 
appropriate, condensed, and well resolved reflections.

In less than an hour he had unrolled the whole plan of his bill, and 
concisely explained its principles and details, not without letting 
fly some well sharpened arrows against the corrupting influence of the 
tories over the municipal constitution, the reform of which he 
demanded.

As soon as Lord John Russell had resumed his seat, and in the midst of 
the various murmurs which his speech had excited, Sir Robert Peel rose 
to address the speaker.

The ex-first lord of the treasury is of moderate height; his figure 
would be elegant, but for the fatness which has already begun to 
render it heavy; his dress is neat and studied without being dandyish; 
his manner would not convict him of the approach of fifty; his regular 
features have an expression of contemptuous severity; he seems to 
affect too much the manners of a great man; natural distinction has 
more ease and carelessness about it.

Moreover, studied affectation is also the prevailing characteristic of 
his oratory. Gesture and language both betray his ambitious 
affectedness. He has more of the actor than becomes a public speaker. 
It is irksome to see him agitate, struggle, and throw himself 
incessantly about. I do not like to see a statesman exhibit so much 
acquaintance with the positions of an elocutionist. It may be well 
enough by one's own fireside to cross one leg over another and to play 
with the guineas in the pockets of one's pantaloons. One may play with 
his collar in a drawing room, or throw back the skirts of his frock, 
without any great impropriety; but in public, and, above all, in 
places devoted to the solemn discussion of the laws of a nation, this 
style of flirting manners is by no means appropriate. Sir Robert 
abuses the purposes for which his hands and arms were given him. One 
almost loses his words in the incessant agitation of his person.

In other respects I will acknowledge that his elocution is spirited, 
easy, and intellectual; he may be listened to with pleasure. I am 
always well pleased with the manner in which he applies his rhetorical 
skill to public affairs. He has every thing which the art of speaking 
can give him; but the warmth which animates him is always artificial. 
The true fire of conviction which is so naturally communicated from 
the speaker to his audience, is always wanting. There is no sincerity 
about him. He is an ambitious tory in disguise, who, in order to seize 
again the golden reins of government, has hypocritically cloaked 
himself under the mantle of a reformer, and who would pass over to the 
radicals with his arms and baggage, if there was any chance of 
remounting by their aid to the power which he covets, and of securing 
himself in its enjoyment.

In accepting, with ample reservations, the principle of the bill, Sir 
Robert Peel, in answer to the sharp insinuations of Lord John Russell, 
made several witty and amusing observations, which diverted a good 
deal the house.

The minister replied in a few polite but firm observations. The 
serenity of the noble lord is perfectly unchangeable. He is as calm 
when defending himself, as when attacking his adversaries. I consider 
this political temperament as the most desirable for a statesman 
actively engaged in public affairs. Such coolness disconcerts the fury 
of one's assailants. One is never worsted in a combat when he retains 
such undisturbed self-possession.

{476} Some remarks on the details of the bill were made by different 
members. No one having opposed its introduction, the members began to 
move off. It was already night, and the hour for dinner; the candles 
were not yet lit; the house rose in a body.

An individual in a brown curly wig, and dressed in a blue frock, whose 
broad shoulders and athletic form displayed great personal strength, 
descended from the ministerial benches, and stepped in the centre of 
the hall. The sound of his voice called every one back. Silence 
ensued. This was the great Irishman, the _giant agitator_, as he is 
called—a giant they may well call him. This energetic old man has 
alone more youth and life than all the young men in the Commons 
together, than the whole chamber itself.

The darkness of the evening was not sufficiently great to conceal him 
from my view. I see him now before me, erect on his large feet, his 
right arm extended, and his body inclined forwards; I seem to hear him 
speak. His remarks were not long; he said but a few words, but all his 
power was condensed in them. The lion fondled while he growled. His 
approbation was imperative and threatening. “So the bill has only 
looked to England and Wales! Must Ireland then be always forgotten, 
that its turn never comes but after the other countries of the United 
Kingdom? Has it not enough of venal and corrupt municipalities? 
Nevertheless, he would support openly and with all his strength, the 
plan of ministers. It was a noble and glorious measure; he wished for 
nothing more for Ireland.”

He did not wish for more, that is to say, he did not order more for 
Ireland. The wishes of O'Connell are not to be despised. In 
consequence, Mr. Spring Rice hastened to satisfy him. “He need not 
give himself any uneasiness,” said the Chancellor of the Exchequer; 
“the government would equally do justice to Ireland. It should 
likewise have its corporations reformed, and perhaps during the same 
session.”

“Thanks!” murmured O'Connell, mixing himself with the crowd of members 
pouring out of the hall; “I will remember this promise for Ireland.”

_Ireland!_ you should have heard him pronounce its name with that 
excited, trembling accent, so full of tenderness, which emphasizes and 
lingers on every syllable of the beloved word; you should have heard 
him, to comprehend the power of his irresistible eloquence. Pure love 
of country lends one a super-human strength. A just cause, honestly 
and warmly embraced, is an irresistible weapon in hands capable of 
wielding it.

I am not surprised that desperate conservatives, seeing their 
tottering privileges ready to be trodden under the feet of O'Connell, 
should treat him as an agitator, madman, destroyer. But how is it, 
that among the reformers themselves, he has so many inconsistent 
admirers, who will never pardon him for the bitter violence and 
inexorable severity of his speeches? Do these moderate and quiet men 
believe that honeyed phrases, and the submission of prayers, would 
have obtained the redress of even the least of the Irish griefs? No! 
had he not struck roughly and pitilessly, the old edifice of 
usurpation and intolerance would be still entire. Let him go on—let 
him be pitiless; he has made an important breach in the walls—let him 
level them with the ground. To overthrow such things is not 
destruction; it is but the clearing of the ground to build up public 
liberty.

O'Connell is unquestionably the best speaker, and the ablest 
politician in Parliament. Friends or enemies, every one acknowledges, 
at least to himself, that he is the master-spirit; thus he is the true 
_premier_. The members of the cabinet are nothing but puppets, dressed 
up for show, and worked by his agency. His influence over the masses 
of the people is also immense and universal. He is not the popular 
idol in Ireland only, but also in England and Scotland. Long life to 
him! the hopes and future welfare of three nations are centered in his 
person.

I have nothing further to say of the sitting of the 5th of June, 
except to remark, that a sufficient number of working members were 
left in the room to continue for many hours the despatch of business 
of secondary importance. It is but justice to the House of Commons to 
state, that great political questions do not retard the execution of 
local and private business. They will often get through in a single 
night, more work than the French Chamber of Deputies would in a month 
of thirty days.

You have seen that the opposition of the conservatives gave way before 
the corporations bill. It was not without deep mortification, as you 
may imagine, but prudence rendered it indispensable. It is necessary, 
at any sacrifice, to assume the appearance of not hating too violently 
the principles of reform. The plan is not without cunning.

But the opposition counts with confidence on regaining its ground on 
the question of Irish tithes and their appropriation. It is on this 
question that it has halted and offers combat. “We have abundantly 
proved,” say their proclamations, “that we are reasonable reformers, 
but our love of change cannot induce us to sacrifice the church.” And 
their church, that ungrateful and unnatural daughter, which has denied 
and plundered its mother, invokes with all its power the old 
prejudices of the Protestants to the aid of its champions; it sounds 
the tocsin with its bells taken from Catholic steeples. Every where it 
stations its bishops in its temples without altars, and makes them 
preach a new crusade against Catholicism. Hear them: Of the 
innumerable religious sects which encumber the three kingdoms, taking 
them in alphabetical order, from the Anabaptists to the Unitarians, 
there is not one so hateful and dangerous as the Catholic church. The 
Popish sect is the only one that endangers the state, the throne and 
the property of individuals. It is necessary to burn again the Pope in 
effigy and in processions, as formerly under the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth; and it would not be bad to burn on the same occasion that 
impious majority in the Commons, who wish to appropriate a part of the 
Protestant tithes in Ireland to the education of the poor of all 
religions! God be praised, the selfish and insensate voice of the 
conservatives has only cried in the desert. Their fanaticism will not 
succeed against the general good sense of the nation. Within as 
without the chamber, their defeat is inevitable. To use the beautiful 
metaphor of Mr. Shiel, the first Irish orator after O'Connell, the 
church of Ireland will be the cemetery of toryism and Protestant 
intolerance.


{477}


THIRD 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.


_On the Faults of Teachers_.

It will be recollected, my friends, that my last effort was to expose 
the vices and faults of parents, so far as they obstruct the progress 
of education. Those of instructers shall next be exhibited, since they 
are certainly entitled at least to the second in rank in their power 
to do mischief. I might sum up all _their_ faults in one sweeping 
condemnation, by saying that they render the persons guilty of them 
enemies to themselves, to their professional brethren, and to the 
public. But specifications are wanting, and such I propose to give, as 
minutely and distinctly as I can.

In the first place, they injure themselves by the style and language 
often used when they tender their services to the public. The 
expressions are frequently such as to encourage the idea, already too 
prevalent, that _they_ are the only party to be obliged—_they alone_ 
to be the receivers of favors never to be adequately compensated. 
Whereas the truth is, if they are really fit for their business, and 
desirous to perform it faithfully, they never receive the millionth 
part of a cent for which they do not make a most ample return—a 
return, the real value of which can never be measured by mere dollars 
and cents. But the language in which they seek or acknowledge 
employment, often expresses a degree of humility below the lowest 
gospel requirement—a doubt of their own qualifications to teach, 
which, if true, ought forever to exclude them from the class of 
instructers. It sometimes, in fact, deserves no better name than a 
servile begging for patronage, as if they considered it a species of 
gratuitous alms. Ought it to be wondered at, when this is the case, 
that the public should understand them literally, and treat them 
accordingly? If they avoid this extreme in tendering their services, 
it by no means follows, as a necessary consequence, that they should 
run into the other, which is also very common, of making themselves 
ridiculous by extravagant pretensions. The middle course in this, as 
in many other things, is best. Let them always state plainly and 
explicitly, without exaggeration, what they believe they can do—their 
willingness to make the attempt with persevering fidelity, and the 
pecuniary compensation expected for their services. If this were 
always fairly and fully done, there could not be even the shadow of a 
pretext on the part of any who might then choose to accept their 
offers, for underrating their labors, and talking or acting as persons 
who had conferred obligations beyond all requital, by giving much more 
than they had received, or could be paid. When teachers are treated in 
this way, it is, in a great measure, their own fault, and it arises 
chiefly from the causes just stated. To render their intercourse with 
their employers what it ought to be, and what it certainly might 
become, there should be not only a feeling of entire reciprocity of 
benefit as to the money part of their dealings, but a mutuality of 
respect and esteem well merited on both sides. This kind of regard can 
never be felt towards teachers who receive such civilities as may be 
paid to them, like unexpected and unmerited favors; for if they 
themselves do not appear to hold their own profession in the honor to 
which it is justly entitled, who else can they expect to rate it any 
higher?

In the second place, teachers are often enemies to their professional 
brethren in the jealousy manifested towards each other—in a restless 
and ill-restrained propensity to depreciate each other's 
qualifications, and a too frequent co-operation with the slandering 
part of the community, when they find the children sent to them from 
other schools ignorant and ill-disposed, to ascribe it all to the 
defective manner in which they have been taught, rather than to the 
real and very frequent causes of incapacity, bad temper, or bad early 
habits. By such practices, many foolishly imagine that they are 
promoting their own particular interests, when, in fact, they are 
deeply injuring the general interests of the whole class of teachers, 
by contributing to impair the public confidence in all schools 
whatever. For what can more effectually do this with the majority of 
mankind, than to hear those who set up for their instructers in 
morals, as well as in general science, continually finding fault with 
each other, or silently acquiescing in its being done by persons not 
of their own profession? Such conduct places them in this desperate 
dilemma; if what each says of every other be false, the public must 
think them all base calumniators: if it be true, the conclusion is 
inevitable that they are all incapable; and either alternative would 
speedily and most deservedly strip the whole of employment.

Lastly, teachers are often enemies to the public in so many 
particulars that I scarcely know with which to begin; not that I mean 
to charge them with being intentionally so—for it frequently happens 
with the best people in the world, that they are among the last to see 
their own greatest defects. Some of the faults of teachers may be 
considered as belonging exclusively to themselves, and for which they 
can find no excuse whatever in the faults of others—such, for example, 
as the two first enumerated. But those which I have now to expose, are 
so intimately blended with the faults of their employers, of their 
children, and of that portion of the world with which they are more 
immediately connected, that, like the reciprocating action of the 
various parts of certain mechanical contrivances, these faults must be 
viewed as causing each other. Thus, the parental fault of blindness to 
their children's defects, both natural and moral, and their consequent 
injustice to the instructers who ever blame or punish them, give birth 
to the equally fatal fault in teachers of carefully avoiding every 
hint of incapacity, and studiously concealing the ill-conduct of their 
pupils, because well aware that they probably will not be believed. If 
compelled to make communications on so perilous and ungrateful a 
subject, they are so softened and frittered away, as to produce a far 
less pardonable deception than entire silence, since a sensible parent 
would ascribe the last to its proper motive, when the glossing and 
varnishing process might lead them entirely astray. The same knowledge 
of the self-delusion, and consequent injustice of parents, leads 
teachers to the frequent commission of another fault, in which they 
often engage their particular friends as participators. At their 
public examinations (where they have any) they contrive a sort of 
Procrustes' bed, which all their pupils are made to fit, but rather by 
the {478} stretching than by the lopping process. This is usually 
managed so adroitly, that the public will see numerous goodly 
advertisements, with many imposing signatures, taking their rounds 
through all the newspapers, by which it clearly appears that every 
scholar in the school, however numerous they may be, even to the 
youngest child, performed to the entire satisfaction and admiration of 
all who saw or heard them. It is utterly impossible that these 
examinations, if fairly made, could have any such uniform and 
favorable result; for the difference of natural capacity alone must 
inevitably produce a great inequality of performance in the pupils. 
Every body with five grains of experience, knows that many other 
causes are constantly operating to increase this inequality. Such 
reports, therefore, of examinations, fail entirely with the 
reflecting, well-informed part of the community, to produce any thing 
but ridicule, disgust, or pity, while the ignorant and inexperienced 
are most unjustifiably imposed upon. The most deceived of any will 
generally be the parents who are absent, whose natural partiality for 
their own children so blinds their judgment, as to make them believe 
in any eulogium bestowed upon them, however extravagant. Little else 
is ever accomplished by these truly delusive spectacles, unless it be 
most injuriously to inflate the vanity of the poor pupils. The desire 
to be puffed in the newspapers, and talked about in public, is 
substituted for the love of learning for its own sake, and thereby one 
of the most important objects of education is greatly obstructed. 
_This is_, or _ought to be_, to excite in all persons under pupilage 
an ardent desire to gain knowledge, because they love it for itself, 
and for the power which it confers of promoting human happiness.

The reciprocal faults just stated in teachers and parents, co-operate, 
not to promote in any way, but to destroy the great ends of 
instruction, so far at least as they can contribute to the work of 
destruction. Let it not be understood, from the foregoing remarks, 
that I am opposed to public examinations in all schools whatever; 
although I certainly wish it to be understood that, as generally 
managed, they are worse than useless. But I do object to them 
altogether in schools for females—unless, among our other marvellous 
advances towards perfectibility, we should take it into our heads to 
make lawyers, doctors, statesmen, and soldiers of our daughters, 
instead of modest, unassuming, well-informed, home-loving, and 
virtuous matrons. _Then, indeed_, it will be necessary to give them 
that kind of early training, continually aided by public examinations 
at school, which will inure them to the public gaze, and enable them, 
in due time, to meet the searching eyes of multitudes with unabashed 
hardihood of countenance; and entirely divested of such a very 
needless incumbrance as that retiring, timid, indescribable modesty, 
heretofore deemed one of the most lovely, fascinating, and precious 
traits of the female character. I will not go so far as to assert that 
none can possess this trait who have been accustomed to be publicly 
examined—for I have the happiness to know many from whose hearts 
neither this ordeal, nor all the other corrupting influences of the 
world united, have had power to banish those admirable principles and 
qualities which constitute at once the most endearing ornaments and 
highest glory of their sex. But I _will say_, that they are 
exceptions, forcibly illustrating the truth of the general principle, 
which is, that modesty, or indeed any other good quality, _must_, in 
the end, be destroyed by causes continually operating to work its 
destruction.

Another sore evil of incalculable extent, in relation to this subject 
of education, is the frequent discordance between the precepts and the 
lessons which must necessarily be taught in all well-regulated 
schools, and the examples witnessed, the opinions heard, and the 
habits indulged in at home. This often places conscientious teachers 
in a most puzzling and painful dilemma, from which many shrink 
altogether, while others vainly endeavor to compromise the matter in 
such a manner, as completely to _nullify_ (if I may use a very current 
phrase) every effort to do good. The dilemma is, that in discharging 
the duty to the child, the parent, although indirectly, is unavoidably 
condemned, every time the teachers warn their pupils, as they 
continually ought to do, against any of the faults and vices most 
prevalent in society. Desperate, indeed, and almost hopeless, is the 
task of teaching, when this most deplorable, but very common case 
occurs. For what is the consequence of imparting virtuous principles 
and habits to the children, admitting the possibility of it, where 
none but vicious examples have been seen under the parental roof? 
Their eyes are inevitably opened to the wretched moral destitution of 
those to whom, under God, they owe their existence; and they are thus 
plunged into a state of perpetual suffering, if not actual misery—for 
the better the children become, the greater will be their distress and 
affliction at the condition of their parents. What fathers or mothers 
are there, having either hearts to feel or understandings to discern 
the awful responsibilities they live under in regard to their 
children, but must tremble at the bare thought of setting them bad 
examples, and thus becoming a source of double misery to their own 
offspring—misery _here_, even if they escape the contagion of these 
vicious parental practices and habits—and misery _hereafter_, should 
they be so deeply infected as to prove irreclaimable?

Another highly pernicious fault, of which multitudes of teachers are 
guilty, is continually to act as if they took upon themselves no other 
responsibility than that of a mere formal attendance in their schools 
for the number of hours prescribed, to hear prescribed lessons 
repeated in a parrot-like manner. Any thought of being accountable for 
the influence exerted in forming the characters of so many 
fellow-beings, seems never to enter their minds, although this is 
beyond all calculation the most important part of the whole process of 
education.

Another fault of frequent occurrence among instructers is, to have 
such an overweening, extravagant sense of their own dignity, as to be 
incessantly on the watch for offences committed against it. Thus even 
a single muscular contortion of a pupil's face, whether natural or 
accidental, and even if he be but nine or ten years old, will be 
construed into a most grievous and flagrant insult, not to be expiated 
but by some signal punishment, usually of a corporeal kind, and 
inflicted in such a manner as to prove that the operators are rather 
working off their own wrath than endeavoring to cure the scholar's 
defects. By this truly ridiculous sensitiveness, they are certain so 
to expose themselves as either to become laughing-stocks or objects of 
scorn and contempt to all their older scholars, or of the most {479} 
perfect hatred to the younger ones. In all such cases these teachers 
become real nuisances—for the injuries done by such conduct to the 
tempers of their pupils, far exceed any possible benefit they can gain 
at such schools.

There are some faults of teachers which greatly impair, if they do not 
entirely destroy, a proper subordination among their scholars. One is 
the want of a dignified manner, equally removed from a proud, haughty, 
imperious demeanor, and too much familiarity. Another is the excessive 
fear of offending the parents, and perhaps losing the pupils, by 
complaint. In every case of the kind, the child, of course, escapes 
all effectual reproof or adequate correction, especially if the parent 
be very wealthy, very weak, or extensively connected with what are 
usually called “_great people_.” Invidious distinctions are thus 
created in such schools, and the influence of all punishment is lost, 
even over those upon whom it may be inflicted, sometimes in double or 
quadruple proportions, to compensate for the omission in the cases of 
the favored culprits.

Another fault, little, if any less destructive of the influence which 
teachers should possess over their pupils, is their general 
carelessness in the all-essential duty of striving to convince their 
scholars that they are really and deeply interested, both as social 
beings and as christians, in leading their juvenile minds to the 
sublimest heights of knowledge and virtue. No instructer who fails to 
do this, whatever may be his or her other qualifications, can possibly 
succeed well in the main objects of education. They may, indeed, cram 
their pupils' heads with words, and even get into them a very showy 
stock of ideas; but in regard to the great, vital principles of human 
action, _piety and virtue_, these pupils will be in little better 
condition, as to true moral worth, than so many automata, having the 
power of uttering articulate sounds, and repeating what they have been 
taught, but devoid of all generous, benevolent, and virtuous motives 
of conduct. The notion constantly present to their minds will be, that 
they pay their money for a quantum of reluctant service, to a selfish 
and mercenary being, whose constant study is, to perform no more of 
such service than barely sufficient to secure the pupils' continuance 
at school, for the sake of the pecuniary compensation alone. Ought 
there to be any wonder if the scholars themselves, under such 
circumstances, contract the same selfishness, the same base love of 
lucre, which they find often so productive of profit, and which they 
believe to be the governing principle of their teacher's conduct? 
Should the general propensity to extravagance in the use of money, so 
fatally common among young people, or their better feelings imbibed at 
home, protect them from contracting principles similar to those of 
such instructers, they are in danger of adopting another opinion 
equally destructive of the chance of deriving intellectual or moral 
improvement from any school whatever. This is, a firm belief that the 
whole class of teachers are destitute of every thing like generous and 
noble sentiments, and are consequently utterly undeserving of 
deference, respect, esteem, or affection.

Another thing which greatly impairs the influence of teachers with 
their pupils, is the very common practice of giving way to their own 
faults and bad habits in the presence of their scholars. Those who 
take upon them to instruct others in practical duties, must so act on 
all occasions as to be able to say, “_Not only do as I tell you, but 
do as I do_;” for without good examples in teachers, all their 
precepts go for nothing, or will be obeyed from no other principle but 
fear.

Another fault much too common among teachers, is, that many will enter 
into the profession, who are exceedingly deficient in all the 
requisite qualifications; and whose sole object is to support 
themselves at other people's expense, while preparing for some other 
pursuit, to which the business of teaching is made a kind of 
convenient stepping-stone. For all the mechanic arts—even the most 
simple—a particular training and appropriate education is deemed 
essential. But for that most difficult of all arts, next to governing 
a nation—I mean the art of preparing youth successfully to fulfil all 
their various duties in life—no peculiar adaptation of talent seems 
ever to be looked for; no course of study or instruction, specially 
suited to this all important profession, is scarcely any where 
systematically pursued, or required. We will not trust even a tinker 
to mend a hole in a dish or basin, unless we believe that he has been 
regularly bred to his business; yet we fear not to trust both the 
souls and bodies of our children—both their temporal and eternal 
happiness—to persons of whom we often know nothing, but that they 
profess to teach a few sciences, a foreign language or two, and 
possibly some ornamental art; as if the mere professing to do these 
things was necessarily accompanied by the full power and skill to 
accomplish that infinitely greater object of all education—the forming 
the hearts, minds, and principles of youth, to the love of knowledge 
and the practice of virtue! This last all important qualification, 
without which every other will be unavailing, is so far from being the 
inseparable concomitant of what is usually called “learning,” that it 
is rarely ever found in those who have had no practical experience in 
teaching: not that practice alone will give it, for it seems to be the 
result of a combination of circumstances and qualities not often 
uniting in the same person. These are—perfect self-control—great 
benevolence—much forbearance—a quickness in distinguishing all the 
various shades and diversities of character in children—sound judgment 
in selecting the best means of instruction—with unwearied perseverance 
in applying them. Many an humble mother, who scarcely understands even 
the meaning of the terms grammar, science, and literature, possesses 
vastly more of this highly essential art, than thousands of the most 
erudite scholars; and are as far superior to them for all the most 
valuable purposes of education, as Sir Isaac Newton was to Swift's 
ideal clown, whom he represents as ignorantly calling this 
incomparable philosopher, “one Isaac Newton, a maker of sun dials.” 
Not that I would undervalue learning in teachers; no, very far from 
it, for a large portion of it is indispensable. But I mean to assert, 
that _there is a peculiar art of teaching_, not necessarily connected 
with, nor the result of, what is usually called learning. It is the 
art, as I before remarked, of forming the hearts, minds and principles 
of children, to the love of knowledge and to the practice of virtue, 
which mere learning can never confer. It is an art, in fact, which 
must have for its basis strong natural sense and feelings—a heart full 
of the milk of human kindness—sound, moral, and religious principles—a 
clear, {480} discriminating judgment, a considerable portion of 
scholastic learning, and some practical experience. Those alone who 
possess and love to exercise this art, are capable of imparting “that 
education which bears upon the machinery of the human mind, which is 
truly practical—that which breaks up the ‘fallow ground’ of the human 
heart—that which brings forth the fruits of intelligence and virtue.” 
In other words, (to borrow the language of an admirable article on 
popular education, in a late North American Review,) every teacher, 
when entering upon the discharge of his duties, should be able most 
conscientiously “to say with himself—‘now, _my_ business is to do what 
is in my power, to rear up for society intelligent and virtuous men 
and women: it is not merely to make good arithmeticians or 
grammarians, good readers or writers, good scholars who shall do 
themselves and me credit—this, indeed, I have to do; but it is still 
farther, to make good members of society, good parents and children, 
good friends and associates; to make the community around me wiser and 
happier for my living in it: my labor, in fine, must be, to ingraft 
upon these youthful minds that love of knowledge and virtue, without 
which, they cannot be happy, nor useful, nor fitted for the greatest 
duties; and without which, indeed, all their acquisitions will soon 
drop like untimely blossoms from the tree of life.’”

We bind lads to hatters, shoemakers, and tailors, to learn their 
trades, lest our miserable bodies and limbs should not receive their 
due share of decoration—nay, we often make the mere fashion of these 
decorations an object of the most anxious concern, of the deepest 
imaginable interest; while the artizans who are to adorn our minds 
with _their_ appropriate embellishments, are left to pick up their 
qualifications as they may; frequently too, they are persons without 
any inclination, or talents, or temper, or principles, to fit them for 
this all important business; and not unfrequently, with so slender a 
stock of the requisite knowledge and learning, as to be much more 
suitable subjects for _receiving_, than for imparting instruction. 
True it is, that such charlatans and impostors are soon found out; but 
they contribute greatly to degrade the profession, and do infinite 
mischief in other respects; for they are free to roam every where, 
without any testimonials of their fitness, and rarely fail to find 
some new field for their fatal empiricism.

Another crying fault among teachers is, that many still make rods and 
sticks their chief—if not the sole reliance, for restraining their 
pupils from doing what they prohibit, or for compelling them to do 
what they command; as if the only sure method of informing the mind, 
or curing the deep-rooted diseases of the soul, was by the barbarous 
quackery of bruising the head, or scarifying the body. Under the old 
_regime_, there were some punishments, (possibly still in use) of 
which it is hard to say, whether the cruelty or folly was greatest. 
For instance—one was to beat the collected ends of the fingers with an 
implement, sometimes made like a butter stick, at other times like a 
broad, flat rule. This served the double purpose of inflicting the 
first punishment, and for administering a second, which was to smack 
the palms of the open hands until they were often black and blue with 
bruises. I can speak experimentally of a _third_ punishment, not less 
novel, I believe, than ingenious; but whether it was ever practised by 
any other than a master of my own, (God rest his soul!) “this deponent 
sayeth not.” It was unquestionably a favorite one with him, and well 
do I remember it, having occasionally suffered it in my own person. 
There was one thing which the scholars thought much in its favor—it 
could only be conveniently applied in the season for fires, as it 
consisted in igniting the end of a stick, extinguishing the blaze 
after a sufficient quantity of charcoal was formed, and then smoking 
the boys' noses, who were compelled to stand as still as statues, from 
the dread of something still more painful. How it may be with such of 
my school fellows and fellow sufferers as are still living, I cannot 
tell; but I confess my own nostrils have always taken unusual alarm at 
smoke ever since, although it has been more than forty years since 
they have received any in this way. What could have been our worthy 
tutor's object I never could conjecture, unless it might have been to 
give himself lessons in physiognomy, while contemplating the various 
contortions into which he could throw the human countenance, by the 
application of so simple, so cheap an agent, and thus coming at a 
better knowledge of the dispositions and characters of his pupils. I 
have it from several unquestionable authorities, that other 
punishments, still more cruel, irrational, and unjustifiable, _were 
once_, if they are not yet, common in some schools. Among these, I 
will here mention one, which a highly estimable gentleman told me, 
that he himself saw inflicted on his own brother, many years ago, in a 
celebrated eastern school, which was always full to overflowing. The 
poor little fellow, for some offence not recollected, was actually 
suspended from the floor by his thumbs, and suffered to hang so long, 
that several weeks elapsed before he recovered the perfect use of his 
hands. This was kept a profound secret from the father, doubtless 
through fear of their barbarous tyrant, lest he should inflict some 
equally cruel punishment on the informer.

In proof of farther deficiency in the requisite qualifications to 
perform, even what teachers themselves often promise—to say nothing of 
what the public have a right to expect from all who profess to teach—I 
will notice two or three advertisements which I myself saw several 
years ago. The schools, by the way, no longer exist. I rely upon these 
public annunciations as conclusive evidence of incompetence, because, 
with ample time to prepare such notices, if persons who offer to 
undertake the business of instruction, do not, even with the 
assistance of friends, put forth an advertisement in passable English, 
the failure is a clear demonstration, that much more is promised than 
the individual is capable of performing. The first advertisement 
contained a promise “to teach English Grammar _orthöepically_.” The 
second notice informed all whom it might concern, that the gentleman 
would “_learn_” (instead of teach) all children all the branches which 
he enumerated, comprehending nearly the whole circle of sciences; but, 
notwithstanding this palpable proof, that he was ignorant of his own 
language, he soon obtained from seventy to eighty pupils. The third 
advertisement proclaimed, that all the various branches in which 
instruction was given by the subscribers, “were taught upon _reasoning 
principles_.” Many more examples might be given of public promises to 
teach, which were falsified by the very terms in which they were made, 
but these, I hope, will suffice. {481} For this evil of incompetent 
teachers there seems to be no corrective but public opinion. This, 
however, must be more enlightened—must be better educated, before it 
can interpose effectually. Something, perhaps, might be beneficially 
done, by a law forbidding any persons from acting as teachers without 
certificates of fitness from well qualified judges. This is done in 
other countries, and in some parts of our own, as to the professions 
both of law and medicine. But in these parts, as with us, it would 
seem as if bodily health and property were esteemed of infinitely 
higher value, than all the faculties of the mind and endowments of the 
soul put together. These last are left defenceless—so far, at least, 
as _law_ is concerned: the glorious privileges of ignorance are in all 
respects equal to those of knowledge, as regards the right to teach, 
or rather _to attempt_ its exercise: and he who proposes to vend 
nonsense—nay, mental poison, like the vender of damaged goods and 
quack medicines, stands precisely on the same footing with the wisest, 
the best man, and the fairest and the most honest dealer in the 
nation. Not a solitary obstacle exists to the success of either, but 
the difficulty of procuring customers, and this is easily overcome, 
simply by the proclamation of “cheap goods! cheap physic! cheap 
schooling!” It has been said in vindication of such unrestrained, and 
often highly pernicious practices, that “every one has a right to do 
as he pleases with his own.” But this is true, only so long as we do 
nothing injurious either to ourselves or to others. The first species 
of injury is clearly, undeniably prohibited by the laws of God, the 
last is forbidden both by God and man. But we violate both divine and 
human laws, in offering to undertake so sacred a trust as that of 
teaching, if we know ourselves to be incapable of fulfilling it; and 
the parent who accepts such offer, incurs still deeper guilt, if he 
either knows or strongly suspects the incompetency of those who make 
it. Another argument is, that no person, however unfit, should be 
prevented from attempting to teach, because, if really incapable, this 
will soon be discovered; and, of course, such would-be teacher would 
get no employment. But those who use such arguments appear to forget 
entirely, that until our whole population be far better educated, than 
at present, the merest pretender to science and literature, who ever 
made the offer to instruct others, will always have some pupils sent 
to him “_upon trial_,” (as I have often heard it said,) especially if 
care be taken to call the new establishment “_a cheap school_.” The 
inevitable consequence of this _sending upon trial_, is, that the 
whole time the experiment lasts, is literally thrown away, if nothing 
worse. The poor children, who are the defenceless victims of the 
process, sustain the immediate loss; and indirectly, the public at 
large is injured to the full amount of the deficiency of that 
knowledge which the pupils might have gained under suitable 
instructers, and which might avail them, at some future period, to 
serve their country in some useful capacity or other. _If knowledge be 
power, time is wealth_, and wealth too, of the most precious kind; 
since to misapply it ourselves, or wilfully to make others do it, 
whose conduct our duty requires us to direct, is to expose to 
forfeiture our _own_ chance of happiness in both worlds, and to place 
_them_ in similar danger.

Even among very competent teachers, there is frequently a fault of 
very pernicious tendency, in which they are encouraged, particularly 
by those who patronize them. It is often, probably, committed without 
design to deceive; but in this, as in many other matters, innocence of 
intention does not prevent the mischief of the act. Dr. South, I 
believe, somewhere says, “Hell itself is paved with good intentions.” 
The fault to which I allude is, that they, and their friends for them, 
often promise _too much_. Thus the teachers make out a very specious 
and flourishing epitome of their respective institutions, promising at 
one and the same time, both to shorten the period of instruction, and 
to augment the stock of knowledge imparted, in some most surprising 
manner, by means of various wonder-working contrivances. Upon this, 
probably, some partial and over zealous friends are consulted. These, 
in order to repay the compliment paid to their judgment, feel bound to 
flourish away in their turn; when, behold, the joint product of this 
mutual flattery is a marvellous statement running through our public 
journals, by way of epilogue to the prospectus of these schools, 
representing the conductors of them as all so many Edgeworths, 
Pestalozzis, and Fellenburgs; their pupils all docile and talented; 
or, if perchance a stray black sheep should get among them, it is 
speedily made as white as the best of them, either by the force of 
example, or by an admirable system of rules and regulations of such 
sovereign potency, as to effect _that_ for a school, in a few weeks or 
months, which all the moral and religious teachers who have existed 
since the birth of our Saviour, have failed to accomplish for the 
christian world in eighteen hundred and thirty-six years. In these 
magic seminaries, by the wonder-working inventions of their 
conductors, all the crooked paths of education are speedily made 
straight—all the rough places smooth, and every old difficulty, which 
in times of yore, rendered the business of teaching and learning so 
irksome, tedious and puzzling, is made to vanish with a “presto, 
begone, thou mischievous imp of exploded and despised antiquity!” All 
the movements of these modernized and Utopian institutions, are 
represented as going on like clock-work, smooth as oil, and regular as 
the planetary system itself. Here, are never to be heard of any 
unmanageable children—any dunces—any mules who _can_, but _will not_ 
learn. Here the fabled Parnassus is realized, with all its charming 
prospects of verdant slopes, odoriferous flowers, delicious fruits, 
and immortalizing laurels: and here, the splendid portals of the 
august temple of science bear upon their ample fronts, the 
soul-cheering invitation of, “ask and ye shall have, knock and they 
shall be opened unto you;” the mere reading alone of which, is to 
obtain for the scholars as ready an admittance to all their 
exhaustless treasures, as the repetition of the cabalistic word 
“sesame,” used to gain into the robber's cave of the Arabian Nights' 
Entertainments. These truly marvellous facilities invented by us 
moderns, to expedite the manufacture of profound scholars and 
immaculate moralists, as far surpass the clumsy contrivances of our 
ancestors, to accomplish the same ends, as that most palatable 
expedient for teaching the famous Martinus Scriblerus his alphabet, 
exceeded in ingenuity and delectable adaptation to the designed end, 
every other scheme devised for a similar purpose. It consisted simply, 
in coaxing the little genius to eat his letters cut out of 
gingerbread. Oh! the profundities and the altitudes of these {482} 
wondrous improvements! when shall we all learn to estimate them as 
they deserve? Not that I mean to deny the real advances made in the 
arts of teaching, as well as in the general system of education. These 
certainly have been very great, and are justly entitled to much 
praise. But I believe the facts will warrant me in asserting, that 
they fall far short of what they are generally represented to be; and 
that, if stripped of all exaggeration, of all false pretension, so as 
to be estimated exactly for what they are worth and no more, they will 
be found to have gained more in show than use: in other words, that 
they are, in no small degree, calculated to make vain, superficial 
pretenders to true knowledge, rather than profound scholars and real 
proficients in any art or science whatever—unless it be in the art of 
puffing, which seems now to have reached its acme of perfection. If 
the amount of these improvements were nearly equal to what is claimed 
for them, we should scarcely be able to walk along the streets of our 
towns and cities, without running our heads against such men as 
Pythagoras, Socrates, Aristotle, and Plato. But what is the plain, 
stubborn matter of fact? Why, that it is very doubtful, whether the 
number of such illustrious men (if such can be found at all,) now 
bears an equal proportion to the present population of the world, that 
the number did to the population of the period in which the 
philosophers just mentioned immortalized their names. There must be 
some reason for this, if true, as I confidently believe it to be; and 
it must lie much deeper, and have much more force, than the zealous 
advocates for the vast superiority of modern over by-gone times in the 
arts of teaching, will be willing to allow. May it not be found in the 
remarkable fact, that in ancient times, no men occupied a more 
elevated rank than _teachers_, while the all important business of 
teaching youth was confined to men of the highest order of talent—the 
most profound knowledge, and the greatest respectability of character; 
whereas, in our days, this indispensable occupation—this profession, 
so vitally necessary to human happiness, is permitted to be exercised 
by any one who chooses to attempt it? Nay, more, in these times, men 
of the highest order of talent and greatest acquirements, very rarely 
devote themselves to it. Hence, in public estimation, it has fallen 
nearly into the lowest ranks, whereas it once held, and ought again to 
occupy at least an equal grade with the highest of all the 
professions. None, I presume, will deny that the proportion of human 
talent is much the same in all ages. But education being the great 
moving power which enables this talent to exert itself efficaciously, 
the evidences of this exertion must always increase both in number and 
degree, if the modes of culture improve as fast as the subjects 
increase, upon whom they are to be exercised. Is this the fact?—_if it 
is_, where are the proofs in regard to the present times? Let those 
who have them bring them forward. There can be no doubt that a most 
delightful and fascinating picture might be given of the present state 
of society by any one who would exhibit all the good which is to be 
found in it, leaving entirely out of view every thing which is bad. 
But this last must even grow worse in education, as in every thing 
else, if it be not exposed with an unsparing hand.

