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Full text of "The American monthly magazine, Volume 1"

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THE 



AMERICAN MONTHLY 



MAGAZINE. 



Seribimufl indiun, nomerofl ille, hie pede liber, 
Grande aliquid, qood pulmo animi pmlargufl anheUt 

Psaflius, I. 1 4 



NEW SERIES.— VOL. I. 



^] '- 



BOSTON: 

OTIS, BROADERSj & CO^ 147 WASHINGTON STREET. 

NEW-YORK: 

GEORGE DEARBORN, 3S GOLD STREET. 

1886. 



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ITHE NEW YORK 

■^OBUCLIBRARV 

AtrOJ, LCMOX AND 



SCATCHBRI) fc ADAU8, 

PKINfKRS, 

3» Gold S^m et. 



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INDEX. 



Aatiqtntiei of North America, 

Altar of Ammoo, . • • 

Anecdote from a Private Joomal, • 

A day in the Life of a PeraiaD Jew, . 

A Forenooo'a Cruise in the Chinese Sea, 

A Leaf from my Joamal, 

A Legend of Mount St Michel, . 

AtsCon the Painter, 

A Visit to the Clerk of the Weather, 

An Indian Treaty Scene, • 

A Tale of DiaUerie, 

A short account of Yoossoof Bey, 

A Ctneen's Farewell, 

A Deer Hunt, .... 

APlanofLife, 

Aphorisms of Goethe, . 



taqk* 

69 

90 

77 

378 

S86 

147 

179 

435 

483 

465 

57 

389 

877 

401 

65 

448 



C. 



Cerrantes and his Writmgs, ..... 

Comments on Travel, ...... 

Critical hints, ....... 

Critical Notices.— Alnwick Castle, • . . • 

** Analysts of Female Beauty, 

** American Antiquities, .... 

** Address before the PilgrinM* Sodety of Plymouth, 

*> AnthoD's Sailust, .... 

« Bulwer's Works, .... 

** Class Poem at Harvard, 

** Corinne, .... 

** Corrected Proofs, 

** Dearborn's Byron, . 



Herbert Wendall, . 

Humphrey Clinker, 

Henry lY. of Germany, 

Holiness, or the Legend of St George, 

Judge Story's Memorial of Marshall, 

La Somnamhula, 

Life on the Lakes, . 



343 

488 and 587 
502 
108 
20S 
310 
«S0 
625 
433 
107 
589 



419 
801 and 596 
414 
419 
318 
104 
100 
316 
414 



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IV 



INDEX. 



Critical Noticef . — ^Lieb6r*fl Inaagnral Address, 

M Lieber's Reminiscences of Niebnhr, 

** Mabmoud, 

" Memoirs of an American Lady, 

*^ Paulding's Life of Washiogton, 

** Power's impressions of America, 

" Poems of Mrs. Eliet, 

" Professional years of Hobart, . 

" Practical Phrenology, 

"^ Public and Private Economy, 

** Rosamond, with other Stories, 

^ Robinson Crusoe, 

** Spain Revisited, 

** Stories of the Sea, . 

" Slavery in the United States, 

"^ Tales from Chaucer, 

** The American in England, 

** The Classical Family Library, 

•* The War of 1812, . 

«* The Laurel, 

*^ The Outcast, and other Poems, 

" The Partisan, . 

** The Philosophy of Living, 

^ The Parent's Assistant, . 

** The Plea of the Midsunomer Fairies, 

•* Trails of the Tea Party, . 

^ Traits of American Life, • 

*< Views of Ithaca and its Environs, 

a 



De Diabolo, 

Deer HunUng vs. Dear Hunting. 



E. 



Essay on the Influence of the Arts of Design, 
Essay on American Scenery, 



G. 



Greenhougb the Sculptor, 



PAOB. 

4SS 
618 
32S 
638 
527 
511 
107 
629 
422 
321 
420 
108 
619 
204 
412 
104 
195 
627 
205 
305 
519 
101 
526 
526 
622 
420 
535 
320 

184 
550 

113 

1 

53 



Hermeus, or Letters from a Modem Greek, 

lb 

Hans the Horse-breaker, ..... 

L. 
Lazy Jake, ....... 

Life in Arkansas, ...... 

Literary Intelligence, ..•••.' 
Life of Mackintosh, ...... 

M. 
Miss Sedgwick's writings, ..... 
Monthly Commentary, . . . .109, 207, 323, 

<* List of New Publications, . . , . 

N. 

New Year's Eve of an unhappy man, . . , . 



41 
473 
388 



161 

25, 154, and 275 

112, 208, and 532 

570 



15 
426, 630, and 633 
111,208, and 632 

173 



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INDEX. ▼ 

O. 

ObsenratioM on some of the Male Chanictert of ShakspearOd— Introdactiony 126 

•* « a Hamlet, 386 

" a « Romeo, 430 

*« - « Shjlock, 561 

Oriental Readings.— Na 1, 2S6 

lb. No.i, 456 

CHd Ticonderoga, ........ 138 

P. 

Personation of the Characters of Shakspeare, .... 38 

Pilgrimage to the Tomb of the Cid, ..... 174 

PoBTRT. — Address to the Comet, ...... 97 

*' Alexander taming his Horse, . . . • 13 

** A Dream of Death, ...... 568 

" A Reply, 254 

** A Shark Story, 255 and 543 

" Astrology, ....... 399 

** Advice, 4U0 

« A Wish, 341 

•* Domestic Love, ...... 217 

" Dobotzi, 608 

«* Epigram, 452 

** Fragment of Simonides, ..... 362 

*• Ko£Der>B Battle Hymn, 191 

** Lines, . . , 610 

** Life in Death, ...... 482 

" Lines written at Sea, ...... 183 

« LaGrisette, 377 

" Lines on a Skidl dog up by a Ploagfa, .... 63 

** Men and Boys, 355 

« My Dream, 487 

" Nature, 136 

" Our Country's CaD, 96 

" On the death of an Ancient Spinster, . . . 382 

•• Original Greek Ode, 92 

" Our Yankee Giris, 292 

** O'er Alpine Peaks, 295 

** Our Forefathers, . . . . . . 453 and 559 

** Parting Words at Sea, 225 

« Pictures of Wmter, 124 

<- Recollections, ....... 192 

** Regrets, 293 

•* RosaUe, 95 

« Rather Hyperbolical, 23a~ 

** Spring Fancies, ...... 609 

" Story of the Hat, ...... 500 

** Songs, 37, 146, and 508 

«* Spring, 580 

** Self-Denial, 381 

** The Little Blind Boy, 244 

<* ToaClam, 586 

« To 596 

«« TotheCyprefs, 596 



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▼I 



IITDEX. 



PoBTiiT.^The Pike and the Shark, 



The Miaismk, 

The Past, 

The Laat Reader, 

The Spice lelaDdfi, • 

TheCaptiTe,. . 

The PbUoaophy of Soothsaying, 

The Departure of an Early Friend, 

The Confession, 

The Wanderer's Farewell^ 

The Poet's Solace, 

The Birth of Venus, 

The Grayes of Two Children, 

The Watch Fire, 

The Missionary Bride, 

The Settler, 

Trust in God, 

To the East Wind, 

Verses for My Cousin's Album, 



R. 



Reminiscences of Ancient Hunters, 
Report of the American Lyceum, 



PAOK. 

295 

SOS 

33S 

37S 

394 

433 

464 

473 

169 

40 

8$ 

6^ 

78 

90 

94 

418 

876 

446 

76 



246 
612 



S. 



Sayings and Doings, by the Man with a cap. 
Scenes and Stories of the Hudson, 

T. 

Turkish Ladies, • • . • 

The Flying Head, . . • . 

The Consonance between Literatuce and Liberty. 
The Column of the Desert, 
The Prose of Thomas Fuller, 
The Crazy Eye, . . . . . 

The Abbey of Etbal« 

The Stone Giants, .... 

The Prose of Jeremy Taylor, 
^ The Character of Desdemona, 
TheDeathofLaPucelle, . 
The Last of the Iron hearts, . - . 



33 

80 and 401 



71 
80 
356 
363 
373 
334 
388 
406 
504 
209 
218 
239 

The Ancient Literature of Intemperance, or the IntetnperMiee of Andent 
Literature, , . . . . . . 269 and 597 

The Prose of MUton, . . • 138 

TheCid, 533 

The Prose of Sir Thomas.Browne, . . . • 581 

V. 
Vagaiies in the Life of a Single Gentleman, .... 396 



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PROSPECTUS 

OF THK 

AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE: 

COM?E18INO 

Hu IfeuhEngland Magazine^ the American Monthly J\lagazini, the 
American Monthly Review^ and the United Statee^ Magasine. 



On the first of January, 1836, will be issued Tol. I. No. 1. of 
Thk American Monthly Magazine, edited bj Park Brnjamin 
and Charles F. Hoffman. 

This Magazine will contain Original Papers, Reviews of the latest 
wo^s. Literary Intelligence, and notices of Science and the Arts. 
No exertions will be spared to render the work truly American^ and 
in all respects worthy the patronage of the American public. Assunc-* 
ing the cause of no political party, it will present free discusstona 
and essays on topics of national importance. Awarding to the insti- 
tutions <^ oth^r countries their just praise, it will defend and maintain 
the peculiar excellency of those principles which are the glory 6f 
American citizens. Without further preamble we leave the Journal 
to speak for itself. 

The " American Monthly Magazine** is no mere experiment, no 
novel undertaking. To form it are combmed Periodicab, which have 
already attained a high reputation and great popular regard. 

Firtt. The New England Magazine. Nine volumes of this 
hi^y esteemed Monthly have been published. It was established 
in July of the year 1831, by J. T. & £. Buckingham, and conducted 
by them with judgment and ability for more than three years. It was 
then transferred into other hands, and has since been chiefly under 
the editorial charge c^ Paric Benjamin, Esq. During its publication, 
two other jonmay of a similar character were merged in it — namely. 
The Amsricajit^onthlt Review and The United States' Ma- 
OAzncE. Th^ former acquired celebrity, both in England and our 
own coontigr, for its cafNtal reviews and notices of native works, li 
was estal^shed and edited two years by Professor WiUard of Haiw 
yard University. Not meeting with that success which was due to 
Ae talenf engaged in its support, it was connected with The New- 
England Magazine. The United States' Magazine was projected by 
PariL Beyamin, and Epes Sargent, Jun., Esqs., and promised &iriy 
to Sliced, when it was thought best to combine it also with The New- 
Co^aad. 



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Stand, Thb Amxrioan Montblt MAOACiifB. The Ameri- 
can MonUily Magazise was commenced without a aingle aubscriber, 
on the first of March 1833. It was issued under the editorial super 
vision of H. W. Herbert, Esq. and A.'D. Paterson, A. M. ; and not- 
withstanding the retirement of Professor Paterson, after the comple- 
tion of the second volume, the work continued so steadily to increase in 
reputation and resources under the able editorship of Mr. Herbert, as 
to warrant a large addition to the number of its pages upon commenc- 
ing a new series in March, 1835. At that time Mr. C. F. Hoffman 
became the principal editor of the American Monthly, which, during 
the last vear, has bad a large accession of readers and correspondents ; 
and while, iVom the very first, it has never put forth the name of a con- 
tributor, as a lure to either writer or reader, or sohcited tilerary or 
monied patronage in any way whatsoever, except by its contents, 
many of the ablest minds in the country have quietly made it their 
medium of communicating with the public, and kept its prosperity con- 
linually upon the increase 

It has been deemed advisable to unite these two periodicals under 
one general title — both to increase their vahie to subscribers and lo 
affi>rd a more liberal support to the work. The name of ** Ameri- 
can Monthly'' was chosen and retakwd, became it was the most g9> 
Aeral, b«KHiged to two of the journals herein comprised, and must be 
more popular than one which was sectional to all Uiose who love " om 
whole coontry" better than any particular part The only difference 
to present subscribers, beside tibe alteration of the title to those of iIm 
New-England, will consist in the increase of the number of die page« 
and the greater variety and superior character of the articles. It \^ 
a^>ear in Boston and New- York on the same day, and be supported 
equally by the talent of both places. It will be conducted by the same 
editors as are at present engaged on the separate journals. The eape- 
rieoes of these gentlemen the pabKshers consider a sufficient earnest 
of success, apart from the incessant exertions which will be used byi 
themselves to render '* The Ambrican Monthly M^fcCAZim" a 
tnij national work, deserving national support 

The American Monthly Magazine will be publii^ed simultaneously, 
en the first of each month, in Boston and New*^Tork, at Five Dellare 
per aiinum, payable on ibe delivery of the third number, or in advanoe-— 
jCacb number will contain, in the average, ninety-six pages. Persons 
wishing to act as agents will receive a liberal allowance. 

All communications for the editors to be addressed to the oara dt 
maker of the poblishen'-^any thing relating to die business depart 
aent of file work also to be addressed to ei3ier of the publishersf with 
rtOstsfliQ paid 

E. IL BROADERS, 

147 fVaehingtfm^. Bdeton. 
CEO. DEARBORN, 

38 GoldrMt. AW^Fofit 

PuBUSHBliSW 



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THE NEW YORK 

PUBLIC LlBi{AKi 



A8TOR, LENOX AND 
TIIAEN FOUNDATIONS. 



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V -A, L- *^ 







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Id 



ALEXANDER TAMING HIS HORSE. 



Tbeyoonf piiBceaitoDlabedhii father nd tbe court, by bia dexterity In maniflAi the 
Bnc4TilMliit ■» Supplement te f^idHtue Oertiue. 



** Bring forth the iteed !" It was a level pUin, 

Broad aod unbroken as tbe mighty tea, 

When in their prison-caves the winds lie chained. 

There Philip sate, pavilioned from the sun ; 

There, all around, thronged Macedonia's hosts, 

Bannered, and plumed, and armed — avast array ! 

There too, among a separate, undistinguished crowd. 

Distinguished not himself, by pomp, or dress. 

Or any royal sign, save that he wore 

A god-like countenance, like Olympian Jove, 

And perfect grace and dignity — a youth — 

A simple youth, scarce sixteen summers old — 

With swift, impatient step, walked to and fro. 

Even from their monarch's throne, they turned to view 

— Those countless congregations — that young form : 

And when he cried agpiin, *' bring forth the steed I" 

Like thunder rose the mudtitudinous shout. 

From every voice bat one—" Liv* Albzandsr I" 

Then Philip waved his sceptre. Silence fell 
O'er all the plain. 'Twas but a moment's pause ; 
While every gleaming banner, helm, and spear 
Sunk down — like Ocean-billows, when the breese 
First sweeps along and bends their silvery crests^ 
Ten thousand trumpets rung amid tbe hail 
Of armies, as in victory, *Lioe the King /" 
And Philonicus, the Pbarsalian, kneeled. 
From famous Thessaly a horse he brought — 
A matchless horse ! Vigor and Beauty strove^ 
Like rival sculptors carving the same stone, 
To win the mastery — and both prevailed. 
His hoofs were shod with swiftness ; when he ran. 
Glided the ground like water ; in bis eye 
Flashed the strange fire of spirits still untamed, 
As when the desert owned him for its lord. 
Mars ! what a noble creature did he seem t 
Too noble for a subject to bestride — 
Worth gold in talents — chosen for a prince, 
The most renowned and generous on Earth. 



** Obey my son, PbarsaliaQ — bring the steed P 
Themooaichspokeb A signal ^ tU giOQn% 



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14 ALEXANDER. 

And on the plain they led Bueephaltu. 
''Mount, slave, mount! why palea thy cheek in fear? 
"Mount — ha! art slain 7 another — mount again !** 
Twas all in vain. No hand could curb a neck 
Clothed with such might and grandeur, to the rein. 
No thong or spur could make his fury yield. 
Now bounds be from the earth — and now he rears — 
Now madly plunges — strives to rush away, 
Like that strong bird — his fellow, king of air ! 
"Ctuick, take him hence," cried Philip; "he is wild." 
" Stay, father, stay. Lose not this gallant stud, 
" For that base grooms cannot control his ire : — 
" Qive roe the bridle !" Alexander threw 
His light cloak from his shoulder, and drew nigh. 
The brave steed was no courtier : prince and groom 
Bore the same mien to him. He started back. 
But with firm grasp the youth retained — and turned 
His fierce eyes from his shadow to the sun. 
Then, with that hand, in afler times which hurled 
The bolts of war among embattled hosts ; 
Conquered all Greece, and over Persia swayed 
Imperial command — which, on Fame's Temple 
Graved, Alexander, Victor of the World — 
With that same hand he smoothed the flowing mane, 
Patted the glossy skin with soil caress. 
Soothingly speaking in low voice the while. 
Lightly he vaulted to his first great strife. 
How like a Centaur looked the stud and youth ! 
Firmly the hero sate; his glowing cheek 
Flushed with the rare excitement : his high brow 
Pale with a stem resolve : his lip as smiling 
And his glance as calm, as if, in tender dalliance, 
Instead of danger with a girl he played. 
Untutored to obey, how raves the steed ! 
Champing his bit, and tossing the white foam 
And struggling to be free, that be might dart, 
Swift as an arrow from a shivering bow — 
The rein is loosened. " Now — Bucephalus !** 
Away — away — he flies, away — away ! 



The multitudes stood hushed, m breathless awe, 
And gazed into the distance — 

Lo! a speck — 
A darksome speck, on the horizon. 'Tis — 
'Tis he ! Now it enlarges — now are cleariy seen 
The horse and rider — now with ordered pace 
The horse approaches, and the rider leaps 
Down to the earth, and bends his rapid pace 
Unto the King's pavilion. The wild steed 
Unled, uncalled, is following his subduer. 
Philip wept tears of joy — ''My son, go seek 
A larger empire, for so vast a soul 
Too small is Macedonia !" P.E 



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15 



THE NOVELS OF MISS SEDGWICK.* 

" I SHOULD as soon think of galloping through paradise as down 
one of Miss Sedgwick's pages,** was the reply of a reader of the 
Linwoods, on being accused of making slow progress in-the book. 
And the expression does beautiful justice to that characteristic grace- 
fulness, which, having relations we cannot define with the heart, com- 
pels us to linger over the creations of this author. We feel, while un- 
der her spell, like the child of the German tale, UsteniniK to the story 
of nature fi-om the little tenant of the woods ; we " would hear more 
and more, and for ever." 

It is not Miss Sedgwick's great gift to contrive the incidents of a 
story. It is, however, true, that she does not give us the old hackney- 
ed routine. But in avoiding this, her drama wants a regular begin- 
ning, middle, and end ; it is oflen improbable, and sometimes inconsis- 
tent ; and we never read one of her stories without smiling at a cer- 
tain spirit of adventure, which always comes out somewhere in the 
conduct of her young girls ; two or three of whom, in this story of the 
Linwoods, she sends across a river at midnight, in a thunder-storm^ 
for no better reason than that one of them wants to be with her lover 
a little while longer ; and, although the despatch of the flight, one 
would think, would be considered the all-important particular of an es- 
cape from prison ! The reader of her works will recall, in this connex- 
ion, Hope Leslie's voyage over the harbor with an Indian boatman ; 
and the midnight walk of Miss Clarence, alone, upon Trenton Falls ; 
and some other adventuresome movements. But let the incidents be 
granted, and Miss Sedgwick puts such charming people into them, 
and makes them talk and act so characteristically, and with such ide<U 
propriety, that, in our sympathy with their just and natural feelmgs, we 
forget they are in improbable situations. 

Moreover, this defect, if it id one, is connected with yufhai is to New- 
Englanders the chief charm of her books. This innocently free ac- 
tion grows out of her complete New-Englandism. She has embo- 
died, as no other of our writers has, the spirit of her native soil ; a 
spirit evolved so inevitably out of the elements of human nature, as 
it has been pecularly nurtured and inwardly restrained in this section 
of our country, that we are sure it could not be seized and expressed 

* The Linwoods: or, Sixtr Years since in America. By the author of Redwood, 
Hope Leslie, kc New- York : Harper & Brothers. Home : by the same author. 
Boston : J. Munroe and Company. 

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16 MI88 SBDGWICK'S NOVELS. 

— we had almost said it cannot be believed in, by those who live 
where Custom has laid down her '' frosty weight" of conventional eti- 
quette ; or where a general laxity of moral principle leaves the pas- 
sions to flourish, till they seem to be all that is natural in human na- 
ture. We have often imagined with what delighted wonder such au- 
thors as those of Pelham, and Almacks, Vivian Grey, and Godolphin, 

— or even those of De Yere, Belinda, and Discipline, would read of 
Magawisca and Hope Leslie. With still more amazement may we 
suppose that an Italian, a Spaniard, or a Frenchman, would take up 
such a book as Redwood, and look into the family of the Lenoxes, 
and listen to Sister Susan's tale of the Soul, from the lips of living 
experience. And who but a New-Englander could believe in Aunt 
Debby and her moral influence ? or realize that Elliot Lee's manly 
independence, and persevering enaction of principle, are but a speci- 
men of the early life and general career of almost all our professional 
men — those who have given the tone to our society? What people 
but our own are so happy as to know that there is no reason in their 
political condition, or the prevailing sentiment, to prevent every me- 
chanic in the United States from being such a dignified housekeeper, 
refined father, and high-toned citizen, as William Barclay ; and having 
even such a paradise as his home ? Tet we know, that so far as any 
interference of rules and customs would operate among us, ^ the 
course of true love may run smooth," and the farmer's son wed the 
wrealthy and far-descended, and the latter feel honored thereby ; that 
there are Hope Leslies to be found, not merely in our castles in the 
air, but on our terra firma ; that Ellen Bruce is still more common; 
that almost every town might furnish a Jane Elton ; and that where 
such dreams of beauty are embodied among us as Bessie Lee — and 
sometimes there are — should they become, like her, the victims of 
imagination, — just so unharmed might they pass through our land, 
and find, in Yankee blacksmiths, a refinement which, springing firom 
a deeper source than ** high breeding," might put to shame, in the effi- 
ciency of its protection, the worn-out mock-chivalry of fashionable 
Europe. For we do have refined blacksmiths, and philosophic shoe 
workers, — he of the New England Tale was a portrait from life I — 
as well as whole-hearted, independent, faithful servitors, like Martha, 
and Kisel, and black Rose. In fact, it is — though, perhaps, the 
bright side — yet a real and broad side of Yankee character, which is 
set forth by Miss Sedgwick ; and some remarks on this character are 
a necessary preliminary of adequately expressing our thoughts on the 
peculiar merits of her works. 

Self-government is the strong foundation on which is erected the 
New-England character. Our Puritanic ancestry, who left their 
country before the pkrty was corrupted there, were dirown^ irith all 



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MI88 81DGWIGK'8 N0T1L8. 17 

dieir strong religious habits of thought and feeling, into the immedi- 
Bte communion with the God of nature, in his severer manifestations of 
rock-bound coast, dark forest, and wintry weather. Thej therefore 
escaped that reaction of their artificial austerity, which took place in 
the court of Cromwell ; and were sustained in their habits of self-de- 
nial by the obvious necessity of their situation. Their children also 
were thrown into the arms of the rough nurse Labor, who taught them 
their own powers by calling them into exercise, and thus added a deep 
self-respect and consciousness of power to that reverence for God 
which was the first principle of their fathers. 

In a country where no convenience, no comfort, no human influ- 
ence, could come from the past, but every thing was to be cut out of 
the mountain of circumstance by the spirit of the present, — not 
without hands — but by means of them, the exigencies of society 
were found to be more potent than the fabled magic of Prospero, to 
destroy the old Sycorax of our nature, make a bond-servant of its 
Caliban, and set ^ee its ^ delicate Ariel," to sing, as in the [^ay — 

" Where the bee sucks, there suck I," &c 

Indeed, the intellectual refinement of no country in the world 
might be half so aptly represented by the ** tricksy spirit," as that of 
New-England. Nowhere else is genius so completely denied every 
thing sensual and coarse to feed on. If we must admit that the un- 
compromising Puritanism of our ancestors — unrelieved in New-Eng- 
land as it was in the old country — by even the traditions of a more 
outward and sense-alluring worship, — has entailed heavy evils on the 
uneducated class, in not having afibrded proper scope to mirthfulness 
and fancy, by means of innocent and exhilarating public amusements ; 
yet we must gratefully remember that the same influence has restrained, 
and probably not too much, the license and frivolity of the more favored 
by fortune ; and intellectual power and beauty have flourished, in the 
pure unsensual atmosphere, and been embodied in master-pieces of 
sculpture and painting ; and in some specimens of elegant literature, 
— no line of which their authors *' dying need wish to blot" In proof 
of this, if any is asked for — let us look to facts. It was here that 
Greenough, acknowledged to be second to no living artist of his line, 
elaborated that inward power which has ** fixed for ever" the very poetry 
of Christianity, in those imperishable groups — the Chanting Cherubs, 
and the Child introduced into Heaven by an Infant Angel ; and in a 
smaller work, not generally known, which he calls the Genius of Love. 
Thb beautiful head has been sometimes mistaken for the impersonal 
tion of Piety, so sacred and chaste is the sentiment it expresses. For 
ourselves, we felt at the first moment that it was not Piety. It wanted 
that wrapt upward gaze which contemplates a superior nature. We 

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18 MI88 Sedgwick's kovsls. 

Mw immediately that it was Loye for a h«imao being, — but % Io?% 
holy, se^govemed, and &r-reachiiig ; a loye which looked upon tha 
infiDite relations of its object, but felt there were no elements of be* 
ing within it which itself did not eji[perience ; a loye which was seri- 
ous, for its thought followed its beloyed one through the bng line of 
human experience, which necessarily inyolyes much and severe suffer- 
ing, — but not serious to absolute sadness, for that line was felt to be 
curved into a circle, and to come back again into the lover's heart» 
where wells up for ever the deep fountain of faith in the Ultimate 
Good, from diat consciousness of its own nipotence and eternity, 
which is Love's only repose. 

In New-England, too, was Alston bred, if not bom ; who is no leas 
a poet-painter than Greenough is a poet-sculptor. Here first that 
beautiful spirit learned itself, and here it has brought out in lines of 
Grecian grace, and in coloring which Italian art might envy, shapings 
in feminine form of the very soul of the North, and landscapes where 
the ideal of man's spirit meets Nature in combinations so new and 
rare of her fairest forms, that the meeting is solemnized by the pre- 
sence of Beauty in herself. Nor is it all that he has so mingled 
the Gothic and the classic, in his embodiments of Spencer, Miltcm, 
Shakspeare, and Dante, that we know not which is the predominating 
element: but in his vision of Jacob; his singing Miriam ; his Elijah, 
wrapping himself in his mantle, after he had looked upon the whirl- 
wind, the fire, and the earthquake, and is listening to the still small 
yoice of God in his soul, — he has christianized the Hebrew Muse. 
Alston, too, is a poet by word as weU as with the pencil. His latest 
poems have been literally an accompaniment of words to his painted 
music. 

Speaking of poets, New-England may boast of what she has done. 
Here has dwelt Bryant, the still waters of whose soul, with their mir- 
rored pictures, always remind us of those lines of Shelly — 

** Sweet views, which in our world above 

Can never well be seen, 
Were imaeed by that water's love 

or thatTair forest green. 

** And all is interfused beneath 

Within Elysium air, 
An atmosphere without a breath, 

A silence sieepiog there.** 

And here has been unfolded the mysterious, melancholy, and gorgeous 
genius of Percival ; the dignified dramatic power of Hillhouse ; the 
chromatic muse of Halleck ; and the wild and gloomy, but spiritual, 
imagination of Dana. In prose, (to pass by the graver writings 
on Divini^ and Politics,) we have had the mercurial wit of Dennie 



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MIM SBDQWICK't HOFSLS. 19 

ottd Tylvr, (the N«w-EoglaDd eontributora to the «ld Port-Foho,) 
(he graceful trifles and elegant criticieina of the Anthologj ; and 
later, mch fauHleae worira of art a« Dr. Eirkland's jet unsurpassed 
oratioD at Phi Beta Kappa, and his Memoir of Fisher Ames ; Fisher 
Ames's own wiitings ; die Fragments of the erer lamented Fris- 
bie ; the literary productions of Freeman, Buekminster, Greets 
wood, Dewey, and other young ministers, whose duties cut their 
belles lettres writings short ; the character of Napoleon Buonaparte, 
and &e Essay on Milton, fit>m the pen of Channing ; — Sampson 
Reed's Growth of Mind ; Marsh's £ssay on Spiritual Philosophy, 
prefixed to Coleridge's Aids to Reflection ; Dana's Prose writings ; 
rare specimens off Biography from Upham and others ;* the anniver- 
sary Orations of Edward Everett, with the best contributions of him* 
self and others to our anonymous periodicals. 

It is not much, it is true, Of belles lettres that om* men of talents 
have bad time to elaborate* But the character of what they have done 
is uniformly marked with moral purity, and in this they are but the 
written expression of the general cultivated society of New-England, 
where vice, and even free-thinking with respect to nMurals, is frowned 
vpon, as if they were an unheard-of outrage : and where, therefore, the 
young child and most innocent girl may freely come and go without 
receiving a shadow over their pure thoughts ; — where even their ho- 
liest imaginations might be cherished, till they might practically forget 
fluit evil is yet actual 

The truth is, our men of genius are singularly free from the vicious 
habits, whidi, in the old countries, have been attached to the profes* 
sion of literature. They do not herd together at public houses and 
supper rooms, to drink and carouse. Their recreation is the society 
of virtuous and refined women. They have the dignity and self-re- 
spect which naturally grows in honorable and thoughtful minds, out of 
the fact that they are regarded as virtually an aristocracy, through that 
divine right which comes ^ not by the flesh, nor the will of man, 
but by the Spirit ;" which, like the wind, '* bloweth where it Hsteth." 
The high moral standard to which peraonal chsracter is yet held up, is 
the test of our literature also. And may it ever be so ! May the 

* One cannot think of Biography without remembering the memoir of theyomig 
Jamen Jackson. But it teen^d almost an irreverence to class tlus sacred apotheo* 
sis ofTouthful Tirtne, yet wet with the morning dew of its own delicacy, and sha- 
dowed from the noonday sun of the world^s admiration, by the holy humQity and 
severe simplicity of the same fatherly protection under which he had crown «p un- 
touched by a low woridliness. But what an honour it is to a New-England city, that, 
without any artificial sequestration, such a character could crow up within it Its 
voice dares to claim from that modest lather, that for the sake of others he would 
give the beautiful example of his son a wider 6eld of influence. Hundreds of 
our young men would prize the possession of that Memoir, could it be published, as 
a moni talisman. Shall so praiseworthy adesire contiinw to be d^ppoinCad 7 



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so MIflS B£DGWICK'g NOTBL8. 

growing tendency to import into it the dyspeptic fancies and fasti- 
dious wire-drawn refinements of an opium-drugged cockneyism be 
checked ! Let the forcible talent of Neal, and the tpiritueUe iroagio&> 
tion of Willis, be better employed ; nor forget the manly simplicity 
which has characterized a country only formed* as has been aptly 
said, in reference to its rugged soil, *' to grow men." 

These remarks are not urdeyant For the cultiyated society, 
whose moral taste has governed the literature we have spoken of, is 
that in which Miss Sedgwick's mind was nurtured. Here her sensi- 
bility to the pure and good, her fine powers of observation on charac- 
ter, and her thou^ts on social institutions, have been exercised into 
a vigorous maturity, without her losing, in the cultivation of her taste, 
the fresh, fearless innocence of thought and feeling which she embo- 
dies in her heroines, and which carries them *' through the burning 
ploughshares of this wicked world, unshod and unharmed, like the 
good Queen Emma" of the English legend. It will be acknowledg- 
ed that if these fearless actions are necessary to show how essen- 
tially pure and harmless is the social atmosphere, they are not, on the 
whole, to be considered as defects, in works whose principal aim seems 
to be to describe surrounding society, only so far idealizing it, as to 
have all that is best within it make its full impression and have its full 
moral influence. 

It was not, however, merely to vindicate the unrulableness in which 
Miss Sedgwick sometimes indulges her heroines, who are ever " pure 
in the last recesses of the heart," that these remarks have been made 
on New* England society and its literature. Miss Sedgwick's works 
begin to claim a higher place than that of elegant literature. She is 
evidently a republican writer, in a department which has hitherto been 
devoted to glorifying the spirit of feudalism, and its consequent false 
views ; and which has certainly never before been made a refracting 
atmosphere to diffuse the light of our institutions over the whole sur- 
face of our society, though so admirably adapted to this purpose. 

On the other side of the Atlantic, a woman has risen up, by similar 
means, to do a sadder work. Miss Martineau has tasked herself to 
pursue all ihe false principles of government and political economy 
into their moral results m the heart of society. And how faithfully 
the task has been executed thus far ; and what agonizing scenes of 
real life her searching fictions have laid open, we have not leisure now 
to express ; having at this time set ourselves to speak of Miss Sedg- 
wick, who has not a field less extensive in prospect, and how sunshi- 
ny in comparison ! Every step of her way may be illuminated by the 
radiance of her country's prosperity, and warmed by her own grati- 
tude therefbr ; and through the natural nightly vicbsitudes which must 
come to all dwellers on dm earthly ball, what starry lights of hope has 
she to guide her I 

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MIM SKPOWICK'S NOYBLS. 21 

We are not 80 fooltBh as to ground oar expectation of Miss Sedg- 
irick'fl being the counterpart of Miss Martineau up<m die circum* 
stance that she has written a tale entiUed Home* in a yolume of about 
the same size, as those numbers of the Illustrations of Political Eco- 
nomy, which have produced such a sensation in England : but because 
we see in all her works, and especially in that one, the marks of a 
ti«e genius for commencing a literature for the mass of the American 
people wUch shall bring up their moral tone to the spirit of their in- 
•litations. Her mind appreciates the peculiar dignity of republican- 
ism, and her heart rejoices in its enacted poetry. She perceives how 
naturally this form of society weds Christianity ; and with what self- 
respecting loyalty it rejoices to obey the sacred oracles of its holy and 
beautiful bride, ever at hand to be consulted, m the simple temple of 
Family ; that only earthly shrine which God's own hands did ever 
erect for man to worship in. 

This temple of worship she represents also as the school of the 
bomely virtues. Here she would have the courteous bearing of Ame- 
ricans towards each other, whether in or out of Congress halls, to be 
taught them. Not in the fencing school or the court, but at the hum- 
ble iahk^ and in the little parlour of the mechanic, grace and urbanity 
are to be learnt ; by more efficient means than the sound of the danc- 
ing master's fiddlestick and the prescribed mummeries of a master of 
court ceremonies — even by the voice of parental affection, making mu- 
sic with the heart — obedience of filial and fraternal love; the forms 
of politeness being led to sense and nature, governed and restrained 
as these are by such discipline as WilBam Barclay bestowed upon 
Wallace, and such motheriy hints as his excellent wife gave to her 
diildren at table, and to the self-relying Alice, when she would have 
spoken harshly of the deficiency of working ability in the unfortunate 
Emily Norton. She would have young men stimulated to the moral 
glory of patriotic duty, by such mothers as Elliot Lee's, and such sis-^ 
ters as Isabella Liowood, who precede them in sacrifice ; restraining 
their own instinctive impulses by conscientious inquiry into the first 
principles of action for a man and a citisen, and letting no feminine 
weakness choke the clear tones of encouragement with which they 
advise to obey the dictates of moral rectitude, although themselves are 
to be leA, while their sons and brothers are away at the war and the 
Bational councils. Here, also, wouM she have still more private vir* 
toes and vices dealt with. The reckless gambler is to be punished 
as Jane Elton punished Erskine, by plucking out her own heart-che- 
rished fancy, and turning from the semblance of the home offered her 
by a selfish lover, to the unshared duty of a village school-room, where 
she could still act according to her own views of right with none to kin* 
der. (How we widk the author had left her there I) Intemperance and 

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3fi MI8« tEDOWIOK's NOVBLI. 

all its hornnv die woiddbnog more teiTibly to tl» heart* becci^ 
tralj dum tfaroui^ Tieioiis of demons in dktil-hooses and breweries, 
by pouring the soul-poison down A» dirbat of the skinner Hewseo, as 
ike only specific for destroying the last sparks of hoaoantty* and mak* 
ii^him the wild beast that could tear her Miui chfldren from the aroM 
ef their mother. And how is all " Liberator''-vitnperBtioB pot to 
diame by die genukie aigument to the heart and nnderstaadiag UmU 
goes finrdi from the fiuthful services of the fireed-negro Rose ! Even 
idien Miss Sedgwick seems to take the least pains to inculcate a hio- 
raly a moral spirit breathes from all her pages : and it is a beautifuU 
glowing* creative* moral spirit, that not only goes back to repent with 
Redwood over the past* but with Elliot Lee and William Barclay, goes 
ftrward to sanctify the new finrms of political and social conditioa in 
which it finds itself. What a morning glow of youth comes from her 
pages I they ring with the laugh of childhood, whose echoes die away 
in the sofler mode of humanity* from the low heart^ouched tones of 
youthful tenderness* and the subdued bass voices of time-chastened 
scHTOws. The death of duit beaotifiil boy in the first volume of Cla- 
rence, is so real an event to every reader, that each might pray with 
dncerity, in the yet retained style of the Puritans, to have the afflic- 
tion sanctified to the good of didr souls ; afW having returned thanks 
to heaven for his birth and life. And who woiiM not be better prepar- 
ed to bear the death of a beloved son and brother after watching the 
deatb-bed of Charies Barcky ? 

In the story of Home Miss Sedgwick gives herself more scope for 
direct moral inculcation ; and we prefer this form, therefore, to that 
of the more technical novel, for we are 'sure die never can fall into a 
bald didactic. Her works are not architectures of stone, and wood« 
and odier dead material ; a style of writing adq>ted to guide other ends. 
Her productions grow up like the trees and the flowers ; and if the 
forms are not strictly everlasting* yet they live* (the former a long, 
time,) and the most transient of the latter leave a deathless perfume 
to Aose who will extract their essence. 

We might sustain this remark by references to particular touches of 
moral sendbility, laying open principles that may be applied to every 
day's action, and l^id a daily beauty to the most common life, for such 
abound in these volumes ; but we prefer tiiat our readers should seek 
them for Aemselvee in frequent re-perusals, and shall now bring to a 
close our desultory hints of our delight in what Miss Sedgwick has al- 
ready done, and our sense of her fitness for the work she has com« 
menced ; for we trust that Home is but the commencement of a se- 
ries. Many subjects there touched upon are not exhausted. The 
excellent hint for assisting the poor, is but one of many that she would 
know how to give* adapted to other places than New-Toik city : for 



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MIM iXBGWICK'S HOVBM. U 

the phatet wbiob pover^^ and the ignoiaiict iriocli to oReti pfoduces 
ifti take, vaiy with the location ; in this ooonexion Jm could ako ad 
forth the praciae rektioa which some Daceaaaty pohlie inatitataoBa of 
baaevoleiiee ou|^ttohold to the conaoieiice of the people. For In- 
sane Hoapilab for the Poor, Blind Aayhima, Itifirmaiiea for Ihe Skk, 
&C., are not onlj to be aupported in thia couotiy bj private aobacrip- 
tioiiaod beqaeat« but to be adndniateied in a more philoaophie and re- 
flectiTe spirit than in tboae countriea where the blmd apirit of Gadiolie 
ahnagiving haa moulded all the methods, and pointed out hot low endb 
of charity. Nor could any one, better than heraelf, illuatrate the 
new relatione of master and servant among us, as may be aeen from 
Barclay's management of Martha. And thia is unfortunate; for the 
rich are yet to learn that if they are to be exempted from manual la- 
bor, it must be by sharing more equally with those that serve them 
tlieir wealth ; — and thoae who serve are to learn, at the same time, 
that, as their privileges rise, and their means of comfort and improve- 
ment are enkuged, their sense of duty is to grow more refined, and 
their aervice to be more faithful, hearty, and intelligent Both partiea 
need to have more just views as to what ia of essential value, and 
wbei is illusion. Perhaps it is but reasonable to believe that what has 
been called the lower clasa will prove quite as ^t pupils in this new 
philosophy of life, as those who think themselves Uie hi^est We 
will mention a sin^ point, as an instance of those things which are 
perplexing to many minds. By the introduction of Victories into New- 
England, the price of female labor has been so much augmented, duit 
a hue and cry has been raised that we shall have no servants in our 
houses, and there ia certainly a difficulty in getting servants at wages 
v«ry much less than those which they may earn elsewhere. But it may 
be ^own that diis inconvenience has its limit ; that by and by a rea- 
sonable rise of wages will take place ; and that then there will grow a 
greater respect towards those to whom these better wages are paid ; 
asd that the ultimate effect of this, joined to the undoubted advantage 
which a place in a fitmily affords to a young woman who wishes to fit 
herself for the various duties of life, over those presented by a crowd- 
ed boarding-house in a manufacturing town, will force themselves on 
the minds of thinking parents ; and the temporary disproportion which 
now trouUea us will dbappear. Manufacturing life itself and the mo- 
ral dangeva and dutiee it involves, also need illustration. And the 
New-England sdiool system is yet to be recommended to immense 
tracts of country that are &8t filling up with population, but are mak- 
ing no provision for the cultivation of the judgment of millions of the 
voters, — and it may be of Ae legblators and civil officers — of the 
next generation. 



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2^ VIBE Sedgwick's novels. 

Principles of oar iostitations, yet deeper than any we have raentfOD- 
ed, occur to us as rich subjects. The abstract perfection of our con>- 
stitution makes it of itself less affecting to the iiDreaseniBg mind ^an 
one founded on secondary principles would be. It takes only the sen^ 
timent of devotion, which is common enough m hmnan nature to bind tho 
soldier to his banner, the subject of a king to his sense-dazzling master* 
The lust of his eyes comes in aid of his loyalty. But the sovereign who 
is to enlist the loyalty of this people is an abstract Existence, to be ap- 
prehended only by the better part of our nature. It is law, the law that 
descends from heaven and abides in the moral region ; and which 
must be clothed by the heart, in order diat it may be loved as wett as 
respected ; while the lower propensities of our nature must not be al- 
lowed to dethrone it, in order to place a blind, headlong, seHish will in 
its place. It is true, our political writers, from the high-souled, pur&-^ 
hearted, conscience-clear Quincy,* down through all who have writ- 
ten in the various departments of Political Economy and Legislation^ 
even to Webster, whose works have just been collected ; have been 
most truly inspired with an ever-present aim of making poHtical con-> 
stitution and legislative enactment ** coincident with the moral code."f 
But these works are such pure reasonings from first principl643r that 
they are too hard reading to be the popular recreation of oar commu- 
nity, who generally take up books only as a pastime. Thereforet al- 
though the duties of republicans to the constitution asid laws which se» 
cure their rights, have been reasoned on and set forth by the framers 
of our government and their successors in the judicial and legal pro- 
fession, in lucid arguments, filled with the glowing spririt of a truly hu- 
mane liberty, the mass of our population is growing up ignorant of the 
true views which should possess a professedly self-governed nation. 
Never, therefore, was the feminine genius, whose nature it is to apply 
principle to domestic and social action, and, like spring and summery 
to breathe beauty into and over the sublime but wintry outlines of the 
political system drawn over by masculine power ; — never, we repeat, 
was feminine genius before called to a work of such far-reaching be- 
neficence as this one, — to accomplish which Miss Sedgwick has gi- 
ven us by her two last works an earnest of her power. To those who 
think we exaggerate the importance of this work, we would refer to 
that oflen repeated saying of a deep thinker — **let me make the bal- 
lads of a people, and I care not who makes the laws ;" an aphorism 
whose sphit is more applicable to a government like ours than it can 
be to any other, since the laws which the people themselves make, will 

♦ See Life of the elder Josiah Gtuincy, by bis eon, the present President of Har- 
vard University : a book which is pregnant with the new era of moral politics : and 
should be studied by every American. 

t This fine expression is taken from the Report of the Mtssachosetts* Legisla- 
ture on Insolvent Debtors. 1835. 

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LKTTERS FROM ARKANSAS. 25 

most assuredly flow out of their ballads* And when the writer whom 
we are calling upon remembers, diat each of her *' ballads" is to be a 
whole of itself, and of no very large dimensions, we trust she will 
perceive that a very great moral object may be attained, with the same 
ease to herself that has always characterized her efforts hitherto ; nor 
feel her modesty alarmed that she is summoned to the work by the 
unanimous voice of an admiring public. 



LETTERS FROM ARKANSAS. 

Sir — I see that you have published my first letter* from this out 
of the way land. That emboldens me to try my hand at another. 
Court has just adjourned, and so has the Territorial Legislature, and 
I am a little at leisure. After I get through with the Arkansas River, 
we wil) look at the capital. 

I left Crawford county in July, 1833, and travelled down the river 
some forty miles, to die county of Pope, where I intended to take up 
(as they say here) a school. After travelling over a fine, rolling, upland 
country, I descended mto the bottom of a creek called Little Piney, 
nine mOes fix)m the river — and came at once upon a small log house. 
I stopped to take a survey before entering ; for I had been directed to 
the settler who lived there. It was like most other settlements in this 
country. A field of about forty acres was under cultivation, — filled 
with huge blackened trunks, gigantic skeletons of trees, throwing their 
bare, withered, sapless branches forth, as though a whirlwind had been 
among them with its crashing destruction. About the house were a 
number of peach trees, scattered about with very little regard to regu- 
larity. The house itself was roughly built of logs, and in front was a 
shelter made of poles, covered with green branches. The owner of 
the clearing was sitting in front, dressed throughout in leather, and 
playing lustily on the fiddle. Hearing diat sound, I judged diere would 
be no churlishness in his disposition, and I marched boldly up. He 
greeted me heartily, and without any attempt at politeness, and in two 
minutes we were on the best terms in the world. He too had been at 
Santa F§, and, as old travellers over the prairie, we had a claim upon 

* A previous letter of this U^y iaterestmg series was published ia the New^ 
Eo^and Magaane; to the editor of which the one here given was addressed. 
We are enqguraged to hope that the writer will continue his valuable communica^ 
tions to the ' bds. an. mon, 

V<&.TII. 4 

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26 LETTERS FROM ARKANSAS. 

one another's kindness. The heart naturally warms to one who haa 
been through the same scenes of danger, difficulty, and privation as 
yourself. 

With due reference to those respectable gentlemen of former ageSf 
called troubadours, romancers, et cetera, I incline to believe that the 
best and most gallant knights of olden time were much such men aB 
the bold and stalwart backwoodsmen. The same bold, brave, and 
careless demeanor — the same contempt of danger and recklessness 
of the finer courtesies and sympathies of life — the same fighting, revel- 
ling, carousing, and heedless disposition — the same blunt and unpo- 
lished manners exist in the latter which are recorded to have belonged 
to the former. ^ My present host was one of the purest specimens of 
the bone and sinew of the West. Tall and athletic, he would hardly 
have feared a death-grapple with a bear. His frame was close knit, 
muscular, and well proportioned. He combined the activity of the 
panther, the strength of the lion, with much of the silent, quick, and 
stealthy movements of the Indian. He had been a joumeyer over 
deserts and mountains, and a soldier at the battle of New Orleans. 
Of course he was an excellent Jackson man. 

My object being, as I said before, to get a school, I opened the 
subject to my host, and inquired what might be the prospect ? " Why," 
said he, " if you would set in, right strait, I reckon thar' might be a 
right smart chance of scholars got, as we have had no teacher here 
for the best end of two years. Thar's about fifteen families on the 
creek, and the whole tote of 'em well fixed for children. They want 
a Schoolmaster pretty much, too. We got a teacher about six months 
ago — a Scotchman, or an Irishman, I think. He took up for six 
months, and carried his proposals round, and he got twenty scholars 
directly. It weren't long, though, before he cut up some ferlicues, 
and got into a priminary ; and so one morning he was found among the 
missing." 

" What was the trouble?" 

'' Oh 1 he took too much of the essence of corn, and got into a 
chunk of a fight — no great matter, to be sure ; but he got whipped, 
and had to leave the diggings." 

" And how am I to manage to get a school ?" 

''I'll tell you. You must make out your proposals to take up 
school ; tell them how much you ask a month, and what you can 
teach ; and write it out as fine as you can, (I reckon you 're a pretty 
good scribe,) and in the morning there's to be a shooting match here 
for beef; nearly all the settlement," (laying the accent on the last syl- 
lable) '* will be here, and you'll get signers enough." 

I followed his advice. The neighbors gathered in the next morn- 
ing ; I was duly introduced to them, and soon had twenty scholars 



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LETTERS FROM ARKANSAS. 27 

subscribed. Reader, didst ever see a shootiiig matdi in the West ? 
I dare swear you never have, and therefore there may be no tedious- 
ness in a description of one. I hate your set descriptions ; laid out, 
formally, in squares and parallelograms, like an old-fashioned garden, 
wherein art hath not so far advanced as to seem like nature. You can 
just imagine the scene to yourself. Conceive yourself in a forest, 
where the huge trees have been for ages untouched by the axe. Ima- 
gine some twenty men — tall, stalwart, browned hunters ; equipped in 
leather, with their broad knives by their sides, rifles in hand, and every 
man with his smoke blacked board in his hand. The rivals in the 
first contest were eight sturdy fellows, middle aged and young men. 
The ox for which they were to shoot was on the ground, and it was to 
be the best six shots out of eleven. The four quarters, and the hide 
and tallow, were the five prizes ; they were to shoot off-hand at forty 
yards, or with a rest at sixty, which is considered the same thing. 
Two judges were chosen, and then a blackened board, with a bit of 
paper on it about an inch and a half square, was put up against a tree. 
*^ Clare the track !" cried the first marksman, who lay on the ground 
at his distance of sixty yards, with his gun resting over a log. The 
rifle cracked, and the bullet cut into the paper. " Put up my board I" 
cried another — ^ John, shade my sight for me !" and John held his 
hal over the sight of the gun. It cracked, and the bullet went within 
half an inch of ^ centre. " My board !" cried another ; " I'll give 
that shot goos /" and he did ; fairly boring the centre with the balL 
The sport soon became exciting. It requires great steadiness of 
nerve to shoot well, for any irregularity in breathing will throw the 
bullet wide of the mark. The contest was longer than I had antici- 
pated ; but was decided wifliout quarrel or dispute. The judges de- 
cided, and their decision was implicitly obeyed. The whole eleven 
shots of one man, who won two quarters, could be covered with a half 
dollar. You have made a show of Davy Crockett ; but there are 
thousands of men in the West who are better marksmen, better bear 
hunters, and every whit as smart as Davy himself. 

Speaking of him, however, reminds me of an anecdote of him, which 
may periiaps be contained in his autobiography ; if not, it is too good 
lo be lost, for it does him more honor than the fact that he has been in 
congress. Before he was a candidate, or had any idea of being one, 
there was a season of scarcity in the Western District, where he lived. 
He went up the Mississippi, and bought a flat boat load of com, and 
took it to what he calls '* his old stamping ground." When a man 
came to him to buy com, the first question he asked, was : *' Have 
jou got the money to pay for it 1" If the answer was in the affirma- 
tive, Davy's reply was, *' Then you can't have a kernel I brought it 



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28 LETTERS FBOM ARKANSAS. 

here to sell to peo^de ^t have no money." It was the foundatiea of 
his popularity. 

We naturally slip from the sublime to the ridiculous. Let us leave 
Crockett and come to schod-keeping. My school-house was a small 
log house, with a fireplace the width of one end — no floor — no 
boarding or weather boarding — a hole for a window, and one for a 
door. In that place I taught a collection of urchins two monthst and 
then was taken possession of by the fever and ague, which lasted me 
another month, and ended my school-keeping in this mortal life. I 
was to get my pay, half in money and half in pigs ; and I managed to 
get three dollars of the former and omitted saying any diing of the 
quadrupeds. That made four and a half months, during which I had 
labored at mine office and vocation. For the first six weeks I got }wsl 
enough to pay my board ; and for the last school, as I said before, 
three dollars. How many pigs I may have at this day in Pope county, 
it is impossible for me to tell. However, while I was employed in this 
thankless office, I wrote *' hapes" (as my predecessor in the school 
would have said) of poetry, part of which I have since published in a 
book. If it did not make me famous, it ought to have done it ; for it 
was all I got for my three or four months' hard work. 

I see that some one in your magazine has reviewed my unpretending 
work,^ and accuses mo of affectation, because I wrote in too gloomy 
and melancholy a vein. Sir, it is easy for men who dwell in New 
England to chide the luckless wanderer of the desert and sojourner 
in solitude, — for gloom, and despondency; I hope that those who 
blame me may never suflfer what I have suffered. Part of that book 
I wrote in a foreign country, while travelling about, alone^ among men 
of a different language -» part in the lodge of the wild Indian —part in 
ihe solitudes of the mountains ; on the loneliness and danger of the 
<}esert ; in hunger and watching, and cold and privation — part in the 
worse loneliness of a school-room — aU'm poverty, trouble, and des- 
pair. It is easy to imagine a desolation of the heart ; I know what it 
is. Enough of this! 

The country below Pope county, to Litde Rock, (which you have 
misprinted '^ Dutch Rook") on the north side of the Arkansas, beyond 
the bottoms, is high, rough, and rocky ; particularly near th^ Gadron 
and the Palarme. Here and there are low valleys, where the roads 
are most execrable, and even dangerous. The country to the north, 
comprising several counties, I know very little about, excepting the 
county of Washington, which is much like Missouri, composed of un- 
dulating prairies, interspersed with wood land. T^ere is very Uttle 

* Poems and Prose Sketofaes : reriewed in let No^ 9di vol of N. R M. 

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LBTTSAB FEOK ARKAlfSAB. 29 

worthy of remark on the road from Pope coantjto LHde Rock, except 
about fifty-five miles above the latter place, where you croes the track 
of a hurricane. A tremendous tornado passed there some five years 
ago, wkh a power almost inconceivable. It was about a mile and a 
halfiawMlth; and no one knows the distance it travelled. It left 
hardly a tree standing where it swept by. The largest hickory and 
oak trees were twisted round, and broomed up by the blast ; and a 
tiiick growth of vines uid briars has grown up in place of the forest 
It has nerer been my fortune to behold the passage of such a tornado ; 
neither am I anxious for the honor. One of the lawyers in this terri- 
tory, who was caught in such a hurricane once, has described it to me 
frequently. He was traveUing through the woods in the soudiem part 
of the territory, on a clear, warm summer day, when be heard a roar- 
ing, like the bellowing of the ocean, rising in the distance, and increas- 
ing every moment He sought for some open place, and fbnnd one* 
where a small hickory sapling stood alone, with no tree within twenty 
or tiiirty yards. Here he alighted, and, holding the sapling with one 
hand, kept the bridle in the other. In a few moments he saw, afiir ofl^, 
in the direction of the tornado, the air darkened with branches swept 
onvrard before the mighty wind. Directly the blast struck him — not 
like a wind, but like a body of condensed air, pouring on with the 
swiftness of the lightning. At one moment he was dashed on Ike 
ground — and then the tornado would lift itself, and leave a cakn 
below ^- then it would descend again, and again dash him to the 
earth. He was stunned with the terriUe roar of the mad hurricanet 
and the crash of the giant trees, over which the chariot of destruction 
was rolling its mighty, though invisible wheels. Large branches were 
whirled far away over his head, or fell close by him ; and it was a full 
halfhour ere the hurricane had passed away. It had swept a paA 
through the forest, as a cannon ball would cut its road through a solid 
column of Lilliputians. 

Little Rock, at which place I arrived in October, 1833, during the 
season of the legislature, is situate on the south bank of the Arkansas 
river. Directly opposite to the town is a bottom about a mile wide, 
only cleared in here and there a spot ; and about two miles above the 
town, an abrupt promontory, called Big Rock, juts into the river on 
the north side. The town itself is situated on a blufi* on the river, far 
above overflow ; and just below the limits of the town, the bottcmi 
spreads out again. As Mr. Featherstonhaugh has published a long 
description anent this country, which I take to be extremely learned, 
for the very sufficient reason that I cannot understand a word of it, 
and as I am no geologist, I shall give no descriptions of which that 
science forms an ingredient. I only know that die Little Rock Blufi^ 
is composed of slate, (gramoacke aUUe^ 1 think he calls it) 



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30 LETTERS FROM ARKANSAS. 

Little Rock contains about eight hundred and fiOy inhabitants, and 
b laid off with tolerable regularity by streets running at right angles. 
The ground on which it is built is somewhat irregular ; but could 
easily be graded, so that it would slope regularly from the summit of 
the ridge to the river ; in which case it would much resemble, in size 
and situation, the town of Newburyport. The houses are a motley 
mixture ; consisting of every variety, from brick blocks of two stories 
to log cabins — standing in juxta-position. Far the greater number, 
however, are shingle palaces. There are no public buildings, (unless 
you give the churches that name, of which there are three, two wood- 
en and one brick,) except the State house — to erect which, congress 
gave the territory ten sections of land, which sold for thirty-two tfaou- 
sancl dollars* It is a great, awkward, clumsy, heavy edifice, of brick, 
with a smaller building on each side — one a court house, and the 
other for secretary's office, &c. The main building is partly covered 
with tin ; and is commonly called ** Pope's folly" — after the Hon. 
John Pope, Ex-governor of the territory, its projector. 

When I arrived at Little Rock, I commenced editing the paper of 
which I am now the proprietor. At that time political contests were 
carried on with much acrimony and violence, and abuse filled both the 
papers. Arkansas bore but a poor character abroad, and I dare not 
say that she did not deserve it. Matters have altered for the better. 
I venture to assert that there is not a more peaceable town any where 
than Little Rock. Its citizens are men from all parts of the Union, 
and there is no more intelligent, shrewd, and sensible, and at the same 
time, generous and hospitable community in the world. 

Heigho ! I am confident that I am writing but a dull article. This 
poring over law books, and arguing demurrers, and writing of decla^ 
rations and deeds, is but dull business ; and does not tend to exalt 
the imagination, or to fit a man to write for a Magazine. I will givo 
you a " screed" of poetry, and e'en stop for this once. 



TO THE FIRST COMINa FLOWERS OF SPRING. 



YouNO nurseling of the spring and of the winds! 
Thou com'st like tenderness fostered by neglect, 
Or like a hope within a desert mind, 
Lonely and beautiful, with brightness decked. 

The earth is waking from her dreamless sleep 

Of barrenness and Mrinter ; and the airs 

Come hovering down from heaven's unmeasured deep, 

And brood upon her; «nd the azure wean 



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LKTTE&i FROM ARKANSAS. 81 

The Bemblance of the placid ocean, in 
Ita great blue eye ; and wandering clouds spread ottt. 
In that great vast, their misty sails and thm, 
And more, in constant restlessness, about 

In the blue depths, freighted with rain and dew, 
To scatter down, blessing the trees and flowers, 
When ni^t comes wandering, in silence, through 
The clustering stars, guarded by darkling hours. 

Spring, gentle spring I Thou nurse of happiness I 
Cradled at first among the winter winds. 
In thronging clouds gloomy and lustreless ; 
Thou comest like a dream of joy, that blinds 

The heart with happiness — and thou dost bless 
The barren earth, and the deep, sluggish minds 
Of mankind, dulled by winter, and the ocean 
Lifts its blue waves to thee with deep emotion. 

Ay, thou didst sleep, while winter ruled, a&r 
In the caha greenness of the sea-girt isles, 
While eref y wondering and impatient star 
Watched for the coming of thy many smilesy 

And thy soft whids, that should the frost onbar, 
That bound the seed-girt flowers in the piles 
Of frozen earth — yet still thy sleep was calm 
Beneath the olive and the branching palm. 

Then thou didst wake — thy influence was poured 
From the unmeasured chrystalline of heaven, — 
The winds of winter fled away, and roared 
Behind the western mountains : — life was given 

ITnto the earth — the quiet rains were showered 
Upon its brow — its frozen mass was riven, 
And, like awakening dreams, the flowers sprung up, 
And each for sun and rain lifted its thirsting cup. 

One sprung as suddenly as love will spring. 
At times, within the lonely heart — from out 
The mass of rotting leaves that here did cling, 
(Scattered when wintry winds did run and shout,) 

And then the clouds opened their snowy wings, 
And in the air came hovering about ; 
So that the light rain, and the lighter dew, 
Rained, like a spiritual influence, through 

The chasm of air. The joyfrd earth vibrated. 

And greenness sprung — like many a pleasant thought 

Of universal joy — the sea, elated, 

Ctuaked on his shores — with melody untaught 



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33 LBTTBB8 FKOM ARKANSAS. 

The birds sang forth, and erery thbg created 
A new jojf fimn the spring*i 'young ipirit caoght ; 
And all, from mankind to the worm that crawU, 
Felt like worn captiTee looaened from their thralls* 

Spring ! Sweetest of the seasons t Welcome here I 
As calm is to the storm-tossed mariner, — 
Wine to the goblet — music to the ear-— 
Thou to the poet art — ay, welcomer. 

When summer heralds thee unto thy bier, 
As autumn m his turn shall herald her. 
Thy memory shall still to me be sweet, 
As of loved friends whom still we hope to meet 

But thmtf the earliest of the young spring's dreams, 
Unfoldest from her heart under white frost. 
Stirred by the leaping murmur of the streams 
Like Toices of fresh happiness uptossed 

From busy spirits wakening in chill grayes — 
And pale and shrinking nestlest quite away, 
In tangled briers, and where the long moss waveSr 
Thou hast arisen like a starry ray 

Of sudden thou^t within a poet's heart, 

Or unadulterated Iotc, within 

The breast of woman, and thou hast no part 

With aught around thee — with the moaning dm 

Of the old twirling oak leaves — or the dim, 
Unslumbering and sad monotony 
Of the gray weeds — the bare and swinging limb 
Of each old winter-stripped and leafless tree. 

Thou droopest toward the earth again, like one 
For life and its tumultuous storms unfit ; 
And soon the ardor of the fiery sun, 
Like a great oenser in the heaTens uplit« 

Shall scorch away thy being with his fire. 
And thou shalt like a vanishing dream depart; 
As some sweet poet fainting on his l3rre, 
Wastes with the intense passions of his heart 

Albert PikEt 



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83 



SAYINGS AND DOINGS, 



BT THE MAN WITH A CAP. 



ON CAPS. 



It has been a received axiom, from die age of Addison to this 
present age, which, if it escape being called the Age of Puffing, will 
probably bear the name of a ^'greater than Addison," that the public 
have a right to know something of the personal appearance of any 
one who seeks either to amuse or instruct them. I am not unwilling 
to render obedience to this requisition, which indeed I think very 
reasonable. Know then, gentle reader, that I wear a cap — Wear a 
capt Is that your description of yourself? that does not in the re- 
motest degree designate you — now a-days eveiy body wear caps. 
Your pardon, reader, you are wrong, and evidently know nothing 
about the matter ; but be not discouraged when thus I inform you, 
widiout ceremony, of your ignorance — be not discouraged, but put 
yours^in the attitude of a disciple — sit at (he feet of the man with a 
cap, and you shall be taught First, ^i^iat is a cap ? If you take your 
reply from the common herd, you will suppose that eveiy covering for 
die head which is not a hat, is a cap ; for, very far from truth is this vain 
and foolish notion. Still, the word, when confined within its legitimate 
meaning, is comprehensive. The field is wide — as my great progenitor 
Cato (he wore a cap, apex pontificialis, vide Cicero) said, ^ the wide, the 
boundless prospect lies before me." Happily for you, oh reader, I am 
not obliged to add *' shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it" Let 
us discriminate a little — first, the caps I speak of are not nightcaps — 
though veiy many exceedingly pretfy things might be said about night- 
caps — as, for example, imagine a cap of finest cambric, with one neat 
modest fiill around the front — the plain white strings tied beneath the 
chin — of the fair young bride ^- think of that — I have other and less 
bright, though not less pleasing, recollections connected with nif^tcaps. 
I remember, oh, how well do I remember, the silk net ni^tcap of 

my venerable fiiend. Colonel P , in his latter days, when time had 

thinned his silver locks, he wore that ni^tcap, — brown with black 
ec^es, in die day-time, and weU did it become him. How often have 

VOL. TU. 5 

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34 8ATIN08 AND D0IN08. 

I seen him sitting in his old-fashioned high-backed arm-chair; his 
shrunk form nearly buried in the folds of his brocade dressing- 
gown — and his venerable features fully exposed, even to a portion 
of the high bald forehead, as he pushed his cap a little back in the 
earnestness of his discourse — how often have 1 seen him thus, and 
heard lum tell his old Revolutionary stories, till his pale cheek would 
glow, and his aged dimmed eye kindle at the recollection of the God- 
like men with whom he had sufibred and labored in the Great Cause 
— then would he tell what a flame of patriotic eloquence burned on the 
lips of Heniy — how the brothers Adams stood side by side, ready 
to do or dare any thing for liberty — how freely Hancock and Oar- 
roll periled their wealth, and how freely every one, from Him, the 
unequalled, the unapproached, to the poorest soldier in the ranks, 
periled, and alas, too, often lost life for liberty — ^*And will you," 
would my old friend say — ** will you, when you remember the price 
your country's freedom cost us, will you not guard it — will you — 
dare you, fool it away — cast it froin you?" Thus the venerable 

CokHie] P spoke — thus he felt — but he is dead — I thank 

God he is dead — he does not live to see what we of this generation 
see, but feel not He has been removed from among us, and m a 
good time ; the God of the Free has taken his servant to himself. 
Speaking of men's nightcaps, it has long been a moot point, whether 
a man — a young man I mean^ should ever wear a nightcap. It is 
a subject on which much might be said, though I do not mean to say 
much upon it, or indeed upon any one subject I just throw out a 
hint here and there, and leave room for ^ exercise of your own 
minds. As to this question, I confess I had doubts — in my young 
Jays —-the cap has a nice clean look ; and it is past denial that the 
ladies say they like it — at least they used to say so when diffidence 
waa more the fashion with them than it is now ; and many an honest 
fellow has been betrayed into wearing a nightcap — white, fitting ck>se 
to the head Uke a monk's skull-cap, and tied under the chin with a 
piece of narrow white ribbon — and it was only when the bride forgot 
her tremors, and burst into a fine rich gu£%iw, that the fellow found 
out he had taken a deal of trouble to make himself look like a sick 
taylor. No, no — never wear a ni^tcap till you are past your youth. 
£mma, my love ; am I not n^ ? My child ! you need not blush 
and oMke a tittle dunce of yourself — there is nobody here — you 
hwre^ taken off that odious stiff silk dress, and put on your nice wide 
comfortable moming-gown — the door is shut — the sofa drawn up dose 
to the fire— jrou have taken up the new number, and thrown yourself 
down on die pile of pillows. Ah ! there goes your comb — 9Xid your 
hair, — reaUy, Emma, you have beautiful hair, its all loose, and flow- 
ing even to the floor — never mind, my dear, but just push it out of 



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PERSONATIONS OF THE CHARACTERS OF 8HAK8PEARE. 89 

weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable personage. Such was the im- 
pression left upon me by the first exhibition that I ever witnessed of 
Skakspeare upon the stage ; and ^t irapresaon, after the lapse of 
more than half a century, remams unefiaced, and, while memory holds 
her seat, unefiaceable from my mind. 

I have since then seen almost all the plays of Shakspeare that are 
ever exhibited upon the stage — Mrs. Siddons, in the character of Isa- 
bella, of Queen Catharine, of Hamlef s Mother, and of Lady Macbeth ; 
Mrs. Jordan in the characters of Yiola and of Ophelia; Miss Wal- 
hce and Miss O'Neal m that of Juliet; Mrs. Abington in that«of 
Beatrice ; Miss Foote in that of Imogen ; and the parts of Hamlet, 
Lear, Othello, Macbeth, Coriolanus, Richard 3d, Falstafii; Mercotio, 
Bendick, Shylock, lago, Romeo, and Petruchio by John Eemble^ 
Fahner, Kean, Cooper, Fawcett, Lewis, MackHn, and Booth; be- 
sides the parts of Hamlet and Cardinal Wolsey by Henderson, and 
the grave-diggers and clowns by Parsons, Quick, Munden, and Lis- 
ten. There was scarcely an eminent performer at Drury Lane or 
Covent Garden, for the space of thirty-five years, firom 1783 to 1817, 
but I have seen grapple with some of the persons of Shakspeare's 
drama. The female parts I have thought generally well performed, 
though that of Juliet was always disfigured by the substitution of that 
age of nineteen for the original fourteen. The consequence of which 
has been that the enchanting mixture of childish frailty and innocence, 
with her burning and hopeless love, which constitute the profound 
pathos of the tragedy, is entirely lost Of all the petfonners that I 
have ever seen presuming to speak the language, and to convey the 
thoughts of Shakspeare, Mrs. Siddons has appeared to me to under- 
stand .them best Henderson's Hamlet and Wolsey, J^acklin's 
Shyloci, Lea Lewis's Mercutio, John Eemble's Lear and Macbeth, 
Kean's Richard, Parson's Grave-Digger, Listen's Launcelot Gobbo, 
Mrs. Jordan's Yiola, and Mrs. Abington's Beatrice, have been among 
the most renowned of personations of Shakspeare's parts since the 
days of Garrick. But in my, perhaps eccentric, judgment, no person 
can deliver the words and ideas of Shakspeare who has not been ac- 
customed to study them as a teacher ofmoraU — the first of the capa- 
cities in which I have looked up to bim since, in my career of life, I 
have passed the ttiird of his seven ages. As a school-boy, I delighted 
in him as a teUer of tales and a joker of jokes. As a lover, I gazed 
with ecstacy upon the splendors of his imagination, and the heart- 
cheering, heart-rending joys and sorrows of his loveni. Never as a 
soldier; but in the age of active manhood, which he allots to that 
profession, I have resorted to him as a pilgrim to the shrine of a saint, 
for moral, ay, and for religious instruction. I have found in the story 
of most of his plajrs, m the characters of most of his personages, in 

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40 THK wanderer's FAREWELL. 

the incidmU of his &hles, in the sentences of unparalleled solemnity 
and magnificence, delivered as part of die dialogue of his speaken, 
nay, in the veiy conceits and quibbles of his clowns, lessons of the 
most elevated and comprehensive morality. Some of diem have at 
times almost tempted me to believe in them as of more than poetical 
inspiration. But, excepting John Eemble and Mrs. Siddons, I never 
met with a player who appeared to me to have thought of Shakspeare 
as a moralist at aU, or to have inquired what were the morals that he 
taught ; and, as I have said, John Eemble did not appear to me to un- 
dewtand the character of Hamlet Grarrick himself attempted to 
strike out the grave-digger scene fi^m the tragedy of Hamlet, and the 
veiy rabble of London, the gods of the galleries, forced him to restore 
it There is not, in the compass of the drama, a scene of deeper and 
more philosophical morality. 



THE WANDERER'S FAREWELL. 



FROM THE GERMAN OP KOEENER. 