Having spoken, as some perhaps may think too harshly, of the fault 
committed by teachers who claim for themselves any great and novel 
discovery in teaching, let me endeavor equally to expose those who 
tempt them to the commission. It is with modes of instruction as with 
schools themselves—the newest are generally believed to be the best; 
and this seems often to be taken for granted, even by those who ought 
to know better. Not that novelty alone should constitute a valid 
objection to any thing; but surely it never should be considered of 
itself a sufficient recommendation to any scheme or project, the 
obvious design and effect of which will be, to subvert something long 
established and well approved. Yet in regard to schools, it is often 
sufficient to insure abundant patronage to utter strangers who offer 
to instruct young persons of either sex, if they will only profess to 
teach _old things_ in a _new way_, or something purporting to be 
altogether new, and will dignify with the name of “_system_” what they 
are pleased to claim as a method of their own, or of some person 
equally unknown to the solicited patrons or patronesses. This 
fascinating term “_system_” settles all doubts, and the new broom 
sweeps all before it. I say not this with the slightest view of 
discouraging the establishment of new schools. Nothing, indeed, is 
farther from my thoughts—for I wish with all my heart that a good one 
could be fixed in every neighborhood throughout the United States. But 
the remarks have been made to inculcate the absolute necessity for 
avoiding all precipitation in the choice of schools, and for adopting 
some better measure of their merits than their own pretensions. It is 
true that parents and guardians must run some risk in sending to any 
school whatever, not immediately under their own eyes, and well known 
to them. But surely such risk need not be near so great as it often 
is, if they would always seek something beyond mere novelty in making 
their choice. How, and from whom, to seek is the great difficulty; for 
the characters of schools and their teachers are among the most 
uncertain things in the world—since they depend infinitely more on the 
prejudices and partialities of those who undertake to give them, than 
on their own real merits. Thus the parents and guardians of children 
who are either too stupid or too perverse to learn, will almost always 
ascribe their want of information to the teachers, and censure them in 
the most unqualified terms. On the other hand, where great progress 
has been made by the pupils, their friends and relatives will be 
equally profuse in praising their instructers. Strangers who are to 
decide, will rarely ever consider, or even inquire what is the 
relative situation of the eulogizers and censurers in regard to the 
schools and their teachers whose characters are given; although it is 
obvious, on the slightest reflection, that we cannot possibly judge 
correctly of any opinions affecting the reputation of others, without 
knowing thoroughly the motives of the persons who deliver these 
opinions, as well as their credibility. There is another important 
circumstance affecting the character of schools, which is very rarely 
attended to as it should be. The last to which the pupils go, although 
it be only for a few months or weeks, bears all the blame, or receives 
all the praise, for whatever habits they are found to possess—for 
whatever knowledge or ignorance may be discovered in them. It never 
appears for a moment to cross the brains of these character-coiners, 
that habits, either good or bad, cannot possibly be of such quick 
growth; or that much {483} ignorance cannot be removed, nor much 
knowledge imparted, within a period utterly insufficient for 
communicating even the simplest elements of moral and scientific 
instruction.

The last fault which I shall notice among teachers, is, their not 
unfrequent practice of endeavoring to make a kind of compromise 
between that system of instruction based upon the unchangeable, 
eternal principles of the Gospel of Christ, and that which is 
preferred by the world at large. Few things, if any, can differ more; 
few in fact, are so utterly irreconcileable to each other: yet many 
teachers act as if they believed that their amalgamation must be 
attempted, cost what it may. The mere worldly portion of society, who 
compose a most fearful majority in every country, must be persuaded 
that their children will be educated according to their own principles 
and views; while the religious part of the community, small as it 
seems by comparison, must likewise be regarded as worthy of the 
teacher's attention. It is easy to infer what must be the result of 
any attempt to form this oil and water amalgam—this hotchpotch of 
contrarieties, where the worldly influence preponderates so much. The 
morality of the pupils will very rarely, if ever, reach beyond the 
external man, as it is not implanted in its only appropriate soil—the 
heart. Its cardinal maxim will be—not the admirable christian rule of 
“doing as you would be done by,” but—“do as others do; always wear a 
specious outside; ever keep well with the world, by conforming to all 
its fashionable practices;” while their religion will consist almost 
solely, in a mere formal and reluctant attendance at places of public 
worship, and in a seeming abstinence from scandalous vices.

It may be alleged as some small excuse perhaps, for this compromising 
spirit in teachers, that a very large portion of those who employ them 
are really incompetent to decide correctly, either how or what their 
children should be taught, although such persons are often most apt to 
interfere with the teacher's views; and are most liable to be governed 
by their own prejudices and passions rather than by reason and 
judgment. If the instructer, in any case, subjects his principles to 
their guidance, he degrades himself, he loses his self-respect by 
offending against his own conscience; on the other hand, if he obeys 
_that_, he risks the loss of their patronage by offending against 
their self-conceit, and few there are with moral courage enough to 
brave this danger. To what source therefore can we look with any 
rational hope of success for that reform in teachers—in schools—and in 
the relative merits of the matters taught, which is so demonstrably 
essential both to individual and national happiness? The disease is in 
a vitiated public opinion; and where are the moral physicians who have 
hardihood enough to attempt, and influence sufficient to administer 
the necessary remedies?

In my endeavors to expose the faults of parents, I gave one female 
example of ignorant interference with teachers. Having again just 
spoken of this pernicious practice, let me here cite an instance of a 
father, whose power to direct will best appear after the following 
statement. I once breakfasted, some thirty years ago, with one of 
those utterly incompetent parents, accompanied by two fine-looking 
little boys, apparently about eleven and twelve years of age. The 
father was more than half drunk, early as it was in the morning, and 
told me, with a look of most ineffable self-complacency, that “he had 
brought his boys from school to town, to see”—what think you, my 
friends? why, “a negro hanged,” adding, “that it had always been _his 
opinion_, you could not too soon _give boys a knowledge of the world 
by showing them everything that was to be seen_.” Can we wonder that 
this world should be what it is, when such animals in the form of men, 
direct the education of so large a portion of it? They possess the 
legal right of directing, and none can control them. The consequence 
is, that thousands of youths who might have proved ornaments and 
blessings to their country, are utterly lost to every valuable purpose 
in life.

To judge better how far it is possible for teachers to mingle a 
worldly with a Christian system of instruction, let us endeavor 
briefly to state what we believe to be the only true and justifiable 
objects of education. These are—to insure, as far as human means can 
accomplish it, that there shall be “sound minds in sound bodies;” 
which can only be effected by fully developing the powers of both. If 
this be true, and not a rational man in the world, I think, will deny 
it, the merit of every plan of instruction must depend on its 
competency to achieve this great purpose by the direction which it 
gives to natural talent, and by its power to restrain or encourage the 
natural dispositions; to inculcate every species of useful knowledge; 
and to perfect all those corporeal powers, the exercise of which is 
essential to the procurement of health and the means of subsistence. 
Unless all these be done, and judiciously too, there cannot possibly 
be, _sound minds in sound bodies_. There may be abundance of science, 
a great knowledge of languages, a splendid assortment of 
accomplishments; but so far as depends upon scholastic instruction, 
there will be few or none of those great principles of human conduct 
which are to bear us triumphantly through all the perils both moral 
and physical of the present life, and lead us to heaven. The 
fashionable systems of the present day, can no more accomplish this, 
than they can teach children to fly. Religious principle, constantly 
demonstrated by religious practice, must, aye _must_ be the first and 
last thing taught and required; or all the science and literature of 
the schools will be utterly unavailing to human happiness. But how 
many schools have we, where this is done? How many are there wherein 
not even _a pretence_ is made of either public or private worship—of 
either moral or religious instruction? Numerous, deplorably numerous 
are the instances in which the poor pupils are all left to seek God or 
not, according to their own fancies; and where the miserable pretext 
for such criminal neglect is, that the Liberals of the present times, 
than whom, by the way, there are no greater bigots upon earth—bigots I 
mean in _unbelief_—would probably deem it an improper interference 
with the religious creeds of the scholars, if one word were ever 
uttered about religion at all. Every thing of the kind they denounce 
as sectarian—even Christianity itself; as if there was not just as 
much sectarianism in infidelity, as among any sect of Christians to be 
found in the world. Nay more, as if the dangers of error in either 
party were not most fearfully greater on their side than on the side 
of the Christians.

The foregoing faults are not confined to boy schools; but too often 
appear in female schools also. In regard to these last, there is one 
peculiar fault committed by {484} many teachers which cannot be too 
much exposed. If much retirement be essential to successful study, 
nothing can well be more preposterous, than frequently to give girls 
the choice between the attractions of company and those of their 
schoolrooms: for not one in a hundred will then choose the latter. The 
great mischief of this indulgence is, that not only their places of 
study, but the studies themselves are brought into continual danger of 
becoming both irksome and disgusting to them. If it be said that they 
must go into company to form their manners, the answer is, that even 
manners may be too dearly bought. But admitting their high value, the 
teachers should be the exemplars of their pupils in _this_ as in other 
matters, or they are not entirely fit for their office. It may also be 
added, that manners formed by much company-keeping are not such as 
would be most sought after in a wife—the destined head, and greatest 
ornament of a domestic circle: for if these manners have become the 
subject of much admiration, the possessor is rarely ever known to be 
content, unless she can have many other spectators besides her husband 
and family to witness their display. Wonderful indeed, would it be, if 
women who were trained one half their lives to acquire some 
accomplishment for the sake of having it admired, should be perfectly 
satisfied to spend the other half with only a husband, and now and 
then a relation or two to act the part of admirers. I will not deny 
that what are called “elegant manners,” can rarely be acquired without 
mixing much with good society. It is also admitted that there is 
nothing in their acquirement at all incompatible with the attainment 
of all other good qualities or acquisitions; and that many of the most 
agreeable and estimable women are to be found among those who have 
seen most of the world. But are these most likely to be happy in the 
retirement of that domestic life, which is the destiny of ninety nine 
women in a hundred? _If they are not_, then far too much has been 
sacrificed for “elegant manners.” _If they are_, should we not see 
many more of them to unsettle our faith in the truth of the general 
rule, that all who are destined to spend the longest portion of their 
existence in private life, should necessarily be so educated, as to 
acquire a decided preference for it, or we do them a great and 
irreparable injury by giving them a different taste? That such 
education is altogether incompatible with that which requires much 
going into company, as one of its essential parts, seems to me as 
clear as the light of a meridian sun in a cloudless day. It is 
scarcely in human nature for young ladies who have reigned as the 
belles of society, as idols in public, to become exemplary, happy 
matrons in private life. The two characters are so entirely unlike, 
their tastes, their highest gratifications so entirely dissimilar, 
that the same persons can rarely, if ever, fill both characters. _When 
they do they are moral wonders._ The natural modesty of the sex, which 
always inclines them to shun rather than to seek general admiration; 
and consequently to prefer home, with all its tranquil pleasures, and 
rational enjoyments, to the bustle, the notoriety and highly exciting 
gratifications of the world, will not be altogether subdued in every 
case, by what is called a fashionable education; but assuredly, there 
is nothing in any part of the whole process calculated to give this 
greatest charm of the female character its proper culture and highest 
embellishment. This embellishment is _piety_ towards God, and active 
benevolence towards the whole human race. Let me not be 
misunderstood—let me never be deemed so illiberal, so inexperienced, 
as to believe that no ladies fashionably educated, can be pious or 
benevolent, or happy in private life; _no, far from it;_ but I do 
assert that the whole tendency of fashionable education is to prevent 
their being either. It is, in truth, as little suited to the things of 
time, as to those of eternity. A very brief argument, I think, will 
prove this assertion to be true.

If the general principle of adapting the early education of our 
children to the profession we expect them to follow—to the situations 
and circumstances in which we think it likely they will be placed—be 
correct in every case, where _boys_ are concerned; why, in the name of 
common sense, should it be incorrect in regard to _girls_? Are _they 
alone_ to be trained for _one thing_, while they are probably destined 
for _another_? Is it not the height of cruelty, as well as injustice, 
to give them tastes and expectations which can be gratified only for a 
few months, perhaps for a year or two, after which they will almost 
certainly have to spend the remainder of their lives, however long, in 
nearly utter destitution of the opportunities, if not the means also, 
to use and to realize these parental gifts? Desperate surely is the 
folly, or far above all reason is the wisdom of such a plan; if indeed 
the only legitimate plan of all education be—permanently to promote 
the real happiness of the individuals educated.

Few, I believe, if any, will deny, that the common fault just pointed 
out—of so illy adapting the education of girls to the situations in 
which they will probably be placed, deserves all the reprehension 
which can be bestowed upon it. But those who are most apt to commit 
it, are often guilty of another, if possible still worse. For the same 
falsely calculating spirit which neglects to provide for the domestic 
happiness of the child, so far as that can be secured by the culture 
of tastes, sentiments, and habits suitable for domestic life, will 
often exert parental influence and authority, after what _they_ call 
education is finished, to wed the poor victims of their mismanagement 
to some husband who is deemed a good match, (to use a slang phrase 
among matrimonial negotiators,) solely on account of his wealth. After 
making it almost absolutely necessary to the happiness of the helpless 
daughter that she should marry a man of polished manners, refined 
taste and liberal education, she is forcibly united to one entirely 
destitute of all these accomplishments—to one who will snore an 
accompaniment to her sweetest music—will gaze, if he looks at all, 
“with lack-lustre eye,” on her finest paintings; and flee from her 
elegant dancing to the gambling house and the bottle: to one in fine 
whose capability of participating with her in the pleasures of 
reading, or of literary conversation, will probably be but a few 
grades above that of the most illiterate clown. Such, alas! is too 
often the reward of a fashionable education; especially in cases where 
in procuring it, the fortunes of the poor girls have all been expended 
with confident anticipations that ample compensation would be found in 
the wealth of their future husbands. It not unfrequently happens that 
one of the effects of this worldly training is, to make the girls full 
as great calculators as their parents in regard to matrimonial 
connexions. When this occurs, they well deserve all the {485} misery 
that so often follows a marriage contracted from such mercenary and 
truly despicable motives; although the parents themselves if they had 
their due, would undergo tenfold suffering for having been the 
original cause of the calamity, in first placing their daughters where 
such principles were to be imbibed; and afterwards co-operating with 
might and main to encourage their very complying teachers in 
accomplishing so glorious a work.

My purpose in commencing this lecture, was to confine it solely to the 
“faults of teachers;” but I have been led insensibly to blend with 
them certain parental faults. Although this is a departure from the 
order which I had prescribed to myself, I hope it may serve to 
strengthen all my objections to the faults of both parties; since the 
influence and authority of parents superadded to the exertions of 
teachers in a wrong course, must be incalculably more dangerous and 
fatal. It has been forcibly remarked in regard to some of the 
practical evils of a certain government, that, “if men _suffer_, what 
matters it, whether it be by the act of a licensed or an unlicensed 
robber—a Janizary or a Jonathan Wild.” And well may it be asked in 
relation to the practical defects of our systems of education, what 
matters it whether they are legalized as in corporate schools, or 
submitted to as in private ones, or whether parents or teachers are 
most to blame for them, so long as they are quietly suffered to work 
all the mischief which they so constantly produce? However innocent 
either, or both parties may be of intentional harm to the sufferers 
from these defects, their influence on human happiness is not 
therefore the less baneful. Innocence of intention, which I doubt not 
may generally be pleaded in this case, is no excuse, but a great 
aggravation of the evil, since there can be no hope of any remedy 
until the perpetrators of the mischief can be convinced of its real 
character, its full extent, and that they alone are its authors—that 
they only have both the power and the right to apply the proper 
corrective. If _they_ would take the matter in hand; if _they_ would 
co-operate earnestly and perseveringly in a right course, only for a 
few years, the moral condition of our society would soon be as 
different from what it now is, as our fondest hopes could possibly 
anticipate. The vast improvement which such co-operation might effect, 
the incalculable private and public blessings it would certainly 
produce, cannot, I believe, be better illustrated on my part, than by 
giving you in conclusion, the last two paragraphs of the excellent 
article on popular education already quoted from the North American 
Review for January. In speaking of the absolute necessity of 
inculcating moral and religious principles as the groundwork of all 
really useful education, the author remarks:

“There are few departments of scholastic instruction, whether higher 
or lower, that may not be found to yield constant suggestions for 
virtuous and religious excitement. The teacher who should skilfully 
avail himself of such opportunities, would produce effects upon 
society the most extensive and lasting, and the most delightful. Sir 
James Mackintosh says of Dugald Stewart, and we can scarcely conceive 
of a higher eulogium, that ‘few men ever lived perhaps who poured into 
the breasts of youth a more fervid and yet reasonable love of liberty, 
of truth and of virtue. How many (he adds) are still alive, in 
different countries, and in every rank to which education reaches, 
who, if they accurately examined their own minds and lives, would not 
ascribe much of whatever goodness and happiness they possess to the 
early impressions of his gentle and persuasive eloquence.’ Few men 
indeed possess the powers or opportunities of the Edinburgh Professor. 
But, to every instructer of youth, a sphere is opened for the exertion 
of the noblest talents and virtues. It is a most mischievous and 
absurd idea, but one that has prevailed, if it do not still prevail, 
that such a man is not required to possess great talents—that he may 
be a dull and plodding man—that he may be dull in his moral 
sensibility—that he need not be a religious man—and yet may very well 
discharge the duties of his station. But if heaven has given to any 
man talent and enthusiasm, or virtue, or piety, let him know that it 
is all wanted _here_, and that he can scarcely choose a nobler field 
for its action. Let a man enter this field, therefore, not to go 
through the dull round of prescribed duty; let him throw himself into 
this sphere of action with his whole mind and heart—with every wakeful 
energy of thought and kindling fervor of feeling; to think and to act, 
to devise and to do, all that his powers permit, for the minds that 
are committed to him; to develope and exhaust his whole soul in this 
work; to labor _for_ and _with_ his pupils—to win their affection—to 
quicken in them the love of knowledge, to inspire with every noble 
impulse the breast of ingenuous youth; to raise up sound scholars for 
literature, and devoted pastors for the church, and patriotic citizens 
for the country, and glorious men for the world: let him do _this_, 
and none shall leave brighter signatures upon the record of honored 
and well spent lives. Let him do _this_, and whether he sit in the 
chair of a university or in the humblest village school—whether as a 
Stewart or a Cousin, or as an Oberlin or Pestalozzi, he may fill the 
land with grateful witnesses of his worth, and cause a generation 
unborn to rise up and call him blessed.

“To the friends of education, as well as to the actual laborers in its 
cause, let us say in fine, _press onward_. The spread of knowledge has 
given birth to civil liberty; the increase and improvement of 
knowledge must give it stability and security. The fortunes of the 
civilized world are now embarked in this cause. The great deeps are 
breaking up, and the ark that is to ride out the coming storm must 
have skill engaged in its construction, and wisdom to preside at its 
helm. The warfare of opinion is already begun; and for its safe 
direction, knowledge _must_ take the leading staff. In _this_ war, not 
the mighty captain but the schoolmaster, is to marshal the hosts to 
battle. It is _he_ that is to train the minds which are to engage in 
this contest. It is _he_ that is to train up orators and legislators, 
statesmen and rulers; and _he_ too is to form the body politic of the 
world. Would the free spirits of the world look to the defence and 
hope of their cause? It is no dubious question where they must look. 
Their outposts are _free schools_; their citadels are _universities_; 
their munitions are _books_; and the mighty engine that is to hurl 
destruction upon the legions of darkness, is the _free press_. Other 
ages have struggled with other weapons; but the panoply of _this_ age 
_must be knowledge_; the gleaming of _its_ armour must be the light 
that flashes from the eye of free, high minded public opinion. Call 
{486} this complimenting, call it complaisance to the base multitude, 
call it visionary speculation, call it what you will—but the doctrine 
is true: and, over the liberties of the world, whether prostrate or 
triumphant, _that truth_ must arise brighter and brighter for ever.”



NATIONAL INGRATITUDE.

BY MATHEW CAREY.


Every American, actuated by a due regard for the honor of his country, 
must feel deep regret at one feature in the proceedings of our 
government, which is equally impolitic and discreditable. I mean the 
neglect, or, what is near akin to neglect, the very long delay of an 
acknowledgment of those brilliant services, which not only add lustre 
to the national character, but often produce the most solid, 
substantial advantages. In this respect, I am afraid, we are more 
delinquent than any other nation in Christendom—so far, at least, as 
regards delay. This conduct is, I say, discreditable, as it manifests 
a deficiency of gratitude, one of the noblest of national virtues.

It is, moreover, impolitic, and may often produce most pernicious and 
disastrous results in moments of difficulty and danger. There is a 
vast difference between the efforts of two men, in such crisis, one of 
whom may rationally anticipate having his merits duly appreciated, and 
to a certain extent remunerated, if he perform any very gallant or 
brilliant exploit—the other almost equally certain, that do what he 
may, he will probably be overlooked altogether, or, if his exploit be 
commemorated, it will be after a tedious delay of ten, fifteen or 
twenty years. In such great emergencies, as I referred to above, the 
former is stimulated to volunteer his services as one of a forlorn 
hope, where the chances are twenty to one against his escape—the 
other, if detailed for the service, will doubtless perform his duty, 
but will have had little temptation to offer himself as a volunteer.

Doubtless such considerations have great influence on the conduct of 
British military and naval officers. Whenever they perform any very 
signal or glorious exploit, they are morally certain of due and prompt 
attention being paid them. With us, if an officer victoriously defends 
a fort against an overwhelming superior force, as Colonel Croghan 
did—if he intrepidly destroy an important vessel of war, belonging to 
an enemy, and by that glorious act spread the fame of his country in 
remote nations, as Decatur, and his brave companions did—if he defeat 
a numerous army, as Scott and Brown have done—if he preserve a vessel 
of war by a rare union of ardor, tact, and energy, as Hull did when 
pursued by a fleet—if he capture or destroy an entire fleet, as Perry 
and M’Donough have done—what is his reward? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps 
after a lapse of ten, a dozen, or twenty “lingering, lagging years” of 
suspense, he is, at a time when the exploit by which it was earned is 
almost forgotten, rewarded with a gold-hilted sword!

By-the-bye, swords are, except for officers in actual service, a very 
injudicious mode of testifying national gratitude. To such officers 
they may be very appropriate, as they may carry them on their persons, 
and their appearance will recall the recollection of the action for 
which they were awarded.[1] But a service of plate, which might not 
cost as much as a gold-hilted sword, lying on a sideboard, or used by 
the party in his entertainments, would more effectually tend to 
gratify that laudable pride and ambition, which, say what we may, have 
a powerful tendency to produce almost every thing estimable in human 
conduct.

[Footnote 1: Lieutenant Webster, in a letter received from him some 
years since, corroborated this idea: “I keep the sword generally in my 
closet, unless a friend should request to see it.”]

Of the striking cases in our history, which have called forth, and 
which justify these strictures, I shall present those of General 
Starke, Commodore Decatur, and Lieutenant Webster.


_General Starke_.

That the acknowledgment of the Independence of the United States by, 
and the treaty of alliance with, France, accelerated the 
acknowledgment on the part of Great Britain, is a point admitted on 
all hands. Those arrangements with France probably saved the country 
the horrors of two or three years additional warfare—and this at a 
time when its resources were nearly exhausted, and a fearful gloom had 
for a long time pervaded the horizon.

It is equally true, that the battle of Saratoga and the capture of a 
powerful, well-disciplined army, commanded by an enterprising general, 
decided the hitherto wavering councils of Louis XVI. to admit the 
United States into the fellowship of nations.

Should there be any doubts on the subject, they will be removed by an 
attention to the chronology of that period.

Dr. Franklin arrived in Paris, in December, 1776, and used his utmost 
endeavors to obtain an acknowledgment of American Independence from 
month to month, in vain. He was fed with those vague promises, of 
which courtiers can be so lavish, but which, however specious, mean 
little or nothing. At length was fought the important battle of 
Saratoga, on the 17th of October, 1777. The news probably reached the 
Court of Versailles early in December. The treaties of alliance and 
acknowledgment of independence were signed on the 7th of February, 
1778, after a lapse of only eight or nine weeks from the arrival of 
that intelligence. This time was probably employed in concocting the 
terms and was by no means too much for such a mighty business.[2] 
Could the Jew Apella, for a moment, doubt the cause that led that 
court to the recognition of American Independence?

[Footnote 2: “In the midst of this supposed gloomy state of affairs in 
America, the news of the surrender of the British army commanded by 
General Burgoyne, to that of the Americans under General Gates, at 
Saratoga, on the 17th October, 1777, arrived in France; and at the 
very moment when the French cabinet was as yet undecided in regard to 
the steps to be adopted relative to the United States. This memorable 
event immediately turned the scale, and fixed the French nation in 
their attachment to the infant republic.”—_Memoirs of Franklin_, p. 
382.]

This preface appeared necessary to shed a proper blaze of light on the 
glorious battle of Bennington, the turning point of the war to the 
northward, which directly led to the triumph at Saratoga, and to the 
capture of the bombastic British commander. National gratitude could, 
at its utmost stretch, scarcely overpay an achievement pregnant with 
such all-important consequences.

{487} General Carleton, who commanded the British forces in Canada, 
being regarded as not sufficiently energetic, was superseded by 
General Burgoyne, who stood in high estimation for energy, military 
skill and bravery. How far he answered expectation remains to be seen. 
He started from Canada early in December, 1776, and met with little 
resistance in his destructive and marauding career some hundred miles, 
till he arrived at Saratoga.

He issued his braggart proclamation on the 6th of December, in which 
he denounced extermination, through the instrumentality of the hordes 
of Indians, whom he had in his pay, against all who dared oppose his 
Majesty's arms. The prospect to the north was then to the last degree 
gloomy—defeat and disaster had marked the progress of the Americans. 
Those were “times that really tried men's souls.” Despondency had 
spread extensively. General Schuyler, who commanded the northern army, 
gives an appalling description of the state of things. “The torpor, 
criminal indifference, and want of spirit which so generally prevail, 
are more dangerous than all the efforts of the enemy.” On the 4th of 
July he resumes the subject—“We have not above four thousand 
continental troops; if men, one-third of whom are negroes, boys, and 
men too aged for the field, and indeed for any other service, can be 
called troops. The States, whence these troops came, can determine why 
such boys, negroes, and aged men were sent. A great part of the army 
took the field in a manner naked, without blankets, ill armed, and 
very deficient in accoutrements.”

Such was the deplorable state of affairs to the north, a few weeks 
previous to the time when Starke made his appearance on the arena. 
General Burgoyne, being considerably straitened for provisions of 
every kind, and having learned, by his spies, that there was a large 
supply of flour, corn, and cattle, collected at Bennington, guarded 
only by militia, of whom he entertained great contempt, despatched a 
body of five hundred Germans with one hundred Indians, under the 
command of Colonel Baum, to seize them. The Germans, being heavily 
armed, and the roads greatly obstructed, were several days in marching 
between thirty and forty miles.

General Starke, who had for some time previously employed all his 
influence and energies in collecting as many militia as possible, 
commenced an attack on Baum's troops, immediately on their arrival; 
but, after a short struggle, had to retire to some little distance; 
meanwhile, Baum, finding his situation perilous, fortified himself 
within a double breast-work, and sent for assistance to Burgoyne. On 
the other hand, Starke, having received a reinforcement on the 16th of 
August, renewed his attack on Baum; and, notwithstanding the strength 
of his defences, and the bravery of his troops, carried the 
fortifications, and made prisoners of all that were not killed. This 
battle was just ended when a reinforcement of five hundred Germans, 
under Breyman, made its appearance. The Americans, though extremely 
fatigued by the assault, and a battle of two hours, attacked the new 
enemies with such determined bravery, that their efforts were crowned 
with a most complete victory, after a hard fought battle of several 
hours. The results of the two battles were, the capture of about seven 
hundred prisoners, one thousand stand of arms, four brass 
field-pieces, twelve brass drums, two hundred and fifty dragoon 
swords, four ammunition wagons, eight loads of baggage, and twenty 
horses. Among the prisoners was Colonel Baum, who shortly afterwards 
died of his wounds. There were killed in the two battles about three 
hundred men, of whom, it is supposed, one third were Americans.

As a reward for this glorious triumph of patriotism and heroic 
bravery, Congress _liberally passed a resolution of thanks to General 
Starke and his brave soldiers! and promoted him to the rank of 
brigadier-general!_ WERE NOT THESE THANKS AND PROMOTION ABUNDANT 
REWARD?

Whether this veteran received a pension or not, cannot now be 
ascertained. But be that as it may, he was, in his old age, I believe 
about ninety, reduced to penury. On the 18th of March, 1818, forty 
years after his exploits, he petitioned Congress for a pension 
(perhaps an additional one.) The petition was referred, in the House 
of Representatives, to a committee, who reported a bill on the 19th, 
which, conformably with the usual procrastinating routine of Congress 
proceedings,[3] lay over untouched for five weeks, till the 18th of 
April, when it was passed and sent to the Senate, who referred it to 
the committee on pensions, who reported it that day, without 
amendments. It was read in committee of the whole, on Monday the 20th, 
and agreed to _with amendments_. It being against the rules of the 
Senate to pass a bill the same day on which it has undergone 
amendments, Mr. Fromentin moved to suspend the rule. But, regardless 
of the services, the claims, and the sufferings of the hero, the 
motion, alas! was rejected—Congress adjourned next day—and, of course, 
the bill was lost. Next session it passed. Starke received one year's 
pension, but died before another came around—covered with glory, but 
steeped in penury!!

[Footnote 3: To this general censure, there was one remarkable 
exception. The bill, to render members of Congress salary officers, at 
the rate of fifteen hundred dollars per annum, was hurried forward 
with an engine of high pressure. It was read the first and second 
time, March 6th, 1815—the third time, and passed the 9th. Received and 
read first time in Senate, the 11th, second time 12th, third time, and 
passed, the 14th. Laid before the President, and passed, the 18th. 
Thus, this bill, so extremely obnoxious, was hurried through, from its 
initiation till its final ratification in twelve days.]


_The Capture and Destruction of the Philadelphia frigate_.

History furnishes few instances of heroic daring—ardent 
zeal—unconquerable energy—and nice tact and skill, equal to the 
capture and destruction of the frigate Philadelphia, in the harbor of 
Tripoli—and, all the circumstances of the case duly considered, it may 
be doubted whether any thing superior to it can be found on record. 
Never was there a much more hazardous enterprize—never was there a 
greater disparity between the means of attack and the means of 
defence. Indeed, it must be confessed, that all the dictates of 
prudence were opposed to the undertaking. But I will not enfeeble the 
interest of the reader, by attempting to describe the affair, when it 
is so transcendently better done in the glowing and eloquent speech of 
the Hon. Mr. Robbins, one of the senators from the State of Rhode 
Island.

“The Philadelphia was captured from the barbarians when she was, and 
after she had long been, in their secure possession, in their own 
harbour, and under the guns of their own fort, and where she was kept 
fully {488} manned and armed, as their pride, as well as defence, and 
where she was a monument at once for barbarian triumph, and for 
American humiliation. _This protecting fort was armed with more than a 
hundred guns, and backed, it was said, by an army in camp of twenty 
thousand men._ The banks of the harbor were _lined with land-batteries 
throughout, and armed also with more than a hundred guns_, and its 
waters were guarded by a thousand seamen. Still this little gallant 
band, the recaptors, in the dead of night, with Decatur at their head, 
made their way to this frigate, boarded her, cut down every barbarian 
on board, or drove him over her sides into the water; then, in 
obedience to orders to set fire to her in different parts, they burnt 
her down to the water's edge, and made their retreat in safety; and 
_all this in the face and fire of the artillery of that fort and of 
those land-batteries_.

“Let it be recollected that this daring enterprise was out of the 
routine of the regular naval service; it was, indeed, permitted, but 
not directed by the commanding officer on that station; it was wholly 
a volunteer enterprise. It was originally suggested by the gallant and 
ever-to-be-lamented Decatur, then a lieutenant, and but a youth, as it 
were. He saw that the thing was practicable to spirits daring like his 
own, and that the achievement, though full of danger, would be full of 
honor. He saw the brilliant page it would make in history; but he did 
not foresee that it would be but the title-page to that volume of 
brilliant exploits, which subsequently were to illustrate our naval 
annals, of which this was to be the precursor and animating model. He 
soon collected his volunteer band of congenial spirits, all young, 
like himself, and, like him, burning with a thirst for distinction. 
Confiding in themselves, they went to the enterprise, confident of 
success, and did realize what to colder minds would seem but the dream 
of romance. It is pleasing to note the number of our naval heroes, who 
afterwards so much distinguished themselves in our naval battles, who 
gave their juvenile and first proofs of heroism in this heroic 
enterprise.”

Thirty-two years have elapsed since this achievement took place, and 
the halls or Congress have, probably, witnessed twenty or thirty 
frivolous debates on this simple question, whether a great, a 
powerful, a wealthy nation, lying under heavy obligations to some of 
its heroic citizens, should honorably discharge the debt, or, through 
an unworthy species of chicane, delay or evade the payment—debates, 
which, in addition to the dishonor they inflicted on the nation, 
probably cost full as much as would have satisfied the claimants, and 
rescued them from the distress and embarrassments caused by the delay 
of justice. A delay of justice is often equivalent to a denial of it, 
and, for aught we know, it may be somewhat the case in the present 
instance. The justice of the claim has, I apprehend, never been 
disputed. The difficulty, so far as I understand the subject, is on 
the apportionment of the sum acknowledged to be due, among the 
different claimants. But what character would an individual deserve, 
who owed a sum of money to a number of persons, and delayed, or 
refused to pay any of them, under pretence that he could not precisely 
fix their respective quotas? Would he not be set down, and with 
justice, as a sharper. And are the rules of morality less obligatory 
on nations than on individuals?

If a proper disposition to do justice prevailed with Congress, the 
difficulty might have been easily obviated, by passing an act awarding 
the whole sum to the mass of the captors, subject to an apportionment 
by an arbitration, or by a jury.

If the widow of the illustrious Decatur, and her fellow-claimants, 
whoever they may be, are not common paupers, supported by eleemosynary 
aid—are not tenants of hospitals, or alms-houses—their escape from 
this frightful result, attaches no merit to those majorities whose 
cold-blooded and heartless votes are recorded against the act of 
paramount justice involved in this question.


_Lieutenant Webster and Lieutenant Newcomb_.

It cannot for a moment be doubted that the gallant attack on the 
British, in their attempt on Baltimore, by a six gun battery, called 
Fort Patapsco, and by another small battery called Fort Covington, the 
former commanded by Lieutenant Webster, and the latter by Lieutenant 
Newcomb, were the chief means of saving the city from capture. The 
British contemplated a simultaneous attack by land and water; and, 
while the troops were landing at North Point, a flotilla, consisting 
of sixteen ships including five bomb vessels, proceeded up the 
Patapsco. At one o'clock, A. M. on the 14th of September, 1814, twelve 
hundred picked men were detached with scaling ladders, to land on the 
south side of the city. They had eluded Fort M’Henry by a somewhat 
circuitous route. As they approached the shore, the two small forts, 
of whose existence, it is believed, they were ignorant, opened a most 
destructive fire upon them, which sunk some of their barges, and 
killed many of their men. These unexpected disasters wholly deranged 
all their plans, and made them retreat in a state of discomfiture. In 
their retreat they came within gunshot of Fort M’Henry, which raked 
them with great havoc.

Had they passed the two small forts, and debarked their men at the 
contemplated point, nothing could have saved Baltimore from falling a 
prey to those who had so recently taken Washington; and sharing in the 
ignominious fate of that city, as, even without this co-operation, the 
former, Baltimore, was in most imminent danger.

For this invaluable service, which would be cheaply purchased by 
millions of dollars, the two Lieutenants received the thanks of the 
City of Baltimore, and each a gold-hilted sword, which cost between 
three and four hundred dollars. To Lieutenant Webster, whose 
circumstances were humble, a donation of an equal sum in _l'argent 
comptant_ would have been infinitely more useful. Sometime afterwards 
he opened a grocery store, nearly opposite the Indian Queen, in Market 
street, the principal thoroughfare in Baltimore, a city which was so 
largely indebted to him, and whose inhabitants ought to have vied with 
each other in their encouragement of him. But, alas! so slender was 
their support, that he was unable to maintain himself by his business, 
and finally failed. What has become of him since, I have no means of 
ascertaining with precision, but have some reason to believe that he 
is now in the service of the United States.

  “Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend!”


{489}


DIARY OF AN INVALID.

NO. II.


THE PORTRAIT.

My life, during the last three years, has been as variable as the 
seasons. My own habits and manner of existence often remind me of 
those gregarious birds, whose mysterious and far off voices we hear, 
singing the requiem of dying pleasure, as they journey from one 
climate to another. As soon as I have made an agreeable settlement in 
one place, and begin to enjoy the sympathies of society, (for believe 
me, gentle reader, my heart was not cast in the misanthrope's mould,) 
either a blast from the north, or a fiery dart from the south, warns 
me that I am out of my proper latitude. On consulting with my 
physician on the fittest location for my approaching winter quarters, 
he suggested Charleston, in South Carolina, as offering the twofold 
advantage of a regular and mild temperature of climate, and all the 
pleasures arising from intercourse with the most polished and 
interesting society in the United States. Knowing something of the 
querulous, desponding disposition attendant on protracted disease, he 
encouraged me to the removal, by remarking that he had himself spent a 
winter in that city, under circumstances much more depressing; and he 
could truly say, he retained none but the most delightful 
reminiscences of the place or its inhabitants. He had formed many 
valuable and enduring friendships among its citizens, and on some of 
them he should confer a favor, by recommending his friend to their 
hospitable courtesies. He furnished me with several letters of 
introduction; among them was one to Col. H. B. Ashton; in handing me 
which, he paused, exclaiming with enthusiastic emotion, “Oh! that I 
could take the place of this letter—that I could grasp again that 
hand, the pledge of as true a heart as ever beat in a human breast.” 
He continued—“His address you will readily ascertain, as he is a man 
of some distinction there. You have only to forward _this_, and I will 
warrant that you never repent the trouble of presenting it.”

On the first day of November, I took passage in a commodious packet, 
bound from New York to Charleston. The day of embarkation was fine, 
and my feelings of regret, on leaving my native city, gave place to an 
exhilarating superiority, as, in clearing her port, I saw her proud 
ramparts spurn the encroaching billow, while the flag of every nation 
swept by me, seeking her free and rich commerce.

We had a fair and pleasant voyage to Charleston, which (except in 
contrast with my own _imperial city_,) I should pronounce both an 
interesting and handsome looking town from its harbor. On landing, I 
had more than enough very civil offers to take me to the best hotel, 
in the best coach, on the very best terms. This matter was soon 
settled, and away I was whirled into the heart of the town, and set 
down before a spacious and ancient looking building, not exhibiting 
all the Corinthian ornament of our northern style of architecture, but 
sumptuous in its accommodations. There was an ease and an elegance in 
all its “appointments,” very gratifying to the flesh, as I can say 
from experience. Either I was in the humor to be pleased with every 
thing, or every thing was in the humor to please me. The very 
attendants, to the lowest menial, evinced the most perfect delight in 
waiting my pleasure, or doing my bidding; unlike our northern gentry, 
who by their impertinent _empressement_, show that they are working 
“for a _consideration_.”

The first morning after my arrival opened with smiles so bland, that I 
was tempted to walk to the post office and deposit my letters of 
introduction; for I soon learnt that the etiquette here is not to 
force yourself upon the acquaintance of any one. The following day 
brought a number of calls in answer to my letters. The gentlemen were 
all courteous and prepossessing, but none came up exactly to my idea 
of Ashton. It was late in the evening, and I was getting a little 
miffed, that my claims on his attention had not been acknowledged with 
the promptitude my importance demanded, when a quick rap at the door 
announced a visiter. Before I had time to smooth down my ruffled 
temper into any thing like complacency, in walked a tall and elegant 
gentleman, who, addressing me, said, “May H. Ashton claim the 
privilege of a friend, in greeting Mr. M—— with a heartfelt shake of 
the hand?” He went on to say, that an unexpected call into the country 
had prevented his receiving intelligence of my arrival until late in 
the evening, which, he remarked, must account for his apparent 
neglect. But as soon as I saw the man, every unworthy thought was 
gone. He could not be mistaken. Nature had set her stamp upon him, as 
one of her _premium_ productions, when she makes the moral attributes 
correspond and harmonize in beautiful proportions with noble external 
lineaments. He had passed the zenith of life, being then perhaps sixty 
years old, yet time had not extinguished the fires of youth; tempered 
and mellowed in the school of experience, they beamed still in the 
smile of benevolence, and were practically illustrated in every 
virtue. I could dwell on the charming traits of his character 
forever—but lest I should tire my reader, I will hasten on to the 
incident which gave rise to the following interesting narrative.

It was soon settled, that I should spend as much of my leisure time as 
I found agreeable, at the house of my new friend. He gave me a sort of 
running history of what I might expect to encounter, of noise and 
confusion, in a castle populous with brats of all ages and sizes; but, 
concluded he, “good humor, like charity, hides all their failings, in 
my eyes, at least.” With these prepossessions, you will not be 
surprised to learn, that I found his family not only pleasant, but 
interesting. Mrs. Ashton was a lady, whose polished and dignified 
manners showed that she had moved in the select circle of society, 
which she still adorned by the charms of her conversation and the 
sweetness of her disposition. Her two eldest sons were settled in 
life, and the youngest daughter at a boarding school; but the six 
little rioters of grand-children were sufficiently _uproarious_, to 
show that the tranquillity of the house must not depend on silence.

I had, on my first entrance into the saloon, remarked a PORTRAIT, 
which, with many others, adorned the room, but which, though it hung 
in a much less conspicuous light, had, from the first moment I beheld 
it, irresistibly attracted my attention. Its subject was a young lady, 
apparently not more than sixteen years old. Whenever the conversation 
flagged, or my thoughts {490} were free, my eyes insensibly turned to 
the charmed spot, and there they would rest, while with a strange 
delight, my mind would busy itself in trying to define, and to gift 
with “a local habitation and a name,” the deep, overpowering 
sympathies its beauty awakened in the mind of the beholder. I can 
speak of the effect on my feelings, but words would be inadequate to 
express its surpassing loveliness. In beholding it, I could only 
exclaim, in the celebrated words of Burke, “There surely never lighted 
on this globe a more delightful vision.” To describe the features 
separately, would give you no idea of the bewitching harmony of the 
whole expression. “Her eyes dark charm 'twere vain to tell.” Their 
light seemed as emanated from the celestial world, and while you were 
gazing on it, your soul appeared to catch something of the beatific 
vision. And yet this heavenly being seemed not sublimated beyond the 
affections of earth—No, the rainbow of hope and love looked as it were 
spanning a dark cloud, which might blot it out forever. This 
fascination continued from day to day, and yet no remark or inquiry 
was made as to the original of the portrait. I felt as if there were 
something mysterious or sacred about it, and that it would be 
intruding into the sanctuary of private feelings, to show any 
curiosity on the subject. None of the family ever alluded to it, 
though they must have observed the deep interest with which I regarded 
it.

One evening, after all the little nurslings were hushed, we sat as 
usual, telling over, with the garrulity of age, the events of “by-gone 
days.” Ashton's talent for animated narrative was of the first order, 
and the hours flew on the wings of delight, when I could get him to 
dilate on the revolutionary struggles at the south. Of those times his 
mind retained the faint recollections of childhood, but his memory was 
stored with volumes of their kindling and heart-stirring facts, which 
seemed to possess double interest, when told by the patriot and the 
sage. His early fancies had been fed with this “ancient lore” from the 
fountain of a mother's love and a mother's instructions. Listening to 
her stories of the self-denial, hardships and dangers, our ancestors 
encountered in the path to freedom, his soul had become transformed 
into their image; and now, the spirits of Laurens, and Rutledge, and 
Sumpter, seemed to stalk before me, while he rehearsed their deeds.

I inquired if any members of his own immediate family were engaged in 
the war? “None,” he replied, “but its evils were felt in almost every 
family, and its consequences, like those of other civil wars, were 
often destructive to domestic peace and happiness. Such was the case 
in our own house. I have remarked the fixed attention with which you 
have gazed on a female portrait in my saloon. It is not often I lift 
the veil which conceals the story of one whose fate was so intimately 
linked with the tenderest feelings of my own heart; but I see that 
your sympathies are already interested, and if you desire it, I will 
give you a brief sketch of the original of the portrait, referring, 
where my recollections fail, to my mother's memoranda.” I expressed my 
high gratification at his offer, and he proceeded to relate the 
following particulars.

“Morna Ridgely was the only child of Colonel Charles Ridgely, an 
officer in the forty-second regiment of British light infantry. He was 
the younger son of a noble family in Northumberland; and, as usual in 
such cases, the laws of entail excluded him from the advantages of 
patrimony, leaving him to choose between the church and the army. He 
possessed a gallant, noble, and sincere disposition, and scorned the 
idea of making ‘merchandise of the gospel;’ but to fight his country's 
battles, to bring glory to Old England, was quite congenial to his 
feelings. His choice was made, and he was to go into the army as soon 
as a vacancy occurred in the regiment. Meantime, he was pursuing his 
studies at the University of Edinburgh, where many of the younger 
branches of English nobility are sent.

“It was here that he formed an attachment to a lovely young Scottish 
maiden, by the name of Morna Donald. Her father had been the leader of 
a clan, which had often made incursions on the border, and, of course, 
his name was in ‘ill odor’ with the English gentry of the neighboring 
lands. But the gentle Morna bloomed in unstained purity and innocence, 
the brightest flower on Scottish heath—and she gave the ‘jewel of her 
heart’ to the gallant and open hearted Ridgely, not dreaming how soon 
it would be withered by the cold blight of scorn and unkindness.

“All his family, except my mother, spurned poor Morna as the daughter 
of a savage rebel, and declared they felt it a disgrace to receive her 
into their houses. Ridgely's feelings were wounded in the keenest 
manner by this treatment, and he would have sunk under the 
mortification, but for the soothing affection of my mother, between 
whom and himself there existed the warmest and most confidential 
intimacy. She proffered her heart and her house to receive the forlorn 
Morna, who found her bosom the ark of safety and repose, amidst the 
storms by which she was buffetted. About this time his commission was 
obtained, but the regiment not being called into service, the young 
couple, at my mother's solicitation, remained with her during the 
first year of their marriage. The spirits of the young bride had 
received a shock of disappointment from which they never recovered. 
She was calm and resigned, but the thrill of pleasure which once gave 
joy to her heart and beauty to her countenance, was gone never to 
return. Sadness preyed on her health, but her friends looked forward 
in hope to the interesting period when a mother's cares and a mother's 
love should win her spirit back to hope and happiness.

“How fallacious are human expectations! The same wave that cast the 
little orphan on the shores of time, bore the mother to the ocean of 
eternity. With a smile of perfect confidence, she gave the bud of 
promise into the arms of my mother, saying, this is yours, the last 
gift of the dying Morna—a precious pledge of her unwavering trust in 
your affection. And most faithfully was that pledge redeemed by my 
mother! from that moment did the little Morna lie in her bosom, and 
receive all the tenderness of maternal care. Having a few months 
previously lost her only child, an infant twelve months old, all her 
tenderness was now centred in her new charge, whose beauty and 
sprightliness promised to repay all her attention.

“Ridgely was ordered to join his regiment and proceed to Ireland, 
where a rebellion had recently broken out. In departing, he bathed the 
little orphan with his tears, and renewed the gift to his sister, not 
knowing that he should ever behold her more. The child grew; the 
charms of her mind and person fast unfolded in the {491} sunshine of 
my mother's love, and she soon became the joy and pride of her heart. 
Her father returned to England when she was four years old, and had 
the long wished for happiness of clasping his beloved child, the image 
of his lost wife, to his bosom; and the shattered fragments of his 
heart were gathered again around his infant daughter. How gratifying 
to him, to see how powerfully she felt the tie of birth! The highest 
boon she could ask, was to sit on her father's knee, and lean her 
bright check on his heart, while she persuaded him to stay with her, 
and she would love him ‘as much as aunt Ashton.’ Among the ‘dire 
chimeras’ of the nursery, she had heard many tales of the ‘wild 
Irish,’ and her little heart beat with anxious fears for her father's 
safety; she could not be quieted until he promised not to go among 
them any more.

“But now the young Morna was herself to be the adventurer. Major 
Ashton (my father) was commanded to embark with his regiment for the 
American colonies. This was unexpected and sad news to my dear 
parents; but there was no time to parley. The yoke of servitude began 
to sit uneasily on the necks of the colonists, under the growing 
demands of government—and an increased army was necessary to enforce 
submission. With decision and promptitude worthy of a better cause, my 
father obeyed the summons. The military hero is bred in the school of 
suffering and self-denial. A separation from all the endearments of 
social and domestic life, he considers one of the necessary 
consequences of the service, and he submits with dignity. Such was the 
conduct of Colonel Ridgely, in parting with his only child. His tears 
fell on her cheek, while with trembling fingers he threw back the 
thick curls from her forehead, that he might behold all of a face so 
lovely and so beloved. It was happy for Morna that she could not 
comprehend the fullness of his agony. She knew that she was her 
father's darling, and her heart beat in unison with his as far as she 
understood his feelings; but the page of the future is gilded with 
bright hues in childhood, and she readily yielded to the soothing 
assurances of her aunt, that either she would return to England, or 
her father be sent to America. So she was comforted, and her thoughts 
were diverted by the wonderful and mysterious preparations (as it 
seemed to her) her aunt was making to go away. In the course of a 
month she bade adieu to the white cliffs of Albion; and after a 
tedious voyage of thirty-eight days, Morna's uncle pointed out to her 
the distant shores of the western world. She gazed on the prospect 
with wonder-waiting eyes, for she had never thought of any land so far 
from her home and country.

“Major Ashton's troops were landed at Boston; but as that post was 
well supplied, the reinforcements were stationed in the various 
commercial towns along the seaboard, to enforce compliance with the 
new system of taxation. He was ordered to Charleston, in South 
Carolina; and after a stormy cruise of ten days arrived in harbor and 
disembarked his forces, making Charleston his head quarters. For the 
sake of brevity, I must pass over many intervening circumstances, and 
even years, not necessary to the main interest of my story. I must not 
omit, however, to mention that my mother was called, the second year 
of her residence here, to experience the bitterest of all calamities, 
in the death of her beloved husband, who fell a victim to the fever of 
the climate. I was an infant at that time, but I can imagine the 
desolation of her soul, left a widow, and a stranger in a foreign 
land; and my earliest recollections of her are associated with times, 
when she sat silent, and almost unheeding my importunity to know what 
made her weep so much. I find a letter from Colonel Ridgely to my 
mother, written during that year, informing her that his regiment 
would sail in a few days for the East Indies, to relieve another, 
which was suffering greatly from disease. ‘It is uncertain,’ he says, 
‘how long we may continue on this station, though the present prospect 
is, that we shall only act as a temporary relief.’ He speaks of his 
dear child, and the anxious and melancholy thoughts that fill his 
mind, when he reflects on the distance and the time that must separate 
him from her.

“But time, as it passed the young Morna, had a dove's wing. Her bark 
of happiness was borne smoothly and joyfully down the current of life. 
Young hope spread her sail, and no cloud dimmed the bright horizon. 
The toys of childhood were gradually laid aside for the pleasures and 
occupations of intellectual cultivation. My mother, while she guarded 
against the perversion of the superior talents of her pupil, spared no 
expense in adorning her mind with every lasting and lovely 
accomplishment. But of all adornings, she considered that of a meek 
and quiet spirit to be of greatest price, having learned it in the 
school of sad experience; and to this end she labored with the 
waywardness of childhood and the vanity of youth, believing that they 
who sow in hope will reap in joy. And such was her recompense. The 
natural sensibilities of her niece were exquisite: she trembled lest 
by taking a wrong direction they should prove the scourge of her life. 
Byron says,

  ——‘Our young affections run to waste,
  Or water but the desert.’

Far otherwise was it with my lovely cousin. Many sweet and endearing 
instances of her goodness my memory still retains. She was my mother's 
almoner to the cottages of the poor. On these errands I was frequently 
her companion; and though my wayward and loitering step exercised her 
patience in no small degree, she never chid me in any voice but that 
of love, or denied me any innocent gratification, however great the 
self-denial it imposed on her. You will not wonder that she was the 
idol of the indigent and helpless. Among this mass of people, the 
African slaves excited her warmest sympathy—evinced in benevolence of 
the most practical sort. Instead of joining her schoolmates on 
holidays in selfish recreations, she would petition her aunt to carry 
some nice soup to aunt Dinah, or to read the bible to blind Betty who 
loved to hear it so much. I believe they looked upon her as a 
ministering angel; something celestial compounded of a purer flesh and 
blood than sinful mortals, ‘God bless and love you Miss Morn; you are 
too pretty for this world!’ was their usual salutation.

“When my mother arrived in Charleston, she sought out a faithful 
servant as a nurse for her young family. Margaret was her name, which 
we soon contracted into the endearing appellative of ‘Mammy Marget.’ 
She was the most devoted and faithful servant I ever knew. I loved and 
venerated her next to my mother. She doated on my cousin; with 
watchful fidelity she {492} guarded her health and happiness so far as 
her limited sphere extended, and was rewarded with the deep and tender 
attachment of a grateful heart.

“In her school, Morna was a general favorite. Arbitress in every 
disagreement, her candor and disinterested kindness could admit no 
appeal from its fair and equal decision. With Mary Percy, one of her 
classmates, a girl of congenial tastes and feelings, she was very 
intimate. The rocks and dells in these environs still bear memorials 
of their merry gambols and rambles amongst the wild luxuriance of 
nature. Alfred Percy, also, the brother of the young lady, and two 
years older, was frequently one of the party, and performed wonders of 
agility and bold adventure in various feats of climbing, leaping, and 
swimming, any of which he would carry to the utmost extent of 
possibility to oblige or amuse Morna. In a short time he had so won 
her admiration as to be her beau ideal of all that was noble and 
elegant: however, she was not the girl to be fascinated on a slight 
acquaintance. The current of her affections ran in too deep a channel 
to be ruffled by the wing of every bird that flitted over it. My 
mother's experienced eye discerned the growing attachment of Percy 
towards her lovely niece, and while she would not have influenced her 
decision in a matter where the affections are so deeply interested, 
she hoped the time might come when she would not be insensible to the 
love of one so worthy of her heart and her choice.

“We must turn from the visions of youth and the dream of love to our 
political horizon, which now grew darker and darker. Our colonies had 
reached the lowest point of oppression and injustice; they felt the 
burden intolerable; and rising, threatened to heave off the weight 
that was crushing them. You recollect the affair at Lexington struck 
the first note of revolt, which was re-echoed by most of the States in 
the Union. South Carolina was, perhaps, at that time, the most loyal 
of all to the British government; but even here there were not a few 
whose hearts swelled with indignation at her tyrannical exactions. My 
mother's feelings on this subject were identified with those of the 
suffering colonists, and she felt that if she had a son able to do his 
country service, she would buckle on his armor, and speed him with her 
prayers, in the cause of freedom and suffering humanity.

“After the first shock of resistance, you recollect the States were 
unanimous in the cause of liberty; though the scene of war was, during 
the first part of the contest, confined to the Northern and middle 
States, and our arms were generally successful wherever valor and 
dexterity could supply the want of superior numbers and discipline. 
How did the courageous youth of South Carolina burn to join their 
brethren of the North in the struggle for liberty! The hot valor of 
young Percy, like that of his namesake of poetic fame, spurred him on 
to rush into the marshalled ranks, from which he could scarcely be 
withheld by the sober forecast of his father, who foresaw that the 
tide of battle was already tending towards the south.

“Information was at length received, that a British squadron had been 
fitted out for the reduction of Charleston; and, detained by 
unfavorable weather, was lying at Cape Fear. This gave the Americans 
time to strengthen their fortifications, so as to make an attack from 
the seaboard extremely difficult. In the month of June, 1776, the 
squadron anchored off the bar. What a moment of thrilling anxiety was 
this to every true American heart in the place! The land forces were 
commanded by Cornwallis and Clinton; the naval by Sir Peter Parker. 
The provincial forces were commanded by General Lee. Our young hero 
Percy, was honored with a lieutenancy in his army. It was some days 
before the British troops could disembark, owing to the impediment in 
crossing the bar. At length, however, they effected a landing on Long 
Island, and prepared for an attack. Percy's post was in the select 
division, placed on the main land, opposite Sullivan's island, the 
only successful point of attack.

“The evening before the expected battle he called at my mother's, 
still the spot of peculiar attraction whenever a moment of leisure 
allowed him the indulgence of his warmest and tenderest feelings. She 
candidly expressed her fears for his safety, knowing the dangerous 
post he would occupy, and his fearless intrepidity. She charged him to 
remember how many hearts would throb with deep interest for him on 
that eventful day, and concluded by hoping that discretion would 
temper his courage. He replied with restrained emotion, ‘I hope, dear 
madam, I am not insensible to your regard, and that of many kind 
friends; but there is one whose interest and sympathy I would rather 
win than the world besides.’ He looked towards Morna, but she was 
gone. He followed her retreating footsteps to her favorite alcove. 
‘Morna,’ he said, assuming the manner of their childhood's freedom, ‘I 
have heard you say, courage should be your second requisite in a hero. 
I come to ask a token from you as an incentive to valor to-morrow.’ 
‘Would you desire a higher,’ she answered, ‘than the cause of your 
country? Oh, Alfred, it is not your honor or courage that is in 
danger, but your life.’ ‘Then give me this bright tress, which has 
escaped from its bondage, to remind me that you are among those who 
care for my safety. It will be the first and brightest charm my heart 
ever wore.’ Morna spoke not: how could she? But her lover read the 
confession of her heart in the ‘many-colored Iris’ which filled her 
eye. You may imagine the scene that followed, when the fervor and 
faith of young hearts are pledged on the eve of doubtful battle. The 
hour of separation came, and Percy was taking his leave of her he 
loved best, with a countenance of hope unclouded by doubt or fear. He 
whispered to Morna, in going, ‘Remember the token, the talisman of 
protection and favor to the knight without fear and without reproach.’ 
‘Noble Percy!’ exclaimed Mrs. Ashton, ‘you were never formed to wear 
the chain of slavery.’ Morna, too, felt proud of her lover; but in the 
moment of her exultation, she thought of the perils to which his life 
must be exposed, and the dark omen of dread dimmed the bright star of 
her destiny. My mother, while she evinced the warm sympathy which all 
the circumstances of the newly awakened feelings in her niece's bosom 
were calculated to inspire, endeavored to calm them by pointing to the 
bright side of the picture, and urging her to look forward with 
patient hope to the probably successful issue. But Mammy Marget, who 
felt, perhaps, quite as much in whatever distressed her young 
mistress, with the characteristic propensity of narrow-minded 
ignorance, sought to lay the blame of her tears on somebody, and who 
so probably the cause as Percy. {493} ‘Mas Alfred, he's always so 
violent, he must be the most foremost of any, no place will do for him 
but the hottest. Why not put some of the raggamuffins, as the British 
calls the militia, in that dangerous place, they mean creters don't 
care—jist as live shoot down a clever young man like him as a dog. 
But, maybe this don't comfort you, Miss Morn, my pretty dove, so I 
won't say no more but the truth, and that is, he's as ginerous as you; 
for but t'other day, he ask me, Mammy Marget, how you do these hard 
times? I tell him, well as other folks I reckon, I only wish we had 
some of that good sugar and coffee that them mean English is 
squandering out yander, with their white sarvants to tend'm, struttin' 
about like peacocks in their finery. Then I see the fire in his eye, 
and he say, bridling up jest like him, I would not fill my mouth with 
any of their good things; but as it does not hurt your conscience, 
take this and buy some, (and he give me ever so much money,) they will 
be _mean enough_, as you say, to extort upon the penury of a poor 
slave. That's jist what he say, I knowed what he meant in spite of his 
high larnt words, and thinks I, I'll remember 'em to tell Miss Morn.’

“You recollect the entire failure of this first expedition against 
Charleston, owing to the inability of the land and naval forces to 
unite in the attack. The American batteries sustained the fire from 
the fleet with unmoved firmness, and Percy won laurels by his 
intrepidity and presence of mind. The enemy seeing it impossible, in 
present circumstances, to gain footing, left Charleston harbor with 
all their forces; and during the two succeeding years, no further 
attempt was made to reduce this place.

“About this time a letter came to my mother, under the British 
passport. It was from Colonel Ridgely from whom she had received no 
intelligence for ten years. It informed her, that the state of affairs 
in America had recently recalled his regiment from India, with the 
design of transporting that, and several others, to the southern 
colonies, to oppose the combined forces of France and America. He 
lamented the occasion of his visit to a land where his tenderest and 
most cherished hopes were centered. He spoke of the necessity to which 
the ministry, by their harsh and unjust exactions had reduced the 
American colonies, of taking up arms in self-defence. Not even 
Chatham's eloquence could arrest the storm, though he had predicted 
with a prophet's inspiration, that the final issue would be the infamy 
of its originators, and the everlasting degradation of England. As an 
officer in his majesty's service, he said honor and loyalty forbade 
him to withdraw from the duties imposed on him, however his own 
individual feelings and opinions might prompt him to retire from the 
combat.

“You may well conceive with what mingled emotions of hope and 
disappointment the bosoms of a daughter and sister were filled on 
reading this letter. Morna's first words were, ‘Dear aunt, shall I 
live to see my beloved father in the ranks of my country's enemies? 
No, the grave would be far preferable—can nothing avert it? O! how 
shall I meet Alfred? His high soul will revolt at an alliance with the 
daughter of his country's enemy. Write to him, dear aunt, immediately 
for me, and release him from every obligation.’ ‘My beloved child,’ 
replied she, ‘I must first chide your generous haste, which would 
destroy both your own and Alfred's happiness. Can you suppose he could 
cease to love you, or to respect your father, only because he is 
engaged to support a cause, which, though we esteem it unjust, every 
loyal subject of Britain is bound to maintain? Rather let us seek 
resignation and comfort from heaven, and hope that God may over-rule 
the purposes of man for the good of all, and the glory of his name.’ 
Morna yielded to the opinion of her aunt, which in her calmer moments 
she felt to be just, and at her request tried to compose her agitated 
feelings, as she laid her aching head on that bosom which was alike 
the sanctuary of her joys and sorrows. Her wearied senses sunk into 
repose, and she was unconsciously placed on the couch of rest. This 
was scarcely done, when a quick knock was heard at the door. Mrs. 
Ashton hastened to attend the summons, and prevent any interruption 
from sudden noise. ‘Mr. Percy!’ was her exclamation, ‘is it you? Your 
countenance is the omen of evil tidings—are you the herald of recent 
disasters?’ ‘Madam, your look tells me you are not ignorant that the 
enemy, having gained possession of Georgia, is marching rapidly 
towards our capital. I have just received a major's commission, and 
orders to march my company to reinforce General Lincoln; but, like the 
crusader of old, I come, first to visit the shrine of my tutelar 
saint, and bear from its altar the token of conquest and safety. May I 
not see Miss Ridgely?’ My mother then related the story of the recent 
tidings from England, and the overwhelming effect on her niece's 
spirits. Percy remained silent, and his brow lowered with displeasure 
for a moment, but his noble nature rose triumphant over the irritation 
of national feeling. ‘I must see her,’ he said, with deep emotion; ‘I 
must assure her how much I love and admire the sensibility of her 
filial piety.’ My mother stept softly into the chamber, and found 
Morna sleeping soundly, but with a flushed cheek, indicating so high a 
degree of excitement, that she feared the consequences of awaking her. 
Mammy Marget, who was watching by her, declared it would be the death 
of her if she saw Mr. Percy now. ‘He's always so vilent, talking about 
honor and death. It's hardly worth while to lose honor or life 
fighting with they mean English, and the runaway niggers they git to 
join 'em. Oh no, he'll jist set Miss Morn to crying, for she bleeves 
every word he tells her. He can jist leave a message, or a little 
keepsake, or something to show he 'ant forgot her; and that he 
couldn't do, neither.’

“Mammy Marget's advice was certainly wise in this case, and after much 
earnest debate, Percy consented to yield to prudent counsel, and with 
a heavy heart took his leave. In a few hours he was on his route to 
join General Lincoln, who kept in advance of General Prevost, whose 
obvious design was to reach Charleston as soon as possible. General 
Moultrie, stationed to oppose his passage, found his efforts 
ineffectual; he passed with his superior force towards the capital, 
while Lincoln marched rapidly towards its relief. He despached in 
advance of his army a chosen body of mounted infantry, commanded by 
our young hero Percy, to guard the passes to the city, but the little 
band used all their efforts in vain.

“Prevost arrived within cannon shot, and summoned the town to 
surrender, on the 12th of May, 1779. But being summoned, did they do 
it? No, Lincoln was {494} advancing with a superior force, and the 
enemy dared not risk an attack, but prudently resolved to take 
possession of the islands of St. James and St. John, where they waited 
to be reinforced by the arrival of two frigates. In one of these 
vessels was Colonel Ridgely. His regiment was landed on Port Royal 
island, where they were commanded to wait further preparations to 
begin the attack. Colonel Ridgely's thoughts turned from the scene of 
military show towards his daughter, whose image, amidst all the 
vicissitudes of his wanderings, was still stamped in living colors on 
his heart. He was impelled to encounter every danger, to see her, if 
she still lived. A disguise was the only possible means of doing this, 
as all communication with the enemy was interdicted by the Americans, 
under the severest penalty. His ingenuity suggested the habit of an 
English chaplain, whose inoffensive and pious character, had gained 
him permission to visit some sick prisoners in the Charleston 
hospital. Under cover of night Ridgely passed the sentinels, with the 
pretence of administering to a dying prisoner the consolation of 
religion. When in the city, he varied the deception a little, 
inquiring for the residence of Mrs. Ashton, as a clergyman on holy 
duty bound.

“I feel that I can give you no idea of the scene that ensued, when the 
disguise was thrown off, and the person of Colonel Ridgely was 
revealed before his astonished sister. ‘My brother!’ was the 
exclamation, as she sunk back in her seat, paralyzed with emotion. 
Morna caught the electrifying words, and sprung forwards; but ere he 
had clasped her in his arms, the rush of feelings had overpowered her 
senses, and she lost in momentary insensibility the consciousness of 
his presence. Her recollection was soon restored. Her father's 
countenance was the first object that met her returning sensibility. 
Oh! how many long past and almost forgotten reminiscences seemed to 
spring up around her, as she gazed with intense delight on that still 
remembered smile. Her spirits rose from their depression; she lost the 
fear of coming evil in the endearments of a father's love, and hope 
dispelled the dark cloud that had seemed to lower over her.

“Colonel Ridgely's disposition was one to look on the bright side of 
things. He expressed his hope that there would be no further 
bloodshed, and that a capitulation, honorable to both sides, would 
restore peace to the besieged city. The dawn was almost visible, 
before he resumed his habit, to return. Morna's last request was, that 
he would not risk a life so dear, if there was the least possibility 
of danger or detection.

“Sir H. Clinton arrived with reinforcements on the 1st of April, soon 
after which he summoned the town to surrender; but General Lincoln 
declared his intention of defending the place (to which resolution he 
was induced by the daily expectation of recruits from Virginia, which 
never arrived) whenever hostilities should commence. The batteries of 
the enemy were immediately opened on the town. The Americans returned 
a brisk, but ineffectual fire. Their numbers were too few to cope with 
the united strength of the British army, and the troops so scattered 
as to be exposed to be cut off by every fire from the batteries. The 
results of this unavailing struggle on the side of the Americans, 
caused the final capitulation of Charleston. But this happened too 
late to awaken joy or sorrow in the breast of Morna. Her betrothed 
lover was one of General Lincoln's aids, and commanded his first 
battery. He maintained this post of danger with consummate skill and 
bravery, until every man was swept away from around him, and he stood 
alone, a distinguished mark for their shot. It was but for a moment, 
and he fell, covered with wounds and with glory. General Lincoln, who 
was near him in his last moments, sent a message to his family, 
informing them that he met death as became an American, and a hero, 
fighting in the cause of liberty.

“Afflictions, it is said, never come alone. The same day that brought 
the overwhelming tidings of Percy's fall, intelligence reached my 
mother that Colonel Ridgely was mortally wounded. Hostilities having 
ceased, he sent under a flag of truce to request the immediate 
attendance of his sister and daughter. No time was to be lost; in a 
state of mind bordering on distraction, they were hurried towards the 
British camp. My mother was a worshipper of God; to Him she looked up 
for strength equal to the mighty conflict. But of poor Morna, how 
shall I speak? The waves of affliction had well nigh overwhelmed the 
slender bark of her existence, and despair alone seemed to nerve her 
step, as she was conducted to the door of her father's tent. The 
attendant officer seeing them approach, opened the door, and with a 
sad countenance informed them that Colonel Ridgely had just expired. A 
shriek was the only sound that escaped Morna's lips. She fell 
insensible on the floor, and happy would it have been for her if life 
had been extinguished with her reason, which from that moment never 
resumed its empire. The functions of life gradually revived, and 
maintained a feeble and wavering existence for a few weeks; but the 
gem of the mind was gone—wild and incoherent fancies filled her 
imagination—broken images of past and future joys were confusedly 
mingled with phantoms of fear and dread. In her last moments, there 
was something mysterious and almost supernatural in the creations of 
her imagination. She seemed to have caught the glimpse of a 
procession, which she was hastening to join. ‘Mammy Marget,’ she 
cried, ‘bring my bridal dress—the procession is waiting for me; to the 
church you know we must go to be united: there is Alfred and father 
too. Haste! haste!—it is almost in the clouds already, but I must 
overtake it!’ Breathless she sunk back, and expired. Her remains were 
laid in my mother's garden, and the turf that ‘wraps her slumbering 
clay’ was daily moistened with her tears. On the slab that marks the 
spot are inscribed Hamlet's words: ‘Lay her in the earth, and from her 
fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring.’”

Such was the history attached to the PORTRAIT.

V.



STANZAS.

BY JAMES F. OTIS.


  See, where, fast sinking o'er the hills,
    As with a golden halo round,
  The setting sun with splendor fills
    Those massy piles which lie around
  His couch, in crimson glory drest,
  Like drapery o'er a monarch's rest.    {495}

  Bright, fair, but oh, how fading too
    Is all this beautiful array!
  A moment given to the view,
    Then past, amid the gloom, away:
  So, like the gilded things of earth,
  Which charm the eye, though little worth!

  And now, eve's glowing star illumes
    The chambers of the distant west,
  And, scarce discerned, like waving plumes
    That flash o'er many a warrior's crest,
  There float along the upper air
  Thin, fleecy clouds, so clear and fair.

  How sweet to gaze upon their slight,
    Transparent forms, changing so oft,
  As e'en the Zephyr's gentlest flight
    Scatters them with its pinions soft—
  Seeming, as down the sky they go,
  Like wreaths of gently driven snow!

  And then to trace the full-orbed moon,
    As, struggling on her cloudy way,
  She travels forth, now wrapped in gloom,
    Now bursting forth with undimm'd ray—
  Like some high, noble heart, whose pride
  Still bears him on, though woes betide.



LOVE AND CONSTANCY.

BY E. BURKE FISHER.


CHAP. I.—LOVE.

  Oh! how this spring of love resembleth
  The uncertain glory of an April day,
  Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
  And, by and bye, a cloud takes all away.