Once more let it sparkle and gladden the heart t 
Farewell, loves and friendships ! for ever we part ! 
Ye mountains! farewell, and thon once happy home! 
A power resistless impels me to roam. 

The son in the heavenly fields knows no stay — 
0*er land and o*er ocean he tides &r away ; 
The waves linger not as they roll on the sand. 
And the storms in their fiiry sweep over the land. 

The bird on the light floating cloud sails along, 
And sings in the distance his dear native song ; 
Through woodland and meadow the youth^nishes forth, 
To rival the wanderer, old mother Earth. 

The songsters he knew in the fields of his home, 
Come flying to greet him o'er ocean's wide foam — 
And the flowers of his childhood salute him once more 
As the gales waft them on firom his ftr native shore. 

The birds of his home still around him to charm — 
The flowers Love planted still breathing their balm — 
Eariy loves and old friendships still pressing his hand, 
His kerne is around him — though far be the land. 



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41 



HERMEUS; 

OR LETTERS FROM A MODERN GREEK. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be 

A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 

To shame the doctrine of the Saddocee 

And Sophist, madly vain of dabious love ; 

How sweet it were in concert to adore 

With those who made our mortal labor light ! 

To hear each voice we feared to hear no more ! 

Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight — 

The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! 

From Alexis Hermeus, 

To Adelheid Eichwald, 

Greek Professor at University. 

AihenBj 1834. 

To you, my kind, my learned friend, I feel a melancholy pleasure 
m pouring out tbe overiiowing of my soul. You know how heavy has 
been the pressure of domestic affliction. I nerved my heart to bear 
my wrongs with calmness, my griefs with courage. My father ! thy 
murdered manes cried aloud for vengeance — our oppressors felt thy 
spirit nerve my arm, and carry terror amidst their ranks. The darling 
of thy age, my beautiful sister, my Euthasie, what though the dirk 
pierced not thy bosom — though thy lovely form was not mangled by 
the murderer's steel — driven forth from the home of thy youth, our 
palace halls, endeavoring by flight to save that life for thy parent 
which sorrow had already embittered ; and when the shock came, 
which told thee of our father's fate, bearing up under sickness and 
grief, to be able once more to fling thyself into my arms, to die upon 
my bosom. All the tender ties which had hitherto given a charm to 
my existence being thus rudely broken, all that remained to me of hope 
was staked on the deliverance of my country. Alas 1 this hope, like 
every other which warmed my heart in life's spring, or kindled a glow 
in the ardent season of manhood, has faded away, and I am left alone 
— the last of my race — a wanderer amidst the deserted halls o{ my 
fidhers, to sigh at the remembrance of past happiness and mourn over 
the blighted honors of my line. 

Tears have passed away since these melandidy events ; yet re- 
membrance haimts me still. Time passes on, and though he cannot 

VOL. VII. 6 



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42 HSIIMEUS. 

bring oblivion of my injuries and griefs, he has touched them with his 
wand| and softened the poignancy of my despair. £ven at the first I 
sank not — my country called, and I was not deaf to her voice. 
Greece, bleeding and oppressed, cried aloud to her children to rescue 
her from slavery and slaughter. You know how long and arduous was 
the struggle. What have her champions gained by their blood ? Their 
unexampled heroism and devotion ? Rivalry, ambition, and civil in- 
trigues mar its internal peace ; whilst jealousy of each other has made 
its rulers become' its tyrants. 

You endeavor in your letters, my kind friend, to revive ambition in 
my soul, and give life a new impetus ; and could I efiace the lines 
from the tablets of my memory, it would make me proud of my coun- 
try to hear one, whose mind is embued with so vast a store of learning 
and philosophy, the wisdom of all ages, speak of it with such enthusi- 
asm and veneration. But alas, it is ancient Greece you venerate ; 
your entiiusiasm is excited for those poets and philosophers, who gain- 
ed for her the admiration, and made her the school of the world. It 
was diese who obtained her sons the gloiy of becoming the masters of 
her victory ! Such is the omnipotence of genius ! 

The conquerors of the world — those before whose august tribunal 
princes came from the fkrthest limits of the dien known world, to adjust 
then* differences, to sohcit alliance, and claim protection — became 
tiiemselves scholars and disciples, and stood in humble respect, as 
some indigent philosopher revealed to them ^e veiled lore of Pythago- 
ras and Plato, the severe morality of Zeno. And what was their re- 
ward ? Not alone the possession of that elevation of mind which the 
pursuit of wisdom, the practice of virtue ever gives ; but they had the 
gloiy of rendering their famof and the Roman name, more lasting than, 
by all the extent of dieir conquests, their collossal trophies of art, 
gigantic indications of tiieir wealth and power. For that wisdom and 
knowledge, and those sublime precepts of virtue, yMick the Grecians 
had robed in gaib as fanciful as their own brilliant imaginations, and 
emblematical, as veiling from the vulgar thoise philosophic tniths the 
ignorant could not comprehend, the Romans transported to a region 
where reason reigned in august supremacy, robed them m the dignity 
of the Roman gown, and embodied in the majesty of the Latin tongue. 
It was fW>m the various schools of Greece that Tully acquired that 
wisdom which has secured him the immortality he sought It was the 
abstract love of virtue, the self-denial inculcated by Zeno, which we 
find inspiring the actions and guiding the pens of Cato and Brutus. 
It was the gentler, and hot less elevated wisdom of the Academy, 
, which we see reduced to practice in the lives of ttie elder and ytmnget 
Pliny. It is the transfusion of these by Latin genius into the Latin 
tongue, which will make that language, with that of Greece, immortd 



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HVRMEU8. 48 

«8 genius; and has made these two languages become the peculiar 
«tudy of tfiose, in every portion of the globe, who wouki quaff of the 
Hyperian spring, not in its turbid and shallow meanderings, but at its 
pellucid and unfiithomable fount 

The son of a degenerate race ; bom at a period when every patriot 
must blush to own the land of his Inrth ; beholding that beloved land, 
the dearer to my heart for its wrongs and its si^rings, alternately the 
spoil of ftneign oppressors or the prey of her domestic tyrants ; see- 
ing the path to honorable distinction closed to the virtuous, and office 
and power die reward of base sycophancy to the ambitious holder of 
present power ; or purchased by villany, by pandering to die bad pas- 
sions ofa debased and ignorant populace — yon know how deeply I 
iBOttm its degradation. Wandering amidst the wrecks of its fbrmor 
glory, by dwelling continually on what it has been, I endeavor to forget 
what it is. Sometimes, when the blighted visions of my youth, honor 
and feme, conjured up by memory, cause my breast to glow, Iwish 
myself die inhabitant of some other country, where talents and valor 
OB^t open the path to glory ; of your country, whose sons seem em- 
bued with die love of knowledge, perseverance in its attainment, and en- 
thusiasm in its honor, which once characterized mine. But no! 
Greece is still my country, and I love it even in its desolation. I 
love to imagine wbat it may boccHiie, riiould it ever be under die sway 
of an eali^itened prince, who should be able to destroy the factions 
which now diBtract its peace ; and the vigorous administration of wise 
laws re-elevate die minds of his subjects, incite them to industry, and 
awaken such a commercial spirit, as dball furnish them with employ- 
ment and ensure its reward — plenty and wealth. It was in the hope 
sooo to see realized these dearly cherished projectei for my country's 
good, that I accompanied my noble relative on his mission to Bavaria, 
which oiabled me to renew my intimacy widi you and revive the 
ardor of our finendship. FareweU. 

LETTER t. ' 

^fceiM, 1836. 
How encouraging are the hopes you hold out to me, my friend^ my 
preceptor, my guide, in the pursuit of that knowledge which yonr af- 
fection led you to say was the only pursuit worthy of my genius and 
my talents. Tou found me brooding in melanchdy despondenqr 
over the remembrance of past sorrows and the state of my countij. 
My visit to Munich, and subsequent introduction to some of the most 
distinguished of your countrymen, by making me draw a comparison 
between the state of Greece and other countries, at present more for- 
tunate though less favored by nature, who has showered here wtdi a 
liberal hand all her most precious gifts, has made me feel that her con- 



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44 HBRMKU8. 

ditioD is irremediable ; and your eothusiasm and antiquarian reseaA^hev 
respecting ancient Greece, have led me to a deeper study of the works 
of her sages, a more minute investigation of her history. From dwell- 
ing continually on the means of enabling her to resume her station 
among the nations of the world, by soliciting the aid of interested fo- 
reign powers, jealous of each other and foes to liberty, I have now 
learned to behold her as she is, and to know that her degradation has 
been not more owing to her long subjection and the cruel policy of 
her oppressors, than to the extinction of the glow of honour and the 
love of virtue in her sons, which characterized their ancestors. 1 en- 
deavor, therefore, to close my ears to the hearing of her treasons and 
betrayals, I avoid the sight of her sorrows, and seek oblivion of the 
past and present, by absorbing my mind with those stores of learning 
w)uch you first lured me to investigate. Wandering by the banks of . 
the missus, or reposing from the ardent beams of the sun under the 
shade of the Acropolis, I have by turns investigated the ethics and 
philosophy inculcated in the Academy, the LycsBum, and the Portico ; 
and that energy and ambition which in happier times might have been 
0xerted for the benefit and glory of my country, now repressed but 
hot extinct, gives new impetus to the soarings of intellect. 

Thus all the faculties of my soul are absorbed in the elucidation of 
those sublime theogonies, where science appeared concealed from the 
vulgar by a veil emblematical and allegorical, which to the eye of the 
initiated made her appear but the more lovely. 

From the writings of the later Platonists I ascend to Plato himself, 
and find that he has but defined and extended that mystic theology 
which Pythagoras taught and Orpheus first brought to Greece. This 
theology, which had for its basis the intelligence, the spiritual wholeness 
of the deity, and the immortality of the soul, Orpheus learned of the 
Egyptians, the immediate source from which Greece acquired her 
arts, her learning, and the most sublime tenets of her religion. 

But whence did Egypt derive her arts and civilization ? did these in 
tbeir progress descend the Nile, and were the now burning plains of 
Ethiopia, as many have supposed, the nurse of that learning and sci- 
ence which Egypt transmitted to Europe ? Or was it under the genial 
skies, amid the spicy hills, the fertile plains of Asia, that man first as- 
serted the dignity of his nature, and unfolded those intellectual pow- 
ers viiiich indicated the divinity of the soul by which he is animated ? 
Is it to farther India and China, now moving retrograde in the scale of 
civilization, that we must refer for the dawn of that mental light which 
has progressively illumined every portion of this continent, till we now 
behold its promising efililgence in the west ? 

Since I have received a copy of your erudite work, I sp^nd much of 
my time at Eleusis* Often in my boyhood did I wander amid these 

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HERHSU8. 46 

scenes and ponder on die mysteries here revealed, which were con- 
sidered by the wise and great so important, that the pious Antoninus, 
the wise Marcus Aurelius, the good and great Trajan, the philosopher 
Adrian, laid aside the imperial purple, and, clothed in the simple and 
snowy vestments, emblematical of that life of purity which they were 
requured to enter upon before their initiation, bent their crowned brows 
before the lowly servants of the temple.* 

But not alone did Rome's imperial lords solicit admission to the 
esoteric dogmas of the temple ; her master spnrits, who have crowned 
her with an imperishable wreath of glory, were not less ambitious of 
such distinction, and from their writings we learn the importance they 
attached to the mysteries there unveiled. 

These mystic rights and theories, once hidden with such solemn 
precaution from the crowd, are now revealed to the world by the learn- 
ed researches of a few great minds that enthusiasm in the cause of 
science and of truth has led to pass their lives in the investigation ; 
whilst a few more years shall elapse, and not a marble will remain to 
iadicate the site of this once sumptuous temple. 

It was in the greater mysteries that the most sublime conceptions oi 
the deity were revealed, at a time those were accused of atheism, and 
were persecuted like Socrates, who worshipped not those gods, and 
did not practise those superstitions which made the religion of the vul- 
gar* It was here that polytheism was explained to the few to consist 
of the poetical personification of the attributes of nature united to the 
apotheosis of ^e benefactors of their country, a custom prevailing in 
Greece and FhoBnecia, blended with the sublime astronomical know- 
ledge of the Egyptians. 

Orpheus describes ^* aU things as originatmg from an immense 
principle, to which, through the imbecility and poverty of human con- 
ception, we give a name, though it is perfectly ineffable ; and in the reve- 
rential language of the Egyptians, is a thrice unkruwn darkness, in the 
contemplation of which all knowledge is refunded into ignorance.'' 
Pkto, expounding this sublime conception, considers the highest God 
not the principle of beings, but the principle of principles. Pythagoras 
sent this first principle through the universe as the soul, the intelli- 
gence, made it the spiro, the breath of man, which, passing through 
successive changes, each one to purify it more from the contagion 
which it had received from its union with mundane and grosser ma- 
terial, was, when sufficiently purified, to ascend and again blend with 
die iDefbhle transcendency of the first cause ; which Plato describes 
as ^ being neither to be named, nor spoken of, nor conceived by opi- 
nion, nor be known or perceived by any being." 

How must the human intellect be elevated and refined by such con- 

^The priesU rsfiised Nero*! initiatioii to the Mysteries because of hie Yices. 

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46 HIRMIUS. 

ttmplatioa ! Well did these gknrious philoeophers assert llud such eon- 
templatioiis, united to purity of life (and with any otfier they are in- 
compatible), would elevate us to a communion widi the Deity ; and 
this, though incomprehensible to the ignorant, was well known and 
understood by those disciples, whose knowledge and vktue had ob- 
tained their initiation into the greater mysteries of the esoteric doc- 
trines^ 

Can there, my friend, be a study more ennobling to man than diat 
of the nature and attributes of the all-pervading, all-essential intellect, 
from whom all things derive life, divine, intellectual, and physicaL 
How sublime to trace the mundane, the physical universe up to its 
source by Pythagoras, who so sublimely demonstrated the itUtUectj die 
one the good. How consolatory to believe in the existence of a superior 
essential order of beings ; a race exempt from the frailties, the weak- 
nesses of humanity 1 filling with their all-eternal brightness and parity 
the regions of interminable space, that each one of yon starry host, 
now shining on me from its brilliant throne, and beocnne the object of 
my meditation and delight, is rolled on its course by some spiritual 
and non-essential being, an emanation from the divine ii^iole. Tea 1 
I love to beUeve, as I gaze on your bright mysteries, that that ray of 
die divine intelligence, which is o'erinforming my own aoul« and gives 
it the power to contemplate ye, as forming links of the interminable 
chain, escaped from this mortal frame, which seems but to clog its 
soarings, shall mount amongst your order, and behold ye in your 
glory. Or, having passed through successive changes to purify it 
from all that is earthly, it may itself partake so much, of the all-intelli- 
gential nature as waAed to a new sphere, be the spiritual and guiding 
power, that shall roll one of your beautiful orbs througjh the boundless 
regions, see revealed the secrets of new workb, and be initiated in 
those mysteries which even the genius of Pythagoras and Plato, with 
all their knowledge gained from the Egyptian priests, the seers of 
Chaldea, and the Persian and Indian magi, could not penetrate. 

But whither does imaginatio|:i lead me 1 you will condemn me ; for 
yours is ever under the guidance of reason. Reprove me, then, but 
do not cease to bestow upon me your affection* 

LETTER IIL 

Jltkm^, 1836. 
It was about an hour before sunset that I sought my fevorite haunt 
among the ruins of Eleusis, where, shaded by the most superb indica- 
tions of the intellect and the ingenuity of man, food is offered for the 
contemplation of his noblest powers ; whilst nature lies spread around, 
clothed in an eternal mantle of undying gorgeousness and sublimity* 
Here I bend on the page of ancient lore, or, raising my eyes, behold a 



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HBEM1U8. 47 

still more oublioie page opened for my instruction. I took m j usual 
seat on the firagments of a broken column. Simplicius was in mj 
hand, open at diat page which speaks of the difficulty of raising our 
thoughts to a conception of the nature and excellence of the unknown 
cause, the first principle of dungs. But the scene, the hour, disposed 
oae noore to meditatton than to studj ; and I was soon lost in one of 
my visioiiary reveries, whilst my eye was abstmctedly fixed on the 
sun, as ia unclouded splendor he sank behind the distant hills ; the 
deep blue of die distance receiving a rich purpte hue stolen firom the 
ro^ tint in which he had robed the west, and which, falling on columns 
of Parian marble, seemed like the rosy tint of love mantling the cheek 
of beamy. On the opposite side, the lovely and memorable bay 
might be seen extended in the distance, reflecting on its glassy sur- 
fiieefiieli|^ caiqoe, the picturesque vessels with which it was studded. 

Here I sat till evening was about to extend over earth her shadow- 
mg mantle. The moon, which had already risen in the east, now be- 
came obscured by dark clouds, firom which the lightning shot in forky 
streaks and the diunder pealed in awfiil volumes. Roused fi'om 
my abslraetioB, I gazed m admiration upon the scene. I had been 
peopling space widi the purified spirits escaped from this dull sphere, 
had endued them wiA ik» power to soar, the eye to penetrate im- 
mensity. But now, amidst ihe play of the storm, the war of the ele- 
ments, I felt the aothingsess of existence, an himiiliating srase of the 
insign^cance of man ! not an atom in the vast dudn which links the 
universe, man! with whom all the elements are at strife, whom a 
breatk destroys, and every object in nature seems as if created for his 
destruction, lo level him with the dust 

The storm subsided, the clouds parted, rdling their daric masses to 
the distance, and the moon burst forth in her beauty ; but my thoughts 
continued tmged with that sombre hue with which they had been im- 
pressed by file awful grandem* of the storm; and I thus gave vent to 
my feelings : — 

Te golden chain of {rfiilosophers,^ who taught in your esoteric doc- 
triaee file immortality of the soul. Is tnith embodied in your beauti- 
fill theory? If so, why sully her purity by dwelling on the grosser 
ties of earfii? what boots fiie fiilfies, the ambition, the vices of man- 
kind t Conquest, wealth, fiune, fdeasure, g^ory, all that man estimates, 
what are ye but variations of the coil of earthliness and mieeiy ? Can 
life be a good? or is it not rafiier a probationary penance which keeps 
file divine and intellectual prindple from its eternal heritage t Tet if 
such be but the beautiful embodying of genius ; if man is indeed but 
clay ; if intellect, depending upon file annual formation of this struc- 

^ OrpbeoB, Py thtgocas, and Plato, have been ao called by the modern Platoniats* 

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48 HBRMBU8. 

ture, is unfolded as this frame becomes developed, and, dwindling in 
age, keeping pace with the animal body, becomes annihilated widi 
death; oh! how still more foolish must it be to spend the short 
portion of consciousness which is our boon, in turmoil and in sorrow ; 
bj strife, ambition, and evil passions, marring not alone the happiness 
of those whose existence is co-existent with our own, but too often 
leaving a legacy of misery for countless sentient beings for many suc- 
ceeding generations ! The philosopher of the gardens was then the 
only one who inculcated true wisdom. Happiness, which can never 
be insured to ourselves by injustice to others, should then be the only 
end and aim of our actions ; and when it can no longer be obtained, 
or not without causing pain to others, to resign with life &e conscious- 
ness of misery. 

At that moment the earth became suddenly darkened, as if in uni- 
son with my own sombre reflections ; a cloud had obscured the face 
of the moon ; I watched its progress, till I beheld the bright orb emerge 
in its splendor. When I again lowered my eyes, they fell on a form 
of light and shadowy brightness which stood before me ; her figure, 
robed in floating vestments of radiant whiteness, was thrown into 
beautiful relief by a majestic pile of the ruined temple in deep shade. 
I gazed a few moments in awe and admiration, when, in a solemn, yel 
harmonious tone, the vision thus addressed me : — 

*^ Mortal! whatseekest thou? what is the aim thou proposest to 
thyself in thy abstruse studies, thy reveries upon the shadowy past, thy ^ 
midnight musings ?" 

The voice ceased, as if awaiting a reply : after a moment's pause to 
recover my self-possession, I answered : '* My pursuit is knowledge, 
my object is the attainment of wisdom." 

** And has peace of mind, has happiness been your companion ?" 

**Alas! no." 

" Mortal, thou strivest in vain to deceive thyself; by plunging with 
such ardor in the deceptive stream of past lore, you thought you should 
find it a Lethe which would drown the remembrance of the present. 
Disappointed ambition is the vulture which, like that of Prometheus, is 
preying upon your soul. It was this passion which gave birth to the 
dream of your youth — to link your name to gloiy with the ancient 
heroes of your country ; this dream has faded away with the other il- 
lusions of youth. Experience has taught you that you could not be- 
come her deliverer from oppression, her restorer to greatness ; but thou 
mightest have been her Ceesar. If thou couldst not preserve, thou 
mightest have destroyed, have been her Erostratus." 

^* The spirits of the universe forbid," I exclaimed, in a start of in- 
dignation ; ** immortalize my name by linking it with the name of my 
country, by steeping my hands in the blood of her children !" 



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nsiiMEiTS. 49 

<*I expected thj indignation. Tou could not enjoy happiness whilst 
witnessing the sorrows of your country. You endeavored to find it by 
elosing your ears to her cries. By losing the present in the past ; by 
plunging into the all absorbing study of the abstruse sciences, and in 
striying to pierce the impenetrable veil in which the immutable cause 
of all has shrouded the mysteries of the universe ; you believed your- 
self inspired by a love of wisdom, you would not own to yourself that 
you were seeking that happiness which private afflictions and disap- 
pointed ambition had blighted." 

^ Happiness," I exclaimed with a deep sigh, ** I now know to be an 
unattainable good ; even wisdom, so rarely beheld by mortals, some- 
times rewards with her presence the steady pursuit of man ; but happi- 
ness, so oflen within his view, for ever eludes his grasp." 

" Such a confession," said the vision in a severer tone, " is a proof 
that the path you sought in the attainment was a delusive one. If in 
your search for knowledge, your pursuit of wisdom, you found not 
that placid peace of mind which is happiness in her present form, you 
have been mocked by illusive phantoms. Tou have spent the morn- 
ing and the midnight hour in imbibing the lore of the Samian and 
Thracian sages ; but in unveiling their mystic theogonies, have you 
fltudied their precepts ? have you imitated them in their lives ? or have 
you not, by withdrawing from the world and evading the performance 
of those social duties, from the fulfilment of which no member of the 
social family can be exonerated, acted in direct opposition to their pre- 
cepts and their glorious examples ? The Samian philosopher passed 
his youth and prime in study and abstract meditation, but he journeyed 
tiuough various climes, wisdom his pursuit, and what his aim ! to en- 
lighten with his wisdom his country and the world. And as that God 
whose intelligential and non-essential nature he first revealed to man- 
kind, by the physical light of the sun illumines all the worid, so he 
spread an intellectual light scarcely less effulgent and all-pervading. 
. *• Thy country no longer ofiers a field for the exercise of thy valor 
and skill in arms — no sphere for thy philanthropy. Oh ! where there 
is so much wrong, so much more need is there of the humanity of the 
wise and good to ameliorate it. Shall the wounds of the serf remain 
unbound because the scientific surgeon will exercise his skill only on 
princes and heroes ? In promoting the happiness of others, thou must 
alone seek to secure thine own. In seeking to benefit thy fellow 
creatures, thou wilt have need to exercise the most exalted virtues ; to 
bear calumny and misrepresentation with dignity, ingratitude with pa- 
tience, persecution with firmness ; and should, perchance, fame and 
bcMior attend thee, to bear them with meekness and humility. It is 
only in ike practice of these virtues that thou canst fortify thy mind 

▼OL. YU. 7 



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50 USRMSU8. 

againat the pressure of calamity, against the ills incidental to hu- 
manity. 

** Wisdom is but the deducing right conclusions from an extensive 
knowledge of the inanimate world and of the human world ; which 
gives its possessor power for a more exalted performance of the claims 
which society have upon him, and a more enlarged fulfilment of the 
duties of life." 

** Happiness then can only be attained through the path of utiMty ; 
open this path to my pursuit" 

** Experience alone can open it to thee. Continue thy zeal to at* 
tain knowledge, to acquire wisdom. There are many who have done 
injury to society though seeking in sincerity and truth to do good. — 
Why ? because they have taken upon themselves the part of the mas- 
ter, the instructor ; when tyros in knowledge, they should have been 
studying its first principles. The ancients considered that only as 
wisdom which had been acquired by a life of experience ; they revered 
her presence under the silver locks and venerable form of age. In 
modern times men believe they hear her voice from the beardless 
youth, whose whole life has been insufficient to gain that first step to 
her temple, the knowledge of self. Wisdom, therefore, has retired 
firom the world where her presence was so little valued, and crude tiie- 
ory, pert conceit, and superficial pretension have usurped her pkce." 

** Oh I my guardian genius," I exclaimed, *<you have shown me what 
is true wisdom, guide me into its attainments ; you have witnessed 
my longings alter happiness, teach me how to benefit my fellow crea- 
tures, and thus I will seek to find it" 

** To benefit mankind is to tear from their eyes the bandage of igno- 
rance ; but ignorant thyself, how canst thou do this ? Cease to dwell 
on those impenetrable mjrsteries which the all-wise hath shrouded firom 
the eye of man. Widi your eyes constantly fixed on heaven, ye must 
stumble upon earth ; whilst those who never raise theirs from the eardi 
behold not the most glorious objects of the universe spread for ^eir 
study and instruction. Imitate in thy life, therefore, those whose phi- 
losophic speculations have been so long the subject of your research. 
Extending their views beyond the petty^boundaries of states, they saw 
they could not benefit their compatriots without benefitting mankinds 
Where learning was to be acquired, there they journeyed — where 
wisdom was to be found, there they sojourned. And all those, of 
whatever clime, who sought her for herself alone, became their bre- 
thren. 

** So do thou. Visit the various nations of the world, and store Ay 
mind with all that thou findest of good : so alone canst Ihou rise su- 
perior to narrow prejudices. By behcMng the political and social 
evils irtiich derogate fixnn the greatness and mar the bappinese of fo- 



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HERMftUi. 61 

rdgn natioBs, thou wilt leara the policy and laws most befitting thine 
own ; whikt a communion with those of other countries^ distinguished 
for their mental endowments and virtue, will call forth the nobler qua- 
lities of thine own heart, and warm its sjrropathies into a more sublime 
ph^anthropy. 

Mankmd must be your study, not the inhabitants of a narrow ^s- 
tnct or petty town, but nations, existing under different political, reli- 
gious, wad social institutions. It is on this earth that ye are placed 
for a period (brief I allow, not a speck on the career of time) yet long 
to the finite capacities of mortals, sufficient for the attainment of much 
virtue, the performance of great good* And oh I how much too long, 
if submitting to the sway of evil passions, man exerts these for the 
injury of his fellow man, mars the peace of civil society, and wars 
against human happiness." 

** And does wisdom condemn that soaring of mind, by which, tummg 
firom those evils we cannot redress, and from a communion with those 
whose worldly and ignoble pursuits blunt every finer emotion of the 
soulf we would mount through science to a brighter sphere, enjoy a 
purer existence in the contemplation of the universe, or feel the soul 
elevated by a belief that its intelligence is an emanation froi;n the divi- 
nity X A ray of the intellect which animated the glorious dead glows 
in the mmds of those endued with genius in the present age, and will 
kindle the soub of the wise and great through ages yet to come. Oh ! 
is it wrong to muse on the probable destiny of that being whose former 
eadstence was animated by the same intellectual ray which now gives 
me the power to ponder on its essence and its attributes ?" 

^ Thou wouldst know how far the doctrine of the transfusion of the 
divine essence through successive forms is consistent with immutable 
truth ? Enow, there is an etherial, an eternal spirit, the soul of the 
universe pervading all space : and peculiarly attracted by particular 
combinations of matter, it forms in man that thinking and reasoning 
principle generally denominated the soul. This, when once raised by 
study and contemplation, by subduing of the grosser, and kindling of 
the finer attributes of man to the most exalted state that its union with 
mortality will admit, never becomes subjugated by a grosser combi- 
nation of matter. Learn, then, that thy spirit has animated a suc- 
cession of beings of high order, some known, some unknown to fame, 
since its first emanation from the divine intelligence in the younger 
Pliny. Show thyself worthy thy immortal heritage, and as his soul 
revives in thee, derogate not firom its purity, its virtue, its high at- 
tainments." 

As the vision spoke, all my past existence seemed to fade into in- 
distinctness ; the space which had elapsed from Pliny's era to my 
own appeared annihilated in a moment. I breathed new energy of 

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52' THE poet's solace. 

mind and frame. Roman philosopher ! that is lover of wisdbm — glori- 
ous appellation ! All the fanciful reveries which had hitherto been to 
me existence faded away. I was a Roman — a name sjmonymous 
with reason, with intellectual power in its highest force and beauty." 

*' Oh, my tutelary genius !" I exclaimed ; '* continue to me thy in- 
struction, for so alone shall I be able to render myself not unworthy 
of &e glorious boon thou hast bestowed upon me. Thou hast en- 
dowed me with a Roman soul ; but love for, and pride in their coun- 
try was the predominant feeling of the Roman breast Let me inhabit 
some country where I need not blush to hear its name." 

"And on what country would thy choice rest?" continued the 
vision, " where learning and science attended by the arts and refine^ 
ment have made the earth a paradise, maladministration has weakened, 
if not exhausted, the sources of the country, and produced a premature 
national decay. Whilst in those nations which are still in their in- 
fancy, man but semi-civilized, offers not that kindredship of feeling 
to the intellectual and refined which gives the social intercourse its 
grace and charm. Visit, the most celebrated nations, and shouldst 
thou in thy joumeyings behold one where all thy dreams of great and 
good are realized, rest there, and cease thy wanderings." 

As she pronounced these words, the inessential form faded away* 
The moon, just verging on the western horizon, was hastening, in the 
beautiful allegory of the poets, to descend from her stany throne, to 
range the mountains with her loved Endymion. Darkness was pre- 
paring to draw his curtain over the world ; and the majestic ruins of 
the temple, amongst which I reposed, were already shrouded in indis- 
tinctness. Farewell. 

[to be contimubd.] 



THE POET'S SOLACE. 



7K0M THE OSKMAM OF KOBKHIK. 



Whim I am dead — no love may shower 
The tender tear-drops on my grave ; 

Yet shall the kindly evening flower 
With its mild dew my pillow lave. 

Though near the spot where I'm reclining 
No traveller linger as he goes ; 

Yet shall the moon in heaven shining 
Gaze calmly on my night's repose. 

in these green meadows where I rove. 

By man I pnay forgotten be ; 
Yet the blue sky and silent grove 

For oyer shall ranoifimber nra I 



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53 



GRENOUGH; 

THE SCULPTOR* 

On one of the last afleraoons preceding my embarkation, I had sat 
% long hour opposite a striking, though by no means faithful, portrait of 
Greenough, while one of the fairest of his kindred spoke fondly of 
him, and charged me with many a message of love for the gifted ab- 
sentee. On a table beneath the picture stood one of the earliest pro- 
ducts of his chisel. I glanced from the countenance of the young 
sculptor, to the evidence of his dawning genius; I listened to the story 
of his exile; and thenceforth he was enshrined high and brightly 
among the ideals of my heart With rapid steps, therefore, the morn- 
ing after my arrival in Florence, I threaded the narrow thoroughfare, 
passed the gigantic cathedral, nor turned aside till, from the top of a 
long and quiet street, I discerned the archway which led to the domi- 
cile of my countryman. Associations arose within me, such as the 
time-hallowed and novel objects around failed to inspire. There was 
something intensely interesting in the idea of visiting the isolated 
sanctum of a votary of sculpture to one who was fresh from the stir- 
ring atmosphere of his native metropolis. Traversing the court and 
stairway, I could but scan the huge fragments of marble that lined 
&em, ere entering a side door, I found myself in the presence of the 
artist He was seated beside a platform, contemplating an uniinished 
model, which bore the impress of recent moulding. In an adjoining 
apartment was the group of the Guardian Angel and Child — the 
countenances akeady radiant with distinctive and touching loveliness, 
and the limbs exhibiting their perfect contour, although the more grace- 
fill and delicate lines were as yet undeveloped. One by one I recog- 
nized the various plaster casts about the room — mementos of his 
former labors. My eye fell on a bust which awakened sea-pictures 
— the spars of an elegant craft, the lofty figure of a boatswain, the 
dignified bearing of a mysterious pilot It was the physiognomy of 
Cooper. Andjon original, arch looking gentleman? Ah! that can 
be no other than Francis Alexander. Surely those Adonis-like ring- 
lets, so daintily carved, belong to one whom it is most pleasing to 
remember as the writer of some exquisite verses under the signature of 
Roy. No one can mistake the benevolent features of Lafayette, or 
Ae expressive image of the noble pilgrim-bard ; or fail to linger in the 
corridor, over Ae embo^ment of one of his fairest creations — the figure 

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64 ORBBNOUOH. 

of the dead Medora. In other studios of the land I beheld a more 
numerous and imposing array ; but in none could I discover more of 
that individuality of design and execution which characterizes native 
intellectual results. 

Coleridge's favorite prescription for youthful atheism was love ; on 
the same principle would we commend to the admiration of the scoffer 
at a spiritual philosophy, the imwavering and martyr-like progress of 
genius toward its legitimate end. In this characteristic, the course of 
all gifted beings agree. They have a mission to fulfil ; and lured be- 
times, as they may be, by the flowers of the way side, and baffled 
awhile, as is the destiny of man, by vicissitude — from first to last the 
native impulse, the true direction, is every where discernible. In the 
case of Greenough, this definiteness of aim, this solemnity of deter- 
mination, if we may so call it, is beautifully evident The wagon 
carriages he wrought in the intervals of school discipline, the wooden 
cimiters he carved for his playfellows, and his chalk statue of William 
Fenn — the first absolute development of his taste — these efforts 
will serve as the *' early indications" to which biographers are so par- 
tial. Often did he pay the penalty of tardiness, by lingering to gaze 
at a wooden eagle which surmounted the gateway of an old edifice he 
daily passed — thinking, as he told me, hoto beautijulit must be to carve 
9uch an one. But it was not until boyhood was merged in youth, that 
the deep purpose of heart distinctly presented itself. Happy was it 
that, at this critical moment, an intellectual benefactor stood by to 
encourage and direct the youthful aspirant Thrice happy for Green- 
ough, that one equal to the appreciation of his mind, and i^ble auspi- 
ciously to sway its energies, proved his friend. Such a mentor ha 
found in Washington Allston. And, in this connection, we cannot 
forbear hazarding the inquiry — Why has not the liberal discernment 
of our community, ere this, given this distinguished artist the power of 
dispensing similar benefits to others who might equally reward and 
honor the obligation 1 Will it not, at some future day, be considered 
one of the anomalies of the times, that a highly gifted proficient in the 
philosophy of art was suffered to live, in comparative obscurity, within 
hail of our richly endowed University, without that institution being 
favored with the results of his mind on this ennobling subject? 

When Greenough arrived in Genoa he was yet in his minority. 
He entered a church. A statue, more perfect than he had ever beheld, 
met his eye. With wonder he saw hundreds pass it by, without be- 
stowing even a glance. He gazed in admiration on the work of art, 
and mfurked the careless crowd, till a new and painful train of thoughts 
was suggested. ^ What !" he soliloquised, " are the multitude so ac- 
customed to beautiful statues that even this fails to excite their passing 
notice! How presumptuouSf then, in me, to hope to accomplish 



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ORSBHOUOH. 55 

Eu^t wordiy of the art !" He was deeply moved, as the distance 
between him and the goal he had fondly hoped to reach, widened to 
his view ; and concealing himself among the rubbish of a pahu^e-yard, 
the young and ardent exile sought relief in tears. ** 0, genius!" I 
musingly exclaimed, as I went forth with this anecdote fresh from his 
lips, *' how mysterious thou art ! And yet how identical are the chap- 
racteristics of thy children ! Susceptible and self-distrusting, and yet 
vividly conscious of high endowments — mighty to execute and quick 
to feel — pressing on amid the winning voices of human allurements, 
or the wailing cry of human weakness and want — as pilgiims bent on 
an errand of more than earthly import — ever (nlgrims throu^ a night 
of dimness and trial, and yet ever beholding the star^ hearing the 
angel-choir, and hastening on to worship !" 

On one of the most delicious evenings of my sojourn, I accompa- 
nied Greenough to the studio where he proposed to erect his statue of 
Washington. It was a pretty edifice, which had formerly been used 
as a chapel ; and from its commodious size and retired situation, 
seemed admirably adapted to his purpose. The softened effulgence 
of an Italian twilight glimmered through the high windows, and the 
quiet of the house was invaded only by distant rural sounds and the 
rustling of the nearest foKage in the new-bom breeze. There was that 
in the scene and its suggestions, which gratified my imagination. I 
thought of the long and soothing days of approaching summer, which 
roy companion would devote, in this solitary and beautiful retreat, to 
his noble enterprise. I silently rejoiced that the blessed ministry of 
nature would be around him, to solace, cheer, and inspire, when his 
energies were bending to their glorious task ; — that when weariness 
fell upon his spirit, he could step at once into the luxurious air, and 
look up to the deep green cypresses of Fiesole, or bare his brow to the 
mountain breeze, and fmd refreshment ; — that when doubt and per- 
plexity baffled his zeal, he might turn his gaze toward the palace roofs 
and church domes of Florence, and recall the trophies of art wrought 
out by travail, misgivings, and care, that are garnered beneath them ; 
that when his hope of success should grow faint, he might suspend the 
chisel's movement, raise his eye to the western horizon, and remember 
the land for which he toiled. 

Thus musing, I perused the thoughtful countenance of the sculptor, 
and demcied the tenor of his reflections as he stood thus on the appoint- 
ed scene of his labors. Men conscious merely of ordinary, or selfish 
motives can enter upon any undertaking with ^oughtless alacrity ; 
bnt when a human being is al>out to put forth his strength for posteri^ 
—to embody an idea, sentiment, or theory, dear to man — whethev it 
be in the flexible frame-woriL of hmguage, or the glowing delineation 
of the pencil, or whether he 

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56 THE BIRTH OF TENU8. 

"fix thoaghty heart, soul, mind, 
To born, to shine through the pale marble Teuis," 

he must be conscious, if in anywise worthy of his vocation, of profound 
solicitude as well as high and hopeful aspirations. Such contending 
emotions I imagined were then at work in the generous bosom of my 
friend, and ardently did I hope for the triumph of the latter. May 
sculpture smile upon her devotee of the new world I may the benig- 
nant countenance of Washington l)eam with life-like vividness in the 
visions of the artist, and his image emerge nobly from its marble sleep, 
unspotted by any envious stain I firm be the hand, and clear the spirit 
of ihe sculptor, till his great work be completed ; and long may it 
stand, a proud monument to his genius. H. T. T. 



THE BIRTH OP VENUS. 

" fipom tbe deep 

She spnuif In all the melting pomp of charms." 

THO1CP0OK. 

The ocean stood like crystal. The soft air 
Stirred not the glassy waves, but sweetly there 
Had rocked itself to slumber. The blue sky 
Leaned sileilf^ly above, and all its high 
And azure-circled roof, beneath the wave 
Was imaged back, and seemed the deep to pave 
With its transparent beauty. While between 
The waves and sky, a few white clouds were seen 
Floating upon their wmgs of feathery gold 
As if they knew some charm the universe enrolled. 

A holy stilbiess came, while in the ray 
Of heaven's soft light, a delicate foam-wreath lay 
like silver on the sea. Look ! look ! why shine 
Those floating bubbles with such light divine ? 
They break, and from their mist a lily form 
Rises from out the wave, in beauty warm. 
The wave is by the blue- veined feet scarce presty 
Her silky rin^ets float about her breast 
Veiling its fairy loveliness. While her eye 
Is soft and deep as the blue heaven is high, 
The Beautiful is bom, and sea and earth 
May well revere the hour of that mysterious birth* 



R. C. W. 



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67 



HORM GERMANICJE. 



A TALI or DIABLBRU, BT WILLIAM IIAUrr. POBM BT fKBDBRIC KIMD. 



Under this head it is our intention to present occasional specimens 
of German literature, both in prose and poetry. In so doing, we shall 
have to pay a little regard to the chronological order, or the rank of 
the authors from whom we make our extracts ; as our object is not 
at present to enter on a history of German literature, but merely to 
introduce to our readers the names and works of some writers who are 
wholly unknown to the great mass of the American public. Of G^>ethe, 
Schiller, Eotzebue, and Wieland, a partial, though imperfect idea may 
be formed from the translations abready made from their most celebrate 
ed works. These we shall consequently leave in the hands of their 
present translators. But there are a thousand tales, sketches, stcnies, 
songs, and ballads, which to our knowledge at least, have never ap- 
peared in an English dress, and yet have novelty enough, if no other 
merit, to render them worth listening to. These it shall be our care 
to preserve, as they are met with in the course of our reading, and 
transplant into our pages. 

The author whose name first appeajc» at the bead of this article, 
William Hauff, has not attained, nor does he deserve, the wide-spread 
reputation which the leading classics of Germany enjoy. Still be 
merits notice, as one of the most popular of her modem writers, 
and as one whom an early death alone prevented from reaching a 
much higher rank than he at present occupies. His writings are 
mostly of that light and temporary character to which our modem 
taste is too exclusively addicted, such as novels, tales, &c. The best 
of these are satirical imitations of the German Rosa Matilda and Del- 
la Crusca school of Romance. His best work, however, is '* Selec- 
tions from Satan's Memoirs;" a tale full of stirring incident and keen 
satire on the vices and follies of the day. Tbe scene we now translate 
is only a short episode. The distinguished personage whose adven- 
tures form the subject of the work, does not figure in it under his 
own name ; nor does he appear in the gala suit of tail, horns, and clo- 
ven foot with which he graces the revels on the Blocksberg, thinking 
with Shakspeare, that 

** The Prince of DarkneHs is a gentleman." 
He borrows for the nonce a tall, shapely, gentlemanly figure, surmount- 

▼OU TIL 8 

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68 uoRiB gbrmanica:. 

ed by delicate, fastidious, aristocratic features, dresses well, is curi* 
ous in his rings and linen, travels post, and in this guise is set down at 
the best hotel in Frankfort, where a party of ladies and gentlemen, 
and among them our author, are staying at the time. His nom de 
voyage is Mr. Von Natas, (which, it will be noticed, is his more fo- 
miliar name read backwards.) Here his brilliant powers of conver- 
sation, his adroit flattery, coui\eous gallantry, and eloquent though 
wayward flights of imagination, soon render him the delight of the whole 
table d' bote. Here we must let our author tell his story in his own 
words: 

In flus way the jovial stranger had kept myself, and twelve or fifteen 
other gentlemen and ladies (our fellow guests,) in a perpetual whirl of 
delight. Scarcely any had any special business to detain them at the 
hotel, and yet none ventured to entertain the mere idea of departure, 
even at a distant day. On the other hand, afler we had slept for 
some time late on mornings, sat long at dinner, sung and played long of 
evenings, and drank, chatted, and laughed long of nights, the magic 
tie which bound us to this hotel seemed to have woven new chains 
around us. 

This intoxication, however, was soon to be put an end to, perhaps 
for our good. On the seventh day of our rejoicings, a Sunday, our 
friend Yon Natas was not to be found any where. The waiters gave 
as his apology a short journey ; he could not return before sunset, but 
would certainly be in time for tea and supper. 

The enjoyment of his socie^ had already become such a necessity, 
that this piece of information made us helpless and ill at ease. 

The conversation turned naturally on our absent friend and his 
striking, brilliant apparition among us. It was strange, but I could 
not^t it out of my head that I had already met with him in my walk 
through Kfe, but in a difierent shape ; and, absurd as the idea was, it 
still forced itself irresistibly on my mind once and again. I called to 
mind fl-om years long gone by, the recollection of a man who in his 
whole demeanor, but more especially in his glance, had the greatest re- 
semblance to him. I'he one of whom I now speak was a foreign 
physician, who occasionally visited my native town, and there lived at 
first in great retirement, though he soon found a crowd of worshippers 
collected around him. The fliought of this man was always a melan- 
choly one, for it was asserted that some serious misfortune always fol- 
lowed his visits ; still I could not shake ofl'the idea that Natas resem- 
bled him strikingly, in fact that he was one and the same person. 

I mentioned to my next neighbor at table the idea that incessantly 
haunted me, and how unpleasant it was to identify so horrible a being 
as the stranger who had so afllieted my native city, with our mutual 
friend who had so fully gained my esteem and afiection ; but it will 



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HOBJB GERMANICJB. 59 

fleem still more incredible when I assure my readers that all my neigh- 
bors w^e full of precisely the same idea, and that all fancied they had 
seen our agreeable companion in some entirely different shape. 

^ Tou are enough to make one downright melancholy," said the 
Baroness of Thingen, who sat near me ; ** you make our friend Natas 
out to be the wandering Jew, or God knows what more !" 

A little old man, a professor in Tibsingen, who had joined our circle 
some dajs before, and passed his time in quiet, silent enjoyment, en- 
livened by an occasional deep conference with the Rheinwein, had 
kept smUing to himself during what he called our " comparative ana- 
tomy,'' and twirling his huge snuff-box between his fingers with such 
skilful rapidity, that it revolved like a coach-wheel. 

** I cannot longer refrain from a remark I wished to make,'' exclaim- 
ed he at last ** Under your favor, gracious lady, I do not look upon 
him as being precisely the wandering Jew, but still as being a very 
;itrange mortal. As long as he was present, the thought would, it b 
true, now and then flash up in my mind, * Tou have seen this man be- 
fore, but pray where was iti' but these recollections were driven away 
as if by magic whenever he listened upon me those dark wandering 
^es of his." 

** So was it with mo— and widi me — and with me," exclaimed we 
all in astonishment 

**Hem! hem!" smiled the prof^sor. **£ven now the scales 
seem to &11 from my eyes, and I see that he is the very same person 
I saw in Stnttgard twelve years ago." 

^ What, you have seen him then, and in what circumstances ?" asked 
lady Yon Thingen eagerly, and almost blushed at the eagerness she 
^Kspkyed. 

The Professor took a pinch of snufT, shook the superfluous grains 
oflT his waistcoat, and answerd — ** It may be now about twelve years 
dnce I was forced by a lawsuit to spend some months in Stuttgard. 
I lived at one of the best hotels, and generally dined with a large com- 
pany at the Table d'hdte. Once upon a time I made my first appear- 
ance at table after a lapse of several days, during which I had been 
forced to keep my room. The company were talking very eagerly 
about a certain Signor Barighi, who for some time past had been de- 
lighting the other visitors with his lively wit, and his fluency in all lan- 
guages. All were unanimous in his praise, but fliey could not exactly 
agree as to his occupation ; some making him out a diplomatist, others 
a teacher of languages, a third party a distinguished political exile, 
and a fburdi a spy of the police. The door opened, aU seemed 
ail^it, even confused, at having carried on the dispute in so loud a 
tone ; I judged that the person spoken of must be among us, and 



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60 HORJB OERMANICA. 

"Who pray?" 

" Under favor, the same person n^o has amused us so agreeaUy for 
some days past There was nothing supernatural in this to be surOf 
but listen a moment ; for two days Signor Barighi, as the stranger was 
called, had given a new relish to our meals by his brilliant ccmversa- 
tion, when mine host interrupted us suddenly — *• GentlemeOt' said 
he, *' prepare yourself for an unique entertainment which will be provid- 
ed for you to-morrow.' " 

We asked what this meant, and a grey headed captain, who had pre* 
sided at the hotel table many years, informed us of the joke as follows 
— *' Exactly opposite this dining-4t)om, an old bachelor lives, solitary 
and alone, in a large deserted house ; he is a retired Counsellor of 
State — ^ lives on a handsome premium, and has an enormous fortune 
besides. He is, however, a downright fool, and has some of the 
strangest peculiarities; thus, for instance, he oAen gives himself 
entertainments on a scale of extravagant luxury. He orders, 
covers for twelve, from the hotel, he has excellent wines in his ceUvt 
and one or the other of our waiters has the honor to attend table. Tou 
think, perhaps, that at these feasts he feeds the hungiy, and gives 
drink to the thirsty — no such thing; on the chairs lie old yellow 
leaves of parchment, from the family record, and the old hunks is as 
jovial as if he had the merriest set of fellows around him ; he talks and 
laughs with them, and the whole thing is said to be so fearful to look 
upon, that the youngest waiters are always sent over, for whoever has 
been to one such supper will enter the deserted house no more. 

" The day before yesterday he had a supper, and our new waiter, 
Frank, there, calls heaven and earth to witness that nobody shall 
ever induce him to go there a second time. The next day after the 
entertainment comes the Coimsellor's second freak. Eariy in the 
morning he leaves the city, and comes back the UKoming afler ; not, 
however, to his own house, which during this time is fast locked and 
bolted, but into this hotel. Here he treats people he has been in the 
habit of seeing for a whole year, as strangers ; dines, and aAerwards 
places himself at one of the windows, and examines his own house 
across the way from top to bottom. 

M « Who does that house opposite belong to?' he then asks the host. 

" The other regularly bows and answers, * It belongs to the Coun- 
sellor of State, Hasentrefier, at your £xc'y's service.' " 

But, Professor^ here observed I, what has this silly Hasentreffer of 
yours to do with our Natas 1 

A moment's patience. Doctor, answered the Professor, the light 
will soon break in upon you. Hasentreffer then examines the house, 
and learns that it belongs to Hasentreffer. " Oh, what !" he asks, 
«*the same that was a student with me at Tisbingen — then throws 



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HORJB OBRMANICJI. 61 

open the window, stretohes his powdered bead out, and cails out — 
Hapasentreffer -*- Har^isentreffer !" 

Of coufse no one answers, but he remarks : ** The old fellow would 
nerer forgive me if I was not to look in on him for a moment," then 
takes up hb hat and cane, unlocks his own house, goes in, and all goes 
on aAer as before. 

^ All of us,*^ tiie Professor proceeded in his story, **were greatly 
astooidied at this singular story, and highly delighted at the idea of 
^ next day's merriment Signer Barighi, however, obliged us to 
promise that we would not betray him, as he said he was preparing a 
capital joke to play off on the Counsellor. 

«* We aU met at the table d'hdte earlier than usual, and besieged the 
windows. An old tumble down carriage, drawn by two blind steeds, 
came crawling down die street ; it stopped before the hotel. There's 
Hasentrefier, there's Hasentrefier, was echoed by every mouth ; and 
we were filled widi extravagant merriment when we saw die little man 
get out, neady powdered, dressed in an iron grey surtout with a huge 
meerschaum in hand. An escort of at least ten servants followed him 
in, and in this guise he entered die dining-room. 

^ We sat down at once. I have seldom laughed as much as I did 
Aen ; for die old chap insisted, with the greatest coobess, that he 
came direct from Carrel, and that he had six days before been ex- 
tremely well entertained at the Swan Inn at Frankfort Barighi must 
have disappeared before the desert, for when the Counsellor lefl the 
table, and die edier guests, full of curiosi^, imitated his example, 
Bangfai was no ^ere to be seen. 

^ The Counsellor took his seat at the window ; we all followed his 
example and watched his movements. The house opposite Seemed 
desolate and uninhabited. Grass grew on the threshold, the shutters 
were closed, and on some of them birds seemed to have built their 
nests. 

*** A fine house that, opposite,' said the old man to our host, who 
kept standing behind him in the third position. * Who does it belong to V 

***To die Counsellor of State, Hasentreffer, at your Excellency's 
service.* 

** * Ah, indeed ! that must be the same one that was a fellow-student 
widi me,' exclaimed he ; * he would never forgive me if I was not to 
inform him that I was here.' He opened the window, — * Ha-asen- 
trefifer — Hasentreffer T cried he, in a hoarse voice. But who can 
paint our teiror, when opposite, in the empty house, which we knew 
was firmly locked and bolted, a window-shutter was slowly raised, a 
window opened, and out of it peered the Counsellor of State, Hasen- 
treffer, in his chintz morning-gown and white nightcap, under which a 



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•S HO&JB OBKMAMICJB* 

few thin grey locks were visible; Uiis, this exactiy, was his usual 
morning costume. Down to the minutest wrinkle on the pallid visage^ 
the figure across the street was precisely the same as the one that 
stood by our side. But a panic seized us, when the figure in the 
morning-gown called out across the street, in just the same hoarse 
voice, * What do you want? who are you calling to, hey?' 

*' *' Are you the Counsellor of State, Hasentrefier V said the one on 
our side of the way, pale as death, in a trembling voice, and quaking 
as he leaned against the window for support 

<« « Pm the man,' squeaked the other, and nodded his head in a 
friendly way ; * have you any commands for me V 

*' * But I'm the man too,' said our friend moiumfuUy, * how can it be 
possible V 

^« « Tou are mistaken, my dear friend,' answered he across the way« 
* you are the thirteenth, be good enough just to step across the street 
to my house, and let me twist your neck for you ; it is by no means 
painful. 

*' * Waiter ! my hat and stick,' said the Counsellor, pale as death, and 
his voice escaped in mournful tones from his hollow chest * The 
devil is in my house and seeks my soul ; a pleasant evening to you, 
gentlemen,' added he, turning to us with a polite bow, and thereupon 
lefl the room. 

** What does this mean ?" we asked each other ; '* are we all beside 
ourselves ?" 

The gentleman in the morning-gown kept looking quietly out of 
the window, while our good silly old friend crossed the street at his 
usual formal pace. At the front-door, he pulled a huge bunch of keys 
out of his pocket, unlocked the heavy creaking door — he of the mom- 
ing«gown looking carelessly on, and walked in. 

The latter now withdrew firom the window, and we saw him go for- 
ward to meet our acquaintance at the room-door. 

Our host and the ten waiters were all pale with fear, and trembled. 
" Gentlemen," said the former, " God pity poor Hasentreffer, for one 
of those two must be the devil in human shape." We laughed at our 
host, and tried to persuade ourselves that it was a joke of Bari^^'s ; 
but our host assured us that no one could have obtained access to 
the house except he was in possession of the Counsellor's very artifi- 
cially contrived keys ; also, that Barighi was seated at table not ten 
minutes before the prodigy happened ; how then could he have dis- 
guised himself so completely in so short a time, even supposing him 
to have known how to unlock a strange house ? He added, that the 
two were so fearfully like one another, that he who had lived in the 
neighborhood for twenty years could not distinguish the true one from 



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monm GBftMAsricJi. n 

the counteifeit. ^ But, for God's sake, gendemeii, do you not hear 
the horrid shrieks opposite t'' 

We rushed to the window — terrible and fearful voices rang across 
from the empty house ; we fancied we saw the old Counsellor pursued 
by his image in the morning-gown, hurry past the window repeatedly. 
On a sudden all was quiet 

We gazed on each other ; the boldest among us proposed to cross 
over to the house — we all agreed to it We crossed the street — the 
huge bell at the old man's door was rung thrice, but nothing could be 
heard in answer ; we sent to the police and to a blacksmith's — the 
door was broken open, tiie whole tide of anxious visitors poured up 
the wide silent staircase — all the doors were listened ; at length one 
was opened, in a splendid apartment, the Counsellor, his iron-gray 
firock-coat torn to pieces, his neatly dressed hair in horrible disorder, 
lay dead, strangled, on the sofa. 

Since that time no traces of Barighi have been found, neither in 
Stuttgard nor elsewhere. 



LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH. 



I. 

CouLDST thoa not sleep upon thy mother's breast ? 

Was't thou ere day dawned, wakened from tby alnmben 7 
Did earth deny to thee the quiet rest 

She grants to all her children's oountless numbers ? 
In narrow bed they sleep away the hours 

Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers ; 
No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow, 

Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow. 



How naked art thoa ! Pale is now that face 

Which once, no doubt, was blooming — deeply dinted, 
A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface ; 

Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted 7 
Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning ! 

No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening ; 
Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad, 

As though I power o'er thy destiny had. 

ni. 

I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn thee 
To gaxe upon the sun that gilds these fieMs ; 

But on Doy pilgrim stafi*I lift and turn thee, 
And tiy if to my spells thy silence yields ; 



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•4 HORJB QIKMAHIOJB. 

Wert tboo my brother once — and did thoee gltncet 
Respond to love's and fnendship's soft advances 7 

Has then a spirit in this frame- work slept? 
Say, hast thoa loved and hated, smileid and wept? 

nr. 

What, silent still ! — wilt thou make no disclosure? 

Is the grave's sleep indeed so cool and still ? 
Say, dost thou suffer from this rude exposure 7 

Host thou then lost all thought, emotion, will 7 
Or has thy soul, that once within thee centered, 

On a new field of life and duty entered ? 
Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine, 

Dost thou still can this mouldering skull-bone thine 7 



Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions. 

The murderer or the murdered to be? 
Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions, 

Or didst thou honor's banner follow free ? 
Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story^ 

Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth/^ld, or glory? 
The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand, 

Was it the seoorge or guardian of the land? 

VL 

Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains, 

The tear may tremble in a mother's eye. 
And as approaching death dries up life's fountains. 

Thou to her thoughts and prayers mayest still be nigh ; 
Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying. 

Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing, 
And dream not, that upon this little hill 

The dews of night upon thy skull distil 

VII. 

Or wert thou one of the accursed banditti 

Who wrought such outrage on fair G^ermany ? 
Who made the field a desert, fired the city. 

Defiled the pure, and captive led the free ? 
Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish, 

Thy span of lifb with deeds like these embellish? 
Then — Gh>dofri^iteousne8s! to thee belongs. 

Not unto .us, to judge and right our wrongs. 

▼in. 
The sun already toward the west is tending 

His rays upon thy hoUow temples strike ; 
Thou heed'st them not ; heed'st not the rains, descending 

On good and bad, just and unjust ahke. 
The nuld, cod breeze of even is round me playing. 

Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying ; 
Rich grain now waves where lances bristled tiien ; 

Thus do aO things prodaiiD (Mfu love to men. 



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▲ PLAN OF UFI. $6 



DL 

Whoe'er thou wert, who bj a fellow morUl 

Were hurried out of life ; we are at peace ; 
Tho8 1 return thee to the grave's dark portal, 

Rerenge and hatred on this spot should cease. 
Rart, when thjr mouldering skeleton repotei^ 

And may the perfume of the forest roses 
Waft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast ! 

Thou restless one ! return thee to thy rest 



A PLAN OF LIFE. 



[The fate of the late Mrs. Triodosia Burr Alston, daughter of Col. jf. Burr^ 
has excited a deep mtereet in the public mind. From a variety of manuscripts, is 
her own hand-writing, now in my possession, I have selected the following scrapi. 
if yoa ttiok with me, that it is not unworthy a plaoe in the American Monthly 
Magsane, you wUl be pleased to insert it in your next number. I transmit you a 
fiteral copy of what bears evident marks of being the original, and perhaps the only 
copy ever made. Those who had the happiness to know her, will acknowledge 
thb effusion as descriptive of her feelmgs. — D.] 



How chaimingly does Roumeaii describe his mai$<m ekampiin. 
How fascinating does he render a country life. Tet I diflfer from 
him. I would have a commodious house, simrounded by a large gar- 
den, in the midst of a considerable city. I ^ould prefer to be wealthy ^ 
tfiat id>undance unstinted, comforts and elegancies, migbt surround 
me ; — that I might frequently give agreeable parties, without long 
premeditation or studied preparations; — that my friends might be 
sometknes pleased with tfioee trifling, but delicate proofs of atten- 
tion which sweeten the intercourse of life ; — diat they might some- 
times receive more useful marks of my attachment, if overtaken by 
the storms of adversity, and that I might relieve the suflbrings of my 
fellow-creatures. 

Nodiing about me should be very costly. My expenses should be 
so regulated, that no article, by approaching the verge of my utmost 
income, should put it in the power of any one to distress me by a 
momentary accident My furniture should never be rich : I would 
rather change it frequently, to preserve that air of freshness which so 
enlivens an apartment : and, distinguished rather by taste than fruihion, . 
my dress should be characterized in the same way. My parties 
sAuHild never be crowded or expensive. I should not care that any 
one on leaving my house burst forth in admiration of my ball-room 

VOL. vn. S 

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66 A PLAN OF LIFB. 

or my supper table ; but that all should say — "I hope Mrs. A. wiH 
soon give us another party." There should be but few servants in 
my house ; but high wages and some indulgences should procure tiie 
best 

I would have only a small library, consisting of a few fiivorite au- 
thors ; but by subscribing to the best public collections, secure a 
larger choice than any private fortune could aspire to ; and thus pre* 
serve myself from tiie chagrin incurred by the constant loss of lent 
books, or the ill-will which is produced by refusing them. 

The whole morning should be devoted to domestic afiairs — such 
as are incumbent on every woman to study, or to the intercourse of 
the heart in die exclusive society of those I love. At dinner, fre- 
quently a few friends ; — always room for one or two. In die even^ 
ing my house should be open ; my musical visitors should find the 
best instruments, and all should share in good cheer without the ap- 
pearance of exertion from any one. Frequent small select parties at 
supper would render my house attractive to the sprightly. 

My father and my husband would be sought by men of literature 
and talents. To render my conversation worthy of diem should be a 
part of the morning's business ; and, though unable to strengthen or 
illuminate, I might chance sometimes to du'ow in an airy ornament, 
and hang now and then a wreath of violets in the temple of Minerva. 
Large assemblies I would never enter. The necessary preparations ; 
the loss of time so disproportionate to its object ; the busde and the 
crowd, all render them detestable. 

I would have, too, a small country residence— a cottage near a town, 
where every thing should be rustic. A wild exuberance of fruits and 
flowers ; multitudes of singing birds attracted by securi^; a deep 
grove, ^ere JEolian harps should sigh through the trees ; a bathing- 
house ; some books, musical instruments, and pure air should render 
my cottage delightful. I would sometimes retire to taste solitude. 
Thither my friends might ride with us, to partake of a rural meal 
distinguished by simplicity and ease — not prescribed to any particu- 
lar place, in set regularity ; but in the dining or breakfast room ; die 
piazza, or on a rock overhanging a river, or among the old trees richly 
adorned with garlands exhaling perfrimes. 

My great rule should be never to aim at competition in things ex- 
trinsic and really trivial. I would seek the honey-cup, and let those 
who choose prefer the corolla. 



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67 



ANTIQUITIES OF NORTH AMERICA. 

In the history of our country every thing relating to the earliesl 
inhabitants must be interesting, not only to the professed antiquary but 
to ^e general reader. There is much evidence to show, that the post- 
diluvian earth was originally but one continent — that this country, 
America, was peopled from Central Asia, before the dismember- 
ment of that single continent — that the people brought with them the 
manners, arts, and civilizations of Central Asia; perhaps the very 
manners, arts, arms, and modes of warfare described in die Homeric 
poems ; and that, some time afler America was separated from the 
other continent, immense hordes from die North of Asia crossed 
Behring's Straits, and gradually took possession of the country. 

Before these barbarian invaders the inhabitants retired south into 
Mexico, carrying with them the arts and civilization that afterward so 
astonished their more modem invaders from Spain. 

It is a fact well known in history, that Cortes found in Mexico arms 
and utensils such as are known to have been used in Asia Minor, and 
such as have been found nowhere else. And die discoveries recently 
made at Palenqu^ and Yehemel, plainly point to Central Asia as the 
countiy of their origin. 

That the Indians found here by the discoverers were not the ori- 
ginal inhabitants, has, we believe, never been disputed ; on the con- 
trary, it has ever been acknowledged that there was a distinct race 
anterior to diem. But whence came this race, whither they went, 
and what monuments they have left here, are questions that have 
afibrded matter for much speculation. It has generally been believed 
that the mounds in the western country are the work of their hands, 
notwithstanding that some ingenious gentlemen have lately argued, 
perhaps to their oton conviction, that the mounds are the direct work 
of nature, and raised by the action of water. But as to the mounds, 
we leave the question where we find it — the old race have lefl other 
monuments. 

The Indians found here by the discoverers, in fact never pretended, 
to be the original inhabitants ; but had a tradition, that their forefathers 
came into the country across the sea— probably Behring's Straits — 
diat they found the country inhabited — that with the inhabitants they 
waged a long war, and ultimately drove them south into the sea. 
Such was the tradition— the fact probably was, that the conquered 
people retired to Mexico. 

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68 ANTIQUITIES OF NORTH AMERICA. 

The Mexicans also had a tradition strongly corroborative of this — 
that their forefathers lived at the north for many ages, and then gra- 
dually emigrated south. 

These traditions alone, without any other evidence, afford ground 
for a strong presumption that the territory, now the United States, was 
inhabited by the race that aflerwards peopled Mexico. But the evi- 
dence does not stop here ; there are other facts that go far to reduce 
die presumption to a certainty. 

The Mexicans worked the metals for various purposes of use and 
ornament ; the Indians found here by the discoverers never used the 
metals in any way ; but wood, stone, shells, &c. supplied them with 
weapons and ornaments. Hatchets, swords, and arrow-heads of 
bra$8 have been found in various parts of the United States, many of 
them in good preservation. These, although rude in form and design, 
•re yet skilfully made ; but with that pains-taking and laborious skill 
that ever marked the infancy of the arts. 

But it may be asked, why are not these relics more frequently dis- 
covered, if it be true that a whole nation, to whom the manufacture of 
them was known, were once transient dwellers in this land 1 We 
think the wonder should rather be, how many of them have been pre- 
served. The preservaticm of the few that have have been found must 
undoubtedly be ascribed to the nature of the soil at the time of their 
deposit Since in some soils, and under some circumstances, they 
would be preserved by earthy particles, uniting themselves with the 
salts of the brass in the first stages of oxydation, and thus forming a 
sort of petrified incrustation that would prevent decay. 

But a discussion of these theories is not intended, since it would 
necessarily involve speculations too prolix and discussive for the 
limits of this paper; the main object of which is, to give a description of 
what we consider the most interesting relic of antiquity ever discovered 
in North America — the remains of a human body, armed with a 
breast-plate, a species of mail and arrows of br(M8 ; which remains we 
suppose to have belonged either to one of the race who inhabited this 
country for a tune anterior to the so called Aborigines, and afterwards 
settled in Mexico or Guatamala, or to one of the crew of some Phoe- 
nician vessel, that, blown out of her course, thus discovered the western 
world long before the Christian era. 

These remains were found in the town of Fall River, in Bristol 
county, Massachusetts, about eighteen months since. 

In digging down a hill near the village, a large mass of earth slid 
ofi^ leaving in the bank, and partially uncovered, a human skull, which 
on examination was found to belong to a body buried in a sitting 
posture; the head being about one foot below what had been for 
many years the surface of the ground. The surrounding eart)^ was 



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ANTIQUrriBS OF NORTH AMERICA. 69 

carefully removedt and the body found to be enveloped in a covering 
of coarse bark of a dark colour. Within this envelope were found 
the remains of atiother of coarse cloth, made of fine bark, and about 
the texture of a Manilla coffee bag. On the breast was a plate of 
brass, thirteen inches long, six broad at the upper end and five at the 
lower. This plate appears to have been cast, and is from one eighth 
to three thirty-seconds of an inch in thickness. It is so much cor- 
roded, that whether or not any thing was engraved upon it has not 
jet been ascertained. It is oval in form — the edges being irregular, 
apparently made so by corrosion. 

Below the breast-plate, and entirely encircling the body, was a belt 
composed of brass tubes, each four and a half inches in length, and 
three sixteenths of an inch in diameter, arranged longitudinally and 
close together ; the length of a tube being the width of the belt. 
The tubes are of thin brass, cast upon hollow reeds, and were fastened 
togeHier by pieces of sinew. This belt was so placed as to protect 
the lower parts of the body below the breast-plate. The arrows are 
of brass, thin, flat, and triangular in shape, with a round hole cut 
dirough near the base. The shaft was fastened to the head by in- 
serting the latter in an opening at the end of the wood, and then tying 
it wi& a sinew through the round hole — a mode of constructing the 
weapon never practised by the Indians, not even with their arrows of 
ibiu shell. Parts of the shaft still remain on some of them. When 
first discovered the arrows were in a sort of quiver of bark, which fell 
in pieces when exposed to the air. 

The skull is much decayed, but tiie teeth are sound, and apparently 
thoee of a young man. The pelvis is much decayed, and the smaller 
bones of the lower extremities are gone. 

The integuments of the right knee, for four or five inches above and 
below, are in good preservation, apparently the size and shape of life, 
atthoiig^ quite black. 

Considerable flesh is still preserved on the hands and arms, but 
none on the shoulders and elbows. On the back, under the belt, and 
for two inches above and below, the skin and flesh are in good pre- 
servation, and have the appearance of being tanned. The chest is 
much compressed, but the upper viscera are probably entire. The 
arms are bent up, not crossed ; so that the hands turned inwards touch 
die shoulders. The stature is about five and a half feet Much of 
the exterior envelope was decayed, and the inner one appeared to be 
pveserved only where it had been in contact with the brass. 

The following sketch will give our readers an idea of the posture of 
the figure and the position of the armor. When the remains were dis- 
covered the arms were brought rather closer to the body dian in the 
engraving. The arrows were near the ri^t knee. 



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70 ANTIQUITIES OP NORTH AMERICA. 




The preservation of this hody may be the result of some embalming 
process ; and this hypothesis is strengthened by the fact, that the skin 
has the appearance of having been tanned ; or it may be the accidental 
result of the action of the salts of the brass during oxydation ; and 
this latter hypothesis is supported by the fact, that the skin and flesh 
have been preserved only where they have been in contact with, or 
quite near, the brass ; or we may account for the preservation of the 
whole by supposing the presence of saltpetre in the soil at the time of 
the deposit. In either way, the preservation of the remains is fully 
accounted for, and upon known chemical principles. 

That the body was not one of the Indians, we think needs no argu- 
ment. We have seen some of the drawings taken from the sculptures 
found at Palenque, and in those the figures are represented with 
breast-plates, although smaller than the plate found at Fall River. 
On the figures at Palenqu^ the bracelets and anklets appear to be of 
a manufacture precisely similar to the belt of tubes just described. 
These figures also have helmets precisely answering the description 
of the helmet of Homer's iisyag xojudaioXof *Exrwf. 

If the body found at Fall River be one of the Asiatic race, who 
transiently settled in Central North America and afterward went to 
Mexico and founded those cities, in exploring the mines of which 
such astonishing discoveries have recently been made ; then we may 
well suppose also that it is one of the race whose exploits with the 
XoChc^^sa 6qv^ have, although without a date and almost without a 
certain name, been inmiortalized by the Father of Poetry ; and who 
probably, in still earlier times, constructed the Cloacfz under ancient 
Rome, which have been absurdly enough ascribed to one of the Tar- 
quins, in whose time the whole population of Rome would have been 
insufficient for a work, that would, moreover, have been useless when 

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TURKISH LADIX8. 71 

finished. Of this Great Race, who founded cities and empires in 
their eastward march, and are finally lost in South America, the 
Romans seem to have had a glimmering tradition in the story <^ 
Cyander* 

But we rather incline to the belief that the remains found at Fall 
River belonged to one of the crew of a Phoenician vessel. 