“_Harry, dear Harry, farewell!_” “_God bless you, Mary, we shall meet 
again!_”—a stifled sob from the first speaker, and an ejaculation of 
manly sorrow from the latter, attested their emotion—the oarsmen 
dipped their light blades into the wave, and the little craft obedient 
to the impulse rapidly receded from the shore. The youth watched its 
progress through the glancing waters, and every ripple it created 
seemed to wash upon his heart; a moment, and it ranged under the bows 
of a stately vessel, which soon after spread her canvass to the 
breeze, and bore down the bay, on her outward course. Evening found 
the youth pacing the shore, gazing upon the faint outlines of the 
departing ship, and when the niggard robe of night hid her from his 
view, then it was that the full sense of his situation fell heavily 
upon him—he felt that he was an outcast—an alien, without a single tie 
to bind him to life, and with a sensation of wretchedness, known only 
to him who has tasted of the bitter chalice of misery—he cast him down 
upon the sands, and wept long and bitterly!  *  *  *

       *       *       *       *       *

Who is there who has not heard the melancholy detail, as

          “From his sire's lips glean'd,
  Or history's page,”

of the fierce and destructive tornado, that ushered in the autumnal 
equinox of 1787. Its fury was felt by the storm-tossed seaman, as his 
frail bark drove onward to destruction, and its disastrous results 
might in part be gathered, from the many evidences of its triumph as 
strewn along the shores of Cape Cod. The tempest proved as transient 
as it was violent, and the sun, that shone out on the morrow of the 
storm, steeped its rays in the now tranquil ocean, which, apparently 
conscious of the ruin it had wrought, seemed to atone for its mischief 
by studied repose. The regular swell of the sea succeeded the raging 
billows of the night—the shrill demon of the tempest had retired to 
his northern caves, and in his stead, the playful zephyrs of the south 
wantoned upon the waters. The hardy wreckers were out upon the beach 
as usual, after a night of storm, culling a harvest from the spoils 
which the ocean had cast upon their shores. Men, women and children 
were engaged in this employment, and so inured had they become to 
their somewhat equivocal profession, that whether the object they 
inspected was the corpse of the shipwrecked, or a cask of West India, 
the same _sang froid_ was evinced, and they proceeded as leisurely to 
rifle the garments of the disfigured and ghastly dead, as in breaking 
open a sea chest. An unusually well stowed bale had drawn the 
attention of the crowd, and they were busily employed in turning over 
its contents, when an exclamation of surprise from an idler upon the 
strand caused the party to turn in the direction he pointed, and they 
beheld the object that had elicited his outcry. Drifting in towards 
the land, they saw a floating spar, upon which rode a small lad of 
some sixteen or seventeen years, supporting in his arms what seemed 
the lifeless form of a female. There was something so noble in this 
generous devotion to another's safety in the hour of deadly peril—a 
touching display of all that ennobles, in the conduct of one so young, 
thus jeopardizing his own doubtful chance of preservation, in the 
rescuing from the fierce waters their prey, that even the cold and 
sluggish feelings of the men of Barnstable were moved to admiration, 
and forgetting personal advantage in the excitement of the moment, 
they awaited but the approach of the float within range of their 
interference, when they rushed into the surge, and with deafening 
plaudits bore the young mariner and his burthen to the land. The boy 
relaxed not his hold of his companion, until he had safely deposited 
her in the arms of the bystanders, when, throwing one look upon her 
wan and lifeless features, he cast his eyes to heaven, and murmuring, 
“Thanks, merciful Father! she is saved!” he sank insensible upon the 
sand.

Sympathy—that noblest attribute of the soul, finds as ready response 
in the heart of the child of nature, as in the tutored feelings of the 
man of civilization; and the lawless wrecker in his course of plunder, 
may act as nobly, and feel as proudly the sacred glow of humanity, as 
does the sage expounder of moral legislation! The witnesses of the sad 
scene we have described, furnished ample illustration of the fact, for 
the men of Cape Cod, “albeit, unused to the melting mood,” drew their 
hands over their eyes, and their tones were husky as they communed 
with each other, while the women, ever alive (in all conditions) to 
the dictates of humanity, busied themselves in the attempt to excite 
to action the frozen channels of life in the unfortunate maiden.

The intense pitch to which the sensibilities of her {496} preserver 
were strung, precluded him from enjoying the repose he so much 
required, and supported by one of the spectators, he stood watching 
with silent expectation the efforts at resuscitation practised upon 
his companion in suffering. The exertions of the females were at 
length crowned with success, the ashy paleness of her brow was crossed 
by the flush of returning animation, and before the lapse of another 
hour the children of the wreck, who but a short time since were tossed 
to and fro upon the capricious waters, found themselves under the 
friendly roof, and seated at the hospitable board of Gregory Cox, to 
whose dwelling the generous wreckers had borne them.

The kindly nature of their host, for a long time, taught him 
forbearance upon the subject of their painful story, and weeks passed 
on before he gently hinted his wish to hear the sad recital, and so 
judiciously did the worthy Quaker prosecute his inquiries, that the 
detail was given, with scarce the knowledge of the lad, that the 
events over which he brooded had been revealed to their sympathizing 
friend. His narrative was brief, yet pregnant with misfortune. Thus it 
ran.

The maiden was the daughter of a Frenchman of rank, who had lately 
relinquished an official post in the Canadas with the intention of 
returning to his native land. He had, with his wife and daughter, 
embarked in the vessel commanded by the narrator's sire. Circumstances 
connected with the instructions of his owners, had induced the 
commander to make for the port of Boston, but contrary winds rendered 
nugatory his efforts, and for several days the ship had been beaten 
along the coast of Massachusetts, where it was met by the raging 
equinox, and destroyed by the combined fury of the winds and waves. So 
unforeseen was the shock, and so totally unprepared were the miserable 
victims, that the same storm-fed billow which scattered the fragments 
of the vessel to the fury of the winds, bore with it the mass of 
beings that cowered upon its decks. Borne along by the violence of the 
assault, the boy was plunged into the boiling sea, but fortunately 
striking a drifting spar as he fell, he had steadied himself upon it, 
the only living thing, as he thought, that survived the onset of the 
fierce destroyer. As he was thus rocking upon the turbulent waves, a 
gleam of lightning, triumphing for a moment over the darkness, gave to 
his view the garments of the girl, and with instinctive humanity, he 
lifted her from the waters and supported her in his arms, although 
aware that he was thereby rendering more hazardous his own ultimate 
chances of safety.

It seemed as if the eye of Omnipotence saw and approved the act, for 
in a short time the march of the tempest was stayed, the lashing 
billows sank to gentle ripples, and the wild roar of the howling winds 
gave way to the soothing breeze, as it swept from the land. During the 
remainder of that eventful night of disaster and death, did the young 
mariner sustain the insensible form of his companion, and although no 
signs of returning consciousness rewarded his care, yet, buoyant with 
the hope of a generous and daring spirit, he clung to his position 
until the coming of Aurora revealed the shores of Barnstable, towards 
which his sailless and unseamanlike craft was rapidly drifting. The 
rest has been already shown.

Time rolled on! Weeks resolved themselves into months, and months 
became absorbed in years, yet the circumstances of the wreck, as 
detailed in the journals of the day, brought no claimant for the girl. 
As to the stripling, his only relative was that parent whom he had 
seen meet a watery grave, and he knew that he stood alone in the 
world, with no one to sympathize with the misery that racked his 
bosom, save the orphan partner of his perils; and when he looked upon 
her budding loveliness, thus left to waste neglected, and without the 
fostering care of maternal watchfulness, he vowed to be to her all 
that a brother could, or a parent might be. The isolation of his 
destiny had rendered him an enthusiast upon the one subject of his 
charge, so that, when in the gay flush of innocent girlhood, she 
shared his joys and mingled her tears with his, his feelings became 
concentred in devotion, which the world calls _love_, but for which 
_affection_, pure as seraphs might glory in avowing, would be the more 
fitting term. In the absence of other channels to vent his feelings 
she became the cynosure of his loftiest imaginings, his more than 
sister. Happy in her youth, and time-seared to the loss she had 
sustained, _Mary Destraix_ loved her preserver with a sister's 
tenderness; and when, after the lapse of years, there came one who 
called himself her uncle—her father's brother—the joy with which she 
sprang to his embrace was merged in tears, when the probability of her 
separation from her brother crossed her mind, as the stranger 
announced his intention of returning with her immediately to the 
castellated abode of her ancestors, in the sunny plains of Marne.

“And Harry—my brother Harry, shall he not go with us?” she asked 
inquiringly, gazing into the stern face of her new-found relative.

The Frenchman turned to the spot, where stood the subject of the 
query. He had heard the story of the youth, and liked not the 
question; and as he glanced, not at the noble countenance and manly 
bearing, but the rustic apparel of the stripling, his dislike to a 
further intimacy between the pair was increased. The stranger was lord 
of Marne, and had breathed the courtly air of the Louvre, and he could 
see nothing worthy of consideration in the mere fact, that a rough and 
untutored rustic should peril his life for a maiden of noble blood. 
Tendering the youth a purse well stocked with Louis, he signified his 
disinclination to rank him among the members of his voyage home. The 
indignant recipient took the proffered gold, advanced a step, and 
dashing the gift at the feet of its aristocratic giver, rushed from 
the scene.

“Harry, my noble, generous preserver,” sobbed a voice at his side, as 
he stood upon the rude piazza that overlooked the ocean, “think not so 
meanly of me, as that for broad lands and empty honors I would forsake 
you! Harry, my brother, I will not go!”

“Not so, Mary Destraix,” was the answer of him she addressed—the 
bitterness of his feelings rising paramount to the usual joyousness of 
his tones when he spoke to her—“Are you not the daughter of a peer of 
France, called to fulfil a bright and envied destiny? Would you so 
forget your illustrious ancestry, as to forego their claims upon you 
as their descendant, to follow the fortunes of one, who was even cast 
from the ocean as unworthy to tenant its caves?”—and the boy laughed 
in his agony.

“Look there!” he continued, addressing the stranger {497} who had 
followed his niece—“Look at yon cradle of storms!” and he enforced his 
words, by pointing out towards the quiet waters, which lay steeped in 
the phosphorescent tintings of a summer's eve. “Where were the vassals 
of your house that they stepped not in to the rescue of their master? 
Will the great deep give up its prey for gold? Though the blood of 
Charlemagne runs in your veins, that act—that crowning act, of 
offering lucre in exchange for life—would sink you to a level with the 
veriest serf!”—and drawing up his form, now moulded into the fair 
proportions of nineteen summers, he gave back the haughty glance of 
the Frenchman with one equally fierce, and turned to the weeping 
maiden.

The result of their conference was such as lovers' conferences usually 
are. The mind of Mary was open to the fact, that her feelings towards 
her preserver were merged in a fonder tie than a sister's, and a 
promise of constancy, immutable to time and circumstance—an 
interchange of tokens—a kiss, the first that ever consecrated their 
mutual affections, and _Harry Harwood_ sought his couch that night—so 
late boiling with the fiercest passions—now calm and full of hope—

  Congenial hope! thy passion-kindling flower,
  How bright—how strong in youth's confiding hour!

The going down of the succeeding sun found Harry weeping upon the 
beach alone.


CHAP. II.—CONSTANCY.

  “Mulier cupido, quod dicit amanti
   In vento, et rapida scribere oportet aqua.”—_Catullus_.

There were banquetting, and revelry within the princely halls of 
Versailles, and the dulcet sounds of woman's voice accorded well with 
the rich breathings of lute and harp. The effulgence of a thousand 
lights streamed upon the beauties of the court of Louis, as they stood 
ranged in their dream-like loveliness at the footstool of the queenly 
Austrian. The rich swell of vocal melody—the tread of the dancers, as 
they moved in the stately _Pavon_, or lascivious waltz—the laugh of 
the witty, as jest and repartee rang through the lofty dome—_all_ 
typifyed an epoch of pleasure, and absence from cares such as _then_ 
existed in the _converzaziones_ of Maria Antoinette, but which too 
soon gave way before the ruthless onset of revolutionary reformation, 
covenanted in the destruction of these very halls, and sealed in the 
blood of royalty.

The park, and alleys of the gardens, echoed with the laughter of 
joyous and happy spirits, and the flowery groves, and trelliced 
arbors—fit spot for love's communion—were made this night the trysting 
spot of many a youthful pair, while the gentle breeze as it swept 
through the leafy paradise, carried upon its wings 
confessions—reciprocal disclosures—vows, and protestations, baseless 
all—aye, baseless as the courier by which they were borne away!

“Beautiful Mary, you wrong me, every way you wrong me, by your unjust 
suspicions. The _Deperney_ may be as fascinating as you describe her, 
but I own not her power! The _Canaille_ of the _National Assembly_ may 
be won by her lures, but _Marmonti_ wears no colors save those of the 
fair Destraix!”

“Hold, impertinent! Know you not that the Lady Deperney is my friend, 
and beware how you speak of the members of the Assembly, or I shall 
send you to republican America, there to learn more fitting terms, by 
which to designate the leaders of the people!”

“That I may also gain some tidings of your lover of Barnstable,” was 
the laughing rejoinder of her companion. “Your uncle tells strange 
stories of that same youth, and I am half inclined to be jealous of 
some certain passages that occurred, in the _tete-à-tete_ you wot of.”

“Aye! my gallant deliverer from the raging billows of the Atlantic.” 
For a moment, there came associations of a painful nature, across her 
mental vision, and she felt herself checked in her levity: it was but 
for a moment, for in the next, she smilingly tapped the mercurial 
Frenchman upon the shoulder as she answered, “Nay, you should not be 
too severe upon my youthful follies—the boy saved me from a watery 
death, and in the hour of parting, there might have been things 
spoken, prompted more by gratitude than prudence—besides I was so 
young!”

“But what if the boy should clothe this pretty romance with the sober 
hues of reality, and come to claim his rights? What would the heiress 
of Marne think, if, at the levee of our gracious sovereign, her 
quondam lover should step forward, and demand her as his bride?”

“Rest contented on that score, knight of the tristful countenance,” 
laughingly responded the fair one; “the lad has too much sense to 
attempt any flight of the kind; his modesty and wits would teach him 
that in so doing he was transgressing the bounds of discretion.”

“And yet, if he could survey the ripened loveliness of the flower he 
saved when in its budding helplessness,” urged the gallant Marmonti, 
bending his lips to the hand of his companion, “and feel no wish to 
claim it for his trans-Atlantic bower, he must be indeed a Stoic; and 
I take it, that his is a warmer spirit than voluntarily to purge his 
memory of the recollection of an action that must come coupled with 
the charms of the rescued floweret. By the bones of the immortal 
Henri! but the little I have heard of thy deliverance, and the heroism 
that achieved it, have taught me a brother's love for this same—how 
call you the youth?”

“Harley—No—Harwood; ay, that is his name—but, methinks, a glimpse of 
him would tend marvellously to lessen thy brotherly feelings. He had 
but little of knightly bearing, and his speech and actions savored 
somewhat of his nautical training. I would that he were here?”

There was a rustling in the adjacent shrubbery—a hasty step was heard 
upon the gravelled avenue, and as the intruder dashed swiftly by, 
there came words upon the ear of the late speaker, breathed in tones 
she remembered but too well. “And this is Mary Destraix, and it is 
thus she speaks of Henry Harwood! Great God, how I have been duped!” 
The footsteps died away in the distance, and before she could rally 
from the shock, the speaker was gone.

The sword of Marmonti was drawn from its sheath, but the convulsive 
grasp of the conscience-stricken girl withheld him from pursuit; and 
when he inquiringly bent his gaze upon her countenance, its expression 
was so death-like and cold, that fearing she was ill, (for he 
understood not the purport of the stranger's exclamation,) he hastily 
returned to the saloon.

{498} During the remainder of the evening, it was the subject for 
comment that the favorite of the queen was grave and abstracted, and 
that her brow, usually lighted up with the joy of an untroubled 
spirit, was crossed with darker hues than were wont to sully it. Even 
Marmonti strove in vain to restore her depressed spirits, but it would 
not do; the words she had heard in the garden clogged her soul, bowing 
it down to remorse and anguish. Memory led her away from these scenes 
of hollow semblance to the shores of Massachusetts—to that eventful 
night, when, in her feebleness, she battled with the adverse waters. 
Again she was listening to the oft-repeated story of the garrulous 
wreckers, as they painted, in their blunt honesty of speech, the 
daring courage and generous conduct of the youthful mariner, as, after 
having laid her gently upon the beach, he uttered that prayer of 
thanksgiving for her safety. As fancy's finger pointed out these 
episodes of her past existence, and she reflected upon the return she 
had made—that she had spoken of him as a thing of scorn, and that he 
had heard her! the swelling waves of contrition irrigated her selfish 
soul, and she retired to her chamber, for that night redeemed from the 
trammels of coquetry and ingratitude. Dismissing her maid, she sat 
down in an embrasure of her apartment, but was disturbed from her 
reverie by the entrance of her attendant, who placed beside her a 
pacquet, bearing her address, and again retired. Hastily breaking the 
seal, she opened its folds, in doing which a braid of hair escaped 
from therein and fell to the ground. The contents of the epistle were 
disjointed in character, and evidenced a bruised and saddened spirit. 
The writer was Harwood.

“I will not upbraid you, Mary, although you have crushed my fondest—my 
dearest hopes! Fool that I was, I dreamed that the Mary of my boyhood 
was still the same—that what she _professed_ in other days, she would 
prove in my ripened years—that her gentle spirit yet retained its 
recollection of one with whom was spent the darkest portion of her 
brief existence! Do you remember that night when the demon of the 
storm swept the bosom of the dark Atlantic, and I bore you——but no! 
not that; but surely you still retain the memory of that kind, good 
old man, who took us in our destitution and gave us a home, and who, 
when we were seated at his social board, would moralize upon our 
melancholy story, and bid us love one another, for it seemed as if 
Providence so willed it in the arrangement of our destinies. And oh! 
how often, when wandering along the shores of Barnstable, have we 
mingled our tears when we looked out upon the great sea, the sepulchre 
of all we loved, and cheated Sorrow of its triumph, in gilding with 
Hope's brightest pencillings a radiant and sunny future—and then, that 
evening, when in the holy hush of nature, and in the presence of none 
save our God, you vowed remembrance, and gave me a ringlet of your own 
raven hair. I return it, Mary, for I may not retain it after the fatal 
proofs of your feelings towards me, which inadvertently I overheard 
this night. Alas! that such things should be—that you, whom I have 
loved—how fervently and deeply let my present agony pourtray, should 
speak of me as of one——but I will not upbraid, but bless you, Mary; 
even in your heartlessness will my prayers be as fervent for your 
welfare, as when in other years I watched your girlhood beyond the 
ocean. Farewell! Heiress of Marne, farewell—_forever!_”

Her attendants, upon entering their mistress' chamber on the ensuing 
morning, found her lying insensible upon her couch, the letter of 
Harwood compressed within her grasp.

Did she awake to better feelings, and was the film of ingratitude and 
deceit rent from her heart? Alas! that selfishness should prevail over 
the finer impulses of our nature, and the perspective of a coronet in 
woman's eye sway ascendant over the homely aspect of humble wedlock! 
Who was Henry Harwood, that he should aspire to the hand of the 
favorite of Marie Antoinette, and on the plea of having performed a 
trifling act of humanity, _dare_ thus to address the loveliest woman 
in the Court of Louis? One month, and Marmonti, amid the beauty and 
chivalry of France, and honored by the presence of royalty, wedded the 
fair Destraix!

Marmonti's lineage was noble—ay, princely! In his veins there ran the 
tide of the House of Bourbon. Marmonti was the friend of his king!

And had the flight of time wrought no change in the fortunes of _the 
boy of the wreck_? In a land like ours, industry and perseverance eke 
out their reward, and fostered by the liberal and equalizing spirit of 
our institutions, Harwood's concentrated energies found ample 
opportunity to develop themselves. His tale won for him the favorable 
notice of a philanthropist, and his integrity and devotion to the 
sternest duties, gained him his friendship—so that the homeless, 
beggared stripling of a few years past, found himself embarked upon 
the sea of commerce, aided by friendly winds, on his course to fortune 
and esteem; and although he could urge no pretensions to ancestral 
honors, yet in republican America, where aristocracy is but the idle 
misnomer of faction, and man is judged by the standard of his moral 
excellence, Harwood became one of her genuine aristocracy—one of her 
merchant nobles!

The bells that rung out the consummation of the nuptial rites, 
tortured not the ears of the jilted lover—he was ploughing the waves 
on his return.


CHAP. III.—REVERSES.

  “For mortal pleasure—what art thou in truth?
   The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below.”

There was slaughter in the streets of Paris! Revolution,—not the 
revolution of a shackled and indignant people rising to assert their 
rights,—but of a wild mob,

                              “The scum
  That rises upmost when a nation boils,”

stalked in the palaces of the mighty, desecrating their ancestral 
domes, and treading down with demoniac fury the trophied honors of 
their sires. Faction—lawless and unprincipled faction—usurped the 
tribunals of justice—its acts were the dethronement of kings, ratified 
in the blood of princes. The headless trunk of the Bourbon was cast 
beneath the feet of his people in their fury, and to weep for him was 
to share his fate! The regal Antoinette too—the fairest, yet alas! the 
most hapless of the daughters of Lorraine—was dragged to the accursed 
block, and in rapid succession her chivalrous defenders kissed the 
guillotine, reeking with the blood of their sovereigns. The fell tiger 
Anarchy, was abroad in Gallia, and his fangs rent asunder the {499} 
life-strings of all who owned not his sway, while the wild shouts that 
ushered in the blood-washed republic was mingled with the wail of 
France for her slaughtered and dishonored chivalry.

Marmonti witnessed the decapitation of his royal relative, and heard 
from his cell the cry that told the murder of the queen. A blank of a 
few days ensued—he was dragged from his dungeon—a dash in the records 
of the criminal tribunal, and all that remained of Frederick, Duke of 
Marmonti, was his lifeless and mangled corpse. Did the wife of 
Marmonti share the grave of her lord?

Seated in the oriel of an apartment in the _Palais du Ministéres des 
Affaires des Etrangéres_, was a lady clothed in a suit of sables. The 
year was in its decline, and the melancholy aspect of the external 
world served to deepen the gloom that sat throned upon the features of 
the mourner. Ever and anon the hoarse roar of the multitude in the 
adjacent _place_ swept into the room, as some popular leader vented 
his oratory; or from the Boulevard below the window, there would 
ascend the voices of the patriotic artizans, as they repeated in 
stunning chorus,

  “Aux armes citoyens, formons nos battaillons
   Marchons; qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!”

She shuddered as these sounds broke upon her ear, and when from the 
_Place Vendome_ there darted a thousand artificial meteors, aided in 
effect by the discharge of artillery, she shrouded her face with her 
hands and wept convulsively.

The door was thrown open and a visiter announced, but absorbed in 
grief she heeded not the tidings. The visiter advanced until within a 
few feet and paused, as if awaiting her attention, but still she noted 
not his proximity.

“Lady,” murmured the stranger—God of heaven! could it be _his_ 
voice?—“Duchess of Marmonti, will you not speak to your friend?” 
_Yes_, those tones were _his_; his whom in her girlhood she had such 
cause to love and honor, whom in her womanhood she had slighted and 
defamed. And what did he here? Had he heard of her misfortunes, and 
was his errand to the wretched that he might triumph in her 
wretchedness? The passions of her race stirred within her as she 
caught at this opinion, and throwing back the dishevelled ringlets 
from her care-worn features she raised her flashing eyes to the face 
of the speaker; but the saddened look and pitying glance that met her 
gaze, spoke not joy but sorrow for her misery, and again her head was 
hidden from her companion's view.

“Mary”—and the voice of the speaker was fraught with emotion—“Mary,” 
and as if that name conjured up old and familiar associations, he 
seated himself beside her; a tear filled in his eye and dropped upon 
the hand he pressed within his own. _That tear!_ It opened the 
floodgates of memory, and told a brother's love. The sufferer saw not 
in the being before her, the man she had so deeply injured in his 
richest affections, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, she poured 
forth her grief, even as she was wont to do in earlier, happier years. 
Time rolled refluently in its channels, and her companion was once 
more the Harry of Barnstable and she again Mary Destraix. Cheated by 
the phantom of happiness the kindly demeanor of Harwood created, she 
wept the more; but her tears were not wrung from the heart—and when in 
the outpourings of his sympathy he spoke of her departure from Paris 
and its associations, and painted with brotherly fervor the comfort 
and safety that awaited her in his distant home, she raised her eyes 
beaming with gratitude and essayed to speak, but her emotions were too 
strong for the cold medium of words, and she could only thank him with 
her tears.

The influence of Harwood, through his country's ambassador, was 
sufficient to obtain from the new government of France a passport of 
safe conduct for the widow of the revolutionary victim, so that the 
only object of his coming being now accomplished, the pair quitted its 
shores. In her home in the western world the expatriated Duchess found 
an effectual asylum from the contingencies that threatened her during 
her continuance in the French capital; and as she noted the frank and 
urbane deportment of her host, her mind regained its wonted vigor and 
her countenance its healthful hues: not but that at times, when the 
sad and tragic scenes through which it had been her destiny to pass 
came across her brain, there came an icy sensation upon her heart, but 
she triumphed over her misfortunes, and would have been even selfishly 
happy was it not that when she reflected upon her conduct towards 
Harwood a sense of shame possessed her mind; but his own actions aided 
to dispel such feelings and sear her heart to their impression, and 
she became as tranquil as the exigencies of her situation would 
warrant.

_As to him_—experience had taught him a lesson never to be forgotten. 
He had periled his happiness upon the fickle sea of human affections, 
and had met disappointment as the product; and although when he gazed 
upon the surpassing beauty of her, his first—his only love—he felt as 
he did on that day when he watched from the beach of Cape Cod her 
departure from the scenes of her girlhood; yet the revelations of 
woman's faith he had obtained in the royal gardens of Versailles, 
nerved his heart against further invasion from the son of Venus. It 
had worn away the enthusiasm of his earlier years, and left him still 
alive to the deference which woman in any and all circumstances has a 
right to claim, but callous to her lures; so that when in the course 
of time the mercurial passions of the French people had become 
shackled by the wisdom and tyranny of the giant-minded Corsican, and 
that politic ruler deemed it expedient to annul the decree against the 
house of Marne and invited its only living representative to return to 
her family possession, Harwood at once counselled her acceptance of 
the proffered restitution, and despite her avowed astonishment and 
reluctance, hastened the arrangements for her departure.

“She will wed again,” soliloquized the merchant, as he turned from 
gazing upon the bark which was conveying her to “the land of the 
vine.” “She will wed again; and surrounded by minions and parasites, 
and in the possession of gewgaw honors, be happier than as the wife of 
one who has nothing to offer but honest affections and an humble 
home,” and with a sigh he quitted the quay.

Years brought another change in the dynasties of France. The imperial 
diadem was rent from the brow of Napoleon, and _he_—“the man of a 
thousand thrones”—left to point the moral of his own ambition upon the 
sea girt rock of Helena. The Bourbon sat again upon {500} the throne 
of his sires, and with him the fortunes of his followers loomed in the 
ascendant. The predictions of Harwood had been in part fulfilled, for 
the relict of Marmonti was again a bride, and a leader in the 
brilliant circles that shone in the zodiac of the restoration. I have 
said _in part_—for, had her change of fortunes brought corresponding 
happiness?—We shall see.

The merchant read the announcement in the Parisian journals, and there 
was bitterness in the train of reflections which accompanied the 
perusal. Throwing aside the paper he indulged in long and melancholy 
musings upon this fresh instance of her versatility of principles, so 
glaringly developed in a second marriage. A letter was placed in his 
hands at the moment, and carelessly breaking the wax he held it 
unread, his mind still wandering upon the _on dit_ from whence his 
reverie; but a vagrant glance at the superscription at length rivetted 
his attention, and he eagerly devoted himself to scanning its 
contents.

“Congratulate me, my dear friend,” _he read_, “for I am the happiest 
of women. Our gracious sovereign is the idol of his people, and the 
times of wit and gaiety are revived in the capital. You will see by 
the publications of the day that I am again wedded; and although I do 
not feel for my present husband the strong affection which I 
entertained for the first, and which is buried with him, still I think 
I shall love him, for he strives to render me happy by indulgence in 
my every wish. His loyalty throughout the period of his monarch's 
exile, his unswerving zeal and bravery in the field, have endeared him 
to the king, who has been pleased to reward his faithful services with 
honors and preferment. My own introduction at court gained the 
favorable notice of his majesty, who smilingly assured me that my 
misfortunes should not be forgotten. And now, my friend, the storms 
that have hitherto overclouded the sun of my life are forever 
dispersed, and the future is full of promise. The court is 
re-established at Versailles—but I forget that between us Versailles 
is an interdicted name. _The garden scene!_ Ah, how you would be 
amused to hear the envious demoiselles of the court rallying me upon 
that little incident, but I only laugh at them and”——

The idle levity with which she alluded to a period of such painful 
interest, jarred upon his excited feelings. “What an escape I have 
had!” he murmured, as with vacant eye he watched the blaze of the 
epistle as it scorched and blackened in the grate, where it had 
accidentally fallen. “Can she be indeed a faithful type of her sex? 
Nay, that is impossible; and yet”— He paused and left the blank 
unfilled.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gentle readers, you whose grey hairs are the results of sorrowful 
experience as well as time, have been taught that it is not expedient 
at all times to give utterance to our opinions; and you, also, 
romantic lingerers on the shores of boyhood, have yet to learn that be 
your experience what it may, as it is with religion so also with 
woman; and he who tilts against either is warring with established 
usage, and will be buried in the ruins of his own creation. Thence it 
is that I, having performed my duty as an historian, wish not to hinge 
a moral upon my labors, leaving it for you to draw such inferences as 
you may deem most wise. But ere I leave you, I would state that the 
score of years that have passed away since the occurrence of the 
events recorded above, have wrought little change in the two principal 
personages of my story. Age has, it is true, somewhat marred the 
beauty of the _Countess Malvoli_, but her eager pursuit after pleasure 
is as keen as ever, while the merchant of Boston is still a bachelor, 
and has even been known in some of his cloudy moments, to assert—in 
the language of the Volscian Satirist—

  “Nulla fere causa est, in qua non fœmina litem
   Moverit.”



TO J—— S——.

(NOW OF ALABAMA.)


  Brother and friend, I greet thee!—tho' thy dwelling
    Be far from friends and from thy home of youth,
  Thoughts of thy best-loved ones and thee, are swelling
    Within my heart, in sadness and in truth.

  I greet thee from the land, where death has broken
    Some links of love's bright chain, but where the ties
  Of blood still bind thee, and this worthless token
    Is warm with truth's and friendship's fadeless dyes.

  Thou wert to me, _indeed_, a friend and brother—
    As such I loved thee, such I still must deem;
  Distance and time, with me, can never smother
    The deep, full flowing of affection's stream.

  I know thee!—Nature's magical refining
    Has given thy soul what art can ne'er bestow—
  A warmth, a depth of tenderness, inclining
    Even to romance—what few will ever know.

  I felt, when with thee, that no shade of feeling,
    No touch of truth, no thought of loftier aim,
  Could ever be to thee a vain revealing—
    That with thy mind my own could kindred claim.

  Thou saidst that thou shouldst hail with greater pleasure
    This page,[1] when it contained some trace of me—
  Say, wilt thou by this humble tribute measure
    The fond regard I cherish still for thee?

  May all this world can give, best worth possessing,
    Fame, fortune, friends, and length of days be thine;
  And may the Christian's hope, that surest blessing,
    Add grace to years, and gild thy life's decline.

  Farewell!—Time's restless tide is rushing o'er us—
    It cannot fade the past to mem'ry dear;
  But its dark waters may, perchance, restore us
    Much we have loved, and lost, and sighed for here.

E. A. S.

_Virginia, June 26, 1836_.

[Footnote 1: Southern Literary Messenger.]



PARADISE LOST.


There exists a prose version of Milton's Paradise Lost, which was 
innocently translated from the French version of that epic. One Green, 
also, published a new version of the poem into blank verse.


{501}


LETTER TO B——.[1]

[Footnote 1: These detached passages form part of the preface to a 
small volume printed some years ago for private circulation. They have 
vigor and much originality—but of course we shall not be called upon 
to endorse all the writer's opinions.—_Ed._]


It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one 
who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_ of 
poetry, I feel to be false—the less poetical the critic, the less just 
the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are 
but few B——'s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's 
good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here 
observe, “Shakspeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and 
yet Shakspeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the 
world judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable 
judgment?” The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 
“judgment” or “opinion.” The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may 
be called theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he 
did not write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the 
opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakspeare a 
great poet—yet the fool has never read Shakspeare. But the fool's 
neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head 
(that is to say his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to 
be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day 
actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which 
that superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have 
been discovered—this neighbor asserts that Shakspeare is a great 
poet—the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_. This 
neighbor's own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one 
above _him_, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals, who 
kneel around the summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit 
who stands upon the pinnacle.

       *       *       *       *       *

You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer. 
He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established 
wit of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with 
law or empire—an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne 
in possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their 
authors, improve by travel—their having crossed the sea is, with us, 
so great a distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our 
very fops glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, 
where the mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are 
precisely so many letters of recommendation.

       *       *       *       *       *

I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the 
notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is 
another. I remarked before, that in proportion to the poetical talent, 
would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore, a bad poet 
would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would 
infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is 
indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique. 
Whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love, might be 
replaced on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in 
short, we have more instances of false criticism than of just, where 
one's own writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets 
than good. There are of course many objections to what I say: Milton 
is a great example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to 
the Paradise Regained, is by no means fairly ascertained. By what 
trivial circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not 
really believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to 
posterity. But, in fact, the Paradise Regained is little, if at all, 
inferior to the Paradise Lost, and is only supposed so to be, because 
men do not like epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and 
reading those of Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied 
with the first to derive any pleasure from the second.

I dare say Milton preferred Comus to either—if so—justly.

       *       *       *       *       *

As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly 
upon the most singular heresy in its modern history—the heresy of what 
is called very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have 
been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal 
refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of 
supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as 
Coleridge and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical 
theories so prosaically exemplified.

Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most 
philosophical of all writing[2]—but it required a Wordsworth to 
pronounce it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of 
poetry is, or should be, instruction—yet it is a truism that the end 
of our existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part 
of our existence—every thing connected with our existence should be 
still happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; 
and happiness is another name for pleasure;—therefore the end of 
instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above mentioned opinion 
implies precisely the reverse.

[Footnote 2: Spoudiotaton kai philosophikotaton genos.]

To proceed: ceteris paribus, he who pleases, is of more importance to 
his fellow men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and 
pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the 
means of obtaining.

I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume 
themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they 
refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere 
respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for 
their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since 
their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is 
the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no 
doubt be tempted to think of the devil in Melmoth, who labors 
indefatigably through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the 
destruction of one or two souls, while any common devil would have 
demolished one or two thousand.

       *       *       *       *       *

Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study—not a 
passion—it becomes the metaphysician to reason—but the poet to 
protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued 
in contemplation from his childhood, the other a giant in {502} 
intellect and learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to 
dispute their authority, would be overwhelming, did I not feel, from 
the bottom of my heart, that learning has little to do with the 
imagination—intellect with the passions—or age with poetry.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow,
   He who would search for pearls must dive below,”

are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater 
truths, men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; 
the depth lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought—not in the 
palpable palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always 
right in hiding the goddess in a well: witness the light which Bacon 
has thrown upon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine 
faith—that moral mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may 
overbalance the wisdom of a man.

We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his Biographia 
Literaria—professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a 
treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis_. He goes wrong by reason 
of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the 
contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely 
sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray—while he 
who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the 
star is useful to us below—its brilliancy and its beauty.

       *       *       *       *       *

As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had, in youth, the 
feelings of a poet I believe—for there are glimpses of extreme 
delicacy in his writings—(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom—his 
_El Dorado_)—but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; 
and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire—we 
know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of 
the glacier.

He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the 
end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the 
light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment 
consequently is too correct. This may not be understood,—but the old 
Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters 
of importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when 
sober—sober that they might not be deficient in formality—drunk lest 
they should be destitute of vigor.

The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into 
admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are 
full of such assertions as this—(I have opened one of his volumes at 
random) “Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is 
worthy to be done, and what was never done before”—indeed! then it 
follows that in doing what is _un_worthy to be done, or what _has_ 
been done before, no genius can be evinced: yet the picking of pockets 
is an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and 
Barrington, the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought 
hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.

Again—in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be 
Ossian's or M’Pherson's, can surely be of little consequence, yet, in 
order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in 
the controversy. _Tantæne animis?_ Can great minds descend to such 
absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in 
favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his 
abomination of which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the 
beginning of the epic poem “_Temora_.” “The blue waves of Ullin roll 
in light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their 
dusky heads in the breeze.” And this—this gorgeous, yet simple 
imagery—where all is alive and panting with immortality—this—William 
Wordsworth, the author of Peter Bell, has _selected_ for his contempt. 
We shall see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. 
Imprimis:

  “And now she's at the pony's head,
   And now she's at the pony's tail,
   On that side now, and now on this,
   And almost stifled her with bliss—
   A few sad tears does Betty shed,
   She pats the pony where or when
   She knows not: happy Betty Foy!
   O Johnny! never mind the Doctor!”

Secondly:

  “The dew was falling fast, the—stars began to blink,
   I heard a voice, it said——drink, pretty creature, drink;
   And looking o'er the hedge, be—fore me I espied
   A snow-white mountain lamb with a—maiden at its side,
   No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,
   And by a slender cord was—tether'd to a stone.”

Now we have no doubt this is all true; we _will_ believe it, indeed we 
will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a 
sheep from the bottom of my heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

But there _are_ occasions, dear B——, there are occasions when even 
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an 
end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is 
an extract from his preface—

“Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers, 
if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_) 
will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! 
ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!) and will be 
induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have 
been permitted to assume that title.” Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Yet let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and 
the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and 
dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of Coleridge I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering 
intellect! his gigantic power! He is one more evidence of the fact 
“que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce 
qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient.” He has 
imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has erected against 
those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a mind should be 
buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume 
upon the night alone. In reading his poetry I tremble—like one who 
stands upon a volcano, conscious, from the very darkness bursting from 
the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.

       *       *       *       *       *

{503} What is Poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many 
appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! Give me, I demanded of a 
scholar some time ago, give me a definition of poetry? 
“Tres-volontiers,”—and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr. 
Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal 
Shakspeare! I imagined to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon 
the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear 
B——, think of poetry, and then think of—Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of 
all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and 
unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then—and then 
think of the Tempest—the Midsummer Night's Dream—Prospero—Oberon—and 
Titania!

       *       *       *       *       *

A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for 
its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having for 
its object an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a 
poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting 
perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations, 
to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet 
sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a 
pleasurable idea, is poetry; music without the idea is simply music; 
the idea without the music is prose from its very definitiveness.

What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his 
soul?

       *       *       *       *       *

To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B——, what you no doubt 
perceive, for the metaphysical poets, _as_ poets, the most sovereign 
contempt. That they have followers proves nothing—

  No Indian prince has to his palace
  More followers than a thief to the gallows.



THE SCIENCE OF LIFE.

BY M. CAREY.


1. If you be so exceptious and pettish, as to question every word you 
hear said of you, you will have few friends, little sense, and much 
trouble.

2. Neglect not manners as if they were of little importance. They are 
frequently what the world judges us by, and by which it decides for or 
against us. A man may have virtue, capacity and good conduct, and yet 
by roughness be rendered insupportable.

3. Broach not odd opinions to such as are not fit to hear them. If you 
do, you will do them no good by it, perhaps hurt; and may very well 
expect discredit and mischief to yourself. An ill placed paradox, and 
an ill timed jest have ruined many.

4. To have a graceful behavior, it is necessary to have a proper 
degree of confidence; and a tolerably good opinion of yourself. 
Bashfulness is boyish.

5. Think how many times you have been mistaken in your opinions in 
times past, and let that teach you in future not to be positive or 
obstinate.



ANTHOLOGIA.

BY M. CAREY.


1. On a lady of sixty marrying a youth of seventeen.

  Hard is the fate of every childless wife,
  The thoughts of barrenness annoy her life.
  Troth, aged bride, by thee 'twas wisely done
  To choose a child and husband both in one.

2. Composition of an Epigram.

  What is an epigram? A dwarfish whole,
  Its body brevity and wit its soul.

3. Lurking Love.

  When lurking love in ambush lies,
  Under friendship's fair disguise:
  When he wears an angry mien,
  Imitating strife and spleen:
  When, like sorrow, he seduces,
  When, like pleasure, he amuses:
  Still, howe'er the parts are cast,
  It is but lurking love at last.

4. The Farmer's Creed.

  Let this be held the farmer's creed:
  For stock look out the choicest breed—
  In peace and plenty let them feed—
  Your land sow with the best of seed—
  Enclose and drain it with all speed,
  And you will soon be rich indeed.

5. On a Slanderous Coquette.

  Hast thou not seen a lively bee,
  Rove through the air, supremely free,
  Its slender waist, and swelling breast,
  In nature's beauteous colors drest,
  While on its little, pointed tongue,
  All Hybla's luscious sweets were hung:
  Such Nancy is—but, oh the thing,
  Wears, like the bee, a poisonous sting.

6. On Content.

  It is not youth can give content,
    Nor is it wealth can fee;
  It is a dower from heav'n sent,
    But not to thee or me.

  It is not in the monarch's crown
    Though he'd give millions for 't—
  It is not in his lordship's frown
    Nor waits on him to court.

  It is not in a coach and six,
    It is not in a garter;
  'Tis not in love or politics,
    But 'tis in Hodge the Carter.

7. On a Dandy.

  They say, my friend, that you admire
  Yourself with all a lover's fire.
  Men who possess what they desire
        Like you, are happy fellows.
  But you can boast one pleasure more,
  While blest with all that you adore,
        That no one will be jealous.


{504}


_Editorial_.



CRITICAL NOTICES.


HOUSE OF LORDS.

_Random Recollections of the House of Lords, from the year 1830 to 
1836. By the author of “Random Recollections of the House of Commons.” 
Philadelphia: Republished by E. L. Carey & A. Hart._

This is an exceedingly interesting volume, written by Mr. Grant, a 
young Scotch reporter—a man of sound sense, acute observation, and 
great knowledge of mankind. Its manner is correct, fluent, and 
forcible—occasionally rising into a high species of eloquence. It has 
too, that rare merit in compositions of this nature—the merit of 
strict impartiality—an impartiality so rigidly observed, that it is 
nearly impossible to form, from any thing comprehended in the book 
itself, an estimate of the political principles of the writer.

The work commences, in pursuance of the author's plan adopted in his 
book on the other House of Parliament, with an account of the interior 
of the building in which the Lords assembled prior to its partial 
destruction by fire in October 1834. This account is full of interest. 
“The present house,” says the author, “is a small, narrow apartment. 
Last year it was but very imperfectly lighted. It is more cheerful 
now, owing to the new windows added to it during the recess. It is 
incapable of containing more than two hundred and fifty of their 
lordships with any degree of comfort. It is right to mention, however, 
that it is but seldom a greater number are present, and it is not 
often there are so many.”

Chapter II is occupied with the forms, rules, regulations, &c. of the 
House, and is also very entertaining. Among other things, we have here 
a denial of the common assertion that the Lord Chancellor carries the 
Great Seal before him when advancing to the Bar of the House to 
receive a bill sent up by the Commons. His Lordship, we are told, very 
gravely, merely carries before him the bag in which it is deposited 
when he receives it from the King, or when, on his retirement from 
office, he delivers it up into his Majesty's hands. This bag, we are 
farther informed, is about twelve inches square, is embroidered with 
tassels of gold, silver, and silk, and has his Majesty's arms on both 
sides. The Great Seal itself is made of silver, and is seven inches in 
diameter. We do not understand the manner in which the Seal is said to 
be divided into two parts, and attached to the letters patent. The 
impression is six inches in diameter, and three quarters of an inch 
thick. On every new accession we learn that a new Seal is struck, and 
the old one cut into four pieces and deposited in the Tower. In this 
chapter we have the following characteristic anecdote of King William. 
The _empressement_ with which the narrator dwells upon the wonderful 
circumstance of the monarch's actually reading a letter “without 
embarrassment, or the mistake of a single word,” is an amusing 
instance of the mystifying influence of “the divine right” and its 
accompaniments, upon the noddles of its devotees. The idea, too, of 
the King's asking what are the words in his own speech, is 
sufficiently burlesque.


Of his extreme good nature and simplicity of manners, he gave several 
striking proofs at the opening of the present session. The day was 
unusually gloomy, which, added to an imperfection in his visual 
organs, consequent on advanced years, and to the darkness of the 
present House of Lords, especially in the place where the throne is 
situated, rendered it impossible for him to read the _Royal Speech_ 
with facility. Most patiently and good-naturedly did he struggle with 
the task, often hesitating, sometimes mistaking, and at others 
correcting himself. On one occasion he stuck altogether, when, after 
two or three ineffectual efforts to make out the word, he was obliged 
to give it up, when turning to Lord Melbourne, who stood on his right 
hand, and looking him most significantly in the face, he said, in a 
tone sufficiently loud to be audible in all parts of the house, “Eh, 
what is it?” The infinite good nature and bluntness with which the 
question was put, would have reconciled the most inveterate republican 
to monarchy in England, so long as it is embodied in the person of 
William the Fourth. Lord Melbourne having whispered the obstructing 
word, the King proceeded to toil through the speech, but by the time 
he got to about the middle, the Librarian brought him two wax tapers, 
on which he suddenly paused, and raising his head, and looking at the 
Lords and Commons, he addressed them on the spur of the moment in a 
perfectly distinct voice, and without the least embarrassment or the 
mistake of a single word, in these terms:

_My Lords and Gentlemen_,

I have hitherto not been able, from want of light, to read this speech 
in the way its importance deserves; but as lights are now brought me, 
I will read it again from the commencement, and in a way which I trust 
will command your attention.

He then again, though evidently fatigued by the difficulty of reading 
in the first instance, began at the beginning, and read through the 
speech in a manner which would have done credit to any professor of 
elocution.


What a running satire on _form_ is the following!


No noble Lord must, on any occasion, or under any circumstances, 
mention the name or title of any other noble Lord. If he wishes to 
refer to any particular Peer, he must do so in some such phraseology 
as the following: “The noble Duke, or the noble Marquis who has just 
sat down”—“the noble Earl at the head of his Majesty's 
Government”—“the noble and learned Lord”—“the noble Lord that spoke 
last”—“the noble Viscount that spoke last but one”—“the noble Baron 
that spoke last but two,” &c. &c.


What a world we live in, when such and similar things are related in a 
volume such as this, by a man of excellent sense, with a gravity 
becoming an owl!

Chapter III consists of “Miscellaneous Observations,” contrasts the 
general deportment of the House of Lords with that of the House of 
Commons, and rejoices that the art of cock-crowing is yet to be 
learned by the Peers, and that their Lordships have as yet afforded no 
evidence of possessing the enviable acquirement of braying like a 
certain long-eared animal, yelping like a dog, or mewing like the 
feline creation. It includes also some scandalous accounts of the 
unconquerable somnolency of a certain Ministerial Duke, and a member 
of the Right Reverend Bench of Bishops.

Chapter IV is entitled “_Scenes in the House_,” and gives a detailed 
report of two of the most extraordinary of these _scenes_—one 
occurring in April 1831, on occasion of the King's dissolving 
Parliament—the other in July 1834, when the Duke of Buckingham thought 
proper to make some allusions to the “potations pottle deep” of Lord 
Brougham, which were not exactly to the mind of his Lordship. The rest 
of the book is {505} occupied with admirable personal sketches of most 
of the leading members, and is subdivided into _Late Members_, 
embracing Lord King and Lord Enfield—_Dukes of the Tory Party_, viz: 
Dukes of Cumberland, Wellington, Gordon, Newcastle, Buckingham, 
Northumberland and Buccleugh—_Marquises of the Tory Party_, including 
the Marquises of Londonderry, Wellesley, and Salisbury—_Earls of the 
Tory Party_, the Earls of Eldon, Wicklow, Limerick, Winchelsea, Roden, 
Aberdeen, Haddington, Harrowby, Rosslyn, and Mannsfield—_Barons of the 
Tory Party_, Lords Wynford, Lyndhurst, Ellenborough, Fitzgerald and 
Vessey, Ashburton, Abinger, Wharncliffe and Kenyon—_Peers who have 
Seats in the Cabinet_, viz: Lord Melbourne, Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord 
Holland, and Lord Duncannon—_Dukes of the Liberal Party_, the Dukes of 
Sussex, Leinster, and Sutherland—_Marquises of the Liberal Party_, the 
Marquises of Westminster, Cleveland, Anglesea, Clanricarde, and 
Conyngham—_Earls of the Liberal Party_, Earls Gray, Durham, Radnor, 
Carnarvon, Mulgrave, Burlington, Fife, and Fitzwilliam—_Barons of the 
Liberal Party_, Lords Plunkett, Brougham, Denman, Cottenham, 
Langsdale, Hatherton, and Teynham—_Neutral Peers_, the Duke of 
Richmond and the Earl of Ripon—and lastly, the _Lords Spiritual_, 
under which head we have sketches of the Archbishops of Canterbury and 
Dublin, and the Bishops of Exeter, London, Durham, and Hereford. The 
whole of these sketches of personal character are well executed and 
exceedingly diverting—some, of a still higher order of excellence. The 
portrait of Lord Brougham, in especial, although somewhat exaggerated 
in the matter of panegyric, is vividly and very forcibly depicted, and 
will be universally read and admired. The book concludes in these 
words.


It is a fact worthy of observation, that with the single exception of 
Lord Brougham, no man that has, of late years, been raised from the 
Lower to the Upper House, has made any figure in the latter place. On 
the contrary, they all seem to be rapidly descending, as public 
speakers, into obscurity. In addition to Earl Spencer and Lord 
Glenelg, I may mention the names of Lord Denman, Lord Abinger, Lord 
Ashburn, Lord Hatherton, &c. In fact, there is something in the very 
constitution of their Lordships, as a body, which has a strong 
tendency to discourage all attempts at oratorical distinction.


SIGOURNEY'S LETTERS.

_Letters to Young Ladies. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Second Edition. 
Hartford: Published by Wm. Watson._

We have to apologize for not sooner calling the attention of our 
readers to these excellent _Letters_ of Mrs. Sigourney—which only 
to-day we have had an opportunity of reading with sufficient care to 
form an opinion of their merits. Our delay, however, is a matter of 
the less importance, when we consider the universal notice and 
approbation of the public at large. In this approbation we cordially 
agree. The book is, in every respect, worthy of Mrs. Sigourney—and it 
would be difficult to say more.

The _Letters_ (embraced in a duodecimo of two hundred and twelve 
pages,) are twelve in number. Their subjects are, _Improvement of 
Time_—_Domestic Employments_—_Health and Dress_—_Manners and 
Accomplishments_—_Books_—_Friendship_—_Cheerfulness_—_Conversation_—
_Benevolence_—_Self-Government_—_Utility_—and _Motives to 
Perseverance_. Little has been said on any one of these subjects more 
forcibly or more beautifully than now by Mrs. Sigourney—and, 
collectively, as a code of morals and _manner_ for the gentler sex, we 
have seen nothing whatever which we would more confidently place in 
the hands of any young female friend, than this unassuming little 
volume, so redolent of the pious, the graceful, the lofty, and the 
poetical mind from which it issues.

The prose of Mrs. Sigourney should not be compared, in its higher 
qualities, with her poetry—but appears to us essentially superior in 
its _minutiæ_. It would be difficult to find fault with the 
construction of more than a very few passages in the _Letters_—and the 
general correctness and vigor of the whole would render any such 
fault-finding a matter of hyper-criticism. We are not prepared to say 
whether this correctness be the result of labor or not—there are 
certainly no traces of labor. The most remarkable feature of the 
volume is its unusually extensive circle of illustration, in the way 
of brief anecdote, and multiplied reference to 
authorities—illustration which, while apparently no more than 
sufficient for the present purpose of the writer, gives evidence, to 
any critical eye, of a far wider general erudition than that possessed 
by any of our female writers, and which we were not at all prepared to 
meet with in one, only known hitherto as the inspired poetess of 
Natural and Moral Beauty.

Would our limits permit us we would gladly copy entire some one of the 
_Letters_. As it is, we must be contented with a brief extract, (on 
the subject of Memory,) evincing powers of rigid thought in the 
writer. Few subjects are more entirely misapprehended than that of the 
faculty of Memory. For a multiplicity of error on this head Leibnitz 
and Locke are responsible. That the faculty is neither primitive nor 
independent is susceptible of direct proof. That it exists in 
conjunction with each primitive faculty, and inseparable from it, is a 
fact which might be readily ascertained even without the direct 
assistance of Phrenology. The remarks of Mrs. Sigourney apply, only 
collaterally, to what we say, but will be appreciated by the 
metaphysical student.


I am inclined to think Memory capable of indefinite improvement by a 
judicious and persevering regimen. Were you required to analyze it to 
its simplest element, you would probably discover it to be a _habit of 
fixed attention_. Read, therefore, what you desire to remember, with 
concentrated and undivided attention. Close the book and reflect. 
Undigested food throws the whole frame into a ferment. Were we as well 
acquainted with our intellectual, as with our physical structure, we 
should see undigested knowledge producing equal disorder in the mind.

To strengthen the Memory, the best course is not to commit page after 
page verbatim, but to give the substance of the author, correctly and 
clearly in your own language. Thus the understanding and memory are 
exercised at the same time, and the prosperity of the mind is not so 
much advanced by the undue prominence of any _one faculty_ as by the 
true balance and vigorous action of _all_. Memory and understanding 
are also fast friends, and the light which one gains will be reflected 
upon the other.

Use judgment in selecting from the mass of what you read the parts 
which it will be useful or desirable to remember. Separate and arrange 
them, and give them in charge to memory. Tell her it is her duty to 
keep them, and to bring them forth when you require. {506} She has the 
capacities of a faithful servant, and possibly the dispositions of an 
idle one. But you have the power of enforcing obedience and of 
overcoming her infirmities. At the close of each day let her come 
before you, as Ruth came to Naomi, and ‘beat out that which she hath 
gleaned.’ Let her winnow repeatedly what she has brought from the 
field, and ‘gather the wheat into the garner’ ere she goes to repose.

This process, so far from being laborious, is one of the most 
delightful that can be imagined. To condense, is perhaps the only 
difficult part of it; for the casket of Memory, though elastic, has 
bounds, and if surcharged with trifles, the weightier matters will 
find no fitting place.

While Memory is in this course of training, it would be desirable to 
read no books whose contents are not worth her care: for if she finds 
herself called only occasionally, she may take airs like a froward 
child, and not come when she is called. Make her feel it as a duty to 
stand with her tablet ready whenever you open a book, and then show 
her sufficient respect, not to summon her to any book unworthy of her.

To facilitate the management of Memory, it is well to keep in view 
that her office is threefold. Her first effort is to _receive_ 
knowledge; her second to _retain_ it; her last to _bring it forth_ 
when it is needed. The first act is solitary, the silence of fixed 
attention. The next is also sacred to herself, and her ruling power, 
and consists in frequent, thorough examination of the state and order 
of the things committed to her. The third act is social, rendering her 
treasures available to the good of others. Daily intercourse with a 
cultivated mind is the best method to rivet, refine, and polish the 
hoarded gems of knowledge. Conversation with intelligent men is 
eminently serviceable. For, after all our exultation on the advancing 
state of female education, with the other sex, will be found the 
wealth of classical knowledge, and profound wisdom. If you have a 
parent, or older friend, who will, at the close of each day, listen 
kindly to what you have read, and help to fix in your memory the 
portions most worthy of regard, count it a privilege of no common 
value, and embrace it with sincere gratitude.


We heartily recommend these _Letters_ (which the name of their author 
will more especially recommend,) to the attention of our female 
acquaintances. They may be procured, in Richmond, at the bookstore of 
Messrs. Yale and Wyatt.


THE DOCTOR.

_The Doctor, &c. New York: Republished by Harper and Brothers._

The Doctor has excited great attention in America as well as in 
England, and has given rise to every variety of conjecture and 
opinion, not only concerning the author's individuality, but in 
relation to the meaning, purpose, and character of the book itself. It 
is now said to be the work of one author—now of two, three, four, 
five—as far even as nine or ten. These writers are sometimes thought 
to have composed the _Doctor_ conjointly—sometimes to have written 
each a portion. These individual portions have even been pointed out 
by the supremely acute, and the names of their respective fathers 
assigned. Supposed discrepancies of taste and manner, together with 
the prodigal introduction of mottoes, and other scraps of erudition 
(apparently beyond the compass of a single individual's reading) have 
given rise to this idea of a multiplicity of writers—among whom are 
mentioned in turn all the most witty, all the most eccentric, and 
especially all the most learned of Great Britain. Again—in regard to 
the nature of the book. It has been called an imitation of Sterne—an 
august and most profound exemplification, under the garb of 
eccentricity, of some all-important moral law—a true, under guise of a 
fictitious, biography—a simple jeu d'esprit—a mad farrago by a 
Bedlamite—and a great multiplicity of other equally fine names and 
hard. Undoubtedly, the best method of arriving at a decision in 
relation to a work of this nature, is to read it through with 
attention, and thus see what can be made of it. We have done so, and 
can make nothing of it, and are therefore clearly of opinion that the 
_Doctor_ is precisely—nothing. We mean to say that it is nothing 
better than _a hoax_.

That any serious truth is meant to be inculcated by a tissue of 
bizarre and disjointed rhapsodies, whose _general_ meaning no person 
can fathom, is a notion altogether untenable, unless we suppose the 
author a madman. But there are none of the proper evidences of madness 
in the book—while of mere _banter_ there are instances innumerable. 
One half, at least, of the entire publication is taken up with 
palpable quizzes, reasonings in a circle, sentences, like the nonsense 
verses of Du Bartas, evidently framed to mean nothing, while wearing 
an air of profound thought, and grotesque speculations in regard to 
the probable excitement to be created by the book.

It appears to have been written with the sole view (or nearly with the 
sole view) of exciting inquiry and comment. That this object should be 
fully accomplished cannot be thought very wonderful, when we consider 
the excessive trouble taken to accomplish it, by vivid and powerful 
intellect. That the _Doctor_ is the offspring of such intellect, is 
proved sufficiently by many passages of the book, where the writer 
appears to have been led off from his main design. That it is written 
by more than one man should not be deduced either from the apparent 
immensity of its erudition, or from discrepancies of style. That man 
is a desperate mannerist who cannot vary his style _ad infinitum_; and 
although the book _may_ have been written by a number of learned 
_bibliophagi_, still there is, we think, nothing to be found in the 
book itself at variance with the possibility of its being written by 
any one individual of even mediocre reading. Erudition is only 
certainly known in its _total_ results. The mere grouping together of 
mottoes from the greatest multiplicity of the rarest works, or even 
the apparently natural inweaving into any composition, of the 
sentiments and manner of these works, are attainments within the reach 
of any well-informed, ingenious and industrious man having access to 
the great libraries of London. Moreover, while a single individual 
possessing these requisites and opportunities, might through a rabid 
desire of _creating a sensation_, have written, with some trouble, the 
Doctor, it is by no means easy to imagine that a plurality of sensible 
persons could be found willing to embark in such absurdity from a 
similar, or indeed from any imaginable inducement.

The present edition of the Harpers consists of two volumes in one. 
Volume one commences with a _Prelude of Mottoes_ occupying two pages. 
Then follows a _Postscript_—then a _Table of Contents to the first 
volume_, occupying eighteen pages. Volume two has a similar _Prelude 
of Mottoes_ and _Table of Contents_. The whole is subdivided into 
Chapters Ante-Initial, Initial and {507} Post-Initial, with 
Inter-Chapters. The pages have now and then a typographical 
_queerity_—a monogram, a scrap of grotesque music, old English, &c. 
Some characters of this latter kind are printed with colored ink in 
the British edition, which is gotten up with great care. All these 
oddities are in the manner of Sterne, and some of them are exceedingly 
well conceived. The work professes to be a Life of one Doctor Daniel 
Dove and his horse Nobs—but we should put no very great faith in this 
biography. On the back of the book is a monogram—which appears again 
once or twice in the text, and whose solution is a fertile source of 
trouble with all readers. This monogram is a triangular pyramid; and 
as, in geometry, the solidity of every polyedral body may be computed 
by dividing the body into pyramids, the pyramid is thus considered as 
the base or essence of every polyedron. The author then, after his own 
fashion, may mean to imply that his book is the basis of all solidity 
or wisdom—or perhaps, since the polyedron is not only a solid, but a 
solid terminated by _plane faces_, that the _Doctor_ is the very 
essence of all that spurious wisdom which will terminate in just 
nothing at all—in a hoax, and a consequent multiplicity of _blank 
visages_. The wit and humor of the _Doctor_ have seldom been equalled. 
We cannot think Southey wrote it, but have no idea who did.


RAUMER'S ENGLAND.

_England in 1835. Being a Series of Letters written to Friends in 
Germany, during a Residence in London and Excursions into the 
Provinces. By Frederick Von Raumer, Professor of History at the 
University of Berlin, Author of the “History of the Hohenstaufen,” of 
the “History of Europe from the end of the Fifteenth Century,” of 
“Illustrations of the History of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth 
Centuries,” &c. &c. Translated from the German, by Sarah Austin and H. 
E. Lloyd. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

This work will form an æra in the reading annals of the more 
contemplative portion of Americans—while its peculiar merits will be 
overlooked by the multitude. The broad and solid basis of its 
superstructure—the scrupulous accuracy of its _data_—the disdain of 
mere _logic_ in its deductions—the _generalizing_, calm, 
comprehensive—in a word, the _German_ character of its philosophy, 
will insure it an enthusiastic welcome among all the nobler spirits of 
our land. What though its general tenor be opposed at least apparently 
to many of our long cherished opinions and deeply-rooted prejudices? 
Shall we less welcome the truth, or glory in its advancement because 
of its laying bare our own individual errors? But the England of Von 
Raumer will be sadly and wickedly misconceived if it be really 
conceived as militating against a Republicanism _here_, which it 
opposes with absolute justice, in Great Britain, and Prussia. It will 
be sadly misconceived if it be regarded as embracing one single 
sentence with which the most bigoted lover of abstract Democracy can 
have occasion to find fault. At the same time we cannot help believing 
that it will, _in some measure_, be effectual in diverting the minds 
of our countrymen, and of all who read it, from that perpetual and 
unhealthy excitement about the forms and machinery of governmental 
action which have within the last half century so absorbed their 
attention as to exclude in a strange degree all care of the proper 
_results_ of good government—the happiness of a people—improvement in 
the condition of mankind—practicable under a thousand forms—and 
without which all forms are valueless and shadowy phantoms. It will 
serve also as an auxiliary in convincing mankind that the origin of 
the principal social evils of any given land are _not_ to be found 
(except in a much less degree than we usually suppose) either in 
republicanism or monarchy or any especial method of government—that we 
must look for the source of our greatest defects in a variety of 
causes totally distinct from any such action—in a love of gain, for 
example, whose direct tendency to social evil was vividly shown in an 
essay on _American Social Elevation_ lately published in the 
“Messenger.” In a word, let this book of Von Raumer's be read with 
attention, as a study, and _as a whole_. If this thing be done—which 
is but too seldom done (here at least) in regard to works of a like 
character and cast—and we will answer for the result—as far as that 
result depends upon the deliberate and unprejudiced declaration of any 
well-educated man. We agree cordially with the opinion expressed by 
Mrs. Austin in her Preface to this American imprint. The book is the 
most valuable addition to our stock of knowledge about England and her 
institutions which America has ever received or which, in the ordinary 
course of things she is likely to receive.

Of Professor Von Raumer it is almost unnecessary for us to speak—yet a 
few words may not be amiss. He is a man of unquestionable and lofty 
integrity—the most highly esteemed living historian—second to none, 
living or dead, in all the high essentials of the 
historiographer—profoundly versed in moral and political science—and 
withal, a lover, and a connoisseur of art, and fully aware of its vast 
importance in actuating mankind, individually, and nationally. He is a 
member of the Academy of Sciences at Berlin, and _Councillor_ of the 
Court Theatre in which he labors to keep up the moral influence of 
that establishment as a school of art. He has constantly opposed 
absolutism in every form—especially the absolutism of exclusive 
political creeds. “If,” says the Conversations Lexicon, “the much 
talked of _juste milieu_ consists in endless tacking between two 
opposite principles, Raumer belongs rather to one of the extremes than 
to that. But if the expression is taken to denote that free and 
neutral ground on which a man, resting upon the basis of justice, and 
untrammelled by party views, combats for truth proved by experience, 
careless whether his blows fall to the right or the left—then Raumer 
unquestionably belongs to the _juste milieu_.” He has written the 
_History of the Hohenstaufen and their Time_—a history richer than the 
richest romance—a work _On the Prussian Municipal System_—a work _On 
the Historical Development of the Notions of Law and 
Government_—_Letters from Paris in 1830_, a series of papers printed 
precisely as they were written to his family, and evincing a spirit of 
foresight nearly amounting to prophecy—so accurately were his 
predictions fulfilled—_Letters from Paris in Illustration of the 
History of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries_—a _History of 
Europe from the End of the Fifteenth Century_, in six volumes, of 
which one is yet to be published—a _History of the Downfall of 
Poland_—in which although employed and paid by his {508} government he 
did not hesitate to accuse that government of injustice—_Six Dialogues 
on War and Commerce_—_The British System of Taxation_—_The Orations of 
Æschines and Demosthenes for the Crown_—_CCI Emendationes ad Tabulas 
Genealogicas Arabum et Turcarum_—_Manual of Remarkable Passages from 
the Latin Historians of the Middle Ages_—_Journey to Venice_—_Lectures 
on Ancient History_—and some other works of which we have no account. 
The present _Letters_ are printed just as the author wrote them from 
day to day. We are even assured that some mistakes have been suffered 
to stand with a view of showing how first impressions were gradually 
modified.

Mrs. Austin, the translator, however, has taken some liberties in the 
way of omission, which cannot easily be justified. Some animadversions 
on her friend Bentham are stricken out without sufficient reason for 
so doing. We learn this as well by her own acknowledgment as by 
ominous breaks in particular passages concerning the great 
Utilitarian. The latter portion of the book is translated by H. E. 
Lloyd.

The plan of Von Raumer's work embraces, as may well be supposed, a 
great variety of themes—the political topics of the day and of all 
time—the present state and future prospects of England—comparative 
views of that country, France, and Prussia—descriptions of scenery 
about London, localities, architecture, &c.—social condition of the 
people—society in high life—and frequent disquisitions on the state of 
art and musical science. We will proceed, without observing any 
precise order, to speak of some portions which particularly interested 
us. The book, however, to be properly appreciated, should be read and 
thoroughly studied.

It appears that although Raumer was received with the greatest 
kindness by nearly all the leading men of all parties in Great 
Britain, he was treated with neglect if not with rudeness by Lord 
Brougham, who remained obstinately deaf to all overtures at an 
introduction. It does not appear from the course and tenor of these 
_Letters_ that the harshness with which the traveller so frequently 
speaks of his Lordship, had its origin in this rude treatment. It is 
more probable that the rude treatment had its source in the knowledge 
on the part of Lord Brougham, that Raumer could expose many of his 
falsities in relation to municipal law and some other matters 
concerning Prussia. His Lordship's _Report on the State of Education_ 
is especially the theme of frequent censure.


The person (says our author) who judges the Prussian institutions most 
dogmatically is Lord Brougham. He says “It may matter little what 
sentiments are inculcated on all Prussian children by their _military_ 
chiefs; but it would be something new in _this_ country systematically 
to teach all children, from six to fourteen years of age, the 
doctrines of passive obedience and non-resistance, the absolute 
excellence of its institutions, and the wickedness and iniquity of 
every effort to improve them.” If the noble lord, in the excitement of 
debate, and the flow of his eloquence, let such notions and words 
escape him, we cannot wonder; but that, when called on by a 
parliamentary committee to give a dispassionate, true testimony, he 
should have uttered things so entirely false, nay, so utterly absurd, 
cannot in any way be justified, or even excused. Sir Robert Peel 
compassionately intimates that our school-children are tormented by 
theologians, and Brougham places them under the rod and cane of the 
corporal. That our military arrangements are a school of freedom, and 
for freedom, and the very antipodes of the English recruiting and 
flogging system, may, perhaps, be more unintelligible to an 
Englishman, than all the theological and scientific curiosities of 
Oxford to a German. But what have military arrangements to do with our 
schools? If Lord Brougham has read any thing but the title-page of 
Cousin's work, he may and must know that all he said about the 
Prussian schools was entirely visionary, and could only serve to 
mislead those who believed him. The doctrine of passive obedience and 
non-resistance, so long upheld by certain parties in England, is not 
known in our schools even by name; and if any Professor at Oxford 
should venture to speak of church and state as, thank heaven, any 
Prussian Professor is at liberty to do, it would certainly be said—the 
heretic brought church and state into danger. In our schools and 
universities we know of no theological intolerance, no exclusion of 
Dissenters, no idolatry of what exists for the moment, no forced 
subscriptions; yet we are not by this alienated from Christianity, but 
hold fast to the imperishable diamond of the Gospel without converting 
it into an amulet with thirty-nine points. In Prussia, then, it would 
seem the wickedness and impiety of every attempt to improve civil 
institutions is systematically enforced! In Prussia, which, without 
any boasting of journals and newspapers, silently effected the 
greatest reforms, and rose from a state of abject degradation, like a 
phœnix from its ashes—the aversion and opposition between citizens and 
soldiers is abolished; the system of the defence of the country is 
easy, yet general and powerful; the regulations of commerce and of 
duties of custom freer than in any other part of Europe; the peasants 
are converted into land-owners; a municipal system introduced 
twenty-seven years ago, which England is now copying; and schools and 
universities placed on so firm a basis that the calumnies of Lord 
Brougham can only recoil on his own head. From the descriptions of 
what is called the Prussian compulsory system, one would be inclined 
to believe that the children were coupled together like hounds, and 
driven every morning with blows to be trained! Should a parent be so 
wicked as not to give his children any education, and purposely keep 
them from school and church, the law justly gives the magistrates a 
right of guardianship. This remote threat may have had a salutary 
effect in individual cases, but I have never heard of the actual 
application of outward compulsion—_obtorto collo_. Morality, sense of 
honor, general custom, conviction of the great advantage of a careful 
education, suffice among us to excite all parents _voluntarily_ to 
send their children to school. In perfect accordance with our school 
laws it is considered as equally sinful to withhold nourishment from 
their minds as from their bodies. If we duly appreciate the spirit of 
the laws, cavils about the letter fall away; but even the letter has 
had a wholesome influence, and without the application of corporal 
restraint, in promoting the intellectual emancipation of the people.


Our author's letter on the _Finances_ of Great Britain will be read 
with surprise and doubt by many, but with respect by all. He commences 
with an analysis of finance in general, and with a brief survey of 
many financial distresses which are as old as history itself. His 
remarks on the absence of all finance in the middle ages will arrest 
attention. In these days men had no money, and yet did more than in 
modern times—they effected every thing, and we can effect nothing, 
without the circulation of the “golden blood.” Every individual in 
those days, garnered, says Raumer, without the medium of money, what 
he wanted; and the whole was entirely kept together by ideas. It is 
only since Machiavelli—since the power of the middle ages was lost in 
the feudal and ecclesiastical systems, that we have had to seek a new 
public law, and a science of {509} _Finance_. In regard to England, 
our author runs through all the most important epochs of its monied 
concerns, and shows effectually that she has no reason to tremble at 
present. He alludes to what is called the enormous burden of her 
taxes, and of her debt—whose interest is more than 30,000,000_l._ per 
annum—far more than half of its revenue, and more than four years 
revenue of the whole Prussian monarchy! He admits, for the sake of 
argument, that England must sink under this intolerable pressure, and 
become bankrupt—but the public debt and its interest, he says, would 
then at once be annihilated. To the assertion that this remedy is 
worse than the disease, and would produce a degree of distress much 
exceeding what is now complained of, he replies, that such an 
assertion is a direct acknowledgment that the expenditure of the 
enormous interest above-mentioned is salutary. He proceeds with the 
affirmation that all the public debts being the property of 
individuals, there are cases in which this private property _cannot 
remain inviolate without sacrificing the whole_—and in this way, a 
reduction or annihilation of the debt must take place. He refers, for 
illustration, to the _Redemption Bonds_ of Vienna, and to Solon's 
_Seisachtheia_, and says, there can be no reason for doubting that 
England would as well survive such abrupt annihilation of her national 
debt as many other states have done—among whom are Athens, Rome, 
France, and Austria. He remarks, that Englishmen may as well rejoice 
that the country has such immense capital, as lament that it is 
burthened with so many debts—for _every debt is there a capital_. If 
these debts were of so little value that the price of stock indicated 
the loss, instead of the profit—if the interest could only be paid by 
new loans—if the debts were due to fund-holders _out of the country_, 
England would be in a desperate condition in the event of bankruptcy. 
But, he observes, if all the national debt were abolished, there 
would, in fact, as regarded the _whole_ national wealth, be no change 
whatever. The stockholders would lose, of course, a revenue of 
30,000,000_l._; but, on the other hand, taxes might be abolished to 
the same amount. Individuals would be ruined—the nation not at all. He 
shows clearly, however, by statements officially certified by Sir 
Robert Peel, that England has very little need of apprehending a 
national bankruptcy—and that since 1816 she has reduced the principal 
of her debt by no less than $616,000,000. Certainly no state in Europe 
can boast of a similar progress.

Von Raumer presents a vivid picture of the miseries of Ireland.