The spot where they were found is on the sea-coast, and in the 
immediate neighborhood of'* Dighton Rock," famed for its hierogly- 
phic inscription, of which no sufficient explanation has yet been given ; 
and near which rock brazen vessels have been found. If this latter 
hypothesis be adopted, a part of it is, that these mariners — the un- 
wiUing and unfortunate discoverers of a new world — lived some time 
after they landed ; and having written their names, perhaps their epi- 
taphs, upon the rock.at Dighton, died, and were buried by the natives. 

J. S. 



TURKISH LADIES. 



BT THE AUTHOR OW *' SHIP AND SHORE." 



The ladies of Constantinople spend their Frida3rs, during the sum- 
mer months, in a beautiful grove which stands on the Asian shore of 
the Bosphorus. As gentlemen are not allowed to be present on these 
occasions, I solicited die privilege of attending three of the fair ones, 
in the visible capacity of a servant : they consented, and in a costume 
of impenetrable disguise, I followed my queenly mistresses about, with 
as nice a docility of motion as ever a shadow followed its substance. 
We found the grove filled with picturesque groups, who had just alight- 
ed fit>m the Araba and gilded barge ; and a more gay, light-hearted 
assemblage than they presented, I have never met, in field or grove, 
by river, fount, or fell. They were chatting, laughing, sipping sher- 
bet, casting their flowers and arch looks at each other; while the rally- 
ing pleasantry and repartee went back and forth, quick as the glance 
Ihey kindled. 

Here a group might be seen listening to some merry tale, and con- 
stantly breakmg its slight thread by some pertihent, facetious, or totally 
disconnected thought There a less gleeful circle, sprinkled with a 
touch of sentiment, might be seen beating time with their small taper 
fingers, to the soft air of a guitar in the hands of a young Circassian, 
and responding, in every look, to the light or troubled tone of the trem- 
bling string. Yonder another group might be seen, gathered around 

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72 TUEEI8H LADIES. 

one, their superior in years, who was telling to each her ineyitaUe fiite 
in the flowers she had brought You might see the young enthustastf 
as her happy destiny was declared from the symboled oracles of the 
mystic leaf, look up as if this vision of future good were ahready within 
die ranging rapture of her eye. Sometimes die enchanted leaf spoke 
only of evil, misfortune, and sorrow ; and then the gentle interpreter, 
touched with pity for the broken hopes of a heart yet so young and 
confiding, though unable to work back the spell or unwind the fearful 
thread, would yet extend her counsels into other leaves, till she detect- 
ed some better promise, that would come up like a bright bow on the 
dark cloud. While in another circle still, one might be seen negli- 
gently permitting her unfolding caflain to display some cxMtly and rare 
article of dress, which her innocent vanity could not conceal, — another 
discovering, as if by accident, her necklace, the richest gifl in her 
marriage dower, — a third, with the same apparent absence of inten- 
tion, revealing the sprig of diamonds that glowed on the glossy fulness 
of her hair, as it lay curled up over a brow unshadowed by years or 
care, — a fourth, without seeming to know it, affording to those around 
a curious glance at some slight nngularity in the shape of her costume, 
and which she knows will apologise for its departure from the sanc- 
tions of long and fixed habit, by more fully betraying the soft outline 
of her rich form. 

The amusements of a Turkish lady, though in themselves frivolous, 
are yet covered with a freshness of feeling that gives them an interest 
beyond the more studied pastimes of her sex : it is like childhood 
among its buds and flowers, before higher and less attainable objects 
have fevered the mind. She is sportive, but her sportiveness has heart 
in it — she is capricious, but her caprice is dear to her, at least 
for the time being — she is imaginative, but the visions that float 
through her mind cast their light or dark shadows upon the very cur- 
rent of her life. She connects a m3rstery, a meaning, and force, with 
the slightest incident that crosses her pafli, her feelings, or h^ fancy. 
Were a flower that she had nursed to droop untimely from its stem, 
she would see in its withered leaves the perished beauty of some fond 
hope ; or were a bird to light at her lattice, and cairol one of its sweet 
and happy lays, she would hear in its music the whisper of some event 
that is to brighten over the flow of her coming years ; or were a form 
of youth and manly grace to advance upon her dream, she would trace 
in this pleasing visitant* the lineaments of one destined to bless her 
with his permanent love. All the delicate phenomena of mind, and all 
the slight variations of the changing year, have for her a significant 
language. The dream that soothes her pillow, the vision that breaks 
her rest, the streamlet that moves with its silver voice, the torrent that 
rushes with its shaking footstep, the spring, breaking the chain of 



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TURKISH LADIES. 73 

winter and sammooing forth the diffident flowers, (he autumn blightr 
ing their beauty and gathering them to the tomb, are all, to her, tokens 
and oracles — they are the interpreters of events that betide her future 
eiqperience; for her unlettered and unpretending philosophy ranges 
but little beyond the simple persuasion that coming events cast their 
shadows before. 

These intimations all point to one object, and to the good or ill of 
which this object must be the source — this single, engrossing, and 
eventful object is Love ; aside from this she has no solicitude, no 
fears ; beyond she has nothing to anticipate ; and short of it, there is 
nothing to desire. It is to her the sole charm that makes die earth 
lovely, that lends music to its thousand voices, and fills the face of 
nature with light. Break this single spell, and her existence becomes 
a blank ! It is no wonder, therefore, with these sentiments, that she 
should train herself to the caprices of her idol, that she should mould 
herself to the very shape of the passion existing there ; and that this 
devotedness, so earnest and entire, should at length render her own 
heart as vivid and ardent as the object of her worship. The mirror, 
held to the sun, collects not only its light, but its heat In all the 
perplexities and promises of this devotion, in which her heart trembles 
like a star betwixt night and day, she has essentially no teachings but 
those of nature. She has no philosophical analysis of the sentiment 
she must awaken, no practical exposition of the means she must em- 
ploy ; she has never, perhaps, once read the early history of an attach- 
ment, or pondered for a moment the circumstances that gave it matu- 
rity and strength : she is lefl entirely to the instincts of her untutored 
heart ; she obeys each impulse from within ; if these bear her wrongly, 
she casts the failure upon her destiny, and reconciles herself to the 
calamity because it is inevitable. 

The seclusion to which the habits of her nation consign her, deprive 
her of all those opportunities through which, in other lands, youth and 
beauty obtain their triumphs. She never openly encounters the face 
of the one upon whom her fancy or affections may have fixed ; she 
never meets him at rout, or ball, or masquerade ; she never breaks 
upon his presence in the frequented way, or timidly crosses bis solitary 
path ; she may never exchange a word, a glance, or smile, with him, 
at the hearth of her father ; she may not even betray her feelings 
through die attentions of a younger sister ; nor once touch the harp to 
those notes upon which afiection would linger — and prolonging — 
linger still : yet she will not despair ; the rose which she entrusted 
to a confidential hand may perchance reach his breast ; the rich face 
and overpowering eye, which she stealthfuUy unveiled at her lattice 
as he passed, may have sunk into his heart. If she wins the object 
of her credulous regard, and cgui succeed in confining his ranging de- 

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74 TURKISH LADIES. 

sires to herself, she repays his fidelity by a derotedness the most 
intense and entire — a devotedness which station cannot dazzle, or 
poverty chill, or rival undermine — a devotedness which lives on 
through all changes, and is still green and fresh amid die frosts of years. 

If she becomes a mother, her ofl&pring engrosses her solicitude 
from its birth. She nourishes it at her own breast — hills it to sleep 
with her own sweet voice — bends fondly over its cradled rest — sup- 
presses the pulsations of her own heart, to listen again and ascertain 
if its breathings be clear — and when it wakes, hers is die first &ce 
that its young eyes meet She watches in it each intimation of 
dawning iptelligence — gamers up in her very soul each tender 
growth of thought — exults as she views it catching a knowledge of 
objects around — and when it stretches to her its little arms, and 
smiles up into her face its look of infant.love, she clasps it to her breast 
with that yearning ecstasy which only a mother can feel. If a change 
betide its playful spirit — if sickness comes — she is near to watch its 
first tokens of approach — to ward ofi* or allay the weight of its visita- 
tion ; she trusts this difiicult and delicate office to the fidelity of no 
one — she pours the simple cordial, or applies the soothing applica- 
tion, with her own hands — unremits her assiduities through the wea- 
risome day, and continues her anxious vigil through the long night ; 
the color may fade from her cheek, her spirits droop, and her strength 
fail amid these watchings ; but she still clings to the side of her strick- 
en child, forgetting her own life in her tender solicitude for that of one 
to whom her maternal anguish has but just given existence. 

If the dread event which her fears foreboded, finally steals on apace* 
and the pulsations, scarcely perceptible now, become still fainter and 
fewer, and the mortal change spreads itself so coldly over that once 
sweet face ; she presses again its unbreathing lips — doubts for a mo- 
ment if it be death — and then yields to her bursting, irrepressible 
grief! Her child is borne by friendly hands to its short and slight grave 
in the cypress grove ; she soon follows, in loneliness, to linger near 
it — to think over what it was — what it might have been to her — and 
to weep. She plants the aromatic shrub, with the earliest and latest 
flowers of the year, about its rest ; and by the gifts which she brings, 
tempts the birds to hover there, and lighten with their song its lonely 
sleep. ! tell me not of that mother. Christian though she may call 
herself, who is a stranger to these feelings — who can read her bible, 
hear its lessons of maternal obligation, and then abandon her helpless 
infant to the care of one who has no interest in it if it lives, and no 
grief for it if it dies. Give me rather the simple, the uneducated wife 
of the Osmanlee, who at least has tUs virtue, — she nurses and rears her 
own ofispring ; she will not desert it from any suggestions of pride, 
personal easo, or sjelfish gratification: and the son, whom she thus 



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TURKISH LADIES. 75 

rears into youth and manly promise, repays her solicitude and care in 
the depth and fidelity of his filial afiection. He can never be happy 
while she is wretched ; he can never smile and she be in tears : and 
if misfortune comes upon his father's house, he places her, so far as 
it may be in his power, above the reach of its evils. He becomes to 
bet what she has been to him, a kind, assiduous, and devoted guard- 
ian ; and when she is called to pay the debt of nature, and his willing 
offices can go no further, though forbid by his stern creed to wear the 
demonstrations of woe, yet there is a grief in his heart which all the 
sable symbols of sorrow can never express. Ah! the human heart 
will always leap kindly back to kindness. 

This afiection for his mother is a most amiable and redeeming trait 
in the character of the Moslem, and it the more surprises us that a 
plant of so much sweetness and beauty should be found in such an 
ungenial and unfavored soil. It might be expected where the Sun of 
Righteousness had cast his benign beams ; we might justly be shocked 
not to find it in a disciple of Him, who, as he hung on the cross, bent 
his last look of love to her that had yearned over his infant slumber. 
Alas ! how changed the scene to Him from all that it then was. In- 
stead of those fond, encircling arms, an agonizing cross — instead of 
that soft and soothing hand, a crown of thorns — instead of that che- 
rishing caress, the bloody nail and spear — instead of that meek, ma- 
ternal kiss, vinegar and gall — instead of that deep and overflowing 
heart, the coldness and bitterness of mockery — instead of that coun- 
tenance filled with tenderness, light, and love, a departed God and a 
darkened world ! Tet in the very extremity of this change, when the 
last pangs of its cruelty and agony were upon Him, the sufierer forgot 
not the fiiture condition and happiness of her whose cares once so 
sweetly availed Him. But this transcendant example of filial piety 
and attachment has perhaps never been unfolded to the Musselman ; 
he is devoted and constant, even without the sacred incentives which 
it conveys. It is for those who call themselves Christians, to ponder 
and admire, walk away and forget! But that callous being, to what- 
ever creed he may belong, who can forsake his mother, who can for- 
get the sorrows and anxieties of her who gave him birth, and nourished 
his unrequiting in&ncy, is a dishonor to his name,' a burning blot 
upon human nature. The earth which he treads and disgraces might 
injustice deny him the sanctity of a grave I 



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76 



VERSES FOR MY COUSINS ALBUM. 



Nat, ask me not, coz, bow long it be 
Since love's sweet witchery on me stole; 

In troth, it always seemed to me 
A portion of my souL 

I know the springs where love was nurst. 

But ask not when it blossomed first 

Twas not beneath the cloudless skies 
Of youth's sweet summer — long befi>ra 

The sunshine of those gentle eyes 
Had waked the tender flower ; 

And from its breathing censer-cup 

Had drawn its purest incense up. 

Twas not in childhood's merry May, 
When dews were fresh and skies were lair, 

Our life was one long, sunny day, 
Undimmed by thought or care ; — 

Oh no ! the stream whence love is fed 

Is deepest at the fountain head ; — 

And feeling's purest, holiest flowers 
Are brightest in life's earliest dawn, 

But fade when come the sultry hours 
Of noontide splendor on. 

The heart's fine music sweetest rings 

Ere manhood's tears have dulled the strings. 

I think my being and my love, 
Like oak and vine, together sprung, 

And bough and tendril interwove, 
And round my heart-strings clung. 

Oh ! never till my latest sigh 

Shall aught unclasp that gentle tie. 

Elah. 



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77 



ANECDOTE FROM A PRITATE JOURNAL. 

TwBif TT-FiTE years ago^ an envoy from Great Britain visited 
Boston. He seemed to be of a bearing somewhat lordly, and he ap- 
peared as the associate of a few persons who were considered espe* 
cially complaisant towards his government His official successor was 
of very retired habits. About this time the United States' minister to 
Great Britain resided a few miles from London. The court did not 
attract him to a residence near to itself. 

The French envoy at Washington, occupying the delightful man- 
sion of the United States* minister to France, cultivated the good will 
of his neighbors : and dius our minister was received in France with 
all kindness and honor. It was arranged that his credentials should 
be presented at a grand levee, the assembly of aU the dignitaries 
connected with that court; when Napoleon audibly expressed his 
gratification in receiving a minister from the United States, and 
especially one well known as a scholar, and who, from previous long 
residence in France, was acquainted with its people and government 
In the foreign news, as then published in the Parisian journals, the 
art United States was habitually precedent Among the English sub- 
jects then detained there, was a youdi, whose return to England was 
anxiously desired on account of certain domestic arrangements. A 
French general, detained in England, was in vain offered in exchange. 
The mediation of the United States' minister was solicited as a person 
in distinguished fovor. Napoleon answered — ^* Such accordance 
cannot be made to the representative of a nation ; but I freely resign 
the youth to the United States' minister, individually, without exchange." 

The above events, which I witnessed, I narrated shortly afler at 
the table of Dr. William Saunders,* in Westminster, partly in answer 
to some queries then made as to the disposition of the United States 
relative to France and England ; a subject about which I had but little 
knowledge or interest Next day I received a request to call at the 
house of Sir Walter Farquhar, in Sackville street, at seven p. m., 
when he requested me to repeat the remarks which he had been in- 
formed that I had made at Dr. Saunders's. Next day I received 
a request to call at the office of Sir WiUiam Hamilton, Secretary 
of State under Lord Sidmouth, in Downing-street, at two p. m., 

* Who WIS then called, << Pbyndtn extraordinary to the Pnnce Regenf* 

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78 THE GRAVES OF TWO CHILDREN. 

when he requested me to repeat the same remarks. After which he 
said, — **The wars with France and with the United States render 
rare and interesting all information from those countries. If, in re- 
quital of your communication to me I can serve you, you will expe- 
rience my readiness so to do.'' When I, with fi%-two of my coun- 
trymen, desired to return to die United States a year afterward, though 
Lord Sidmouth then caused our consular agent to be informed that 
* detention would be applied to al) American citizens in Great Britain,' 
on my application to Mr. Hamilton, a vessel was placed at our dis- 
position, and Mr. Hamilton wishing me a good voyage and a happy 
retvim to my friends, oflbred me permission to address my corres- 
pondents in Great Britain through his office ; to which I am indebted 
for the free transmission of one or two valuable communications. 



THE GRAVES OP TWO CHILDREN. 

Wb laid them side by side — 
The innocent and sweet, 
As if affection still could warm 
Hearts that had ceased to beat; 
As if the Toiees, which so late 
Broke forth in childish glee, 
Within the grare again ooidd join 
Their thrilling harmony. 

We laid them side by side, 

And could not check the tear 

Thus called to take the last farewell 

Of those we loved so dear ; 

We could not bear the thought, that all 

Their loveliness had fled, 

That their warm hearts had ceased to beat, 

And that they both were dead. 

It seemed so like a dream 

That they had passed away ; 

A few short weeks ago, and both 

Were gayest of the gay ; 

Then on the bed of pain were tossed— 

Then came the dying groan — 

Our tears and prayers were vain, for God 

Had taken back his own. 

Yet still we fondly hung 

Over their lifeless clay ; 

Too beautiful for death thflj seemed, 

Too k>vely for decay. 



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THE GlUTSt OF TWO CHILDRKIV. 79 

W« almost &iicied, as we gaied, 
We taw their white lips part ; 
It was but fancy — and the truth 
Came sadl j to our heart 

One kiss we softly pressed 

Upon eaefa brow — ooe look — 

One lingering look we gave — and then 

Our last farewell we took. 

We wept — but not for them — Ah, no! 

From yonder land of bliss 

We would not call them back, to dwell 

Amidst the cares of this. 

No! lesBofbitteniess 
Was mingled with our sighs. 
When to that glorious world on high 
We turned our weeping eyes. 
The gentleness which stole our love, 
While they on earth remained, 
The memoiy of their innocence — 
All — all — our hearts retained. 

Our hopes had now decayed. 

Our risions all had fled — 

And those who bloomed like two sweet flowers 

Now numbered with the dead. 

Yes — but their spotless souls had gone 

To dwell with God above. 

Glorious exchange ! a world of woe 

For one of joy and love. 

They're sleeping side by side- 
Spring, with its smiles and showers, 
EUs clothed the naked trees with green. 
And called to life the flowers. 
We visit oft the hallowed spot 
Our ofierings there to pay — 
The silent tribute of our tears 
Over their lifeless clay. 

A thousand fragrant flowers 

Are blooming on their grave. 

And gracefully above their heads 

The verdant branches wave. 

How sweet it is that those we love, 

Thus eariy snatched away, 

Should sleep aniong spring's early flowers. 

As fair and sweet as they. p. p. p 



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80 



MOHEGAN-ANA: 

OR SCENES AND STORIES OF THE HUDSON. 



MTTMBIR ONK. 



I HAVE wandered a good way in my time — some five or six thou- 
sand miles perhaps, over the northern parts of the Union on eidier side 
of the mountains, and all for the sake of seeing Nature in what poets 
call '* her wild retreats :" of beholding her in those unmolested fast- 
nesses where, like a decorous female as she is, she may freak it about 
in dishabille without being subjected to that abashing scrutiny that al- 
ways awaits her when architects and landscape gardeners assist at her 
toilet in those places where wealth compels her sometimes to hold her 
court Like all the rest of the sex she is capricious enough in her 
choice of what she likes, and leads her admirers many an idle dance 
with but slight reward ; while her choicest favors often awaits him who 
stumbles upon her at her retiring moments, in spots where he would 
least expect such good fortune. Certes, I have never found her more 
propitious than within thirty miles of Saratoga, among lakes, mountains, 
and forests ; where, notwithstanding the vicinity of one of the gayest 
haunts of dissipation, my only rivals for her favors were a sportsman or 
two who had stumbled upon these retreats as I did. 

It was many years since when I went upon my first hunting excur- 
sion in that unsettled region about the north-western sources of the 
Hudson, generally known as *' Totten and Crossfield's Purchase," 
never in very great repute at land offices, and selling at that time for 
sixpence an acre. The deer were then so abundant that they were 
often destroyed by the few settlers for their skins alone ; and wolves, 
and beats, and panthers prowled the thick forest unmolested, save by 
a few Indians who once or twice throughout the year would straggle in 
from the Iroquois reservation on the Canadian frontier. The salmon 
trout that abound in the head waters of the Hudson would sometimes 
tempt them at the spearing season in July ; and the moose, which is 
stiU occasionally shot in this district, used generally to lure them thi- 
ther in the winter season. 

There was one old Mohawk, yclept Captain GiU^ who alone kept 
there all the year round, and was a sort of sylvan Sultan of the whole 
region about His daughter, Molly Gill, who led a kind of oyster 
life, (though no one would have mistaken her for a Peri,) in their wig- 



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MOHEOAM-ANA. 81 

warn OD tbe outlet of lake Pleasant, used to make hk mockasom, sew 
up the ripe of hk iMrchen canoe, and dress his Tension for him, while 
the Captain roved far and near in search of whatever might cheer 
the home enlivened by these two only inmates -^ a tender fawn cutlet, 
a trinket sent by some good-natured settler to Molly, or a stoup of 
vile whiskey secreted in the Captain's hunting pouch for his especial 
refreshment and delight 

Gill, notwithstanding this unhallowed league with bad spirits, was a 
capital guide upon sporting excursions whenever the larger kinds of 
game were the object ; and the companion of my rambles, a young 
barrister from New-York, took as much pleasure as myself in wander- 
ing about among the mountains, or cruising from lake to lake, and 
camping out on their banks with the old Mohawk for our dectu ti 

A party of St Regis Indians — who within two summers have hunted 
over these grounds — was at that time in the country ; and uniting with 
these we turned out a pretty stout band upon our greater excursions ; 
our company being often strengthened by Courtenay St George (a 
cunning trapper of muskrats, whose slouching figure and ferret-like 
features are in whimsical contrast to his knightly name,) and other 
woodsmen less known along diat border. 

As I took no notes of our difierent '* tramps," it is impossible now to 
trace their various routes through rocky glens and over sagging mo- 
rasses, amid the labyrinth of lakes that are linked together by innumera^ 
ble streams and waterfalls among these mountains ; and I may be suf- 
ficiently inaccurate while trying to recall some of the tales and anec- 
dotes with which our party used to while away the evenings between 
the hours of making our camp-fire and the moment of retiring to re- 
pose : but neither shall prevent me from attempting to sketch some of 
these scenes from recollection, and relating the legends connected with 
them as I now remember them. 

Embarking one morning on a small lake called Konjimucby the In- 
dians, we entered its outlet, and floated many hours down a stream 
acarcely a pistol shot in breadth, where, from the rapidity of die current, 
the steering paddSe alone was necessary to keep our canoes on their 
course. The brook wound generally through a wooded morass, where 
the dense overhanging foliage excluded even a glimpse of the neigh- 
boring mountains ; at times, howeve'r, it would sweep near enough to 
their bank to wash a wall of granite, from which the banging birch and 
hemlock would fling their branches far over the limpid tide ; and then 
again it would expand into a broad deep pool, circled with water lilies 
and animated by large flocks of wild fowl, that would rise screaming 
from the black tarn as we glided out from the shadow of the forest 
and skimmed over its smooth surface. Innumerable streams, the in- 



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82 MOHEGAN-ANA. 

lets and oudets of other lakes, mingled their waters in ^ese frequently- 
occurring ponds, and about sunset we struck one so broad that we de- 
temained to change our course, and heading our shallops now against 
the current, we soon found ourselves upon the outlet of a considerable 
lake. The water graduaUy became deeper and more sluggish, and 
then a pull of a few hundred yards with a sudden turn in the forest, shot 
us out upon one of the most beautiful sheets of water I ever beheld. 

It was about four miles in length, with perhaps, half that breadth ; 
the shores curved widi the most picturesque irregularity, and swelling 
high, but graduaUy,from the water ; while their graceful slopes were held 
in strong contrast by a single islet which shot up in one bold cliff from 
die centre, and nodded with a crown of pines, around which an eagle 
was at that moment wheeling. There were dien, I believe, but two 
farms upon the banks of lake Pleasant, a couple of small '' clearings" 
on the brows of opposite promontaries, each waving with wheat and 
smiling in the light of the setting sun — the only cultivated spots in an 
unbroken wilderness. Every where else the untamed forest threw 
its dusky shadow over the lake, while beneath the pendant branches, 
which in some instances swept the wave, a beach as white as the 
snowy strand of the ocean glistened around the clear blue water. 

The sun was setting in heavy diough gorgeous clouds, which at 
each moment lost some of their brightness in a volume of vapor that 
rolled along the mountains ; and by die time we reached the upper 
end of the lake, the broad drops that began to descend warned us to 
hurry on our course and gain a shelter from the coming storm. We had 
reached die inlet of the lake, which was only a narrow crooked strait, 
a few hundred rods in length, connecting it with another sheet of water 
that covered about the same surface as that through which we had 
passed ; the promontory between affording, as I afterwards experi- 
enced, a commanding view of both the sister lakes. Our destina- 
tion was the fardiest side of the upper lake, aad the management of 
a canoe was no boy's play when we led the sheltered strait and 
launched out upon the stormy water. The shores were bold and 
rocky ; and as die wind had now risen into a tempest, die waves beat 
furiously upon them. The rain blew in blinding sheets against us, 
audit was almost impossible, while urging our way in its teeth, to keep 
our canoes from falling off into the troi^ of the sea ; in which case 
they would inevitably have been swamped. Our flotilla was soon se- 
parated and dispersed in the darkness. We called long to each odier 
as the lightning from time to time revealed a boat still in hail, but our 
voices were at last only echoed by the dismal wailing of the loon, 
whose shriek always rises above the storm, and may be heard for miles 
amidst its wildest raging. 

Socondaga, the lake we were on, the fountain head ot the river of 



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MOHKOAN-ANA. 83 

diat name, is shaped, as an Indian described it to me, " Kke a bear's 
paw spread out widi an island between the ball of each toe :"* and 
the different bays and islets, resembling each other to an unpractised 
eye, mi^t, on a dark night, mislead even the skilful voyageur in 
making any given point on the shore ; more than one of our canoes 
must have coasted the greater part of it before they were all succes- 
sively dmwn up on the beach at the place we had fixed for our ren- 
dezvous. 

^' I may say that the Flying Head was abroad to-night," quoth die 
old Mohawk, in good round English, as he lighted his pipe and looked 
contentedly around the bark shantee, wherein each of our company, 
having cheered himself with a hearty supper of dried venison, was 
lounging about the fire in every variety of indolent attitude. The 
remark seemed to attract the attention of no one but myself; but 
when I asked the speaker to explain its meaning, my mongrel 
companions eagerly united in a request that ** the captain would 
tell them all about the varmint of which he spoke, be it pamUr (pan- 
ther) or devik" Gill did not long hesitate to comply ; but the particu- 
lars, not to mention the phraseology of his narrative, in the years that 
have since elapsed, have almost escaped me ; and I shall, therefore, 
not hesitate to tell the story in my own way while trying to recall it 
here. 



THE FLTING HEAD, A LEGEND OF SACONDAOA LAKE. 

The country about the head waters of the great Mohegan, though 
abounding in game and fish, was never, in the recollection of the oldest 
Indians living, nor in that of dieir fathers' fathers, the permanent resi- 
dence of any one tribe. From the savage shores of the Scroon, where 
the eastern fork takes its rise, to the silver strand of lake Pleasant, 
through which the western branch makes its way after rising in Sacon- 
daga lake, the wilderness diat intervenes, and all the mountains round 
about die fountain heads of the great river, have fi'om time immemo- 
rial been infested by a class of beings with whom no good man would 
ever wish to come in contact. 

The young men of the Mohawk have, indeed, often traversed it, 
when, in years gone by, they went on the war-path after the hostile 
tribes of the north ; and the scattered and wandering remnants of their 
people, with an occasional hunting party from the degenerate bands 
diat survive at St Regis, will yet occasionally be tempted over these 
haunted grounds in quest of the game that still finds a refuge in that 
mountain region. The evil shapes that were formerly so troublesome 

* It 18 called ** Round Ltke" by the sorveyocF, probably quoH lucKt, to 

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84 MOHeOAN-ANA. 

to die red hunter, seem in these later days to have become less rest- 
less at his presence ; and, whether it be that the day of their power has 
gone by, or that their vindictiveness has relented at witnessing the fate 
which seems to be universally overtaking the people whom they once 
delighted to persecute — certain it is that the few Inttians who now find 
their way to tiiis part of the country are never molested except by the 
white settlers, who are slowly extending their clearings among the 
wild hills of the north. 

The Flying Head, which is supposed to have first driven the origi- 
nal possessors of these hunting grounds, indiosoever they were, firom 
their homes, and which, as long as tradition nioneth back in the old 
day before the whites came hither, guarded them from the occupancy 
of every neighboring tribe, has not been seen for many years by any 
credible witness ; though there are those who inmst that it has more 
than once appeared to them hovering, as their fathers used to describe 
it, over the lake in which it first had its birth. The existence of dus 
fearful nuHister, however, has never been disputed. Rude represen- 
tations of it are still occasionally met with in the crude designs of 
those degenerate aborigines who earn a scant subsistence by making 
birchen baskets and ornamented pouches for travellers, who are cmi- 
ous in their manufacture of wampum and porcupine quills ; and the 
origin and history of the Flying Head survives, while even the name 
of the tribe whose crimes first called it into existence has passed away 
for ever. 

It was a season of great severity with that forgotten people whose 
council fires were lighted on the mountain promontory that divides Sa- 
condaga firom the sister lake into which it discharges itself.* 

A long and severe winter with but little snow, had killed the herb* 
age at its roots, and the moose and deer had trooped ofi* to the more 
luxuriant pastures along the Mohawk, whither the hunters of the hills 
dared not follow them. The fishing too failed ; and the famine became 
so devouring among the mountains, that whole families, who had no 
hunters to provide for them, perished outright. The young men 
would no longer throw the slender product of the chase into the com- 
mon stock, and the women and children had to maintain life as well 
they could upon the roots and berries the woods afibrded them. 

The sufierings of the tribe became at length so galling that the 
young and enterprising began to talk of migrating from the ancient 
seat of their people; and as it was impossible, surrounded as they 
were by hostile tribes, merely k> shift their hunting grounds for a season 
and return to them at some more auspicious period, it was proposed 

* A hamlet is now growing op on this beaatifal mountain siopf^ and the acenery 
in the vicinity is likely to be soon better known from the enterprise of a Mr. Skid- 
more, who is about eatabltshing a line of stages between Saoondaga lake and Sa- 
ratoga springs. 



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MOHKGAN-AVA. 85 

that if they could effect a secret march to die great lake off to the west 
of them, they should launch their canoes upon Ontario, and all 
move away to a new home beyond its broad waters. The wild rice, 
of which some had been brought into their country by a runner from a 
distant nation, would, they diought, support them in their perilous 
Toyage along the shores of the great water where it grows in such pro- 
fusion ; and they beheved that, once safely beyond the hike, it would be 
easy Miough to find a new home abounding in game, upon those flow- 
ery plains which, as they had heard, lay like one immense garden be- 
yond the chain of inland seas. 

The old men of the tribe were indignant at the bare suggestion of 
leaving the bright streams and sheltered vallies, amid which their 
spring-time of life had passed so happily. They doubted the exist- 
ence of the garden regions of which their children spoke ; and they 
thought that if there were indeed such a country, it was madness to 
attempt to reach it in the way proposed. They said, too, that the famine 
was a scourge which tfie Master of Life inflicted upon his people for 
their crimes — that if its pains were endured with the constancy and 
firmness that became warriors, the visitation would soon pass away ; 
but that those who fled from it would only war with their destiny, and 
that chastisement would follow them, in some shape, wheresoever diey 
rai^ flee. Finally, they added, that they would rather perish 1^ 
inches on thmr native hills — fliey would rather die that moment, than, 
leaving them for ever, to revel in plenty upon stranger plains. 

** Be it so — they have spoken!" exclaimed a fierce and insolent 
youth, springing to his feet and casting a furious glance around the 
council as flie aged chief, who had thus addressed it, resumed his 
seat. ^ Be the dotards' words their own, my brothers — let them die 
for the crimes they have even now acknowledged. We know of 
none, our unsullied summers have yet had to blush for. It is 
tiiey flmt have drawn this curse upon our people — it is for them that 
our vitals are consuming with anguish, while our strength wastes away 
in the search of sustenance we cannot find — or which, when found, 
we are compelled to share with those for whose misdeeds the Great 
Spirit hath pkced it far from us. They have spoken — let them die. 
Let them die, if we are to remain, to appease the angry Spirit ; and 
^be food that now keeps life lingering in their shrivelled and useless 
carcasses may dien nerve the limbs of our young hunters, or keep 
our children firom perishing. Let them die, if we are to move hence, 
for their presence will but bring a curse upon our paA — their worn- 
out finmeis will give way upon the march, and the raven that hovers 
over their corses, guide our enemies to the spot, and scent them like 
wolves upon our traiL Let them die ; my brothers, and, in that they 



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86 MOHBOAN-ANA. 

are still our tribes-men, let us give them the death of warriors — and 
that before we leave this ground." 

And with these words the young barbarian, pealing forth a ferocious 
whoop, buried his tomahawk in the head of the old man nearest to 
him. The infernal yell was echoed on every side — a dozen flint 
hatchets were instantly raised by as many remorseless arms, and the 
massacre was wrought before one of those thus horribly sacrificed 
could interpose a plea of mercy. But for mercy they would not have 
pleaded, had opportunity been afforded them. For even in the moment 
that intervened between the cruel sentence and its execution, they 
managed to show that stem resignation to the decrees of fate which an 
Indian warrior ever exhibits when death is near ; and each of the seven 
old men that perished thus barbarously, drew his wolf-skin mantle 
around his shoulders and nodded his head as if inviting the death-blow 
that followed. 

The parricidal deed was done|; and it now became a question, how 
to dispose of the remains of those whose lamp of life, while twinkling 
in the socket, had been thus fearfully quenched for ever. The act, 
though said to have been of not unfirequent occurrence among certain 
Indian tribes at similar exigencies, was one utterly abhorrent to the 
nature of most of our aborigines ; who, from their earliest years, are 
taught the deepest reverence for die aged. In the present instance, 
likewise, it had been so outrageous a perversion of their customary 
views of duty among this simple people, that it was thought but 
proper to dispense with dieir wonted mode of sepulture, and dispose 
of the victims of famine and fanaticism in some peculiar manner. 
They wished in some way to sanctify the deed, by offering up the 
bodies of the slaughtered to the Master of Life, and that without 
dishonoring the dead. It was therefore agreed to decapitate the bodies 
and bum them; and as the nobler part could not, when thus dissever- 
ed, be buried with the usual forms, it was determined to sink the 
heads together in the bottom of the lake. 

The soul-less tmnks were accordingly consumed and the ashes 
scattered to the winds, and the heads were then deposited singly, in 
separate canoes, which pulled off in a kind of procession fi'om the 
shore. The young chief who had suggested the bloody scene of the 
sacrifice, rowed in advance, in order to designate the spot where th^ 
were to disburden themselves of their gory fi-eight Resting then 
upon his oars, he received each head in succession from his compa- 
nions, and proceeded to tie them together by their scalp-locks, in order 
to sink the whole, with a huge stone, to the bottom. But the ven- 
geance of the Master of Life overtook the wretch before hb horrid 
office was accomplished ; for no sooner did he receive the last head 



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MOHEOAN-ANA. 87 

into his canoe, than it began to sink — his feet became entangled in 
the hideous chain he had been knotting together, and before his horror- 
stricken companions could come to his rescue, he was dragged shriek- 
ing to the bottom. The others waited not to see the water settle over 
him, but pulled with their whole strength for the shore. 

The morning dawned calmly upon that unhallowed water, which 
seemed at first to show no traces of the deed it had witnessed the night 
before. But gradually, as the sun rose higher, a few gory bubbles 
appeared to float over one smooth and turbid spot, which the breeze 
never crisped into a riffle. The parricides sat on the bank watching 
it all the day ; but sluggish, as at first, that sullen blot upon the fresh 
bhie surface still remained. Another day passed over their heads, and 
the thick stain was yet there. On the third day the floating slime 
took a greener hue, as if colored by the festering mass beneath : but 
coarse fibres of darker dye marbled its surface ; and on the fourth 
day fliese began to tremble along the water like weeds growing from 
the bottom, or the long tresses of a woman's scalp floating in a pool 
idien no wind disturbs it The fifth morning came, and the con- 
science-stricken watchers thought that tiie spreading scalp — for such 
now all agreed it was — had raised itself fit>m the water, and become 
rounded at the top as if there were a head beneath it Some thought, 
too, that diey could discover a pair of hideous eyes glaring beneath 
the dripping locks. They looked on file sixth, and there indeed was 
a monstrous head floating upon the surface, as if anchored to the spot, 
around which the water — notwithstanding a blast which swept the 
lake — was calm and motionless as ever. 

Those bad Indians then wished to fly, but the doomed parricides 
had not now the courage to encounter the warlike bands through 
which they must make their way in fleeing from their native valley. 
They thou^t, too, fiiat as nothing about the head except the eyes had 
motion, it could not harm them, resting quietly as it did upon the 
bosom of the waters. And though it was dreadful to have that hideous 
gaze fixed for ever upon their dwellings, yet they thought that if the 
Master of Life meant this as an expiation for their frenzied deed, they 
wouki strive to live on beneadi those unearthly glances without shrink- 
ing or complaint 

But a strange alteration had taken place in die floating head on the 
morning of the seventh day. A pair of broad wings, ribbed like those 
of a bat, and with claws appended to each tendon, had grown out 
dnring the ni^ ; and, buoyed up by these, it seemed to be now resting 
upon the water. The water itself appeared to ripple more briskly 
near it, as if joyous that it was about to be relieved of its unnatural 
burthen : but still for hours the head maintained its first position. At 
last die wind began to rise, and, driving through the trough of the sea. 

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88 MOHKOAN-ANA. 

beneath their expanded membrane, raised the wings from the surface* 
and seemed for the first time to endow them with vitality. They 
fls4>ped harshly once or twice upon the waves, and the head rose 
slowly and heavily from the lake. 

An agony of fear seized upon the gazing parricides, but the super- 
natural creation made no movement to injure them. It only remained 
balancing itself over the lake, and casting a shadow from its wings 
that wrapped the valley in gloom. But dreadful was it beneath their 
withering shade to watch that terrific monster, hovering like a falcon for 
the stoop, and know not upon what victim it might descend. It was then 
that they who had sown the gory seed from which it sprang to life, with 
one impulse sought to escape its presence by flight Herding together 
like a troop of deer when the panther is prowling by, diey rushed in 
a body from the scene. But the flapping of the demon pinions was 
soon heard behind them, and flie winged head was henceforth on their 
track wheresoever it led. 

In vain did they cross one mountain barrier after another — plunge 
into the rocky gorge or thread the mazy swamp to escape their fiend- 
ish watcher. The Flying Head would rise on tireless wings over the 
loftiest summit, or dash in arrowy flight through the narrowest passes 
without furling its pinions ; while their sullen threshing would be heard 
even in those vine-webbed thickets, where the little ground bird can 
scarcely make its way. The very caverns of the earth were no pro- 
tection to flie parricides from its presence ; for scarcely would they 
think they had found a refuge in some sparry cell, when, poised mid- 
way between the ceiling and the floor, diey would behold the Flying 
Head glaring upon them. Sleeping or waking, the monster was ever 
near — they paused to rest, but the rashing of its wings, as it swept 
around their resting-place in never-ending circles, prevented them fiiom 
finding forgetfulness in repose ; or, if in spite of those blighting pi- 
nions that ever &nned them, fatigue did at moments plunge them in un- 
easy slumbers, the glances of the Flying Head would pierce their 
very eyelids, and steep their dreams in horror. 

What was the ultimate fate of that band of parricides no one has 
ever known. Some say that the Master of Life kept ihem always 
young, in order that their capabiUty of suflering might never wear 
out ; and these insist that the Flying Head is still pursuing them over 
the great prairies of the Far West Others aver that the glances of the 
Flying Head turned each of them gradually into stone , and these say 
that their forms, though altered by the wearing of the rains in the lapse 
of long years, may sfill be recognized in those upright rocks which 
stand like human figures along the shores of some of the neighboring 
lakes ; though most Indians have another way of accounting fpr 
these figures. Certain it is, however, that the Flying Head always 



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THE WATCH-FIRE. 89 

comes back to this part of the country about the times of the Equinox ; 
and some say even that you may alway hear the flapping of its wings 
whenever such a storm as that we have just weathered is brewing." 

The old hunter had finished his story ; but my companions were 
stiU anxious that he should protract the narrative, and give us the ac- 
count of the grotesque forms to which he had alluded as being found 
among these hills. These, however, he told us more properly be- 
longed to another legend, which he subsequently related, and which 
I may hereafter endeavor to recall. C. F. H. 



THE Watch-fire. 



r&OM TBI UWBJikK or OOLLOI. 



WifC and child! a peacefbl sltop, 
*l'iB for that my Watch I keep 
Through the (buk add chilly ni^t: 
Think on you, and ay with nii^t, 
<< Libber death r 

Haik ! e'en how afar it peals ! 
On the warriot'e heart it eteals I 
Gloiioiu watchword I throng the night 
Blan to man calls out with might 
"Liberty or death!** 

Where yon fidthftil watch-fires glow, 
Bold — defying stands the foe — 
Still the cry ring? throu^the nig^t, 
Guard to guard calls out with might 
<« Liberty or death!** 

When a shudder strikes the foe. 
And his blood runs cold and sk>w, 
Vain he blames the chilly night; 
*Tis our watchword's fearful might, 
'^ Liberty or death !*> 

When the battle-storm raves high* 
Leaden haii-stones whizzing by — 
Hurl him to the daikest night, 
By that glorious watchword's mig^l^ 
"iJieity or death!** 
▼OL. vn. It 



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90 



THE ALTAR OP AMMON.* 

Scimus et hoc nobis non altius inseret Ammon. 

LncAN Phars. lib. iz. ver. S73. 

Jtfrt . Malofirvp. — I own the soft impeachment Pardon my camelion blushes. I 
am Delia. 
SirLiojIiw.— YouDalia! Pho! Pho! Be aisy. 
Mrs* MaL — Why, you barbarous Vandyke — those letters are mine. 

The Ritals. 

Lie there, Goleridget and tonnent me no more. I have read that 
book till I am absolutely dizzy with thought ; — my head seethes like 
a cauldron — I must put myself upon the use of intellectual diluents 

— mental slops — till I get relief from this reflecting plethora. 
What shall I take? Oh, I have it Diavolo ! bring me the papers 

— the country papers I mean, throw some coal upon that fire, and 
when I fyXL asleep cover me up with that cloak. Mercy upon me — 
what a pile : never mind, throw them all upon the floor beside the 
sofa. So — vanish. Now for the demulcents. Here is the Monon- 
gehela Watchman — " Dreadful Accident" — ** Cow cut in two by a 
rail-road Car*' — " Butchery.** Bah ! a pun — away with the Watch- 
man. What comes next ? ** Rail-road from Worcester to ^" — 

•* price per mile" — " level" — "car" — " transportation" — very good 
project I have no doubt Well, what next? " Pity for Priam, aris- 
ing not from compassion, but from a sudden indefinable likeness 
springing up in his mind between the grey-haired Trojan pray- 
ing for the body of Hector, and the bereaved Peleus who must 
one day weep for his own fall in that remote Argos, which he knows 
he shall never see" — really ^t is not bad. Where did our 
country friend pick up that pretty piece of Balaam — ** Ammon" — 
" Ammon" — who can he be ? Reader, it is not our wont to admit 
thee, dearly loved though thou art, into this our little sanctum — but 
since thou art here, we will have no secrets, but frankly confess — 
ignorance; — yes, we are ignorant; we know not who this Am- 

* We know not to whom we are indebted for our apotheosis, as clearly established 
in the above article, certainly to some one who has familiar access to our editorial 
table ; and who, in temporarily withdrawing several papers which we feared had 
disappeared altogether, has returned them in a setting that adds much to their 
value. Ammtn welcomes him to the very penetralia of his temple. — Eds. Am. 
Mom. 



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THE ALTAR OF AMMON. 91 

mollis. But we will know, and thou shah know. Diavolo! Dia^ 
Tolo ! hand me Lempriere. Not that one, Imp of darkness ! the 
large book bound in Russia, that is it, now ck\ Here we shall 
find this same Ammon — for I take it for granted he is one of the il- 
lustrious dead — let us see. 

^Jhnimon. — Father of the Ammonites — enemies of Israel.** 

It cannot be he ; let us look further. 

Ammonius Saccus. — ^ Founder of the Eclectic School — among 
his disciples — Longinus." This is doubtless the man — though how 
the wisdom of Saccus Ammonius came to be transplanted into the 
Tonewanta Reflector, passes judgment — let us see if he has any 
more as good. Why, here is a whole column of little extracts, and 
all from Ammon. The first is in verse : 

" Had ye bat known yoar day of grace, while still 
Jehovah's mercy paused your doom to seal" 

This can't be from Saccus Ammonius, for the blind idiot deserted the 
Christian religion and turned Pagan. We must look again into Lem- 
priere and see if there are any more Ammons. Am — Am — ah, 
here it is. 

** Ammonius Lavinius. — A Carthusian monk, much esteemed by 
Erasmus ;" that is the man beyond a doubt ** Carthusian monk ;^ I 
dare say the editor of the Tonewanta Reflector is a Catholic, or per- 
haps some nei^boring Jesuit gets up his Balaam for him — they are 
up to all such wa3rs and means of acquiring influence, those Jesuits, 
Gunning dogs ! But let us look at another. 

Ammonius. — ^ Surgeon — lithotomist :" it can't be this man. 

Ammonius Andrew, — ** Native of Lucca — fled to England" — on 
account of his religion, doubtless — *^ patronized by Sir Thomas 
More." This may be the man, though I should scarce think Sir Tho- 
mas would have allowed a protege of his to be very hard upon the 
Romish priests. We will look at another extract before we make 
up our minds. 

** From the days of Cowper to those of Bjrron." Hah I ** Crabbe," 
^ Elliott" You see it is not Sir Thomas's friend, after all. Reader, 
we are at fault ; this Ammon is past our finding out : we will try one 
more extract and then give him up. ** While Che-che-gwa was load- 
ing his rifle;" hum! ** sable enemy;" heh? it is impossible! and 
yet ^ Muckwaw desperately wounded ;" it is — stay, there is surely 
some mistake ; ** taken eflect in the spine ;" I have it — ^ poor ani- 
mal" — 'tis he — ** piteous groans ;" is not that droll ? ** whizzing 
hatchet" — 'tis the very thing ; ^ Indian asked pardon" — and so do 



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98 THE AI«TAR OF AMMOU* 

we of jou, gentle reader, for having bewilidere4 jou and ourseiy^ 
throu^ so much of Ba]aain« and so many articles in the Biographical 
Dictionary in search of one whom we might have found wi& j^ess 
trouble. Reader, know that Ammon, as we have just foupd out, indi- 
cates neither the father of the Ammonites por the teacher of Longi- 
nus, neither the friend of Er^mus nor the proteg^ of Sir Thomas 
More, Am Mon (as it should have beep writteq) indicates American 
Monthly. Yes — 'tis true — Aipmon — and why not? Jupiter was 
called Ammon ! It shall be so ; the Magazine shall be deified under 
that name ; and this shall be the Temple of Ammon : here will be re- 
ceive the ofieriogs of the faithful from every clime — homage in prose 
— adoration in verse. 

The Priest arose — with tremblmg hand 
He waves around his magic wand, 

And now about his head 
Shadows and clouds are spread^- 
They pass — and now the little room 
Erst the student's humble home 
Is changed — 'tis gone, and in its stead 
Pillars rise — a long arcade ; 
Fretted roof and vaulted dome, 
Temple, shrine and altar come — 

Soft music floats around, 
And to the sound 
The brazen gates are opened wide, 
And onward comes a living tide. 
White robed prieet and augur wi90, 
Harutpez and Sybil lioe. — 
In silence first the kneeling Flamens pray 
To Amnion then they chaunt the solemn lay, 
While unseen harps in sweet accordance play. 
Invoking Ammon in that tongue whidi first 
Upon his infant ear melodious burst 

INVOCATION TO AMMON. 

^n ZfiS fitfivrty jfayKparii icartuBdrwf 
'EXar^p upa^vow— J0' 'OX^/iircdv xX^ftir, 
E(d' aZ AiKaiWy aXvhui'^fip6vw riiuK 
'TirtftrtXhf Otfiv rt K^vOfniww varipj 

k.hfhmof rh ahv, irop* whutvtis [foAt 
IXttXoVf aeSt^tr jfi^is Hv^in^ irlpor 
nordftov napoiicii \dpivov • Xi S* AJBto^ 
^Anfn*va yvd^is h AiSvtrrucdis coXci, 
TdvicaXXiirp(i)pov ^Slbts^O\vfiirlai 
*Eo6avTa ddXa/toiff x^ rvpawic^ ^^X^ 

*0c, Toliratai UtpoUcMs httvOf^, 



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Tuft 41.TAJL ov fliMOff. 99 

BIScMV •M<y irr' h 'nvri^ irXdKi, 

Banftiinpof )(XmpStnw ir ymias Uptus 
'Atfiwrror oUh^ oM* cItfyiMr XIrcn'. 



[3%e f%MMii jDtolw a9cend8 kii curuU cikotr.f J3m licior jtoiult 
a< hu right htmd and thi$ f^trirngB ^g^] 

Flamm ItL — CanmaftiiB Mods aa «kar-piec« finr Aomum. The 
art of Retsch hadi pidived Ae PUloeopher Prmce fixing a bri^t 
yet thoi^Mfiil eye upon the naked skoll of his yoatfa's plaj-fellow, 
and nradng upon man's mortality. While the hardened wretch, ac- 
customed to siich oghtSf and deadened by their influencey smiles to 
see diat a prince — the son of a king — ^ heir to a crown— can be 
mored by diat which to a graye-diggerisso common and so valueless 
— a dcuH —a bone —a relic of the grave-rotten dead.** 



* Hath Amnioo no Totaiy who will translate theao Tragic lambica into worthy 
En^iah lor our Febniary Number 7 Ourprinter'edeTilparapnittteethemasibUowa: 

O! thoowhoent*<tofiurOlyiiipiapceM^d,'* 

Great ftther AmmoD ! 
Commg patamaHy — celeatial gaeat ! 

Her epoo^ to gaanronp, 
BiakingKiiuc Pbu fbfnoolh too 
God-wer of the youth who 

Gave old Darius such a lammin.' [Zexieon OrocjtdHMM.] 
Thou, whose enduring, aH-embrawve sway is 
AdLnowledjRed ahke^ where in the wild I'aniis 

The red SKnmlian spean th^ dartinc safaaon, 
On where the rock-hewn altars of TheMis 

Bleeds the white bull or sacnficial ram 00, 
Or sable £thiop — (in his home-economy 
Unoonacioaa yeC of possum fat and hommy) — 

Liays hift simple yam onl 
Aminon! Olrmptnsl Sponsor! LatialisI 
Maximust Victor! Anzurus! Flnvialis! 
Or by what title or a^unot thoo woukCst rather 
We unto thy list of namea, great &ther. 
Here should cram on. 
Listen to thy flamen. 
t Fbuninem Jovi asaiduum sacerdotem creant (<'Ilum^), inagnique earn 
«teiiiiilingASiaaadoniant. Ltfv.iab.iSOl, 



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94 THE ALTAR OF ABIMOlf. 

Flam. DiaUi. — It is a triumph of art Let it be placed in the 
▼ery front of our hallowed fane, that all may see how Ajmnon honors 
the children of Genius. 

Fkunm 2d. — The Priestess of Apollo sends her offering. 

PARTINQ OP THE MISSIONARY BRIDE. 

BT MRS. SIQOVENBT. 

The time had come. The stern clock Btrack the homr. 

Each long-loved haunt had shared her mate farewell, — 

The yine- wrapt walk, the hillock's tufted crown, — 

The nurtured plants that in the casement smiled 

Had drank a blessing from her loving eye 

For the last time. But now the climax came. 

And so she rose, and with a fond embrace 

Folded her gentle sister, who had been 

A second self, ere from her cradle-dream, 

And hung about her brother's neck, as one 

Who'neatii the weight of love's remembrances 

Doth look on language as a broken thmg. 

Methought she lingered long^ as if to gain 

Respite from some more dreaded pang, that frowned 

Appalling, though unfelt For near her side. 

With eye dose following, where her dailing moved, 

Her widowed mother stood. And so, she laid 

Her head on that dear breast, where every pain 

Of infancy was soothed. And there arose 

One wild, deep sob of weeping, such as breaks 

Upon the ear of Death, when he hath torn 

The nerve fast rooted in the fount of life. 

— 'TIS o'er. The bitterness is past Young bride ! 

No keener dreg shall quiver on thy lip, 

Till the last ioe-cup cometh. 

Then she turned 
To him who was to be sole shdterer now, — 
And placed her hand in his, and raised her eye 
One moment upward, whence her strength did come,— 
And with a steadfast step paced forth to take 
Her life-long portion, in a heathen dime. 
— Oh Love and Faith ! — twin-centinds, who guard 
One this drear worid and one the gate of heaven, — 
How ^orious are ye^ when in woman's heart 
Ye make that tremUing hold invindble. 
Ye both were there, — and so she past away 
A tearfd victor. 

Yet to me it seemed. 
Thus in the flush of youth and health, to take 
Death's parting was a strange, unnatural thing ; 
And that the lofty martyr, who dothyidd 
His body to the fire's fieios alcfayniy 



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THB ALTAR OF AM MON. 96 

Bat one biief hooTy hath li|^iter claim on b«avea 
For higli endurance, than the tender bride 
Who from her mother's hosom lifla her head 
To bide the hnSei of a pagan dime, 
And rear^abes beneath the bamboo thatch, 
Bearing the sorrow of her woman's lot, 
Perchanoe, for many years. 

Thus most it teem 
To the trim woridlmg, in the broad green way 
Loitering and careless where that way may lead. 
And prizing more the senses than the souL 
Heart! is it thus with thee 7 Oo pour thyself 
In penitence to Him, who heeded not 
The cross on Calrary, — so the lost might Ufa 
Look to thine own slack senrice, — meted out 
And &shioned at thine ease, — and let the zeal 
Which nerved the parting of that fair young bride. 
Be as a probe to search thy dead content 

Flamen DiaU$. — TheofTering is most precious — and worihj eren 
a holier ahriiie than Amnion's. Lictor, go! break from the sacred 
laurel that grows beside our fane* a branchy and let Apollo's ftvorite 
priestess wear the garland. 

Flamen dd. — A gem of his double art, from the poet-painter of 
our country: 

ROSALIA.— By WASHureroN ALUT<»f. 

Oh, pour upon my soul again 

That sad, unearthly strain. 
That seems from other wotlds to plain ; 
Thus fidling, fidling fiom afar. 
As if some melancholy star 
Had mingled with her hght her sighs. 

And dropped them from the skies. 

No — ne?er came from au^ below 

This melody of wo. 
That makes my heart to overflow 
As from a thousand gushing springs 
Unknown before ; that with it brings 
This nameless h^ — if light it be ~ 

That yeOs the worid I see. 

For all I see around me wears 

The hue of other spheres ; 
And something blent of smiles and tears 
Comes from the very air I breathe. 
Oh, nothin^^ sure, the stars beneath. 
Can mould a sadness like to this — 

So like angelic bliss. 



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96 THE ALTAR Of AHMON. 

So, at that dreamy boar of day 

When the last lingering ray 
Stops on the highest cloud to play — 
So thought the gentle Rosalie 
As on her maiden reverie 
First fell the strain of him who stole 

In music to her soul.* 

Flamen DiaUa. — ** Ghippings from the woric-6hap of a Phidiast" 
they are thrice welcome ! How glowing an interest must ever rest 
upon the productions of him who is at die same time painter and poet ; 
who is not alone capable of giving form to his conceptions^ but of in- 
vesting them widi ^ brightest latiguage of imagination. 

FUmnm 4i&.— From his lodge In the &r west, Wunnessadawa sends 
the war song of his tribe. 

OUR COUNTRYnS CALL. 
iiciTATBD ntoic TBi «BaifAa.— BT AM mmowN baud. 

I- 

Raise the heait— raise the hind^ 
Swear ye for the glorious causey 
Swear by Nature's holy laws 

To defend your Father-land. 
By the |^ry ye inherit- 
By the name mid men ye bear- 
By your country's freedom swear it — 
By the Eternal— this day swsarl 
Raise the heart— raise the hand| 
Fling abroad the starry banner. 
Ever live our countiy's honor, 
Ever bloom our native land. 

n. 

Raise the heart— raise the hand, 
Let the earth and heaven hear it, 
WhUe the sacred oath we swear it. 
Swear to uphold our Father-land ! 
I Wave, thou lofty enaiyi glorious, 

Floating foremost in the field, 
j While thy spirit hovers o'er OB 

I None shall tremble— none ihaU yield. 

Raise the heart— raise the hand, 
Fting abrotd the steny bitoltf, 
I Ever live mtf eotintiy*s honor^ 

I Ever Ueofaioitthative land. 

I * These lines by A£r. Allston fiooin iii» subject of a picture lately painted by Urn 

for the Hon. Nathan Apideton. Wecanbeaf personfd testimony to its ex^pnsite 
dream-like beauty. — £&>§. Am. Mon. 



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THB ALTAB OP AMMOlT. 97 

m. 

Raiw the heart— raise the hand, 
Raise it to the Father spirit, 
To the Lord of Heaven rear it ; 

Let the soul *bove earth expand. 
Troth unwavering— Faith unsluiken, 

Sway each action, word, and will. 
That which man hath undertaken. 

Heaven can alone fulfill. 
Raise the heart — ^raise the hand, 

Fling abroad the starry banner, 

Ever live our country's honor, 
Ever bloom our native land. ' 

Flam. Zd. — Thy favorite Phrenopolis [presents another offeringt 
through her son, a zealous priest of Amnion. 

Flamen Dialis. — Son of mine aoe,^ most welcome. Thine offer- 
ing is accepted, and thou most dear to us. 

[The whole chorus now uniie in ehaniing the fottowing Ode to the 
Cornet^ and the scene clo9es,'\ 



TO THE DEPARTED COMET. 



** Some Comet" 

Shaupbaes. 



" This sole phenomenon.'* 



Where hast thou wandered? thou prodigious thing! 

What distant planet gazes at thy shme ? 
Deeming nerce wars and dire contentions spring 

Beneath the fiouiish of that tail of thine. 
Ha ! hast thou jostled out of Heaven some star, 
Racing through ether in thy fiery car! 



* No8 legemus tS^O^^D ^Uitw dienan et non, cum versione commune po^j j 
fiUus dexMa. Sic Houbi^t ^ T^D^^3 Chaldaismum hunc esse a Librariis in- 
yectum prop^p^jp {JUius SUrwn,) Cluodsi autem habuere t^d*^D ^^^ verbumHe- 
braicam qm sijgmficetur filius deztne id jam qi^eiitur quoniam pacto deztr» Jacob 
filiuB esse! Benjamin. Nam in partu Benjamin mhil occidisse roemoratur, ex quo no- 
menatk) talis diduci possit Sea cum Benjamin alibi nomenetur filius senectutis quis 
noa videt legidmam scripturam esse o^D^J^D ^ Itaque etiam talem scriptionem 
numquam deserunt Samaratanl (Et memorabile est, in codice Sept Paulmo ver- 
aionis Alex, servari scriptionem Bcvia/iet^.)'* Houbijant p. 46. Emtio Francofurti 
ad Moenum, A. D. 1777. 

Sic vero Ghrotios — *'potiQ8 Syiaoo sennone, cujus multum adhnc retinebit 
Jacobus, filius dierum. 

Callovhis contra — ^'nusquam I^tur verbum Syriacum ullum quod Jacobus 
adhibueret." Vide Callovii Biblia iBustrala Tom. 1. p. 300. Ed. 1672. 

VOL. vii. 13 



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9d TH£ ALTAE OF AMMOK. 

And do they, in the unkDewn epheree, soniuse. 
At we, upon this third-nte globe cdled Earth, 

With look sagacious and demeanor wise, 
That thou from jarring elements hadst birlbv 

And Bwing'st, unsteered, like ship without a sail, 

Or a sea-serpent, with a league-long tail! 

'Twas said thouMst come in contact with this-baM, 
And scorch up all its mountains to a cinder ; 

Yet not one feeble spaik did'st thou let fall. 
Enough to set on fire a bit of tinder ! 

And now thou*rt quenched, or into daiknees dwindled. 

And not a hair of head, or whisker kindled* 

Yes, all is safe. The tall trees still uplift 
Tbeirplumy summits to the swayiog^air; 

Through lau^ng vales the rivers run mm swift ; 
The shores are washed by waters quite as fair; 

I mean in Southern climes — ibr Winter now 

Hangs ice for blossoms on the naked bough, 

And pays rough greeting to our Yankee land ; 

For since thou*rt gone, with thy pervading heat, 
He wields his sceptre with a ruthless hand, 

Shrouding the atmosphere with snow and sleet ; 
Since thy warmth-yielding blaze has passed away, 
We scarcely have enjoyed a pleasant day. 

Nor Earth alone, but Man is still the same, 
His schemes, his politics, his busy strife, 

His speculations to get cash or fame. 
His care for livipg and his waste ot life. 

Still the free savage roves his wild domain ; 

lu dcathful mines the slave still chmks his chain. 

Fashion makes fools — and lovely ladies spend 
Their wealth of beauty on the lavish night 

Though thou art not in yonder sky, to lend 
Thy rival splendor to entrance the sight, 

Still town and country maids blush all they can ; 

From Isabella down to Sally AniL 

Where wandereet thou? agam I ask thee— where? 

Why hast thou gone 7 Return! and tell me why ? 
And what art thou ? Astronomers declare 

Thou*rt *' a large body floating in the sky ;" 
And through long glasses at thy long tail peep, 
ThoQ huge Leviathan of the upper deep ! 

Said I thy tail? Professors showed us two^ 
Two bright appendages to thy behind — 

Strange that the wise could not expose to view 
A cause that any stupid lout might find : 

And could such science to discover fail 

That thou did*si choose to doubU tip thy tail ! 



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THE ALTAR OF AMMON. 09 

I think thou art a runner to the Sun, 

A beamy metsenger he tends along 
The realms of space, to visit every one 

Of his dominions — and the gorgeous throng 
To set in order, once in seventy years. 
That there may be no clashbg of the spheres. 

To hurry on from Horschel unto Man, 

Bearing new oil from his ezhaustless urn, ^ 
To trim the dim wicks x>f the iesser stars, 

And see that all, in quenchless lustre, bum. 
If any rays be found unmixed, to mix them ; 
if any "fixed stars" get unfixed, to fix them ! 

Or better still I think thou art a ship 

Propelled by steam from Jdpiter to Venus ; 
19ent out, provisioned (<« a mighty trip. 

As folks say there — ** to touch at globes between us.** 
Who knows what Earth-born mortals may not dare, 
When they have learned to navigate the air 7 

We, too^ «ay own a oomeC — not to creep, 

Snail*like on rail-road ; but, like Ihee to fly 
From orb to orb — and not to slowly sweep 

Like witch on broomstick through the murky sky ; 
But rushing faster than the tempest*gale, 
Spout out whole floods of sparks by way of tail ! 

People in large worlds have larger minds. 

The Captain Roses of so vast a sea 
Toy not with tides nor wanton with the winds ; 

^it on discoveries sail in things like thee ! — 
The great, big steamboat of the western zone. 
Where each man keeps a steamboat of his own ! 

Come-t, fiurewell ! fling wide thy streaming flame 

To craze the quidnuncs of another sphere! 
Go it, methinks, would be thy fitter name 

For lo ! thou art not, yet thou hast been here. 
When next thou com'st our way, I beg thou'It wear 
Thrti tails to make the generation stajrc ! 



iy 1 -:■ t.-is»b»- by Google 



100 



CRITICAL NOTICES. 



Discourse upon the lAjty ChairacttT^ and Services of the Honorable 
John MarshaUy L,L. 2>., Chief Justice of the United States of 
America^ pronounced on the Ibth day of October ^ €U the request of 
the Suffolk Bar. By Joseph Story, L.L. D. : Boston, James 
MunroeSf Co* 

We know not which most to admire, the character of the great deceased, to whose 
memory these pages are devoted, or the ability and feeling manifested by the dis- 
tinguished eulogist Mr. Justice Story has spoken out of the fulness of his heart 
and knowledge. He loved the departed Chief Justice with no common love ; and 
he knew him better, perhaps, than he was known by any other man living. Their ac- 
quaintance was formed when Mr. Justice Story first took his seat on the bench of the 
Supreme Court, over which Marshall had alrmdy presided for a period longer than 
either of his predecessors, with an ability which was the delight of all the friends of the 
constitution, and which was cemented by daily participation for upwards of twenty- 
four years in the same high and arduous labors, and by the mutual attraction of kindly 
and congenial natures. A purer and more ardent friendship never existed. The 
present discourse is, therefore, not simply a sketch of the life and services of the late 
Chief Justice, but it is an ofiering of auction from him who, in addition to the loss 
which he sustained as one of the wide public, suffered the deeper pang occasioned 
by the bereavement of a private friend. What a striking scene was presented in 
the delivery of this discourse ! One great judge, whose fame has been returned to us 
from Europe, bears testimony before an immense audience to the character and ser- 
vices of another, whose name has just been entered on the record of the mighty 
dead, and mingles with his full testimony the swelling emotions excited by his own 
individual loss. If the Chief Justice could have been permitted to designate him 
who should take the lead in the services of commemoration, which in every part of this 
wide republic have followed his funeral, he surely would have named his tried friend, 
the partner of his labors and the companion of his later years, Mr. Justice Story. 
Happy was the lot of the deceased to enjoy so many years of usefuhiess, ripening 
as day succeeded to day with richer fruits — to receive so largely the respect, hom- 
age, and the veneration of a whole people — and finally to be summoned to his high 
account before age had touched him with its withering fingers, and while the sun 
of his glorious intellect was still undimmed. Ftlix non viUt faiUum clarUoU, ted 
etiam opportvnitate mortis. 

There is something peculiarly impressive in the funeral honors which have been 
bestowed upon the memory of Chief Justice Marshall, when we consider the un- 
ambitious and quiet character of his labors and the peaceful victories which he won. 
It speaks volumes in favor of the intelligence of our country, that the death of a 
judicial magistrate should excite such general sympathy and regret^ and that the 
public should perceive so strongly the importance of those services, which have been 



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CRITICAL NOTI0B8. 101 

•o noiselessly performed. The acts of the soldier and statesman have hitherto al- 
most exdasivciy reo^?ed this distinguished notice. 

The present discourse was delivered in the Odeon at Boston, in the presence of 
the larger part of the bar of Massachusetts. It contains a full narrative of the prin- 
cipal events in the hie of the late Chief Justice, vrith suitable references to the col- 
lateral history of the country. These and some of the reflections growing out of 
than, as the author has informed us in the advertisement, are taken from a biogra- 
phical sketch written by him some years ago for the North American Review. 
** As these were derived from the most authentic sources," Mr. Justice Story says, 
«and as the reflections connected with them naturally grew out of the subject, I 
have not hesitated to adopt them wherever they were appropriate to the present 
purpose. It would have been mere affectation to have attempted to avoid the same 
train of narrative or remark." The narrative part occupies a little more than half 
of the discourse. The remainder is taken up by the analysis of character, and the 
exhibition of the deep ibrm in which rested the Chief Justice's claims to public re- 
gard. Seldom have we seen a sketch of character which was presented with more 
minuteness or feUdty, down even to the hair lines and gentlest shadings. We 
seem exactly to behold before us the venerable man, robed in his many virtues and 
endowments We feel that sentiment approaching to awe, yet inspired with love, 
which filled the breasts of all who found themselves in his presence. We see his 
l^acid countenance, as he listens with that attention, which was so remaricable, to 
the often wearisome arguments of counsel ; and we seem to hear the clear and 
passionless wisdom, which fell from his lips when delivering the judgment of the 
court We are permitted to follow him to the private circle, and to enjoy the sin- 
gular simplicity of manners, dress, and deportment, the unaffected modesty, and 
the deep sensibility and tenderness, which shed sudi a mild and radiant influence 
en all around him. ** May I be permitted to say," says the eulogist, ** that during 
a most intimate friendship of many, many years, I never upmi any occasion was 
able to detect the slightest tincture of personal vanity. He had no desire for dis- 
play, and no ambition for admbration.*' Glorious John Marshall 1 If ever man was 
made without the common alloy of mortality, it was thou. How immeasurably 
above all now left on earth was that pure and serene character, which drew all ita 
motives and conduct from the heaven-bom ^rings of duty, nor suffered the claims 
of seliP-mterest or personal ambition — those hungry intruders into human afbirs — 
even to influence the relations of Hfe. This purity and fireedom from the dust of the 
world, more than his high intellectual endowments, mark him conspicuously among 
his fellow-men ; and also present the feature which is open to the imitation of alL 
The exquisite logic, the wonderful judgment, and nice perception of truth, which 
contributed to his intellectual character, can be studied and appreciated by a very 
few ; but all will take delight in the many private virtues, which were inwoven, 
like rays of lig^ in his nature, and which will be an example to all future times. 