When I recollect (says he, after some distressing narrations,) the 
well-fed rogues in the English prisons, I admire, notwithstanding the 
very natural increase of Irish criminals, the power of morality—I 
wonder that the whole nation does not go over and steal, in order to 
enjoy a new and happier existence. And then the English boast of the 
good treatment of their countrymen, while the innocent Irish are 
obliged to live worse than their cattle. In Parliament they talk for 
years together whether it is necessary and becoming to leave $100,000 
annually in the hands of the pastors of 526 Protestants, or $10,759 to 
the pastors of 3 Protestants, while there are thousands here who 
scarcely know they have a soul, and know nothing of their body, except 
that it suffers hunger, thirst and cold. Which of these ages is the 
dark and barbarous—the former, when mendicant monks distributed their 
goods to the poor, and, in their way, gave them the most rational 
comfort; or the latter, when rich (or bankrupt) aristocrats can see 
the weal of the church and of religion, (or of their relations) only 
in retaining possession of that which was taken and obtained by 
violence? All the blame is thrown on agitators, and discontent 
produced by artificial means. What absurdity! Every falling hut causes 
agitation, and every tattered pair of breeches a _sans culotte_. Since 
I have seen Ireland, I admire the patience and moderation of the 
people, that they do not (what would be more excusable in them than in 
distinguished revolutionists, authors, journalists, Benthamites, 
baptized and unbaptized Jews,) drive out the devil through Beelzebub, 
the Prince of the Devils.... I endeavored to discover the original 
race of the ancient Irish, and the beauty of the women. But how could 
I venture to give an opinion? Take the loveliest of the English 
maidens from the saloons of the Duke of Devonshire or the Marquis of 
Lansdowne—carry her, not for life, but for one short season, into an 
Irish hovel—feed her on water and potatoes, clothe her in rags, expose 
her blooming cheek and alabaster neck to the scorching beams of the 
sun, and the drenching torrents of rain—let her wade with naked feet 
through marshy bogs—with her delicate hands pick up the dung that lies 
in the road, and carefully stow it by the side of her mud 
resting-place—give her a hog to share this with her; to all this, add 
no consolatory remembrance of the past, no cheering hope of the 
future—nothing but misery—a misery which blunts and stupifies the 
mind—a misery of the past, the present, and the future—would the 
traveller, should this image of wo crawl from out of her muddy hovel, 
and imploringly extend her shrivelled hand, recognize the noble maiden 
whom a few short weeks before he admired as the model of English 
beauty?... And yet the children, with their black hair and dark eyes, 
so gay and playful in their tatters—created in the image of God—are in 
a few years, by the fault of man and the government, so worn out, 
without advantage to themselves or others, that the very beasts of the 
field might look down on them with scorn.... Is what I have said 
exaggerated, or perhaps, merely an unseasonable and indecorous 
fiction? or should I have suppressed it, because it may offend certain 
parties? What have I to do with O'Connell and his opponents? I have 
nothing either to hope or to fear from any of them; but to declare 
what I saw, thought, and felt, is my privilege and my duty. _Discite 
justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos!_


Our author speaks of the dissolution of the Union as of a measure 
which would and should naturally be opposed by any person who has 
never seen Ireland, and who considers the case merely in a general and 
theoretical point of view—but allows that he can easily conceive how 
well-disposed persons may rely on this alternative as the most 
efficient remedy. He does not, however, approve of the demand—although 
he goes even farther than O'Connell. His propositions are nearly as 
follows: First, that provisions should be equally made for the schools 
and churches of the Protestants and Catholics, out of the church 
property already existing or to be created. Secondly, that the tithes 
should be abolished—that is, as a mode of taxation—not the tax itself. 
It is observed, that to deprive the church of its due, and to make a 
present of it, without any reason, to the landlord, would not only be 
an act of injustice, but would operate to the prejudice of the poor 
tenants, since the clergyman has not so many means to distrain the 
cattle as the temporal landlord, and generally is less willing to 
employ them. Thirdly, that poor laws should be introduced, taking care 
to avoid their abuses. This idea is in opposition to that of 
O'Connell, who dreads the misapplication of the laws as in England. 
Von {510} Raumer acknowledges the _difficulty_ of introducing them, 
but insists upon the _necessity_. The difficulty proceeds from the 
want of a wealthy middling class in the country—the true basis of all 
finance. To obviate this want, he insists—Fourthly, upon a law 
respecting absentees. He denies the injustice of such law, and rejects 
as false that notion of private property which would impose on the 
land owner no duties, while it gives him unconditional rights. He does 
not, however, propose compelling the absentees to return home, but to 
pay more to the poor-tax than those who are present. “Is this 
impossible?” he asks—“have not the Catholics borne for centuries 
higher taxes than the Protestants? This was possible, _without 
reason_; and therefore the other would be very possible, _with good 
reason_.” He suggests—Fifthly, the complete abolition of the system of 
tenants at will, and the conversion of all these tenants at will into 
proprietors. “On reading this,” he says, “the Tories will throw my 
book into the fire, and even the Whigs will be mute with astonishment. 
The whole battery of pillage, jacobinism, and dissolution of civil 
society, is discharged at me; but it will not touch me—not even the 
assertion that I would, like St. Crispin, steal leather in order to 
make shoes for the poor. Even the Radicals ask with astonishment, how 
I would work this miracle. There is a Sybilline book, a patent and yet 
hidden mystery, how this is to be effected; and there is a magician 
who has accomplished it—the Prussian Municipal Law, and King Frederick 
William III of Prussia.” Granting that his proposal should be rejected 
unless both parties are gainers, our author proceeds to show that, 
both parties will be so. That those who are raised to the class of 
land-owners would gain, is evident. That the present proprietors would 
gain, he asserts, is proved from the fact, that in the long run, the 
tenant-at-will is able to produce and to pay less than he who has a 
long lease, the latter less than the hereditary farmer, and the 
hereditary farmer less than the proprietor. The subject is discussed 
very fully and clearly in another letter on _English Agriculture_.

Professor Von Raumer makes a proper distinction between the nature and 
consequences of English agitation, and the agitation of many 
continental countries. In these latter we find anticipative and 
preventive polices—especially in France. When a _movement_ breaks out 
under a government employing this system, it is because the preventive 
means are exhausted, and thus every thing rushes at once into disorder 
and irretrievable confusion. A similar _movement_, however, in 
England, (and the remark will apply equally to the United States, 
although Von Raumer does not so apply it,) is suffered to gather 
strength and flourish until the _overt act_, and the citizen who 
dwells under the influence of the preventive system, would of course, 
in observing us, expect the same irretrievable confusion to ensue with 
us as with him. If our own government, or that of England, should 
attempt to interfere before the overt act, the administration would 
meet with no support. But when the _movement_ has grown to an open 
violation of the laws, the case is different indeed. “In short,” says 
our author, “what is regarded abroad as the beginning of a revolution, 
is, in reality, the crisis, and is, in a very different sense than in 
France, _le commencement de la fin_.”

Much of our traveller's time, while in Great Britain was passed in 
close intimacy with her statesmen. Of Russell, Spring Rice, Sir Robert 
Peel, and O'Connell, he speaks in terms of evident respect. From many 
passages in which he mentions the latter, we select the following.


I suddenly conceived the project of going straight from P—— to his 
antagonist—to——(H—— will be furious) to Daniel O'Connell. I found him 
in a small room, sitting at a writing table covered with letters, in 
his dressing gown. I began with apologies for intruding upon him 
without any introduction, and pleaded my interest in the history and 
fate of Ireland, and in his efforts to serve her. When I found he had 
read my Historical Letters I felt on a better footing. I could not 
implicitly accept his opinion concerning Elizabeth (which he has 
borrowed from Lingard) as a good bill. We agreed, however, on the 
subject of the much disputed and much falsified history of the 
Catholic conspiracy of 1641.... I am also perfectly of his opinion, 
that the tenants at will—those serfs—are in a worse condition in 
Ireland than any where, and that, both with regard to moral and 
intellectual culture, or physical prosperity, their position is not 
comparable to that of our thrice happy proprietary peasants. I told 
him that what he desired for Ireland had long been possessed by the 
Catholics of Prussia: and that hatred and discontent had expired with 
persecution.... The English Ministry first made this man a giant: but 
he is a giant too, by the strength of his own mind and will, in 
comparison with the Lilliputians cut out of reeds, which we call 
demagogues; and which are forced to be shut up in the Kopenick 
hot-house, or put under a Mainz forcing-glass to rear them into any 
size and consideration.... Thank God, however, the governments of 
Germany do not prepare the ground for universal discontent. If this 
prevailed, and prevailed with justice, O'Connells must of necessity 
arise.... Your dissertation on the greatness or smallness of German 
demagogues (I hear you say) is quite superfluous: you had much better 
have described to us what that arch agitator and rebel, O'Connell, 
looks like—What he looks like? A tall gaunt man, with a thin face, 
sunken cheeks, a large hooked nose, black piercing eye, malignant 
smile round the mouth, and, when in full dress, a cock's feather in 
his hat, and a cloven foot. ‘That is just what I imagined him!’ cries 
one. But, as it happens, that is just what he is not. On the contrary, 
he has a round, good-natured face. In Germany he would be taken for a 
good, hearty, sturdy, shrewd farmer: indeed he distinctly reminded me 
of the cheerful, sagacious, and witty old bailiff Romanus, in Rotzis.


At page 391, Von Raumer alludes to some notices of his historical 
works in the British Quarterlies. He complains of injustice done him 
in a review of his “_Letters from Paris in 1830_.” The Reviewer states 
that our traveller did not court society, and that he professes to 
have seen and become acquainted only with what strikes the eyes of 
every observer in the streets, tavern, and theatre. This is denied by 
Von Raumer, who declares his chief associates to have been “wealthy 
merchants and distinguished literati, old and new peers, members of 
the Chamber of Deputies, the most celebrated diplomatists, and three 
of the present ministers of Louis Philippe.”

The remarks of our author upon _Art_, (in the extensive German 
signification of the word) are worthy of all attention and bespeak an 
elevated, acute, and comprehensive understanding of its properties and 
capabilities. Many pages of the work before us are devoted to comments 
upon the Architecture, the Painting, the Stage, and especially the 
Music of England, {511} and these pages will prove deeply interesting 
to a majority of readers. At pages 143 he thus speaks of Mrs. Sloman.


Lady Macbeth, Mrs. Sloman, a fiendish shrew, who must have been the 
torment of her husband's life long before the predictions of the 
witches. Even in the sleeping scene she betrayed only fear of 
discovery and punishment; and the exaggerated action, the rubbing of 
the hands, and seeming to dip them in water, and the rhetorical ‘_to 
bed!_’ were very little to my taste.... To sum up my impression of the 
whole—an excess of effort, of bustle, and of accentuation, with every 
now and then, by way of clap-trap, a violent and yet toneless 
screaming. Exactly those passages in which these stage passions were 
the most boisterous and distressing were the most applauded. There is 
not a single well-frequented German theatre (such as those of Vienna, 
Berlin or Dresden) in which so bad a performance as this would have 
been exhibited.


Our traveller is in raptures with Windsor, and censures the tasteless 
folly of Buckingham house. Of the Italian opera in England he speaks 
briefly and contemptuously—nor does the national music find any degree 
of favor in his eyes. His criticisms on sculpture and painting are 
forcible and very beautiful. In some observations on the attic 
bas-reliefs, and the works from the Parthenon and Phigalia, to be 
found in the British Museum, he takes occasion to collate the higher 
efforts of Grecian art with the rudeness of Roman feeling, and the 
still more striking rudeness of the German and Italian schools of the 
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. His remarks here are too forcible 
and too fresh to be omitted.


These schools (the German and Italian) were, it is true, internally 
impelled by Christianity towards the noblest goal of humanity and of 
art, but they have unsuitably introduced the doctrine of election even 
into these regions. To the beautiful forms pardoned by God are opposed 
the ugly bodies of the non-elect; to the healthy, the sick; to the 
blessed, the damned. In theology, in philosophy, in history, this dark 
side of existence may be employed at pleasure, but when it appears in 
art I feel hurt and uncomfortable.... This _caput mortuum_ may be 
wholly separated. It should evaporate and become invisible. Not till 
this is accomplished can we place Christian art above Greek art, as 
the Christian religion above the Greek religion. A great confusion of 
ideas still prevails, in considering and judging of these things. How 
often have modern works of art been praised in reference to the 
doctrine, and ancient works reprobated for similar reasons. But the 
demoniac is not a suitable subject for art, merely because he is 
mentioned in the Bible; or a Venus to be rejected, because the worship 
of the goddess has ceased.... Music without discord is unmeaning and 
tedious, and painting and sculpture likewise need such discord. But 
every musical discord is necessarily resolved, according to the rules 
of art—while painters and sculptors often leave their dissonances 
unresolved, and eternized in stone. In every discord I feel its 
transition into euphony. It is but a motion, a creation of harmony; 
but no musician would ever think of affirming that to sing out of tune 
is ever permitted, much less that it is necessary in his art. The 
combats of the Centaurs and Lapithæ display a chain of discords, which 
originate, advance, and develop themselves—one could set them to music 
without violating the rules and euphony of the science. But were we to 
attempt a similar musical transposition with many celebrated statues, 
we should break all the strings of the instrument by the violence of 
the effort.


We had noted many other passages for comment and extract—(especially a 
lively Philippic against Utilitarianism on pages 398, 399, an account 
of Bentham's penitentiary, and other matters) but we perceive that we 
are already infringing upon our limits. This book about England will 
and must be read, and will as certainly be relished, by a numerous 
class, although not by a majority, of our fellow-citizens. The author, 
we rejoice to hear, has engaged to translate into his own language the 
Washington Papers of Mr. Sparks. We will only add that Professor Von 
Raumer has the honor of being called by the English organ of the High 
Church and Ultra Tory Party, “a vagrant blackguard unfit for the 
company of a decent servants' hall.”


MEMOIRS OF AN AMERICAN LADY.

_Memoirs of an American Lady. With Sketches of Manners and Scenery in 
America, as they existed previous to the Revolution. By the author of 
“Letters from the Mountains.” New York: published by George Dearborn._

This work has been already a favorite with many of our readers—but has 
long been out of print, and we are glad to see it republished. Mrs. 
Grant of Laghan is a name entitled to the respect and affection of all 
Americans. The book, moreover, is full of good things; and as a 
memorial of the epoch immediately preceding our Revolution, is 
invaluable. At the present moment too it will be well to compare the 
public sentiment in regard to slavery, Indian affairs, and some other 
matters, with the sentiments of our forefathers, as expressed in this 
volume. In Albany and New York it will possess a local interest of no 
common character. Every where it will be read with pleasure, as an 
authentic and well written record of a most exemplary life. The 
edition is well printed on fine paper, and altogether creditable to 
Mr. Dearborn.

Some remarks on slavery, at page 41, will apply with singular accuracy 
to the present state of things in Virginia.


In the society I am describing, even the dark aspect of slavery was 
softened into a smile. And I must, in justice to the best possible 
masters, say, that a great deal of that tranquillity and comfort, to 
call them by no higher names, which distinguish this society from all 
others, was owing to the relation between master and servant being 
better understood here than in any other place. Let me not be detested 
as an advocate for slavery, when I say that I think I have never seen 
people so happy in servitude as the domestics of the Albanians. One 
reason was, (for I do not now speak of the virtues of their masters,) 
that each family had few of them, and that there were no field 
negroes. They would remind one of Abraham's servants, who were all 
born in the house, which was exactly their case. They were baptised 
too, and shared the same religious instruction with the children of 
the family; and, for the first years, there was little or no 
difference with regard to food or clothing between their children and 
those of their masters.

When a negro woman's child attained the age of three years, the first 
new-year's day after, it was solemnly presented to a son or daughter, 
or other young relative of the family, who was of the same sex with 
the child so presented. The child to whom the young negro was given, 
immediately presented it with some piece of money and a pair of shoes; 
and from that day the strongest attachment subsisted between the 
domestic and the destined owner. I have no where met with instances of 
friendship more tender and generous than that which here subsisted 
between the slaves and their masters and mistresses. Extraordinary 
proofs of them {512} have been often given in the course of hunting or 
Indian trading, when a young man and his slave have gone to the 
trackless woods together, in the cases of fits of the ague, loss of a 
canoe and other casualties happening near hostile Indians. The slave 
has been known, at the imminent risk of his life, to carry his 
disabled master through trackless woods with labor and fidelity scarce 
credible; and the master has been equally tender on similar occasions 
of the humble friend who stuck closer than a brother; who was baptised 
with the same baptism, nurtured under the same roof, and often rocked 
in the same cradle with himself. These gifts of domestics to the 
younger members of the family were not irrevocable; yet they were very 
rarely withdrawn. If the kitchen family did not increase in proportion 
to that of the master, young children were purchased from some family 
where they abounded, to furnish those attached servants to the rising 
progeny. They were never sold without consulting their mother, who, if 
expert and sagacious, had a great deal to say in the family, and would 
not allow her child to go into any family with whose domestics she was 
not acquainted. These negro women piqued themselves on teaching their 
children to be excellent servants, well knowing servitude to be their 
lot for life, and that it could only be sweetened by making themselves 
particularly useful, and excelling in their department. If they did 
their work well, it is astonishing, when I recollect it, what liberty 
of speech was allowed to those active and prudent mothers. They would 
chide, reprove, and expostulate in a manner that we would not endure 
from our hired servants; and sometimes exert fully as much authority 
over the children of the family as the parents, conscious that they 
were entirely in their power. They did not crush freedom of speech and 
opinion in those by whom they knew they were beloved, and who watched 
with incessant care over their interest and comfort.


The volume abounds in quaint anecdote, pathos, and matter of a graver 
nature, which will be treasured up for future use by the historian. At 
page 321 is a description of the breaking up of the ice on the Hudson. 
The passage is written with great power; and, as Southey has called 
it, “quite Homeric,” (a fact of which we are informed in the preface 
to this edition) we will be pardoned for copying it entire.


Soon after this I witnessed, for the last time, the sublime spectacle 
of the ice breaking up on the river; an object that fills and elevates 
the mind with ideas of power, and grandeur, and indeed, magnificence; 
before which all the triumphs of human art sink into insignificance. 
This noble object of animated greatness, for such it seemed, I 
witnessed; its approach being announced, like a loud and long peal of 
thunder, the whole population of Albany were down at the river side in 
a moment; and if it happened, as was often the case, in the morning, 
there could not be a more grotesque assemblage. No one who had a 
nightcap on waited to put it off; as for waiting for one's cloak or 
gloves, it was a thing out of the question; you caught the thing next 
you that could wrap round you, and run. In the way you saw every door 
left open, and pails, baskets, &c. without number set down in the 
street. It was a perfect saturnalia. People never dreamt of being 
obeyed by their slaves till the ice was past. The houses were left 
quite empty: the meanest slave, the youngest child, all were to be 
found on the shore. Such as could walk, ran; and they that could not, 
were carried by those whose duty would have been to stay and attend 
them. When arrived at the show place, unlike the audience collected to 
witness any spectacle of human invention, the multitude, with their 
eyes all bent one way, stood immoveable, and silent as death, till the 
tumult ceased, and the mighty commotion was passed by; then every one 
tried to give vent to the vast conceptions with which his mind had 
been distended. Every child, and every negro was sure to say, ‘Is not 
this like the day of judgment?’ and what they said every one else 
thought. Now to describe this is impossible; but I mean to account in 
some degree for it. The ice, which had been all winter very thick, 
instead of diminishing, as might be expected in spring, still 
increased, as the sunshine came and the days lengthened. Much snow 
fell in February, which, melted by the heat of the sun, was stagnant 
for a day on the surface of the ice; and then by the night frosts, 
which were still severe, was added as a new accession to the thickness 
of it, above the former surface. This was so often repeated, that in 
some years the ice gained two feet in thickness, after the heat of the 
sun became such as one would have expected should have entirely 
dissolved it. So conscious were the natives of the safety this 
accumulation of ice afforded, that the sledges continued to drive on 
the ice, when the trees were budding, and everything looked like 
spring; nay, when there was so much melted on the surface that the 
horses were knee deep in water while travelling on it; and portentous 
cracks, on every side, announced the approaching rupture. This could 
scarce have been produced by the mere influence of the sun, till 
midsummer. It was the swelling of the waters under the ice, increased 
by rivulets, enlarged by melted snows, that produced this catastrophe; 
for such the awful concussion made it appear. The prelude to the 
general bursting of this mighty mass was a fracture lengthwise, in the 
middle of the stream, produced by the effort of the imprisoned waters, 
now increased too much to be contained within their wonted bounds. 
Conceive a solid mass, from six to eight feet thick, bursting for many 
miles in one continued rupture, produced by a force inconceivably 
great, and, in a manner, inexpressibly sudden. Thunder is no adequate 
image of this awful explosion, which roused all the sleepers within 
reach of the sound, as completely as the final convulsion of nature, 
and the solemn peal of the awakening trumpet might be supposed to do. 
The stream in summer was confined by a pebbly strand, overhung with 
high and steep banks, crowned with lofty trees, which were considered 
as a sacred barrier against the encroachments of this annual 
visitation. Never dryads dwelt in more security than those of the 
vine-clad elms, that extended their ample branches over this mighty 
stream. Their tangled nets laid bare by the impetuous torrents, formed 
caverns ever fresh and fragrant, where the most delicate plants 
flourished, unvisited by scorching suns or nipping blasts; and nothing 
could be more singular than the variety of plants and birds that were 
sheltered in these intricate and safe recesses. But when the bursting 
of the crystal surface set loose the many waters that had rushed down, 
swollen with the annual tribute of dissolving snow, the islands and 
low lands were all flooded in an instant; and the lofty banks, from 
which you were wont to overlook the stream, were now entirely filled 
by an impetuous torrent, bearing down, with incredible and tumultuous 
rage, immense shoals of ice; which, breaking every instant by the 
concussion of others, jammed together in some places, in others 
erecting themselves in gigantic heights for an instant in the air, and 
seeming to combat with their fellow-giants crowding on in all 
directions, and falling together with an inconceivable crash, formed a 
terrible moving picture, animated and various beyond conception; for 
it was not only the cerulean ice, whose broken edges combatting with 
the stream, refracted light into a thousand rainbows, that charmed 
your attention; lofty pines, large pieces of the bank torn off by the 
ice with all their early green and tender foliage, were driven on like 
travelling islands, amid the battle of breakers, for such it seemed. I 
am absurdly attempting to paint a scene, under which the powers of 
language sink. Suffice it, that this year its solemnity was increased 
by an unusual quantity of snow, which the last hard winter had 
accumulated, and the dissolution of which now threatened an 
inundation.


{513} CAMPERDOWN.

_Camperdown; or News from our Neighborhood—Being a Series of Sketches, 
by the author of “Our Neighborhood,” &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & 
Blanchard._

In “_Our Neighborhood_” published a few years ago, the author promised 
to give a second series of the work, including brief sketches of some 
of its chief characters. The present volume is the result of the 
promise, and will be followed up by others—in continuation. We have 
read all the tales in _Camperdown_ with interest, and we think the 
book cannot well fail being popular. It evinces originality of thought 
and manner—with much novelty of matter. The tales are six in number; 
_Three Hundred Years Hence_—_The Surprise_—_The Seven Shanties_—_The 
Little Couple_—_The Baker's Dozen_—and _The Thread and Needle Store_. 
_Three Hundred Years Hence_ is an imitation of Mercier's “_Lan deux 
milles quatre cents quarante_,” the unaccredited parent of a great 
many similar things. In the present instance, a citizen of 
Pennsylvania, on the eve of starting for New York, falls asleep while 
awaiting the steam-boat. _He dreams_ that upon his awakening, Time and 
the world have made an advance of three hundred years—that he is 
informed of this fact by two persons who afterwards prove to be his 
immediate descendants in the eighth generation. They tell him that, 
while taking his nap, he was buried, together with the house in which 
he sat, beneath an avalanche of snow and earth precipitated from a 
neighboring hill by the discharge of the signal-gun—that the tradition 
of the event had been preserved, although the spot of his disaster was 
at that time overgrown with immense forest trees—and that his 
discovery was brought about by the necessity for opening a road 
through the hill. He is astonished, as well he may be, but, taking 
courage, travels through the country between Philadelphia and New 
York, and comments upon its alterations. These latter are, for the 
most part, well conceived—some are sufficiently _outré_. Returning 
from his journey he stops at the scene of his original disaster and is 
seated, once more, in the disentombed house, while awaiting a 
companion. In the meantime he is awakened—finds he has been 
dreaming—that the boat has left him—but also (upon receipt of a 
letter) that there is no longer any necessity for his journey. The 
_Little Couple_, and _The Thread and Needle Store_ are skilfully told, 
and have much spirit and freshness.


ERATO.

_Erato. By William D. Gallagher. No. I, Cincinnati, Josiah Drake—No. 
II, Cincinnati, Alexander Flash._

Many of these poems are old friends, in whose communion we have been 
cheered with bright hopes for the Literature of the West. Some of the 
pieces will be recognized by our readers, as having attained, 
anonymously, to an enviable reputation—among these the _Wreck of the 
Hornet_. The greater part, however, of the latter volume of Mr. 
Gallagher, is now, we believe, for the first time published. Mr. G. is 
fully a poet in the abstract sense of the word, and will be so 
hereafter in the popular meaning of the term. Even now he has done 
much in the latter way—much in every way. We think, moreover, we 
perceive in him a far more stable basis for solid and extensive 
reputation than we have seen in more than a very few of our 
countrymen. We allude not now particularly to force of expression, 
force of thought, or delicacy of imagination. All these essentials of 
the poet he possesses—but we wish to speak of care, study, and 
self-examination, of which this vigor and delicacy are in an 
inconceivable measure the result. That the versification of Mr. G.'s 
poem _The Conqueror_, is that of Southey's _Thalaba_, we look upon as 
a good omen of ultimate success—although we regard the metre itself as 
unjustifiable. It is not impossible that Mr. G. has been led to 
attempt this rhythm by the same considerations which have had weight 
with Southey—whose Thalaba our author had not seen before the planning 
of his own poem. If so, and if Mr. Gallagher will now begin anew, in 
his researches about metre, where the laureate made an end, we have 
little doubt of his future renown.

It is not our intention to _review_ the poems of Mr. Gallagher—nor 
perhaps would he thank us for so doing. They are exceedingly unequal. 
Long passages of the merest burlesque, and in horribly bad taste, are 
intermingled with those of the loftiest beauty. It seems too, that the 
poems before us fail invariably as _entire_ poems, while succeeding 
very frequently in individual portions. But the failure _of a whole_ 
cannot be shown without an analysis of that whole—and this analysis, 
as we have said, is beyond our intention at present. Some detached 
sentences, on the other hand, may be readily given; but, in equity, we 
must remind our readers that these sentences are _selected_.

The following fine lines are from _The Penitent_—a poem ill-conceived, 
ill-written, and disfigured by almost every possible blemish of 
manner. We presume it is one of the author's juvenile pieces.

  Remorse had furrowed his ample brow—
    His cheeks were sallow and thin—
  His limbs were shrivelled—his body was lank—
    He had reaped the wages of sin;
  And though his eyes constantly glanced about,
  As if looking or watching for something without,
    His mind's eye glanced within!
  Wildly his eyes still glared about,
    But the eye that glared within
  Was the one that saw the images
    That frightened this man of sin.

From the same.

  We were together: we had tarried
    So oft by some enchanting spot
  To her familiar, and which carried
    Her thoughts away—where mine were not—
  That, ere she knew, the bright, chaste moon
    —Not as of old, (when Time was young)
  She roamed the woods, in sandal-shoon,
    With bow in hand and quiver strung—
      But 'mong the stars, and broad and round
    The moon of man's degenerate race,
      Its way had through an opening found,
    And shone full in her face!
  She started then, and, looking up,
    Turned on me her delicious eyes;
  And I, poor fool! I dared to hope,
    And met that look with sighs!

From the “_Wreck of the Hornet_”—

  Now shrank with fear each gallant heart—
    Bended was many a knee—                 {514}
  And the last prayer was offered up,
    God of the Deep, to thee!
  Muttered the angry Heavens still
    And murmured still the sea—
  And old and sternest hearts bowed down
    God of the Deep, to Thee!

The little ballad “_They told me not to love him_,” has much 
tenderness, simplicity, and neatness of expression. We quote three of 
the five stanzas—the rest are equally good.

  They told me not to love him!
    They said he was not true;
  And bade me have a care, lest I
    Should do what I might rue:
  At first I scorn'd their warnings—for
    I could not think that he
  Conceal'd beneath so fair a brow,
    A heart of perfidy.

  But they forc'd me to discard him!
    Yet I could not cease to love—
  For our mutual vows recorded were
    By angel hands above.
  He left his boyhood's home, and sought
    Forgetfulness afar;
  But memory stung him—and he fought,
    And fell, in glorious war.

  _He_ dwells in Heaven now—while _I_
    Am doom'd to this dull Earth:
  O, how my sad soul longs to break
    Away, and wander forth.
  From star to star its course would be—
    Unresting it would go,
  Till we united were above,
    Who severed were below.

By far the best poem we have seen from the pen of Mr. Gallagher is 
that entitled “_August_”—and it is indeed this little piece alone 
which would entitle him, _at least now_, we think, to any poetical 
rank above the general mass of versifiers. But the ability to write a 
poem such as “_August_,” while implying a capacity for even higher and 
better things, speaks clearly of present power, and of an upward 
progress already begun. Much of the beauty of the lines we mention, 
springs, it must be admitted, from imitation of Shelley—but we are not 
inclined to like them much the less on this account. We copy only the 
four initial stanzas. The remaining seven, although good, are injured 
by some inadvertences. The allusion, in stanzas six and seven, to Mr. 
Lee, a painter, destroys the _keeping_ of all the latter portion of 
the poem.

        Dust on thy mantle! dust,
  Bright Summer, on thy livery of green!
        A tarnish, as of rust,
        Dimmeth thy brilliant sheen:
  And thy young glories—leaf, and bud, and flower—
  Change cometh over them with every hour.

        Thee hath the August sun
  Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face:
        And still and lazily run,
        Scarce whispering in their pace,
  The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
  A shout of gladness up, as on they went.

        Flame-like, the long mid-day—
  With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd
        The down upon the spray,
        Where rests the panting bird,
  Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,
  With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.

        Seeds in the sultry air,
  And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees!
        E'en the tall pines, that rear
        Their plumes to catch the breeze,
  The slightest breeze from the unfruitful West,
  Partake the general languor, and deep rest.


LIFE ON THE LAKES.

_Life on the Lakes: Being Tales and Sketches collected during a Trip 
to the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior. By the author of “Legends of a 
Log Cabin.” New York: Published by George Dearborn._

The name of this book is in shockingly bad taste. After being 
inundated with the burlesque in the shape of Life in London, Life in 
Paris, Life at Crockford's, Life in Philadelphia, and a variety of 
other _Lives_, all partaking of _caricatura_, it is not easy to 
imagine a title more sadly out of keeping than one embracing on the 
same page this so travestied word _Life_ and the—Pictured Rocks of 
Lake Superior. We have other faults to find with the work. It contains 
some ill-mannered and grossly ignorant sneers at Daniel O'Connell, 
calling him “the great pensioner on the poverty of his countrymen,” 
and making him speak in a brogue only used by the lowest of the Irish, 
about “_the finest pisantry in the world_.” The two lithographs, 
(Picture Rocks and La Chapelle) the joint work of Messieurs Burford 
and Bufford, are abominable in every respect, and should not have been 
suffered to disgrace the well printed and otherwise handsome volumes. 
In the manner of the narrative, too, there is a rawness, a certain air 
of foppery and ill-sustained pretension—a species of abrupt, frisky, 
and self-complacent Paul Ulricism, which will cause nine-tenths of the 
well educated men who take up the book, to throw it aside in disgust, 
after perusing the initial chapter. Yet if we can overlook these 
difficulties, _Life on the Lakes_ will be found a very amusing 
performance. We quote from the close of volume the first, the 
following piquant Indian Story, narrated by an Indian.


As our adventures are thus brought, for the day, to a premature close, 
suppose I give you an Indian story. If any body asks you who told it 
me, say you do not know.

Many years ago, when there were very few white men on the lake, and 
the red men could take the beaver by hundreds upon its shores, our 
great father, the president, sent a company of his wise men and his 
warriors to make a treaty with the Chippewas. They did not travel, as 
the poor Indians do, in small weak canoes; no, they were white 
warriors, and they had a barge so great she was almost a ship. The 
warriors of this party, like all our great father's warriors, were 
exceeding brave; but among them all, the bravest was he whom the white 
men called the Major, but the red men called him Ininiwee, or the Bold 
Man. He was all over brave—even his tongue was brave; and Waab-ojeeg 
himself never spoke bolder words. For a while the wind was fair and 
the lake smooth, and the courage of Ininiwee ran over at his mouth in 
loud and constant boasting. At last they came to the mouth of Grand 
Marais, and here a storm arose, and one of the wise men—he was tall 
and large, and, on account of the color of his hair, and _for other 
reasons_, the Chippewas called him Misco-Monedo[1]—told the warriors 
of our {515} great father to take off their coats and their boots, so 
that if the great barge was filled with water, or if she turned over, 
they might swim for their lives. The words of Misco-Monedo seemed good 
to the warriors, and they took off their coats and boots, and made 
ready to swim in case of need. Then they sat still and _silent_, for 
the courage of the Major no longer overflowed at his lips; perhaps he 
was collecting it round his heart. They sat a long while, but at last 
the guide told them, ‘It is over, the warriors are safe.’ Then, 
indeed, there was great joy among the white men; but Ininiwee made 
haste to put on his coat and his boots, for he said in his heart, ‘If 
I can get them on before the other warriors, I can say I am brave; I 
did not take off my boots nor my coat; you are cowards, so I shall be 
a great chief.’ Ininiwee put on his coat, and then he thought to have 
put on his boots; but when he tried, the warrior who sat next him in 
the barge shouted and called for the Misco-Monedo. He came 
immediately, and saw that Ininiwee, whom they called the Major, in his 
haste and in his great fright, was trying to put his boot on another 
man's leg.

[Footnote 1: Red Devil.]


RUSSIA AND THE RUSSIANS.

_Russia and the Russians; or, a Journey to St. Petersburg and Moscow, 
through Courland and Livonia; with Characteristic Sketches of the 
People. By Leigh Ritchie, Esq. Author of “Turner's Annual Tour,” 
“Schinderhannes,” &c. Philadelphia: E. L. Carey and A. Hart._

This book, as originally published in London, was beautifully gotten 
up and illustrated with engravings of superior merit, which tended in 
no little degree to heighten the public interest in its behalf. The 
present volume is well printed on passable paper—and no more. The name 
of Leigh Ritchie however, is a host in itself. He has never, to our 
knowledge, written a bad thing. His Russia and the Russians has all 
the spirit and glowing vigor of romance. It is full of every species 
of entertainment, and will prove in America as it has in England, one 
of the most popular books of the season. In this respect it will 
differ no less widely from the England of Professor Von Raumer than it 
differs from it in matter and manner, the vivacious writer of 
Schinderhannes suffering his own individuality of temperament to color 
every thing he sees, and giving us under the grave title of Russia and 
the Russians, a brilliant mass of anecdote, narrative, description and 
sentiment—the profound historian disdaining embellishment, and busying 
himself only in laying bare with a master-hand the very anatomy of 
England. It is amusing, however, although by no means extraordinary, 
that were we to glean the character of each work from the respective 
statements of the two writers in their prefaces, we would be forced to 
arrive at a conclusion precisely the reverse. In this view of the case 
Leigh Ritchie would be Professor Von Raumer, and Professor Von Raumer 
Leigh Ritchie. We copy from the book before us the _commencement_ of a 
sketch of St. Petersburg, in which the artist has done far more in 
giving a vivid idea of that city than many a wiser man in the sum 
total of an elaborate painting.


St. Petersburg has been frequently called “the most magnificent city 
in Europe,” but the expression appears to me to be wholly destitute of 
meaning. Venice is a magnificent city, so is Paris, so is St. 
Petersburg; but there are no points of _comparison_ among them. St. 
Petersburg is a city of new houses, newly painted. The designs of some 
of them may be old, but the copies are evidently new. They imitate the 
classic models; but they often imitate them badly, and there is always 
something to remind one that they are not the genuine classic. They 
are like the images which the Italian boys carry about the 
thoroughfares of London—Venuses de Medici and Belvidere Apollos, in 
stucco.

But the streets are wide, and the walls painted white or light yellow; 
and from one street opens another, and another, and another—all wide, 
and white, and light yellow. And then, here and there, there are 
columned façades, and churches, and domes, and tapering spires—all 
white too, that are not gilded, or painted a sparkling green. And 
canals sweep away to the right and left almost at every turning, not 
straight and Dutch-like, but bending gracefully, and losing themselves 
among the houses. And there is one vast and glorious river, as wide as 
the Thames at London, and a hundred times more beautiful, which rolls 
through the whole; and, beyond it, from which ever side you look, you 
see a kindred mass of houses and palaces, white and yellow, and 
columned façades, and churches, and domes, and spires, gilded and 
green.

The left bank of this river is a wall of granite, with a parapet and 
trottoir of the same material, extending for several miles; and this 
forms one of the most magnificent promenades in Europe. The houses on 
either side look like palaces, for all are white, and many have 
columns; and there are also absolute _de facto_ palaces; for instance, 
the Admiralty, the Winter Palace, and the Marble Palace, on one side, 
and the Academy of Arts, on the other. The water in the middle is 
stirring with boats, leaping and sweeping through the stream, with 
lofty, old-fashioned sterns, painted and gilded within and without.

Among the streets, there is one averaging the width of Oxford Street 
in London, sometimes less, sometimes a little more. It is lined with 
trees, and shops with painted shutters, and churches of half a dozen 
different creeds. Its shops, indeed, are not so splendid as ours, nor 
are their windows larger than those of private houses: but the walls 
are white and clean, sometimes columned, sometimes pillastered, 
sometimes basso-relievoed: in fact, if you can imagine such a thing as 
a street of _gin-palaces_ just after the painting season—and that is a 
bold word—you may form an idea scarcely exaggerated of the Nevski 
Prospekt.

But no analogy taken from London can convey an idea of the—grandeur, I 
may venture to say, presented by the vistas opening from the main 
street. Here there are no lanes, no alleys, no _impasses_, no 
nestling-places constructed of filth and rubbish for the poor. These 
lateral streets are all parts of the main street, only diverging at 
right angles. The houses are the same in form and color; they appear 
to be inhabited by the same classes of society; and the view is 
terminated, ever and anon, by domes and spires. The whole, in short, 
is one splendid picture, various in its forms, but consistent in its 
character.

Such were my first impressions—thus thrown down at random, without 
waiting to look for words, and hardly caring about ideas,—the first 
sudden impressions flashed upon my mind by the physical aspect of St. 
Petersburg.

I have said in a former volume of this work, that I have the 
custom—like other idlers, I suppose—of wandering about during the 
first day of my visit to a foreign city, without apparent aim or 
purpose; without knowing, or desiring to know, the geography of the 
place; and without asking a single question. Now this is precisely the 
sort of view which should be taken of the new city of the Tsars, by 
one who prefers the poetry of life to its dull and hackneyed prose. 
St. Petersburg is a picture rather than a reality—grand, beautiful, 
and noble, at a little distance, but nothing more than a surface of 
paint and varnish when you look closer. Or, {516} rather, to amend the 
comparison, it is like the scene of a theatre, which you must not by 
any means look behind, if you would not destroy the illusion.

It will be said, that such is the case with all cities, with all 
objects that derive their existence from the puny sons of men: but 
this is one of those misnamed truisms which are considered worthy of 
all acceptation for no other reason than that they come from the 
tongue, or through a neighboring organ, with the twang of religion or 
morality.

_London_ does not lose but gain by inspection; although on inspection 
it is found to be an enormous heap of dirty, paltry, miserable brick 
houses, which, but for the constant repairs of the inhabitants, would 
in a few years become a mass of such pitiful ruins as the owls 
themselves would disdain to inhabit. Those narrow, winding, dingy 
streets—those endless lines of brick boxes, without taste, without 
beauty, without dignity, without any thing that belongs to 
architecture, inspire us with growing wonder and admiration. The 
genius, the industry, the commerce, of a whole continent seem 
concentrated in this single spot; and the effect is uninterrupted by 
any of the lighter arts that serve as the mere ornaments and 
amusements of life. An earnestness of purpose is the predominating 
character of the scene—a force of determination which seizes, and 
fixes, and grapples with a single specific object, to the exclusion of 
every other. The pursuit of wealth acquires a character of sublimity 
as we gaze; and Mammon rises in majesty from the very deformity of the 
stupendous temple of common-place in which he is worshipped.

_Venice_ does not lose but gain by inspection; although on inspection 
it is found to be but the outlines of a great city, filled up with 
meanness, and dirt, and famine. We enter her ruined palaces with a 
catching of the breath, and a trembling of the heart; and when we see 
her inhabitants crouching in rags and hunger in their marble halls, we 
do but breathe the harder, and tremble the more. The effect is 
_increased_ by the contrast; for Venice is a tale of the past, a city 
of the dead. The Rialto is still crowded with the shapes of history 
and romance; the Giant's Steps still echo to the ducal tread; and 
mingling with the slaves and wantons who meet on the Sunday evenings 
to laugh at the rattle of their chains in the Piazza di San Marco, we 
see gliding, scornful and sad, the merchant-kings of the Adriatic.

St. Petersburg, on the other band, has no moral character to give 
dignity to common-place, or haunt tombs and ruins like a spirit. It is 
a city of imitation, constructed, in our own day, on what were thought 
to be the best models; and hence the severity with which its public 
buildings have been criticised by all travellers, except those who 
dote upon gilding and green paint, and are enthusiasts in plaster and 
whitewash. As a _picture_ of a city, notwithstanding, superficially 
viewed—an _idea_ of a great congregating place of the human kind, 
without reference to national character, or history, or individuality 
of any kind—St. Petersburg, in my opinion, is absolutely unrivalled.

It would be difficult, even for the talented artist whose productions 
grace these sketches, to convey an adequate idea of the scale on which 
this city is laid out; and yet, without doing so, we do nothing. This 
is the grand distinctive feature of the place. Economy of room was the 
principal necessity in the construction of the other great European 
cities; for, above all things, they were to be protected from the 
enemy by stone walls. But, before St. Petersburg was built, a change 
had taken place in the art and customs of war, and permanent armies 
had become in some measure a substitute for permanent fortifications. 
Another cause of prodigality was the little value of the land; but, 
above all these, should be mentioned, the far-seeing, and far-thinking 
ambition of the builders. Conquest was the ruling passion of the Tsars 
from the beginning; and in founding a new capital, they appear to have 
destined it to be the capital of half the world.

It is needless to exaggerate the magnitude of the city; as, for 
instance, some writers have done, by stating that the Nevski Prospekt 
is half as wide again as Oxford Street in London. Every thing is here 
on a gigantic scale. The quays, to which vessels requiring nine feet 
of water cannot ascend, except when the river is unusually high, might 
serve for all the navies of Europe. The public offices, or at least 
many of them, would hardly be too small, even if the hundred millions 
were added to the population of the country, which its soil is 
supposed to be capable of supporting.

Perhaps it may be as well to introduce here, for the sake of 
illustration, although a little prematurely as regards the 
description, a view of the grand square of the Admiralty. This is an 
immense oblong space in the very heart of the city. The spectator 
stands near the manège, the building which projects at the left-hand 
corner. Beyond this is the Admiralty, with its gilded spire, which is 
visible from almost all parts of the metropolis. Farther on is the 
Winter Palace, distinguished by a flag, in front of which, near the 
bottom of the vista, is the column raised to the memory of Alexander. 
Opposite this, on the right hand, is the palace of the Etat Major, and 
returning towards the foreground, the War Office. The group in front 
are employed in dragging stones for the new Isaak's church, which 
stands in the left hand corner, although the view is not wide enough 
to admit it. This is to be the richest and most splendid building in 
the world; but it has been so long in progress, and is now so little 
advanced, that a notice of it must fall to the lot of some future 
traveller. Saint Isaak, I believe, is not particularly connected with 
Russia, except by his day falling upon the birth-day of Peter the 
Great.

Such is the scale on which St. Petersburg is built; for although this 
may be considered the heart of the city, the other members correspond. 
The very vastness of the vacant spaces, however, it should be 
observed, seems to make the houses on either side look less lofty; 
while on the other hand, no doubt the real want of loftiness in the 
houses exaggerates the breadth of the area between. But on the present 
occasion, any thing like fancy in the latter respect would have been 
quite supererogatory. The streets were hardly passable. Here and there 
a pond or a morass gave pause to the pedestrian; while the droski 
driver was only indebted to his daily renewed experience of the 
daily-changing aspect of the ground, for the comparative confidence 
and safety with which he pursued his way. The streets, in fact, were 
in the same predicament as the roads by which I had reached them; they 
had thawed from their winter consistence, and their stones, torn up, 
and dismantled by the severities of the frost, had not yet been put 
into summer quarters.

The greater part of the streets are what may be termed pebble-roads, a 
name which describes exactly what they are. At this moment, in the 
whole city, there are upwards of seven hundred and seventy-two 
thousand square sagenes[2] of these roads, while of stone pavement 
there are only nine thousand four hundred and fifty, and of wood six 
thousand four hundred.

[Footnote 2: A sagene is seven feet.]

The wooden pavement, I believe, is peculiar to St. Petersburg, and 
merits a description. It consists of small hexagons sawed from a piece 
of resinous wood, and laid into a bed formed of crushed stones and 
sand. These are fastened laterally into each other with wooden pegs, 
and when the whole forms a plain surface, the interstices are filled 
with fine sand, and then boiling pitch is poured over all. This pitch 
from the porous nature of the wood is speedily absorbed, and on a 
quantity of sand being strewed above it, the operation is complete, 
and a pavement constructed which is found to be extremely durable, and 
which seems to me to suffer much less injury from the frost than the 
stone causeway. The honor of the invention is due to M. Gourief; and I 
have no doubt he will ultimately see it adopted in most of the great 
towns towards the north.


{517}


SUPPLEMENT.


In compliance with the suggestion of many of our friends, and at the 
request of a majority of our contributors, we again publish a 
supplement consisting of _Notices of the_ “_Messenger_.” We have duly 
weighed the propriety and impropriety of this course, and have 
concluded that when we choose to adopt it, there can be no good reason 
why we should not. Heretofore we have made selections from the notices 
received—only taking care to publish what we conceived to be a fair 
specimen of the general character of all—and, with those who know us, 
no suspicion of unfairness in this selection would be entertained. 
Lest, however, among those who do _not_ know us, any such suspicion 
should arise, we now publish _every_ late criticism received. This 
supplement is, of course, not considered as a portion of the Messenger 
itself, being an extra expense to the publisher.

We commence with the _Newbern (North Carolina) Spectator_—a general 
dissenter from all favorable opinions of our Magazine.


_Southern Literary Messenger_.—The May number of this periodical has 
been on our table for some days, but our avocations have prevented us 
from looking into it before to-day. It is as usual, a beautiful 
specimen of typography, and sustains Mr. White's acknowledged 
mechanical taste. Its contents are various, as may be seen by 
referring to another column of to-day's paper, and not more various 
than unequal. Some of the articles are creditable to their authors, 
while others—indeed a majority of them—would better suit an ephemeral 
sheet like our own, which makes no great literary pretensions, than 
the pages of a magazine that assumes the high stand of a critical 
censor and a standard of correct taste in literature. While its 
pretensions were less elevated, we hailed the Messenger as an attempt, 
and a successful one, to call forth southern talent and to diffuse a 
taste for chaste and instructive reading; and had its conducters been 
satisfied with the useful and creditable eminence which the work 
attained almost immediately, the Messenger would not only have had a 
more extensive circulation, but its labors would have been more 
beneficial to the community—the great end at which every periodical 
should aim. With the talent available in any particular spot in the 
southern country, it is out of the question, truly ridiculous, to 
assume the tone of a Walsh, a Blackwood or a Jeffries; and to attempt 
it, without the means to support the pretension, tends to accelerate 
the downfall of so indiscreet an attempt. We do not wish to be 
misunderstood in this remark. We believe, indeed we know, that the 
south possesses talent, and cultivated talent too, in as great 
abundance perhaps as any population of the same extent so situated; 
but the meaning which we intend to convey is, that this talent is 
neither sufficiently concentrated, nor sufficiently devoted to 
literary pursuits, to be brought forth in support of any single 
publication in strength adequate to establish an indisputable claim to 
superiority. Without these advantages, however, the Messenger has 
boldly put itself forth as an arbiter whose dicta are supreme; and 
with a severity and an indiscreetness of criticism, especially on 
American works,—which few, if any, of the able and well established 
Reviews have ventured to exercise, has been not only unmerciful, but 
savage. We admit that the number before, as well as the one preceding, 
is more moderate; and this change encourages the hope that justness of 
judgment and a dignified expression of opinion will hereafter 
characterise the work. The May number, however, is over captious, 
unnecessarily devoted to faultfinding, in a few cases. In criticising 
“Spain Revisited,” this spirit shows itself. About ninety lines are 
occupied in condemnation of the Author's dedication, a very 
unpretending one too, and one which will elevate Lieutenant Slidell in 
the estimation of all who prefer undoubted evidences of personal 
friendship to the disposition which dictates literary hyper-criticism. 
The errors of composition that are to be found in the work, 
grammatical and other, are also severely handled, we will not say 
ably. The following is a specimen.

“And now, too, we began”—says Spain Revisited—“to see horsemen jantily 
dressed in slouched hat, embroidered jacket, and worked spatterdashes, 
reining fiery Andalusian coursers, each having the Moorish carbine 
hung at hand beside him.”

“Were horsemen”—says the Messenger, “a _generic_ term, that is, did 
the word allude to horsemen generally, the use of the ‘_slouched hat_’ 
and ‘_embroidered jacket_’ in the singular, would be justifiable—but 
it is not so in speaking of individual horsemen, where the plural is 
required. The participle ‘_reining_’ probably refers to 
‘_spatterdashes_,’ although of course intended to agree with 
‘_horsemen_.’ The word ‘_each_’ also meant to refer to the 
‘_horsemen_,’ belongs, strictly speaking, to the ‘_coursers_.’ The 
whole, if construed by the rigid rules of grammar, would imply that 
the horsemen were dressed in spatterdashes—which spatterdashes reined 
the coursers—and which coursers had each a carbine.”

With all deference to the Messenger, we would ask, if it never entered 
into the critick's mind that “slouched hat,”  “and embroidered jacket” 
are here used as generick terms? Lieutenant Slidell evidently intended 
that they should be so received: but that he entertained the same 
intention respecting “horsemen,” the whole context disproves. Had the 
reviewer placed a comma after the word “horsemen,” in the first line 
of the paragraph which he dissects, (the relative and verb—_who 
were_—being elided, there is authority for so doing,) considered as 
parenthetical and illustrative all that follows between that comma and 
the one which comes after “spatterdashes,” supplied the personal 
relative and the proper verb, which are plainly understood before the 
participle “reining,” we presume that this sentence, ill-constructed 
as it undoubtedly is, would have escaped the knife, from a conviction 
that there are many as bad in the Messenger itself. The only critical 
notice which we have had leisure to read since the reception of the 
number, is the one which we have named. We may resume the subject in 
connexion with the June number.


We are at a loss to know who is the editor of the Spectator, but have 
a shrewd suspicion that he is the identical gentleman who once sent us 
from Newbern an unfortunate copy of verses. It seems to us that he 
wishes to be taken notice of, and we will, for the once, oblige him 
with a few words—with the positive understanding, however, that it 
will be inconvenient to trouble ourselves hereafter with his opinions. 
We would respectfully suggest to him that his words, “_while its 
pretensions were less elevated we hailed the Messenger as a successful 
attempt, &c. and had its conductors been satisfied with the useful and 
creditable eminence, &c. we would have had no objection to it_,” &c. 
are a very fair and candid acknowledgment that he can find no fault 
with the Messenger but its success, and that to be as stupid as itself 
is the only sure road to the patronage of the Newbern Spectator. The 
paper is in error—we refer it to any decent schoolboy in Newbern—in 
relation to the only sentence in our Magazine upon which it has 
thought proper to comment specifically, viz. the sentence above (by 
Lieutenant Slidell) beginning “And now too we began to see horsemen 
jantily dressed in slouched hat, embroidered jacket, &c.” The 
_Spectator_ says, “We would ask if it never entered into the critic's 
mind that ‘slouched hat’ and ‘embroidered jacket’ are here used as 
generic terms? Lieutenant Slidell evidently intended that they should 
be so received; but that he entertained the same intention respecting 
‘horsemen,’ the whole context disproves.” We reply, (and the Spectator 
should imagine us smiling as we reply) that it is precisely because 
“slouched hat” and “embroidered jacket” _are_ used as generic terms, 
while the word “horsemen” _is not_, that we have been induced to wish 
the sentence amended. The _Spectator_ also says, “With the talent 
available in any particular spot in the Southern country, it is out of 
the question, truly ridiculous, to assume the tone of a Walsh, a 
Blackwood, or a Jeffries.” We believe that either Walsh, or 
(_Blackwood?_) or alas! Jeffries, would disagree with the Newbern 
Spectator in its opinion of the talent of the Southern country—that 
is, if either Walsh or Blackwood or Jeffries could have imagined the 
existence of such a thing as a _Newbern Spectator_. Of the opinion of 
Blackwood and Jeffries, however, we cannot be positive just now. Of 
that of Walsh we can, having heard from him very lately with a promise 
of a communication for the Messenger, and compliments respecting our 
Editorial course, which we should really be ashamed of repeating. From 
_Slidell_, for whom the Spectator is for taking up the cudgels, we 
have yesterday heard in a similar strain and with a similar promise. 
From _Prof. Anthon_, ditto. _Mrs. Sigourney_, also lately reviewed, 
has just forwarded us her compliments and a communication. _Halleck_, 
since our _abuse_ of his book, writes us thus: “There is no place 
where I shall be more desirous of seeing my humble writings than in 
the publication you so ably support and conduct. It is full of sound, 
good literature, and its frank, open, independent manliness of spirit, 
is characteristic of the land it hails from.” _Paulding_, likewise, 
has sent us something for our pages, and is so kind as to say of us in 
a letter just received, “I should not hesitate in placing the 
‘Messenger’ decidedly at the head of our periodicals, nor do I 
hesitate in expressing that opinion freely on all occasions. It is 
gradually growing in the public estimation, and under your conduct, 
and with your contributions, must soon, if it is not already, be known 
all over the land.” Lastly, in regard to the disputed matter of Drake 
and Halleck, we have just received the following testimony from an 
individual second to no American author in the wide-spread popularity 
of his writings, and in their universal appreciation by men of 
letters, both in the United States and England. “You have given 
sufficient evidence on various occasions, not only of critical 
knowledge but of high independence; your praise is therefore of value, 
and your censure not to be slighted. Allow me to say that I think your 
article on Drake and Halleck one of the finest pieces of criticism 
ever published in this country.”

These decisions, on the part of such men, it must be {518} 
acknowledged, would be highly gratifying to our vanity, were not the 
decision vetoed by the poet of the _Newbern Spectator_. We wish only 
to add that the poet's assertion in regard to the Messenger “putting 
itself forth as an arbiter whose dicta are supreme,” is a slight 
deviation from the truth. The Messenger merely expresses its 
particular opinions in its own particular manner. These opinions no 
person is bound to adopt. They are open to the comments and censures 
of even the most diminutive things in creation—of the very Newbern 
Spectators of the land. If the Editor of this little paper does not 
behave himself we will positively publish his verses.—_Ed. Messenger_.


From the Augusta Chronicle.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—The following flattering tribute to the 
merits of this Southern periodical, is from the New York Courier and 
Enquirer; and, for its liberality and independence, it is scarcely 
less creditable to the Messenger, than to the paper from which it is 
extracted. The Courier and Enquirer is ever ready to do justice to the 
South, in all its relations, and to defend it when assailed, and 
therefore richly merits the warm gratitude and liberal patronage of 
its people.

From the Courier and Enquirer.

“We have received the May number of the Southern Literary Messenger, 
and its contents are equal to its reputation. We feel no hesitation in 
declaring our opinion that this publication is in every essential 
attribute, at the very head of the periodical literature of its class, 
in the United States. We do not agree by any means with some of its 
literary _conclusions_. For instance, it is very wide of our opinion 
on the merits of Halleck, in this very number; but there is a vigor 
and manliness in most of the papers that appear in the Messenger, 
which we are almost ready to admit, are found _no where_ else in 
American periodicals. At all events, it holds a proud post among its 
compeers, and its criticisms in particular, though sometimes a little 
too tomahawkish, have, generally speaking, a great deal of _justice_ 
on their side.”


From the National Intelligencer.

On the subject of the right of instruction, we find in the June number 
of the Richmond Literary Messenger, a very able paper, which, as soon 
as we can free our columns from the mass of Congressional matter on 
our hands, we will spread entire before our readers. The article comes 
to us in the shape of a letter to a gentleman in Virginia, and is 
understood to be from the pen of that distinguished jurist, Judge 
Hopkinson, of Philadelphia. It was elicited by a recent article in the 
Richmond Enquirer in defence of the right of mandatory instruction, 
and furnishes a luminous and complete refutation of that, amongst the 
most mischievous of the fallacies which obtain occasional popularity 
in particular States. Hearing of this letter, the publisher of the 
Messenger had the good sense and good fortune to obtain a copy of it, 
and the manliness to publish it in his valuable journal. In so doing 
he has rendered a service to the public, and enriched his pages with 
an article which is, itself, worth five years' subscription to the 
Messenger.


From the Richmond Compiler.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.—Every body must remember, that a 
very short time ago the attempt to establish a magazine in Virginia, 
was looked upon as chimærical in the last degree; and when, at length, 
the publication was commenced, in spite of a host of difficulties, its 
speedy downfall was universally predicted. Such predictions, no doubt, 
tended in a great degree to verify themselves, and are the usual 
resources of the enemies of any scheme of the kind. But it is saying a 
great deal for the enterprize and talent which have been employed in 
the service of the Messenger, that it has not only overcome 
difficulties such as no other magazine in the country ever 
successfully contended with, but that it has succeeded in attaining to 
the very first rank among American monthly periodicals. Since the 
commencement of the second volume, there has hardly been a dissenting 
voice, in this respect, in the many notices of the journal which have 
come under our observation. The _first literary names in the Union_ 
(without reference to mere Editorial opinions) have not scrupled 
directly to avow their belief, that the Messenger is decidedly the 
first of American Journals, and that its Editorial articles and 
management in especial, are far superior to those of any magazine in 
America, but have suffered these opinions to be published. Here, then, 
there can be no suspicion of puffery. Yet in spite of all these 
things,—in spite of the energy which has been displayed in getting up 
the Journal—in spite of the acknowledged ability with which it is 
conducted, and the admitted talents of its principal contributors 
(Judge Hopkinson, Professor Dew, Rbt. Greenhow, Heath, Timothy Flint, 
Edgar Foe, Judge Tucker, Groesbeck, Minor, Carter, Maxwell and a host 
of others)—in spite, too, of the general acknowledgement that such a 
publication is an honor to the State, we find our citizens regarding 
the work with apathy, if not treating it with positive neglect. Our 
public presses, too, we think to blame, in not entering more warmly 
into the cause of the _Messenger_. We happen to be aware that these 
presses are, one and all, favorably disposed to the Journal and proud 
of its success. But they are, in a measure, bound to some _active_ 
exertions in its behalf. In such a case as that of the Messenger, 
silence amounts to positive dispraise. The public in other States 
naturally look to the Richmond presses for opinions in relation to the 
magazine, and are at a loss to account for not finding any, except by 
supposing some demerit. We are quite sure that Mr. White has neither 
any expectation nor desire that we should _puff_ his Journal—that is, 
praise it beyond its deserts. Yet we may certainly notice each number 
as it appears, expressing freely, although briefly, our opinion of its 
deserts. This is nothing more, it appears to us, than our absolute 
duty—a duty we owe to the cause of Virginia literature, to Mr. White, 
Mr. Poe, and to ourselves.

The present number, we do not think equal as a whole to the March 
number, and still less to that for February—which latter may be safely 
placed in comparison with any single number of any Journal in 
existence for the great vigor, profundity, and originality of its 
articles. Yet we do not mean to say that the number now before us is 
not an admirable one, and fully equal to any of our Northern magazines 
in its communications, while it far surpasses the best of them in its 
Editorial department.

The first article is “MSS. of Benj. Franklin,” printed from MSS. in 
the hand-writing of Franklin himself, and never published in any 
edition of his works. It is unnecessary to say more than this to call 
public attention to so valuable a paper. “Lionel Granby,” chap. X. is 
the next prose article. We like this chapter as well if not better, 
than any of the former ones. The writer of these papers is evidently a 
man of genius—we might perhaps express our meaning more fully by 
saying that he has that degree of genius which enables him to 
appreciate, and keenly feel the labors of men of genius. Some of his 
detached passages may be considered as very fine. He has, however, no 
capacity to sustain a connected narrative of any length, and these 
chapters of “Lionel Granby” are consequently replete with the most 
ludicrous incongruities. They evince great ignorance of what is called 
the world. They are full of a shallow pedantry. Their style is 
excessively turgid, ungrammatical, and _inconsequential_. “The 
Prairie” is a delightful little sketch of real scenery. “Random 
Thoughts” is an excellent article, evincing much true learning and 
acumen. Such contributors as the author of this paper are invaluable 
to the _Messenger_. “Odds and Ends” is from the pen of Oliver 
Oldschool—a former correspondent of the Messenger. We believe Oliver 
Oldschool to be Mr. Garnett, the author of many excellent things on 
Female Education. His present essay is exceedingly amusing—but 
somewhat old fashioned. “The Hall of Incholese” by J. N. McJilton 
should not have been admitted into the columns of the Messenger. It is 
an imitation of the Editor's tale of Bon-Bon, and like most other 
imitations, utterly unworthy of being mentioned in comparison with its 
original. Nothing but the most extraordinary talent can render a tale 
of this nature acceptable to the present state of the public appetite. 
If not exceedingly good, it is always excessively bad. It must be a 
palpable hit or it is nothing. The “Lecture on German Literature” is 
in every respect worthy of the talents and learning of its author, 
George H. Calvert, Editor of the Baltimore American, and the writer of 
several popular works. It is a spirited and accurate sketch of German 
Literature from its origin to the present day. The Messenger should 
secure Mr. Calvert if possible. “Readings with my pencil, No. IV,” is 
a very good paper. “American Social Elevation” is the best 
communicated article in the present number, and perhaps one of the 
best, if not indeed the best (of a similar nature) which has ever 
appeared in any Journal in the country. Its philosophy is bold and 
comprehensive without being minute—its style fervid and exceedingly 
pure. From the initials and place of date, we are led to attribute 
this essay to Mr. Groesbeck of Cincinnati. “Verbal Criticisms” is a 
good paper, but we cannot agree with the critic in his strictures on 
the phrase “being built.”

The Editorial Department is (as it invariably is,) full, bold, 
vigorous and original. The first paper is “Lynch's Law,” and gives the 
history and origin, together with a copy of the law. Then follow 
Critical Notices. New works are reviewed—of Slidell's, of Professor 
Anthon's, of Mrs. Trollope's, of Paulding's, of Walsh's, of Cooper's, 
and of Mellen's. Praise and blame are distributed with the soundest 
discrimination, and with an impartiality, (even in the case of known 
friends,) which it is impossible not to admire; or to impeach.

The Poetical Department is quite limited. Two pieces by Mr. Poe are 
very beautiful, the one entitled “Irene,” in especial, is full of his 
rich and well-disciplined imagination. The lines on “Camilla” by 
Lambert A. Wilmer, are a perfect gem; full of antique strength and 
classic sorrow.


From the Baltimore Gazette.

_The Southern Literary Messenger for April_, has been received rather 
late in the day. Though the appearance of the Messenger is 
occasionally delayed (from us) longer than we might wish, yet we ever 
give it the cordial welcome which a most interesting and worthy friend 
never fails to receive at our hands. The present number, we perceive, 
contains less than the usual amount of matter, owing to the increase 
of the pages of the March number occasioned by the insertion of 
Professor Dew's valuable address upon the influence of the federative 
republican system of government upon literature and the development of 
character.

The long and able article on Maelzel's Chess Player, contained in this 
number, does credit to the close observation and acute reasoning of 
its author, who, as the article is published under the editorial head, 
we infer is the talented editor himself. The question whether or not 
the chess-player is a pure machine, is, we think, completely put to 
rest. The nature of the game of {519} chess is such, that no 
_machine_, however ingeniously arranged may be its mechanism, could of 
itself perform its constantly varying operations. We have never, at 
any time, given assent to the prevailing opinion, that human agency is 
not employed by Mr. Maelzel. That such agency is employed cannot be 
questioned, unless it may be satisfactorily demonstrated that man is 
capable to impart intellect to matter: for _mind_ is no less requisite 
in the operations of the game of chess, than it is in the prosecution 
of a chain of abstract reasoning. We recommend those, whose credulity 
has in this instance been taken captive by plausible appearances; and 
all, whether credulous or not, who admire an ingenious train of 
inductive reasoning, to read this article attentively: each and all 
must rise from its perusal convinced that a _mere machine_ cannot 
bring into requisition the intellect which this intricate game 
demands, but on the contrary that every operation is the result of 
human agency, though so ingeniously concealed as to baffle detection, 
unless by long continued and close observation.

This question, so often, and in this instance so ably, examined, was 
settled in Baltimore several years ago, by the actual discovery of a 
man emerging from the top of the chest or box, on which Mr. Maelzel's 
figure moved the chess men, the lid, which moved on a pivot like some 
card table covers, being turned on one side. This was seen by two 
youths of respectable character, through a window, accidentally open, 
in the rear of the room in which Mr. Maelzel's Chess Player was 
exhibited. Of the truth of this discovery we are entirely satisfied.

The Lecture “On the Providence of God in the Government of the World,” 
from the original manuscript of Benjamin Franklin, and which has not 
hitherto been published in any edition of his works, is properly 
entitled to the first place in the columns of the Messenger. The 
argument of the Providence of God contained in this lecture, is 
admirable for its brevity and conclusiveness. Franklin reasoned well, 
and wrote as well as he reasoned. Forming his style after the model of 
the most chaste and classic writer of the English language, and 
drawing from the resources of a capacious and well stored mind, he 
never failed both to please and to instruct his readers. His aim was 
to benefit his countrymen; and he wrote for them in a way in which 
they could understand, appreciate, and profit by every thing that came 
from his pen. The epistles published more than a century ago in his 
Pennsylvania Weekly Gazette, contain many valuable hints respecting 
domestic economy, some of which might be treasured up with advantage 
at the present day; for, generally speaking, economy is not an 
American virtue. Two of those epistles, one from Anthony Afterwit, and 
the other from Celia Single, have made their appearance in this number 
of the Messenger. Neither of them, it seems, has been inserted in any 
of the editions of the Doctor's works.

The article on “Genius” is perhaps more in accordance with our views 
than with those of the editor, who seems to think the writer's 
inferences lag behind the spirit of the age, and hence deduces the 
important conclusion, that his correspondent is not a phrenologist. We 
leave both the editor and his correspondent to the enjoyment of their 
own respective opinions, while we pass on to entertain ourselves for a 
little while in the “March Court” of our sister State. Nugator 
describes to the life the scenes of every day occurrence both in and 
_around_ a Virginia Court House, and concludes the picture he has so 
happily drawn, by introducing the trial of a negro woman for murder, 
during the late war, and at the time the British were ascending the 
Potomac.

The article on “Woman,” by Paulina, is sensible and well written—far 
more just and philosophical than a vast deal that has been said on 
this fair subject. Commend us to the ladies in general, and to Paulina 
in particular, for just views of the gentler sex. It is to be hoped 
the fair writer may perceive that the subject is not exhausted in a 
single essay.

“Leaves from my Scrap Book,” includes much that is excellent within a 
limited space. The writer has improved his naturally correct taste by 
close communion with the ancient and modern classics.

A Tale of Jerusalem, is one of those felicitous “hits,” which are the 
forte of Edgar A. Poe. The point, like that of an epigram, lies in the 
conclusion.

The “critical notices” of the present number, evince the usual ability 
of the editor in this department; though, what is more to our taste, 
not quite so caustic, as hitherto. We accord with the review of the 
“Culprit Fay.” The merits of this poem, despite the praise lavished 
upon it, when critically sifted, will be found to be like the little 
Ouphe himself, rather a small affair.

Our article has been lengthened so far beyond the usual limits as to 
preclude attention to the poetical department.


From the Norfolk Herald.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.—The present number of the 
Messenger, although not altogether equal to some previous ones, is 
full of highly interesting and valuable matter, and sustains the well 
earned reputation of the Journal. The first article is “MSS. of 
Benjamin Franklin.” These MSS. are copied from the hand writing of 
Franklin himself and have never appeared in any edition of his works. 
Among other good things, they include the following question and its 
solution. “A man bargains for the keeping of his horse six months, 
whilst he is making a voyage to Barbadoes. The horse strays or is 
stolen soon after the keeper has him in possession. When the owner 
demands the value of his horse in money, may not the other as justly 
demand so much deducted as the keeping of the horse six months amounts 
to?” The second prose article is “Lionel Granby,” a series of papers 
which we cannot consider as at all creditable to the Messenger. The 
“Prairie” is a very good sketch. “Random Thoughts” are somewhat 
pedantic, but make a very excellent article. “Odds and Ends” we fancy 
is from the pen of Mr. Garnett; it is full of humor, and will be 
generally liked, although we agree with the Richmond Compiler in 
thinking it rather too old fashioned. The “Hall of Incholese” is 
decidedly bad, and moreover a direct imitation of Mr. Poe's tale of 
“Bon-Bon.” The Editor should have refused to admit it in the 
Messenger, if for no other reason, on account of its barefaced 
flattery of himself. Mr. Calvert's (of the Baltimore American) 
“Lecture on German Literature” will be generally read and admired. It 
is a well-written and comprehensive essay, evincing intimate 
acquaintance with the literature of which he treats. “Readings with my 
Pencil, No. IV” by J. F. O. is like all the other numbers, good. 
“American Social Elevation” is most admirable: if we mistake not, this 
article is from the pen of Professor Dew. “Verbal Criticisms” are 
just, but rather common place.

The “Editorial” of this number is very forcible nod racy as usual. 
Among other things we notice an account of the origin of “Lynch's 
Law.” The “Critical Notices” embrace all new publications of any 
moment, that is, American publications; and we approve of the Editor's 
discrimination in not troubling himself, except in rare cases, with 
those of foreign countries. The books reviewed are Slidell's “Spain 
Revisited,” “Paulding's Washington,” Mrs. Trollope's “Paris and the 
Parisians.” Walsh's “Didactics,” Anthon's “Sallust,” Cooper's 
“Switzerland” and “Mellen's Poems.” A press of other matters prevented 
us from doing what we intended in relation to the last Messenger. We 
wished especially to have called public attention to the Editorial 
_critique_ on the poems of Drake and Halleck, and the article (also 
editorial) on the “Automaton of Maelzel.” Both these pieces are 
unanswerable—and perhaps the two best articles of any kind which have 
ever appeared in an American Periodical. The essay on the Automaton 
_cannot be answered_, and we have heard the Editor challenges a reply 
from Maelzel himself, or from any source whatever. The piece has 
excited great attention. The poetry of the Messenger improves: there 
are some excellent lines in the present number.


From the National Gazette.

The May number of the Southern Literary Messenger contains several 
excellent articles. Mr. Calvert's Lecture on the Literature of Germany 
may be commended to the attention of all who are either about studying 
the German language, or would wish to know something of the authors of 
that country. His descriptions, though necessarily brief, are 
satisfactory, and his estimates of the comparative merits of the 
authors he mentions, are, in general, judicious. The MSS. of Benjamin 
Franklin (not in his works) are from the same source which furnished 
some for the April number. They will be read with interest by all. The 
chapter of Lionel Granby does not advance the thread of the story. It 
describes a visit of the hero to Lamb (Elia Lamb,) and pictures his 
guests, Coleridge, Godwin, &c. “Odds and Ends” is the title of an 
attempt to divide mankind into genera and species, such as have not 
yet been named in any work on natural history. It will furnish 
amusement and perhaps instruction to the reader. The author (Oliver 
Oldschool) is an old correspondent of the Messenger. The essay 
entitled “American Social Elevation,” deserves great commendation. How 
fatal to the advancement of society too great attention to 
money-making and politics is proving in this country, is well 
exhibited, and remedies for this are judiciously suggested. A new 
account of the origin of Lynch's law is given, which is probably the 
true one.


From the Baltimore American.

In the Southern Literary Messenger for April, which reached us a few 
days since, the Editor opens the department of “critical notices” with 
some spirited and just remarks on the puffing system, as practised in 
this country towards native writers, and a vindication of his own 
course. He is on the strong side, whatever number or influences may be 
arrayed against him, and will do much good even though he run 
occasionally into the extreme of severity. Many people really believe, 
by dint of reading the repeated praise bestowed on them, that the 
marrowless prose fictions and “baseless” verse of the day constitute a 
Literature. Let the editor of the Messenger and others, go on purging 
their judgment of such crude notions, and assuming a high standard of 
literary merit, require substantial qualifications in candidates for 
fame, and condemn unsparingly all who do not unite genius with 
cultivation, a union indispensable for the production of works of 
permanent value.