3%e Partisan : a Tale of the RenoluHon. By the Author of '* The 
Temassee^^^ ** Gvy Etoer^," ^c. in 2 vols. 12mo : Harper and Bro' 
thertf ^eW'Yorh, 

And LIbeny*8 vltaUty, like Troth, 
If sUU undying. Ai the Mcred fbe 
Nature hai ■hrtned in caverns, etiU it bame, 
Though the etorm howls without 

What shall we say of the Partisan — the latest work of a writer whom we have so 
long delisted to honor— whose brilliant promise we were among the earliest to hail 

^ whose growing ezceQence we have noted joyfully, as the fulfilment of our former 

p rop ha ci e e— whose future supremacy over all livingnovelistsQf America we fondly 



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102 CRITICAL NOTICES. 

hoped to witnees — what shall we say of the Partisan ? — The truth — the whole 
truth — nothing but the truth ! — There is no author of whose abilities we deem 
more hi^y — there is no author on whose works we have looked with more heart- 
felt admiration — there is no author whose exertions we have more desired to see 
crowned with success — and now to those very abilities, to that vety admiration, do 
we feel it due to say that we are disappointed — wofully disappoint^ ! Mr. Siinms 
has not done justice to his readers, has not done justice to himself! From the title- 
page to the ward finis f there are in every page the marks of carelessness and haste ; 
in the matter as in the manner, in the sentiments as in the style, in the interest as 
in the incidents. The plot — if indeed that can be called a plot which begins sud- 
denly, proceeds without development, and closes abruptly, we had almost said 
without fulfilment — is crude and inomature; the chuacters are mere lifelesa 
images when compared with the burnings living, passionate creations of his foimer 
novels ; the story lacks excitement ; the actors, interest, identity, and spirit In 
all the former works of this, when he chooses, powerful and thrilling writer, the 
strongest points have been the engrossing hold of the fiction on the senses of the 
reader, — the vivid, thou^ sometimes erratic, personification of characters, — the 
beautiful poetic musings, — the lovely descriptions of natural scenery, — and laist, 
but not least, the native vigor, though sometimes lacking polish, of his style. In 
all his former works there has been a regular progressive motion — an advance 
from that which was good to that which was still better — an improvement of lan- 
guage, of character, and <^ vraitembUtnee — a decrease of that which was fkulty, 
wearisome, or weak ! Martin Faber, thou^ wanting the nice and delicate blend- 
ings which are requisite to form a perfect picture, was full of talent, wild perhaps, 
and wilful ; but not on that account the less enchaining. Gruy Rivers surpassed 
hb elder brother, with the stride of in earth-born giant There were touches of 
power in its shining pages, that have never, we speak advisedly, never been ex- 
celled by any native novelist There was a group d actors standing out from 
their canvass in bold and statue-like relief; and if there were something unnatural 
and forced, if there were some sentiments improperly ascribed to characters not 
capable of entertaining such, if there were too much of metaphysical disquisition 
inconsistently put into the months of the low and vulgar, there was yet so much of 
masculine thou^t, masteriy conception, and poetic dreaming, that we considered 
ourselves fully justified in speaking of it as an eminently successful first noveL 
The Yemassee came forth another length ahead of its precursor, and we triumphed 
in the accomplishment of our hopes and prophecies. It was in every respect su- 
perior to Guy Rivers — it was, perhaps, the novel of the season — it was, in truth, 
bating some faults of style, a noble romance ! No man stood higher as a candidate 
for popular favor than its author — no present novel writer of America, in our opinion, 
stood so high. Cooper, whose talents were a little time ago the boast of his native 
land and the admiration of Europe, had fallen into the sere and y^ow leaf! -^ 
Irving, who alone is unapproached, stood not, so widely different is the bent and 
nature of his surpassing genius in the path of Simms^His only immediate rivals, 
Kennedy and Bird, thou^ both men and writers of unusual ability, had some lee- 
way to work up ere they should run abreast with him, their eminent competitor ! 
Had he continued to show an increase of talent proportionate to his former success, 
it would hardly have been possible for any one to have contended with him on 
grounds of equal rivahy. He has not done so — and now he must labor — he must 
put the shoulder of the spirit strongly and with full exertion to the whed ! — He 
can do it — he must do it ! We know that the divine spark is in him, and we are 
determmed to force it out, if not by the gentle attrition of praise, then by the iron 
mace of censure. It has been well said, that qwmdoque bonus dormUtU Homerus / 
bnt there was no second Homer to press forward on the track, and to struggle for 
the prize of the slomberer ! Every day that we lift, we see th« more dearly th» 



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CRITICAL NOTICES. 103 

tnith of a postioii which we have long maintained, that censure — aye, even unjuM 
and bitter censure — is less cruel, less injurious, to a youthful and rising author, than 
indiacrinunate and undue praise ! The sense that his talents are underrated, his 
powers misjudged, has nerved many a weak youngling to stem and resolute exer- 
tion — whereas the bdief that his genius is supereminent, that he holds the voice 
of popular favor in the hollow of his hand, has caused many a strong and suc- 
cessful aspirant to sink into a slumber so lethargic, that the slow and cumbrous 
tortoise, whom he had left but now uncounted leagues behind, hss reached the 
goal which, but for over-confidence, he must have won unchallenged ! In the 
success of Simms, we are, in every possible way, interested — as admirers of his 
upward flight, we cannot endure to see his strong wing flag or fiilter — as having 
prophesied the height which he should some time reach, we will not sufler him to 
make security his bane. He must hear the truth one day or other — let him hear it 
now, while he can profit by it — he must labor, must study, must revise* He must not 
write one half so mticAin iMilk, one half so rapidly in time, as he has done lately — he 
must adhere to the established standards of the English language and of the English 
Gnunmar. He must not.coin new words when there are old ones just as applicable, if 
not more so, to his meaning — he must not use old words in new and false senses — 
he must not use tFansiti?e verbs for intransitive, and vice versa — he must not adopt 
provincialisms when writing in his own person, however he may think it advisa- 
ble to do so when speaking through the mouths of his dramatis perssna — in short, 
be must make his style what it is not now — perspicuous, pure, and, above all, cor^ 
net Enghsh ! Many an author has descended to posterity through the merits of his 
style, despite the paucity or poverty of his ideas — but we know not one who can 
lay claims to immortality, despite inaccuracy, or vulgarity, or obscurity of manner, 
be his matter how forcible soever. We shall forbear to go into tn^ufio, or to point 
out words ; suffice it to say, that there are scores of errors, which could no more have 
oecaped the notice of this really brilliant author, on a careful revision, than the swi 
at noonday could have escaped the eye of an eag^e. With r^;ard to the narrative, 
the great fault is, want of connexion and of progressive interest! — with regard ta 
the characters, vulgarity ! This has always been rather a failing of Mr. Simms, so 
fiur as the introduction of an undue proportion of low personages into his writings. 
la Guy Rivers this fault was very observable, and, moreover, was observed, no less 
than the unsuitable and unnatural tones of expression and thought ascribed to them. 
In the Temasse this error, save in the single instance of Doctor Constantine Maxi- 
milian JSidiols, who is an insu£&rably wearisomeblot on that clever novel, was avoided. 
In the Partisan, we regret to say that the defect is more glaring than ever. It is in- 
deed strange to conceive the reasons which can induce a writer capable of striking 
out such bold and hig^i-souled portraits as those of Colleton and the outlaw in Guy 
Rivers — of EUnison, and Mary Granger, and Sanntee in the Yemasse — and of 
De Kalb, and Marion, and Singleton in the work before us — to descend to such dis- 
agreeable and disgusting — nay, we are fain to believe, such unnatural — portraitures 
as tboae of many persons, to whom many almost unreadable pages have been devot- 
ed in the Partisan. Thefirte of Simms is stormy passion ; high and strongly-mark- 
ed character in his men, and beautiful delicacy in his females. His humor is not 
fdicHoas — his badinage is not graceful — and, what is more, he does not require ei- 
ther the one or the other to set off his prominent and real beauties. 

The subject which he has chosen in the Partisan, is, in many respects, the most 
ha{^y he has yet attempted. The scene — the time — the struggle, are all popular, 
all picturesque, all engrossing! There is a bright and holy halo around the events 
of the Rev<dtttion, which can hardly fail to gild whatever touches them ! The actora 
too were men of mould. Tarlton and Marion, Sumpter and CornMrallis, the very 
heroes of that romanoe, which is indeed their history. The truth of this is rendered 
evident, by the force virith which these characters gleam out, when the author aflbrds 
us a ^hnpsa of them ; and such being the case, it is not a little strange that an ar- 



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104 CRITICAL NOTICK8, 

4ent adorer of liberty, and a keen observer of aU her sweet, and high, and poetical 
associatiofis — for such must the man be, who conceived the character of Sanutee 
— should have omitted, save in the persons of his hero and the boy Frampton, to 
depict one ardent worshipper of freedom — nity, more, should have chosen to com- 
pound his corps of partisans of a glutton, a disgusting half-breed, a pedantic doctor, 
and a sanguinary maniac. But we wiUingly change the topic Censure is painiiil 
to us — more so, perhaps, than to its subject ; nor should we have now resorted to 
it, save for the benefit of him to whom it is applied. To turn to a more pleasant 
proppect — we will say that for Simms to write a book without many strong concep- 
tions, without many fine and eloquent passages, without much genuine and sterling 
merit, were impossible. The sketch d'the boyish partisan, young Frampton, alone 
is full of fire, of poetry, and of truth — sufiidently full, indeed, to redeem a book, of 
which it were the sole redeeming feature ; this, however, can by no means be pr^ 
dicated of a novel containing such characters as those of Singleton, himself the hero, 
and Katharine, his patriotic mistress; though to our own imagination the sweet, 
melancholy, and religious Elmily, wasting away by ghastly consumption, is a mor« 
delightful and more congenial personification. The finest passage in the work, and 
that which we should unquestionably extract as a specimen of the author's noblest 
▼etn, did our limits permit, is the scene wherein the boy Frampton is described as 
mingling for the first time in the strife of men — his fear, not of the foe, but of him- 
self — not of that which he might sufi^, but of that which he might fail to do — his 
panting, trembling anxiety, doubting the strength of his own heart and hand — his 
brilliant success, and its consequences on his young mind — the certmninis gau- 
4ia of the Hun — the fierce flush of triumph — the feelings of the gladiator, shown in 
the corded brow and blood-shot eye, and suppressed by the judicious schooling of 
the officer — all this is superb — incomparably true and graphic! Had the whole 
work been such as this, and other similar, though detached, passages, we should not 
have been constrained to pronounce the Partisan, as a whole, inferior to Mr. Simm^ 
past efloits, and nnw(»thy of his high repute. But eonigio ! One swallow does not 
make a summer, nor one trip afatal fall ! We are snro of our man — we know the 
' energies of his mind, and we will, aye, and we shall force them to shine out the 
blighter fixMn this passing doud. To conclude, we will address him vnth the stir- 
ring exhortation of Ulysses to the son of Thetis, and then quit him, in the confidence 
that censure and exhortation together will bring him out the next time abetter man 
Chan ever. 

The present eye praises the present object : 
Then marvel not, ibou great and complete man. 
That all the Qreeks begin to worship Ajax ; 
Since things m motion sooner catch the eye , 
Than what not stirs. The cr^ went once on thee ! 
And still it might, and yet it may again, 
If thou would'st not entomb thyself alive, 
And case thy reputation in thy tent ! 



Tales from Chaucer. By James C. Clarke. PtMished by Effing- 
ham WiUofh Royal Exchange^ London. 

Holiness : or^ the Legend of St. George. From Spenser^s Faerii 
Q^eene. By a Mother. Boston : C. R. Broader^s^ 1835, ISmo. 

Much attention seems to be waking up, immediately around us, to the old Eng- 
lish Literature. One of our best writers* is engaged in leading the female portion 

* Mr. Richard M. Dana. 

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CRITICAL NOTICIt. 105 

•f the flociety of one of our largest cities to the study of the eMtiy English poets. 
And another fine scholar* is engaged by its " Society for the iMifasioo of Useful 
Knowledge,^ in urging the claims of the English literature, £stinctively regarded, 
upon a more nuzed audience of both sexes. 

These are cheermg facts ; and we trust that the ultimate influence will be of a 
still more important character than the immediate ; that it is the stepping-stone, to 
the introduction of this same literature, to early education. We believe that the 
early titerature of any nation has peculiar relations with the early stages of all 
Diinds. All children are what the ancestors of a nation are. There is an analogy 
between the life of a nation, ccmsidering it as an individual, and the life of each in- 
drvidnal that composes the nation. The first history that should be given to child- 
ren, is the history of those who first spoke their vernacular tongue. Even before 
this history is given to them, they should know what may be gathered of the first 
great mea who have appeared in their langusge. For before the era of history, 
there are alvirays auttunrs who have put their individual souls into th«r productions. 
And it will be found on examination that the common proverbs, and figures of 
speech, that pervade language but half undorstood by many that constantly use 
them, are to be found in the earliest writers of the nation ; the study of whom, 
therefore, sheds meaning on the medium of common intercourse, and of all the 
knowledge to be gained throu^ books of a later date. 

Some peculiar difficulties have singularly co-operated, however, in leading Ame- 
ricans to neglect this most essential branch of education. One is, that the history 
of our country is not bound up with the history of the language which we speak ; — 
and anotiier is, that the literature which is connected with the history of the lan- 
guage, is very much out of our reach — being in an obsolete dialect, which has pre- 
vented our booksdlers from reprinting the great originals in this country. But these 
difficulties sre not insurmountable. It is true that the American part of English 
history is forgrown up men ; for our nation was bom, as it were, foil grown. But 
we can inquhe what "child was father of that man,** — the State i)i the United 
States 7 And then if we want to preserve that better portion of the Eln^h spirit, 
wfaieh soared away fran the British lion upon the wings of the American eagle, we 
must carry back our children into communion with that child ; who in this case 
lisped and lau^ied, and told merry tales in Chaucer ; aiid fancied, mused, and 
deeply thought in Spenser's (airy legends. Nothing is more easy than to establish 
tins communion ; for this early English literature is composed of the fovoiite read- 
ing of the young, — story-teUing m prose and verse. The only obstable is the ob- 
solete dialect ; and this can be easily translated. There can be no modem Eng- 
lish of a higher character than a good translation fiom the old English. It is al- 
most impossible that the translator, m making the few alterations he is obliged to 
make, should lose the racy spirit of the original, or the natural s^le of its creative 
genins. 

We tbeiefoe hail with pleasure the ** Tales from Chaucer.'* They are very 
beautifully executed. It is wonderful how well the spirit of the (ffiginal is preserv- 
ed in them. We are gM aleo that Mr. Clarke considers his work not so much as 
a substitate as an introduction to the original author. Chaucer ought also to be 
studied in his own pages, if for nothing else, for the sake of learning the history of 
En^irii words. It is certainly trae, however impossible it may be to account for the 
foct, that as vre trace a word up to its original meaning, and to the first combina- 
tioQs in which it is found, we are conscious of realizing the life of the idea it oon- 
▼eys, in proportion. wW we remember, for instance, that kimd was the old Eng- 
Jirii word for nature, what life it throws into all its derivations ; kim, sMt, kMrtdf 
file substantive Jbiad, the adjective iS:iiu{ ; and so of other instances. 



^ Mr. Ralph WaUol 
▼OL.VII. 14 

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106 CRITICAL NOTICKI. 

Mr. Cluke^ 8el|Btioii from Chancer ii a ?ei7 good one ; still there might be 
another, and we are glad to hear that an additional Yolame is to be prepared in this 
conntry. 

But we are still more gM to see Spenser brou^ before onr jivrenile public in 
the same way. Though he is comparatively free from absolutely obsolete words 
and phrases, yet there are enough of these, together with the old orthography, to 
make the Fairie Gtueene rather unintelligiUe to the young. Beodes this, there are 
difficulties arising from the carelessness of Spenser's style, his free use of pronouns 
not suffisiently definite, and his complicated drama. 

The little book before us tells the story of St G^eoigs very clearly; and at the 
same tune retains all the finest expressions of the original, and e?ery poetical em- 
bellishment It is in the original, however, much the simplest stoty of all the Le- 
gends. We hope that the others will follow in due time, as the Preface intimates. 
We should like to tee the episode of &ir Florimel, in the third Legend, drawn out 
into a prose narrative like this. As Spenser, in his progress, introduces more and 
more episodes, he sometimes almost loies himself among his beautiful fandc& To 
iUnstrate someone principle, he raises his magic wand — and lof^ and noble fonns 
appear, and arrange themselves in chivalric armour before him ; and every antago- 
nist principle finds a form among the enemies of the Order of the Cross. But this 
is the poet's graver work. No sooner do these appear, than the mustc-tongued map 
gician, m all the ardor of exulting genius, waves his wand in aimless wild delight, 
and from every point where the enchanted weapon strikes, start forth unbidden 
beautiful groups of spirits, that seem to hide, both from the poet and bis reader, the 
main personages of his story. A prose narrator, by interposing a sentence here 
and there, by way of explication, may save much wearisome examination, which in- 
terferes with the purely poetic pleasure of reading his page, whether the readeris a 
child or adult We think the original author would be recurred to with all the 
more pleasure by any one who reads the story in prose first 

But we must explain why we are still more glad to see Spenser drawn forth from 
the Halls of the Past, and presented to our juvenile public It is mainly on account 
ofthe truth hidden in the allegoric meaning of his tales. It is not merely that there 
is a meaning hidden under these beautiful symbols, but on account of the character 
of that meaning. It is no ordinary moral philosophy which is to be found here ; it 
is a moral philosophy founded on the deepest view ofthe soul. 

Thus, in the Legend of St George, holiness is not attained except through mighty 
conflict ! With the grave and strengthening influences of an early country life, of 
^ a high cultivation ofthe more external gifts of nature; a laudaUe love of true gloiy; 
an adoption of truth into the heart, in defence of whksh every thing is to be saori- 
fioed; the high-spirited youth sets forth on the career of life. His very blessings and 
gifts aid his temptations and betray him into dangers, many of which he surmounts 
without assistance other than his own resourees. But, at last, the assistance ofthe 
social principle, which has so often betrayed him into danger, becomes necessary 
for his redemption, and the Ideal which he loses in his spiritual wanderings, is 
brought to him in generous, disinterested friend^p, and delivere him from evil. He 
b like to lose himself next in despair of himself; but Christian disdpline of mind 
and life, in humility, obedience, reverence, repentance, faith, hope, diarity, and 
contemplatxm, brings him up to a condition of health and strength beyond that eC 
his original youth. Then, and not till then, he is prepared for great duty, and does 
it This is a philosof^y not founded on speculation or poetic fancy, but on a deep* 
er acquaintance with human nature. 

Again ; the Legend of Sir Guyon displays no less actual knowledge ofthe workl 
around us, than does the first Legend, ofthe world within us. The genealogy, aad 
kindred, and mutual dependencies ofthe pasmons, are drawn out and analysed, not 
as a metaphysician m the closet would have done it, but as only could have been 



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CBinOAL NOTICKt. lOT 

done by a man who had himself acted in the midst of men ; who had eneoontared 
^emse extremes of human character; who had been tempted by his own generosity 
to attack fury, in order to detiver others from it, and thus had learned its nature and 
its parentage; who had felt, by su^rin^ the discriminated evils of headlong rash- 
ness, and of the nK>re aooompliahed malice that grows op in the voluptuous aban- 
doomeot of an utterly reckless mirth ; by which even the temperate may, in their 
simplicity, be allured for a time from reason, if met in an idle boor. It was a man 
who had looked on hie, that could dare to time the temptation of avarioe, just alter 
the period of levity in idleness ; while the poet of the soul is again recognized, in 
invoking heavenly grace, to watch over the exhausted man, who had so kmg par- 
leyed with the passions in their subterranean region. 

But it is unjust to Spenser, to go on in this sketchy way to speak of the *'pearis 
of price" he has buried in his <* wilderness of sweetii." As he goes on, the wilder- 
ness becomes more various and tropical in its luxuriant vegetation. The later Le- 
gends increase in the wildoess and richness of the imaginative embellishments. 
Bot hints enough have been given to odd the impulse of the duty of cultivating the 
highest within ns, to all the other feehogs which attract the yonng mbd to tha tales 
of Gloriana*B Fkierie Land. 



Cla98 Poem ; Delivered in the Chapel of the Harvard Univernty^ Jidy 
14, at the Valedictory Exercises of the Clou of 1835. By B. D. 
Winalow. 

Wk have read this poem with no common pleasure. In these prosaic days, when 
verse-making has almost usurped the place of true poetry, it is delightful to fall in 
with a piece like this, breathing the fresh inspiration which the genius of Song has 
poured into the heart of its author. We recognize in this short Poem the indications 
of a rare genhia — of a soul touched to the finest issues. We find that flow of lan- 
guage — that delicacy of thought — that richness of imagery, which no art can at- 
tain, no labor bestow — whidi comes from the springs of Nature alone. Like most 
poems, prepared for speaking on public occasions, it b a mixture of serious and 
sportrre thought; but like most of them, there is much in both which rises above 
the temporary topics of the passing occasion ; and by the justness of the sentiments, 
stamps the author, at once, as a true poet The fine moral spirit, which animates 
every line of it, is a striking feature. Mr. Winslow evidently understands the po- 
etical elements of the English. The Saxon portion of our language is by far the 
richest, most picturesque, and every way most poetical This element Mr. Wins- 
low nses vnth freedom and force. In this way, he has formed a style which unites 
simplicity, freshness, and precision. In the grave and moralizing parts of the poem, 
there is sometimes a pointed and condensed turn of thought and expression, which 
shows a depth of reflectiou belonging to a riper age than the author's. Every one 
wiD be struck with tha freedom of Mr. Winslow's style from the cant phrases and 
fiwbionable intensity of the day. We find in it nothing of the romantic, seotimentaly 
Satanic, or soper-satanic school ; no numicry of Byron, or Wordsworth, or Cob- 
ridge ; nothing but the genuine, simple expressions of a mind alive to the influence 
of nature, and a heart feelingly open to every sentiment of humanity. As Mr. W. 
adnmoe^ in years, his power of thinking vrill strengthen — his style will be mora 
compact — Us pictures more severe. There are some trifling faults, which belong 
to the early manhood of gemus, and whksh additional years, with grave stndies, will 
correct. 



Poems : By Mrs. ElUt. 1 vol. l2mo. Carey & Lea^ Philadelphia. 

las 

DOO 

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If it were not for the fact, that we are prevented from expressing our opinions as 
frMly and inQy as we could wish of this elegant little volume^ •-- by the ciicumitaiioo 



108 CEITICAt NOTICES. 

that the lai;ger proportion of the poems contained in it first saw the day throng^ the 
medium of one of the periodicals embodied in this Magazine, bearing the well known 
signature of E. F. EL, — we should have set apart for it a longer space than that 
occupied by this brief notice. So to praise as we should be bounden — in all truth 
and unpartiality — to praise these gems of feminine poesy, might subject us to a 
charge of what we most especially abhor ~ self-adulatioo ! For the rest our honest 
judgment of their merit is tacitly expressed by the pleasure with whidi we always 
ha?e inserted the poetry of a lady, whom we are bold to number among our earliest 
correspondents, in the pages of the American Monthly. 



RolniMan Cruaoe^ vnih fifty cuU^ by Harvey ^ Adams : Harper 4r 
Brothere^ ^euhYork. 

Wb have just received, from the press of these spirited puUishers, this work, out, 
we believe, of the usual Ime oi publication — a superb annual, for which it is, beau- 
tifully printed on good firm white paper, embelUshed with fi% admirable wood 
cuts, excelleutly well engraved by Adams from the designs of Harvey, and 
splendidly bound in morocco. Of the merits of De Foe's chef d^auvre it would 
be ludicrous for us to express an opinion, the World and Time have render- 
ed the praise of individuals worthless, by their long-awarded approbation ! — 
All we can venture to add, is simply this : That, never — we caimot make one 
exception — never do we remember to have enjoyed the perusal of any book — 
play, poem, or romance — with the same eager thrilling appetite which marked 
our first youthful acquaintance with <* poor Robinson Crusoe.** There is a charm 
of truth about it — you read believing every word of the most wild adventure. — 
The boy leaves all his ruder sports for that eogroesing pleasure which he has never 
known before, which probably he never will experience again — and all that the 
adult and sober man may do, is to confirm the judgment, while he must regret the 
half-vanished pleasure, of his childhood. One other sentence and we have done. 
This is, we believe, the first perfect and ungarbled edition of Robmson Crusoe that 
has ever been published in this country — hundreds, therefore, who fiuicy they have 
read De Foe's book, have read somethbg as different from it as CoUy Gibber's stage 
copy is different from Shakspeare's tragedy of Lear ; and this should be an induce* 
ment to the purchase of a work, which cannot be surpassed as a gift for the youth- 
ful, or as a relaxation for the aged, either in entertaixmient or perfect and unexcep- 
tionable morality. 



Ahimck CkuUe; vfith other Poems. JV*. York: Oeo. Dearhom. 

A NEW edition of Halleck's poems, and in a still more beautiAil dress than the 
lately published writings of Drake, to whwh they form a most seasonable aocompa^ 
nyment The selected works of the brother " Croakers" may now be had together ; 
and if bound up in one volume, the poems of Drake and Halleck would make one 
of the most exquisite gems in the literary way that genius and art have yet combin- 
ed to produce in this country. 

Our readers are so familiar with the contents of the thin octavo before us, that it 
would be unpertinent here to dwell upon them. But as the poems of Mr. Halleck 
have k>ng been out of print, we cannot but congratulate his admirers upon meeting 
them m a guise worthy of their excellence. 



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109 



MONTHLY COMMENTARY. 



Tbb bat month of the year 1835 will 
be Ions remembered for the meet deso- 
lating Ire that has ever taken place ufMHi 
tiuB continent — a conflagration which 
extended upon the whole site of the 
ancient city of New- York, as it existed 
a centory a^ and annihilated at a blow 
twenty milboDs of capital of the modern 
metropolis. On the night of Wednes- 
day, tne 16th of December, about half 
past nine o^clock, the alarm of fire was 
sounded. The night was most severe 
and tempestuous, and the firemen, the 
engines, and hose were all ill-condi- 
tiooed from duty on the night before. 
The fire broke out in Mercbmt-street, 
formerly Hanover - street, whence the 
smoke and flames were seen to issue from 
afive-story brick building in the vicinity 
ef the Merchants' Excl^ge, and in a 
part of the <aty the most crowded with 
wholesale warehouses and stores, filled 
wkh the most costly productions of 
foreign and domestic manufacture. The 
flames soon shot forth through everv 
aperture, and seized upon the two ao- 
joming houses for their immediate prey. 
From these the^ extended in evei^ <u- 
rectioD, with rapidity and fierceness, un- 
til, from the Merchants' Exchange to 
Pearl-street, aU was wrapt in a hSiy o£ 
flames that rolled upward and onward 
with tenific and hresistible speed. From 
the owner of Wflham-st, along WHliam- 
st to the river, firom and alons the river to 
the Cofiee-House slip, and thence up 
WaD-sttothe placeotbeginninjg: incluo- 
ing the whole south side of Wall-st be- 
low William, excepting a few new stores 
— the Exchange — all the buildings in 
the rear— all Pearl— all Water— all 
Front — and all South-Btre«t, within the 
above limits, and constituting a portion 
of the city, where the largest and most 
actrre busmess was carrying on, were 
rapidly overwhelmed. As the flames 
spread, they successively passed to the 
west ode of William-street, destrojnng 
all the stores and dwellings there — tS. 
tboee on Grarden-street, mdudmg the 
Dutch church, except two or three on 
each side nearestBroad-street, and thence 
extending down along Coenties' shp to 
the liver. But it was not alone amid 
stores and dwellings that the conflagra- 
tioQ rased; the streets were filled with 
eoods tram the earliest warehouses that 
had caught, and many of those being of 
iBgVy oomboitiUe mateiialsi the streams 



of flame coursed to and fro, and shot 
along the pavements with a fiiry that 
seemed demoniac. Nothing, in fact, but 
a resort to the most desperate measures 
would probably have arrested them, and 
for the adoption of these the city is main- 
ly indebtea to an individual, who, while 
eagerly publishmg the name of every 
one that distinguished himself upon this, 
most appaling occasion, seems studi- 
ously to have withheld his own. Mr. 
Charles Ring obtained permission from 
the May<Hr to provide a supply of powder 
and blow up several building, in order 
to arrest the progress of the flames ; and 
while his young friend, Lieut Temple 
of the United States' army, volunteered 
to so to Governor's Island, he himself 
took boat, and succeeded, notwithstand- 
ing the bitter cold and tempestuousnessof 
the night, in reaching the Navy Yard, and 
returned with Capt. Mix oi the nayy, 
Lieut Nicholas, and several junior offi- 
cers, with about 100 sailors and marines. 
These oflicers, together with Gen. Jo- 
seph G. Swift and several citizens, ac- 
companied by the Mayor, proceeded to 
execute their task of demolition, in a most 
masteriy manner, with the greatest order 
and coolness, and in several instances 
with decisive eflect The marines, mean- 
time, were stationed alonj^ all the princi- 
pal streets, hi which goods were stowed, 
and aided essentially in repressing the 
audacious robberies, whidi before were 
openly perpetrated. This blowing up 
of buddings seemed in a measure to ar- 
rest the progress of the flames; but 
their circle had become so extended, that 
it was almost impossible to meet them 
upon every side, and it was not till the 
next aflemoon that the progress of de- 
struction was fiurly stayed. The num- 
ber of buildings destroyed is estimated 
at about 600. The majority of them 
lofty brick warehouses, with granite 
basements, erected withm a few years. 
Among them, however, were some an- 
tique structures of Dutch brick, which 
were hours in burning, while the mo- 
dem erections seemed to crumble in a 
few minutes. Innumerable anecdotes 
of strenuous exertion and noble daring 
on the one hand, and of meanness ana 
rapacity, aUke cruel and monstrous, on 
the other, are told as connected with the 
exciting scene, — and, although the dick 
of trowels is already heard among the 
halfkooled bricks, and the dust of moitar 



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110 



MONTHLY COMMINTART. 



is even now mingling with the smoke 
from the still smomdenng ruins, — these 
memorabiUa of The Great Fire will not 
lose their interest by bebg kept for our 
February number. 



The American Ltcbum. This So- 
ciety was formed in New- York, in May 
1831, by a Conveniion of the friends of 
education, invited by the New- York 
State Lyceum, and has held annual 
meetings in the City Hall. These meet- 
ings are devoted to the discussion of 
auestions relating to popular instruction, 
le commuication of intelligence concern- 
ing lyceums, schools, kc — reports from 
officers and committees, correspondence 
with distant friends, and essays written 
by volunteers, or, as is usually the case, 
by distinguished friends of education, at 
the request of the Elzecutive Committee. 

The leadms object of this Society, as 
stated by the Constitution, is the promo- 
tion of education, particiUarly in common 
schools ; and they have already contrib- 
uted to the diffusion of useful knowledge 
by the instruction and encouragement uf 
teachers, by incitin£; to the formation of 
local societies, and by establishing cor- 
respondence between societies andmdi- 
viduals interested in their objects, both 
at home and abroad. 

Local Lyceums, (as the term is appli- 
ed in difierent States of the Union wiiere 
thev exist, particularly in New England, ) 
embrace all associations for mutual in- 
tellectual improvement Some of them 
extend to counties, others to states, and 
all are considered as entitled to some re- 
presentation in the American Lyceum ; 
while all other literary societies and indi- 
viduals are welcomed at the annual 
meetings. 

There have been three succetsive Pre- 
sidents of this Society: the Hon. Stephen 
Van Rensselaer, Dr. John Griscom, and 
Wm. A. Duer, Eaq^ President of Colum- 
bia College; who stills holds that office, 
and has published, at the request of the 
Society, his valuable school book on 
Constitutional Law. We pubUsh in our 
present number of the Monthly Maga- 
zine, a second Essay on the Fine Arts, 
presented at their fiilh annual meeting, 
that of Mr. Frazer having appeared m 
the two last numbers of the American 
Monthly, and another,(viz.one from Wm. 
DunlapEsq.) being intended for our next 
The following is a list of the Essa: 



On Monitorial Schools, by Walter R. 
Johnson. 

On the Study of our Constitution and 
Political Institutions in Common Schools, 
by the Hon. Theodore Frelingbuysen, 
of Newark. 

Primary Education in Spain, by J. A* 
Pizarro, of Baltimore. 

School Discipline, by Profl John Ghis- 
com, of Providence. 

Early Education, by J. M. Keagy, of 
Philadelphia. 

The use of the Bible in Common Edu- 
cation, by Wm. C. Woodbzidge of 
Boston. 

On Education, by George P. McCul- 
loch, of Morristown, N. J. 

On the Chippewa Language, by Ed- 
win James, of Albany. 

On the improvement of Common In- 
struction, by Dr. William R.. Weeks, of 
Newark. 

A sketch of Ekiucation in Mexico, by 
Senor Juan RodriguesL member of tfaie 
Mexican Congress, of Indian extraction. 

On Geology, by Dr. Comstock, of 
Hartford, Conn. 

On the Study of I^vsiology m Com- 
mon Schools, by Dr. Wm. A. Alcott, of 
Boston. 

On raising the Standard of Female 
Education, by Mrs. L. H. Sigouraey, o£ 
Hartford, Conn. 

On Education in Mexico^ its History, 
Condition, and Prospects, by the Hon. 
Lorenzo H. Zavala, Mexican Minister 
to France. 

On the means for Promoting Civiliza- 
tion and Education amons the Western, 
Indians, by Henry R. Scooolcraft, Esq. 
ci Mackinaw. 

On Literature and Education in Po- 
land, by Augustus Yakoubusky, a 
young exile from Podolia. 

On the higher branches of Educa t ion 
in Cuba, by Justo Velez, Rector of the 
principal College of Havana. 

Obituary. The first number of our 
Monthly Commentaries has already been 
simalized as the chronicler of a great 
calami^ ; and now, just as it is ab<rat to 
pass from our hands, the painful duty ia 
imposed upon us, of announcing a great 
public ana private loss. The newness 
of the afHiction, and our own limited 
space, will only allow us now to say -— 
That Medical Science has to mourn over 
one of her most ardent and succewful 



Tbe following is a list oT the iiissays votaries — Literature, an accomplished 

which have heretofore been published by scholar — the useful and elegant Arts, a 

the Lyceum, in Annals of Education, and discemmg and liberal patron — Soci^% 

some of them, in separate pamphlets. a finished gentleman, and New- York, an 

On the Orthography or the English eminent and patriotic citizen — DAYID 

Language, by Wm. R. Weeks, D. D., HOSACK, L L. D., died Deoerober 

of Newark. SSd. 1836, aged 66. 

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Ill 

MONTHLY LIST 
OF NEW AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS- 



Foe Dboihbbr, 1835. 



BIOaRAPHY. 

American Biogmdby — Sptrk't Library of — VoL IV. — Comprisiiig Sir Henry 
Vane and Oen. Wa^e. ISmo. HiUiard, Ghray k Ca Boston. 

La Fayette, {Qen.) Private Life <^ — By (hit intimate friend and Surgeon, the cele- 
brated) M. H. Cloquet — (from pap«n left him by the General) ISmo. Lea- 
vitt, Lord & Co. New-Yoik. 

Niebohr, the Historian — Reminiscences of — By Francis Lieber. 13mo. Carey, 
Lea & Co. Philadeldiia. 

Rice, (Rev. John H. D.D. of Va.) Memoir of— By William Maxwell ISmo. — 
Whetfaan. Philadelphia. 

Stanford, (Rer. John, of New-Yoric,) Memoir of his Life and Labors. By C. G. 
Sommers, ISmo. Swords & Co. New- York. 

YanBoren, (Martin) --Life of— By W.M. Holland. ISma Belknap &Ham- 
merdey, Hartfintl 

Winslow, (Mrs. H. W.) with a sketch of the Ceylon Mission. By Miron Wins- 
low, <Hie of the Missionaries. ISmo. Leavitt, Lord &. Co. New-York. 

VOYAGES & TRAVELS. 
The American in England. By the author of ** A Year in Spain.** Harpers, N. 

York. 
Sooth-West (The) By a Yankee. 8 vcds. ISmo. Harpers. 

GEOGRAPHY, STATISTICS, COMMERCE, &c 
American Almanac and Repository of Useful Knowledge, for 1836. ISmo. Bow- 
en, Boston. 
Ladies' & Gendemen's Pocket Annual for 1836. 24mo. Distumdl, New- York. 
Year Book. — An Astronomical and Philosophical Annual for 1836. By Marshal 
Conant ISmo. Francis, Boston and New- York. 

SCIENCES & ARTS. 

Lefevre, (Mmard) The Beauties of Modem Architecture. 8T0.plt8. D. Apple- 
ton & Co., New- York. 

Naturalises Own Book, (The) On Cuvier*s System. ISmaKey&Biddle, Phila- 
delphia. 

MEDICAL SCIENCES. 
Beck's, (T. R.) Medical Jurisprudence ~ Edited by John B. Beck, M. D. Fifth 

edition: with additions. S vols. 8vo. Albany — for the Trade. 
Clark's Treatise on Pulmonary Consumption. 8vo. Carey, Lea & Co. 
Gerhard, (W. MD.) On Diseases of the Chest 8vo. Key & Biddle. Philad. 

THEOLOGY & REUGION. 
Abercrorobie, (John, M.D.) The Man of Faith. I8ma Van Noetrand & DwigfaL 
New-YoS. *^ 

Abbott's Series, Vol V. : The Pastor's Daughter. A series of Conversationa. 18 

mo. Leavitt, Lord & Co. New- York. 
Alien, (Pros, of Bowdoin Coll) New Version and Sdection of Psalms &Hymn& 
^ 18nio. Leavitt, Lord & Co. New-York. 

Brownlee, (W. C, D.D.) Popery an enemy to Civil Liberty. 18ma N. York. 
Beeeher, (Lvman, D.D.) Lectures on Scepticism. ISmo. Leavitt, Lord A Ca — 
New-Yoit. 
,(S. H.,D.D.) The Ministry we Need. ISmo. Taylor & Gould, N. York. 
. (Rev. C.) Commentaiy on the Epistle to the Romans. 8vo. Grigg & 
i, Philadelphia. 

Hwit (Rev. T. P.) TbePiUow; aseleetioaofdailyTexts— ooanewplan. 18 
Eva CoUier, New-Yokk. 



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112 JflW PUBUCATIOnt, KTC. 

Miller. (Sam. D. D^ Lectures on Clerical Manners and EUbits. New editioii» 
12mo. Baker, Princeton — Leavitt, Lord & Co. New- York. 

MISCELLANY. 
Channing, (W. E., D. D.) On Slavery. 12ino. Munroe &Co., Boston. 
Daughter's Own Book, (The) newed. 24d)0. Grigg & Elliot , Philadelphia. 
Hawes', (Joel, D. D.,) Centennial Address at Hartford, 9th. Nor. 1836. ISmo. 

Belknap & Haroersley, Hartford. 
Young Wife's Book, (The) A Manual of the vaiioos Domestic Duties, &c. 84mo. 

Carey, Lea & Ca 
Young Qentleman's Library. ISmo. Crissey, Waldie & Co., Philadelphia. 

JUVENILE. 
Holiday Present— with Engravinn. 12mo. P. Hill & Co., New-Yoric. 
Mary and Florence— ReviMd by Unde Arthur. 18mo. Taylor &Qould, N.York. 
Memoir of the Early Life of Cowper the Poet — for young Persons. ISmo. Ibid. 
Robert Rambles' Portfolio. ISmo. Crissey, Waldie & Co., Philadelphia. 
Youth's Book of the Seasons — or Nature familiarly developed. Square 18ma 
With Cuts. Carey, Lea &Ca 

NOVELS AND TALEa 
Partisan, (The) By (Simms,) the author of ' Guy Rivers,* < Yemassee,' &c 8 vols. 

Harpers. 
Paul Ulric: or the Adventures of an Enthusiast. 3 vols. Harpers. 
Random Shots of a Rifleman. By Capt Kincaid. 12mo. Carey & Hart 
Tales and Sketches. By Miss Sedgewick. 13mo. Carey, Lea & Co. 
Traits of American Life. By Mrs. S. J. Hale. ISmo. 

POETRY. 
Drake, (Joseph Rodman) The Culprit Fay, and other Poems. 8vo. With a Poi^ 

trait Dearborn, New- York. 
Ellett, (Mrs. E. F.) Poems — (including Teresa Contarini, a tragedy) 13mo. Key 

& Biddle, Philadelphia. 
Sigoumey, (Mrs. L. U.) Zinzendorf, and other Poems. ISmo. Learitt, Lord & 

Co., New- York. 

EDUCATION. 

General Treatises — Phelps' (Mrs. A. H. L.) The Female Student ; or Lectnres 
to Young Ladies — (comprising a Review of the Various Branches of Study.) 
ISmo. &cond edition. Leavitt, Lord & Co., New- York. 

Prwessive Elducation, ooomiencing with the Iniant Translated from the Frendi 
of Mad. de Saussure, with notes and additions, by Mrs. E. Willard and Mrs. 
Phelps. ISma W. D. Ticknor, Boston. 

Record of a School — exhibiting the general orinciples of Sptritual culture. ISmo. 
Mnnroe & Co., Boston ; Leavitt, Lord & Co., New-York. 

Astronomy — Burritt's Geography and Atlas of the Heavens. Third editioD, en- 
larged and improved. 3 vols. Huntington, Hartford ; Leavitt, Lord & Co. 
New-Yorii. 

American Orator's Own Book. ISmo. Kav & Co., Philadelphia. 

Ghrammar — Parker's (R. G.) Progressive Exercises in English Grammar; parts 
I & n. ISma Crocker & Brewster, Boston. Leavitt, Lord k Ca New-York, 

Moral Philosophy —Wayland. (Francis, D. D.) Elements of Moral Science. 8d 
ed. 8vo. Cooke & Ca New-Yorii. 

Mathematics — Bourdon's Algebra — Revised, &c by ProC Charles Davies. New 
edition. 8vo. Wiley & L^. N. York. 

Penmanship — Peale. (Rembranidt) Graphics ; or a Manual for Drawing and Wri- 
ting. New edition. ISmo. B.&S. Collins. New- York. 



LITERAR7 INTELLIGENCE. 

Among other works In prev, (American and Forelsn,) are— American Oratory: eomprMng 
the Speediei of Flaher Amee, Patrick Henry, ice. 8vo. Burton *■ Anatomy of Mdaneholy ; 
llist American edition. Syoli. — Treatisea on Diffisrential and Intenal CalcnhiBi and on Aaa- 
hrtfcal Geometry : byPiof.DaTlei.— Anew EagUah and Latin Lemm ; on the bails of Fae- 
clolati and ForceOini : by P. P. LeveretL ~ New Bngjirii and Hebrew Lexicon — three ~ tIs : 
W. L. Roy*a 4to. Piof. Roblnion*j, and Prof. Gibbe*. ^TownMenA^BjDhxfmoMe^iAinRtuamkt 
of the BiUe : edited by Rev. T. W. Colt, D.D. r. 8to. 

^fy* A now and oomprehendTe Catalogue of books for sale throofhoot the United States^ ifys- 
tematkally arranged, wffl shortly be pabOahed by West k. Trow, Ntw-Totk. 



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\i'ObL.^ L.D;;Ak?! 



ASTOR, LENOX AND 
T»LDfcN FOUNDATIONS. 



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THE 



AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINK 



FEBKUARY, 1836. 



PR0C£8DIN€»9 OF THE AMERICAN LYCEUM. 



ESSAY 

ON TUB UiFLUKffPB-OF THB ARTCT OP IWBION ; AND THE TRUE MODBB 
OP ENOOtJR AGING AND PEBPECTING THEM. 

BT WILLIAM StmLAP. 



MAKKiifiy.ftre too much disposed to view the fine arts, their pro* 
ftesors and thfeir resuhst as affiurs remote from the ordinary pur- 
MutB and enjoymeiits of life: hiit such a view of them is taken 
through a mist of ignoranoe and consequent prejudice. Seeing, 
tfaej do not see. To the multitade^ seeing ipfiih the mind's eye is 
onerous ; and reflection trooblesome. it is this disposition to see with- 
out observing — this wi^ to avoid tfie trouble of examination— Aat 
is one greatcauseof the slow progress of truth. It gives facility to 
every species of imposture. The Impostor <isserts boldly, amd relies 
upon die known disposition to receive without examination all that ac- 
cords with S0lf-lov^ : his dupes are irritated if their weakness is expos- 
ed ; and he iimiUy has the hardihood to declare that human reason in the 
mass of mankhid is incompetent to the discovery of truth. The Im- 
postor and the Dupe join to destroy any one who would tear the mask 
from die finl, and open the eyes of the second to his own folly. 

From the ordinary path of life which the savage pursues, the fine 
arts are really remote ; but die products of the arts of design sur- 
poimd the civilized man, -and ai^ the basis of his ofdinary comforts as 
well as the ornament of lus habitual luxuries ; while music refines and 
elevates his thoughts, and poetry enters into the most precious part of 
his moral education. If he does not duly appreciate them, and pay 
the tribute of his gratitude to those who cultivate these glorious arts, 
it is because they are, like the luminaries of heaven, constantly be- 
vou wn. 15 



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114 THE ARTS OF DBSIGlf. 

fore him, unnoticed, because familiar ; although enlightening his other- 
wise dark, cheerless, and rugged road through life. From the same 
great and bountiful source of good proceed the millions of suns and 
their revolving planets, and those brilliant minds which have enlighten- 
ed the world by poesy, the strains of the harp and the lyre, the sub- 
lime images of the benefactors of the human race, whether male or 
female, whether produced by sculpture or painting, and the equally 
sublime edifices erected to protect these works of art and their ad- 
mirers from injury — yet how prone are we to forget the source of all 
our blessings, and having ever before us the wonders of the universe, 
and the emanations from the minds of the most favored of men, we 
neither see, nor hear, nor understand them. May stronger voices 
than mine remind you of your obligations to the Giver of all Good ; be 
it my humbler task to call your attention to the blessings conferred on 
society by the arts of design, and to remind you of the gratitude due 
to their professors. 

Before the benign influence shed upon him by the fine arts, man 
existed ; he can scarcely be said to have livedo as man. He existed 
as the native of New Holland exists — as the beasts of the forest ex- 
ist. He approached to the life of man by the invention of the neces- 
sary arts ; those which subdued to his rule the objects of the chace, 
the forest, or the jungle which sheltered them, and even the mighty 
deep with its inhabitants. With these arts necessary to his existence 
man may enjoy life as one expelled from paradise, but, as the venera- 
ble Richardson has truly said, in other words, the fine arts raise him 
again to that state of purity, if duly cultivated with thankful heart, 
whieh may be likened to his existence when be walked with God, and 
joined in hymns of love with the host of heaven. 

Let the man of easy circumstances and cultivated mind look around 
upon the objects which present themselves in the streets, in the public 
edifices, and in his own drawing-room, dining-room, saloon, or study. 
Every public building owes its usefulness and its beauty, its form and 
its decorations, to the arts of design. Every private dwelling is 
equally indebted to the same source. The stately column, die chi- 
selled statue, the memorials of great events recorded by sculpture or 
painting, the domestic utensils of our hearths and our houses — the 
urn which smokes on the social board, or the lamp which irradiates 
the hall, the saloon, the chamber, or the study — the figures of the 
carpet and the hearth-rug — the mantel-piece and its ornaments — 
nay, the inkstand, ^hich furnishes the means of inditing our thoughts, 
and the table that supports it — evince their origin from those who cul- 
tivated the arts which deservedly are called jin« — the arts which have 
only flourished where mind has been the object of cultivation, and 
riches considered only as subservient to refinement* I have on ano- 



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THE ARTS OF DESIGN. 116 

ther occasion quoted the words of an English painter on the subject 
of the arts of design. Speaking of those arts called necessary* he 
says, '* let them boast of that necessity ; they are ministerial to us only 
-as wretched beings ; whereas painting and sculpture are the fore- 
most in the number of those adapted to a state of innocence and joy : 
they are not necessary to our being — but to our happiness as rational 
creatures, they are absolutely so." 

An elegant writer in the American Quarterly Review has said, '* until 
the imagination ceases to be a faculty of the human soul, all at- 
tempts to bind man down to the earth, or to contract the empire of the 
ideal, are indicative merely of a false perception of the nature of our 
species. We live but on an isthmus, looking on either side over the 
wide expanse of the past and the future for the sources of our enjoy- 
ment Our duties to ourselves, and to society, too, are performed 
with more reference to the same faculty" — the imagination — •* than 
to any graduated scale of duty or utility. The sentence which con- 
demned us to eternal toil, had indeed been severe, had it not been mi- 
tigated by this alleviation." ** The ideal and the imaginative are the 
softeners and refiners of intellectual and social ruggedness, as the 
useful is the subduer of material forms and the director of brute force. 
Society never acquires pliancy and grace, until it feels their united in- 
fluence." That benign influence we see around us. Let me impress 
upon you the duty we owe to society — a duty only to be performed 
by cherishing literature and the arts. 

We trace our architecture to the remotest ages of Egypt, made 
more perfect by the Greeks of Asia Minor and Europe. Sculpture 
we find in existence among the most barbarous nations and in the 
most remote ages. Painting appears to be of more recent invention. 
Sculpture and Painting in their refined state have the same origin with 
the most perfect architecture. 

We yet look for our models in architecture and sculpture, to the 
wonderful people whose descendants are now emerging from the hor- 
rors of slavery and its consequent barbaric ignorance. In aiding 
them to assume the attitude of freedom civilized man only pays a part 
of the debt that the world owes to their forefathers. We owe to anti- 
quity the delights of music and poetry ; we owe to it the invention of 
letters, by the aid of which those arts have been preserved to us ; had 
the discovery of engraving and printing been given to the favored 
people of Greece, the world would not have been involved in that 
eimmerean darkness, from which it has been slowly and painfully re- 
trieved by the struggles of ages. We owe to antiquity the blessings 
of the fine arts, and the foundations of science ; but the modem may 
boast that the art which will perpetuate knowledge and prevent a se- 
cond deluge of barbarism — the art which is now overthrowing super- 



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116 THE ARTS or DBBION. 

stitioii and tyraDnj is hiif and due to hii Ume alone : the press will se* 
eure to the future all the blessings derived from the past — all theglo^ 
rious improvements with which the present teems — and by the pro- 
gress of civil and religious liberty, the arts of agriculture, commerce* 
and manufactures, (the latter so much indebted to the arts of design) 
as well as all the arts which adorn and forward the periectioa of civilo 
ized life will be secured to the latest posterity. 

Books, which secure to man the accumulated stores of knowledge 
derived from past ages, are indebted to the arts of design for render- 
ing them more acceptable to the reader, and in many instances for il- 
lustrations, which not only give delight but elucidate the subject treats 
ed — explain the author's meaning — and impress facts and objects 
indelibly upon the memory. A just idea of many mechanical inven- 
tions could not be adequately conveyed to the reader without deline- 
ated and engraved representations of the machines and their various 
parts. Scientific books, and especially those on natural histoiy, would 
be almost a dead letter if not accompanied by the productions of Ibe 
pencil and the burin. The arts of design thus give additional life to 
science, and aid her in the support of that civil liberty to which they 
owe their perfection — for it is to liberty that the arts are indebted for 
their past and present perfection. 

It is not too much to attribute such a vital influence upon the fine 
arts to liberty. Periods of despotic rule have been brought forward 
in argument to support a contrary doctrine : periods of splendid des- 
potism have been adorned by the arts ; but they have been periods 
whose brilliant productions had been prepared by the previous progress 
and triumphs of republicanism. The age of Alexander bad been pre- 
ceded by Grecian democracy ; that of Augustus by the glories of re- 
publican Rome. And on the revival of literature and the arts, after 
the darkness of the middle ages, those works which were the pride of 
Italy during the despotism of ibe Medici, were produced by the pre- 
vious freedom of the Italian States. 

Our own happy country shows the influence of liberty upon the arts. 
Those portions of Europe which are debased by the miscalled legiti- 
mate rulers of the earth, who are striving to support an unholy domi- 
nion, by what they call a holy alliance, are already showing symptoms 
of decay in the fine arts ; and can only be saved firom barbarism, by 
the influence and efibrts of those states whose governments are op- 
posed to despotism, and whose people enjoy freedom of opinion and 
the freedom of the press. 

The arts, raised to as great a height as the vacillating and imper&ct 
form of government would admit, by the republic of Rome, declined 
firom the age of Augustus ; and Europe for a thousand years was in- 
volved in barbarous ignorance, groaning under every species of tyranny 



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TDK ARTS. OF DESIGN. 117 

and disorder that could be inflicted by tbe imbecili^ or yicee of he- 
reditary legitimates. 

Literature would have been lost but for the safeguard of christian- 
ify» which* although debased and almost strangled by superstition, pre- 
aenred itself by its fundamental, immortal vitality, and protected tbe 
seeds of that knowledge which republicanism bad engendered, and 
which has given warmth and light to the present day ; — that know- 
ledge which must eventually overthrow the evil principle that is now 
gathering together, concentrating its utmost force, in the vain hope of 
impeding the progress of those institutions on which all human happi- 
ness depends — the institutions of free government — the government 
of the people — the institutions which guarantee civil and religious 
liberty. 

The history of Europe, and particularly of England, the land of our 
forefiithers, is most .familiar to Americans ; and when we look back 
but a litde way into the pages of tbe historian, we are astonished to 
find wkh fdiat rapidity the knowledge of the principles of free govern- 
ment, personal liberty, literature, the sciences, and the arts have pro- 
gressed^ as if ^11 linked and moving together. Personal liberty was 
literally unknown under the Norman kings of England. The sove- 
reigns and hierarchs of the island trembled under tbe rod, or at the 
frown of an Italian priest, who assumed, and was allowed, to dispose 
of the earth, and believed to have power to shut or open the gates of 
heaven. The robber barons were either rebellious or submissive vas- 
sals to the tyrant kings, and the mass of the nation were slaves or vil- 
leins — attached to and sold with the land on which ihey labored. 
The villein was in one respect in a more deplorable condition than the 
African negroes, who were introduced as slaves into America when 
the was subject to Great Britain. The negro was only bound to labor 
ibr his lord ; but the English villein not only obeyed the noble and 
the priest, and supported their pride by the sweat of his brow ; but by 
■bedding his blood, or the blood of others, in scenes of robbery, pre- 
datoiy war, or murder. The bishop emulated the baron in the number 
of his military retainers, and the splendor of those trains of vassals, 
horses, dogs, and falcons with which he hunted the beasts of the for- 
ests and the birds of the air — reserved to prey upon the labors of the 
husbandman, as sources of amusement to his master. It was deemed 
necessary by the higher . hierarchy to limit the number of horses in a 
bishop's hunting tram to fifty. Nor were birds and beasts the only 
victims sacrificed to the pleasures of these mitred Nimrods ; they 
were hunters of man, and eicterminators of rational inquiry. Where 
tyranny and slavery exist, the arts languish and die. 

The arts — even the art of war — was, in such a state of society, 
tmknown; wi the business of Ufe was jto inflict or avoid misery. 



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118 THfi ARTS OF DESIGlf. 

" Every one that was not noble," says the historian, •* was a slave,*' 
and the noble was only learned in the use of the sword, the battle-axe, 
and the lance ; and could only give authority to a deed — if an ecclesi- 
astic could be found learned enough to write it — by affixing his seal or 
his mark. We have the authority of Hallam, the philosophic historian 
of the middle ages, for saying that '* for many centuries it was rare for 
a layman, of whatever rank, to know how to sign hb name.'' And of 
the clergy, the depositaries of literature, it is asserted on the authority 
of a council held in Rome, anno domini 992, that ** scarcely a single 
person was to be found in Rome itself, who knew the first elements of 
letters. Not one priest in a thousand in Spain, about the age of Ohai^ 
lemagne, could address a common letter of salutation to another ;" nor 
was their learning in England of a higher grade. The inferior clergy, 
cut off from society by vows, and immersed in barbaric ignorance, had 
yet the honor of preserving the little remains of literature and civiliza- 
tion which tyranny and war had not extinguished. Despotism over 
mind and body reigned absolute ; ignorance was triumphant ; and the 
fine arts dead ; or, where possessed of any lingering remains of life, 
only served to pamper pride, minister to sensuality, or strengthen 
superstition. 

Even domestic architecture, and the arts which administer to the 
necessaries and comforts of life, were, as known to the noble, but a 
few centuries back, in a state that would inflict misery on the English 
or American merchant of moderate wealth at the present time. The 
round tower, with its loop-holes and dongeon — and even the castel- 
lated mansion was poor in contrivance, and poorer in furniture. The 
chimney, the carpeted floor, or the glazed window, were unknown. 
In the fourteenth century chimneys are recognized. Still '* the walls 
were commonly bare, without wainscot, or even plaster." In the reign 
of Edward the fourth of England, great houses had hangings. Of 
mirrors or carpets, books or pictures, there were none ; and of chairs 
or tables few. A rich man's plate consisted of sixteen spoons, some 
goblets and ale-pots. A carpenter's stock of tools ** was valued at a 
shiUing," and amounted to five pieces. I bring forward this sketch of 
the state of our English progenitors before they had the blessings of 
liberty, that you may see what the arts have done for us at the present 
enlightened day. The food of tyranny is ignorance and misery; 
liberty cherishes and is supported by the arts. 

Liberty and the arts owed their revival to commerce. Communi- 
ties for commercial purposes bought, or forced privileges from kings 
and nobles. Manu&ctures required the aid of the arts of design ; and 
commerce required manufactures. Commercial cities not only se- 
cured personal liberty to their burghers, but the villein — even under the 
Norman kings of England — who could gain an asylum widiin the 



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THE ARTS 07 DlSlOlf. 119 

precincts of a city for a jear ahd a day, became a free man. To the 
cities and commerce we owe the revival of liberty and the arts. Yet 
even so late as the reign of James the first of England, the distinction 
between a villein and a free man existed ; though the influence of the 
commons in parliament, and the commercial propensities of mankind, 
growing age by age, had rendered it nearly obsolete. Indebted to 
commerce, the arts have repaid the debt with liberal interest. Through 
the arts of design every species of manufacture received a value, add- 
ing to its importance and commercial currency. It is not only the 
utility of an object that renders it desirable ; mankind very justly ap- 
preciate beauty, and that which delights the eye excites the imagina- 
tion and adds to human happiness. 

Hume has said, ^ it may appear strange that the progress of the 
arts, which seems among the Greeks and Romans to have daily in- 
creased the number of slaves, should in later times have proved so 
general a source of liberty." But I have shown that the progress of 
die arts never increased the number of slaves. Where slavery increas- 
ed, the arts declined, and ever must decline. 

The same historian more justly remarks, that ^* one chief advantage 
which resulted from the introduction and progress of the arts, was the 
introduction and progress of freedom ; and this consequence affected 
men, both in their personal and cioil capacities.'' This is eminently 
true. The introduction of the arts is bodi the cause and effect of li- 
berty. Where slavery exists, art is neglected and the artist despised, 
more or less, according to the state of society and the prevalence of 
liberty. Even now, in Great Britain, supposed the best government 
in Europe — where the arts are honored by the public — a sprig of no- 
bility is considered as contaminated if he becomes an artist by profes- 
sion. And within my memory, even here, a merchant or a lawyer has 
been found so ignorant as to think himself superior to a professor of 
the fine arts. 

The Flemings are justly proud of their unconquerable love for li- 
berty and the fine arts. They boast of their patriots who resisted, 
and continue to resist tyranny ; and of their Rubenses, Van Eykes, 
' Hemlinks and Vandykes ; and they exhibit with pride the chronicles 
*of their country, and the productions of their artists. A manufacturer 
of Brussells will display (he superiority of the Flemish school of paint- 
ers over that of the Dutch, with as much enthusiasm as an Italian will 
feel in claiming the honors of precedency for the music of his native 
land, over that of the ultramontane nations of Europe. A David Ten- 
ters is proved to be as far above a Gerard Dow, as a Titian is superior 
to a Rembrandt Flanders, though cruelly oppressed at times, and 
"ibr ages scourged by the wars of kings, was, and remains, republican 
in sfmit, and despkes her Dutch neighbors for bending the knee to tlw 



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120 THB ARTS 07 DESIOH. 

house of Orange. Both countries may be proud of the devotion they 
have shown to the rights of man, and progress in the arts which refine 
and adorn society. 

The great experiment of a national democratic govemmentf where 
the will of the people, expressed by their representatives, is the foun- 
dation of all law, is now gazed at by the world, and the people of all 
nations are standing on tiptoe, eager for the race in wfidch we are 
leaders. It is to be seen if we shall not be the leaders in arts, an well 
as in political institutions. Both have to struggle against a current of 
ignorance — against a disposition to mimic the hereditary nobles of 
£urope, and against the untaught portion of the populace of our citiest 
adulterated by the outcast pauperism of the old world. But there is 
a power in our happy countiy which ensures the triumph of liberal 
institutions and of the arts ; it resides in an aristocracy of cultivated 
mind, and is diffused through die community by our public schools, 
and the ever increasing attention to education. 

While we see that the minds of men are alive to die great business 
of diffusing knowledge — an employment of such vital importance to 
republicanism — while the despots of Europe are considering by what 
means they shall satisfy the demands of the people for mstruction, and 
yet so modify it as to continue their bondage — happily a vain hope ! 
— let us turn our attention to die best method of encouraging the pro- 
gress of the arts in our country, and of stimulating our artists to equal, 
or excel, the republicans of former days. 

Jis for other branches of knowledge, so for the arts of design, sdiods 
are necessary ; and ci« in the choice of teachers in odier branohes of 
knowledge, those who have studied and profess those branches are 
alone supposed competent ; so professors of the arts of design, it 
would seem, are the only competent teachers of those arts. This 9^ 
pears so self-evident that it would require an apology for its insertion 
in this essay, if we did not see intelligent men, at this day, assuming 
to themselves the office of directors in academies devoted ostensibly 
to the instruction of students in painting, sculpture, and other fine arts; 
although conscious that they are not possessed of any requisite for the 
promotion of those arts, except taste for their products, and the pos- 
session of wealth. 

Such requisites should be directed to the foundadon of schools for 
the teaching those arts, and the endowment of competent professor- 
ships. — To the just appreciation of the works of artists, and the Uberal 
reward of those who exceL — To the purchase of the firuits of their suc- 
cessful labors, and offers of liberal prices for their productions, without 
trammelling the artist by indicating the subject — To the introductioa 
of chef d'oDUvres of ancient or modem art, as models and excitements 
to die artists of our country. Let the wealdi and taste of our- intelli- 



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THB ARTt OF DESIGN. 121 

gent men be so employed, and let &e schools and academies be go- 
Temed by those who are acquainted, |iot only with the history, but with 
the theory and practice of the arts there taught. 

Great encouragement to the arts has been, and is now given, by the 
establishments of buildings in which to deposit the works of genius for 
public exhibition, and by collecting meritorious specimens of the arts, 
diereby rewarding the talents of the artist, diffusing a knowledge of 
art generally, and forwarding the studies of such persons as devote 
themselves professionally to any of the branches of the arts of design. 
This is a mode of teaching the nation — forming the minds of a peo- 
ple to taste and civilization — which falls within the province of men 
of intelligence and wealth, of every profession ; but it is only for artists 
to govern, direct and teach, in academies dedicated to the fine arts. 

The professors of the fine arts in America, (and I believe in no 
other coontty,) have been told that artists are incompetent to govern 
an academy intended for teaching those arts they profess — that they 
are prone to divisions and quarrelling — that they require men of other 
>rofessions to keep them in order — that they are bad financiers, and, 
need men more conversant with making and keeping money, to regu- 
late their receipts and expenditures. Let us examine these objections 
to the competency of artists for managing schools of art. 

In the first place I deny, firom my own knowledge, founded upon 
Ae experience of a long life, that the professors of the fine arts are 
more prone to division and warfare than the professors of any other 
liberal pursuit The unworthy of any profession ought to be shunned 
and frowned upon, if incorrigible, by those whose usefulness is pre- 
vented by the vices of men disgracing an honorable calling. But in 
this, artists only act as other men do. 

When men are associated for any public purpose, they choose go- 
vernors or directors, and conduct their affairs by the voice of a majority. 
Artists do the same. If there has appeared in this country any divi- 
sioo among artists, more than is common among others, it has arisen 
fit>m the assumption of men of other professions, who have, with good 
intentions, aspired to be the directors of the schools and the pursuits 
of painters, sculptors, engravers, and architects ; and who have, by the 
influence of wealth, and general information, gamed adherents to doc- 
trines inimical to the arts ; but in England, for the greater part of a 
century, and in New-York for nine years, (the whole time of the exist- 
ence of an academy governed by artists,) the arts of design have been 
tau^t successfijlly ; and the business of instruction, with the arrange- 
ment of exhibitions, conducted prosperously; with as much unanimity, 
if not much more, than is found in associations for any other purpose, 
or among men of any other professions. The result has been a pro- 
gress in the arts, and an increase in the number and moral worth of 

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liH Tflff AHT8 or BXSIOK* 

artists, that is trulj gratifying to avefy liberal mind* The dependant 
ean nerer arrive at the dignity of man ; it belonga to the seif^vemed 
alone. 

Stcandhf. It has been prored that mhen men of other professions 
are mingled in the couneils of artists, discontent and division has en^ 
sned. Such men «e genendlj wealthy, and although well-mfonned 
on other subjects, many of them are deplorably ignorant, withool 
knowing it, in respect to the arts, fbr the benefit of which the associa^ 
tion is formed ; and strong in ttie consciousness of their general infor- 
mation, and successful acquisition of property, feel themselves superior 
to the mere artist, even though that artist possesses science and litem-* 
tdre in a measure far above his supposed proteoton This feeling at 
superiority takes place because the poverty of the artist is apparent, 
too generally, and his influence in society is very limited, from that 
circumstance, and from his secluded habits, the consequence of hiii 
necessaiy industry, and the nature of his studies. 

However liberal the intentions, and great the taste of gentlemett 
who have not studied the arts of design with a view to being proftss^ 
ors, dieir aid in an academy as directan or mediaior$ is not wanted : 
and can only be supposed needful, from the prevalence of notiong de- 
rogatory to the character of the arts and artists of any country. 

Such men should gratify their tastes by employing artists, and by 
enriching their country with the products of the arts. Such men we 
have ; and it is only by sueh means diat they become patrons of 
me arts* 

Thirdly » That artists are bad financiers, and require men more 
conversant with dollars and cents to manage dieir receipts and ezpendi* 
tures, is found as weak an objection to the goverment of academies fbr 
teaching the arts, they alone can teach, being intrusted to them, as, 
that they are more quarrelsome than other men, more imbecile, more 
vicious, (for all these charges are implied in the objections I have 
considered,} or requiring more than others the guardianship of their su« 
periors in wisdom. 

The money for the support of academies such as the National 
Academy of Design in New- York, and the Royal Academy of London, 
proceeds from the exhibition of the works of living artists. The ex-^ 
penditures are fbr rent, in New-Tork, and for the support of the 
schools. Nothing ean be more simple than the office of a treasurer, 
elected fkNn the board of directors ; and to suppose that any artist is 
incompetent to the keeping or examining such an account, is an insuH 
to all who profess (!he fine arts. 

That as individuals they are not generally wealthy — that by shut- 
ting themselves in their studies, and devoting their thoughts to the im- 
provement of their minds rather than their fortunes — thai they are not 



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THE ARTS OF DBBION. IM 

possessed offliat useful knowledge which leads to happy purchases of 
die articles of mercantile traffic — of stocks — or of huilding lots — 
does not render them less competent to the very simple process of 
keepiig their expenditures whfauithe bounds of their receipts. 

But the answer to objections which have been made, and are perti- 
naciously repeated — to all who assert that the government of acade- 
mies of art should not be intrusted to artists, $f, that every such insti- 
tution in Europe is so goveniied ; and that the only institution of the 
kind in America, which is prosperoos 4ro« its own resources, and 
which has established schools with eminent success, for the advance- 
ment of the arts, is governed by artists alone. 

When die public generally, and our wealthy, liberal, and intelligent 
citizens shall be convinced of this truth — when the prejudices which 
have been generated and cherished to the contrary, simll be dissipated; 
those citizens who wish well to the arts, will ^idow such academies 
with the means of increased teaching, fumish them with suitable 
bialdings and models of every kind, and duly honor the men who from 
a love of the arts they profess, are willing to sacrifice ease, time, and 
money, for the facilitating their progress to that perfection they are 
destined to attain, by the influence of our republican institutions. 

If I have succeeded in showing the great benefits we derive from 
the arts of design — their importance to manufactures and commerce 
—their intimate connexionirith our domestic comforts — their con- 
geniality with our democratic government — their influence upon that 
refinement and civilization which is destined for us, as rational and 
immortal beii^ — and in proving that schools for teaching and difiiw- 
ing the arts, must be directed by artists alone — I may hope fliat men 
of liberality and wealth, will aid our artists individually : and second 
dieir efforts in the formation of academies, as well as by establishing 
such praiseworthy institutions as that of &• Boston AflieniBum, for 
^lepositaries of all that is predoos in Hterators and the whM. 



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124 



PICTURES OP WINTER. 



Spring, with her oowslipped brooks, 
Her moss-hid violets, and her leafy mirth. 
The queenly Sommer, with harmonioot looks 

Of sky, of wave, and earth, 
Automn, mth dropping fruit and garnered grain, 
Have circled by in their appointed reign, 
And gloomy Winter, with bis frowning brow 
And stormy terrors, is around us now. 

He rushed upon the blast — 
Froze Nature at a glance — his icy feet 
Placed on the snowy robe around her cast — 

He watches from his seat ; 
Clouds round his head and tempests on his breath. 
Type oithe soul, her temporary death; 
Yet, 'mid the desert grandeur of his throne. 
Scenes has the cold, stem sovereign of his own : 

Bnlliant the day and dear 
The sky of cloudless azure, keen the air. 
The sunshine broad and rich, yet earth is sear ; 

The brandies bleak and bare. 
The plant that bent beneath the warUing wren 
'Mid the dead grass has drooped ; within its glen 
Lies locked in ice the merry streamlet's tongue. 
Which to its bank bent flowers so sweetly sung. 

Skdeton-like and grim. 
The forest mourns its green embowering wreaths 
That danced like faiiy feet to eveiy hymn 

The scented west wind breathes ; 
Crackling and piled the leafy masses lie, 
^Mid the tall trunks exposed the deer bounds by, 
The sqoirrd seeks around the beechen spot 
The buried nut to store his little grot 

But now, a j^immering dood 
Steals o'er the sky, and, deepening as it spreads. 
Hides the dimmed sun ; the dull and leaden ahioud 

Blends with the ahr, and sheds 
Its first few flakes that scarce a tinge oaa fling 
Upon the chirping snowbird's russet win^ 
Then thickening, whitens tree, and hill, and dell, 
With low, sweet murmurings, like an ocean shell. 

Now, rousing in his might, 
The North-west sweeps along his furious course, 
Whiriing the snow-clouds in his eddying flighti 

With shrieks and roarings hoarse ; 



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PICtURIt OF WINTER. IS6 

Stripping the mantle from the mountain's crest, 
Dashing the drifts upon bis hollow breast, 
Choking the vale, and bending with their weight 
The forest standing gaunt and desolate. 

Hushed the fierce storm, the sky 
Glows with the chilly sunset, gold and green 
Melting in faintest crimson, see on high 

Nigbf 8 most resf^endent scene ! 
Myriads of stars in glittering shapes are bright, 
Whose boundless sheet of burning living light, 
Might seem, while hovering watchfully in air, 
Earth's guardian angel's mantle floating there. 

Ton pathway curved and wide 
Is wUte with radiance, and those lights that flash 
On the North sky, the native's bark to guide, 

Where splintered icebergs dash 
•Mid the chill surge, or pomt his dart to where 
Crouched on the glacier, growls the polar bear. 
Now shoot and waver, pale, then kindling, merge 
In varying splendor the horiBon's verge. 

A genial warmth is breathed 
Through the mild air, one link of Winter's cham 
Is severed, and from vapors dun and wreathed, 

Streams down the softening rain ; 
The upland slope looks out, the sunken snow 
Melts into leaping rivulets, the bough 
Casts its loose masses, and each hoUow breaks; 
Its frozen covering into tiny lakes. 

Again, what forms we see 
Of ^tiering beauty ! here, the spruce displays 
Its diamond tassels, there, rich drapery 

Fringes the web-like sprays, 
A spang^d pyramid the pine rears hi^ 
In sculptured ice the laurel dusters by, 
A silveiy vol o'er earth's wan face is spread, 
As love would wrap the features of the dead. 