From the Baltimore Athenæum.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—The April number of this excellent 
periodical is before us, and fully maintains the dignity and 
reputation won by its predecessors. We have read it carefully, and 
therefore hold ourselves qualified to pronounce judgment on its 
general merit. The articles in prose, are _all_ good. We wish we could 
say the same of the poetry; which, with the exception of the dramatic 
sketch entitled “The Death of Robespierre,” (admirable by the bye, 
although we think the writer has caught somewhat of the reflection of 
Coleridge,) we say, with the above exception, the poetry, judged by 
the Editor's own standard, that of Ideality, does not rank above 
mediocrity. The critical notices, together with the brief introductory 
essay “On the present state of American criticism,” are in the 
Editor's best vein. We like the independent spirit, and critical 
acumen, which {520} he evinces in the performance of his duty; and, 
however we may at times be induced to differ with him in opinion, yet 
we cannot but say, that in general his dissections of “poor devil 
authors,” though apparently severe, are well merited. In making this 
admission, we do not withdraw any opinion heretofore expressed when we 
have differed from the Editor of the Messenger, for, whenever we 
dislike an article we shall, (as we have ever done,) speak our mind 
fully though in all friendliness. But we assert our conviction, that 
judicious criticism, exercised without regard to persons, has been 
long wanting. There was a time when American Reviewers _imported_ 
their decisions on the works of native authors, and frowned down any 
attempt to resist the foreign decree. They have now rushed into the 
opposite extreme, the barrier once broken down, the torrent of 
adulation has lifted up every man who could fill a book with words; 
and changed the current of popular feeling to such an extent, that it 
is only by strenuous exertions it can be brought back into its mediate 
and true channel. They have given Phæton the reins, and if his steeds 
are not checked by a more powerful hand, the most disastrous effects 
must inevitably ensue. We, therefore, bid our friends cherish a work 
that upholds independent criticism, and pursues the “even tenor of its 
way,” the friend of all who deserve its friendship, but the slave of 
none. Cherish it we say, that by a more extended circulation it may 
fulfil the christian precept, and “go about doing good.”


From the Baltimore Athenæum.

_The Southern Literary Messenger for May_.—This number contains, among 
other excellent papers, an address on “German Literature,” by our 
townsman, George H. Calvert, Esq., delivered before the Athenæum 
Society of Baltimore, on the 11th of February, 1836. The pleasure 
derived from a perusal of this admirable lecture was greatly enhanced 
by the fact of our having been present at its delivery, and our still 
vivid recollection of its varied beauties and excellences, heightened 
and rendered impressive by the peculiar manner, emphasis, and 
enunciation of the speaker. Of the literature of Germany, deeply 
metaphysical, and rich with an abounding store of learning as it is, 
we are by far too ignorant, and we owe much to the author of this 
address for his labors in opening for us many sources of rich 
intellectual enjoyment, in his translations, of which Schiller's Don 
Carlos may be named as his most elaborate effort yet published.

We cannot enter into an analysis of the entire number of the Messenger 
before us; it is however highly interesting, as is usual with all the 
issues of this Magazine. The paper called “Odds and Ends,” we 
recommend to the especial perusal of all who have any desire to reform 
their manners and morals. It is a pleasant and well conceived satire.

Some of the northern critics have intimated that Simms was the editor 
of the Messenger. This is an error. It is now edited, as we 
understand, by Edgar A. Poe, formerly of this city, a young gentleman 
of excellent talents, and untiring industry. He is earning for himself 
a fine reputation.


From the Baltimore Patriot.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.—The May number of this handsome and 
ably conducted periodical has just come to hand. It comes late, but in 
the case of this Messenger we may truly say “better late than never;” 
tor the tales it tells, and its qualities as a temporary visiter and 
companion, must always secure it a cordial reception, however it may 
procrastinate its stated journeys, or linger by the way side. The 
Southern Literary Messenger is now under the editorial conduct of 
Edgar A. Poe, Esq. formerly of this city, and has been so, as we 
understand, since the commencement of the second volume. This 
gentleman has been, the while, a liberal contributor to its columns, 
and this thorough identification with a periodical, marked with 
unusual ability and attended with extraordinary success, must be 
satisfactory to the editor, and afford ample testimony at the same 
time that the conduct of the Messenger is in fit and competent hands. 
The May number of the Messenger contains the usual variety, and is 
marked with the freshness, spirit, and independence, which are 
characteristic of the work.


From the Baltimore Patriot.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.—The April number of this fresh and 
spirited periodical has come to hand. Its contents exhibit the usual 
variety. The character of this work is now so well established, that 
we need not speak to the question of its general merits, and shall 
only say that the visits of this “Messenger,” though sometimes tardy 
as in the present case, are, to us, always and altogether acceptable. 
The number now before us contains a long and ingenious editorial 
article, on the _modus operandi_ of Maelzel's Chess Player.


From the New Yorker.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—The April number of this spirited 
Monthly reaches us somewhat later than its date would indicate, yet so 
excellent in matter and manner that the reader will easily be induced 
to pardon the delinquency. The remarkable typographical neatness of 
the Messenger we have frequently alluded to, in glancing rapidly, as 
now, at the more intrinsic character of its contents. Some of those of 
the present number deserve a more extended consideration than we have 
time or space to give them.

“MSS. of Benjamin Franklin” form the opening paper of the 
Magazine—three hitherto unpublished though characteristic essays from 
the pen of the first eminent philosopher and sage whom America can 
claim as her own. ‘A Lecture on Providence’ is replete with the 
profound yet perspicuous common sense which was ever so prominent a 
feature in the character of the inventor of the lightning-rod; while 
the letters of ‘Anthony Afterwit’ and ‘Celia Single’ are in his 
lighter vein of humorous utilitarianism which would have done no 
discredit to the pen of Addison. (By the way, why have we no 
compilation or edition of the Life and Writings of Dr. Franklin at all 
commensurate with the dignity of the subject? Such a work would form a 
valuable and now desirable addition to American literature.)

“Genius” is discussed in the succeeding prose paper, and to better 
purpose than in the majority of essays on the subject. The writer 
maintains that “Genius, as it appears to me, is merely a decided 
preference for any study or pursuit, which enables its possessor to 
give it the close and unwearied attention necessary to ensure 
success.” This proposition is stoutly and ably maintained, and, though 
we cannot concur in it fully, we believe it much nearer the truth than 
is generally supposed. If true at all, it is a profitable truth, and 
should pass into an axiom with all convenient celerity.

“Some Ancient Greek Authors Chronologically Considered,” is an article 
evincing profitably directed research, which we shall copy.

“March Court” is a sketch so exclusively Virginian, that we can hardly 
judge of its merit.

“The Death of Robespierre” is a dramatic sketch—a species of writing 
which we do not properly appreciate. We, who do not worship even 
Shakspeare, cannot bow to the sway of his humbler satellites.

“Woman” is the topic of the succeeding paper—judicious and sensible, 
but not very original or forcible, considering that the essayist is a 
lady.

“Leaves from a Scrap Book” will be found among our literary 
selections. We regret that its Greek characters and phrases compelled 
us to exclude the author's forcible illustration of the disadvantages 
under which the earlier poets labor in a comparison with the moderns. 
Nothing could be more conclusive.

The Editorials of the number are ably written, though some pages are 
devoted to a solution of the mystery of the Automaton Chess-Player, 
doubtless the correct one, viz. that, after all the scrutiny which it 
has undergone, there is actually a man concealed in the pretended 
machinery. We are not sure that this demonstration, conceding it to be 
such, is worth the space it necessarily occupies.

In the matter of Criticism, the Messenger has involved itself in a 
difficulty with some of our Northern periodicals, either party, as is 
not unusual in such cases, being just about half right. The Southern 
Editor has quite too savage a way of pouncing upon unlucky wights who 
happen to have severally perpetrated any thing below par in the 
literary line, like the Indian, who cannot realize that an enemy is 
conquered till he is scalped, and some of the mangled have no more 
policy than to betray their soreness by attempts at retaliation, under 
very flimsy disguises, invariably making the matter worse. We think 
the Messenger often quite too severe, as in the case of ‘Norman 
Leslie,’ but still able and ingenuous. The Poems of Drake and Halleck 
are reviewed this month—neither of them after the fashion of an ardent 
and awed admirer—but faithfully, fairly, and with discrimination.

In conclusion, we take pleasure in remarking the fact that the cause 
of literature at the South is so flourishing as it appears to be at 
present. We believe the whole number of periodicals which may be 
distinguished as literary on the other side of the Potomac, has more 
than doubled during the last two years, and that their circulation has 
increased in at least equal proportion. We rejoice at this state of 
things, though it may be justly thought to militate against our own 
personal interest. The South has interests and feelings which find 
little real sympathy with us, though a profound and respectful 
deference elsewhere; and it is right that she should have literary as 
well as political journals to maintain those interests and challenge 
respect for those feelings. We shall not grudge them a generous 
patronage.


From the Charlottesville Advocate.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.—The May number of this work has 
appeared, with its usual variety of valuable matter.

Foremost in merit as in place, are more of those MSS. of Dr. Franklin, 
which are contained in the April No., and which have never yet been 
published in any edition of his works. They seem, all, to have been 
communications to a newspaper called the Gazetteer; though we are not 
informed whether they actually came forth in its columns or not. One 
piece purports to be from a gossipping “young girl about thirty-five,” 
who styles herself “Alice Addertongue;” and who makes an ingenious, 
(and of course satirical) defence of Scandal. Another consists of some 
“Queries to be asked the Junto,” (his club, perhaps;) one of which is, 
“Whence comes the dew that stands on the outside of the tankard that 
has cold water in it, in the summer time?” The simplicity of this 
question would warrant the belief, that the doctor was then but little 
advanced in his career of physical knowledge; unless we suppose that 
he propounded it only to stimulate some of his friends or readers to 
thought. The following question and answer have much of the true 
Franklin shrewedness and pungency: “I am about courting a girl I have 
but little acquaintance with; how shall I come to a knowledge of her 
faults, and whether she has the virtues I imagine she has? _Answer_. 
Commend her among her female acquaintance.”

The Messenger has Chapter X. of “Lionel Granby;” a sort of novel, in 
which there has been much to admire; but we are {521} altogether 
dissatisfied with the present Chapter, crippling, as it does, several 
of the good things said in the Essays of Elia, by making the hero of 
the story hear them (and very clumsily retail them) from the lips of 
Charles Lamb himself, the real “Elia.” We would advise the writer to 
bring his hero _tete à tete_ with no more literary lions, if he can 
shew them off to no better advantage than he shews Lamb. What will our 
readers think of his talking of “the ‘willie-draughts’ which are 
pledged to the memory of boyhood,” meaning an allusion to the 
“guid-willie waughts” of Burns, in “Auld Lang Syne?”

We like such collections of scraps, as are bundled together in the 
piece headed “Random Thoughts.”

“Odds and Ends,” by our old friend Oliver Oldschool, is a whole 
gallery of satirical portraits; representing various forms of human 
weakness or depravity—sketches of character almost worthy of 
Theophrastus, or La Bruyere. Of female characters, the _Tongue-tied, 
or Monosyllabic_, the _Bustlers_, the _Tom-boys_, the _Peace-sappers_, 
the _Tongue-warriors_, and several other classes, are held up to just 
ridicule; and of males, the _Busybodies_, the _Touch-me-nots_, the 
_Gastronomes_, the _Devillish Good Fellows_, &c. &c.

“A Lecture on German Literature,” by George H. Calvert, of Baltimore, 
is a pregnant outline of a great deal that is inestimable in the 
literary store houses of probably the most enlightened nation (if we 
set aside politics) on earth.

We welcome No. IV. of “Readings with my Pencil,” from a practised pen, 
and full, cultivated mind.

The article headed “Verbal Criticism,” is of a sort which all the 
repositories and guardians of Literature ought oftener to contain: 
brief reprehensions of too prevalent errors in language; interspersed 
with curious philological remarks.

The somewhat long essay on “Social Elevation” has much that is 
praiseworthy, neatness (sometimes force) of style, and in the main, 
great justness of thought. Its aim is, to expose and rebuke those two 
ruling passions of our countrymen, the _love of money_, and the _love 
of political preferment_. It justly and forcibly shews how these 
obstruct our progress in knowledge, virtue, liberty, and happiness, by 
merging all enlarged patriotism in the most narrowly selfish 
considerations. Bent on wealth, half our people forget their country's 
weal, in contemplating the increase of their private hoards. Bent on 
_rising in the State_ (as it is called,) or on ministering to those 
who do wish to rise, the other half sacrifice their country to their 
party, or to its leaders. God speed the Essayist in the wide, the 
universal dissemination of the views on this subject!

After all, the “Critical Notices” of the Editor have afforded us by no 
means the least pleasure. They are acute, just, and pungent. There is 
one thing we particularly like in the criticisms of the Messenger. 
While it displays a becoming pride in whatever excellences our country 
and its literature possesses, it does not hold itself bound, like many 
of our journalists, to applaud every thing that is American, and to 
admit the justice of no animadversions upon us and ours, from foreign 
tongues or pens. Thus, in an article on Mr. Cooper's “Sketches of 
Switzerland,” it joins him in a just _fillip_ to our national vanity, 
which has made us believe for many years past, that “the name of _an 
American_ is a passport all over Europe,” a boast which Mr. C. says is 
refuted by many mortifying tokens wherever an American travels in 
Germany, France, Switzerland, or Italy. In a review of Mrs. Trollope's 
_Paris and the Parisians_, the Messenger again justly rebukes the same 
American weakness, by averring (what we have always upheld) that her 
book upon the “Domestic Manners” of America had many more truths than 
our self love would let us acknowledge. “We have no patience,” says 
the Messenger, “with that atrabilious set of hyper-patriots, who find 
fault with Mrs. T.'s _flumflummery_ about the good people of the 
Union. The work appeared to us an unusually well written performance 
in which, upon a basis of downright and positive truth, was erected, 
after the fashion of a porcelain pagoda, a very brilliant, although a 
very brittle fabric of mingled banter, philosophy and spleen.”... “We 
do not hesitate to say, that she ridiculed our innumerable moral, 
physical, and social absurdities with equal impartiality, true humor 
and discrimination; and that the old joke about her _Domestic manners 
of the Americans_ being nothing more than the _Manners of the American 
Domestics_, is, like most other very good jokes, excessively untrue.” 
Of all people on earth, it might be supposed that we, rational 
American freemen, would be most ready to bear with unpalatable truths 
told us of ourselves, and to profit by the admonitions those truths 
involve: that we would most willingly pray

  “O would some Power the giftie gie us,
   To see oursels as others see us!
   It would frae mony a blunder free us,
                   And foolish notion.”

But instead of doing so, we wince, swear, and call names, at the 
slightest hint from a foreigner that our country and all belonging to 
it, are not the very beau ideal of perfection. It must be thus, if we 
would make those advances towards perfection which the true patriot 
covets for his country. Pope's precept applies no less to nations than 
to individuals—

  “Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
   Make use of _every friend_, and _every foe_.”

“Paulding's Washington,” “Anthon's Sallust,” “Walsh's Didactics,” 
“Mellen's Poems,” and Lieutenant Slidell's “Spain Revisited,” (all 
native American works) are reviewed in a manner at once kind, just, 
and interesting.

The Number contains a good deal of original Poetry; the merits of 
which we must consign to the judgment of those who have more 
pretensions to taste in poetry than we have.

We wish the Messenger all honor and prosperity—a steadily increasing 
list of punctually paying subscribers.


From the New Yorker.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—We believe our respected cotemporary 
has profited by our advice this month before it reached him, for we 
find the June number on our table in much better season than its 
predecessors. We mark the improvement with pleasure, even though we 
cannot take credit to ourselves for effecting it. A few words on the 
papers which compose it.

“The Right of Instruction” is ably and temperately discussed in the 
leading article, which we may safely attribute to the pen of Judge 
Hopkinson, of Pennsylvania. The essay denies the right of a 
Legislature to instruct authoritatively the U. S. Senators of the 
State—or rather, the obligation of the Senators to obey unhesitatingly 
such requisition. We shall take cognizance of this subject in another 
place at an early day; but, for the present, we must be content with 
the remark that the argument drawn from the spirit of the Constitution 
and the intent of its framers is formidable, if not conclusive.

“Perdicaris,” a sketch of the Greek scholar now lecturing on the 
literature and polity of his native land, is only remarkable for a 
translation of a beautiful little poem ‘from the Romaic of 
Christopoulos.’

“MSS. of Benjamin Franklin” are continued in this number.

“Losing and Winning” is one of the most quietly affecting and 
excellent tales that we have perused for months. Let who will declaim 
against the evils wrought by fiction, we are sure that this same story 
contains more true practical wisdom—more forcible persuasives to the 
paths of virtue and duty, than many a well-intended volume of fact or 
direct exhortation.

“The Swan of Loch Oich” is fair verse, and fair only.

“Ulea Holstein—A Tale of the Northern Seas,” is touching in its 
catastrophe, but not well imagined. The writer is evidently no 
veteran.

We have sometimes fancied we had reason to dislike the poetical 
contributions to the Messenger, while we were better suited with the 
prose. In the number before us there are three articles in verse—“The 
Laughing Girl,” “A Birth-Day Tribute,” and “Thy Home and Mine,”—which 
would do credit to any periodical. The Editor is evidently ‘weeding 
out’ as well as strengthening his crops of contributors, much to the 
advantage of his work.

“Court Day” and “My First Attempt at Poetry,” are both well done.

_A Lecture on Education_ concludes the contributed articles, and is 
devoted to a portrayal of the parental faults and misdemeanors which 
operate as serious obstacles to the inculcation of right principles 
and correct ideas in the minds of children. We heartily wish it could 
be read and appreciated by all the parents in our country.

The Editorial Criticisms are spirited but just. “Recollections of 
Coleridge,” Colton's “Religious State of the Country,” &c. &c. are 
praised without stint; while Col. Stone's unfortunate “Ups and Downs 
in the Life of a Distressed Gentleman,” is most unsparingly shown up. 
We like the independence, the directness, of the Editor, though he 
sometimes contrives to tread emphatically on the corns of an author 
for whom we have a tenderness. In the present instance, however, he 
has managed to be just right throughout, and our appreciation of his 
labors is graduated accordingly.


From the National Gazette.

The number of the Southern Literary Messenger, for June, contains, 
among other excellent articles, “A reply to a late article in the 
Richmond Enquirer in favor of the mandatory right of a State 
Legislature to instruct a Senator of the United States, and supported 
by the {522} alleged opinions of King, Jay and Hamilton, as expressed 
in the Convention of New York.” It is said to be by “a distinguished 
jurist of Philadelphia;” and the signature of H., together with the 
internal evidence of the composition, leave no doubt that it is from 
the pen of the eminent Judge of our District Court. He concludes the 
article with stating that a week or ten days before the death of Chief 
Justice Marshall, having called upon that great and good man, the 
question of instruction being then in high debate in the papers—he 
said to him that he thought the Virginia doctrine of instructions was 
inconsistent with all the principles of our government, and subversive 
of the stability of its foundations. To this the Chief Justice 
replied, in these words—“It is so; indeed, the Virginia doctrines are 
incompatible, not only with the government of the United States, but 
with _any_ government.”


From the Boston Galaxy.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_ is before us. Too much praise cannot 
be conceded to the publisher of this Monthly. He started on untried 
ground—but has brought forward his forces with such superior skill, 
and maintained the combat so manfully, that he has won the entire 
victory. The Messenger is an honor to the South. The articles it 
contains are for the most part of a superior order, while a spirit 
characterizes its editorial department exceedingly gratifying. The 
number before us has many most valuable articles; and so long as those 
concerned in its publication exert themselves with their present 
success, a corresponding flow of patronage must ensue. There is an 
original manuscript of Ben Franklin—desirable if only as a matter of 
curiosity—a poem by N. P. Willis, furnished by J. F. Otis, to be found 
on our outside—an interesting chronology of authors—a story by E. A. 
Poe, &c.


From the United States Gazette.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—Backward, like every thing else this 
spring, the April number of this periodical made its appearance in the 
first week in May. It is a good number, and though the reader may 
think the variety of its articles not so great as in some of the 
preceding, it contains many interesting papers. The first consists of 
“MSS. of Benjamin Franklin,” comprising a Lecture upon Providence, 
never before published, and two humorous letters in the manner of 
those in the Spectator, published originally a hundred years ago in 
the Pennsylvania Gazette, and now republished from the original 
manuscripts. The article upon Maelzel's Automaton Chess Player is the 
most successful attempt we have seen to explain the _modus operandi_ 
of that wonderful production. The writer advances a multitude of 
reasons to sustain his position, that a human being is concealed in 
the box and figure, and might be considered to have achieved complete 
success, were it not that an objection at once suggests itself. Could 
any human being have played so often and so long without once 
betraying himself by a sneeze and a cough? The “March Court” is a racy 
sketch, and the writer brings before us the justices, jurors, 
counsellors, clients, planters, pettifoggers, constables, cake women, 
candidate and jackass, as large as life, to say nothing of the sheriff 
running down a man who endeavors to escape, not punishment for some 
offence of his own, but the honor of sitting on the jury to decide 
upon the guilt of others. Nothing of the kind can be better than the 
anecdote in this piece, of the suppression of the British authorities 
by the _report_ from the British cannon during the last war. The 
dramatic sketch entitled “The Death of Robespierre,” is much to our 
taste. The incidents are well told, the language is poetical, and the 
versification smooth and harmonious. It is to be hoped that the 
readers of the Messenger will hear again from this author. The Essay 
on “Woman” is, we conclude from the signature, from a female hand, and 
contains just views upon a subject long neglected, but now beginning 
to attract a proper share of attention—Female Education. The present 
number is smaller than usual, its predecessor having exceeded the 
standard, to admit Professor Dew's Address. The subscription list 
continues steadily to increase, and includes the names of several 
Philadelphians. The citizens of Richmond appear determined to give it 
a liberal support, and testify their opinion of its excellence in the 
most substantial manner.


From the Methodist Conference Sentinel.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—We are indebted to the politeness of 
the publisher for the May number of this periodical. We have looked 
over some of its articles with pleasure. Among others “Odds and Ends,” 
“German Literature,” and “American Social Elevation” are well worthy 
of an attentive perusal. The character of this monthly “Messenger” is, 
in the general, unexceptionable, and it will, beyond question, exert a 
powerful, and, we trust a purifying, influence upon Southern 
literature. “The Hall of Incholese” is not only a failure in that 
department of literature with which it claims affinity; but it 
certainly possesses a character that can reflect but little credit 
upon the heretofore well established reputation of the “Messenger.” It 
seems neither fit to “point a moral, nor adorn a tale.” If the author 
has any desire for distinction in that particular line of writing, it 
will be necessary for him to form a more extensive acquaintance with 
“the little figure in black” before he can even hope for success. It 
would be better however to withdraw from the association altogether. 
In objecting to this article, we cannot be understood to object to the 
work in which it is found. The “Editorial Notices” are, to us, the 
most interesting part of the periodical. We turn to them with 
pleasure, in anticipation of an intellectual feast, and we are _never_ 
disappointed. Though we sometimes differ with the editor in matters of 
taste and opinion, yet we find satisfaction in following the ever 
flowing stream of thought along which he leads his readers. We bid it 
welcome to our desk, and heartily wish it success.


From the Petersburg Constellation.

_Southern Literary Messenger, for June_.—Our best thanks are due to 
the attentive proprietor for his prompt attention in forwarding the 
Messenger. As usual, it contains many pleasing articles: the MSS. of 
Franklin are literary curiosities. An excellent moral tale, entitled 
“Losing and Winning,” adorns the number. Our present limits will not 
permit more than these cursory remarks, but if enterprise and talent 
are any guaranty for success, Mr. White need feel no alarm for the 
ultimate success of his efforts in favor of _Southern_ Literature. Let 
the New York Mirror snarl if it will; there are papers in each 
Messenger which will outlive all the Norman Leslie “Pencillings by the 
Way,” and “Wearies my Love of my Letters?” of its erudite editors. 
Kennel a stag-hound with a cur, and the latter will yelp in very fear.


From the Winchester Virginian.

The June number of the _Southern Literary Messenger_ has reached us. 
Its contents are of a highly interesting character—among them is a 
very able article on the “Right of Instruction,” by a distinguished 
jurist of Philadelphia, but one in which the conclusions are not such 
as have obtained in Virginia, nor such as we have always inclined to 
believe correct. We are rather gratified than otherwise, however, at 
the introduction into the Messenger of essays upon such topics. Of the 
prose articles, one entitled “Losing and Winning,” by the author of 
“Sensibility, &c.” is a most valuable contribution; several others in 
the same department are very well written. The poetical articles are 
generally in good taste, and the critical notices are, as usual, able, 
candid and fearless. The Messenger is taking a higher and still higher 
stand among the periodicals of the day.


{523} From the New Hampshire Patriot.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—In acknowledging our obligations to the 
publisher for the above work, we cannot do less than express our 
unqualified approbation of the character, contents and design of the 
Messenger. We have often seen it favorably noticed by our brethren of 
the corps editorial, as among the first monthly magazines in this 
country—by some even placed at the head of the list—but it is only by 
an examination and perusal of the numbers before us, that we have 
learned to appreciate the justness of their praise. The correctness, 
neatness, beauty and elegance of its typographical execution and 
appearance, not less than the rich and attractive guise thrown over 
its pages by the combined union of wit, genius and learning therein 
displayed, certainly surpass any thing to be met with in any similar 
periodical within our knowledge. We have not space to detail its 
particular merits, and will only remark generally in the words of 
another, that the contributions, prose and poetical, are of a high 
grade of excellence, the _critiques_ precisely what they should be in 
such a work—faithful mirrors, reflecting in miniature the book 
reviewed, and exposing alike its beauties and deformities without 
favor or affection. We should be glad to enrich our columns by 
transferring to them several articles from the Messenger—perhaps 
hereafter we may be enabled to do so. At present we can only commend 
it to the countenance and patronage of our literary friends.


From the Charleston Courier.

_The Southern Periodicals_.—We have received the April number of “The 
Southern Literary Messenger.” It contains, among other articles of 
interest, a highly ingenious attempt to show that Maelzel's Chess 
Player is not a pure machine, but regulated by mind—by a human agent 
concealed within it.


From the Louisville City Gazette.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_ is the title of a periodical, 
published at Richmond, Virginia, that has no superior, either in the 
taste and genius of its contributors, or the beauty of its mechanism. 
Its criticisms are prepared with peculiar justness and acumen—not 
leaning to the side of mercy, and throwing a protecting veil over the 
sins and faults of others, but plainly pointing them out—not screening 
the errors of a friend, or sparing the tender places of an enemy. Such 
guardians we want to preserve the vigor of American Literature. There 
are some nurses so tender and so indulgent, that the children under 
their tutelage, either die of a surfeit of sweets, or languish through 
their too great care and tenderness. This will never be the case with 
our literature while guarded by such vigilant sentinels as the 
Southern Literary Messenger.

We had an opportunity, while conducting a periodical in a neighboring 
city, of seeing some of the earlier numbers of the Messenger, and on 
such occasions expressed the gratification and pleasure enjoyed in 
their perusal. And it is not only well sustained, but improves. Lionel 
Granby is kept up with spirit. Edgar A. Poe sprinkles his gems among 
the leaves of the Messenger. George H. Calvert, Esq. of the same city, 
freights it with the researches of ripe scholarship in the lore of 
German Literature. The May number is excellent, and we shall recur to 
it often, before it gives place to its successor.

We are indebted to Mr. White, the publisher, for his present, and 
assure him he could not have sent us a budget which would have been 
received by us with more pleasure.


From the Oxford Examiner.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—He who assumes to himself the province 
of amusing and instructing mankind for “a consideration,” is amenable 
at all times to just criticisms. The publisher of a newspaper or 
journal of any kind, should never feel _hurt_, as a caterer for the 
public appetite, if some of those to whom they minister should growl 
and find fault. He ought not to claim pre-emption over all other men, 
but should be satisfied if he occasionally received an approving nod. 
It is always a strong evidence of a want of force of mind to fly in a 
passion at the suggestions of a friend, when they are disposed to 
disapprove of our acts, although they may be unjust. We make these 
preliminary remarks in allusion to a hasty notice we took of the April 
number of the Messenger, which the publisher was polite enough to send 
us. Our time is generally much occupied, and we perhaps gave that 
number and others which have been occasionally handed us by a friend, 
rather a hasty perusal. We felt _then_, as we do _now_, that the 
editor's criticisms were unnecessarily, perhaps, strictly severe in 
some instances. The eagle who towers above all other birds, and even 
dares to look upon the sun, would not, unless hard pressed, condescend 
to notice the earthly flutterings of a tomtit—he aspires to higher 
game.

We may have done the editor injustice; and we hardly expected him to 
send us another number—but perhaps, in his youthful days, he has read 
the fable of the gnat and the ox—whether he did or did not, we feel 
obliged to him for the May number.

We have always freely accorded to Mr. White almost unrivalled 
excellence as a printer, and we now as freely accord to him the most 
unqualified praise for the _matter_ as well as the manner of his last 
number.


From the Columbia (S. C.) Times.

We acknowledge the receipt of the May number of that chaste and 
interesting publication, the “Southern Literary Messenger,” published 
by T. W. White, Richmond, Va. It undoubtedly contains more matter, for 
the price, than any other southern publication, and in style, is 
altogether unlike the mawkish effusions denominated “literary” with 
which our community is so liberally inundated.


From the New Hampshire Patriot.

The _Southern Literary Messenger_, for April, has just reached us, and 
though rather late in the day, we cannot omit observing that it is 
excellent—well sustaining the high reputation of its predecessors. We 
renewedly commend the work to the favor of our literary friends, as 
one every way deserving their patronage—in many respects unrivalled by 
any similar publication in the country.


From the Winchester Virginian.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—We have just received the April No. of 
this work, but have barely had time to read the article on “Maelzel's 
Chess Player,” which happened to arrest our attention on opening the 
book. It is exceedingly well written and interesting. The table of 
contents holds out quite a tempting bill of fare.


From the Richmond Whig.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.—The May number of this periodical 
has just appeared. Though not perhaps equal to some of the preceding 
numbers, it is far, very far from being deficient either in 
entertainment or instruction. As all the supporters of this work, and 
indeed the public generally, have a deep interest in its reputation, 
it is not only right, but a duty, to pass an occasional judgment upon 
its merits—to commend its various excellences, and to point out in the 
spirit of liberal criticism, such faults as may be perceived to exist. 
The Messenger, to be extensively and permanently popular, must mingle 
the useful with the sweet. It must not only mirror the burning 
thoughts and glowing images which teem in the world of fancy, but also 
condescend an occasional visit to this dull planet, the Earth. It must 
mix familiarly with ordinary mortals, take some interest in their 
concerns, and lend a helping {524} hand in the struggles which are now 
making against power and corruption. Not that the Messenger should 
become a vehicle of mere party politics, but that the great principles 
of liberty should be boldly and steadily espoused by its conductors 
and those various and important measures which concern the welfare and 
happiness of the State, freely and frequently discussed in its pages. 
If the Star of this Republic, “the world's last hope,” is destined to 
go down in darkness, corruption and misery, literature will either 
follow its fate, or be no longer worth cultivating or preserving. As 
essentially connected with the great cause of civil liberty, sound 
morals ought also to find in the Messenger a constant and able 
advocate. Without freedom and virtue, it is difficult to conceive the 
existence in any community of a pure and exalted literary taste. Such 
articles as the “Hall of Incholese,” by J. N. McJilton, are popular 
only with a small number of readers, and are not calculated to 
increase the moral reputation of the Messenger. The introduction of 
the Evil One, as a familiar in human society—as a social companion in 
scenes of revelry, has rather a tendency to throw an air of ridicule 
upon the truths of Divine Revelation. Milton indeed pierced the 
mysterious veil which shrouds the monarch of darkness, but Milton's 
Satan, “high on his throne of state,” is invested with a sublime 
terror which forbids the approaches of levity, and leaves behind it no 
impression inconsistent with revealed truth. No similar exception, 
however, can be taken to any other article in the present number of 
the Messenger. The MSS. of Franklin are interesting remains of that 
great man—interesting as illustrations of the strong common sense 
which peculiarly distinguished him. “Lionel Granby” is one of the best 
chapters which has appeared under that title. A novel however, 
published at intervals in the pages of a monthly miscellany, 
necessarily loses by that circumstance much of its interest. The 
author of “Odds and Ends” has attempted with much humor and effect, a 
new moral classification of that strange compound animal called Man. 
His satire is for the most part just, and his style racy and 
agreeable. “Random Thoughts,” saving and excepting one or two smutty 
allusions, are excellent. They have an air of freshness and 
originality, which is quite delightful, considering how little can be 
said which is new upon any subject. The Lecture on “German 
Literature,” by Mr. Calvert of Baltimore, now for the first time 
published, is highly creditable to its author. It evinces much 
classical taste, combined with a spirit of philosophical criticism. 
Mr. Calvert is sometimes, however, careless in his style, or rather in 
the formation of his sentences, which a good writer should study to 
avoid; and the great literary sin of this country, _a propensity to 
bombast_—is discernible in some parts of his lecture. Take for example 
the following passage, “John Wolfgang Goethe, was born at Frankfort on 
the Maine, in 1749, ten years before Schiller. ‘Selectest influences,’ 
leagued with nature, to produce this wonderful man. To give its 
complete development to a mighty inward power, outward circumstances 
were most happily propitious. _Upon faculties of the quickest 
sensibility, and yet of infinitely elastic power—wide convulsions and 
world-disturbing incidents bore with tempestuous force, dilating the 
congenial energies of the young genius who suddenly threw out his 
fiery voice to swell the tumult round him, and announce the master 
spirit of the age._” This would certainly be a very unfair specimen of 
the general character of the lecture, and it is the more surprising, 
that such a sentence should have escaped the vigilance of the author. 
The slightest departure from the simplest mode of expression, if it 
does not degenerate into bombast, is almost certain to be attended by 
a certain degree of obscurity. The author of the “Hall of Incholese,” 
is himself not free from this blemish. The following passage is 
entirely unintelligible: “The Spanish minister was married; but a star 
on the fashionable horizon higher than the vesta of his own choice, 
prompted the proffer of his help, in the establishment of a medium 
point of lustre.” The meaning might be guessed at by very laborious 
study—but popular literature should never levy so severe a tax upon 
its subjects. The paper on “American Social Elevation,” contains many 
just thoughts and patriotic reflections, expressed in an unusually 
agreeable style—and the 4th No. of “Readings with my Pencil,” is quite 
passable. The design of the writer is excellent, and deserves to be 
imitated. The “Critical Notices,” though in themselves good, are not 
generally equal to the Editor's previous efforts. As it was however 
permitted to Homer sometimes to nod, so should the really gifted mind 
which presides over the Messenger, be allowed occasionally a little 
repose. Of the poetry, the writer of this brief notice will say 
nothing. Some of it is good—but he is but an indifferent judge.


From the New York Weekly Messenger.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.—The high encomiums which this 
periodical has received from all parts of the Union, it most richly 
deserves. We have been favored with the five first numbers of the 
current (second) volume, and have had an intellectual feast in the 
perusal of many articles contained therein. To express our opinion 
candidly of the talents and erudition of the worthy editor of this 
monthly, would expose us to the charge of plagiarism, because it would 
be exactly similar to half a hundred others, who have preceded us in 
expressions of approbation. What shall we do then? To go through and 
examine every article in five numbers, is more than we have space for. 
But we must—we feel bound to say, Virginians especially are indebted 
to Mr. White for his _unprecedented_ literary zeal. He ought to meet 
with encouragement; in short, we believe he does,—but there should be 
an effort made to sustain the undertaking, by a continually increasing 
list of _paying_ subscribers.

If our friends in the city or country wish their table filled with 
rich literary food once a month, they should immediately order “The 
Southern Literary Messenger,” published by T. W. White, Richmond, Va. 
There is one article to which we object, the burlesque, or caricature, 
not criticism, on Fay's “Norman Leslie,” but in making only one 
objection, we think much is said for the periodical, more than can be 
said of any other of the monthlies. We really do think it is as good 
as any, if not the very best in these United States. We think so 
highly of the Richmond “Messenger,” that if we had the numbers of the 
first volume, we would have them neatly bound, and placed in our 
library as a literary treasure.


From the Norfolk Herald.

The _Southern Literary Messenger_ for May very gallantly holds it own. 
The ‘manuscripts of Franklin’ are well worth publishing. The chapter 
of Lionel Granby introduces us into the bodily presence of Lamb and 
Coleridge, and the ragged regiment of folios and quartos pass in 
review before us. The Lecture on German Literature, by Mr. Calvert of 
Baltimore, is a very entertaining discourse on the history of the 
poetry and philosophy of that wonderful people; but it is clear that 
the author of the lecture has paid more attention to the German than 
to the English and those languages from which the English flows. The 
paper of Oliver Oldschool is worthy of its author, and we were happy 
to see the story of ‘Tang Lang’ appended as a foot-note. The critical 
notices are very good for the most part; but then we could hardly 
expect Mr. Poe to be sour ere the honey moon be past. What has become 
of the remaining numbers of the series of articles on the distinctive 
differences of the sexes from the pen of one of the strongest writers 
of the Commonwealth? We sincerely hope, that, after such a fair 
beginning, the theme has not proved too mighty—if it has, the author 
may henceforth ponder well on the advice of Horace. Still we are on 
the look out for the essays.




*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 8, July, 1836" ***


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