Why do we always call 
Winter a tyrant? he doth ever keep 
His guard o^er Nature, shielding with his pall 

Her necessary sleep, 
lighting the hearth-fire of a happy home^ 
Nursing the root, and bud imprisoned bloom, 
Till Uue-eyed Spring shall bring her laughing hom« 
Radiant with sunshine, wxaathad with leaves and flowers. 

A.B.iS. 
MoNTicBLLo, SuUivan County, N. T. 



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136 



OBSERVATIONS 

ON SOME OF THE MALE 0RAEACTER8 OF iBAKSPEAEE. 

•< It is opportune,'' sajs the quaint Sir TkomM Browne, ** to look 
back upon old times ;" and in no department of human affairs is the 
saying more true, dian in literature. Every year that bears the world 
on from the immediate presence and impression of a great writer, eter- 
nal as his fame may be, diminishes the number of minds and hearts 
who truly understand and feel his power : and although hQ may haye 
placed himself on the summit of Parnassus, where no mortal can ob- 
scure his glory, the changing fashions and grotesque images of novel- 
ty, as they pass in rapid confusion before the eye, will insensibly draw 
its gaze away from that sublime contemplation. In an age, too, when 
succeeding productions flow in great numbers from the press, each de- 
parting more and more from the just standards of taste, from nature, 
and truth, the richer beauties and genuine power of a great poet are <^- 
ten neglected and forgotten. 

If the studio of a sculptor were to be found in every street, filling a 
whole city with all the ungraceful images into which the forms of men 
or animals could be distorted, the Yenus, the Apollo, and the Laocoon, 
would be unnoticed by one generatioli and unknown to the next. 
Thus it is with the productions of letters : the last novel is admired as 
a great work, and the heroes of Shakspeare are known to half the 
world but as characters of the stage, in which the fiuduonable actors 
of the time occasionally appear. The studies of the young are sel- 
dom directed to the high poetry of their own language, while the whole 
current of taste around them carries them fiurdier and farther firom its 
true relish and appreciation. Writers, as well as readers, are reduced 
to the same low standard ; and tiiey, who might have vindicated to 
themselves high places in criticism, in poetry, or in fiction, have not 
done it, because the public taste has not required it at their hands. 
The writer of the present paper does not fency that any effort of his 
can turn back the current of public taste ; but if he diall succeed in 
discussing some of the characters of Shakspeare as tfiey ou^ to be 
discussed, he will be satisfied to have Ae utility of his labor tested by 
the dignity of the subject, and Ae manner in which it is treated. 

We seldom read the works of any writer of note, without forming 
to ourselves some idea of him as a man ; of his character and c oad i - 



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GHAIUCYBIU or SHAKe^BAIlS. 127 

lion, and even of his looks ; and these indistinct and general concep- 
tions are always {>rompting us to look for particular fkcts in the histo- 
ry of the individual, and for known points in his character, on which 
we may engraft the ideas we get of him from his works. This feel* 
ing of cnriosity, as well as a sentiment of gratitude to a poet who had 
bestowed such treasures upon mankind, loug ago incited the learned 
to inquire after the most minute particulars in relation to Shakspeare ; 
and if the tnvest^ation has in some instances led to frivolous and tri- 
fling discoTeries> it is to be remembered that the paucity of the mate- 
rials for a Biography, made the smallest fhcti curious and important 
But the fbllest researches have produced no satisfactory result. We 
know very little more concerning Shakspeare, than that he was bom, 
and that he died after writing his works ; and as he went quietly and 
unostentatiously through the world, without enjoying half the imme- 
^te reputation of many an inferior poet, we can never hope to know 
more of him from the recoVds of contemporary history. We can in- 
deed say what seems to have been the general tenor of his life, and 
we know where he was bom and when he died ; nay, we even go so 
fiir as to believe that we possess correct representations of his features, 
wfaidk have been so long dissolved into the dust of earth. But when 
we have conned over these few facts, how little do we know of his real 
biilory as a man f How can we tell what Was his disposition, his pre- 
vaihi^ temper of mind, his enjoyments, or his sufiermgs, and the 
whole tissue of circumstance out of which the web of his fate was 
woven 1 Shall we apply to him the test by which we judge of the cha- 
racters of other poets, and go to his works as the mirror in which to 
see reflected the feelings of his heart? If we do so, what shall we 
say of him 1 T\uiX he was light and cheerful, and always gay ? The 
sareaatte melancholy of Jaqoes, the deep moralising sentiment of 
Hamlet, seem to forbnl it Shall we say that his spirit was ^al ways 
cooipoeed and tranquil amid the chequered scenes of life ? The stormy 
rage of the maddened Lear rises before us, to contradict the supposi- 
tion. Shall we contemplate the character of Shylock, and say that 
the man who conceived it must himself have been vindictive and crael t 
The devotion of Jutiet,the filial piety of Cordelia, the unbroken faith 
of Desdemona will teach a difibrent lesson. We cannot, then, go to 
Us works, for they are not the mirror of his own heart, but of human 
natore. His character saiist remain to us as a mystery. It is like 
those dreams niuch leave a vague and shadowy impression on the 
mind, and of which we can recall only a dim, majestic outline, be* 
ooming the more uncertain as we seek to fill up the details. 

Having then no personal knowledge of him, to be made the subject 
of eonlempkKtioii# and unable to regard his works as the record of his 
owaobatBoler, w« are left to the study of thoie created beings whom 

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128 CHARACTERS OF 8HAK8PJIARI. 

his imagination has called into existence, and through whom he conn 
municates to our minds with a more immediate presence than if hie 
history were elaborately recorded. We are left toinquire, in the studj 
of his heroes, what are the characteristics, the pervading features, the 
secret power of that^^enius, which presses upon our minds even to ft 
sense of pain, when we contemplate the exhaustless riches of its ferti« 
lily and the wonderful depth of its inspiration. We are left to ask our- 
selves ** why are we thus moved to tears or shaken with laughter ; — 
wky our whole souls are filled with dread and wonder, or soothed into 
harmony with the whole creation?" What is it that gives the Poet 
this power over the human heart ? What has placed him on that 
throne whence he looks down over the whole nature of man 1 

As we approach the magic circle where he creates and multiplies 
around him the beings of that world of his, that is so perfect in itself, 
so varied and yet so distinct, so full of what we see around us in life, 
and of what we do not see, but which we know to be there, bow do thej 
crowd upon us in all the vividness of their imperishable existence. — 
We are ready to hail them as they sweep by, as if they were not cre- 
ations of the mind, but actual and living beings. The old philosophy 
of the schools taught that all created beings — the whole universe of 
Nature — had their abstract and corresponding types in the all-em- 
bracing mind of the Creator. In the relation of Shakspeare to hnmaii 
nature, this ftmciful idea is hardly a fiction ; for the beings in the en- 
ating circle of his imagination are the types of all human kind. 

Within that charmed circle, is the beautiful and devoted Juliet, and 
there is the human and inhuman monster Caliban ; there are the 
Weird Sisters, ugly, revolting, deformed shapes, and there are the 
elegant and graceful Fairies ; there is found the tender and moralizing 
Hamlet, the youdi of contemplation, side by side with the bold and 
impatient Hotspur, the youth of high and daring action; there is the 
sarcastic Jaques, who rails at the world which he himself has made 
so bad in his own mind; and there is the confident and hope-in- 
spired Romeo, to whom the world is at first all a beauty and a para- 
dise ; there is the sincere and faithful Horatio, in contrast with the 
hellishly false and hollow lago ; here is Wolsey, who has reached the 
summit of ambition, only to be hurled into the depths that yemn be- 
neath ; and near by stands the young monarch Harry the FifUi, with 
ftie world all before him for conquest and renown; the crazed 
and broken hearted Ophelia rushes by, and the fortunate and happy 
Portia stands gazing at her in astonished pity, as if ftie extremities q{ 
human wretchedness and joy were a miracle when thus contrasted. — 
All passions that agitate the human heart, all feelings that stir within 
the human breast, have there their fit exhibition and portraiture ; and 
there, to in a mirror, reflecting Creation as well as Man, aie the gran- 
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0HARACTBB8 OF BUMMMWmAMJU Iff 

deur aad the lofeliiie«9, the awful power aad tlie gentie hr e nth in g i of 
Nature* 

If we bquire what it is that plaeee Shakspeare above all other poete 
who have undertaken to exhibit thid interior heart of man, the answer 
is, of course, that the secroU of his power lies in his profi>uBd> knoww 
ledge of the human heart But what is the secret of this knowledge 
of the human heart? 

It is an all-comprebending and wide variety HkbX su&rs no di&- 
rence of character and coaditioB to escape unnoticed, and which emr 
braces not a part only, but the wh<^ subject of' man, his nature aad 
passions. A great many poets have succeeded in giving an accurate 
picture of some one ctass of charaelers, but have not gone beyond 
this, even fliough they Hiay have produced many different works.*-^ 
Now Aere is nothing of tli^ koid in Shakspeaio. For, not only does 
he never repeat himself* not only does he give a perfect exhibition of 
particular trait$ a£ <^aii6ter, bat all his characters have an existence 
and identic of their own. No two of them are suffidently alike to he 
eonpared together, except upon the principle of contrast ; and if they 
aH could be embodied and brou^ together in one assembly, each 
would bear about him his oim peculiar marks, his own feelings mis* 
IbrtnneB or successes, and his own mind difieriag from those of every 
other. lYben we view the charactera o{ Shakspeare in this way^ we 
nee that he has not presenled us with one idea, and oontanted hiqoself 
with repeating it under a variety of forms $ but that he has created for 
OS a worid, in which every peraon that we meet is a being like to so 
other, except in the essential and universal characteristics of hu^ 
waaky. 

To the student of Shakspeare, his charactera thus become as vivid 
and real as those which we eooounter in life. They are the acting 
and moving beings in a worid, into which we can expand oonelves 
mih BO complete a presence as to include them within o«r actual eir 
parience. '*'What is it that constitutes our eiqperieace of man t Is it 
Aot what he has made vmfeeU Is it not what has moved our scorn, 
our iMty, acfaniratton, love* disgust, contempt t And what can move 
diase but the qualities of the abstract and unincumbered soul t and 
are not these qualities as powerfully exhibited in the charactera of 
imagination as in those of reality? What is it to me, that Hamlet never 
joally existed, and that all about him which so breathes of individual- 
ity is but the creation of another's thou^t t He is still a roan, an 
actings suflBmng, aspiring, desponding, reflecting man; and aldiough 
wia cannot say that the universe any whera contains an existing sod, 

* ThM if pfi jimimiilly ths otm witb Byraii. 
Yd. vn. 17 



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180 ClIABAOTlIU OF 8HAK8PIA.RS. 

that was known ononr eaitfa horaaa Hamlet, jet to mhe htm existed; 
for the elements so wonderfully put together in his character have acted 
on our minds as if he wwe rcwlly one in the circle of our experience 
of human nature. He who studies often and deei^j upon such crea- 
tions of the imagination, will feel and think of them not as mere pro- 
ductions of thought, but as persons whom he has actually known ; be 
will seem to read the scenes where they appear, not as mere fiction, 
but as the biographies of men and women who have left this record of 
dieir souls, and have now gone bdiind die eternal curtain, which se- 
parates the present from the future. 

Let it not be said that this profound sympathy, this realizadon of 
the characters of imagmation will lead to that diseased condition of the 
mind, which we are used to reproach as romantic. There is such a 
diseased state, and it is created by works of fiction. But of the tni0 
and the great ideal we can never have too much ; our hearts can ne- 
ver be perverted, our senses dimmed, our afiections corrupted, in the 
contemplation of nature, for we were created in harmony with it, and 
it was given for the expansion and cultivation of our souls. It is only 
the ftdse, the distorted, the unnatural — ^it is only that which has first 
become itself corrupted, which can communicate poison to our minds. 
It concerns us more, to know the spring at which we slake our inborn 
durst for the imaginative, than to stint ourselves in the draughts which 
we may take. To instance two remarkable modem examples of po- 
etic influence— was there ever a pure mind injured by the greatest ad- 
miration of Wordsworth? and have there not been diousands led 
astray by the basilisk fiiscinations of Byron t 

Again, if we compare the delineations of character in all genuine 
poetry widi our careful experience of human nature, can we say that 
the worid of romance is more highly colored, more unreal, than the 
worid of reality ? Who can say that (he unwritten volumes of the Ro- 
mance of Reed Life do not contain passages as thrilling, scenes as 
heart-rending, as die deepest tragedy? Are there not sudden revolu- 
tions in all human hopes, are there not awful terminations of human 
existence, which without the comment of an hereafterf would present 
as overwhelming manifestations of destiny as any that are displayed 
by die tragic muse? The cold forms of social intercourse, the ne- 
cessity of treasuring up our feelings from the wasting ebb and flow of 
our outward life, have thrown over the human countenance a uniform 
cast The vivid action is no longer seen breaking fordi in passioDate 
expression ; but the living spirit is m every human form, and feelings 
strong and mighty in their energies, as those which are portrayed by 
the poet We pass by in the thronged street coundess forms of hu» 
man life, and perhaps never fully realize the thought that each of thoso 
apparently cdd and dull forms is animated by a soul ^ a soul that 



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CHABAOTIBI OV iHAXaPKAU. 181 

may be phmged in die depAa of desfmir, while all witboot ia civfl and 
decent, and composed. We go into the circle of elegant society, and 
idiile all wear the same aspect of a smiling and constrained politeness, 
we forget ihen are hearts which may be bursting with agony, or filled 
to overflowing with joy. Our nature, then, is e?ery where the same ; 
and it is for this reason, diat we can wi(h safety, and ought, for im- 
provement, to indulge our sympathies with it, as it is displayed in all 
genuine poetry. 

The distinguishing excellence of Shakspeare, in regard to the sup- 
posed effects just now discussed, is that in him there is no dazzling 
and deceitful exterior, no false and glittering sentiment, no perversion 
of the moral order in obedience to which man was created. Every 
diing wears the real impress of nature, as if the whole subject of man 
had been at once poured into the mind of the poet, without error, mis- 
take, or omission. 

Why did Shakspeare know how to exhibit man dius accurately and 
consistently? How should he be thus happy in representing not only 
the varieties of character found among one people, as in his histories« 
but also the different shades produced by other climates, manners, and 
institutions, as in the dramas, the scenes of which are laid out of Eng- 
land ? The splendor and commercial magnificence of Venice, m her 
Aayn of glory, are brought before us in the most striking manner, when 
we open the Merchant of Venice. In Julius Cflesar, we are trans- 
ported into collossal and immortal Rome ; and Madame de Stael has 
said that Romeo and Juliet actually breathes with the very air of Italy ; 
and expresses her admiration that it should have been written by an 
Englishman.* She might have added, by an Englishman, who net 
only never was in Italy, but who, in all probability, never set his foot 
upon file continent of Europe. Shakspeare did not wander over the 
earth, slowly gathering up the labored fiiiits of observation, and then 
return home to sit down and write. He never saw with bis ouitoard 
vision, die thousand form» in which human nature reveals itself. He 
lived for the greater part of his life, and all die time while he was writing, 
in the heart of London ; closed up within the smoky atmosphere and 
dark walls of a great city ; where the exterior of things wears a pecu- 
liar and uniform appearance, save to him who looks upon it with an 
eye of more than ordinary penetration. Nor was the great poet a 
learned man, as other men are, that is in books. He drew his won- 
deiful knowledge of man and of nature firom a source whence he de- 
rived all his ofiier treasures. It made a part of his poetical inspira- 
tioo ; it came to him by intuition ; it was breathedinto his mind by the 
spirit <rf* wisdom itselC 

*CoriDM. 



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Undoubtedly Shakspeare obsenred such men as fell mider Vk n^ 
tice, widi a keen and searching e je. Bat, after all, we cannot sappoaa 
that he relied much upon observation. He found in the depths of his 
own mind thatknoiHedge, which other men acquire by the tedious and 
coatly process of Isaming and experience. His knowledge was ao* 
enrate — it was true to human nature-* for it laid hold of and com« 
piehended the first principles of the nature of man. ItooOldnoC be 
mistaken, for it was a species of inspiration. 

M^on, from the circumstance of his having written i^Mm sacred 
sufajeets, has been called, by way of eminence, a Christian Poet This 
kind of distinction, in its strict sense, cannot be claimed for Shakspeara ; 
but if we will give ourselves to the study of his interior meaning, we 
shall find the spirit of his philosophy to be truly Christian in a most 
important feature. Who can think of Shakspeare as any other dian a 
devout man in his inward spirit, filled wi(h solemn awe at the resourcest 
die sufi^ringB, the destinies, and capacities of our race, and recognizing 
tfaroud^the iriM>le that everiasting arm, on which all may lean, and from 
which justice will heat last received? Having written, as he did, for 
the dietttre, and in his own time as well as ever since, baving been too 
much heard and read, as if his works embraced only that superficial 
tteaning, which is almostall that the inmiediate purposes of (he thea* 
tre require, we have overiooked his philosophy, and left hini at the 
head of te drama, widieilt drawing from him, in private stu^, Aoee 
moral ilhiatrations of our nature, such as no other poet has ever placed 
on record. The blemishes too, which the coarse taste of his contem- 
poraries* rather thaa any promptings of his own genias,has left upon 
his pages, have been united with many to his character as a writer for 
the stage ; and thus many a mind in the retired waflcs of literary ease 
aad domestio cukivatloii of letters, has been detorred firom the fiill and 
firequeat study of his works, althoa^ all profess a superficial and pass* 
ing acquaintance with diem. 

But (he theatre has no nuwe connexion with the moral impulse whick 
Shakspeara gave to the world, wifii bis fame and character, aad inflo* 
eaoeasapoet, thaotheshopof his bookseller had with the character, 
die fiune, the undying inftienoe of Miltou** The former wrote his 
plays for the one, as die latter wrote his immortal poems for the other; 
and yett when we have stated this mercantSe feet, do we feel that this 
is all t Posterity,as its endless aulUons rise out of the wombof tioM* 
proclaims the imperishd>ie influence and meaning of the poet, whib 
die objeots with which his works were im m e di at dy connected have 
perished, almost beyond die shadow of a record. 

^MOtonhoU the oopyright of Paradise Loi«, to Toawoo, « bookseller, lor ibe 

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When dM diaaire, as an inttitutioQ, shall ba?e iliai^peared, or be- 
^om% abaadooedf as it will be — to oatiom behind the rest of the world 
in moral and inteUectoal ad?ancement ; when it shall be remembered 
edy as tiM cuiious instrument bj which poetry found die ear of arude 
age ; Shakspeare will still be remembered as the great poet of human 
nntove*; and he will then be more dee|^y and universally understood. 
The superficial and yarjing comments of die stage, with its vapid and 
tasteless critics, will be swept away, and his meaning, apprehended 
by die true criticism — that of fi»eling«* will stand revealed in the pri- 
vate sMiM of man.* 

One of the great assurances of a permanence, independent of all con- 
nexion with the theatre, is, that Shakspeare has not only written great 
poetry, full of instruction as to the nature of man, but ^t he has 
powerfully taught, by implication, the immortality of the soul. This 
would prevent his ever losing a hold upon die feelings of men, even in 
an age of nniversal infidelity ; for whatever may be the speculative 
apiaiona of mankind, the secret delight taken in the contemplation ^ 
its own immortality, can never be divorced from the human mind. 
But thiSf as a diaraeteristic of the poet, is not often insisted upon, and 
peiiHipB but seldom recognized. I proceed, therefore, to state some 
reasons for regarding the iounortality of our nature as a prominent 
faatnre in Shakspeare's poetry. 

In gen0ral, die notion of a future existence must be taken as the 
foundation of all tragedy, unless it is constructed, Uke that of die 
Greeks, upon die idea of a mere uncontrolled and uncontrollable des- 
tiny. In die ancient tragedies, diere are no displays of diose inde- 
structible attributes of the soul, which make it morally and critically 
aeeessary fin* us to look beyond die grave ; for diere is Utde exhibited, 
swre an heroic energy of resignation, that cries out to the irrath of the 
remors el e s s Fates, ''Pour on, I will ensure.'' Deadi is all along 
looked upon as the end ; no ideas are involved, either in die c<mduct 
or sentiments of the characters, diat require us to go beyond diat awful 
goal, in order to reconcile die nequalides, die imperfect retribudcms, 
the andying aspirations of this pfesent state of crime, suffering, and 
wa. Man is represented as entirely in the hands of a relentless Fate; 

* The popvlar ideas eoDcernios any character that is much plajed, are generally 
derived from the theatre, even wiOi individuals who do not frequent A ; sudi is the 
VMt infliMiMe pf peiiedieal fiterature and conversation. There hate doobtless been 
•ome great actors, whose playing did much for the true and deep illustimtioa of 
Shakspeare. Such were the eflbrts of Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble. But since 
Hm time of those inostrioes artists, tbore probablv have not been two other players, 
who have not obscured rather tl^n illustrated Shakspeare^ to the popular mind. 
The truth seems to be, let an actor have ever so fiill and accurate a conception of 
the poet^ meaning it is in ^erd his pdicy not to attempt to execute all that he 
Ms and knows; tor tbere IS not one lo ten thoiaand. who can <iiHrfly jUi up any 
efUie great diaracters. Perhaps it^ is beyond die reach of the most dfUd, to saail 
tharewaooB^eptioaorihepaii ^^ 



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1S4 cHARACTBM or iHAKsnAms* 

and wh«n the givre dotes orer him, it is the gmye of oblinon and an- 
nihikitioa. When the old, biiod (Edipufl hu reached the aoleiiiii tei^ 
nunation io the dread regularity of his ordered destiny, a sense of dis- 
tress weighs upon our hearts, notwithstanding die suUime, statue-like 
eahnness with which he sinks to rest ; we would have some assurance 
that his divine resignation will be crowned with the bliss of an eternity : 
but we feel that the hope is a vain one, for the system of the poet for- 
bids the idea of recompense, where there is no account and no ao- 
countableness, no struggle and no merit, and where all is but the mani- 
festation of a blind fatality. But take away this idea of destiny — in 
other words, turn to poetry that does not acknowledge it — and no 
deep and consistent tragedy can exist, witiiout mvolving the immortal- 
ity of the souL Such is the nature of the human soul, that those great 
displays of its energies, its passions and sufferings, its inward harmony 
widi the great moral kw, and the instant discord created by the vio- 
lation of that law, cannot be made, without impressing us with ibe in- 
trinsic proofe of its imperishable attributes, and its eternal destiny. 
The vast disproportion of many passions to their earthly objects — the 
heroism which some of them inspire — the wreck of mind and peace 
which others cause — the suffering of the innocent, such as no tempo- 
ral reward can recompense — the impunity of the guilty, wbkk not 
even their death can wholly atone for — all these things point to but 
one solution of tragedy, without which it can be only a mysteryf to 
nidiich there is no key, and which nothing can unravel. 

It may be urged, th^t there is in Shakspeare no direct recognitioa 
of the doctrine of the soul's immortality, and no direct inculcation of 
it But they are none the less forcible, though indirect We cannot 
stand at the tomb «f Romeo and Juliet, without triumphing with them, 
in the might of their quenchless affections, over all fear, and danger 
and death itself; we cannot, if we would, believe that such heroic ei^* 
ergy of passion can be subdued into annihilation, by the simple loo»> 
ening of the bands that hold together these mortal frames. We cannot 
listen to the soul of Desdemona, as it quits its matchless tenement of 
clay, and hear how its kst words — as she gasps under the mad violence 
of the ruffian husband — are but testimonies of '* the love she bean 
Othello," and feel how her purity has been made certain, even to him, 
at last, by all the holy sanctions of death, without a confidence in the 
final happiness of innocence and virtue. We cannot be, in imagina- 
tion, at file bedside of Falstaff, when every jest has died fi:om the lip, 
and every leer has faded from the eye, and conscience arrays before 
him a wasted and disreputable life, without a shudder, which nothing 
can suppress, at the fate of the irreverent, licentious old man. And 
who can study the character of Hamlet, and read his great reflection 
upon death; who can witness the whdb course of that mouosfiildraiMi» 



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OHARACTSmS OF «HiJMPBARK. 186 

ID which are recorded imperfect hopes and andeserred miefortmiea ; 
wittiout k>okiiig bejond the mere action itself, to the rest, and peace, 
and retribution of a perfect world? When Timon sets up his ever- 
lasting rest on the shmre of the beached ocean, 

Which once a day wHh his embotsed firoth 
The turbulent surge shall cover — 

seeking in timt vast expanse the image of eternity ; the grandest im- 
changing object in nature, brings home to onr hearts the infinite ex- 
pansion of hopes and aspirations in the human soul. Lear and his 
Cordelia lie in profound peace, side bj side ; and the raging power of 
his uncontrollable heart, which now beats no more, and the unyielding 
devotion of his pious child, sound for ever in our ears, with a strange, 
deep harmonj, that bears oqr thoughts on into the region of repose 
whither thej are gone. Place the human soul in its worst scenes of 
sufiering and wo — smk it under the weight of crushing passions — 
break i^ its finelj balanced intelligence into the impotence and rage 
of madness — sweep its delicate chords until they send forth none but 
ihe discordant notes of anguish and a broken heart — make love it- 
self but the instrument of misery, and when all is done, and poor hu- 
mtm nature seems torn into ruined firagments of itself, its endless vi- 
tality will umte them again at last, and each violence of fate only 
brings out brighter and brighter the heaven-bom energies timt lay 
wrapped up widiin. 

Thus it is, that the drama, in its master-pieces, rises to the dignity 
of a moral teacher. Thus it is, that it comes in aid of natural religion. 
It does not give precepts, nor directly profess to show examples under 
precepts afaready given ; but it lajrs open the mechanism, die power, 
the great laws and principles of die human heart, and thus teaches us 
what would escape our individual knowledge, without the light and aid 
of poetic inspiration. It goes farther : and, by necessary implicaticm, 
teaches us die destmy and capacities of our nature, and confirms an 
inborn hope : for aldiougfa, ^ has been beautifully said, *' it shows us 
human nature, like a rock in a vast ocean of storms, bei^n and over- 
iriielmed at times by the mighty watera of anguish and peril,*' yet it 
carries oar thoughts below the sur&ce of the angry and lashing 
waters, down to die eternal foundations by which it is rooted to the 
great sphere. 

But this discussion is lengthening beyond the intention and purpo- 
ses of the writer. He has no theory to announce, or to iJ4;>hold, con- 
cerning the meanings of Shakspeare. He would only suggest what 
nmst vindicate itself to the mind of every reader who studies feelingly, 
and who follows out in its natural direction, the train in which the poet 
has led fte way. Much has been written on die tnie {BteifiretlUion of 



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186 KATUBI. 

charactera and paitagety and wiiole cootroyeraiea iiava arisen •?«■ 
upon lines. The writer does not profess to enter the lists in these 
controversies, or to claim a place among the supporters of anjpartiau* 
lar theory or commentary. He is indifferent, whether this or that 
reading be the true one, by a word more or less, or a letter changed or 
erased; he ranges himself under no opinion as to &e characters. He 
professes to write of Shakspeare, only as he has read him — in simpli- 
city, and widi care. 

Writers often imagine the temper of public criticism to be such — and 
pertiaps it is, as to require for their efforts the apology of some supposed 
demand in the worid of letters, for something new in the department 
in which they write. In the present instance, too, much has been 
written by fine critics, on some of the characters here discussed. To 
each of these suggestions, if criticism should be prompted to maike 
them, the writer would say, tint he does not claim to fill any imaginaij 
vacancy in literatture, however small; and that, as the suhfect of 
Shakspeare is as inexhaustible as truth and natiue, he is not aware 
that the brilliant essays of others ought to deter any, whose taste 
leads them to the task, firom accomplishing what lies in the compass of 
their ability. 

C. 



NATURE. 
For I have tewntd 



TolookMiatiifi^ 

— -«- bwitef oftntiinei 
Th« idn, md muflle of huiiMnltjr. 

Aadlba^ftlt 

A pranneo that diitailM me with tba Jojr 
OreteTatedthoQffhti. 



MT^houghts go back to boyhood, when I bved 

To ofaeiiah sweet aflbctiona in my heart 

For every green and aolitaiy place — 

When the swift rimlet seemed scarce more g|td, 

Or the wild bird more firee. Then I knew 

Where eveiy violet found itself a home^ 

And where the wind-flower spread its azure leaf^ 

And ga«ad upon the sun ; and I could tell 

Wbsrt tiK soft twUigfat of the aiofaing woods 

Fell with most tempting beauty, and eaith hansl 

Where aleiioa listned to the warbling brook. 



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NATURE. 1S7 

And feed her soul with music. Then I loved 
The mj^steries of Nature. The smallest flower 
Had equal splendor with the noonday sun ; 
For by its slight and cunning workmanship 
I felt that it was God*s, and thus I tiod, 
E'en in the veiy morning of jny life, 
Amid the brightness of His unif erse. 

I thirsted for the Beautiful and True ; 
And when I cherished Beauty, 1 found that 
Which opened all the fountains of my heart, 
Gave me a thirst for Virtue and for Love, 
And quickened my perceptions of the Good. 

And thus by Nature was my infant miod 
niumtaed and made pure { and, even now 
I fain would listen to her holy voice^ 
And teach my spirit by her influence : 
I still would love to wander by the side 
Of happy inland waters, when they gleam 
With the bnght lustre of the evening stars ; 
Or dimple mto smiles, and faintly blush 
At the first ^ance of morning. I would still 
Love hill and valley, and each wild wood-flower — 
I still would wander by the running stream, 
And watch the sinking son, and tha soft clouds 
Tinted with pearl and amber. I would gaze 
Amid the stars, and let my mingled thoughts 
Go forth, piercing like light the universe. 

Thus I would iodc upon each visible thin|^ 

And ravd out its meaning. I would see 

The symbols of a hij^ and holy faith 

Held up throughout the world. The sun and stars. 

And all that is material, should seem 

A wondrous revelation of the truth — 

A manifestation of the Infinite — 

The dear outshaping of the thoogbts of God. 

B.C.W. 



vou vn. 18 

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138 



OLD TICONDEROGA. 



A nOTUKK OP TBB FAST. 



In returning once to New England, from a visit to Niagara, I found 
myself, one summer's day, before noon, at Orwell, about forty mile9 
from the southern extremity of Lake Champlain, which has here the 
aspect of a river or a creek. We were on the Vermont shore, with a 
ferry, of less than a mile wide, between us and the town of Ti, in New- 
York. 

On the bank of the lake, within ten yards of the water, stood a 
pretty white tavern, with a piazza along its front A wharf and one or 
two stores were close at hand, and appeared to have a go^d run of 
trade, foreign as well as domestic ; the latter with Yermont farmers, 
the former with vessels plying between Whitehall and the British do- 
minions. Altogether, this was a pleasant and lively spot I delighted 
in it, among other reasons, on account of the continual succession of 
travellers, who spent an idle quarter of an hour in waiting for the ferry- 
boat; affording me just time enough to make their acquaintance* 
penetrate their mysteries, and be rid of them without the risk of te- 
diousness on either part 

The greatest attraction, in this vicinity, is the famous old fortress of 
Ticonderoga ; the remains of which are visible from the piazza of the 
tavern, on a swell of land that shuts in the prospect of the lake. Those 
celebrated heights. Mount Defiance and Mount Independence, fami- 
liar to all Americana in history, stand too prominent not to be recog- 
nised, though neither of them precisely correspond to the images ex- 
cited by their names. In truth, the whole scene, except the interior 
of the fortress, disappointed me. Mount Defiance, which one pictures 
as a steep, lofty, and rugged hill, of most formidable aspect frowning 
down with the grim visage of a precipice on old Ticonderoga, is 
merely a long and wooded ridge; and bore, at some former period, die 
gentle name of Sugar Hill. The brow is certainly difficult to climb, 
and high enough to look into every comer of the fortress. St Glair's 
roost probable reason, however, for neglecting to occupy it, was the 
deficiency of troops to man the works already constructed, rather than 
the supposed inaccessibility of Mount Defiance. It is singular that 
the French never fortified this height, standing, as it does, in the quar- 
ter whence they must have looked for the advance of a British army* 



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OLD TICONPKROQA. 139 

In my first view of the niins I was favored with the scientific gui- 
tfance of a young lieutenant of engineers, recently firom West Pomt, 
where he had gained credit for great military genius. I saw nodiing 
i>ut confiision in what chiefly interested him ; straight lines and zig* 
zags, defence within deftnce, wall opposed to wall, and diich inter- 
secting ditch ; oblong squares of masonry below the sur&ce of tho 
earth, and huge mounds, or turf-covered hills of stone, above it On 
one of these artificial hillocks, a pine tree has rooted itself^ and grown 
tall and strong, since the banner-staff was levelled. But where my 
unmilitary glance could trace no regularity, the young lieutenant was 
perfectly at home. He fathomed the meaning of every ditch, and formed 
an entire plan of the fortress from its half-obliterated lines. His de- 
scription of Ticonderoga would be as accurate as a geometrical theo- 
rem, and as barren of the poetry that has clustered round its decay. I 
viewed Ticonderoga as a place of ancient strengdi, in ruins for half a 
ceotuiy ; where the flags of three nations had successively waved, and 
none waved now ; where armies had struggled, so long ago that the 
bones of the slam were mouldered ; where Peace had found a heritage 
in the forsaken haunts of War. Now the young West Pointer, with Us 
lectures on ravelins, counterscarps, angles, and covered ways, made it 
an aflair of brick and mortar and hewn stone, arranged on certaiii 
regular principles, having a good deal to do with mathematics but 
nothing at all with poetry. 

I should have been glad of a hoary veteran to totter by my side, and 
tell me, perhaps, of flie French garrisons and their Indian allies — of 
Abercrombie, Lord Howe, and Amherst — of Ethan Allen's triumph 
and St Clair's surrender. The old soldier and the old fortress would 
be emblems of each other. His reminiscences, though vivid as the 
image of Ticonderoga in the lake, would harmonize with the gray in- 
fluence of the scene. A survivor of the long-disbanded garrisons, 
though but a private soldier, might have mustered his dead chiefs and 
comrades ^- some from Westminster Abbey, and English church- 
yards, and battle-fields in Europe — others from their graves here in 
America — others, not a few, who lie sleeping round the fortress ; he 
might have mustered them all, and bid them march through the ruined 
gateway, turning their old historic hces on me as they passed. Next 
to such a companion, the best is one's own fimcy. 

At another visit I was alone, and, after rambling all over Ae ram- 
parts, sat down to rest myself in one of the roofless barracks. These 
are old French structures, and appear to have occupied three sides of 
a large area, now overgrown with grass, nettles, and thistles* The 
one, in which I sat, was long and narrow, as all the rest had been, with 
peaked gables. The exterior walls were neeriy entire, constructed of 
gray, flat, unpicked stones, the aged strength of which promisad long 



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140 OLD TICONDBROGA. 

to resist the elements, if no other violence should precipitate Aeir fall« 
The roof, floors, partitions, and the rest of the wood-work, had 
probably -been burnt, except some bars of stanch old oak, which were 
blackened with fire but still remained embedded into the window-silb 
and o?er the doors. There were a few particles of plasteiing near te 
chimney, scratched with rude figures, perhaps by a soldier's band. A 
most luxuriant crop of weeds had sprung up within the edifice and 
hid the scattered fi'agments of the wall. Grass and weeds grew in die 
windows, and in all the crevices of the stone, climbing, step by step, 
till a tuft of yellow flowers was waving on the highest peak of the gable. 
Some spicy herb diflused a pleasant odor through the ruin. A ver- 
dant heap of vegetation had covered the hearth of the second floor, 
clustering on the very spot where the huge logs had mouldered to 
glowing coals, and flourished beneath the broad flue, which had so c^ten 
pufied die smoke over a circle of French or English soldiers. I felt fliat 
diere was no other token of decay so impressive as that bed of weeds 
in the place of the back-log. 

Here 1 sat, with those roofless walls about me, die clear sky over 
my head, and the afternoon sunshine falling gendy bright through the 
window-frames and doorway. I heard the tinkling of a cow-beU, the 
twittering of birds^ and the pleasant hum of insects. Once a gay bul- 
tetfly, with four gold-speckled wings, came and fluttered about ray 
head, then flew up and lighted on the highest tufl of yellow flowers, 
and at last took wing across the lake. Next a bee buzzed through the 
sunshine, and found much sweetness among the weeds. After 
watching him till he went off to his distant hive, I closed my eyes on 
Ticonderoga in ruins, and cast a dream-like glance over pk^tures of 
the past, and scenes of which this spot had been the theatre. 

At first, my fancy saw only the stern hills, lonely lakes, and vene- 
rable woods. Not a tree, since their seeds were first scattered over 
the infant soil, had felt die axe, but had grown up and flourished 
through its long generation^ had &Uen beneath the weight of years, been 
buried in green moss, and nourished the roots of others as gigantic 
Hark ! A light paddle dips into the lake, a birch canoe glides round 
the point, and an Indian chief has passed, painted and feather-crested, 
armed with a bow of hickory, a stone tomahawk, and flint4ieaded ar- 
rows. But the ripple had hardly vanished fVom the water, when a 
white flag caught the breeze, over a casUe in the wilderness with 
firowning ramparts and a hundred cannon. There stood a French 
chevalier, commandant of the fortress, paying court to a copper-colored 
la<fy, the princess of the land, and winning her wild love by the arts 
wUch had been successful with Parisian dames. A war-party of 
Fr«Bch and Indians were issuing from the gate lo lay Waste some 
iriltege of New England. Near the fortreaa there was a group of 



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OLP TICOHDBIUKIA. 141 

dancers. Tke meny soldiera footing it wiA the swart savage maids ; 
deeper in the wood, some red men were growing frantic around a keg 
of die fire-water; and elsewho-e a Jesuit preached the faith of high 
cathedrals beneath a canopy of forest boughs, and distributed cruci- 
fixes to be worn beside English scalps. 

I tried to make a series of pictures from the old French war, when 
iheia were on the lake and armies in the woods, and especiaUj of 
Abercrombie's disastrous repulse, where thousands of lives were utterly 
tiirown away ; but being at a loss how to order the battle, I chose an 
erening scene in the barracks after the fortress had surrendered to 
Sir Jefirey Amherst. What an immense fire blazes on that hearth, 
gleaming on swords, bayonets, and musket barrels, and blending with 
the hue of the scarlet coats till the whole barrack-room is quivering widi 
ruddy light ! One soldier has thrown himself down to rest, after a 
deer-hunt, or perhaps a long run through the woods, with Indians on 
bis trail. Two stand up to wrestle, and are on the point of coming to 
blows. A fifer plays a shrill accompaniment to a drummer's song — 
a strain of light love and bloody war, with a chorus thundered forth by 
twenty voices. Mean time a veteran in the comer is prosing about 
Dettingen and Fontenoye, and relates camp-traditions of Marlbo- 
rough's battles ; till his pipe, having been rogubhly charged with gun- 
powder, makes a terrible explosion under his nose. And now they 
all vanish in a puff of smoke from the chimney. 

I merely glanced at the ensuing twenty years, which glided peace- 
fully over the frontier fortress, till £than Allen^s shout was heard, 
sunmioning it to surrender *' in the name of the great Jehovah and of 
the Continental Congress." Strange allies I thought the British cap- 
tain. Next came the hurried muster of the soldiers of liberty, when 
the cannon of Burgoyne, pointing down upon their strong-hold from 
the brow of Mount Defiance, announced a new conqueror of Ticonde- 
roga. No virgin fortress, this I Forth rushed the motley throng from 
the barracks, one man wearing the blue and buff of the Union, another 
the red coat of Britain, a third a dragoon's jacket, and a fourth s^ cot- 
ton frock ; here was a pair of leather breeches, and striped trowsers 
there ; a grenadier's cap on one head, and a broad-brimmed hat, with 
a tall feather, on the next ; this fellow shouldering a king's arm, that 
might throw a bullet to Crown Point, and his comrade a long fowling 
piece, admirable to shoot ducks on the lake. In the midst of the 
bustle, when the fortress was all alive with its last warlike scene, the 
ringing of a bell on the lake made me suddenly unclose my eyes, and 
behold only the gray and weed-grown ruins. They were as peaceful 
in the sun as a warrior's grave. 

. Hastening to the rampart, I perceived that the signal had been given 
by die steam-boat Franklin, which landed a passenger fix>m Whitehall 



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142 THE FROaS OF MILTON. 

at the tavern, and resumed its progress northward, to reach Canada thm 
next momiog. A sloop was pursuing the same track ; a little skifi" 
had just crossed the ferry ; while a scow, laden with lumber, spread 
its huge square sail and went up the lake. The whole country was a 
cultivated farm. Within musket shot of the ramparts lay the neat 
villa of Mr. Pell, who, since the revolution, has become proprietor of 
a spot for which France, England, and America have so ofien strug- 
gled. How forcibly the lapse of time and change of circumstances 
came home to my apprehension ! Banner would never wave again, 
nor cannon roar, nor blood be shed, nor trumpet stir up a soldier's 
heart, in this old fort of Ticonderoga. Tall trees had grown upon its 
ramparts, since the last garrison marched out, to return no more, or 
only at some dreamer's summons, gliding from the twilight past to 
vanish among realities. 



THE PROSE OF MILTON. 

The world is often unjust from ignorance ; and accident is the ar« 
biter of half its decisions and destinies. 

It can see moon-mountains when pointed to by die telescope of Ga- 
lileo, and discover a new continent when Columbus aids its vision — 
otherwise it is blind and witless. Addison, a century since, had the 
kindness to usher John Milton into the acquaintance of the world — a 
small squire, we must confess, for so gigantic a master ; a Lilliputian 
leading the king of Brobdignag. Addison was, by constitution and 
character, eminently unfitted for the full comprehension and inter- 
pretation of the author of" Paradise Lost" — there were mysteries there 
which he could not read. Milton's religious enthusiasm, his solemn 
appeals, his grand and gorgeous worship of the Maker, Addison eatdd 
feel and understand. But the penetralia of that mind he never en** 
tered ; like an Indian savage new from the woods, he stood at the 
threshold of the temple, wondering and gazing at its mijrhty archi- 
tecture — its noble columns — its overhanging roof contending widi 
the skies ; and from the very depth of his amazement had not the heart 
to enter. 

However, the world was content with hia adoration, and gathering 
around the shrine he had pointed out, fell down and^worshipped. Mil- 
ton became a demi-god : thenceforth his large footsteps were seen 
among men, while all acknowledged that his head was amid the Hea- 
vens. 



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tHB PROSE OF MILTON. 143 

We wish not to increase ihat admiration ; we merely venture in the 
present paper to teach a few that Mflton has written other works than 
Paradise Lost, and other productions than poems — that his whole 
oceanic mmd was not poured through that one channel — though 
broad and deep it be, and bear on its bosom ships of the richest bur- 
dens. 

Milton has vnritten prose as well as verse — prose which it is a mat- 
ter of wonder and sorrow that the lumber of an age has been permitted 
80 long to cover — prose which, vital with the very spirit of immortality, 
came strangely near perishing as one of the waste wrecks and cast- 
aways of Time. In examining the masterly prose of Milton, we shall 
confine ourselves to his most masterly specimen of it, namely, ** Areo- 
pagitica, or a speech in defence of the Uberty of unlicensed printing." 

We think of the whole circle of the English language (and we may 
say of all the languages of the earth, judging from translated speci- 
mens,) this is the loftiest, and at the same time the most compact ; 
the sweetest and yet most sarcastic ; the most serious and most witty 
offspring of its kind and compass. This seems extravagant eulogy ; 
it would be, spoken of any save Milton. 

Burice's prose is grand we acknowledge ; its sonorous and march- 
ing sentences, its celestial air, its hooded philosophy, claim for it the 
hi^ places of our admiration. But it lacks condensation ; it is made 
an apparent ocean by the vast surface it is spread over ; it might have 
more wisely been gathered into a gulf. MUton, on the other hand, is 
close and strong knit ; his grander sentences advance in steel-clad 
battalions, well ordered and invincible, while he has at command lighter 
troops to skirmi^ and gall the enemy from the distance. 

He has a fearful arm in controversy ; it is his element and delight. 
He seems to have lived alone truly in the tempest and conflict of de- 
bate ; he was never vanquished, and Success, we know, is no near bro- 
ther to Moderation. The range of his mind in this production is lit- 
tle less than universal ; he brings all opinions, all governments, all 
times and themes, to bear upon this great theme — the Liberty of the 
Press* Step by step he presses on, demolishing at each blow some 
faiiy castle of argument erected by his opposers ; and when he has 
finished the task, thus worthily appointed by himself, he concludes 
with noble eloquence in an appeal to those in whose hands the desti- 
nies of the Press were deposited, we feel that Milton has spoken : — 

** But to redress willingly and speedily what hath been erred, and m highest an- 
thority to esteem a plain advertisement more than others have done a sumptuous 
bribe^ is a virtue, honored Lords and Conunons ! answerable to your highest actions, 
And whereof none can participate but greatest and wisest men." 

The general spirit of the *' Are<^agitica" is masculine and pure ; its 
inspiration seems directly of Heaven. While he thrusts aside his an- 



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144 THS FB08E OF MILTON. 

Ugo&isti with DO cikild'8 hand, he does not fidget his mittreM (w he 
18 proud to call her) Truth. He decks her forth in die moet iduning 
apparel ; in various passages he alludes to her widi the same waimth 
and feeling as if she were a personal fiiend. 

** Truth indeed came once into the world with her dirine muter, and waa a pei^ 
feet shape most glorious to look on ; but when he ascended, and his apoatlea after 
him were laid asleep, then straight arose a wicked race of deceivers, who» as the 
story goes of the Elgyptian Typhon and his conspirators, how they dealt with the 
good Osiris, took the virgin Truth, hewed her lovely form into a thousand pieces, 
and scattered them to the four winds. From that time ever since, the sad friends of 
Truth, such as durst appear, imitating the eareini search that Iris made for the man- 
gled body of Osiris, went up and down, gathering up limb by limb still as they could 
find them. We have not yet found them all, lords and commons ; nor ever shall do 
till her master's second coming ; be shall bring together every joint and member, 
and shall mould them into an immortal feature qf lovelinue and perfeetUm/* 

Milton's prose has three qualifications which are constituents of the 
highest order of minds ; and, what is the more miraculous, rarely, as in 
this instance, blended in any one composition. 

The first, (which is the stamp and current impress of all his pro- 
ductions) is greatness, a certain lofly tone and bearing which die word 
MilUmic can alone adequately express. There is, as a single exam- 
ple, that noble sentence familiar to every reader of English : 

** Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself lUce a 
strong man aAer sleep, and shakmg her invinciUe locks ; methinks I aee her as an 
eai^e, rearing her mighty youth, and kindling her uodasaled eyes at the fiill rndf 
day beam, purging and unsealing her long-abused sight at the fountain itself of hea- 
venly radiance, while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also 
that love the tMrilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means, and in their envious 
gabble would prognosticate a year of sects and schisms." 

With this Titanic loftiness is united, at times, a generous and liberal 
courtesy towards those against whom he is so manfully striring ; he 
ofiTers them the advantage of wind and sun, and yet comes aff more 
than conqueror. But Milton is not always in this pleasant mood ^ 
when his mind is tempest tost, the unshrived adventurer on this ** sea 
of speculation'* must beware : — he has blows as well as blandish- 
ments. 

Speaking of the absurdity of appointing one man (the licenser) to be 
a rule by which every mind is to be measured, he puts Ae pointed 
question : 

« And how can a man teach with authority, which is the life of teadnng? how 
can he be a doctor fai his book as he ougbtto be, or else had better be silent, wben 
as all he teaches, all he delivers, is but under the tuition, under the correction of his 
patriarchal license, to blot or alter what precisely accords not with the hire-bound 
humor which he calls his judgment? When every acute reader upon the first 
sight of a pedantic license, will be ready with these like words to ding the book a 
ooit*s distance from him: *I hate a pupil teacher; I endure not an instmctor that 
eomei to me under the wardship ofanoveneeiog fist I know notbiag of the licen- 
ser, but that I have his own hand here fix: his airogaaee; who shall warrant me his 
judgment?*** 

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THB ItROM OF MILTOlf. 145 

Aiid ia a 8dbte<i«ent page, m aiwwer to tho rappositkm t^ 
printing would fill the world with infidel and heretical woriu which 
might ahake the &ith of professors, he remarks severely that, ** We 
should think better of the proficiency of gospel ministers than that, af- 
ter all their continuous preaching, they should be still frequented with 
such unprincipled, unedified and laic rabble, as that the whiff of erery 
new pami^et should stagger them out of their catechism and Chris- 
tian walldng.^ He laughs at the thought that ** all the sermons, aU 
tiielectuies preached, printed, Tended in such numbers and such vo- 
lumes, as have now well nigh made all other books unsaleable, should 
not be armour enough against one single Enchindion, vnthotU the Cat' 
tU of St Jingelo of an imprimatur P* 

Tet all the more genial elements were deeply wrought into Milton's 
soul, and burst gloriously throu^ even the thickest fogs of disputa- 
tion. Even in the following satiric analogy (our last long quotation,) 
there is a predommating tone of ftncy and sweetness : 

'^IfwethiaktorofirfstepffiBtiiii^dMrebyto rectify mtiioert/we must regoJatB 
aU ncreationttiid pastimes, all that is delightful to man. No music mast be heard, 
no Boog be set or sung, but what is grave and Doric There must be licensing 
dancers, that no gesture, motion, or deportment be taught our youth, but whst, by 
their allowance, shall be thou^ honoit ; for sodi Pluto was proridedoC It wiU 
ask more tiian the woik of twenty Ucensats to ejMmineall the lutes, the Tiolms, and 
tiM goitan in eveiy houae ; they must not be sufiered to prattle as they do^ but must 
be hoensed whet they may say. And who shall silence all the airs and madrigals 
that whisper softness m chambers 7^ The windows, also, and the balconies must 
be thought OD ; there are direwd books with dangerous frontispieces set to sale , — 
who sfaaD prohibit them? sfaaDtwen^ hoensers? The Tillages, also, must have 
their visitors to inquire what lectures the bagpipe and rebec reads, even to the bal- 
btry and gamut of every municipal fiddler ; for these are the countrymen's Arca- 
diaa* and Monte Mayors." 

Though clothed in the panoply of Hercules, he thus exhibits the 
agility and graces of Apollo. 

But, after all, we repeat that which is most remarkable is the mo- 
je$tji of Milton's English. While listening to its musical and rolling 
accents we seem to be in some venerable presence, partaking inspira- 
tioa from its countenance, and wrapt away in the glory of its divine elo- 
quence. There is no pause throughout this briUiant essay in our ad- 
miration : no holiday in our worship of the gigantic mind heaving and 
surging before us. 

His first march up to the onset, with a grave, and yet glowing de- 
meanor, marks the importance of the conflict at hand ; his opening 
periods fall on the ear like the heavy peal of a distant organ, collect- 
ing its music for a noble oratorio. And irtien he has lifted us into 
dM hig^iest elevations of his questioni; he descends upon hb quany 



* Sir Philip Sidney's. 
VOL. vn. 19 



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146 THB ntoai of milton. 

widi an OYerpoweriDg telon ; his prey is secured ; his adversary is at 
once thrown into chains. But Milton can force merriment as weH as 
matter of moment from controversy ; the execution of his enemy does 
not* therefore, take place forthwith — hut he is reserved for awhile as 
the victim of mockery and sport With a torturing dexterity MUton 
probes the angriest wounds in his flesh, and tents again and again the 
sore spots ; he is the chirurgeon of satire — the Sir Everard Home of 
disputation. And when the reader of the Areopagitica is about to pro- 
nounce him all this, he bursts forth with one of those eloquent axioms 
idiich are the legacies of great men to all ages : 

** Wbo0O kills a man, kills a reasonable creature, God's image ; but he wbo de* 
•troys a good book, kills reason itself; kills the image of Gk>d, as it were, in the eye. 
Many a man lives a burden to Uie earth ; but a good book is Uie precious Iifc4)lood 
oi a roaster spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose toa life beyond lifo.** 

We could expatiate much more at large on this noble composition 
—the perfection of its logic, the beauty of its language, the poetry of 
its sentiments — but we leave it — reluctandy in truth — and as we 
cast a lingering glance towards the glorious structure, we feel impelled 
to tell you, reader and co-laborer in the mines of knowledge ! that if 
you strive for mastery of mind, for strength and massiveness of thought, 
if you wish to bathe your young limbs in the freshest stream of your 
mother tongue and acquire a celestial vigor — plunge into and peruse 
the Areopagitica; lave yourself in it; and if you are not submerged 
by its Pactolian billows, thank God that he has granted you a double 
portioaofthe hi^r spirit! 

C M* 



SONG. 

0*UL the dark sea of life as man wanders in sorrow, 

While the chain of existence is galling the soul ; 
When hating to-day, he looks on to the morrow, 

And eagerly counts the life- waves as they roll ; 
Wben aiar OD that sea the last fires of hope quiver, 

Like a lamp-light Tibrating at every breath ; 
YHien the soul would lull willingly sleep on for ever, 

If the sorrows of life could be ended by death. 

If then, like an tnflusnee breathing from heaven, 

The spirit of woman steals over the soul ; 
The music that giief from that bosom had driven, 

Within it again in its joyousness rolls ; 
Love lights up hope's beacon afar on the ocean, 

Till it shines like Divinity's eye on its breast ; 
Love, love stills the heart in its troublous emotion, 

And lulls the wild storm of ita passions to rest 

Albbet PncB. 



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147 



A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL. 

Dbyans had been aittiiig in my room in hia wonted melancholj 
mood. He had been referring to hia own history. With the perti- 
nacity of sorrow he had dwelt upon it so long, that it now seemed as 
if he thou^t su&ring a privilege, and rather luxuriated in the sadness 
of his lot 

*^It is a strai^ story," said I, ** a foundation for a novelist or a 
poet Why do you not give it to the world ? or do you shrink from 
communicating it ?' 

** Oh, no — not that ; it is so long ago — and I am an utter stranger 
in diis part of the world ; but the world would never believe my story. 
The life of Mdanie is so just like the dream an ungovemed fancy 
mi|^ weave, that it would not interest as the reality it is. Besides 
for plot and incident I should be wholly at a loss." 

^ Try, nevertheless — I have pen and paper here — the spirit is on 
you now — dictate — and I will write down. From the time you first 
knew her." 

M On ^ banks of Sugar river." 

^ Oh, no — don't fix your residence — say on the banks of a river 
— that is harmless ; it is the only safe mode of expression. If you 
put in a single proper name, rely on it your firiends will each and all 
q>propriate it, without regard to probability or possibility, and as rea^ 
sonably, be mortally offended widi you." 

**Ihave no proper name to put in but one — Hale — and he is 
dead. There is nobody to be injured but myself by the mention of 
his name." 

*• Well, go on — I am ready." 

** On the banks of a river, Melanie Devans went every day to the 
district school, and I, her brother, went every day with her, cairying 
her blue satchel and two enormous slates, besides my own chattels, 
fhttt she might have ample scope to pull wiki flowers on the ¥ray ; 
legulariy ^cyphering her sums" for her, after I had finished my own 
— prompting her in the spelling class — choosing her on my side for 
the ^hard-word" exercise — and loving her as a brother will love a 
delicate sister, gentle, affectionate, and gratefiil. We were all to each 
other. Our parents died while we were infents, in one day, of the 
old scourge of the country, the spotted fever ; and we lived wtA our 
grandparents, a mile firom any otber habitation. They were aged and 
IMWciae. To ua, eren their preci«on and pngudkea were i 



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148 A LSAF FROM MT JOURNAL* 

When Melanie and I returned finora school, we were as sure to find 
them sitting opposite each other, pipe in mouth, as we were to see the 
house standing behind the great ehns, where it had stood half a centiuy ; 
and to hear, as we entered the door, the same inquiry^ 

^ Well, children, at the head of your chiss t — hungry V^ 

We never thought of loving them, or confiding in them. They 
were too erect, and the house was too stUI for that ; but we revered 
them. Daily, after eating our bread and milk supper, we strolled off 
to the banks of the river, to search for nuts and flowers, to listen to 
file songs of the birds, in fiie silence ; to drink in all the romance of 
nature, and unconsciously to unfit ourselves for life. I am now what 
fiiose days of idle reverie have me ; and Melanie, she too was warm- 
ing in her bosom the seeds of her future desfiny. But who was to 
warn us or strengthen us 7 

The first event in our existence was reading ** The Scottish Chiefe.*' 
Tou have read it I hope you read it at my age ; for in no other way 
can you conceive its efiect on a young imagination. I believe I men- 
tioned we were twin orphans ; and, till we were fifteen years old, had 
trodden our small familiar circle, with measured steps, with sleadj 
pulses, with Uttle thought of the world, and with so much knowledge 
of it as could be gained firom a forced and unwilling perusal of **Rd- 
lin's Ancient History." There was a confused mingling of empires 
and battles in our memory, and the figures of Cyrus and Cambjrses 
in our dim fancies ; but nHiy or wherefore men rose or empires fell» 
we knew not 

At this time we read Miss Porter's bewitching romance. I bor-» 
rowed it firom a great boy who used to sit in the back-seat and read 
it, instead of Pike's Arithmetic ; we did not guess it was a romance. 
We fiiougfat it all as veritable history as the famOy Bible itself. But 
what a new world it opened to us I how we revelled in its heart-stirring 
descriptions ! how bitterly we wept over the murder of Marion ! how 
our yery souls were moved at the lonely anguish of the wairior- 
nAouraM- ! and how we hated the knight of the green plume — the 
treacherous Lady Mar I Oh, could we hate and love so now, as in fiie 
unworn fireshness of our first sympathies we did ! We were no more 
daily pacers in the dull round of a confined existence ; but we bathed 
transportedly in the far ofiTpast Our dreams were now rich with the 
sound of war-trumpets, and the sighs of heroic and mourning loye ; 
and our daily talk in the woods was of the same bryiiant scenes, glit- 
tering with file sword of the conqueror, or dank with the red blood of 
the traitor. We leapt at once into die first life of the soul — oiur 
reahn was wild, ungoyemed, unintellectual ; but rich and vast. And 
we roamed there with a delight fiiat no after-happiness could equal. 
B«t St 10 of Meknie I shoukl speak. And yet, in daseribiiv my 

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A LSAF FROM MT JOURNAL. 149 

own transition from the brown worm of the sod to the butterfly of 
Hbe radiant air, I do but picture bet's as it was reflected to me. Should 
I not have trembled to see the elements of her nature thus IdndHng 
and wasting? Should I not have foreboded that the flame which so 
iUumined and beautified might also destroy? Ob, brother's love ! where 
was thy prescience? why could I not distinguish the shadow of the 
angel as well as the brightness of his wing ? 

One afternoon we returned fi'om our accustomed ramble just as the 
son set As we silently trod the path which led through the orchard 
to the house, I was oppressed with a misgiving, a half presentiment 
of ilL Tou smile — you have no faith, that ^^ coming events cast their 
shadows before." I believe it, simply because experience tells me 
so. Eyery event of any importance in my life has been preceded by 
this impression, this presage — it cannot be described, but it is easily 
recognised. While I speak I feel it It is a weight, an apprehen- 
siveness ; but it may be I am only living over the feeling of that 
fuaset 

As we approached the house, we perceived that the accustomed 
places of our aged relatives, where they were wont to enjoy the twi- 
Mght in fragrant repose, were vacant The next moment we saw my 
grandfather standing beyond the elm, and pointing with uplifted cane 
to ihe meadows. An attentive hstener stood by him, and heard the 
extent and beauty of the &rm described as if it were the most interest- 
ing thing in the world to him to know how many tcms of hay it pro- 
duced. At the sound of our steps the stranger turned. He was a tall 
handsome man, widi dvnk curling locks and a military air — this was 
Lieutmiant Hale. We were introduced, as usual, as *' the chfldren." 
A cordial shake of the hand — ** my dear cousin" — and a kiss of 
Melanie's hand, had won my heart, before I remembered that he had 
claims on my regard ; that he was my only uncle's only son, and an 
heir, with my sister and myself, to my grandfather. 

Hale had just returned from a three year's residence at Council 
Bhiflb ; before that time he had been at West Point, and secluded from 
female society. At the frontier post of Council Bluffi he was equally 
aecluded ; but his manner to Melanie was chivalric and gentle, as if 
he had been bred in courts. He had a natural elegance and ease, 
which circumstances can neither give nor take away. This manner 
first made me glance inquiringly at my sister, if haply she were beau- 
tifoL Before this, I had neyer thought of it at aH. And now I could 
not decide. She had large hazel eyes, full of afiection, and thought- 
ful as dreams and reverie could make them ; a world in themselves 
of hidden treasures for a brother to revel in ; but would they shine in 
the woiid ? would they flash in a ball-room ? I thought not They 
bdonged to the still, woods and watersi and the worid was something ta 



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160 A LBA.F PBOM MT JOURNAL. 

be dreamed of aod not to act a part in. Her compleiion wa« pale, 
and her hair light and abundant She was unlike the beauty I had 
read of or fancied, and entirely unconscious that she could be a sub- 
ject of admiration. She learned the lesson for the first time, in the 
speaking eyes of her cousin ; and she became powerfuL How sweet 
is the first consciousness of power! She withheld her smile, and 
she saw that she scattered unhappiness : she gave it once more, and 
she saw that she gathered in rapture. 

They wandered together where we had wandered. They dreamed 
where we had dreamed. A new world dawned on Melanie — the 
world of intellect — the beings of her fancy were mardudled, selectedt 
and gilded with the hues of nature, passion, and truth — her concept 
tions were no longer vague — her thoughts received form and body 
— she began to reflect, to compare, to deduce. 

Her tale is told. Need I say she loved the hand that led her to 
these fountains 1 Need I say, that this world of the heart poured a 
new flood of radiance over the imagination and the intellect? That, 
sweeter to her became the silence of one voice than the melodies of 
all others ? That she lost her own being in that of another, and joyed 
in her self-annihilation ? Because she bved, she iruiied — because 
she trusted, she was betrayed. Shame on man's nature 1 for it is his 
nature. And now, tell me, you who have loved, why did she not hate 
hun ? Why — if she loved excellence, and Melanie loved him as suebt 
she had listened to his utterance of lofty and pure thought, till she 
reverenced him as the angel of her soul — her guide to an eternity — 
why, when the mask fell, and she knew him to be mortal and baset 
why did she still love him ? Why, when life became one gulf of 
darimess, did love still shine on, a steady light, by which her soul 
steered through the abyss ? Is love ennobling } is it not entfaraUii^{ 
rather? destroying? 

They went to England. They left sorrow and shame, where they 
had been in innocence. They lefl me to smooth the gray hairs of 
our protectors in the grave, and to weep desolate tears over the last 
^nds I had on earth. 

Devans paused in his story. 

^' Tou have heard from them since ?" 

*' How can I tell you what she became? she was not wedded ta 
her betrayer, for she wanted but his love ; and would the law have 
ensured her what honor and conscience had refused to give her? for, 
I repeat it — he cauid not hone loved her, 1 heard it length that she 
was deserted — I sought her in the wilderness of London — I ex- 
plored the haunts of vice — I became intimate with penury and twin 
with shame, to discover my lost Melanie, but in vain. My resource 
wer9 nearly exhausted, and I was about giving up the pursuit in de» 

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A LBlf PROM MT JOURNAL. 151 

flpair* when I saw her name — It was on the list of conricted criminals ! 
She was transported to Botany Bay the week before, for the crime of 
stealing a loaf of bread from a baker's stall ! 

** I know she must have been all but iamished before she would 
have placed her finger on the property of another. I hope she is in 
her grave. I think she must have died on her passage.'* 

He paused again, and I did not inquire further. The lapse of years 
had not yet healed the wound in his heart ; but I directed the conver- 
sation to politics. In the excitement of a dispute about the bank 
question, we had forgotten our late subject of interest, when my at- 
tention was arrested by the sound of a strange voice in the entry be- 
low. My landlady was uttering herself far beyond her wont, and I 
went to die bannisters to see who it was. 

It was only a beggar woman, who, with the usual independence of 
people in this land of equality, had entered at the open fix>nt-doot. 
She was decently dressed, with a bundle of clothes in her hand, miiich 
die laid down, seated herself on the stairs^ and then composedly took 
ofi^ first her bonnet and then her cap. She began smoothing her 
tangled locks with a pocket comb, and trotting her fbot with great in- 
difTerehce, white she repeated in wailing tones her parrot-like lesson 
of misery. I heard tte old story, — ^ four children — one deaf and 
dumb — one sick — going to Providence — fiufaer and mother-in-law 
in the wagon — gone along — " and was on the point of turning 
back to my room in disgust, when she suddenly raised her eyes to the 
spot where I was standing, and called out — 

^ Oh! is nt that a sweet young gentleman ? is that your son, Ma'amt 
I know it k ! I know by the dimples !'' 

My poor landla^, who was as guiltless of dimples as fifly sum- 
mers could make her, could only smilingly disclaim the maternity ; 
while the woman, nowise disheartened, continued ga2ing up at me, 
and calling me '* a kind gentleman," till, firom a slight feeling of awk- 
wardnesa, I slipped halfway down the stairs. As soon as I had done 
so, she began again to repeat her story, with many additions and 
variations. Sometimes there was a short pause, and an evident 
exertion of the inventive faculty, and oflener an outbreak of natural 
feeling, which convinced me that her tale of sufiering was not whoUy 
fictitious. As die proceeded, I observed that she becanle more and 
more excited, atid seemed heedless of the presence of any one. My 
landlady, glad to be rkl of listening to her, lefl her to my charge. I 
thought it possible Ae might be intoxicated ; but on looking at her 
ftce, I saw no appearance of it. Her fiice was fiiU, coarse, and tan- 
ned quite dark, but not flushed. Afler walking the lengfli of the enoy 
•evend times, all the whifo talkitig with great volubility, and gesticu- 
latiog, sometimes with violence and sometiines with considerable 



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152 A L£AP FBQM MT JOURNAL. 

grace, she stopped suddenly, sat down again on the staurs, and looked 
steadily at me. 

" I'm a poor creature !" 

I always feel an unaccountable interest in this class of beings, and 
perhaps from having been previously somewhat excited, felt a great 
desire to know something of the history of the wayward thing be- 
fore me. 

^ Tou said your tnother'in'law was in the wagon," said I ; *' where 
then is your own mother?" 

'* She's dead — she's dead! yes, she's dead, I say! God be 
praised she does n't live to see the misery of her poor profligate." 
Here her tears stopped her voice ; but the next moment she went on 
— *« I've seen better days — yes, I've been to a boarding-school — 
I've learnt seven tongues — " 

*' Have you been very wicked ?" said I. 

She looked wistfully at me, as if she did not understand me. 

"Tou said you were a poor profligate; have you been veiy 
wicked?" 

" Oh, no, no — not wicked any — not wicked at all. I'll tell you 
about it." Here she sunk her voice to a whisper. ^ I married my 
coachman ! — ran away with him, you understand f But what of that 1" 
continued she loudly; " what's gold? all the gold in the world won't 
keep you alive ! when you die you must leave it all ! No, no, be- 
lieve in Christ! But, now, what's faith? I tell you works are no- 
thing — all filthy rags ! you must believe in Christ Oh ! I lost my 
boy — drowned, drowned ! here — I've washed his clothes! see! in 
this bag, wringing wet — don't you see? I washed them in the river, 
back here." 

. She held up the dry bundle as she spoke, and I saw die must be 
deranged. She put her hand to her head and eyes. 

" You can't think how much I sufier — oh ! I'm very sick 1" 

*^ Hadn't you better have something to eat ?" said I. 

"Oh, no— -miiy, don't you know? I couldn't eat so much — noy 
not so much as would keep a child five years old alive ! I tell you I 
am sick !" 

A son of my landlady came in at the door at this moment, and stood 
looking at her. She walked towards him, and laying her hand on his 
head, said solemnly, — 

" Bless you, boy ! God bless you ! you're just the age of my hoy 
that was drowned ! Tes ! he was drowned -^ my sweet boy !" 

She went on with violence. 

" Boy ! are you going to be a minister? don't you go near the pul- 
pit, no more flian you would to damnation ! the ministers came to 
me, and they saidi ' Do you grudge your child to God ?' Tes, I do 



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A LKAT FBOM MT JOHlUfAL. lU 

gndgfi himl^^jm^lio^ym^ldol I do! Ida gr w ig§ hm!-^ 
hum — diey told me God lent hiiii« WeH, I auppoke he did ; hut he 
neednH hare taken himl-^n/ boy«***Diy ooljboy! Yeef I do 
grudge him f** 

She clenched her hand, and hegan walking rapidly again* With 
view to calm her» I saidr-* 

** I am sorry for you — you don't look welL** 

She stopped short in her walk« and looked keenly at me. 

^How? — not well? — oh! you mean here — ^ putting her hand 
to her headj: ** I know it ; it is nH right Aere." 

u I think you would he better to try to eat somediing. Can you 
diink c^any diing you would relish?^ 

*• No ; you have nH any thing I want" 

•• "What do you wantP 

^MeaH!^ said she emphadcally." Now, mind — you must be 
good-* yon most believe Id Christ S his bk>od c l eaase s from aH sin. 
He was bom <^ a yiigin*^tfaaC% it! and you most have MA, hepie^ 
and charity, these Arse \ but if yo« don% God damn yow soul to 
belP' 

Ajs shs spoke, I saw DevMis desoending the stairs. His Imm 
was pale as ashes, and 1 saw at onee 4wt he was terriUy agitated. 
My owtt frame tiesA l e d , as be suric on a chair, aad whispered 
hottsely-^ 

««AskharBame.>> 

I did so. She looked down with Ae iiiiawig so ooimmmi to saeh 
anfertanates, and begaa cooDting hsrtiagen, as if she had not heard 
me* I repeated my questioa. 

^Oik\ mynamet-^my aameis-i— my nameis-— FoUy.*^ 

^ And what is jixm simamel'' 

'^'Why, whafs ttmttoyou! Pm a poor creature dependent on &e 
booBiy of Ae charitable -^ got ftar chfldrsQ— CUV deaf and dwah —* 
father and -<.'> 

««res, yes ; Vm heud ait thiA befeie. N#w, took at bm, and 
answerme. IsnotyvmrnaBialfelanie DofaDst*' 

flfce tooked cimiiasly at aae. 

«« my, hew did jaa know that f*^ 

^Oh,Iknewit; yoahadahroAer once,loo— a brodMr John — 
dboH you remeaibert^ 

^Tes; bat he is drowned-*- he was drowned, and only tkree and 
twenty years old I Thenunsters casM to HM,aad they said — oh, 
what they said I damnthemP 

Hvia she broke into a tonrent of proftnity that made as both rirad- 
der. It passed, aad she once more sat down quietl]^ Devans new 

'vm* in. SO 



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164 LITB IN ARKAN8A£. 

went towards her, took her handy and fixing his eyea on her for soma 
moments, said at length in a low, gentle voice — 

^^Melanie! mj sister! you remember me 1" 

Her eye softened and filled with tears. She leaned her cheek to 
his, and murmured — 

^ And the orchard, John ! and the woods ! Oh, take me there 
agam!" 



LIFE IN ARKANSAS. 

TBI FHILOIOPBT OF DUE-BUirnifO. 

All philosophising is, I am inclined to fiiink, a kind of vagaiy, and 
those carping critics, who so much find fault with us poor wigfals who 
manufacture articles, and edify the public, at the expense of great and 
extraordinary cudgelling of our brains, should do well to consider, that 
whenever a man falls into a train of thought, he glides imperceptibly 
firom one subject to another—- ere they accuse us of incoherence, dis- 
Joiirtedness, and want of connexion in our hicubratioas. How do<9s 
every man, when he commences thinking upon one subjectt riide, 
without knowing how, into anodier, without himself being able to trace 
the connecting link of thou^t — the litUe crosscut, which led him 
firom one thorou^kfiure into the other. I for one, profess only to write 
as I think, and I never yet knew men to thmk m essays. Philoso- 
phising, then, is not writing didactics — neither is it sedulously to imi^ 
tate the war-horse tramp of Johnson, nor the pacing-jennet style of 
Addison. 

J9o then, for the i^osq>hy of deer-hunting. I have never tanged 
the hills of Scotland after the red-deer, heralded by the baying of the 
stag-hound — or even leaped a hunter over a ten-barred gate. Ihaveno 
vaunts to make of die craggy precipices, the gorges, die waterfalls, die 
linns, and die passes, known by names unpronounceable except by 
Hif^iland throats. I have never chased the chamois over the Alps. 
I have never eaten the spoils of the chase in a baronial casde $ but I 
have pursued the deer on the banks of the Mississippi and its tributa^ 
ries — over the boundless prairies, and among the stupendous wonders 
of the Rocky Mountains — and I have been in at the deadi of Ae an^ 
telope and the elk. 

Stand with me here, gende reader! Wast ever in such a place 
before ? Mediinks not To your right is the vriley of die river ; 
broad, green, nsasstve, and silent Behind you and before is the up-^ 



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LIPB IK ARKAHtAt. 165 

fond forest of gnarled and twisted oak, and on your righta mile or two 
of prairie, green, level, and luxuriant as a meadow. The sun has not 
arisen to drink up the dew from the hlades of grass and the laden leaves* 
The track of the deer will be plain this morning. Lo ! your horse 
is impatient Let us begone. We go stealthily and quietly through 
the woods. Not a leaf rustles beneath our moccasined feet — for the 
hunter must step lightly as the Indian. Here will we tie our horses 
«nd proceed on foot Back, there, Juno ! Keep back, Font I or the 
ramrod will teach you a lesson of patience. Look at old Killbuck ! 
He understands still-hunting, and, though a dozen trails crossed his 
path, would not take one unless so ordered. Talk of hunting foxes 
and hares I Poor devils, taken out in bags to be run down and mur- 
dered ! I would as soon think of turning loose a big cat, and chasing 
her through half a dozen stubble-fields. But tell me, you man from 
the streets of Boston ! Is there no philosophy in this ? Is not your 
mind full of thought ? Is it not all thought, at such a time, and in 
such a vocation as this ? This is not like popping at robbins, black- 
birds, and sand-peeps, widi what we would call a toatier gun. Here 
is the broad heaven over us, and the wild woods around us. No hniB 
of the city here ! But the mockbird is offering up to its Creator, in 
tills fitting and magnificent temple, the most acceptable offering ever 
presented by created being — to wit, cheerfulness and joy. How 
little and petty do all the cares, vexations, and pursuits of the world 
now seem to us. It m good for man to be alone — sometimes. It is 
good for him sometimes to feel as though he were in the immediate 
presence* of his Maker — and to remove the choking rubbiA from over 
the spring of joy and affection in his heart, and to let it well up and 
overflow again. Passion — hot passion is the blood which is con- 
tinually pulsing through the arteries of the living world — but none of 
it reaches here. Hark ! look sharp ! here is a track, and fretAk too ! 
— the dew just brushed firom the grass I See, too, where the twigs 
have been cropped off! If one of you bay, I'll murder you without iail. 
I see the red coat shining through the leaves. Two, by Jupiter ! and 
•two bucks ! Look at the beautiful creatures. Was there ever a fairer 
shot ! Broadside to us, and not more than eighty yards distance ! 
Does your hand tremble 1 Wait a moment, and steady your nerves. 
Tour men who have only shot at birds and rabbits are apt to be flattered 
in your first shot at a deer. Be patient Take a lesson from M 
Killbuck. See how he crouches there — afraid almost to breathe ! 
Ha! they listen! Willtheyrun? No, they are cropping the leaves. 
Ib it not strange that so wild and timorous a thing can be so easily 
tamed ? If you Aod a doe when her fawn is a foitnigfat old, the ia* 
nocent youngling will follow you, and become Ae tamest tfamg om 
^Mffth — even to lapping milk titom your hands. Are you steady now? 

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156 uvi m AMCA.irtA0. 

If soi takft tke one to the right Fire I Mine is down I A dead diot 
through die heart! Tou struck joura too &r hack ; but we'U have 
hua. Now he's off! Oo-peel Hunt him, KiUhuok I Tip I yip I yip» 
Juno! After him, Pont I And now for our horses; after Ueeding 
my Tictim, behold us mounted, and stretching on the track of the 
dogs. Old Eillbuck, the noble old fellow, gives tongue beauti^ulty. 
Hal I see ikem in the prairie! Now for ashortcuti Spur on I 
Hum I Over guUey and through the brambles — ^ now in the timber^ 
and now again in the prairie behold us stretching. Leap after leap the 
deer goes on, and in the long grass the dogs gain hot little on him* 
Hurra ! We are reaching after him. Spur, for the honor of Boatoik 
See I he doubles ; but we have him» Tlie blood runs down his side» 
Th^re he goes — ovm* and over. He's ours. 

That is iUU-hmUng. Shall we try it after another fashion 7 Let 
us take to the woods again. There is something exhilarating in thin 
sport No wonder that die old hunter hates to be encroached on^ 
and complains bitterly when the settlements thicken around hkn* I 
love to hunt in this way — for to do it a man requires many good 
yalifications. He who is a good deeHiunter has die essential rsqui>> 
sites lo make him a great man. He has, in the first place, prudence, 
caution, and care, in tracking his victim and approaching him. He 
BHist possess industry and patience* He must be bold in his plans 
— quick to form them, and quick to execute. And, above all, he must 
take care lest, at die most critical moment. Us exceeding haste^ eager- 
ness, nad precipitancy, render all his industry, care, and precautioQ 
vmd and useless, by causing him to shoot wide of die marie Thegood 
poUtioian has need of the same quaUties. He should be careful and 
waiy in his approaches -^prompt both in forming and executing hb 
plans^ yet never so sure of his man, his distance, or his object, as to 
overAoot the itmrk. But here we are, kit our place. Tou see thsft 
Uek in front of us ! We will sit here, behind these budMS. Have you 
loaded your ride ? And now for die dogs ! Here, KillbudLl Qo^ 
hunt 'em! Sick 'em boy! Oo-peo! Hmrral He is off, and yon 
wiU hear him soon make an able report as chairman of that commit^ 
tee* Speaking of the philosophy of hunting, I was about to remark 
thaithereisverylitUeof itinbear-huliting. Tou start out your dog^ 
and they run the bear awhile and then^ree him-*- you go up and shoot 
him down« and that ends the matter. There's no philosophy in that 
There is a great deal) however, to be said for die dogs. I do not neis 
wonder at the endiusiasm of the Ettrick Shepherd about his dogi. 
Tou shodd see Killbuck bold a bear or a bufialo by die nose. That 
4egt Sir* has received a finished education. He never starts in the 
chase tiH he is told, and he never stops till he overtakes his db||ect. 
As 4o his running on die Imch4raek^ itis impossibk« Ton in lbs 



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Un in ARKANSAS. 167 

SmI, Sir, kaom very little about the Tslue of a dog. Tis tme^ jou 
have your poMters aad aettmii who are, to you, very useful ; but the 
iMii who opens a fimn in an unsettled country has other and more 
imporlaat uses for the animaL He cares nothing for pointers and 
aetters; bat he needs those who can defend his property from the 
woi^ the foiz, die wild cat, the pandier, and the bear. Erery ni^ 
Us degB SCOOT the woods, and the wild denizens cyf the forest are not 
found to remain long within the canine sphere of actioB. More dian 
this— ^I have seen the time when I felt forsaken by die whole world 
-— idieo I was desolate, destitute o£ every thing save my horse, my 
gOBt and my dog ^-^ when no eye of affection but his was on me ^ 
idien none oared for me but him. He loved me, for myself alone — 
as much in pover^ as in abundance. Did I not love him? Ay ! that 
did I. 'fhe heart must have something to love, and what more wcn^ 
tl^ of it than my faithful dog, who slept at my head — followed me 
dajr after day patiently-^ in the scorching sun — over the diy prune 
— day after day without water — and till his feet were worn to the 
quick — and fought the wolf as he came prowling round me by a^ht, 
gwmt and ferocious. 

And here we lie moralizing, with our heads pillowed on Ae mossL 
Metered root of an old oak. A clean limestone ^spring runs bubbling 
at one side, and the gracefol pernromon trees are planted m chisters 
around us. If laoiness, and a degagie appearance and manner are 
Ihe quinteeseace of gentility, then are we in the supreme ban i&n. 
What though we do each wear the fringed leggins,and the eakmadcred 
hunting shirt, both of deer skin, and made by the fair hands of some 
Indian beau^ ; this of mine, in particular, by the dauj^ter of a Kea- 
fcatso chieC Are we not royally dressed, though it be barbarian ref- 
«%! MethuAs I could aknost forget that I have left one behind me, 
watching patiently, with eyes of love, for my return, and imagine my^ 
•elf again in the prairie 'i— again free, undiackled by care^ business, 
<Nr the boB(b of society— independent and penniless — free as Ibe 
flhiirided Pawnee Brave, who rides at the eagle's speed over the track- 
less and OMMiotottOus desert Here we may theorize. Here we may 
imagune whence came that ancient and extinct people, who founded 
Meaeo and Peru, and built the pyramids of Chdula and the Teoa- 
plas of the Sun in Cusco. We may again people even tUs country, 
ft^re, with the wiser, but less waiiike people, who melted away Hke the 
SBOw^wreatk, before ^ fierce inroad of the wild In^an warrior. Or 
we flsay people these woods, and prairies, and springs, and mountains, 
witha fiibulousrace of demt-gods — the Maiads and Diyads 6f our mm 
iperM. Too lauch has been written about Indians by people whb 
had never travelled out of the smoke of a city. Tour women, tee, 
Imva updcstaken to show them up — as if thei/ knew any thing about 



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168 LIF£ IN ARKANSAfl. 

ihe mfttter — as witness Hobomok and other incamalioiis of impos- 
sibilities — and your play- wrights and tragedy manu&ctorers have tried 
their hand at the trade with equal success. Eyen I, readerj undertook 
to describe Indian character and write Indian stories— * and I belieTO 
they were about as good as many that have been manufactured — be- 
fore I had seen an Indian, except one Marshpee and half a dozen 
Fenobscots. It makes me sad to think, that even when a boy, I diouM 
have been so foolish. 

Hark ! Is not that Killbuck 1 Ay ! he has opened, and there go 
the rest in full cry ! He has started them, and now no more room 
for moralizing. Ten to one diey pass by this lick. Listen ! Fainter 
«nd more faint ! Now they double. They are a good mile off yet* 
They bear onward in tiiis direction. Be steady now! If only one 
buck appears, we will both shoot at him. If two appear, I will take 
the foremost They come right down upon us. I hear die crashing. 
Now for it ! Fire ! A noble buck, by all that's good ; and he sprang 
ten feet in the air at the shot. Both bullets near his heart ! 

Art tired of the sport, gentle reader? Itrustnot Peifaaps you and I 
may some time hunt a deer in the broad prairie. We will do it of some 
clear morning, when we are far beyond the liinits of civilization — 
away in the country of the wild Indian horseman. All around us shall 
be the unlimited extent of the prairie, with the blue horizon resting upon 
either edge, encircling us round like a broad blue ring of ocean ; within 
miiich the moving masses of unwieldy buffalo, the fiery herds of unrid- 
den horses, the antlered elk, and the graceful antelope, shall pass us 
by in succession. Near us shall be the conical white tents of the 
Gamanche or the Gaiawa, the Ishmaelites of that desert ThM!e will 
we chase the deer from man to man, till we can strike him widi the 
swift bullet ; or lie in the plain, and wave a bit of scarlet cloth till the 
antelope approaches us, and gives his life as the forfeit of his curiosi^. 
Even such is the way of the world. So is the maiden caught by the 
glitter of the epaulette, or perhaps by the false and deceitful brilliance 
of an eye. So is die politician caught by the glare of that bauble* 
office^ and so he becomes the tool of a party. So is the youth caught 
by the glow of gold or silver at the gambler's table, and stakes upcm a 
card his money, his character, and his soul ; and so is the great man 
lured by the meteor brightness of ambition, and barters peace of mind, 
contentment, and domestic happiness and love, for an empfy and 
worthless dream. The prizes of ambition are truly like the fixiit on 
which did feed Satan and his compeers. They are full to the core of 
«iEdies and of gall. Many a man is there in this nation who has spent 
long vigils, during a long life — who has watched and studied, when 
the world around him was still, at midnight, to become great He has 
neglected domestic tranquillity and domestic love — die calm pursuits 



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THB COHPBflSIOlf. 169 

of literature and the paths of peaceful enjojmeDt, to obtain honor and 
distinction. He has had his wish, and the golden fruit has filled hia 
mouth with ashes. He has had office — high and proud distinction — 
and has been cast down from it ; and the curses of a people^ the 
sneers and jibesy and insults and reproaches of his opponents, have 
followed his downfall. Kind reader, the hunter of the woods is more 
independent, more happy than he. He lives under the broad tree tops^ 
in the open air of heaven. The glittering stars shine over him 
and watch his sleep. He has no dreams of blasted ambition, or of 
success which was a curse to him. He never made himself a slave to 
the mob, to become their leader, and be again trodden beneath their 
feet Under the shadow of the everlasting snow mountains, on tiie 
broad plain, and in the deep forests, he has bathed his soul in content- 
ment and happiness. When death comes to him, he finds one ^o 
fears not his) dart ; for the hunter has dime no evil and inflicted no 
wrong. 

And so our hunt is over. We may return to our several employ- 
ments ; for we are so constituted that we only earn enjojrment by 
labor. That man is most happy, who in his own humble sphere owes 
hn duty to die society in which he lives ; and ^o is thorouf^y con- 
vinced that at his own calm fireside, with one there to love him for 
himself alone, there is more to live for than in the proudest honors and 
the most gorgeous wealth which ambition can crave or avarice desire 
— as die thrush in his quiet resting-place is more secure and more 
contented than die eagle who receives his nursing in the thunder 
cloud. 

A.P. 



THE CONFESSION.* 



IT W. LSTBIfg. 



Havb I not known the love 

That hi^-flonled warrion (eel 7 
Nor striven in the lists to prove 

My prowess, armed in steel ? 

* The Henmt of Engaddi, {vide Tales of the Cmsaders. toL iL) on being np- 
btaided by Rlehard C<Bur de lion, with isnorance of love ana knightly darin|[, in a 
raiited reply mads known his name and story. The above ito a poetical vennon of 



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The htrp that once I Btnwg 

Hangs silent on the wall — 
And voiceless is the minstrel's tongue 

Within oune ancient hall : 
And those, alas ! are dead, 

Who loved ma kmg ago— 
The young, the heautiful, hava fled. 

And left me with my wo. 
And yet, peicbance, a few, 

And soBie on earth thera are, 
Will not focget,ifoooa th^ knew, 

Albenc de Mortemar ! 

Start not — the tale is aooth — 

I would it were untrue — 
I would I could recall my youth, 

And all its deeds undo. 
Perchance thou may^ have heard 

How I, like thee, my king^ 
Hare often to the ooaJ>at spurred 

In plain or tilting ring. 
HI fared it in the field 

^ith him who braved my fereo, 
I atraok hkn, knighuUke, in the abiald , 

And bore him from his horae* 
The minstrels sang my praise — 

Fair women smiled to hear. 
And I went rejoicmg in the Uaze 

Of Fame, fiom year to year. 
And when in arms I rode^ 

My banners to the sun 
Were radiantly fiung abroad, 

And all the world looked on. 
A woman smiled — and then 

The world seemed douUy bri^t — 
I shunned the busy haunts of men. 

And breathed but in her sight 
How (air she was — how fair! 

Young! Ibdiddhernow— 
With the bright wealth of her golden hairy 

And her etherial brow — 
With meekly folded hands 

And gently heaving breast, 
Like Eve, new ban and brig^ she stands^ 

Blessing — supremely blest ! 

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

They tore her from my arms, 

Inanimate and pale — 
The bride ofHeaven, her peeriess charms 

Were destined for the veil 
J, too» absolved of sin — 

Mark me-^ an altered man ! 
Though the old abbay*B walls within 

To pass my mortal spUL 



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LAZT JAKE. 161 



I lived as lived the rest; 

And walked with reverend fr^es. 
And penance did among the best, 

And shed as many tears. 
O Virgin 1 shield us well — 

I shrived the sisterhood. 
And, cirded by the wiles of hell, 

Strove fiercely to be good 
In vain — a fallen nun 

Sleeps m Engaddi's grave, 
And o'er her head a guiltier one 

Lives but to moan and rave. 
There is no rest on earth, 

No hope for him in heaven, 
None in the sainted birth — 

His sins are unlbrgiven ! 



LAZY JAKE, 

OR THE DEVIL NONPLUSSED. 



▲ KOITVBLLKTTB. 



CHAPTER I. 

IrUerview between two Genllemen — ,A difficulty propounded — A 
heroine introduced. 

A LONG, long while ago, in the good old days when witches had a 
legal existence, and old Nick, by the wilfuhiess of man's belief, was 
allowed converse with the human race, lived old Benjamin Peasblos- 
8onL He had houses and lands, and bonds and mortgages, and 
liorses and cattle ; and moreover, certain old chests which, despite their 
iron ribs, were near bursting with the gold and silver — the joes and 
half-joes, the pistoles and the pistareens, he had crammed into their 
capacious mouths. Now, as the story goes, Benjamin had not come 
as honestly and fairly by this money as he might have done ; but it 
was said, that once as the clock struck twelve at night, in a damp vault 
in the church-jrard, and on the lid of a coffin, with blood out of his 
veins, and widi a pen made of a dead man's nafls, Benjamin had 
given and granted, released, enfeoffed, conveyed, and confirmed, 
his soul unto &e devil, in consideration that he, the devil aforesaid, 
would prosper said Benjamin in all his undertakings ; wi& a proviso, 

VOL. VII. 9i 



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162 LAZr JAKE. 

nevertheless, that if the said Benjamin at the day of forfeiture could 
enjoin old Clootie a task that he could not perform in a twelvemonth, 
then he, the said Benjamin, should stand free and absolved. 

Now, after this, Benjamin waxed richer and richer ; he became the 
most important man in the village ; he was appointed overseer of the 
poor, one of the select naen of the town ; and at the time when Old 
Nick called on him for payment, he was actually an elder of the village 
church. 

The manner of the visit was diis. One cold winter's evening, Ben- 
jamin was sitting alone by his fire, the wind moaning around his 
house like the cries of the widowed and fatherless after their dower 
rights and patrimonies, and he thinking about foreclosing a mortgage, 
when he heard a gentle tap at the door, and a tall *^ Werter-faced sort of 
a man," '^ melancholy and gentleman-like," entered, and took a seat 
opposite to Peasblossom. 

** Ha ! already !" exclaimed Benjamin, stretching out his arm for a 
small pocket^bible which lay on the table. 

** I have been patient enough methinks," said his visiter ; " and al- 
though it be a naughty night to swim in, as my friend Will has it, I 
hope the honor of your company." 

" I cannot go yet," said Benjamin, removing his chair a little ways. 
«« Next week comes quarter day, and then there is Deacon Gray's inter- 
est to come in, and old Thompson's mortgage to be foreclosed ; in- 
deed, my friend, it's quite inconvenient to go just now." 

** I fancy," replied the other, with a courteous smile, ** thou wilt find 
it inconvenient always ; so thou must e'en away to-night" 

" I cannot follow thee," said Benjamin, staring wildly around and 
gasping for breath. 

*^ But thou must, unless thou wilt give me a task that I cannot per- 
form, and that I fancy thou canst scarcely do." 

Benjamin's head sunk between his hands ; to puzzle old Scratch 
he thought was no easy matter. His visiter, who felt secure of his pr6y, 
leburely drew a cigar from his pocket, li^ed it, and commenced puf- 
fing. It emitted a bluish flame, and indeed in itself much resembled 
a half-grown roll of brimstone. When the fume reached (he nostrils 
of Benjamin, he wiggled uneasily in the chair, and fell into a great per- 
turbation of spirit, bethinking himself of devilled turiiey legs, poached 
eggs, roasted potatoes, and beefsteaks and gridirons. Meanwhile the 
mortgagee of Benjamin's worse half his soul, sought to amuse himself 
with a book or two lying on the mantel. He passed instinctively by 
** The Christian Soldier," and ^ Holy Living and Dying ;" yawned a 
moment over Shakspeare ; but espying a newspaper, the father of lies 
felt that he had reading congenial to his taste. 



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LAZY JAKE. 163 

At length Benjamia's face brightened, and he exdaimed, ** I have 
it, I have it ! 1 defy thee to make my neighbor. Lazy Jake, rich." 

*^ Oh ho !" quoth the devil ; '^ sits the wind in that quarter ? vexing 
Job was a trifle to that : but since thou hast set me the task, it wih^ 
be unseemly in me to forfeit my prize without an endeavor to pre- 
serve it'* 

^ Suppose we cancel the bond at once,'' said Benjamin, ^ and I 
will give you an acquittance." 

Old Homie forgot his accustomed good breeding at the proposition, 
and unqualifiedly grinned. ** No," said he, ^* it is now a point of ho- 
nor with me, and my friends, the lawyers, can help me at a pinch. — 
They have such an ingenious way of transferring estates, that if I can 
get Jake admitted to the bar, I shall have the pleasure of your company 
very soon." 

Afler uttering this pleasantry, the head of the legal profession looked 
cautiously round, fearing that some of the fraternity had overheard him. 

But the only addition to the company was Benjamin's daughter Su- 
san, a fine bouncing maiden of fourteen, with a heart as free of guile 
as a New-York dairyman's milk of cream. 

'* La, Paa," said Sukey, ^' I did n't know of your having company." 

The devil bowed — devils are always so polite — Miss curtseyed. 
The devil has such a taking way with him. 

^ Well, fnend Peasblossom," quoth he of the fabulous tail, " this lit- 
tle affair will soon be settled, and then " 

" La, Paa," interrupted Sukey, " what a smell of brimstone !" 

"And then," continued old Clootie to Benjamin, "you must — " 

Benjamin coughed very loudly, looked imploringly at Sathan, inti- 
mating that he would dispense with the peroration. 

" Paa has got such a bad cold," said Susan. 

" Well, as eilremes meet," replied Clootie, " he will soon have a 
bad heat." 

Benjamin shivered ; but the impracticability of Lazy Jake again 
sent a glow through his breast 

"Would n't the gentleman like a glass of sweet cider?" inquired 
Susan, who was of an affable and loquacious turn. 

** If Bfiss Susan would only write her name in his pocket-book as 
a sort of remembrancer?" 

** Away, tempter," shouted Benjamin. 

" Such a pair of red cheeks, and two such sparkling eyes," conti- 
nued the arch fiend, " might tempt even Solomon. But, friend, I must 
away, as I have business of much importance to attend to before day- 
light Let me see, let me see," said he in an under-tone, " the big 
paunched Justice yonder wants a good reason for an unjust decision ; 
Bliss Tabitba Spinster must be taught the last improvement upon the 



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164 LAZY JAKE. 

amorous waltz ; the grocer's doubt of the propriety of sanding his su- 
gar must be settled ; and then I have to strike the moon into three or 
four youths, and make poets of them ; for when once they have cou- 
pled love and dove, they are mine as sure as stupid rhymes to Cupid 
— but I forget myself; good night, friend Benjamin — ^parting is 
such sweet sorrow' — good night, Miss Susan, I hope we may be- 
come better acquainted ;" and so saying, he bowed lowly ; and ere Su- 
san, whoHumed to see why the candles burned so bluely, was aware, 
the old Serpent (I hate to call him names) had vanished, and Peasblos- 
som gruffly ordered her to bed ; where, I fear, she dreamed of the po- 
lite gentleman, not being aware what a profligate character be was, and 
how he had played the very devil with the world ever since &e first 
weakness of woman, which, I believe, was in the year one. 



CHAPTER II. 

A midnighiprowl through a Village. 

When the devil left the residence of Peasblossom, it was his inten- 
tion to visit all his acquaintances in the village, renew old friendships^ 
make new ones, and insinuate himself into the good graces of his ene- 
mies, if he had any. He now recollected that it was past the usual 
bed-time of the villagers, and that he would find nobody up, save those 
who stood in no need of his visitation ; and that therefore he must make 
his presence known by his spirit and not by his assumed form. As 
this thought floated across his brain, he found himself in front of the 
parsonage. Now, the good man having indulged somewhat in mulled 
beer and a Welch rabbit, was naturally dreaming of a good living ; and 
the devil suggested to him, as he settled on his breast in the shape of a 
huge Cheshire cheese, that as there was a vacancy in the pulpit of the 
next town which gave a higher salary, it was his duty to go thither ; 
and having thus given the parson a caU^ Beelzebub whisked off to 
the parson's neighbor, the apothecary. The apothecary presently 
dreamed that he and the sexton had entered into a partnership, and 
that they had employed the doctor as a clerk. Then tha^pothecary 
fancied that he was filling his laudanum jar with the juice, of the poke- 
berry, but why, he could not tell, till the high price of opium rose upas 
an excuse. " But prithee," cried one of the devil's grand-children, 
named Subterfuge, who was present, *' will not the poor souls sleep as 
well on the juice as the extract ?" •< Aye, much better,'', quoth that 



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LAZY JAKE. 166 

slippery knave, Conscience ; so the apothecary turned him over, and 
slept soundly until morning. The devil walked into the doctor's as a 
messenger came from a poor person in extremity requesting his im- 
mediate presence. The doctor hearing who it was that required his 
aid, knew that he would never he paid for his services, and so bade 
his servant tell the messenger that he had been suddenly called out 
and would not be back until morning. Hereupon the doctor drew his 
bed-clothes tighter around him, and sunk into a nap, ifdierein he 
^b^amed that he fell grievously sick, and his friends, in great alarm, 
proposing to send for a brother JEsculapius, it struck him as such ri- 
^Uculous nonsense that he burst into laughter and aw;oke. The Devil 
next visited hb friend the Justice ; and as the grocer's sugar was 
sanded the following day, and Miss Tabitha practise^ the Mazurka in 
the evening at the village ball, it is presumed our heto also paid them 
m passing visit He inoculated two young geniuses with the love 
of rhyme, and three young misses with flirtation ; so he felt secure of five 
new votaries at least He passed by the window of a learned judge, 
and a subtle metaphysical fluid which could not disprove the existence 
of witches, passed into the judge's pericranium. Then the Devil thought 
he would call on his special agent, the village attorney ; and he found 
him asleepwith one eye open, and he studied a long nfdiile for some 
new device to inspire the lawyer withal ; but after examining the stock 
ahready on hand, the Devil found that he, himself, had acquired a new 
wrinkle ; so, well contented, he left the house, and bent his steps towards 
the dwelling of Lazy Jake. 



CHAPTER III. 



A Reflection — Lazy Jake^s Howe — His Bed-chamber — A Discovery^ 
or an instance oflnductvoe Reasoning. 

Had the task allotted to our hero been that of overcoming any of 
the cardinal virtues, or of combatting the vice gluttony, lust, intempe- 
rance, writing for magazines, avarice, pride, or even dozing in church, 
he had not troubled himself much about the result ; but when he re- 
flected on the nature and influence of laziness, he felt appalled by the 
vis inerHcb opposed to him. Of all the sins which most easily beset 
a man, this is the darling of their progenitor, for it makes its way so 
insidiously and so easily, like a huge anaconda gliding through a 
country, and tainting all things with its poisonous breath ; and it has 
such a tenacity of its conquests, that it is one of the most powerful 

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166 LAZY JAKB. 

engioes of evil ever devised. Might I in a sober narrative like the 
present allude with propriety to the profane history of the Greciansy I 
would say that laziness, like the apparently harmless peace-offering 
of the Greeks to the Trojans, carries the armed vices in its womb, 
who will soon spread havoc through the town, and aur|Mise the 
citadeL 

Before commencing his operations, the old Serpent thougM it ad- 
visable to survey the residence of Jake, and observe whereabouts lay 
the best avenue for his approach. 

About half a mile from Peasblossom's, in the outskirts of the vil- 
lage, Jake reposed on his patrimonial remains. He had inherited 
many a broad field and rich meadow ; his house had been encom- 
passed by luxuriant gardens and thrifty orchards, flocks of cattle 
covered his pastures, the loud neighing of steeds, the soft bleating of 
sheep, the piteous lowing of cows, the complaisant grunting of swine, 
filled the atmosphere around him. Turkeys gobbled, hens cackled, 
ducks quacked, and geese gabbled through hb barn-yards. He had 
money out at interest, and a secret hoard of Spanish dollars in his 
house. Never had man a fairer chance for a life of prosperity. Bat 
in vain ; a blight had been on Jake from his youth upwards. He was, 
in truth, one of the laziest of mortals. Nought loved hs beyond Us 
bed ; and when he had rolled out of that, he would swallow his break- 
fast, and then lighting his pipe, sink into his arm-chair, and puff away 
the live-long morning. His laborers, too, imbibed the sweet poison : 
his seeds were never in the ground until his neighbors were talking of 
reaping — his winter grain was not sown until the frosts had set in. 
Weeds choked up his gardens — his unpruned trees spent their juices 
in unfruitful shoots — his fences gradually fell down — his cattle were 
neglected — his horses died of the distemper — his eggs turned addle 
in their unsought-for nests — his turkeys ran wild in t^ woods — and 
the foxes and weazles stole into his yards and carriea off his geese 
and chickens. The rains gradually rotted away the shingles on his 
roof, and caused his walls to moulder. In a few years his money 
was called in, and in a few more spent ; and still his disease was 
upon him. To-morrow he would bestir himself, and to-morrow he 
would arouse ; but what signified his doing it to-day. But on the 
morrow he slept so late that it was useless to make the effort ; he 
could do nothing in half a day, he would begin with the next week. 
But perhaps the next week was stormy, or Jake did not fed very well, 
or his boots were without soles, " he must send them to the cobbler's 
that very day." The cobbler bent over his lap-stone all the week, but 
not on Jake's account. And then the next week was too late in the 
season, and why should a man worry himself to death ? he would 
reform with the new year ; but January is so cold. And thus would 



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LAZT JAKl. 167 

Jake go on, routing himself up desperately every half hour to fill 
his pipe, and eating his dinners, and suppers, and hreakfasts, and 
teas, and luncheons, with an energy diat astonished himself, and 
sleeping with a resolution undisturbed by aught but indigestion and 
surfeit. 

The grayness of morning was stealing over the heavens, when our 
adventurer came in sight of Lazy Jake's abode ; and ere he had com- 
pleted his survey, the pale wintry sun was high advanced ; but still 
scarcely a sign of life about the premises. A half-starved cow was 
turning " its sides and shoulders and heavy head" on some scattered 
etraw near the bam, and endeavoring to obtain " a little more sleep 
and a little more slumber." A wall-eyed horse was hanging his head 
out of the weather-boards of the stable, while a skeleton pig was as- 
sisting his weak steps towards the kitchen, by leaning against the 
straggling paling on his path. 

Every thing about the house appeared in a state of dilapidation ; 
the rains had washed the paint from the boards and the pointing from 
between the stones. The shutters had disappeared from the windows, 
or hung by half a hinge, the glass was broken, and a panel wanting 
in the door betrayed an uncarpeted and filthy floor. Within doors 
things were in a grievous plight: bottomless chairs and broken tables 
— the clock unwound — the locks all out of order — blue mould on 
the walls, and grease and dirt on the floor. There was a bedstead in 
the parior, and kitchen utensils in the bed-room, where, stewing and 
steaming in his dirty blankets, lay Lazy Jake himself. 

Jake had eaten and slept until he had become a mass of soft un- 
healthy fat ; so that, wrapt up as he was in the woollens, he might 
have been compared to a roll of rancid butter enveloped in a yellow 
cabbage leaf. He was of an easy good-natured disposition, as pliant 
as the conscien|e of a politician, or as the gum catoutchoc, or what- 
ever its unorth^raphable name may be. Jake had a decided aversion 
to motion, and he once indulged in an astronomical speculation, which 
was, ^ why the devil the stars and planets keep moving about as they 
did, 'seeing they have nothing in the world to do." He used to wonder 
why the 

" little busy bcc " 
did not 

** improve each shining hour," 

by a nap in the sun instead of keeping up such an incessant coil and 
pother. 

But we have not leisure to detail all the sayings and doings of Jake, 
thou^ a few pages would suffice for the actions of his life. The 
devil perambulated the room with a curious eye and an incurious 



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168 IJLZT JAKB. 

nostril ; but still he was unsatisfied in one particular. He caotiouslf 
iq)proached the bed, raised the end of the clothes, and discovered 
the fact to be as he had suspected, — that such a lazy, undeanlj per- 
son as Jake slept in his stockings. 



CHAPTER tlV. 

Jl Moral Phenomenon^ or Temptations to become rich resisted — 
— Mining and Countermining — (xotd — Love — Land Specula' 
turns and Stock-jobbing. 

When the devil retired to ruminate on his plans, he betook himself 
to the banks of a neighboring mill-pond. In truth, when he reflected 
on what he had just seen, he feh sorely perplexed, and, like an en- 
amoured swain, cast many a desperate look at the water. But honor 
soon came to his aid, and he roused himself up manfiilly to his task* 
The result of his cogitations will be portrayed in the following pages ; 
and we must leave this one of our heroes for the present to return to 
the other. 

Matters grew worse and worse with Lazy Jake, for the plan of the 
first campaign appeared to be to reduce Jake to such miseiy Aat he 
should imbibe die idea of the necessity of exertion. Exertion once 
commenced, the devil knows so well how to temper the love of gain 
with the labor of its acquisition, that the richest self-made mea are 
generally the most industrious and untiring. Jake's horse died of 
the colic, his cow of the distemper, and his pig of the measles. The 
supply of his table grew scantier, and his creditors cla^^orous. Judg- 
ment after judgment was entered up, and execution afler execution 
lodged in the sheriff's hands. His lands were still greater in value 
than the amount of his debts. He could have made an agreement 
with his creditors for a mortgage, the money to be applied to the dis- 
charge of their claims ; but Jake felt an unconquerable aversion to 
all exertion. True, he needed but to ride to the attorney's and have 
it arranged ; but his horse was dead. He could have walked there, 
but next week he would borrow a conveyance ; and one week eariier 
or later could make but litde difference. At length hb creditors let 
the law take its way ; and in the spring Jake was master of nou^ 
but his homestead and the curtilage. He grew thinner and thinner ; 
for, afler grim-visaged want has stared us in the face for awhile, we 
become wonderfully assimilated to the spectre. At last a dinneriess 



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LAZY JAKB. 169 

day brought on the crisis ; and poor Jake, sinking iilto his arm-chair, 
cursed his unlucky stars. " Nothing ever prospered with him ; his 
neighbors, who had started life with nothing, were rich ; while he who 
had every thing at command, through his perverse luck, was reduced 
to poverty. He could not see into it ; it was very mysterious. But 
something must be done ; he would see what he could turn his hand 
to — in the morning.'' 

So Jake lighted his pipe, and resigned himself to the influence of 
tfiat vacuity of thought in which the smoker indulges, and misi^Us re- 
flection. Presendy he fell into a gentle nap, dreaming of huge joints 
of roasted meat and savoury sauces, placed before htm in great pro- 
fbsion, but just beyond his reach. Then the viands diaappeared, and he 
had a vision of his grandfather, who told him that in the orchard which 
bad been sold to his neighbor Peasblossom, was buried a huge jar of gold, 
wtitch he had hidden there during an Indian incursion, and afbarwards 
left as a safe deposit ; but hating been called away by an apoplexy^ 
his heirs had never been the wiser* Then the old gentleman vanished^ 
and when Jake awoke, the sun had again arisen, and was peepmg in 
at die window. The loud demafid for breakfast from 1ms kmer-maB 
first recalled him to a sense of his misery ; then gradually his dream 
arose to mind, indistinctly at first, but at last vivid and impressive. 
"But of what use is it?" said Jake; '* three months since* and it would 
have saved me from my troubles ; but now what can I do. There is 
BO use of trjring to purchase it back, I know Peasblossom will not 
selL He got it for a song, and all King Ddvid's psalms played by the 
royal minstrel himself could not redeem an inch of it. However, the 
next time I meet him I will ask him about it ; I am resolved to lose 
nothing for want of exertion." 

Now, as the devil would have it, Peasblossom began to feel ex- 
tremely uneasy.^ True, Jake was not growing rich, but waxing 
poorer ; still there was something very suspicious in that very fhot 
And it entered into Bei^amin's noddle to conceive, that as Jake still 
had the homestead left, it might be a foundation for future acquisi- 
tions ; so he resolved to deprive Jake of this last resource if possible. 
** I have been thinking," said Benjamin, taking Jake kindly by the 
hand, *' that it was due lo our old fnend^tp that I should lend you 
some aki in your need. I had your orchard of you for a trifle, and, 
ahhough honestly purchased, still if thou wilt thou mayst have it for a 
small advance." 

" What !" cried Jake, '' the orchard next the garden ?" '' Yes, the 
same, ** replied Peasblossom ; " so give me a note at a short date for 
the amount, and a mortgage on your house as security ; for, Jacob, I 
have a fiunily to provide for, and idthough I am of a generous disposi- 
tioo, still pradenee dictates a certain course. So, Jacob, go down to 

VOL. TU. 3S 



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170 LAZT JAKE. 

Fifa's and execute a mortgage on the house, and thou shall have the 
orchard." 

Jake's eyes twinkled wi& joj, the pot of gold was already in hi» 
greedy grasp, and he actually went diat day to the lawyer's and signed 
the note, bond, and mortgage, and took his deed. So he sate himself 
down, and devised a hundred ways of spending his money, which* 
alas, was not yet his. Early in the morning he intended to go out and 
search for it, and he must rest after his hard work. Jake awoke 
early, and felt an impulse to rise and commence his search ; but what 
was the use of hurry ? he had a few dollars yet, which had been unex- 
pectedly paid him — ** the more hurry the worse speed ; besides even- 
ing would be better for his work, as there would be nobody to watck 
him." 

Jake waited till evening, and still the same reluctance to bestir him- 
self. ** The gold was safe where it was, and he could get it when ho 
wanted it" Day passed after day in diis manner, although, it must 
be confessed, Jake kept a vigilant eye to die orchard when awake, 
and dreamed of it by night At last Jake began to dig, but the work 
went on slowly ; and as the orchard contained a couple of acres, and 
Jake knew not where, the treasure lay, his heart grew feint Week 
after week elapsed, and nothing could rouse Jake to vigorous action ; 
his note became due; Peasblos8om,in ftilfilment of his plan,commenced 
suit ; Jake could have delayed it by attending to it, but he was ab- 
solutely too lazy : judgment was entered, execution followed ; the 
orchard was sold, and the house to satisfy the balance ; the overplus 
was paid to Jake, and without a roof to call his own, he betook him- 
self to the tavern, and gave way to deep melancholy, only relieved by 
eating, drinking, smoking, and sleeping. The shrewd fellow who 
had purchased the orchard suspected something from the state in 
which he found it, and rested not until he had upturned the whole soil, 
and satis&ctorily solved his doubts. 

Love was now called in by the devil to his aid. A &t widow, aged 
forty and upwards, of large person and income, cast amorous glancea 
on Jake as he sat at the tavern window, from her room on tiie opposite 
side of the way. Jake was not iron or stone ; and if he had been, 
the ardent glances of the widow would have heated him red-hot As 
it was, Jake felt indescribable longings to move, aye, actually to walk ; 
and one day, fired beyond control, he went over to the widow's. For- 
tunately one or two visits so overcame the retiring modesty of the 
(air, that Jake was the happiest of men, save in the necessary trouble 
and fatigue he was put to in promenading with his lady fair. This 
did very well for a day or two ; but then — shame on his manhood — 
Jake, buried in an oblivious snooze after dinner, forgot love, honor, 
the widow and her money bags. Impatiently did the fair one sigh. 



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LAZT JAKE. 171 

(iime, scokl, rave ; and it was really thoughtless id Jake to allow such 
a mass of inflammable matter to become so heated. He might have 
known the consequences. A rousing box on his ear awoke him from 
his slumbers. Unhappy Jake ! torrents of expletives rolled around 
him like lava from a volcano ; heated epithets fell upon him ; and, at 
last, like Herculaneum, he was completely buried under showers of 
invectives, red-hot, and reproaches at white heat The game was 
up ; Cupid and Somnus were at swords' points, and Cupid quit the 
field. 

Jake was now assailed in various ways. Land speculations were 
presented to his imagination ; for such a rage possessed the good 
people of the village, diat they began buying up all the land within three 
miles of the town. What they bought one day in farms or planta- 
tions, they (he next day offered at auction, nicely surveyed into build- 
ing lots, and the prices were immense. But Jake let all slip through 
his fingers. He had a keen foresight and a good judgment, but he 
was ever too lazy to move. 

Then his brain teemed with improvements in various useful ma- 
chines, by patenting which he could have made great sums ; but 
Jake never had resolution sufficient to draw up his specifications. 

The Prince of Darkness strove manfully against the inertness of 
Jake ; he assaulted him in every way; pride, ambitition, patriotism, 
and I know not what beside ; but Jake was impracticable. The 
Devil became uneasy ; his disappointment preyed on his spirits ; he 
grew diin, pale, and interesting. 

Never before had he been so puzzled. When he had set to work 
in earnest, he had always succeeded, except in one case ; and his 
ill success in that Satan attributed to the malign influence of Mrs. 
Job. Eleven months of the allotted time had elapsed, and yet 
Jake was poorer flmn ever. The Devil began to despair, melan- 
choly seized upon him, and he was evidently rapidly fhlling into a 
consumption. He actually indited some verses in the Bjrron vein — 
** I have not loved the world, nor the world me ;" he went about 
like one dirtraught — he would have fallen into dyspepsia had it been 
dien invented ; but as it was, he never shaved himself without experi- 
encing desperate thoughts. I know not how he could have existed 
Arough the last and still unsuccessful week of the term of probation ; 
but musing one day on his apparently diminished power in the world, 
and the necessity of reviving it, he had the vision of a board of 
brokers, and the Devfl laughed to think what a great idea it was. 
About a century afterwards he put his scheme in operation in New- 
Tork, and he has since had no fear for his dominion in the world ; for 
he drew up his specifications in terms plain beyond dispute, and dms it 
jiood, ^ buying and salUng sloek on time." 

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173 LAZY JA.KB. 



CUA.PTER V, 



OuB narrative is drawing to a close. An author, even though Us 
characters be fictitious, acquires an acquaintance with them that he 
is loath to terminate. We, dealing in truth severe, cannot distribute 
poetical justice to our characters as the critic might demand. Poor 
Susan never coutd forget the polite gentleman who wanted her to write 
in hb pocket-book. lie became the god of her idolatry* She sighed 
for him, and sought for him every where. If a carriage passed the 
door, she expected to see him leaning from its window ; if a straiiger 
arrived in town, she knew it mu$t he him. At all the village gather* 
ings she looked but for him ; and even at church, the poor ignorant 
creature fancied he might be present Twice or thrice she detected 
him in the heroes of fashionable novels ; but they merely fed her 
imagination. She once went to a camp-meeting, and thought she 
saw him there ; and he may have been. 

But be this as it may, the year elapsed. * * Benjamin is agm 
seated by his fire — he is wealdiier and more hard-hearted than ever. 
His eye is on the clock — the fatal hour is past — a rap at the 
door, and Benjamin's old visiter enters ; but alas, how changed ! His 
cheek is hollow^ his eye dim ; he says nothing, he draws forth the 
contract ; he throws it into the flames. But the parchment used by 
him is of course fire-proof; so Benjamin takes it out, and the Devil 
honorably erases Peasblossom's name and tears off the seal. 

*' If I ever," said he solemnly, " undertake again to m^ke a kaiy 
man rich, may I be sainted." 

" Cheer up," said Benjamin, for men with whom all things prosper 
are great consolers ; '^ cheer up, you have got much to be joyous for.^ 
" True," replied the Devil despondingly» *^ but I have beena foiled } 
there is one vice I cannot nianage, ope failing too stubborn for me* 
and that is laziness. 

Our story is finished. If there is a mor^ in it, the reader can <^ 
ply it We have but to diq;K>ee of our dramatis person®, imd lay 
aside our quilL 

Lazy Jake died as he lived. Feasblosso^i lived long enough to 
become the Devil's without a formal agreement ; the Devil recovered 
his cheerfulness, and Spsan, surviving her first love* gcQW up to w^r 
manhood, w^ mamed, imd w^nt tbe way of all flesh. 



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173 



NEW YEAR'S EVE OF AN UNHAPPY MAN. 



rROM TBK OKRM AN OP JXAX PAUL. 



All oU mail atood at his window on a New Tear's eve, and gazed 
with an eye of settled despair on tbe immoveable, etenmlly blooming, 
beaven above, and the silent, pure, white eardi beneath him, upon 
which, at that moment, there was no being so joyless and sleepless as 
himself. For his grave was nigh at hand — it was hid only by the 
snows of age, not by the verdure of youth ; and he brought to it, out of 
his whole richly gifted life, nothing but errors, crimes, and diseases ; 
an enfi^ebled body, a desolate aoul, a heart full of venom, and an old 
age full of remorse. The lovely days of his youth came back upon 
him like spirits, and led him away to the bright morning of his days, 
when his father first placed him at the turning point of human life, 
whence the right hand road leads by the broad sunlit path of virtue, to 
a wide and peaceful region of clear light, rich treasures, and heavenly 
inhabitants ; while the left hand one plunges down through the hollows 
of vice into a dark depth, distilling with deadly poisons, full of hissing 
serpents, and the damp, sultry vapors of the tomb. 

Alas ! the serpents were even then clinging to his breast and the 
poison to his tongue, and he knew where he was. 

In despair and unspeakable Unrture he cried out to heaven, ** Give 
me my youth again ! Father ! place me again at the turning point, 
that I may make another and a better choice !" 

But his father and his youth were boA long gone by. He saw an ignis 
&tuas playing over marshes and expiring in the church-yard ; and he 
said, '* Behoki the days of my folly I" He saw a star fall from heaven 
and melt into darkness upon the earth. *<'Tis thyself," said his 
bleeding heart; and the serpent's teeth of renunrse ftistened more sharply 
on his wounded spiritt 

While be strugi^ed with these feelings, the song that aimounced 
tfie new year floated down from the watchrtower like distant church 
music* His emotions became sofUr ; he looked around on the ho- 
nson and abroad over the wide earth, and thought of the friends of 
Us youth, who now, hq)pier and better than he, were teachers of the 
world, parents of happy children, ainl blessed by Providence ; and he 
said : ** Alas ! had 1 but willed it, I too might have slumbered through 
Hob night with teailess eyes. Alas! bdoved parents I I too might 

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174 PILGRIMAGE TO THE TOMB OP THE OlD. 

have been happy, had 1 but followed your oew year's advice and new 
year's wishes." 

While this feverish thought of his youthful days was upon him, it 
seemed to him as though a skeleton in the neighboring church-yard 
rose slowly, and put on his likeness, till his superstitious fancy saw in 
it a living youth, and his own once blooming youthful figure danced 
before his eyes in bitter mockery. 

He could not bear to look upon it ; he covered his eyes, a thou- 
sand warm tears fell upon the snow ; he could only si^ heavily, 
hopeless, almost senseless ; '* Return, my youth I do but return !" 

And she returned, for his new year's eve was but a fearful dream ; 
he was still young. Only his errors were no dream ; but he thanked 
God that he was allowed, while yet in his youth, to turn aside firom 
the foul by-ways of vice to the sunny path which leads to the land of 
purity and happiness. 

Youthful reader, if thou, like him, art upon the road of error, turn 
Hke him. This fearful dream will one day be thy judge ; but wfaeo 
&0U shalt exclaim in anguish, ^Return, my youth !" it will not retunu 



PILGRIMAGE TO THE TOMB OF THE CID.* 

** En San Pedro de Cardesia, 
" Esta el Cid embalaamado ; 
'* Eli Tenddor no venddo, 
^ De Moroa, ni de Chriatianoa.'' 

RoMAKCBRO DSL CiD. 

I CANNOT easily describe the feeling of pleasure widi which I strolled 
over the renowned and noble old city of Burgos. The beauty of tiie 
surrounding country and of its own situation, the magnificent cathedra], 
which constitutes so perfect a specimen of Gothic architecture, and 
the unnumbered convents of massive and grand construction, orna- 
mented with frescos illustrative of battles of the faith, in which Moon 
are trampled under die horses' hoofs of their Christian adversaries, or 
graced by the stately tombs of rojral founders, for the rest of whose 
souls masses are still daily chanted at the distance of many CMitu- 
ries — all combine to tempt the loitering traveller to linger in its pre- 
eiocti. It was, however, the countless associations of the Cid which 
constituted, in my eyes, the chief attraction of Burgee ; and die pilgfim- 

« Fiom *< Spun Revisited,'* a M& woriL 

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PILGRIMAGB TO THB TOMB OF THB CiD« 175 

age irtuch I made to the tomb of the Champion, in San Pedro de Car- 
dinal will ever be remembered among the most pleasing excursions 
that I have made. 

Though lodged in the posthouse, it was with no little difficultj that 
I got myself mounted for the journey, inasmuch as the Carlists hover- 
ing about Burgos took the liberty of dismounting every horseman that 
fell in their way, to mount their cavalry; giving no other apology than 
that die king bad need of the beast, together with a rib-roasting and 
stabs, if the first reason were insufficient or unsatisfactory. 

There was, as hanger-on about the inn, a toothless and superannu- 
ated postillion and calesero, by the name of Cadenas, who usually 
appeared in a motley dress, borrowed from various provinces of Spain, 
with the convenience of the various articles of which, his frequent and 
far-extended rambles had brought biro acquainted. Thus, in connex- 
ion with a calesero jacket, bedecked with patches of bnght-colored 
doth in the shape of beasts, birds, or trees, he wore a red Catalan 
cap, long trousers, with red stripes, over which he yet had a leather 
spatterdasher, though on his feet were nothmg but open grass sandals, 
unaccompanied by a stocking. This old fellow, then, who knew every 
thing, and was ever ready to gain an honest pistareen in any required 
way, undertook to find an animal for me, and, after a short delay, made 
his appearance at fuU gallop, mounted on a shuffling little poney, hid 
away, and rendered invisible to Carlist or Christine, under a high- 
peaked saddle. There was not the least danger of this unpretending 
little animal's being turned into a war-horse, even if he were disco- 
vered by a foraging guerilla party ; so I sallied boldly forth upon him, 
secure of not being dismounted, to visit the tomb of the Cid, and 
achieve by the way such adventures as I might 

Taking the road along the river-bank, I soon came to die Carthusian 
convent of Miraflores, whose church presents a beautiful specimen of 
Gothic architecture. On procuring admittance to the interior, I found 
a lay brother in the act of conducting two Benedictine monks, who 
had come from Burgos to see the convent, and whom I was permitted 
to accompany. The cloisters were spacious and of beautiful con- 
struction, and the church was very grand and noble ; in the chdir was 
a gorgeous monument over the remains of the parents of Isabella the 
Catholic. The old monk who conducted us, though bound by the 
same vows and austere restrictions with the rest of the community, 
was only a lay brother, and could not say mass, being ignorant and un- 
educated. He was dressed in the serge robes of his order, and had a 
perfectly white beard, which, as he stooped low in leaning on his stafi^ 
descended below the girdle. His was another instance of the taste 
for conventual life founded on the idleness of the camp, for he had 
served ten years as a soldier, hi&ving been in the army acting against 



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176 PtLGRlMAGl TO THE TOMB OF THB CID. 

France after the execution of Louis XVL* after which be entered ihm 
convent, where he had remained during the last forty years, with the 
exception of the period during which the convents were shut up by the 
French. 

Taking leave of the hoary old monk, I mounted my palfry and am« 
bled across the fields in the direction of San Pedro, having nothing 
but a bridle-path to guide me, and an occasional opportunity of inquir- 
ing of a shepherd tending his flocks. The countiy, which was on the 
rise, became gradually barren and desolate, and as the road usuallj 
followed the ravines, the scene was so circumscribed as to increase 
the impression of loneliness. My little horse, however, furnished com« 
pany as well as excitement, bearing me onward at a rapid rate ; which 
was the more necessary, that there only remained an hour more of day* 
and that it would be barely possible for me to reach the convent and 
fulfil my errand there ere that hour should be over. 

Overtaking, at length, as I wound up an ascent, a peasant girl, fol* 
lowed by a dog, and carrying over her shoulder saddle-bags, out of 
either end of which projected the head of a live lamb, I was rejoiced to 
learn from hm*, not only that I was in the right road, but that I should 
tome in sight of the object of my search at the top of the next hill. On 
g^uning it, I accordingly beheld tfae^convent, at the bottom of an isolated 
vale, with a smgle outlet, presenting a large quadrangular mass, with 
towers at the angles, but without architectural beaufy ; a kilch^i-gar- 
den occupied the valley beside it, and a few sheep browsed on the 
neighboring hills ; other signs of animation there were none to qualify 
the impression of solitude and loneliness, save what were presented by 
the spectral ferms of six Carthusian monks, who, returning to their con- 
vent of Miraflores, strode in a row, at regular intervals from each otl»r, 
and in the apparent observance of that silence which their vows enjoin, 
along the summit of one of the enclosing hills, their flowing white 
robes, falling cowl, and shaven crowns, together with the regularify 
of their movements, as they presented themselves in relief against the 
blue sky, presenting altogether a most extraordinary and shadowy ap- 
pearance. The back-ground of the scene was formed by a ridge of 
snow-covered mountains, which, bounding the eastward view fi^m 
Burgos, were here seen to overhang the convent, keeping up the ef- 
fect of gloom and chilliness with which the behokler was impressed. 

Descending into the vale, I came to the Gothic portal of the con- 
vent, over which was a singularly-sculptured relief, representing the 
Cid in plumes and panoply of steel, mounted on his Babieca, riding 
over the heads of Moors, with the redoubted Tizona lifted in the atti- 
tude of striking, while the horse, partaking of his master's ardor, is 
tra mpl in g the infidels under his feet with the energy of a believer. 
The whole group, being painted and gilded, has a very singular ap- 



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PILGRIMA6B TO THB TOMB OF THB CID. 177 

pearance« and an air of strange reality. If I, heretic as I was, were 
able to encounter the Cid« thus invested with all the circumstances of 
terror which are ascribed to him, with some composure, it was not so 
with the reception given me by an immense dog, with a corresponding 
▼oice and most ferocious disposition, who would probably have de- 
voured both me and my little horse, had not an aged porter stretched 
his head from the window, and by one word of conciliation converted 
him from an enemy into a familiar friend. I asked for admission to 
the tomb d'the Cid, and was told that the thing was impossible, as the 
monks were just then in the choir, chanting an evening service to the 
Yirgin ; on sending in word, however, that I was a foreigner, a very 
old man, whom I discovered to be the sub-prior, came forUi, and after 
saluting me courteously, directed me to go round to the door of the 
chapel, which he ere long opened from within to admit me* 1 found 
myself in a vast and noble temple, which, although no worshipper 
was any where seen kneeling towards the altar, was resounding with 
die loud chants of the unseen monks, hidden in the recesses of the 
lofty choir. 

In a chapel on the right hand, about midway from the door to the 
altar, is the tomb of the Cid, within which, in the language of his epi- 
taph, '* is shut up what remains of this unconquerable, famous, and 
triumphant warrior." In the same tomb lies his wife, Xiipena. Side 
by side they repose within the tomb, above which their figures are re- 
presented in marble, in the same recumbent posture. There is some- 
thing vastly more appropriate in this mortal posture observed in the 
ancient monuments, than in the modem custom of representing a hero 
in the full glow of health, and in the execution of the great action of 
his life, or else in the very act of taking leave of it There is some- 
ftiing infinitely more terrible in death than in the dead ; the body, 
writhing m all the anguish of that fearfiil convulsion in which the soul 
abandons its dwelling-place, is an object of (ar more appalling contem. 
I^ation than that body, when the struggle is at length over, and all is 
peacefulness and repose. 

In this chapel are the remains of all the kindred of the Cid, Lain 
Calvo, Diego Lainez, and the Cid*s daughters, £lvira and Maria Sol, 
who, after being so foully outraged by the false counts of Carrion, be- 
came, the one Queen of Navarre, the other of Arragon ; thus mingling 
die blood of the Cid with the stream from which has flowed the present 
royal family of Spain, and sending through almost every kingly house 
of Europe a vein of heroism which is slow to proclaim itself. 

There perhaps never was a greater instance of the bad taste of those 
remorseless grave-disturbers, the French revolutionists, than was 
evinced by them in removing the body of the Cid firom the sanctnaiy 
in which it had rested during so many ages, to place it in a eoaspiou- 

TOL. VD. 23 

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178 PILQBIKAGB TO TAB TOHB OF THB CID. 

008 Station in the newly-planted promenade of Burgoa. With oik 
doubted justice, as well as propriety, has it been restored to the reGl#> 
mations of those guardians to whom die Cid himself intrusted it, the 
monks of this renowned old convent of San Pedro, which, besides its 
sufforings at the hands of infidels, bj whom, in the ninth century, two 
hundred monks were on one occasion massacred, whose bones were 
exhibited to me at die bottom of a charnel-house, forming a storehouse 
of relics for the supply of the whole Peninsula, was connected with 
almost every event in the history of his life. The name of this con* 
vent is mentioned in at least a dozen romances in connexion with that 
of (he Champion ; here he gave wise counsel to his prince on the 
afiairs of state ; here he kept his vigils before going to the conquest 
of Yalencia, recognizing the principle that the Christian warrior going 
forth in defence of his religion should put on the breastplate of faith ; 
here, after a solemn mass, the abbot blessed his banner ere he went 
fordi to conquest ; and here, having placed in holy safeguard the good 
Ximena and his daughters, he left them overcome with grief: 

** Y loego & Dona Ximena 
Y 4 SUA do8 fijas abraza, 
Mudas en Uanto las deja." 

Hither, when Valencia was won, he sent the first fruits of victory as 
an offering on the altar, and hence he reclaimed and withdrew his wife 
so soon as he had a fixed dwelling in which to comfort and protect 
ker, BBjiogf in words which should sink into the souls of all the doubly 
blessed, with the full weight of the Cid's example — 

"Clue yo non U90 mu^res 
Si non la mia naturu, 
due en San Pedro de Cardena 
Yace agora al mi mandar.** 

At length, too, when the scene of life had closed, we are told how 
tiie Cid, being embalmed* sat in state in the convent of San Pedro de 
Cardena — 

**EI yencedor no vencido 
De moroe, ni de Chiistianos,^ 

decked in his richest robes, having his face discovered, which was 
grave and majestic, lus white beard foiling on his breast, and file sword 
Tizona beside him, and needing no guard but the terror of his name 
and the awfbl majesty of his presence, to protect him from the disre- 
spect of the thousands who thronged to behold him. He was in this 
sitoation when, according to die romance, a Jew, not less unbelieving 
than the subsequent Gallic disturbers of his remains, seeing the Cid 
unattended, approached his person, and reaaomng to himself that this 



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▲ LSOKJIB C9 MOHT fT. MIOBBL. 179 

WIS the renowned Cid, whose beard never man had tooohcdf stretched 
(Ml his hand lo dishonor it ; for it seems that the Spaniards of those 
dajrs, among so manj things which they had borrowed from the Moors, 
had learned to look upon the beard as representing the majesty and 
dignity of the person* The Jew was not, howerer, permitted to defiJe 
the person <^the Christian champion by his touch ; for ere his purpose 
was accomplished, the Cid frowned, and Tizona half flew from the 
scabbard ; oYercome with fear, the Jew fell lifeless on the pavement, 
and being found there some time afler, and restored, related the evil 
thought that had beset him, and all that had happened to him ; where- 
upon all gave thanks to God for remembering his servant, and rescuing 
him from the pollution of a Jew by this miracle, which was no doubt 
got up among the monks, with an especial view to procure respect for 
the body of the Cid. As for the Jew, he took the hint and turned 
Qiristian, being ever after known as Diego Gil, by which name he 
was presently baptized, devoting himself under it to the service of G^ 
in this same convent, in which he ended his days like any other good 
Christian— 

** Como qualquier buen ChriatUno.'* 



A LEGEND OF MONT ST. MICHEL. 



▲ IKBTCR rmOM aXfTORT. 



It was on a sultry day in the summer of the year 1620, that two 
individuals toiled wearily up the landward side of one of that range of 
mountains that separates the town of A vranches, on the coast of Nor- 
mandy, from the inland. The erect form and firm step of the elder 
of the two, showed that his old age was as a ^^ lusty winter, frosty but 
kindly." And in every motion of his companion was manifested the 
light heart and untiring spirit of youdi. The ascent was steep, and 
Ae path winding and rough ; so that by the time the summit was at- 
tained, the hardy sinews of the old man, and the lusty limbs of the 
youth, were equally fatigued. But the scene that there met their ^yea 
was well calculated to make them forget their weariness. Beneath 
tiiem lay the town of Avranches, at such a distance that the mud and 
St&k of the place were invisible; while its picturesque cottages and busy 
peasantry presented only an appearance of neatness and industry 
mote suitable to ** la belle France." On either side, for miles along 

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160 ▲ LBGB5D OF M05T IT. MICHBL. 

the ooaatt Tillages, foreats, cultivated fieldi, and windiog atreami met 
the eye in endless succession ; while in frontt looking over Avranchest 
was seen the singular fortress of St Michel, surrounded by the stiU 
more singular sands of the same name. As these last two objects are 
immediately connected with our tale, it will he necessary to say a few 
words in description of them as they appear to our travellers. 

The rays of the declining sun streamed full upon the vast plain ^t 
lay between the ocean and the main land, partaking of the character 
of each, yet widely difiering from either. From the outer verge of this 
plain, three or four miles from the main land, arose a tall conical rock, 
on the summit and sides of which were built a fortress and a town. 
This plain was the famous sands, and this rock the famous fort of St. 
Michel. Were the latter less fortified by art than it is, it would stBl, 
from its situation, be well-nigh impregnable. Surrounded by a desert 
of sand, which at the coming in of the tide becomes one vast quick- 
sand, covered entirely with water, it rears itself above the waste, too 
lonely and exposed to be approached unseen ; while if it were attacked 
in the broad light of day, the assailants would be engulphed in the de- 
vouring sand long before they could obtain a footing on the firm rock. 

The younger traveller gazed upon the scene with ever-increasing 
wonder and delight ; now pointing out to his companion some shady 
nook in the dark forest, and now directing his attention to the glittering 
of the rivers as they lost themselves in the sands. ^ Ay," said the 
old man, "it is a glorious scene — all France can boast no fairer. 
I too, when the blood danced as merrily through my veins as it now 
does through yours, ere die exposure of seventeen summers had dark- 
ened the down upon my lip, I too beheld it from the same spot on 
which you now stand, and with the same feelings of wonder. Little 
did I then think that on yon sands I should one day narrowly escape 
a horrid death ; little did I then think that within the gloomy walls of 
that castle my nearest and dearest fiiends would one day find a grave. 
Let us sit beneath the shade of this tree, and while the cool sea-breeze 
fans our brow, I will tell you a tale of ' the Fortress of the Genii.' " 

Tou may thank a benign Providence, my son, that your youth has 
been passed in better days than those which, in your father's boyhood, 
were burthened with gloom and danger, with civil war for our beloved 
country, and family discord for her oppressed children. The Wars of 
the League have indeed gone by ; but like the dread tornado we hear 
of m that new world beyond the sea, they have left behind a wide path 
of desolation, strewed with the blasted hopes and ruined fortunes of 
the best and bravest of our land. The hand of war, which was laid so 
heavily upon others, did not spare my kindred ; and we are now gazing 
upon the place in which each of my brethren, nearest in affectiim as 
veil as in blood, were, in quick succession, ruthlessly murdered. 



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▲ LXGBHD OF MONT 8T. MICHBL. 181 

We were dl, as you know, the dependents of &e Count de Mont- 
gemeri, whose noble nature would not suffer him to behold the wrongs 
•f an oppressed people without attempting redress, and whose arm 
was nerved by the thought, that his father's murder was yet unreveng- 
ed. His energetic spirit and undoubted courage made him one o^ 
the m«j6t active and successful leaders of the Huegonots ; and when 
therefore he announced to his brave companions his determination to 
attempt the capture of the celebrated fortress of St Michel — the im- 
pregnable fortress — the declaration was received with no surprise, 
thou^ «11 doubted whether even Montgomeri was equal to the task. 
But his hopes of success were well-grounded — no bought of fear 
entered the bosom of him or his companions, and he had every possi- 
ble motive to urge him onward. 

On the wall of the castle, on the north side, there is erected a small 
tower, which at this distance you can scarcely perceive, whose base 
projects a little over the bare steep rock, which at that place goes 
down, almost perpendicularly, to the sands beneath. In the floor of 
the tower there is a trap-door provided with tackle, through which it 
is said the monks, who in days of yore possessed the place, were ac- 
customed to draw up those goods they were ashamed to carry in 
through the open gate, and in the broad light of day. Though this is 
the weakest point in the fortification, yet it was supposed to be so se- 
cure that but one soldier was stationed there to guard it This man 
was bound by the strongest ties, of what nature I know not, of grati- 
tude to our noble master; and though fortune had throvm him into 
the ranks of our opponents, it was believed that he had not forgotten 
his former faith, and was still eager to serve his former friends. It 
would be of little use for me to tell of the difficulties that were met, 
and the dangers that were overcome, before an agreement was made 
with our friend within the walls. It was at length, however, deter- 
mined, that on the appointed night, the Count, with a brave band of an 
hundred associates, should steal up to the rock, and one by one be 
drawn up by the tackle of the monks. 

The day came ; how wearily it passed ! The sun went down — oh ! 
how different from that on which we are now gazing — amid a mass of 
low black clouds that settled down and enveloped the gloomy fortress, 
as if its guardian genii had summoned their black battalions to come 
in mist and darkness, and protect their drear abodes. The night ad- 
vanced, and diough the wind and the rain were raging, though we had 
to grope our way, through thick darkness, over lands, which even in 
mid-day are dangerous, yet calmly and determinately we gradually ap- 
proached the rock, and at length stood close at its foot Would to 
CUmI we had never reached it, that we had all perished together in the 
qinckaand ere we saw the beacon-Ught of the fai&less sentiy ; would 



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182 ▲ LBOBlfD Oy XOHT 8T. BCICHBL. 

that his lying lips had hecome dumb ere he spoke the words that led 
so many of my friends and kmamen to a bloody graYC. But aoger 
is now in Yain ; it becomes rather to wait patiently for a death* how 
different from theirs I 

I have said we stood beneath the trap-door, and you may imagine 
with what anxiety we gazed at the twinkling light abovot and with 
what joy we heard the creaking of the blocks and the crank of the 
irons at the end of the ropes aa tbey struck the ground. Then for 
the first time we breathed freely ; for we heard in the sound a confirm 
mation of the good faith of our ally. Our joy, howoYor, was short- 
lived ; for as we surrounded, by the light of dim lantern, the iron 
cleets by which one of our number was to ascend alone, and wi^ no 
friendly hand to aid him, to unknown dangers, our hearts again sank 
within us. Even the bold spirit of our leader was subdued at the 
thought of the fearful risk which he who first ascended was to run. 
At length my youngest brother, young in years but the bravest of the 
brave, stepped forward, and without a parting embrace, without a fare- 
well word, with scarce a farewell loo^, placed his foot in the iron and 
grasped the cord. Gradually he rose from the earA, gradually he 
cysappeared ; and oh ! how eagerly did each streaming eyeball gaze 
after his lessening form ; yet breathless silence chained every lip, and 
almost stopped the beating of every heart But wh^d fiie creak of 
the descending rope reached our ears, wtken the clank of die iron was 
once more heard, a smothered cry of joy arose ; confidence was re- 
stored to every bosom, and each man pressed forward with eagerness 
to join his companions in the tower above. 

In this manner did I b^old my five brethren disa|^>ear ; in this 
manner, in quick succession, did fiOy gallant soldiers uidiesitatingly 
ascend. We listened eagerly to hear when the work of death began ; 
we expected every moment to hear the shout of victory ; we panted 
to peal forth the war-cry of the Montgomeri ; but all was silent as the 
tomb. No claidiing of steel or hurrying of feet told of the fierce en- 
counter or the sudden surprise ; tli^ light above still shone feebly 
through the thick mist ; the rope was still constantly and regularly 
lowered. ' Whispers and horrid surmises ran through the group. We 
looked eagerly around for some mode of solving the mystery. A 
large piece of timber, some forty feet in length, lay near at hand ; and 
as the eightieth roan was beginning to ascend, I proposed that, having 
fastened myself at one end, I should be raised in the air until I 
might be able to see over the ramparts. It was soon done. I was 
slowly and cautiously raised ; I reached the top of the ramparts — I 
gazed eagerly. Oh, God in Heaven ! what a sight of horror I beheld ! 
In an open place below, by the light of half a dozen torches, stood 
a grim and blood-stained exaeutifnier, grasping a long two-handed 



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LINES WRITTBIf AT IBA. 188 

sword ; from the point of which the reeking gore fell drop by drop. 
Bj his side was piled a horrid heap of ghastly heads ; and even while 
I gazed, the same man, from whom but a minute before I had parted, 
the eightieth of our number, was led in ; his head bowed upon the 
block, and I could distinctly hear the heavy blow of the sword, and 
see the gush of the warm blood from the headless trunk. I could 
endure no more. I closed my eyes, and gave one long loud cry of 
agony and fear. My startled comrades quickly lowered me. I re- 
collect not how I told the hideous tale ; but I well remember — oh ! 
I shall ever remember — the taunting devilish laugh that broke from 
those accursed battlements. It came upon us as the cry of the bird 
of night comes upon the ear of the murderer. It was echoed back 
from tower to tower. I fancied that from every lowering cloud that 
swept by on the wings of the wind, I could see mishapen forms lean- 
ing, and pealing forth that demoniac laugh. We paused not, we 
tarried for one another; but clasping our trembhng hands to our 
afirighted ears, we rushed wildly, madly across the plain. How I 
reached the shore I know not The hand of the Almighty alone led 
me away from the quicksand, and preserved me from the treacherooi 
Waters. 

v. a. a. 



LINES WRITTEN AT SEA. 

Ir somethnes in the dark blue eye, 

Or in the deep red wine^ 
Or soothed by gentlest melody, 

Still warms this heart of mine ; 
Yet something colder in the blood, 

And calmer in the brain, 
Have whispered that my youth's bright flood 

Ebbs not to flow agaio. 

If by Helvetia's azure lake. 

Or Amo's yellow stream, 
Each star of memory could awake 

As in my first young dream, -^ 
I know that when mine eye shall greet 

The hill sides bleak and bare 
That gird my home, it will not meet 

My childhood's sunsets there. 

O, when love's first sweet, stolen kiss 

Burned on my boyish brow. 
Was that young fordiead worn as this ? 

Was that flushed dieek as now? 



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184 DS DIABOLO. 



Was that wild pube and throbbing heart 
Like these which vainly strive 

In thankless strains of sool-less art 
To dream themselves alive ? 

Alas ! the morning dew is gone, 

Gone ere the fall of day — 
Life's iron fetter still is on, 

His wreaths all torn away. 
Happy if still some casual hoar 

Can warm the fading shrine, 
Too soon to chill beyond the power 

Of love, or song, or wine ! 



D£ DIABOLO. 

The Tery existence of the Devil has been denied in these latter 
days of unbelief and schism ; and this I pronounce to be a most foul, 
abominable, and soul-destrojing heresy ; and, in all probability, one of 
the most cunning devices of the great enemy himself, to enable him 
the better to accoipplish his wicked ends. With this, however, we 
have nothing to do, as our object is to write a treatise and not a ser- 
mon. 

The Greeks and Romans had no Devil ; and how they managed to 
get along without one, is a perfect mystery to me ; to be sure their 
gods, and more especially their goddesses, went very far towards sup- 
plying his place; but nothing could make up for the want of a real 
unsophisticated Devil. When we reflect how much he has to do widi 
all the concerns of life, what a resource in all dOemmas, what a comfort 
to the desperate, what a support to the most abandoned and wretched, 
what an all-accommodating friend, we can hardly imagine the machi- 
nery of life, among classic nations, to have gone on with any sort of 
smoothness or regularity without him. One remarkable feature in 
those nations, was the absence of what we call society. They do not 
appear to have been acquainted with such a system. Society, as it 
exists among modem civilized nations enlisting in its numbers all 
who pretend to rank or standing in the world, with all its laws, stronger 
than the fiat of a despot, not bending under the terror of dungeons and 
chains, nor even giving way before the slow but visible approach of 
death, holding us in the iron grasp of etiquette ; all this was unknown 
to them. 

This universal firiend, our great enemy, '* noire ami Pennemi^" has 
always made his character conformable to the times, and has evidendy 



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DE DIABOLO. 186 

been deeply imbued at every period with the spirit of the age. Amoog 
the ancient Hebrews he assumed the same simpticity of character by 
which men were distinguished in those early times ; and what Job 
would have done, if Satan had been up to his present tricks in those 
days, I know not — but I am thinking his patience would have been 
less famous if he had been tasked as the Devil tasks us now a days 
— for instance, in reading Cooper's novels, Gary, Lea & Blanchard's 
edition. Since the days of Job he has made his appearance in seve- 
ral very distinguished forms, besides the constant care he has taken 
o£ the ordinary affairs of life. Nor have there been wanting men of 
sufficient assurance to call upon him in his own dominions, chez luu 
The first and most remarkable of these visiters is, undoubtedly, Dante. 
The great Florentine, in his journey down the infernal tunnel, saw, to 
be sure, a number of minor devils ; but it was not till he reached the 
bottom that he came into die presence of the great Lucifer, Devil of 
devils, the father of evil, the enemy of God and men, stretching his 
gigantic wings over the sea of ice, the everlasting prison of traitors. 
Dante, I believe, is the only poet who has imagined hell to be an ice- 
house, the contrary theory being supported by Milton and others, and 
rendered nearly certain by the testimony of many a writer, now departed, 
whose experience is not to be doubted. Chaucer was the second dis- 
tinguished poet who made a visit to Satan in his own dominions. He 
was accompanied on this enterprise by an Angel, who very p<^itely did 
die honors of the place to him. Afler wandering about for some time 
viewing all the curiosities and obtaining several introductions to the 
land, Chaucer inquires, with no small astonishment, why he had seen 
no monks there. ** Is it possible," says he to the Angel, ** that there 
•re none of them here t'^ ** By no means,^' replied his celestial com- 
panion ; and leading him to the side of our great enemy, he said :^— 
** Hand up thy tail, Sathanas." Whereupon the Devil gave his tail 
a whisk, and out flew myriads of friars from under it like swarms of 
mud-wasps from their nest When Chauc^ had seen enough of 
them, the Angel ordered them all back again to their hive, and the De- 
vil slapped down his tail and &stened them in. 

The next remarkable exhibition of the Devil is in Milton — and his 
Satan is too loOty a character to be properly discussed here. Every one 
knows what he is, and I will say nothing about him, except to remark 
that he is the last instance of a heroic Devil. Since the days of Milton, 
oar great enemy has never attempted sublimity of character* Goethe's 
Mq>histopheies is a simple incarnation of placid malice — he would 
have made an excellent ambassador and minister plenipotentiary to 
any modem court m Europe, to say nothing of the figure he might 
have cut at Washington, ifhe could have managed not to be outwitted 

vet^vn. t4 



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186 DB DIABOLO. 

there. I have sometimes thought, when I have been reading certain 
of our newspapers, that he would have made an admirable editor. — 
But the editors themselves know best whether the duties would not 
have proved too arduous for him. Now, only observe the difference 
between a German and an English Devil — between Goethe's crea- 
tion and Coleridge's ; the latter is a gentlemanly Devil, which is a 
phase of Satan that would never appear in Germany; Mephisto- 
pheles is hardly human enough to be likened to any mortal in Grer- 
many ; if he had taken the character of a man there, it would un- 
doubtedly have been that of a student, with long, dirty-looking, sandy 
hair, and wild blue eyes, and a face ten times as ugly as his own ; 
shabbily dressed ; and walking more like a locomotive than a man. — 
But in England he appeared like a gentleman, 

« And backwards and forwards he switched bis long tail, 
As a gentleman switches his cane.** 

And he probably wore a handsome coat from Stultz's, and a most 
knowing hat, &c. &c., and he behaved very much Uke a gentleman, 
too, throughout his walk. Tom Moore's Devil in London was quite 
a gentleman, though he had some difficulties with the editors, which is 
apt to be the case with all gentlemen as the times go. Indeed, the 
Devil has become so much like a gentleman in these latter days, that 
it is impossible sometimes to distinguish one from the other. 

I had written thus far when sleep overpowered me as I sat in my 
arm chair ; the pen fell from my hand, and my head reclined upon the 
desk. I had been thinking so much about the Devil in my waking 
hours, that the same idea pursued me after I had fallen asleep. I 
heard a gentle rap at the door, and having bawled out as usual, ** come 
in," a little gentleman entered, wrapped in a large blue cloth cloak, 
with a slouched hat, and goggles over his eyes. After bowing and 
scraping with considerable ceremony, he took off his hat, and threw his 
cloak over the back of a chair, when I immediately perceived that my 
visiter was no mortal. His face was hideously ugly ; the skin appear- 
ing very much like wet paper, and the forehead covered with those ca- 
balistic signs viiiose wondrous significance are best known to those 
who correct the press. On the end of his long hooked nose there 
seemed to me to be growing like a carbimcle, the first letter of the 
alphabet, glittering with ink and ready to print I observed, also, that 
each of his fingers and toes, or rather claws, was in the same manner 
terminated by one of the letters of the alphabet ; and as he slashed 
round his tail to brush a fiy off his nose, I noticed that the letter Z 
formed the extremity of that useful member. While I was looking 
wi^ no small astonishment and some trepidation at my eztraordinaiy 
visiter, he took occasion to inform me that he had taken the liberty to 



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DS DIABOLO. 167 

«a]l, MB he was afraid I might forget him in the treatise which I was 
writing — an omission which he assured me would cause him no little 
mortification. ^' In me," says he, ** you hehold the prince and patron 
of printers' devils. My province is to preside over the hell of books ; 
and if you will only take the trouble to accompany me a little way, I 
will show you some of the wonders of that world." As my imagina- 
tion had latoly been much excited by perusing Dante's Inferno, I was 
delighted with an adventure which promised to turn out something like 
his wonderful journey, and I readily consented to visit my new friend's 
dominions, and we sallied forth together. As we purvued our way, 
my conductor endeavored to give me some information respecting the 
world I was about to enter, in order to prepare me for the wonders I 
should encounter there. '' You must know," remarked he, ** that 
books have souls as well as men ; and the moment any work is pub- 
lished, whether successful or not, its soul appears in precisely the 
same form in another world ; either in this domain, which is subject to 
me, or in a better region, over which I have no control. I have power 
only to exhibit the place of punishmeut for bad books, periodicals, 
pamphlets, and, in short, publications of every kind." 

We now arrived at the mouth of a cavern, which I did not remem- 
ber to have ever noticed before, though I had repeatedly passed the 
•pot in my walks. It looked to me more like the entrance to a coal- 
mine than any thing else, as the sides were entirely black. Upon 
examining them more closely, I found that they were covered with a 
black fluid which greatly resembled printer's ink, and which seemed to 
corrode and wear away the rocks of the cavern wherever it touched 
them. '* We have lately received a large supply of political publica- 
tions," said my companion ; ** and hell is perfectly saturated with their 
maliciousness. We carry on a profitable trade upon the earth, by re- 
tailing this ink to the principal political editors. Unfortunately, it is 
not found to answer very well for literary publications, though they 
have tried it with considerable success in printing the London Quar- 
teriy and several of the other important Reviews." 

The cavern widened as we advanced, and we came presently into a 
vast open plain, which was bounded on one side by a wall so high 
that it seemed to reach the very heavens. As we approached the wall 
I observed a vast gateway before us, closed up by folding doors. The 
gates opened at our approach, and we entered. I found myself in a 
warm sandy valley, bounded on one side by a steep range of moun- 
tains. A feeble light shone upon it, much like thai of a sick cham- 
ber, and the air seemed confined and stifling like that of the abode of 
illness. My ears were assailed by a confused whining noise, as if all 
the Utters of new-bom puppies, kittens with their eyes unopened, and 
babes just come to light, in the whole world, were brought into one 

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188 DE DIABOLO* 

spot, and were whelping, mewing* and squalling at once. I tamed ia 
route wonder to my guide for explanation ; and he informed me that I 
now beheld the destined abode of all still-bom and abortive publica- 
tions ; and the infantine noises which I heard were only their feeble 
wailing for the miseries they had endured in being brought into the 
world. I now saw what the feebleness of the light had prerented mj 
observing before, that the soil was absolutely covered with boc^ of 
every size and shape, from the little diamond almanac up to the respec- 
table quarto. 1 saw folios there. These books were crawling about 
and tumbling over each other like blind whelps, uttering, at the same 
time, the most mournful cries. I observed one, however, which re* 
mained quite still, occasionally groaning a little, and appeared like an 
overgrown toad oppressed with its own heaviness. I drew near, and 
read upon the back, ** Resignation, a Novel." The cover flew open^ 
and the title-page immediately began to address me. I walked off, 
however, as fast as possible, only distinguishing a few words about 
** the injustice and severity of critics ;'' '* bad taste of the public ;^ 
•* very well considering ;" ** first efibrt ;" ** feminine mind,'' &c. ftc* 
I presently discovered a very important-looking little book, stalking 
about among the rest in a great passion, kicking the others out of the 
way, and swearing like a trooper ; till at length, apparently exhausted 
with its efforts, it sunk down to rise no more. *' Ah ha !'' exclaimed 
my little diabolical friend, '* here is a new comer"; let 's see who he 
is ;" and coming up, he turned it over with his foot so that we could 
see the back of it, upon which was printed *' The Monikins, by the 
Author of, &c. &c." I noticed that the book had several marks across 
it, as if some one had been flogging the unfortunate work. '* It is only 
the marks of the scourge," said my companion, '* which the critica 
have used rather more severely, I think, than was necessary." I ex- 
pected, afler all the passion I had seen, and the great importance of 
feeling, arrogance, and vanity the little work had manifested, that it 
would have some pert remarks to make to us ; but it was so muck 
exhausted that it could not say a word. At the bottom of the valley 
was a small pond of a milky hue, from which there issued a perfume 
very much like the smell of bread and butter. An immense number 
of thin, prettily bound manuscript books were soaking in this pond of 
milk, all of which, I was mformed, were *' Toung Ladies' AlbumSt'* 
which it was necessary to souse in the slough, to prevent them &om 
stealing passages from the various works about them. As soon as I 
heard what they were, I ran away with all my speed, having a mortal 
dread of these books. 

We had now traversed the valley, and, approaching the barrier of 
mountains, we found a passage cut through, which greatly resembled 
the Pausilipo, near Naples ; it was closed on the side towards the 



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DJB DIABOLOk 180 

▼alley, only with a curtain of white paper, upon which were printed 
the names of the principal reviews, which my conductor assured me 
were enough to prevent any of the unhappy works we had seen from 
coming near the passage. 

As we advanced through the mountains, occasional gleams of li^t 
appeared before us, and immediately vanished, leaving us in darkness. 
My guide, however, seemed to be well acquainted with the way, and 
we went on fearlessly till we emerged into an open field, lighted up 
by constant flashes of lightning, which glared from every side ; the 
air was hot, and strongly impregnated with sulphur. ** Each depart- 
ment of my dominions," said the Devil, ^' receives its light from the 
works which are sent there. Tou are now surrounded by the glitter- 
ing but evanescent corruscations of the more recent novels." This 
department of hell was never very well supplied till quite lately, though 
Fidding, Smollett, Maturin, and Grodwin, did what they could for us. 
Our greatest benefactors have been D^IsraeU, Bulwer, and Victor 
Hugo ; and this glare of light, so painful to our eyes, proceeds chiefly 
from their books. Thwe was a tremendous noise like the rioting of 
an army of drunken men, with horrible cries and imprecations, and 
fiend-like laughing, which made my blood curdle ; and such a scram- 
Ming and fighting among the books, as I never saw before. I could 
Bot imagine at first what could be the cause of this, till I discovered 
at last a golden hUl rising up like a cone in the midst of the plane, with 
just room enough (or one book on the summit ; and I found that the 
novels were fighting like so many devils for the occupation of this 
place. One work, however, had gained possession of it, and seemed 
to maintain its hold with a strength and resolution which bade defip 
anee to the rest I could not at first make out the name of this book, 
which seemed to stand upon its golden throne like the Prince of Hell ; 
but presently the whole arch of the heavens glared with new brilliancy, 
and the magic name of ^ Vivian Grey" flashed from the book in letters 
of scorching light. I was much afiraid, however, that Vivian would 
not long retain his post ; for I saw Pelham and Peregrine Pickle, 
mod the terrible Melmoth with his glaring eyes, coming together to the 
aosanK , when a whiriwind seized diem all four and carried them away 
to a vast distance, leaving the elevation vacai^ for some odier com- 
petitor. ** There is no peace to the wicked, you see," said my Asmo- 
^eus. ^ These books are longing for repose, and they can get none on 
•oooiiDt of the insatiable vanity of their authors, whose desire for dis- 
liDction made them caretess of the sentiments they expressed and the 
pijaciples they advocated. The great characteristic of works of thk 
Mmp is adioD, intense, painful action. They have none of that 
beautifiil seie&ity which shmes in Scott and Edgeworth ; and they 



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190 DB DIABOLO. 

are condemned to iHnstratOv by an eternity of c<Miteft here, dw reetlea* 
spirit with which they are inspired." 

While I was looking on with fearful interest in the road combat 
before me, the horizon seemed to be dai^ened, and a vast cloud rose 
up in the image of a gigantic eagle, whose wings stretched from the 
east to the west till he covered the firmament. In his talons he cai^ 
ried an open book, at the sight of which the battle around me was 
calmed ; the lightnings ceased to flash, and there was an awful still- 
ness. Then suddenly there glared from the book a sheet of fire, 
which rose in columns a thousand feet high, and filled the empyrean 
with intense light ; the pillars of flame curling and wreathing them- 
selves into monstrous letters, till they were fixed in one terrific glare* 
4knd I read — *' BYRON.'' £ven my companion quailed before the 
awful light, and I covered my face with my hands. When I with- 
drew them, the cloud and the book had vanished, and the contest was 
begun again — ^' You have seen the Prince of this division of hell,'^ 
said my guide. 

We now began rapidly to descend into the bowels of the earth ; and» 
after sinking some thousand feet, I found myself on terra firma agaiot 
and walking a little way, we came to a gate of massive ice, over which 
was written in vast letters — **My heritage is despair." We passed 
through, and immediately found ourselves in a vast basin of lead» 
which seemed to meet the horizon on every side* A bright light 
shone over the whole region ; but it was not like the genial light of 
the sun. It chilled me through ; and every ray that fell upon me 
seemed like the touch of ice. The deepest silence prevailed ; and 
though the valley was covered with books, not one moved or uttered 
a sound. I drew near to one, and I shivered with intense cold as I 
read upon it — ** Voltaire." *^ Behold," said the demon, ^ the hell of 
infidel books ; the light which emanates firom them is the light of 
reason, and they are doomed to everlasting torpor." I found it too 
cold to pursue my investigations any farther in this region, and I 
gladly passed on from the leaden gulf of Infidelity. 

I had no sooner passed the barrier which separated this department 
fi'om tiie next, than I heard a confused sound like the quaddng of 
myriads of ducks and geese, and a great flapping of wings ; of which 
I soon saw the cause. *^ You are in the hell of newspapers," said my 
guide. And sure enough, when I looked up I saw thousands of news- 
papers flying about with their great wooden back-bones, and the pad^ 
lock dangling like a bobtail at the end, flapping their wings and 
hawking at each other like mad. After circling about in the air for a 
little while, and biting and tearing each other as much as they could, 
they plumped down, head first, into a deep black-looking pool, and 



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DB DIABOLO* 191 

were seen no more. " We place tiiese newspapers deeper in hell 
than the Infidel publications,'' said the Devil ; *' because they are so 
much more extensively read, and diereby do much greater mischie£ 
It is a kmd of pest of which there is no end ; and we are obliged to 
allot the largest portion of our dominions to containing them." 

We now came to an immense pile of a leaden hue, which I found 
at last to consist of old worn-out type, which was heaped up to form 
the wall of the next division. A monstrous ti, turned bottom upwards 
(in this way H) formed the arch of a gateway through which we pass- 
ed; and then traversed a drawbridge, which was thrown across a 
river of ink, upon whose banks millions of horrible little demons were 
^porting. I presently saw that they were (employed in throwing into 
the black stream a quantity of books which were heaped up on the 
shore. As I looked down into the stream, I saw that they were im- 
mediately devoured by the most hideous and disgusting monsters 
iN^ch were floundering about there. I looked at one book, ^ich had 
crawled out after being thrown into the river ; it was dripping with 
fihh, but I distinguished on the back the words — ^* Don Juan." It 
had hardly climbed up the bank, however, when one of the demons 
gave it a kick, and sent it back into the stream, where it was immedi- 
ately swallowed* On the back of some of the books which the little 
imps were tossing in, I saw the name of — *^ Rochester," which 
showed me the character of those which were sent into this division 
of the infernal regions. 

Beyond this region rose up a vast chain of mountains, which we 
were obliged to clamber over. After toiling for a long time, we 
reached the summit, and I looked down upon an immense labjnrinth 
built upon the plain below, in which I saw a great number of large 
folios, stalking about in solenm pomp, each followed by a number of 
small vdumes and pamphlets, like so many pages or footmen watch- 
ing the beck of their master. ** You behold here," said the demon, 
** all the false works upon theology which have been written since the 
beginning of the Christian era. They are condemned to wander 
about to all eternity in the hopeless maze of this labyrinth, each folio 
drawing after it all the minor works to which it gave origin." A faint 
light shone from these ponderous tomes ; but it was like the shining 
of a lamp in a thick mist, shorn of its rays, and illuminating nothing 
around it And if my companion had not held a torch before me, I 
should not have discerned the outlines of this department of the In- 
fernal world. As my eye became somewhat accustomed to the feeble 
li^t, I discovered beyond the labyrinth a thick mist, which appeared 
to rise from some river or lake. *^ That," said my companion, " is 
^ distinct abode of German Metaphysical works, and other treatises 
of a similar unintelligible character. They are aU obljiged to pass 



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19S DB DIABOLO. 

through a prefls ; and if there is any aense in them» it is dnu aepa* 
rated from the mass of nonsense in which it is imbeddedt and is al« 
lowed to escape to a better world. Yery few of the workst howeTer» 
are found to be materially diminished by passing through the pfess." 
We had now crossed the plaiuy and stood near the impenetrable fog, 
which rose up like a wall before us. In front of it was the press 
managed by several ugly little demons, and surrounded by an im- 
mense number of volumes of every size and AiKpe^ waiting for die 
process which all were obliged to undergo. As I was watching their 
operations, I saw two very respectable German folios, with enormous 
clasps, extended like arms, carrying between diem a little volume, 
which they were fondling like a pet child with marks of doating afieo- 
tion. These folios proved to be two of the most abstruse, learned, 
and incomprehensible of the metaphysical producttoos of Germany ; 
and die bantling which they seemed to embrace with so much affec- 
tion, was registered on the back — ^Records of a School." I did 
not find that a single ray of intelligence had been extracted from eidier 
of the two after being subjected to the press. As soon as the volumes 
had passed through the operation of yielding up all the little sense 
they contained, they plunged into the intense fog, and disappeared for 
ever. 

We next approached the verge of a gulf, which appeared to be bot- 
tomless ; and there was dreadful noise, like the war of the elements, 
and forked flames shooting up from the abyss, which reminded me of 
the crater of Vesuvius. ** You have now reached the ancient limits 
of hell," said the demon, *' and you behold beneath your feet the ori- 
ginal chaos on which my domains are founded. But within a few 
yeara we have been obliged to buUd a yet deeper division beyond die 
gulf, to contain a class of books that were unknown in former times." 
^ Pray, what class can be found," I asked, ^* worse than those which 
I have already seen, and for which it appeare hell was not bad 
enough?" ^^They are American re-prints of English publications," 
replied he, ** and they are generally works of such a despicable cha- 
racter, that diey would have found their way here without being re-pub- 
lished ; but even where the original work was good, it is so degene- 
rated by the form under which it re-appeare in America, that its merit 
is entirely lost, and it is only fit for the seventh and lowest division of 
hell." 

I now perceived a bridge spanning over the gulf, with an arch diat 
seemed as lofty as the firmament We hastily passed over, and found 
that the farthest extremity of the bridge was close by a gate, over which 
was written thrae words. ^ They ara die names of die three fiiries 
who reign over this divisicm," said my guide. I of course did not 
contradict him ; but the words looked very mudi like some I had i 



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HTMlf BCrlUKO ULVrLK. IM 

bribre; and the iiM)re I examined them, the more dfficuH was it to con- 
▼ince mjTself that the inscription was not the same thing as the sign 
orer a certain publishing house in Philadelphia. 

«« These/' said the Devil, '*are called tlra three limes of the hell of 
books ; not from the mischief thdjr do thefe to t^o worki^ about them, 
but for the unspeakable wrong they did to the same works upon^the 
earth, by re-printing them in their hi de ous brown paper editions." As 
soon as they beheld me, they rushed towards me with such piteous 
accents and heart-moving entreaties, that I would intercede to save 
them from iheir torment, that I was moved with the deepest compas- 
sion, and began to ask my conductor if there were no relief for them. 
But he hurried me away, assuring hm that they only wanted to sell me 
some of their infernal editions, and the idea of ownbg any such pro- 
perty was sodreadfrd that it woke me up directly. 



HYMN miRINa BATTLE. 



TMAXflL^TlD UniALLT nOK THB OSBHAM Of XOBHBB. 



Father, I call on thee ! 
The caoDoa't naoke-doiids am nmnd »• rdsring 
Their rattling lightnings ajrouod me are pevring^ 
Ruler of battles ! I call on thee ; 
O Father, guide thou me ! 

2. 

O Father, guide thoo me ! 
Whether to tnumph, or from life to sever, 
Lord, thy commands are righteous ever : 
L<Kd, astboQ wiU'st so guide thoa me! 

God, I acknowledge thee! 

3. 
God, I acknowledge thee ! 
Mid the autumn leaves eddying together. 
Mid the battle4hiuMkiwweattier, 
Fountain of Mevcyi pimises to thee 1 
O Father, Uess thou met 

4 
O Father, bless tfaoa lae I 
My life I commend to thee. Lord of heaven ; 
Toon canst resome it, by thee twas given, 
Whether livinjs or dving, hless thoa me I 
Father, praise unto thee ! 

5. 
Father, praise unto thee I 
For earthly dross we are not contending 
But truth and tight with our swords det&iding f 
Then, conquering or dying, praises to thee f 
Fate^Ittaitaitbeel 



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194 EICOLLB0TIOirf«r 

a 

Father, I tnwt in thee! 
When death's thunden my knell are sounding, 
When from severed yeins my life-blood is bounifing. 
Thee, my GM, my trust is in thee ! 

Father, I call on thee! 



RECOLLECTIONS. 

Wt sat together — all alone -— 

At erening, in the silent bower. 
And &r die ailTer starii^ shone 

O'er sleepbg sea and folded flown; 
I knoVr not truly how it came 

That we were sitting thus together ; 
But love, I know, is hard to tame. 

And often breaks from Wisdom's tether. 

We talked at first of careless things. 

The weather and the last new novel, — 
And both were sore the pomp of kings 

Was nought to friendship in a hovel 
With now and then a. trembling pause, 

Our subjects were not very many ; 
And 80^ — I know not how it was — 

At last we did not talk of any. 

But though we spoke not, all the while 

Our eyes were sweeter converse keeping ; 
And Love, with many a wmning smile^ 

Betwixt the half-shut lids was peeping ; 
And though the bower was dimly dark, 

I saw the heaving of that bosom, — 
O! it was passing sweet to mark 

The opening of love's early blossom. 

In trufri, we never meant the thing. 

When first we sought that shady bower,— 
'Twas sudden, as a breeze of spring — 

'Twas natural as a buddmg flower. 
Alas! that ftithless eyes should own 

The thoughts our mmost bosoms harbor ; — 
'Us dangerous, love, to sit alone 

At twilig^ in a silent arbor ! 

That trembling hand w«s clasped with this — 

That cheek was resting on my shoulder ; 
And then the long, long, thrilliog kiss, . 

When love grew wild and I grew bolder! 
Long years have seen us far apart, 

Tet still upon my memory lingers 
The beating of that gentle heart, 

The clasping of those pMtty fingen. 



Elab. 

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196 



CRITICAL NOTICES. 



The American in Enghmd. By the tntthar of **Jl Tear in Spain.^ 
2 vols. 12mo. Harpers. 

Fkw writers luiTe wHh a single eflfort attained the enviable reputation of Uent 
SlidelL His close and accurate observation ; his dry drolling humor, and his unaf- 
fected pathos, in the few jsassages where he has attempted to touch the feelings, as 
lecommended by the easy and flowing style of ^ A Year in Spain," won instantly 
and warmly upon the public, and made them look with eagerness for any new 
production from the same pen. When, therefore, after the intervention of several 
years since the publication of his first work, the volumes before us were announced, 
the reading public anticipated a work of the same elaborate diaracter as that by 
which the author won his early laurels. The title of the work, too, which we think 
singularly impolitic and inappropriate* led them to expect at least as general and 
complete a view of England as, under the unpretending title of " A Year in Spain,** 
had been given of the fairest and most interesting portions of the Peninsula. Conse- 
quently when a brief and sketchy, but most entertaining, account of some six weeks' 
walks through London appeared, more than one reader, who acknowledges himsdf 
delighted with the book, expressed his chagrin and disappointment at finding the 
roving American has carried him no farther from the metropolis than Brighton, 
though he himself has wandered over the whole of Britain. Of this complaming 
^^lass we acknowledge ourselves to have been, upon a first hasty perusal of ^ The 
American in England ;" and though we admit that the author's preface (which most 
people by the by always read last) in some degree qualified our petulancy, we aro 
baldly willing to let him ofi* except on our own terms. And these are, that he 
will consider *^ The American in England" as only the first of a series of works, 
like Washington Irving's Crayon Sketches, in which he will from time to time give 
OB the result of his observation in the various parts of the work! whero he has wander^ 
ed. Nor do we see why, if our suggestion he adopted, ** The American in England 
Na 8," would not very agreeably and satisfectorily succeed the volumes before us. 

In the mean time let us examine the present book by the only fair standard — not 
that of our expectations of what it was to be, but what it is. And in this lig^t we con- 
sider it the best view of the greatest metropolis of the worid that has ever been gi- 
▼en by a stranger. It treats chiefly of the appearance, manners, and habits of liv- 
ing of those who constitute the mass of London population ; though full notices of 
the great public institutions, and observations upon &e political relations of society 
aro not wantmg. These aro all noted and discussed in a spvit of frankness and 
ftimess, though the author does not hesitate very property to bring his homebred 
tastes and republican opinions continually to bear upon them. In this respect his 
work resembles that of the exceUent traveller Latrobe, who so stoutly maintains his 
high Tory feelings while commenting with candor upon our American Democracy, 
Nor would we (however we might difier from him in sentiment,) value a woik a 
rash that did not contain some sooh passages to diow that the writer was in earnest 



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196 ommcAM. ir^ncBs. 

The best written put of Mr. Sliddl'e book is, perhaps, his aoooant of the raj^ge ; 
which is given with the spirit of one who since eariy boyhood has passed his Itfe up- 
on the ocean. The details, however, are so oopious and minute, that we shall not 
attempt to select from them while making our extracts, but follow our anthor where 
he first puts bis feet upon English soil 

''Though very anxious to see the Dock-yard, I did not, of course, attempt to 
gain admittance. Alt persons entering it are required to record their named and 
places of residence at tne gate; and foreigners are only allowed the privilege in 
virtue of a specific order m>m the Adminuty. Such is the vieilant yet mefiectoal 
jealousy witn which Elngland watches over mI that pertains to her waning dominioo 
on the ocean ; and those wooden walls, which extend the arm of her power every- 
where to the remotest seas, and display her proud banner flauntingly and disdam- 
fully in the eyes of an overawed world. If there were any thing new in the scieBoe 
of naval warm England, a single month wouM, in this age of publicity, reveal it to 
the whole world. The power of the British navv consists m the vast collection of 
the materials, the number of her ships, in the skill and experienoe of her oflk^rs, 
and the excellence of her seamen, nurtured in a commercial marine which oavers 
every sea. Add to this the vast wealth, the accumulated capital, and untold trea- 
sures which are the production of previous and still-sustained industry, and which 
give Ufe and energy to her other resources, and we have the real causes of England's 
navil wapmwnty, which does not consist in any exclnsive ingenuity in tiieconstrtic- 
tion and eauipiBent of hsr ships. The foreigner who would steal into the Port»> 
mouth dock-yard with any surreptitious purpose, would probably be foqnd stiidyiajg 
the nuxiels of the President, the Endyroion, the Blonde, or some captured Spaniard; 
and not in carrying off any outlines of those crazy and dancing cockboats, m which 
the forms of caiques and polacres, intended to traverse circumscribed and Weltered 
•eas, am extended to the largest ships, turned out to roll and wallow in the fuH- 
powB billows of the Atlantic ; or attempting to gain a nselul idea in consCructiea 
tn the building-sheds of a navy which is abaud<med to a wild spirit of iiiDOVatioii, 
trampling upon established rules and all that experience has consecrated^ and whidi 
is given up to the ruinous guidance of chariatans and yacht-fanciers." 

Our nautical Lieutenant does not seem from thb to have a very hig^ idea of the 
experimental naval architecture of England. His views are, perhaps, in some measure 
aflbcted by (be failure in every attempt to improve upon the models of our old fri- 
gates, at home. He comments frequently, however, upon the difference between 
English and American shipping, and alway in favor of the latter ; while among the 
observations upon various river and coasting craft, we find the following comparison 
between EngtUh and Jhnerictm Steamboats, 

^ This steamboat, like all in England, was of very different construction from ours 
In America ; most of ours being constructed to run on rivers and in smooUi water. 
Here there are no rivers, theharhoors are generally more or less open, and all beals 
are occasionally exposed to a heavy sea. Hence they are constroelBd fatter tad 
deeper, and have no superstructure of any sort, such as pavilionHleoks, and nok 
for the shelter and comfort of passengers. None of their madiinery is on deck ; 
and were it not for the fbnnel emitting a black coal-smoke, and the paddle-wheels, 
there would be nothing in the appearance of their hulb* to <Hstingui8h them from 
sailing veesels, fiir they are even painted in the same way. The traveHing-beam 
and piston, which work up and down in sig^t in our boats, here move horiBOiitally 
below. Perhaps this is one reason why the celerity in Knrfish steanboata is so i»* 
fbrior to ours ; for, extravagant as the aisparity may seem,! do not believe that tha 
average celerity of all the boats in the United Kingdom is more Aan equal to half 




speed is not wholly, but indeed very partially, owing to the flat construction of ooc 
boats, and the difierent character of the navi^tion. In shoal water it ia mora diffi- 
cult to displace the resisting fiuid, and the velocity is checked. We have steamect 
huih ef deeper draughrfor the navigation of the Long Island Sound, one of wluch, 
ttMiMKingUm»haaaimifQcmspeadof «i^itoa« MatuUmuim Iha hour; wad Iha 

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C?hiriifl>tetii padictB, wkieli are «zpoMd oocuioiMUy, m ptmmg wkog ih& Golf 
Streajn, to as terrific sioniiB and as dangerous seas as any to be enooimtered on the 
boisteroas coasts of the United EjBgdoin, go at a velooity of from twelve to thirteen 
knots.* 

On the road from Portsmouth to London, Mr. SlideO is nroch stmck with that at- 
tention to gardening! and ornamenting their grounds, which, from the general ab- 
sence of the taste at home, he considers peculiarly English; though it is to he traced 
in s strong degree amoog the early French settlers of this countiy wherever they 
have eatablished themselves. 

* The country had not, by nature, a rery picturesque conformation, and was but 
■figfatly wooded. Neither were there, as yet, any of those vast perks and venerable 
mansions which constitute the marked attribute of the scenery of Endand, and attest 
tiie magnificent tastes and unbounded wealth of her gentry. Still there were lesser 
undulations of the soil^ over which the road wound eeotly, commandiog, ever and 
anon, from the summits, views of the busy and crowded river and the country around 
it The scenes, though still of the same character, were yet perpetually varying, as 
the road, defying the straight hues of France, of Spain, and of my own country, 
eently and capndously meandered through valleys and hamlets, and over little an« 
liquated bridges that spanned tbe modest streamlets. On either side were hedges 
or hawthorn, elder, or holly, in the place of our less picturesque enclosures ; while 
tiM precincts of tiie estates were yet fiiither marked by rows of bending elms. 

"There was occasionally a villa of a more modest character, quaint, yet not un- 
graoefbl in its architecture, with a paddock stretchins towards the road, whose short 
smooth sward a pony would be cropping, teased at his meal by tbe caresses of a 
croup of healthful c&ldren under the guidance of a nursery-maid. A cow might 
Ee seen submissively jrielding to the dairy-maid the healthful nutriment which was 
to accompany the evening meal. At the sheltered side of the house, whidi was 
Qsoally overrun with ivy and eglantine, a small enclosure, bounded by a neat railing; 
of mm, formed the little flower-garden, which still displayed the gaudy coloring m 
dahlias and roses, while eold-trees and laurels prolonged the season of veidure, and 
kept the idea of winter idoof If there were nothing of luxury in alt this, there was 
yet all that was re<]uired to impartcomfort and joy to a contented mind. I saw ma- 
ny modest habitations like this, which, pUced in my own countiy oo any one of the 
thousand unnoticed and unimproved sites of my native Hudson, would nave bound* 
•d the circle of my unambitious hopes." 

We next view our author in London; it is his first night in the mighty Babyhm, and 
fiHliag hisDself an isolated utnt in the grand sum of human existence collected there, 
ke sits down and gives us the following capital picture odtUl Hfo in a coffee-room. 

** The cofiecNroom, into which I now entered^ was a spacious apartment of ob- 
long form, having two chimneys with coal fires. The walls were of a dusky orange ; 
the windows at either extremity were hung with red curtains, and the whole su& 
ciently well illuminated by means of several gas chandeliers. I hastened to appro* 
miate to myself a vacant table by the side ofthe chimney, in order that I might 
nave some company besides my own musing, and be able, for want of better, to 
commune with the fire. The waiter brought me the carte, the list of which did not 
present any very attracthre variety. It struck me as very insulting to the piide of 
die Frenchman, whom I had caught a glimpse of on entering not to say extremely 
cruel, to tear him from the joys and pastimes of his bdle F^raoce, and conduct him 
to this land of fogs, ol rain, and gloomy Sundays, only to roast sirloins and boil 
legs of mutton. 

** The waiter, who stood beside me in attendance, very respectfully suggested that 
die eravy-soup was exceedin^y good ; that there was some fresh sole, and a paiw 
tlco&rly nice piece of roastbeef. Being ver^ indifferent as to what I ate, or whe- 
Sibet I ate any thing, and moreover quite willing to be relieved from the embarassment 
ef selecting from such an unattracUve bill of fare, I laid aside the carte, not however 
before I had read, with some curiosity, the following singular thou^ very sensibU 
admonitioii, 'Gentlemen are particularly requested not to miscarve thejomtsi' 

" I amused myself with the soup, sipped a little wine^ and trifled with the fish. 
At length I foondmyselffoGe to fikce with the enormous siiloin. Thore was som»> 



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198 oRinoAL KoncBi. 

thing at leatt in the rencounter which conveyed the idea of eociety ; and society of 
any sort is better than absolute solitude. 

** I was not long in discoveiin^ that the difierent perwaages scattered about the 
room in such an unsocial and misanthropic manner, instead of being collected aboot 
the same board, as in France or my own country, and, in the spirit of good fellow- 
ship and of boon companions, relieving each other of their mutual ennuis, though 
they did not speak a word to each other, bv which thev might hereafter be compro- 
mised and socially ruined, by discovering that thev haa made the acquaintance of 
an individual several grades below them m the scale of rank, or haply as disagreea- 
bly undeceived by the abstraction of a pocket-book, still kept up a certain mter- 
change of sentiment, by occasional glances and mutual observation. Man, after 
all, is by nature gregarious and socid ; and though the extreme limit to which dviU- 
xation has attained in this highly artificial country may have instructed people how 
to meet tosether in public places of this description without intermixture of classes 
or mutual contamination, yet they cannot, for the life of them, be wholly indifl^ 
ent to each other. Though there was no interchange of sentiments by words then, 
yet there was no want of mutual observation, sedulously concealed indeed, but still 
revealing itself in a range of the eye, as if to ask a question of the dock, and in 
furtive dances over a book or a newspaper. 

'' In Sie new predicament in which 1 was now placed, the sirloin was Hien ex- 
ceedingly useful. It formed a most excellent line of defence, an unassailable breast- 
work, behind which I lay most completely intrenched, and defended at all points 
from the sharp-shooting of the surrounding observers. The moment I found my- 
self thus intrenched, I oegan to recover my eouanimity, and presently took courage 
— bearing in mind always the bjunction of tne bill of fare, not to miscarve the 
joints — to open an emorasure through the tender loin. Through this I sent my 
eyes sharp-snooting towards the ^ests at the other end of the room, and will, if the 
reader pleases, now furnish him with the result of my observations. 

** In the remote comer of the coflfee-room sat a party of three. They had finish- 
ed their dinner, and were sipping their wine. Their conversation was carried on in 
a loud tone, and ran upon lords and ladies, suits in chancery, crim. con. cases, and 
marriage settlements. I did not hear the word dollar once ; but the grander and 
noUer expression of thousand pounds occurred perpetually. Moreover, they in- 
terlarded their discourse abundantly with forei^ reminiscences and French words, 
coarsely pronounced, and awfully anolicised. i drew the condusion firom this, as 
well as from certain cant phrases ano vulgarisms of expression in the use of tneir 
own tongue, such as " regularly done" — ** completely floored,'* — " split the difier- 
ence,** t£it they were not the distinguished people of which they labored to convey 
the impression. 

** In the comer opposite this party of three, who were at the cost of all the conver- 
sation of the coffee-room, sat a Ions-faced, straigbtpfeatured individual, with thin 
hair and whiskers, and a bald hea£ There was a bluish tinse about his cheek- 
bones and nose, and he had, on the whole, a somewhat used Took. He appeared 
to be reading a book which he held before him, and which he occasionally put aside 
to glance at a newspaper that lay on his lap, casting, from time to tone, furtive 
glances over book or newspaper at the colloquial party before him, whose conver- 
sation, though he endeavored to conceal it, evidently occupied him more than his 
book. 

<* Halfway down the room, on the same side, sat a very tall, rosy young man, of 
eix-and-twenty or more ; he was sleek, fair-faced, with auburn hair, and, on the 
whole, deddeoly handsome, though his appearance could not be qualified as distin- 
guished. He sat quietly and contentedly, with an air of the most thoroughly va^ 
cant bonhommie, never movins limb or muscle, except when, from time to time, he 
hfted to his mouth a fragment of thin biscuit, or replenished nis glass from the de- 
canter of black-looking wine beside him. I fandeo, from his air of excellent health, 
that he must be a country gentleman, whose luxuriant growth had been nurtured 
at a distance from the ^loom and condensation of dties. I could not determine 
whether his perfect air of quiescence and repose were the effect of consummate 
breeding, or simply a negative quality, and that he was not fidgety only because 
troubled by no thoughts, no ideas, and no sensations. 

"There was only one table between his and mine. It was occupied by a taD. 
thin, dignified-lookmg man, with a very grave and noble cast of countenance. I 
was more pleased wim him than with any other in the room, from the qui^ mos- 
ine, self-forgetfulness of his air, and the mild and civil manner in which he address* 
adthe servants. These vpere only two in nambeiv tiiou^ a dpoen or more tables 



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wero spreftd round, each capable of seating four peraona. They were weD^dreaaed, 
decent-looking men, who came and went quickly, yet quietly, and without oonfo- 
aion, at eac^ call for Qeoree or Thomaa. The patience of the guests seemed un- 



bounded, and the object ^ each to deatroy as much time as possible. The scene, 
dull as it was, furnished a most favorable contrast to that which is exhibited at the 
ordinaries of our ereat inna, or in the saloons of our magnificent steamers. 

" Havins completed my observations under cover of the sirloin, I deposed my 
knife andnrk, and the watchful waiter hastened to bear away the formidable bul- 
wark by whose aid I had been enabled to reconnoitre the inmatea of the cofte-room. 
A tart and some cheese followed, and then some dried fruits and thin wine biscuits 
•ompleted m^ repasL Having endeavored inefiectually to rouse myself from the 
atupefiu^n into which I was falling, by a cup of indifferent cofiee, 1 wheeled my 
capacious ann-chair round, and took refuge from surrounding objects by gazing in 
the fire." 

Leaving this drowsy realm let us now follow 'The American* in his walks through 
the most magnificent public domain in the world. We are exceedingly fond in this 
country of boasting of our broad streets and public squares — and Boaton indeed with 
her Mount Auburn, and Philadelphia, vnth her numerous wooded enclosures, peiw 
haps with some justice ; — but what would the dtisens of New-York say should 
th^ worthy corporation endoee an area like Regent's Park, of ^v« htmdred aertit 
for the benefit of the public 7 

** Qloncester Ghite is another grand entrance to the Park. It is a speciea of tri- 
omphal arch, in Doric taste. I tooked out of it, and walkine a few steps, came to a 
bria|^ over the Regent's Canal, on the banks of which stancu a chamung coUectioa 
of mde ornamented cottages of the Elizabethan, Gothic, or Saxon architecture. 
Many of these have a srotesque and quaint appearance, yet the efiect of the whole 
is pleasing and agreeaue. Small, but beautimlly arransed gardens and mimie 
conservatories swept down to the borders of the stream. 1 had occasion afterwaid 
to enter aome of theae, and found them filled vnth all imaginable comforts. 

" I could not but regret the unfavorable character of the comparison between these 
chaiming cottagea, and the tasteless masses of brick and mortar m which people of 
the same class and of sreater means are contented to live in my own country. The 
greater mansions ovenooking the Park, thou^ they pay oppressive taxea of various 
aorta well-nigh equal to the rent, are not more expensive to the tenantthan the grace- 
less edifices of eoual size from which our city magnates look out rejoidnsly into the 
dust, tumult, and deafening clatter of Broadway ; while these modest and charming 
cottagea ofier to the individual of humble means, each such a little castle of comfort, 
such an epitome of all that the heart of man longs for in the habitation of his body, 
as could not be procured with us at any price, except only at the trouble of creat- 
ing it 

'^The plan of Regent's Park was fonned, under the direction of the commission- 
ers of Woods and Forests, aided by their architect, Mr. Nash, of those magnificent 
improvements, which were to me a source of increasing deUgfat the looser 1 Imd an 
opportunity of observing tiiem. The Park, consisting of five hundred acrea, was 
laid out in the happiest taste of an art which is essentially English ; and the sur- 
rounding grounds were leased to enterprising speculators, with the condition of 
building upon a stipulated plan. After all, it was individual wealth, and capital ori- 
ginating w>m the same sources which are so rapidly developing it in our own coun- 
try, which led to all these splendid creations. Nor am I quite sure that the corpo- 
ration of my native cit^ have not a control over large tracts of land which a rew 
jrears will bring within its inhabited precinct& No situation ofl^ greater capabilir 
ties for ornamental improvement than the island of Manhattan, on wnich New- York 
is situated. On one hand lies one of the noblest livers of a worid, in which every 
thing is on a grand scale ; on the other, and at a distance of two or three miles, a 
beautiful arm of the sea. Nature has thrown its surface into apleasing variety of 
hill and hoUow, of rook and glen, and picturesque ravine. What has art hitliertc 
done to heighten these beautiea? Why, she has approached her taak under the 
guidance of a blind and mistaken utility, taking no counsel of good taate. HiQa 
have been cut away and cast down into the a^oinin^ hollows ; rocks blown asun- 
der and prostrated ; coves filled up to be on an equality with the headlands that en- 
doaed tbam ; the wbdc sorftee of the ooontiy revolutioniied ; ihtX which nature 



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too ommcAM, noricwi. 

pUoedatthetopcafltto thebottoai; thewnioetofiMtbdieflpfepftradbTtfaoeftiti 
to promote hoftlm ; beautiful groves cut down to make roora, at best, ror rows of 
Lombardy poplars ; compact masses of brick edifices run up^ without an? leserva* 
tion of promeoades for the recreation and health of those who are to inhabit them ; 
a thousand things begun, and scarce one finished ; and the whole soeoe brought, 
under the pretext of unproTement, to present one desolating spectacle of cbaotia 
confusion ; while in this quarter of London, which is as modem as many parts of 
New- York, the eff^ of newness is already banished. Whatever has been done^ 
has been done permanently ; hedges, gardens, and plantations have been quickly 
created to gloss over and smooth away the run^ aspect of innovation. 

** Our Urge, wealthy, and growing metrop<Mis should have m its pcnrpetual employ 
an architect of ability and cnUivated tastes. He should visit the capi^ of Europe^ 
and imbue his mind with whatever ideas of convenience, elegance, or gpmndenr they 
may present ; and he should especially study the liberal ana enliditened improve* 
ments, and the domestic architecture, in its more modest forms, of the people fr<mi 
whom we sprang and whose tastes are destined to become our own. Nowhere in 
En|^and could he find more happy sources of inspiration than in Regent's Park 
and its ornamented precincts. « ^ « « 

** From thb point the grounds of the Park are seen with all their beauty. They 
present a great variety m agreeable objects, groves, g^ens^ sheets of water, toe 
mdentatioD of whose shores imitates the graceful caprice or nature, in t er s persed 
with villas, lodges, and airy bridge, and tM view being closed in the dis t ance by 
the nave and towers of St Catharine's, the dome of the C<diseum, and the colon- 
nades of the adjoinmg; terraces. The inhabitants of these mansions enjoy, in the 
heart of a great city, the sight of whatever is plessing in the aspect of the most 
highly-omameated scenes of rural life — for even sheep and cattM were not want- 
ing to complete the picture of plecMing rusticity. Nor is it only in the si^t of thcM 
obiects, that they found gratification. While many rolled over die smootti avenves 
in luiurions equipages, othen of either sex ambled on beautiful and highly mettled 
horses, followed bj neatly-dressed and eaually well-rooanted grooms ; while others, 
with an air of not inferior enjoyment, rambled on foot over the gravellM walks of the 
endosores, or, seated on rustic benches at the sunny side of agrove, or by the mar* 
gin of the water, pored over the pages of some attractive author; — baplv a Thom- 
son, a Cowper, or some one of those descriptive poets of the land, who have sung 
•o sweetly of rural scenes, to a people formed by their tastes to appreciate their de« 
seriptions and to sympathiase in their ecstades. The langh and lively prattle of 
children, too, gave to the scene its most pleasine character of animation. SfNine 
were ferried over the water in pretty whemes, whue others, hanging over the railiogs 
of the airy bridges which spanned the stream, seemed delightra to divide their lun- 
cheon with the majestic swans which sailed proudly below, and which for a mo* 
msnt forgot their stateliness and dignity in their ea^^ efforts to catch the descend- 
ing morsels.'' 

In the ample details of English life and scenery given by Prince Pockler Mns- 
kau, there was nothing ddighted us more than his pictures of those magnificent 
parks, ''lovely in England's fiideless green," which are scattered in soch profiinon 
over the island. Mr. Slidcll seems to have been equally captivated with the mral 
beauties of England, and, slight as are the glimpses of the country he afibrds us, they 
are always vivid and striking. Two of these passages (on psges 148 and 144, voL 
8,) we had selected from the othen on account of the just and beautiful reflectiona 
that accompany them, but our extracts have already filled a qiace that prevents o«r 
adding to their nomber. "A hurdle race," commencing on page 178 of the mom 
voUme, was also pencilled for insertion here, as being one of the mostanimated pic* 
tures of the bold and enduring spirit widi which EngUsh gentlemen punue the man- 
ly sporti of the field, that we recollect to have met with. There are no lidento be 
found in this country who di^y the desperate horsemanship Mr. Slidell has com- 
memorated, except, perhaps, in some parts of the AHegfaanies, where they bunt 
deer in the saddle through woods and amongrocks, where it wodd seem impossiUe 
for a horse to make his way at tilie slowest pace and without a rider. 

The London low-life scenes which foUow this part of the book, are so little to our 
taste that we gUnoed at them sufficient^ OB^ lo ate tfait our Mtkor has not y At «or« 



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**A Yetr in Spain,** and mtnywlucfa in a (btare edition will, we traet^be blotted 
from these ▼domes. 

Commencing on page tlS of the second volume^ we find a deacription of the den 
of The great Publishing Lion** of En^and, written in such admirable style, and 
withal so aroosing, that we can hardly resist the temptation to transplant it to our 
pages. But it is now time to dose tlus notice, which has already run so much beyond 
our aOotted limits, that we must omit a still more important passage prepared for in- 
sertion. It is a comparison between England and France, which is given as a kind 
of ^ summing up* of our traveller, after crossbg the channel to the latter country. 
It is sufficiently good in itself when viewed merely as the result of previous observa- 
tions given to tiie reader ; but it derives a new value from the fact, that the dose 
and acute student of character who makes it, in addition to an early familiarity with 
France, had opportunities of studying society in England in its best phases and for 
a considerable period, which are hardly glanced at in this eix weeks' tour. We re- 
gret that we cannot enter with our aiUhor into those retreats of domestic privacy, 
where the unaffected simplicity and manly refinement of the higher classes of Eng- 
land so much delisted him ; — but we will not insult him with pmise for forbear- 
ance in describing scenes which, as a gentleman, he could not of course give to the 
public 

Hoping soon to meet the American again ** in England,** we take leave of him 
with the less regret at present, from the promise at the close of his present volumes, 
that we shall before long hear from him in that most prolific ** nurse and breeder'* of 
American citizens — Ireland. And having always entertained an ardent admiration 
for the gallantry and generosity of our embryo couninfmen in the emerald isle, we 
hope that our author (who seems to be a devoted administration man) will make us 
eonverts to the doctrine that they are all bom-legislators ; and better fitted, after be- 
ing six months on this side of the water, to make laws for Americans, than the edu- 
cated youth who, because they sprang fVom American soil, have to wait twenty- 
one years before presenting themselves at the ballot boxes. 



The JVarJcsof Lard Byron : with hU Ltttera^ JoumahfOndhU Life. 
By Thomat Moore ; m 6 voU. VoL L Oeorge Dearborn. 

Onr cfaoiee and dassic-spiritod publisher hath here put forth a specimen of Ame- 
lican ait, wfaieh " Ammon'* regards with no shgfat complaeency as emanating froin 
the same studio where his own physical lineaments are moulded. If aa^ ean vs- 
deem these noble poems from that tnmoltuotte chauiberof the infemals, to wfaicfa a 
grave andleaned treatise in oor present number hath condemned them, it would be 
the beanliful and placid guise under wfaMi their savage inspiration is now present 
ed to the pQbbc. The haughty master-spiiit would have been sootbedinto momes- 
tazy oomplaceney with the world, could be have looked upon ^ broad white mav- 
pn, the clean sculptured type, and the tasteiid embeUishments with which eadi pro- 
duction of his genius, each memento of his chamcter, are here onbodied ; and, fer 
the first time, given oonplete to hie admirers. 

The present edition, which in form preserves a judicious medium between Qa^ 
fignam's single octavo volume and the seventeen duodecimos of Murray, contning 
a number of Letters and Poems winch are not to be found m either. The latter eos- 
siat diiefly of those which were in Lei^ Hunfs possession, and which, as he refri»- 
•d to aUow Moore the use of them, have never been indoded in thd same EngUA 
eofiyrigfat The embettisfameiits are sdected prodigally, bat with care^ frani the 
vaiiooa iUostrations of Byron's woiks, which of late years have been pubfidhad 
onder anch a varisCy of names. And the bast angraTsn in thb coontiy have been 

VOL. VIL 96 



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20S CRITICAL NOTIOM. 

for some tiine flngtfedin jprapuhif ihma fbrthe work. In the way of bea^ as ei- 
qniike speounea of engmvuig opoo steel ftoee the title-page, while the landscape 
illufltrations are well repreeeated in the beautifbl view of the poet's reeideoee at 
Diodati, which graoee oar preeent number, and which was executed for DBAaaeBN's 
Bteow. 



JinalyiU of Female Beauty. By Wilson Flagg. Boston : Marshy 
Capen 4r Lyon. JfeuhYork: Benjamin T. Griffin. 1834. pp. 
108. 

Here is a little book, which, from its totally unpretending character, has not been 
praised — naj, it has entirely escaped the Argus-eyed observation of the press. 
Few have seen it, and yeiy few have read it It resembles Wordsworth's Lucy : 

A maid whom there were few to praise. 
And very few to love. 

A Tiolet by a mossy stone attracts more attention from passing travellers, than does 
this dimmative volume from the critics. Yet how attractive its title ! " Analysis 
of Female Beaaty !" And does it in reality analyze that which cannot be pourtray- 
ed7 DoeA it bring down to the human understanding, the unessential parts of 
loveliness, and make us acquainted with the constituent elements of female beauty 7 
No, it does no such thing. Therefore its title, fascinating as it is, is inappropriate. 
But as we have neither leisure or inclination to give it a 6tter name, we must be con- 
tent with the present — and, like a faithful chaperon, introduce our prot4g6 to the 
best literary society of both sexes. 

The '^Analysis of Female Beauty" presents this motto on the title-page — and 
from our never having seen it before in any young lady's album, and from a certain 
&mily likeness to the rest of his verses, we pronounce to be from the pen of the au- 
thor, Mr. Wilson Flagg. 

Oh, who can wander o'er this mortal soil 

And say no joys exist to bless our toil? 

Oh, who can call this earth a wilderness 

Who feeb the power of Beauty's charms to bless 1 

Not we, certainly. We are far too susceptible. We think that tiiere are cj>R8i- 
deraUe many joys in this worid — and are no sticklers for the Calvinistic docfano. 
As for Beauty's charms," we bow to them most profoundly, standing in a more con- 
stant awe of them than the citizens of Warsaw of the fortress which the EmpM^t . 
Nicholas has erected near their foircity to open a regular battery on the very first' 
symptom of disafiection. As we once wrote, when boys, in very chmce Latin, we 
now devoutly believe — ^ Femina, fennnaomnia vincit !" Translated into Yankee 
Teroacular, this signifies ** Women carry every thing before them." Were Mr. 
Wilson Flagg less an admirer of the hmm sMt than he is, we doubt not he would 
adopt this additional motto in his.next edition ^giving us credit for the authorship. 

After the title-page, and tb^ proper legal notification of the entering of the oop3i»> 
light according to act of Congress, by Benj. F. Gbiffin, in die Clerk's office of the Dis- 
trict Court of Massachusetts (which strikes as as a procedure of unnecessary so- 
pererogation), there follows a very sensible and discreet ** Introduotion." It is very 
well written and all true, evni grsno aaUi. We are not prone to scepticism, bitf 
doubt some of the philosophy of Mr. Flagg, chiefly because we do not comprebeod 
it Here is an assertion that we cannot swallow without tiie salt : **ManU btmOff 
is that which aflbcts the heart ; jtk§tieml beautff is that which aflects the senses." 
What! does Blr.Wil8Qik Flagg not believe m love at first sight? that which Sohil- 



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lar ctlls "tbe instantaneous permutation of being'*— meaning thsnby tbe popping 
tint of one beait and the popping in of another 7 Fie! forahame! Mr. Flag; — a 
^bsdple of ** Female Beaaty," and recreant to the great article of iu faith ! We 
cannot allow it ! Away with so onkind an imputation ! But then what does he 
mean by ''moral beauty 7" This surely cannot be seen in the form and features of 
a m a gnifi ce n t woman whom we pass in the street, quiz at the opera, or encounter 
at a f^te. We gaze on her " physical beau^,** which afiects the senses indeed, and 
the heart also, if we may judge by certain palpitations in the precordial region. 
We are in love before we have time to inquire into the moral qualities — and olUn, 
when we think we look upon an angel, we discover that the object of our adoration 
is — not a saint The only way in which we can reconcile this apparent solecism 
of Mr. Wilson Flagg, is by an inference charitably drawn fVom the concluding sen- 
tence of his Introduction : '*To a lover of virtue, who is a correct physiognomist, 
BO face can appear beautiful which does not indicate an amiable and intelligent 
mind." This is the poet*s idea rather difibiently expressed— 

** The mind, the music breathing from her face I" 

Hence we infer that our author sees moral as weO as physical beauty in the first 
▼iew of a lovely countenance. Rash confidence ! mistaken belief! Have a care, 
Bdr. FlaggI Crystals can beset so as to vie in brilliancy with diamonds of the first 
water : or, to be less elegant, <' all is not gold that gliatens, by a long ahot !** 

After the Introduction ooand the Contents : which show that tbe work is divkied 
into twenty-five parts or numbers. Each of these is subdivided into two other 
parts ; first of poetry, second of prose. Both are enigmatical The prose resembles 
tlie poetry ; the first is better than the last, and the last is more mtetligible than the 
first In Number one, styled Aueblia — Sobrutt (the latter is not a surname), 
we observe a Proteus of an idea, which seems, under various shapes^ to predomi- 
nate over all succeeding numbers. What this is we cannot state, as we expect eve- 
ry reader to procure the little volume and determine for himself Elach number is 
occupied with a description of some beautiful woman, (evklently intended to be ac- 
companied by a pKtnre, which we recommend to Mr. Allston to paint) ; and each is 
supposed to have some distinguishing excellence, — all of which ezcellenqes are 
discovered by an '^ Analysis of Female Beauty." Par txmnpU^ Aurelia itf d^tlnguish- 
ed for Sobriety — her name probably would stand 2irst,on the list of '' The Young 
Ladies* Temperance Society" — Sylvia, for Innocence — Cecilia, for Constancy.* 
Some of the cfiaracteristics <^ the Udies described would be constituents of ''phy- 
siaal beauty ;" but Mr. Flagg evidently gives the palm to moral perfections. Grace, 
Vivacity, Cheerfulness, GUyety, have a good deal to do with the physical, but the re- 
mainder, such as the above-mentioned, and Modesty, Gentleness, Sympathy, Pi^, 
md Sincerity, are purely moral charms. 

Mr. Wilson Flagg is a very good versifier ; yet his prose is better than his verse. 
In both there is a redundancy of expression, which as often flows from a copious, 
as from a sterile, fancy. There is, however, great repetition in his book — indeed, 
it must have been extremely difficult to avoid, in descriptions of various beauties, in 
an of which certain resemUances must prevail Mr. Flagg*s twenty-five prosaic 
and rfaythnucal pktures are, as if they were his two dozen and one daughters by the 
same wife, all with difierent colored eyes ; some short, some tall, some thin, some 
&t, but with a striking family likeness ; and two of opposite characters, look "very 
«ifte;**though Virginia Flagg is contemplative, and Locetta Flagg gay. 

Our author's exfwessbns in his descripCk>ns are more similar to each other than 
the objects described ; but as this simple volume was ushered mto the arena with 
DO flouridi of trumpets, we shall designate some good points and content ourselves 
with smiling at one or two harmless absurdities, — perfectly excusable in one whose 
brain has evidently been disturbed by too long reflection upon the charms of "tho 
oppoKte sex." We called his venification good. It is often hannopiooa. 



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9M cBincAit NornBt* • 

Her locks, with negliceDt and (kming grtM, 
Haiif like dvk wreaSis about her n^ and iace. 
Mellow th^ brUIiant lustre of her eves, 
And shade her blushes into softer dyes. 

His adnuTtt^on is sincere and enthnsiastic ; and no lady need apprehend any 
diminution in the devotional homage of so ardent a loTer as Mr. Witaon Flagg. 
This is excellence enough without seekmg for any other. We most, however, pre- 
sent our readers with a bit of prosaic rapture, which, if it be not deacnptive of some 
Teai fair one, we have dropped a stitch in our guess-wotk. 

•* This is the beau ideal of loveliness seldom found in real lifeu but olten visiting 
our slumberiag visions when the faculties are all absorbed in the dream-like contem- 
plation of beauty. It is a species of beauty that dwells in a great variety of fea- 
tures in eoual perfection. It is the expression of love itself, acbmed vnth the looks 
of cheerfulness and simplicity. She is one whom all can love, and but few can 
refrain from loving. She has a delidous fiu;e, which not only captivates the heart, 
but spreads a thrUling glow of pleasure over the whole system (!) It is that killing 
beauW which makes stoics susceptible, heroes melancholy, infidda devotional, and 
^Is nang themselves.** 

Our author is extremely fond of kissing. Witness — 

** Attracts vour heart, and seems to ask a kiss.** 
^ And kincues such an ecstasy of bliss, 
You'd sell your own salvation for a kiss.** 

'^Cherry lips," ^ pouting mouth," and ** merry dimples," are the burden of his song. 
Sometimes, in the refined language used by the ''gals" at a down-east qailting 
firolkv " he wants to kiss, but daaent P* 

** So innocent, no mortal lips would dare 
Intrude a kiss on one so neavenly fiiir." 

And shortly afler, in the same description — 

" She seems too pure for mortal lip's caress." 

Mr. Flagg, as a painter would say, does not understand how to mix ccdorv. 
^Vermilion," which is hie favorite, would be rather gaudy on canvass cheeks. 
Had either of his ladies such eyes, hair, eyebrows, cheeks, and temples, as he men- 
tions here and there, " Crazy Moll" would be a more fitting name for her than the 
romantic one which he would bestow. We beg leave to suggest to our author, as 
an orighial and forcible appellation for a vixen, should he have occasion to describe 
auch a one — Htkna. We trust we have written sufficient to excite much curio- 
sity about Mr. Wilson Flagg*s book. 

We have Lavater before us, in four large volumes octavo ; but though he treats 
^rf'male phyriognomies in eiienaOf he professes to ksow precious little about finales ; 
which no one can doubt who reads his absurd remarks, far less worthy to be re- 
ceived, in our high and guarded estimation, than this somewhat infelicitously so- 
called ^ Analysis of Female Beauty." 



Slorie$ of the Sea. By CapL MarryaL 1 vol Jfao-Tork: JSorpert. 

We are warm admirers of Capt Marryat's writings; that is, as warm as it be- 
comes critics to be in any thing but invective ; it being a long received opinion that 
« critic, like a corporation, should be a body without a heart — a machine without 
pulses or circulation, that goes remorselessly to woHl to make laws for lefomiing 

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•Ireets tad aathora, wad cwts throo^ fetimfi tnd boosei with tb6 oooloa w ud 
precimon of a pstent ie8-tha?er, or any other limple and exact piece of mechamsm. 
This is a digreenon, bowerer. We an wann adiniren of Capt M.'i writingii, and 
for the simple reason that they are natural The perfect aimpiicity of their style— 
Che manly and unafiected Eng^ in which they are written, is abeolotely lefieshing 
amid the redundant growth of the inlansiM school, which on one side, and the 
cologne-water cUss oo the other, have so long monopohied puUio favor. 

The present collection of tales are not equal to former prodnctions of ^e same 
author. But as they have more of the striking in them than be generally thinks it 
necessary to use, they will probably be not the less popular from the writer having 
thus acoommodated himself to the taste of the public 



J^otices of the War of 1812, by Oen. Jlnmtrong. 1 Vol; George 
Dearborn^ JVew-rorik. 

In a former notice of this work, which we spoke of as immediately forthcoming, 
we promised a more minute examination of its contents when it should appear. As 
« very slight delay prevents this at present, however, we cannot do belter with the 
few sheets to whidi we some tone since had access, than conclude our critical noti- 
ces with the following extract, which is characteristic of the author's style and 
interesting in itsel£ 

^Tbe army leuwod the rhrer Detroit on the evening of the 7th and morning of 
4he 8th of Ansust, with the exception of a few volunteers, who^ in madness or in 
mockenr, hadDeen left for the protection of such British colonists as yet adhered 
to the- American standard. On the 11th, this shadow of support was also with- 
drawn ; and on the 14th, General Brook, in prosecution of the plan already indi- 
cated, appeared at Sandwidi, and immeoiateiy employed himsdr in constructing a 
battery to protect, at onoe, his present position and fodure operations. In executmg 
this wofk, he met with no intemmdon : as every species or annoyance was either 
indirectly decfined, or expressly ioibid<ien by €mieral HulL In vain was permis- 
flioo aoliated to erect a battery, with vHiich to dislodge or destroy the enemas ship- 
pong ; in vain a smaU detacbment of one hundred men, required for the purpose of 
«piking the British cannon ; to these, and to every similar proposition, involving 
credit to himself or danger to his adversary, the Gkoeral turned either a deaf ear, or 
a positive refusal 

** Such was the state of things on the morning of the 15th, when a marquee (the 
top of which was so painted as to give it a strong resemblance to the British flag) 
was found erected in the centre of the American encampment While Uus circum- 
alance engaged the attention of the troops, exciting the surprise of all and the sus- 
picion of many, a boat from the enemv was seen approaching the shore. The offi- 
cer under whose direction it came, having announced hinuelf ** the bearer of a 
written me ssa g e fimn General Brodc to G^ieral Hull,'* was promptly received and 
conducted to head-quarters. On examination, the letter he brought was found to 
contain a demand for the immediate surrender of the fort, and a menanoe of indis- 
criminate massacre in case of refusal 

** A reqnisition of this knd, which, in all its aspects, was alike important and un- 
expected, would, no donbt, have warranted an immediate recurrence to a council of 
war; but no such step was either taken or susn;e8ted. For onoe the American 
General appeared to be both competent and wUluig to act without advice, and to 
take upon nunself all responsibility. He accordingly^ in terms sufficiently decided, 
rejected the demand, and to God and his sword committed the issue. Unfortunately, 
this de6ance m'as addressed to one who knew well how to appreciate its meanmg ; 
and who did not for a moment suffer it to abate his diligenoe, lessen his hopes, or 
even increase his circumspection. His measures were pushed with a haste and te- 
merity which excluded all doubts of success ; and with a disre«;ani to rules, which 
aofficientiy indicated his own conviction that he was but takmg part in a nan* 
toaume. The return of his messenger becoming the sigml of attack, a fire trom ' 
the newly-constructed battery was now opened on the town and fort of Dc^poit. 



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206 CRITICAL NOTICBB. 

This oontiniied until ten o^dock in the evening, and was reoommenced in the 
niorninff, but without any material injuiy to its objects ; and was, in fact^ but re- 
markatHe from its being the only sembjance of stratagem, which the British com- 
rosnder condescended to employ in passing a river eleven hundred yards wide, in 
broad day, and within stroke of an enemy not less stron^g than himself. Nor, as 
the event showed, was there any error in the estimate (which this fact presupposes) 
of a want of courage, capacity, or fidelity in his adversary ; for, on makhijg the ex- 
periment, it coropletdy succeeded, and not merely without the loas of a am^e life, 
or of a moment's time, but under a full demonstration that neither obstruction nor 
annoyance of any kind was meditated by the American GeneraL 

On crossing the Detroit, it was Brock's intention to establish himself at Spring- 
Wells, and with the aid of the Indians, so to interpose between the American army 
and its resources, as to compel it to quit its fortress, and risk a field-fight for tfaie 
defence of its communications ; but having, soon afler landing, received new infor- 
mation with regard to the fort and army generally, and having in particular, assured 
himself of the detachment made on the 14th from the latter under the command of 
Colonel McArthur, he determned to shorten the process, and substitute assault for 
investment. The force at his disposal for this purpose did not exceed seven hun- 
dred combatants, and of this number, four hunarea were Canadian militia disguised 
in red coats. With this small corps, preceded by five pieces of light artillery, (six 
and three pounders,) he began his march along the margin of the river; while the 
savages, by a parallel movement throush a wood, covered bis lefl flank. Between 
eleven and twelve o'clock, the head of the column presented itself at the tanyaids. 
below the town, (about five hundred yards from the fort,) when the American 
officer, commanding an exterior battery of twenty-four pounders charged with grape 
shot, believing the moment had arrived when hostilities could no longer be postponed 
with propriety, directed his men to point their guns and commence a firo ; but the 
order was immediately countermanded, and another issued in its stead, forbidding 
every kind of hostiUty, and menacing with immediate death all who should dare 
to infract it. 

The strength, position, and supplies of the American army, at this critical moment^ 
have been frequently stated, and even judicially established. The morning reports 
to the Adiutant^General, made its eflective force one thousand and six^, exclusive 
of three hundred Michigan militia, and as many Ohio volunteers, detached under 
McArthur. Of this force, four hundred effectives (infantry and artillerists of the 
line) occupied the fi>rt — a work of regular form and sreat solidity ; surrounded by 
a wide and deep ditch, strongly fraised and palisadoed, and sustained by an exte» 
rior battery of two twenty-four pounders. Three hundred Michigan militia, ready 
to combat for their firesides and altars, held the town, which in itself formed a re- 
spectable defence against the best troops, and one quite redoubtable against the 
attacks of Indians or militia. Flanking the approach to the fort, and cot ered by a 
high and heavy picket-fence, lay four hundrea Ohio volunteers, expert in the use of 
their weapons and anxious to employ them : while one mile and a naif on the right, 
advancing by long and rapid strides, was Mc Arthur's detachment, returning by a 
route which (had a defence been hazarded) would have brought them direcUy on the 
rear of the enemy. Of provisions and ammunitions the supply was abundant ; 
fifteen days' rations, and much fixed and loose powder and lead, were amply suffi- 
cient for a trial of strength and skill, which a single hour would have decideid. 

" Under circumstances thus auspicious, * while the troops, in sure antidpalion of 
victory, awaited the approach of the enemy ; when no sound of discontent was 
heard, nor any appearance of cowardice or disafiection seen ; when every individual 
was at his po3t, and expected a proud day for his country and himself — an order 
was received from the General to withdraw the troops from all exterior positions ; 
to stack the arms and hoist a white flag, in token of submission to the enemy ! 
' This order was received by the men with a universal burst of indignation ; even 
the women were ashamed of an act so disgraceful to the arms of meir country; 
and all felt as was proper and decorous, except the man in whose hands were tne 
reins of authority.' " 



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207 



MONTHLY COMMENTARY. 



Canadian Sympathy. The disas- 
trous fire of New- York seems to call out 
a warmth and nobleness of feeling fi'ooi 
every part of the continent, whicL it is 
deli^itful to contemplate. Philadelphia 
set Uie first glorious example. The last 
manifestation of the same spirit that has 
come under our notice, was at a public 
meeting held at theElzchangeinMon- 
tneoi, miere the sura of two tfwusand dol- 
lars was instantly subscribed for the suf> 
ferers. This act, so honorable to the 
citizens of Montreal, must be highly 
grateful to New- York, and will, we trust, 
be long remembered by the American 
people generally. 

A Rail Road Convention is called at 
Windsor, Vt, on the 20th instant, for 
the purpose of taking measures for the 
construction of "a Kail Road through 
the valley of the Connecticut to the St 
Lawrence, connecting with New- York 
and New-Haven.** This project when 
completed will be a continuation of the 
New-Haven and Hartford Rail Road to 
Canada. This new communication be- 
tween the searboard and the great river 
of the north, will be almost as important 
to this section of the country as the grand 
undertaking, now in progress, of a Rail 
Road from Charieston to Cincinnati is 
to the great region it traverses. 

The Aats and Artists in Francc. 
According to a French scientific publi- 
cation, there are now in Prance 82 mu- 
seoms, 160 schools of the fine arts, 2,231 
artists, whose names have been made 
eminent by their works. This number 
of artists consists of 1,096 painters, 150 
sculptors, 113 engravers, 263 architects, 
and 309 dranghlsroen. In Paris itself 
there are no less than 35 schools of the 
fine arts, 20 museums, 773 painters, 106 
sculptors, 102 enigravers, 195 architects, 
and 209 draughtsmen. Total, 1,385 
artists. The departments most remark- 
able for artists and museums next to that 
of the Seine, are the Nord, the Gironde, 
the Rhone^ the Lower Seine, and the 
Seine-et-Oise. 

History op Pr<knicia. It is stated 
in an English paper, that a discovery of 
great historical importance has been 
made at Oporta The nine books of 
<<The History of Phcsnicia,'* by Philos 
da Byblot, have been found m tne con- 
reot of Santa Maria do Merenbas.— 



This work, of which one book only had 
been preserved in the " Preparatio 
Evangelica** of Eusebius, is now com- 
plete. 

Italian Litkraturb. A correspond- 
ent of the London Athenseum states that 
the author of one of the most popular 
novels which have as yet appeared in 
Italy, has just finished another work. — 
The title is " The Siege of Florence by 
Charles the Fifth." ** Among the cha. 
racters introduced are Michael Angelo 
Buonarroti, Luigi Alamanni, Dante da 
Castiglione, Fra Benedetto da Fojano, 
Ferruccio, Zanobi Buondelmonte, Car- 
duci, and, by anachronism^ Niccolo Mac- 
chiavelli — all names which speak ages 
of glory — all men, the memory of whom 
renders our present servitude more in- 
tolerable and more base. This novel is, 
if nothing more^ a sentence of death up- 
on the ignomimes of our age — a male- 
diction against corrupt or oasely timid 
writers. It seems as if it had been writ- 
ten by Dante, Alfieri, or Foscolo.** 

Lowell Manufactures. A late 
number of the Lowell Courier contained 
a valuable article relating to the statistics 
of LowelL The prosperity of this place 
and its rapid increase in wealth and 
population, are almost unexampled in 
nistory. In 1820 the whole population 
wasonlj200 — at the present time the 
population is computed at 16,000. The 
following is the state of the manufactures 
in Lowell. 

Capital stock invested #7,650,000 

Number of Mills ere^^ted 27 

Spindles m operation 129,828 

Looms 4,197 

Females employed 5,416 

Males 1,477 

Yardsof cloth made per week 849,300 
Yards of cloth made per an. 44,163,600 
Pounds of cotton wrought da 1 3,676,600 
Bales of cotton used per week 
Yards of cotton dyed and 

printed per week 
Tons of anthracite coal ex- 
pended per annum 
Bushels ol charcoal 
Cords of wood per annum 
OallonsofOil 
Average wages of females 

clear of board 
Average amount of wages 

paia per month 
Consumption of starch per 
aimum 



732 

233,000 

9,453 

600,000 

4,690 

54,824 



1106,000 
510,000 



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208 



LIST OF NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



For Januaet, 1836. 



Apostles, Lives of the. By F. W. Qreenwood, Miiuster of King's Chapel^ Boston. 
18mo. Sded. Hilliaid, Gray & Co. Boston. 

Biomphical Dictionary. — Containing the Lires of the most Eminent Persons of 
all ages and nations. By E. Bellchamber. In 4 small vols., with 330 portraits. 
Belllc Co. London ; Leavitt, Lord & Co. New-York. 

Morrison, (J<^ D. D.) Counsels, Moral and Religious, to a Newly Wedded Pair; 
with Wats for the preservation of tbdr health. 2«mo. J. D. Strong. New- York. 

Noble Deeds of Woman. 9vol8.12ma Carey, Lea & Ca Philadelphia. 

Taylor, (Isaac, of Ongar) Character Essential to Success m Life. Canfield & Rob- 
ins, Hartford. 

Upbam, (Thos. C.) Professor of Moral Philosophy in Bowdom CcUege. The 
Manual of Peace. Svo. Leavitt Lord & Co. New-York. 

Miles, (Mrs. L.) Phrenology and the Moral Influence of Phrenology — arranged 
for general Study, and the purposes of Education, from the first works ofGaU 
and Spuraheim, to the latest oiscoveries of the present period. 18mo. Carey, 
Lea & Co. Philadelphia. Also — the same work under the title of the Phreno- 
logical Gem. 18mo. Francis, New- York. Also — the same printed on cards, 
in a case. Ibid. 

Natural History of Insects— Second Series. 18nio. (Na 73 Family Library.) 
Harpers, New- York. 

Roget, (P. M., M. D.) Animal and Vegetable Physiology Considered with Refer- 
ence to Natural Theology. 9vols.8va (BridgewaterTreatise.) Carey, Lea & 
Ca Philadelphia. 

Chairolas, Pnnce of Paida. By the Author of << Pelham,*' &c. With other Tales, 
by the Authors of '< Vivian Grey,** ** Sayines and Doin^** <<High-waya and By- 
ways,** &c ISma Cwej, Lea & Ca Fhuadelphia. 

One m a Thousand ; or the days of Henri Gtuatre. By the Author of " Damley,** 

'- *' Richeheu,** &c. 9 vols. 18ma Carey & Hart, Philadelphia. 

Stories of the Sea — (beiog a reprint of tne *< Naval Annual**) By Capt Manyat, 
R. N. 13ma Harpers, New- York. 

Alnwick Castle and other Poems. 8va G. Deaibom, New- York. 

Green, (Richard W.) The Scholar's Companion; or guide to the dthoeraphy. 
Pronunciation, and Derivation of the En^^lish language.— Contaimne tables of 
words deduced from theur Greek and Latm roots, Ate. he ISma H. Parkins^ 
Philadelphia. 

Palmer, (Richard) The Bible Atlas ; or Sacred (Geography Delineated, m a com- 
plete series of Scriptural Maps, elegantly curved and colored. 8va Leavitt, 
Lord & Ca New- York. 

Wayland, (Francis, D. D.) Elements of Moral Science, abridged for the Bse of 
schools. 12ma Wol Pierce, Boston. 

Brown. (Mrs. P. H.) The Tree and its Fruito; or Narratives fiwn Real Life. 18mo. 
E. Collier, New- York. 

Sigoumey, (Mrs.) The History of Marcus Anrelius, Emperor of Roma. With 
questions. 18ma Belknap & Hammersley, Hartford. 

Taylor (EmOy) The Boy and the Birds. 18ma J. Allen & Ca Boston. 

WORKS IN CRESS. 

Ad edition of Wordsworth*s Poetical Works is annoonoed in Phfladelphia. In one 
▼d. 8va, and in 4 small vols. 

" The United SUtes* Naval Magazine** is the title of a new Periodical, to be pub- 
lished by the Naval Ljrceum at Brookljm. Number one is in press. 

Works ofJohn Diyden, including his Poems, and a selection from his Prose works 
— two vols, crown octava New-York, G. Dearborn. 

Works of Charles Lamb — in one octavo volume. New- York, G. Deaibom. 

A Trip to the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior. By the Authorof ^'Lefendsof a 
Log Cabin** — ni two volumes ISma New-York, G. Deaibom. 



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THE NEW YORK 

PUBLIC LIBRARY 



A8T0R, LENOX AND 
TitOCN FOUNDATIONS. 



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Nr::v Ti;irx,i; .i)VAxi>i>HN . yr: 



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THE 



AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 



MARCH, I'SSe. 



THE GHARACTER Of DESDEBtONA. 

Thksb are critics who ckianot bear to see the virtue and delicacy 
of Shakspeare^ Desdemona called in question ; who defend tier on 
the ground that Othello is not an E^iopian, hut a Moor; that he id 
not black, but only tawny ; and they protest against the sable ihask of 
Othello upon the stage, and Against the pictures of him in which he is 
always painted black. They say that prejudices have been taken 
against Desdemona from the slanders of lago, from the failings of 
Roderigo, from the disappointed paternal rancour gf Srabantio, and 
from the desponding concessions of Othello himself*. 

I have said, that since I entered upon the third of Shakspeare's seven 
ages, the first and chief capacity in which I have read and studied 
him is as a teachervfmorah ; and diat I had scarcely ever seen a player 
of his parts who regarded him as a moralist at all. I further said, that in 
my judgment no man could understand him who did ^tudy him pre- 
eminently as a teacher of morals. These critics say they do not incline 
to put Shakspeare on a level with !£sop ! Sure enough ihey do not 
study Shakspeare as a teacher of morals. To them^ therefore, Desde- 
mona is a perfect character ; and her love for Othello is not unnatural, 
because he is not a Congo negro but only a sooty Moor, and has 
royal blood in bus veins. 

My objections to the character of Desdemona arise not from what 
lago, or Roderigo, or Brabantio, or Othello says of her ; but from what L 
she herself does. She absconds from her father's house, in the dead -1i 
of night, to marry a blackamoor. She breaks a father's heart, and 
covers his noble house ^ith shame, to gratify — what ? Pure love, like 
that of Juliet or Miranda? No! unnatural passion; it cannot be <^ 
named with delicacy. Her admirers now say this is criticism of 1886 ; 
that the color of Othello has nothing to do with the passion of Des- 
demona. No ? Why, if Othello had been white, what need would there 

VOL. TII. 87 



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210 THE CHARACTBR OF DBSDBMOlfA. 

ihave bean for her running away with him ? She could have made no 
better match. Her fiither could have made no reasonable objection 
to it ; and there could have been no tragedy. If the color of Othello 
is not as vital to the whole tragedy as the age of Juliet is to her cha- 
racter and destiny, then have I read Shakspeare in vain. The father of 
Desdemona charges Othello with magic arts in obtaining the affec- 
tions of his daughter. Why, but because her passion for him is im- 
naiural; and why is it unnatural, but because of his color? In the 
very first scene, in the dialogue between Roderigo and lago, before 
they rouse Brabantio to inform him of his daughter's elopement, Ro- 
derigo contemptuously calls Othello *< the thick lips." I cannot in 
decency quote here— but turn to the book, and see in what language 
lago announces to her father his daughter's shameful misconduct* 
The language of Roderigo is more supportable. He is a Venitian 
gentleman, himself a rejected suitor of Desdemona ; and who has 
been forbidden by her father access to his house. Roused from his 
repose at the dead of night by the loud cries of these two men. Bra* 
bantio spurns, with indignation and scorn, the insulting and beastly lan- 
guage of lago ; and sharply chides Roderigo, whom he supposes to be 
hovering about his house in defiance of his prohibitions and in a 
state of intoxication. He threatens him with punishment Roderigo 
replies — 

" Rod. Sir, I will answer any thing. But I beseech you, 
If *t be your pleasure, and most wise consent, 



(As partly, I find, it is.) that your fair daughter 

At this odd-even and dull watch o* the ni^nt, 

Transported — with no worse nor better suard, 

But with a knave of common hire, ajgondolier, — 

To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor, — 

If this be known to you, and your allowance, 

We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs ; 

But if you know not this, my manners tell roe. 

We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe, 

That, from the sense of all civility, 

I thus would play and trifle with your reverence : 

Your daughter — if you have not given her leave, — 

I say again, hath made a gross revolt ; 

Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes, 

In an extravagant and wh^gUng stranger. 

Of here and every where : Straight satisfy yoorself : 

If she be in hsr chamber, or your house, 

Let loose on me the justice of the state 

For thus deluding you." 

Struck by this speech as by a clap of thunder, Brabantio calls up 
his people, remembers a portentous dream, calls for lighty goes and 
searches with his servants, and comes back saying — 

*< It is too true an evil : gone she is : 
And what*8 to come of my despised time, 
Is nought but bitterness." 



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TBI CHARACTBR OF DBtDBMONA. Sll 

Tht fidher's heart is broken ; life is no longer of anj value to him ; 
he repeats this sentiment time after time whenever he appears in the 
scene ; and in the last scene of the plaj* where Desdemona lies deadt 
her ancle Gratiano says — 

<<Poor Desdemona ! I am glad thy iather'a dead, 
Thy niatcfa was mortal to him, and pure grief 
Shore his dd thread in twain.** 

Indeed ! indeed ! I must look at Shakspeare in this as in all his pic- 
tores of human life, in the capacity of a teacher of morals. I must be- 
lieve that, in exhibiting a daughter of a Yeoitian nobleman of the high- 
est rank eloping in the dead of the night to marry a thick-lipped wool- 
beaded Moor, opening a train of consequences which lead to her own 
destruction by her husband's hands, and to that of her father by a bro- 
ken heart, he did not intend to present her as an example of the 
perfection of female virtue. I must look first at the action, then at the 
motive, then at the consequences, before I inquire in what light it is 
received and represented by the other persons of the drama. The 
first action of Desdemona discards all female delicacy, all filial duty* 
all sense of ingenuous shame. So I consider it — and so, it is consi- 
dered, by her own father. Her offence is not a mere elopement fi-om 
her father's house for a clandestine marriage. I hope it requires no 
unreasonable rigour of morality to consider even that as suited to raise 
a prepossession rather unfavorable to the character of a young woman 
of refined sensibility and elevated education. But an elopement for a 
clandestine marriage with a blackamoor ! — That is the measure of 
my estimation of the character of Desdemona from the beginning ; 
and when I have passed my judgment upon it, and find in the play that 
from the first moment of her father's knowledge of the act it made him 
loathe his life, and that it finally broke his heart, I am then in time to 
inquire, what was the deadly venom which infiicted the immedicable 
wound : — and what is it, but the color of Othello? 



**Now, Roderigo^ 
r? — Oh, unhappy L 
With the Moor, Mai^Mt thou ?— Who would be a father ?** 



Where did'st thou see her 7 — Oh, unhappy girl ! — 
— -- ildbea" • 



These are the disjointed lamentations of the wretched parent when 
the first disclosure of his daughter's shame is made known to him. 
This scene is one of the inimitable pictures of human passion in the 
bands of Shakspeare, and that half line, 

« With the JIfoor say'st thou r* 

firom the deepest reeeeses of the souL 
Againy when Brabantio first meets Othello, he breaks out : 

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7 



S12 THK CHAEACTBE OF DB8DBMONA* 

** O, thoo firal thie^ where hast thou itow'd my dan^ter T 
D^n*d as thou art, thou bast enchanted her : 
For ril refer me to all things of sense. 
If she, in chains of magic were not hound, 
Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy, 
So opposite to marriage that she shunnM 
The wealthly twrltA darlings of our nation. 
Would ever have to incur our general mock. 
Run from her guardage to i}u sooty bosom 
Of such a thing as thou ; to fear, not to delight** 

Several of the English commentatorB have puzzled themselves with 
the inquiry why the epithet ** curled" is here applied to the wealthy 
darlings of the nation ; and Dr. Johnson thinks it has no reference to 
the hair ; but it evidently has. The curled hair is in antithetic con- 
trast to the sooty bosom, the thick lips, and the woolly head. The 
contrast of color is the very hinge upon which Brabantio foimds his 
charge of magic, counteracting the impulse of nature. 

At the close of the same scene (the second of the first act) Braban- 
tio, hearing that the duke is in council upon public business of the 
State, determines to carry Othello before him for trial upon the charge 
of magic. *^ Mine," says he, 

*' Mme's not a middle course ; the duke himsdf 
Or any of my brothers of the state 
Cannot but feel the wrong, as 'twere their own : 
For if such actions may have passage free. 
Bond slaves and Pag^s shall our statesmen be.** 

And Steevens, in his note on this passage, says, *' He alludes to the 
common condition of all blacks who come from their own countiy, 
both slaves and pagan$ ; and uses the word in contempt of Othello and 
his complexion. If this Moor is now suffered to escape with impumty, 
it will be such an encouragement to his black countrymen, that we may 
expect to see all the first offices of our state filled up by the Pagans 
and bond-slaves of Africa." Othello himself in his narrative says that 
he had been taken by the insolent foe and sold to slavery. He had 
been a slave. 

Once more — When Desdemona pleads to the Duke and the coun- 
cil for permission to go with Othello to Cyprus, she says, 

** That I did love the Moor, to live with him. 
My downright violence and storm of fortune 
May tnimpet to the world ; my hearVs subdued, 
Even to the very qwUUy qfmy lord ; 
I saw Othello^s visage m his mind ; 
And to his honours and bis valiant parts 
Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate." 

In commenting upon this passage, Wm. Henley says, ** That quality 
here signifies the Moorish complexion of Othello, and not his military 
pffofiMsion (as Halone had supposed), is obvious from what ^imme- 



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THB CHAIUOTBR OF DSSOBlfOlfA. Sit 

dialely follows : * I saw Odiello's visage in his mind ;' and also fixmi 
what the Duke says to Brabantio — 

" If virtue do delisted beauty lack 
Your BOB-m-law is &r more &ir than bladL.** 

The characters of Othello and lago m this play are evidently in-^ 
tended as contrasted pictures of human nature, each setting off the 
odier. They are national portraits of man — the Italun and the 
Moor. The Italian is whiie^ crafty^ and cruel; a consummate villain ; 
yet, as oflen happens in the realities of that description whom we oc- 
casionally meet in the intercourse of life, so vain of his own artifices 
that he betrays himself by boasting of them and their success. Ac- 
cordingly, in the very first scene he reveab to Roderigo the treachery 
of his own character :— 

^ For when my outward action doth demonatrate 
The native act and figure of mv heart 
In compliment extern, His not long after 
But I will wearmy heart upon my sleeve 
Fordawa topeckat: I am not what I am.** 

There is a seeming inconsistency in the fact that a double dealer 
should disclose his own secret, which roustnecessarily put others upon 
their guard against him ; but the inconsistency is in human nature, 
and not in the poet 

The double dealing Italian is a very intelligent man, a keen and 
penetrating observer, and full of ingenuity to devise and contrive base 
expedients. His language is coarse, rude, and obscene : his humor 
is caustic and bitter. Conscious of no honest principle in himself, he ^ 
believes not m the existence of honesty in others. He is jealous and 
suspicious ; quick to note every trifle light as air, and to draw from it 
inferences of evil as confirmed circumstances. In his dealings with 
die Moor, while he is even harping upon his honesty, he offers to com- 
mit any murder firom extreme attachment to his person and interests. 
In all that lago says of others, and especially of Desdemona, there is 
a mixture of truth and falsehood, blended together, in which the truth 
itself serves to accredit the lie ; and such is the ordinary character of 
malicious slanders. Doctor Johnson speaks of ^ the soA simplicity,'' 
the ^ innocence," the *^ artlessness" of Desdemona. lago speaks of 
her as a mpenubUe Yenitian ; and, when kin(fling the sparks of jea- 
lousy in the soul of Othello, he says, 

" She did deceive her father, marrying yon : 
And when she seemed to shake and bar your looks^ 
She loved them mosl." 

** And so she did,'' answers Othello. This charge, then, was true ; 
and lago replies : 



^ 



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314 THE CHARACTBB OF DBSDIMOlfA. 

"Why, go to» then; 
She that to jaang oould ffve out such t •eeminf 
To ted her father's eyee up, cloee aa oak. — 
He thought *twaa witchcrait" 

It was oot witchcraft; but surely as little was it 8implicity« innocencet 
artleasness. The effect of this suggestion upon Othello is terrible 
only because he knows it is true. Brabaotio, on parting from him, 
had just given him the same warning, to which he had not then paid 
the slightest heed. But soon his suspicions are roused — he tries to 
repel them ; they are fermenting in his brain : he appears vehemently 
moved and yet unwilling to acknowledge it lago, with fiend-like sa^ 
gacity, seizes upon the paroxysm of emotion, and then comes the fol- 
lowing dialogue : — 

" logo, " My lord, I tee you are iiio?*d. 

Othtllo, No, not much mo?M :— 

I do not think but Desdeinona'a honeat 

logo. Long lire ahe so I and Ions live you to think so ! 

OUl And yet, how nature errinir Irom itself, — 

It^, Ay, there's the point : — As, — to be bold with you, — 
Not to afifect many proposed matches, 
Of her own dime, complexion, and degree ; 
Whereto, we see, in all things nature tends : 
Fob I one may smell, in such, a will most rank, 
Foul disproportion, tbooghts unnatural." — 

The deadly venom of these imputations, working up to frenzy the 
suspicions of the Moor, consist not in their falsehood but in their truth* 

I have said the character of Desdemona was deficient in delicacy. 
Besides the instances to which I referred in proof of this charge, ob- 
serve what she says in pleading for the restoration of Gassio to his 
office, from which he had been cashiered by Othello for beastly drunk- 
enness and a consequent night-brawl, in which he had stabbed Mon- 
tane — the predecessor of Othello as Governor of Cypres^ — and 
nearly killed him ; yet in urging Othello to restore Cassio to his office 
and to favor, Desdemona says — 

«_ in faith, he's penitent ; 
And yet his trespass, in our common reason, 
(Save that, they say, the wars must make examples 
Out of their best,) u liot almott a fault 
To incur a private check." 

Now, to palliate the two crimes of Cassio — his drunken fit and his 
stabbing of Montano — the reader knows that he has been inveigled 
to the commission of them by the accursed artifices of lago ; but 
Desdemona knows nothmg of Uiis ; she has no excuse for Cassio — 
nothing to plead for him but his penitence. And is this the character 
for a woman of delicate sentiment to give of such a complicated and 
heinous ofience as that of which Cassio had been guilty, even when 
pleading for his pardon? No ! it is not for female delicacy to ezto- 



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TBI CHARACTKR OF DBSDIMONA. S16 

noata the crimes of dnmlcenaeee and bloodshed, even when perfonning 
the appropriate office (Praising the soul-subdumg voice for mercy. 
AAerwards, in the same speech, she says — 

" What ! Michael Caasio, 
That came a-wooiiig with you ; and many a time, 
When I have apoke of you diapraiaingly, 
Hath ta'en jour part ; to have so much to do 
To bring him in !** 

I will not inquire how far this avowal that die had been in die fre^ 
qnent habit (^speaking dispraisingly of Othello at the very time when 
die was so deeply enamoured with his honors and his valiant parts, was 
consistent with sincerity. Young ladies must be allowed a little con- 
cealment and a little disguise, even for passions of which they have 
no need to be ashamed. It is the rosy pudency — the irresistible 
charm of the sex ; but the exercise of it in satirical censure upon the 
very object of their most ardent affections is certainly no indication of 
innocence, simplicity, or artlessness. 

I still retain, then, the opinion — 

First. That the passion of Desdemona for OtheUo is unnatural^ 
solely and exclusively because of his color. 

Second. That her elopement to him, and secret marriage with him, 
indicate a personal character not only very deficient in delicacy, but 
totally r^fardless of filial duty, of female modesty, and of ingenuous 
shame. 

lliird. That her deficiency in delicacy is discernible in her con- 
duct and discourse throughout the play. 

I perceive and acknowledge, indeed, the admirable address witii 
which the part has been contrived to inspire and to warm the breast 
of the spectator with a deep interest in her fate ; and I am well aware 
that my own comparative insensibility to it is not in unison with the 
general impression which it produces upon the stage. I shrink from 
the thought of slandering even a creature of the imagination. When 
the spectator or reader follows, on the stage or in the closet, the in- 
fernal thread of duplicity and of execrable devices with which lago 
entangles his victims, it is the purpose of the dramatist to merge all 
the faults and vices of the sufferers in the overwhelming flood of their 
calamities, and in the unmingled detestation of the inhuman devil, 
their betrayer and destroyer. And in all this, I see not only the skill 
of the artist, but the power of the moral operator, the purifier of 
the spectator's heart by the agency of terror and pity. 

The characters of Othello and Desdemona, like all the characters 
of men and women in real life, are of ** mingled yam," with qualities of 
good and bad — of virtues and vices in proportion differently com- 
posed, lago, with a high order of intellect, is, in moral principle, the 



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S16 THK OHARACTIR OV DBSDKJiOlfA. 

YBTj Spirit of e?il. I hare said die moral of the tragedy ist that die 
iotermarriage of black and white blood is a Tiolation of the law of 
nature. JluU is the lesson to be learned from the play. To exhibit 
all the natural consequences of their act« the poet is compelled to 
make the marriage secret It must commence by an elopement, and 
by an outrage upon the decorum of social intercourse. He must 
therefore assume, for the performance of this act, persons of moral 
character sufficiently frail and imperfect to be capable of performing 
it, but in other respects endowed with pleasmg and estimable qualities. 
Thus, the B^oor is represented as of a free, and opeu, and generous 
J nature ; as a Christian ; as a distinguished military commander in the 
/ senrice of die Republic of Yenice ; as having rendered important 
service to the State, and as being in the enjoyment of a splendid re- 
putation as a warrior. The odier party to die marriage is a maiden, 
fair, gende, and accomplished ; bom and educated in the proudest 
rank of Yenitian nobility. 

Othello, setting aside his color, has every quality to fascinate and 
charm the female heart. Desdemona, apart from the grossness of her 
fkult in being accessible to such a passion for such an object, is 
amiable and lovely ; among the most attracdve of her sex and condi- 
tion. The fiiuhs of their characters are never brought into action ex- 
cepting as they illustrate the moral principle of the whole story. 
y Othello is not jealous by nature. On the contrary, widi a strong na- 
tural understanding, and all the vigilance essential to an experienced 
commander, he is of a disposition so unsuspicious and confiding, that 
he believes in the exceeding honesty of lago long after he has ample 
cause to suspect and distrust him. Desdemona, $upenubUe as she is 
in the management of her amour widi Othello ; deeply as she dissem- 
bles to deceive her fiither; and, forward as she is in inviting the court- 
ship of the Moor; discovers neither artifice nor duplicity from the mo- 
ment that she is Othello's wife. Her innocence, in all her relations 
with him, is pure and spodess ; her kindness for Cassio is mere un- 
tainted benevolence ; and, though unguarded in her personal deport- 
ment towards him, it is far from die slightest soil of culpable impro- 
priety. Guiltless of all conscious reproach in thb part of her conduct, 
she never uses any of the artifices to which she had resorted to ac- 
complish her marriage with Othello. Always feeling that she has 
given him no cause of suspicion, her endurance of his cruet treatment 
and brutal abuse of her through all its stages of violence, till he mur^ 
ders her in bed, is always marked with the most afiecting sweetness 
of temper, the most perfect artiessness, and the most endearing resig- 
nation. The defects of her character have here no room for deve- 
lopement, and the poet carefully keeps them out of sight Hence it is 
that die general reader and spectator, with Dr. Johnson, give her un- 



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SONNSTS. 217 

qualified credit for 00ft simplidtyyartlessneest and innocence— for- 
getful of the qualitiee of a different and opposite character, stamped 
txpon the tranaactiona by which she effected her marriage with the 
Moor. The marriage, however, is the source of all her calamities ; 
it is the primitive cause of all the tragic incidents of the play, and of 
its terrible catastrophe. That the oooral lesson to be learned from it 
is of no practical utility in England, where there are no valiant Moors 
to steal the affections of fair and high-bom dames, may be true ; the 
lesson, however, is not the less, couched under the form of an admir- 
able drama ; nor needs it any laborious effort of the imagination to 
extend the moral precept resulting from the story to a salutary admo- 
nition against all ill-assorted, clandestine, and unnatural marriages. 

J. Q. A. 



SONNETS. 
Domtnc iMvm^ 



Whbm those we ]o?e are present to the sight, 

When those we love hear ibnd afiVction's words. 
The heart is cheerful, as in morning light 

The merry song of early-wakened birds : 
And oh! the atmosphere of home — how bright 
It floats around us, when we sit together 
Under a bower of vines in Summer weather, 
Or round the hearth-stone in a Winter's night! 
This is a picture, not by Fancy drawn — 
The eve of life contrasted with its dawn — 
A gray-haired man — a girl with sunny eyes ; 
He seems to speak, and laughing, she replies — 
While father, mother, brothers smile to see 
How faur their rosebud blooms beneath the parent tree ! 



When those we love are absent — far away. 

When those we love have met some hapless fate, 
How pours the heart its lone and plainiive lay. 

As tbe wood-songster mourns her stolen mate ! 
Alas! the Summer bower — how desolate! 

The Winter hearth — how dim its fire appears ! 

While the pale memories of by-gone years 
Around our thoughts like spectral shadows wait 
How changed tbe picture ! here, they all are parted 
To meet no more — the true, the gentle-hearted ! 
The old have journeyed to their bourn — the young 
Wander, if living, distant lands among—* 
And now we rest our dearest hopes above; 
For heavenly joy alone can match domestic love ! P. E 

VOL. vu. S8 



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318 



THE DEATH OF LA PUCELLE. 

WmnokL And bark ycL sirs j because she is a maid. 
Spare for no isgots, let there be enougit : 
Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal staie, 
That so her torture may be sfaerteDed. 

Shakbpearb. 

Thrbb moDthfl had elapsed— since in the flower of youth and 
beauty, in tiie flush of conquest, and in the accomplishment of all her 
own, of all her country's aspirations, the Maid of Arc had fallen, 
fliroughthe envious treason of the Count deFlavy, — he who had 
shut tiie gates, and raised the bridges of Compi^gne against her — into 
the hands of John de Ligny-Luxembourg, — since he, &be gentle- 
man and recreant knight, had sold the heroine of France — sold her, 
despite the prayers, despite the tears and the reproaches of his high- 
minded lady — sold her for base and sordid lucre to her unsparing 
foemen. Three months had elapsed of wearisome confinement — not 
in a guarded chamber ; — not with the blessed light of heaven stream- 
ing, albeit through grates of iron, into her prison-casements ; — not 
with the miserable semblance of fi^edom, that might be fancied to 
exist in the permission to pace the narrow floor ; — not with the 
wonted dungeon-fare of the worst malefactor ; — not with the con- 
solations of religion, vouchsafed even to the dying murderer ; — not 
even with the wretched boon of solitude! No — in a dungeon 
many a foot beneath the surface of flie frozen earth, with nought of 
air, but what descended through a deep-cut funnel ; with nought of 
light, but what was furnished by a pale and winking lamp ; loaded with 
a weight of fetters, fliat would have bowed the strongest man-at-arms 
to child-like helplessness ; bound with a massive chain about her 
waist, linking her to the rocky floor ; fed on the bread of bitterness, 
her thirst slaked with the waters of sorrow ; her feelings outraged by 
flie continual presence of a brutal soldier, violating the privacies, alike 
by day and night, of her sad condition; the noble girl had lan- 
guished without a hope of rescue, without even a dream of liberty or 
life ; taunted by her foes, and persecuted ; deserted by her friends 
and utterly forgotten. Tet, though her frame was shrunken with dis- 
ease and worn with famine, though her bright eyes were dimmed with 
weariness and watching, her dark locks streaked, i^ it were, by pre- 
mature old age, her stature bent to half its former height, and her 
whole appearance deprived of that high and lustrous beauty that had 



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THB DSATH 01 LA PUCBLLK. 219 

of yore been bo peculiarly her own; her confidence in HiMt whom 
ahe belieyedt erroneously perhapsy but not therefore the less fervent- 
ly, to have sent her on that especial misaion which she had so glo- 
riously accomplished — her confidence in that being whose decrees 
are, of a tru^ inscrutable — was all unshaken. If die had formerly 
displayed the courage to inflict, she now exhibited, apd yet more for- 
cibly, the nobler courage to endure. If she had proved herself the equal 
of men in the mel^e of active valor, she now showed herself to be en- 
dowed in no secondary degree with the calm fortitude of her sei, the 
uncomplaining, patient resignation to inevitable pain or inconsolable 
afiUction which is so much harder to put on than the bold firont which 
rushes forth to meet the coming danger. Day after day she had been 
led forth from her cold dungeon, to undergo examination, to hear ac- 
cusations the most inconceivably absurd, to confute arguments, the 
confutation of which aided her cause in nothing ; for when did preju- 
dice, or — yet worse than prejudice — fanatic bigotry, hear the voice of 
reason, and hear it to conviction. Night after night she had been 
led bade to the chilly atmosphere of that dank cell, hopeless of 
rescue or acquittal ; harassed by persecution, feeble of frame, and sick 
at heart, yet high and firm in her uncompromising spirit as when she 
first rode forth, with consecrated blade and banner, to raise the siege 
of Orleans. From the very commencement of her protracted trial 
she had felt a sure foreknowledge of its termination I She had known, 
that in the hearts of her judges her doom was written down already ; 
yf t, with a calm confidence that would have well become a Socrates, 
aye, or the apostle of a holier creed, she had striven to prove her in- 
nocence, to posterity at least if not to the passing day — to eternity at 
least, if not. to time! When reviled, she answered not — when 
taunted, her replies were meek but pertinent — when harassed by the 
simultaneous questioning of her hard-hearted judges, eager to con- 
fuse by clamor the weak woman whom they could not confound by 
sophistiy, she was collected as the sagest jurist, undisturbed as though 
she were pleading another's cause and not her own. The base Cau- 
chon, the Bishop of Beauvais, the bigoted, bribed, fanatic, to whom 
had been committed the conduct of her judicial murder, strove hard, 
but strove in vain, to wring from her pale lips some evidence of un- 
holy dealings, for which he might condemn her to the stake, some 
word of petulance which he might construe into treason. 

** Swear" — he cried in haughty and imperious tones, from his crim- 
son chair of state to the fair frail girl, who, clad in sack-cloth, with bare 
feet and dishevelled hair, stood at his footstool, upheld by the sup- 
porting mi^t of conscious innocence — ^* Swear to speak truth — 
question thee as we may !" 

^* I may not swear, most holy Bishop," she replied, and her eye 
flashed for a moment, and her Up curled as she spoke, so that men 

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220 THE DEATH OF LA PUCELLB* 

deemed it irony — "I may not sweaTf most righteous judge — since 
you may question me of that, which to reveal would be foul perjuiy^- 
so should I, if I swore, stand perjured in the same by speech or si- 
lence !" 

" Swear ^ — Joan of Domremi, niost falsely styled of Orleans and of 
Arc — Swear to thy judges, that thou wilt seek no rescue — attempt 
no escape !" 

** Be not your fetters strong enough?" — she asked in answer ; and 
she half raised her feeble arm, to show the weight of rusty steel that 
hod already well nigh crippled it — ^Be not your fetters strong 
enough — your rock-hewn yaults, where never comes the first-created 
gifl of natural light — your iron cages, and your steel-clad warders — 
be they not guards enough, that ye would bind me yet more straitly t 
This will I not swear, thou most merciful, so shall you not condemn 
me of faith broken.'' 

" Then thou dost look to rescue — dost hope for liberty — wouldst 
evade, hadst thou the power, the bonds of Holy Church 1" 

*' To whom should I look for rescue, save to Him who has aban- 
doned his frail servant for her own transgression." 
*' Ha ! she confesses !" 
" Mark well the words — Sir scribe." 
*' Judgment — Lord President — A judgment P* 
" No need for farther question !" 
** She has avowed it." 

Such were the disjointed clamors thai burst at once in fiendish 
exultation from the lips of that holy-seeming conclave ; but ere tiie 
wily Bishop could express his sentiments, the maiden again took up 
the word. 

^ I have confessed — Great Sirs — I haVe confessed transgres- 
sion — And make not ye the same — at prime, at matin, and at ves- 
per — the same avowal ? — Riddle me then the difference, ye holy men, 
between the daily penitence ye proffer, for the daily sins which even 
i^e confess; and this the free confession of a prisoner — a helpless, 
friendless, persecuted prisoner ! — Tell me. Lord Bishop, what am /, 
that 1 should suffer judgment to the uttermost, for the same avowal 
that thou makest daily, if thou dost obey the bidding of Him whose 
cross thou hast uplifted ! — But ye did ask me if I hope for liberty 
— if I would exchange the prison-house — the hall of condemnation, 
and the bread of tears, for the free air, the blessed sunshine, and the 
humblest peasant's fare ! — Go, ask the wild herds of the forest, will 
they prefer the yoke and the goad, the halter and the stall, to the green 
woods and liberal pastures in which their Maker set them ! — Go aak 
the eagle, will he endure the jesses and the hood of the trained gotf- 
hawk, will he choose the perch and mew before the boundless azure, 
will he list to the whistle, or regard the lure of the falconer when the 



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THE DBATH OP LA PUCELLB, 221 

timnder if roIUng beneaA him, when the lightning, which he alone can 
gase upon undazzled, is flashing round the adrie his creator made him 
to inhabit If these shali answer jea — then wiQ I do your bidding, 
and swear to keep my prison, though the chains should be stricken 
from my limbs and tiie door of deliverance opened ; though the ftgot 
were kindled to consume me on the one hand, and the throne of your 
monarch were tendered on the other! — Then will I swear — Sir 
Priest— and not till then !" 

Such was the tone, and such the tenor of all her speeches ; ever 
submissive to the forms, to the ordinances, and to the spirit of religion ; 
ever professing her faith in holy writ ; her whole and sole reliance on 
iSbe Virgin and her blessed Son ; ever denying and disproving the 
charge of witchery or demon worship — ofiering to confess under the 
sacramental seal — to confess to her very judges — she yet suflered 
them to know, at all times, to perceive, by every glance of her eye, 
to hear in every word of her mouth, that it was the religion they pro- 
fessed, and not the men who professed it, to which her deference was 
paid, to which her veneration was due. 

Still though they labored to the utmost to force her into such con- 
fession as might be a pretext for her condemnation, the court could by 
no means so far confuse her understanding, or so corrupt the judges, 
as to efiect its neforious purpose. With a clear understanding of her 
own cause she refused, at once and boldly, to answer those ques- 
tions on nice points of doctrine which she perceived to have no bear- 
ing on her case. On every other matter, she spoke openly and with 
the confidence of innocence, maintaining to the last, however, that 
^ Spirits, were they good or evil, had appeared to her ;" but denying that 
she had ever by sign or periapt, by spell or charm, invoked the aid of 
supernatural powers, otherwise than by the prayers of the church of- 
fered in christian purity of purpose to the most Holy Virgin and her 
everlasting Son. It was at length proposed that the question should be 
enforced by the means of torture ! But by Cauchon himself the pro- 
position was overruled — not in mercy, however, — not in charity to- 
ward a weak and suffering woman, but in the deepest refinement of 
cruelty. Confident, as he then was, that she would be condemned to 
the fierce ordeal of the fiigot and the stake, he spared her the rack 
lest by exhausting her powers of endurance it might diminish the du- 
ration of her mortal agonies. Bitterly, however, was that corrupt 
judge and false shepherd disappointed when the decisive verdict was 
pronounced — ** perpetual chains — the bread of sorrow and the wa- 
ters of mikery !" — The courts ecclesiastic had no weapon to affect 
her life, and for the present the secular arm had dismissed her beyond 
the reach of its tyrannic violence. The sentence was heard by the meek 
prisoner in the silence of despair — she was remanded to her living 



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828 THB DEATH OF LA PUOBLLK. 

tomb— she ptflsed through the i^loomjarehway — dMboltg groaned 
heavily behind her -^ she deemed that all was over, that she should pe- 
rish there— <&«re, in that dark abyss, uncheered by the fresh air or the 
&ir daylight, unpitied by her relmitless foemen, uasueoored by her 
fidthless friends ; and she felt that death — any death, so it were but 
i^edy ^-had been preferable to the endinranoe of that protracted tof- 
ture whichlife had now become to her, who lately fouf^ and fiMSted 
at the right hand of princes. 

Not all the sufferings, however, of flie wretohed giri ; not all the 
mental agonies and corporeal pains, that she must bear in sileacef 
'could satisfy the fears of Eng^d, or the pohcy of England's Re- 
gent It was not in revenge, much less in hatred, that the wise Bed- 
ford urged it on die court that they should destroy — not her body on* 
ly, but her fame. He well knew it was enthusiasm only that had 
thus fiur supported her and liberated France ; — he deemed not, for m 
moment, that she was either heavenly messenger* or mortal champion ; 
— but he felt, that France believed in joy — Engknd in trembliiig ! — 
he felt, that dead or living — so she died a martyr — Joan would 
be equally victorious. Her death, if attributed to vengeance, would 
but stir up the kindling blood of Gaul to hotter anger, would but beat 
down the doggedness of Saxon valor with remorse and superstitioiis 
terror! 

** HI hast thou earned thy See,'' he cried at their first interview, 
^ False Bishop ! As well she were ahorse and in the field, as living 
thus tifamoui prisoner ! She must die ! die. Sir Priest, not as a crimi- 
nal, but as a witch and heretic ! Her name must be a scoff and a 
reproach to France — her death an honor to her slayers ; a sacrifice 
acceptable to Mother Church, and laudable throughout all Christeotie I 
See it be done, Sir, — Nay, interrupt me not, i|or pariey ; an thou 
mayest not accomplish it, others more able, or perchance more will- 
ing, may be found, and that right speedily ; the revenues of Beauvais's 
Bishopric might serve a Prince's turn ! See that thou lose them not !" 
And he swept proudly from the chamber, leaving the astounded 
churchman to plot new schemes, to weave more subtle meshes for 
the lifo of the innocent Nor did it occupy that crafiy mind long 
time, nor did it need deep counsel ! The sentence of the church de- 
creed, that she should never more don arms, or masculme attire I The 
Bishop's eye flashed as it lighted on that article. ** Ha I" he mutter- 
ed — *' Here then, we have heron the hip! Anselm, what ho ! Let 
them bid Gaspard hither — the warden of the Sorceress — and let us 
be alone !" 

He came ; and with closed doors they aato in conclave — the hi^ 
est officer, save one, of holy church ; the lowest and most truculent of- 
ficial of state policy! Ear heard not, nor eye saw, the secrets of 



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TBI MATH Of LA PUCtLLK. 193 

dHit m^eiifig ; but on the morrow, lAeti Ae fir^t ^b&pM of Biddy 
dayKgfat fell thrMigh the tuimeUed window of her dimgeon, the M aiden'i 
female garfo was gone, and by the pallet bed lay morion and corslet^ 
dushest and greayes, and aword -— her own bri^ asore panoply ! At 
the first moment, ancient recollection filled her whole soul with glad- 
ness ! Joy, triumph, exultation, throbbed in her bmming veins ; and 
&e tears that rained down fuM and fi^quent, tannshing the policed 
surface, were tears of gratitude and momentary bliss. Then came 
the cold reaction — the soul-sickening terror — the prophetic sense of 
danger — the certainty of treachery! She donned them not — §h6 
rose not firom her wretched couch, diough her hmbs were cramped, 
and her very bones were sore with lying on ^ hard and knotted pal- 
let. Noon came, and her guards entered ; but it was in Tain that die 
besought them, as they would not slaughter a poor nuoden — slaugh- 
ter her, soul and body -— to render back the only vestments she might 
wear in safety* 

**'Tisbutanother miracle. Fair Joan;" sneered the grim warden* 
** St Katharine of FierbiMshadi returned the sword, she gave thee 
erst, for victory. T%te Dieu, tis w^ she left thee not the dettrier^ to 
boot of spurs, and espaldron, else wouldst th6u have won through wall 
of stone and grate of iron! Don them, then, holy Maiden, don the 
Saint's gift, and fear not; she will preserve ttee!" 

Aikd, with a hoarse and chucktii^ laugh the churi ktid down the 
scanty med hfis cruelty vouchsafbd her, and departed ! 

Thus three days passed away ; her prayers for fitting raiment were 
unheeded, or, if heeded, scoflbd at Meantime the chill air of the dun- 
geon paralyzed her es she lay, with scanty covering, cramped limbs 
and enirdling blood, on the stiraw mattress that alone was interposed 
between her delicate frame and the damp rock-hewn pavement On 
the third day she rose ; she donned the fatal armor — all save the 
helm and fsJcbion — she might not otherwise enjoy the wretched li- 
berty of moving to and fro, across the dungeon floor. Scarce had she 
fitstened the last rivet, when the door flew open! A dozen men-at 
wins rti^d m, and dragged her to the chamber of the council I 
l*he board was spread with all the glittering mockery of judgment — 
tbe brass^bonnd volumes of the law ; the crosier of the church ; the 
maee of state ; the two-edged blade of justice, and the pointless sword 
of Mercy I The Judges were in session — waiting the moment 
when necessity shoidd fotce her to do on flie fatal armor I From 
without the clang of axe and hammer might be heard, fiiuning the pile 
for execution, prepared already ere the sentence was pronounced on 
that doomed victim, condemned before her trial. 

**Lo! there — my Lords," cried Gauchon, as she entered, drag- 
ged liie a lamb to the slaughter. **Lo! There, my Lords! What 



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224 THE DBATH OF LA PUCILLE* 

need of iartfaer trial? Even now she bears the interdicted anns^ ob- 
tained as ihej must be by sorcerj ! Sentence* mj Lords ; a jodg- 
ment !" 

And with one consent, they cried aloudy corrupt and venal French- 
men» ^Judgment; a sentence I" 

Then rose again tiie Bishopt and the lust of gain twinkled in his 
deep gray eye, and his lip curled with an ill-dissembled smile, as he 
pronounced the final judgment of the Church. 

^ Joan of Domrlmi — sorceress, apostate, heretic! Liar, idolater, 
blasphemer of thy God ! The Church hath cast thee from her bosom, 
excommunicated and accurst I Thou art delivered to the arm of se- 
cular justice. And may the temporal flames which shall, this hour, 
consume thy mortal body, preserve thy soul from fires everiasting ! 
Her doom is said ; hence with her, to the fagot !*' 

Stead&stly she gazed on the &ce of the speaker, and her eye clos- 
ed not, nor did her lip pale, as she heard that doom, the most appalling, 
that flesh can not endure. 

**Te have conquered," she said slowly but firmly; "ye have pre- 
vailed, and / shall perish. But think not that ye harm me ; for ye 
but send me to my glory ! And believe not, vain that ye are, and sense- 
less, believe not that, in destroying me, ye can subdue my country. 
The fires, that shall shrivel up this weak and worthless carcase, shall 
but illume a blaze of vengeance in every Frenchman's heart that will 
never waste, nor wink, nor weary, till France again be free I This 
death of mine shall cost thousands — hundreds of thousands of the 
best lives of Britain ! Living, have I conquered your best warriors 
heretofore! Dead, will I vanquish them hereafter! Dead, will I 
drive ye out of Paris, Normandy, Guienne. Dead, will I save my 
King, and liberate ray country ! Lead on, assassins — lead me to the 
pile ! flie flesh is weak and fearful; yet it trembles not, nor (alters, so 
does the spirit pine for liberty and bliss !" 

Who shall describe the scene that followed; or, if described, who 
would peruse a record so disgraceful to England, to France, to Hu- 
man Nature ? England, from coward policy, condemned to ignomi- 
nious anguish a captive foe ! France, baser and more cruel yet, aban- 
doned without one effort, one offer of ransom, one stroke for rescue, 
a savior and a friend! and human nature witnessed the fell deed, pi- 
tying perhaps in silence, but condemning not, much less opposing the 
decree of murder, sanctioned, as it was, and sanctified by the assent 
of Holy Church. 

It is enough! She perished — perished, as she had lived, undaunt- 
edly and nobly. Her fame, which they would have destroyed, lives 
when the very titles of her judges are forgotten! The place of her tor- 
ture is yet branded with her name ! Her dying prophesy has been ful- 



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PARTING WORDS AT 8BA* 226 

fined ! A century had not elapsed, ere Paris, Normandy, Guienne 
were free from England's yoke ; and every battle-field of France hath 
reeked, fix>m that day downwards to red Waterloo, with blood of Eng- 
land, poured forth like water on the vaUeys of her hereditary foe. 

The Maiden perished, and the terror-stricken soldiery, who gazed on 
her unmurmuring agonies beheld — or fancied they beheld — a saintly 
light, paler but brighter than the lurid glare of the fagots, circling her 
dark locks and lovely features ; they imagined that her spirit — visible 
to mortal eyes — soared upward, dove-like on white pinions, into the 
viewless heaven — and they shuddered, when they found, amid the cin- 
ders of the pile, that heart which had defied their bravest, unscathed 
by fire, and ominous to them of fearful retribution ! 

H. W. H. 



PARTINa WORDS AT SEA. 

1 8KB once more my natiTe land, 

My native hills before me rise ; 
One fleeting hour, and I shall stand 

Beneath the light of native skies I 
Fly on, proud bird ! thy rapid wing 

Speeds, like my enzions heart, before ; 
Though soon the favoring breeze must bring 

Our gallant vessel to the shore. 

Sparkles the w'me and beams the glass ? 

Then, pour it to the radiant rim ; 
And, comrades, swiftly let it pass, 

For why should our bright eyes be dim 7 
Bright eyes ! ah, no ! the merry glance 

Has faded from such eyes as mine. 
And we, like knights of old Romance, 

Come homeward sad from Palestine. 

We come, with eariy hopes decayed, — 

With early passions all subdued ; 
The pleasant realm that Fancy made 

Changed to a real solitude ! 
And yet, where rises, soft and dear, 

0*er the blue waves yon long-led strand — 
How lonely those gray rocks appear, 

That sentinel our father*land ! 

How dream we of fond hearts, that beat 

Responsive ever to our own, 
Hand clasped in hand, and looks that meet, 
And thoughts of past years backward flown ; 
▼OL. VII. 89 



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S96 OAIBlfTAL JlBADIllOf* 

And tatn tfait motben ahod Ibr joy, 
And nulM of kindred, as they tiAoe 

Some likenees of the happy boy 
In that pale brow and thoug^wom iaoe. 

Botaeet fimaahon the beacons ahine^ 

As nearer, nearer — on we aaU ; — 
Fill up the ^ass, for song and wine 

Will lend new freahness to the gale ! 
A moroeot— and tiie lights of home, 

Swift as the stars when erening fdls, 
WHl glieam from steeple, tower, and dome, 

From lowly roofs and lofty walls. 

One moment -> ha! across the sea, 

Where tall masts like a forest seem, — 
From yonder turret, fair and free. 

The signals of ourcomiog stream. 
The parting glass ! fill, shipmates dear. 

You to your loves pledge ~ I to mine ! 
Drink not — but with one jovial cheer 

Fling on the water glass and wine ! 



P. B. 



ORIENTAL READINGS. 



mnrsaa omi— havss. 



It is but a short time since the literature of the East began to at- 
tract the attention of the savans of Europe. There has, indeed, al- 
ways been, in every century, from the time of Origen downwards, a 
small number who have devoted themselves to the study of the Orien- 
tal languages, chiefly for the sake of scripturd or historical illustration; 
but they have generally been looked upon as martyrs to the cause of 
learning, whose example was r^er to be admired than imitated* 
The common herd of students who have attempted to enter the wil- 
derness of Eastern lore, have been dismayed at the first sight of the 
tangled maze, and have not dared to penetrate fiuther ; little dreaming 
that in the depths of that thicket were hidden many sweet wild flowers 
of surpassing beauty and fragrance ; or, if perchance a blossom fell 
into their hands, have been so much occupied in determining its genus 
and the number of its stamens, that they have forgotten to admire its 
tints and its perfume. 

Sir William Jones was the first who dared to teach the nations of 
Christendom that the powers of reason and imagination were not con- 



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OBIUTTAL UAPlHStb M7 

fined to theniMhres — that Ibought mi^t be m peaelntiiigt and fiuiey 
M feireot, mder the sunny iloee et Penia aa in Ibe coM and foggj 
elMBate of Brttain. Until kia time men would hare amtted at Ibe idea 
of k>oldng for proftauid thought and fine feelinf in tbe writing 
boBMtan; a ptejudioa, thereianint of cruaading bigotry, which nothing 
but a mind like bia, rich in learning, iflMigiMtion, and taate« could have 
diasipated* Hia principal work on fiiia aubject, the ** Poeaeoa Aaiatici 
Commentarii,'' pubbabed in 1769, thou^ writtMi at the eariy age of 
twenty-three, evince a maturity of judgment, a deptbof reaearcb, anda 
delicacy of taste, which called forth the general admuration of fiie Httrati 
tbrouj^iont Europe. By this workt aa well aa by hia other productiona, 
eepedaDy his beautifiil trawslatiOBB, or father paiaphraaea, of some of 
the Bsoet admired poeBM of the East, an entire change was wrought in 
the opinions of the learned, on the aol^t of Oriental writinga, and a 
secret, though powerful influence, exerted on fiM literature of England* 

To understand this effect w^ must review file condition and pro- 
grass of British Kteratnre for some distance back. The EagUsh 
character, aa has oAen been aaid, has in it little of the apirit of poetry. 
There are few national songs and ballads to be met with in the coun- 
try, and thoae irbkh are occasionally found, come, almost without ex- 
ception, fiom the border, where the inspiration baa been caught firom 
their Scottiah neighbors, a people of a very different character. In 
truth, John Bull ia a rough, warm-hearted, tough-beaded <M fellow, 
with abundance of good feeling and good aenae, but not an atom of aen- 
timent; which be is apt to regard aa a lack-aHiaiaical, Frenchified, and 
altogether unmanly sort of a quality. He therefore preaents the worat 
subject for poetry imaginable. An Arcadian she|^rd, or an Italian 
peasant, baa a very pretiy efiect i^n introduced into a paatoral or a 
love tale; but what can be made of an English country bumpkin? 

Hence it is that the poeta of fiiia country, conscious of fiieir own 
deficiency in the mtUerid^ have drawn their aubjects almost enfirely 
firom foreign sources. They have wandered from their native aoil to 
sing of cfaivalric heroes, of Jewish patriarchs, and Arcadian swaina ; 
and have even dared to acale heaven itself in pursuit of a subject 
The analogy holds in other arti which require an exercise of the ima- 
gination; there ia no Engtish school of painting. . 

Let us attempt to trace more accurately the extent of thia foreign 
influence on the bterature of our mother country, and reflectively on 
our own. Italy, the first to awake fit>m the mental torpor of the dark 
ages, was for two centuries the school-mistress of the nations ; she 
exchanged her political dominion for a sway in the world <^ mind, 
and bsr statesmen, philosophers, and poets left the impress of their 
genius on the earlier writings of every people of Europe, and most of 
all on the Englnh. At this time it was thought essential to the corn- 



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228 ORIBNTAL RBADINQ8. 

pletioQ of a liberal education, to visit that land so pecuHarij the borne 
of genius, and converse face to face with the master minds of the age. 
Thus did Chaucer, and long after him Spenser and Milton ; and their 
works are, as is well known, deeply imbued with the spirit of Italian 
literature. The same may be remarked of the minor poets of tet 
period — the Wyats, the Surreys, and the Gascoignes. Down to the 
time of Dryden, English poetry was of what may be called the Italian 
school. 

With him commenced a new era. The French nation, which had 
been for some time rising fast in political importance, began also to 
exercise a considerable influence on the literary worid. The man- 
nerism which prevailed among her authors was peculiariy calcolaied 
to strike and to please ; it consbted in lively and impassioned ideasy 
set off by a pointed and epigrammatic style ; but sufficiently sirofde to 
contrast well with the labored conceits and false glitter of the Italian 
writers. Dryden adopted these peculiarities, and became the founder 
of a new school — the French. His genius, however, refused to con- 
fine itself within the narrow limits marked out by the literary censors 
of that nation. It remained for Pope, more correct, as it was termedt 
but less forcible, to carry out the tenets of this school to their utmost 
extent ; and his works are now the models of cold, precise, condensed, 
Gallic versification. An equal revolution in taste took place in prose 
works of imagination ; the tedious, stately, knight-errant romances^ 
which aroused the good ladies of Queen Elizabeth's court were ex-^ 
changed for the more natural, but no l^ss tedious gossiping stories of 
Richardson. 

For above a century English imagination bowed to a Gallic creed. 
By this time, however, the nation became weary of the tiresome mo- 
notony and correctness which prevailed among their writers, and va^ 
nous attempts were made to break it by the introduction of difierent 
styles, all of which enjoyed a temporary popularity. Thomson and 
Cowper were the first who described English scenery with fidelity and 
efi*ect ; even they did not dare to touch upon English character and 
manners to a great extent. Crabbe, who has since attempted it, is 
little read. Lewis, to whom his novel procured the prsenomen of the 
monkf introduced, with considerable power, the wildness and supematu- 
ralities of the German echooi ; «od the novels of Mrs. Radcliff sup- 
planted those of Richardson. The simple Doric pathos of Bums 
made tiie ScoUuh dialect and songs for a time so popular, that at 
length any rhyme in which a' was used for oj/, and a home was called 
a biggin^ was received at once as genuine poetry of nature ; the un- 
couthness of the orthography operating as a veil over any meanness 
of expression or coarseness of idea. 

All these schoQls« if such they may be called, expired with theur 



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orhntal RBADiirGf. S29 

fiMindera. There were none to take up the mantles of the departed 
Boasters { and the consequence was a general stagnation of poetry to- 
wards the end of the last century, something like that which we are now 
ezperienciag. It was about this time that the kbors of Sir William 
JooeSf in the hitherto untrodden paths of Oriental literature began to 
be apprectatod. His elegant translations and imitations of the East- 
ern poets were received with universal delight ; the Asiatic tinge of 
voluptuoosness and sensuality, softened and etherialized by the influ- 
enee of « delicate imagination, was peculiariy calculated to strike and 
capttfate, after the firigidity of the French, the wildness of the €rerman, 
and the coarseness of the Scotch styles. This effect was aided by 
Ae increasing power and possessions of the East India Company, in 
whose service many gentlemen of good standing and cultivated minds 
became conversant with the language and literature of Persia. To be 
assured of this, one need only glance at some of the periodical! pub- 
lished in India about thirty years since. 

A poetry which appeals to the passions will at all times be popular ; 
and at this moment, when the reading community were wearied of 
sickly sentimentalism, pretty conceits, and labored profundity, nothing 
could be better fitted to attract than the simplicity and warmth of the 
Oriental style, and the brilliant freshness of its imagery. This effect 
had, in fact, been expected and foretold by him who was the founder 
of the school, though not its chief supporter. In his ^ Essay on the 
Poetry of the Eastern nations," Sir William Jones has these remarks: 
** I cannot but think that our European poetry has subsisted too long 
on die perpetual repetition of the same images and incessant allusions 
to the same fables ; and it has been my endeavor, for several years, to 
inculcate this truth, that if the writings of tiie principal Asiatics, which 
are reposited in our public libraries, were printed, with the usual ad- 
vantages of notes and illustrations, and if the languages of the Eastern 
nations were studied in our great seminaries of learning, where every 
other branch of useful knowledge is taught to perfection, a new and 
ample field would be opened for speculation; we should have a more 
extensive insight into the history of the human mind ; we should be 
fomtshed with a new set of images and similitudes ; and a number of 
excellent compositions would be brought to light, which future scholars 
mi^ explain and future poets might imitate." 

This prediction has been already, in part, accomplished. The wri- 
ters who have availed themselves of the new and abundant materiab 
for poetry, which they find in the character, customs, and writings of 
the East, are not a few. Conspicuous among these stands one who 
is to be considered, perhaps, as the most popular of living poets, 
Moore. Endowed with a genius truly Oriental, he early perceived 
the bent of public taste and adapted himself to it His poems ore 



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230 OMBNTAL RSASmOS. 

marked by die same fiuilts and die same baanUei wbkk we find in te 
poets of Persia. Bicfaness of oraamentt fervency of feeling, elegance 
of expression, without much gran^iess or depth of thought or correct- 
ness of moral taste, characterise the greater part of his prodoctioBS. 
By his last great work, Lalla Rookh, he has aecompfished that which 
Sir WiUkun Jones so ardently desired to see effected — * the translation 
into English of Oriental ideas and images. Nor is he die only laborer 
in the field ; the wild and wondrous creations of Thalaba imd Yathek 
owe their existence to the same prevailing turn of public septmeat ; 
perhaps also much of the impassioned poetry of Byron and Shelley — 
the Bride of Abydos, the Revolt of Islam, &c. 

It is through the influence thus exerted, and the information thus 
conveyed, that the names of several of the principal poets of Persia 
have become familiar to the reading portions of the English and 
American nations. There are few, probably, who have not heard 
that fivdousi is the first Epic poet of the East, Sadi the most distin- 
guished in morality, and Hafez die. sweetest of lyrists. But this is 
all ; of die lives and productions of these writers, ^liiose worics, as I 
have endeavored to show, have exercised such an influence over our 
own literature, little or nothing is known. Such being the case, a 
brief sketch of the history and writings of some of the most celebrated 
of the Eastern poets, may not be unacceptable. 

Pre-eminent among these for delicacy of thought and sweetness oi 
expression stands Hafez, the Anacreon of Persia. He was.bom near 
die commencement of the fourteenth century, at Shiraz, a city which 
her sons are fond of terming die ** Garden of the East" Living be- 
neath a never-clouded sky, where the heat of a southern sun is tem- 
pered only by gales which breathe from the Ghilf of Oman and die 
Indian Sea, loaded with the perfume of a *Mand of roses ;" where the 
vanity or the afifed^tion of many successive princes has collected ail 
that is magnificent or pleasing in nature or art, to embellish their &- 
vorite residence ; and where the tumults and distraction of war seldom 
reach, the inhabitants of Shiraz are, in the highest degree, an indolent, 
passionate, and poetical race. Fierce hate, hot desire, intense devo- 
tion, alternately sway their minds when roused firom the state of sloth- 
ful indifierence in which the Orientals delight to slumber away the 
time. The poets of diis city, fvhish are almost as numerous as those 
of all the rest of Persia, partake of the general spirit, and only inter- 
pret the feelings of their fellow-citizens. Love, wine, and religion 
form die principal themes of Shirazian verse — and with none more 
dian Hafez, by iK^m this scanty array of subjects has been, like die 
features of the human countenance, so varied and commingled, that 
an infinity of beautiful combinations has proceeded fi-om them. 

His original name was Mohammed Shemseddin. At an early age 



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ORIBNTAL RBADIN08. 281 

k& enleiM) a coHege fbioided by the piood Tizier Hadji Couwanu^ 
Ham ke applied himself to the studj of jurispmdeiice and theology, in 
the latter of which he soon made such profidency that he could repeat 
the entire Koran by heart ; from which circumstance he derived his 
title of Hafez, which signifies ^ a man of great memory." He after* 
wards assumed it as his tohhuUuin or " poetical name," which eveiy 
Persian writer of eminence is required to have ; it Lb introduced in- 
variably into the last couplet of every poem, and thus secures to the 
author fSbe reputation which his productions may deserve — a contriv- 
ance which, in these days of rhyming plagiarism, might be introduced 
with advantage into lands farther west 

There is a singular story of the manner in which the poetical powers 
of young Shemseddin were first called forth, that might figure to ad- 
vantage in that unrivalled collection, the ^* Arabian Nights." It is re- 
lated duU at a short distance from Shiraz, lived a venerable philoso- 
pher, who, firom some peculiarity in dress, commonly went by the 
name of ^ Oreen Old Man." He had a single daughter, the fairest 
of Persian maids ; *' beautiful," to use the words of an Eastern writer, 
^ as the fuQ moon, slender as the pine, graceful as the waving cypress, 
with. locks like hyacinthine flowers, eyes like the narcissus, teeth of 
peari, and lips of ruby." The name of this surpassing fair one, bow- 
ever it may strike an Oriental, has not to an English ear a very ro- 
mantic sound ; it was Shakhi-nebat, which literally signifies a ^ Ivwp 
of sugar l^ But no name, however uncouth or unpoetical, could cast 
a shade over a beauty Uke hers. Hafez, then in the bloom of youth, 
on a visit to her father, saw and admired the maiden ; and in a heart 
like his admiration was next door to love. His visits were repeated, 
ostensibly for the purpose of receiving the lessons of wisdom from tiie 
lips of li» venerable sage, but in reality to perfect himself in a sofler 
scieiice. Hafez was now engaged in assiduously ciMvating the uni^ 
versal art of lovet This taught him to woo his beloved in strains of 
die sweetest melody, which are even now simg by the enamoured 
youths of Shiraz to their blushing maidens. What wonder, then, if 
the feir Saccharissa, whom we must of course suppose as feeling, as 
beautiful, was won at last to transfer to the bard the admiration which 
she felt for the verses ? Hafez had not long to deplore, in languishing 
tones, the cruelty of his beloved — a fevorite theme of Eastern poets. 
A few lines of rapturous delight bear witness to his transport when at 
lengdi tiie **soul-sidMluing, heart-aikiring, peri-Kke Shakhi-nebat 
deigned to reward his devotion with a sugary smile." 

The particular occasions of most of Hafez's odes are unknown ; 
but tiie imagination is pleased with referring the following simple lines 
to this romantic period of the poet's life, when he first felt the influence 
of that passion which was to be the theme and the inspiration of his 
future productions. They resemble, as Sir William Jones has re- 

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282 ORIBNTAL R£ADUI08« 

marked, a sonnet of Sbakspeare's, in which he compares die.beauties 
of his mistress to those of the flowers, and accuses them of stealiaf 
from her their brilliancy and perfume. 

Sweet, balmy winds ! thit perfume blett 

Was stolen firom my love yestree, 
For while she slept her lodu ye kisead, 

And bore away their fragrancy. 

Brightly, fair rose, thy flowerets shine ; 

But oh ! how far less bright thoy be 
Than that soft lip that joins to mine, 

All qutveiing with ecstasy. 

Narcissus, close thine eye of blue, 

Before my LeOa's sparkling ee; 
How lifeless is -thy sickly hue. 

Beside that sleepy briUiaoGy. 

Though graceful pine, before the storm 

Thy branches wave, and fiJr to see, 
Bethink thee of my Leila's form, 

And vrither m thine infamy. 

Tell me, old sage, hast ever seen 

A beauty half so fair as she, 
By whose bright cheek the basil Aeen 

Would pine away for jealousy? 

Thus, dearest, while I sing thy charms^ 

O deign an answering smile to me ; 
Give but an hour to Hafez*^ arms, 

'Twill seem a sweet eternity. 

But Ae course of our poef s love was destined to be ruffled by an 
unexpected obstacle. The king, chancing to pass by the humble 
dwelling of the philosopher, was struck by the beauty of his daughter, 
and demanded her of her father in marriage. The old man was un- 
able to refuse this undesired honor of a regal alliance, and the lovers 
were in despair. At last, Hafez determined, in the true madcap spirit 
of a chwalier ^amour^ to appeal to the sovereign himself against his 
own injustice ; and, strange to say, his prayers, backed by an affecting 
ode, describing his own wretchedness and lauding the generosity of 
the ShaJh succeeded in softening the heart of an Asiatic tjrrant ; and 
Hafez was permitted to enjoy undisturbed the affection of his beloved. 
But alas! Uiis happiness was not long allowed him; only a brief time 
after their nuptials, his beautiful bride fell a victim to distemper. 

" But one short day allowed on earth to roam, 
Before her angel spirits called her home," - ' 

as the bereaved husband laments in a sweet but sad elegy. 

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ORISNTAL READINGS* 



18S 



From diifl time Hafoz devoted himself to a life of retirement and 
pleat ore, ti^iich neither the solicitations of princes, nor the allurement 
of ikme, could induce him to leave. Once, indeed, it is said, he 
yielded to the earnest request of the Prince of Yerd, desirous of seeing 
and cimversing with the bard whose songs, as he himself boasts, were 
snog 

By China's glowing daoghten, 

By Egypt's laughing maids; 
On QangesV sacred waters, 

In Rouma^ls* sunny glades. 

But the magnificent favors which Hafez had been led to expect, 
were either withheld or grudgingly bestowed by the niggard prince ; 
and the poet, wounded more in his self-esteem than his avarice, of 
which he seems to have had but a small share, returned to his peaceful 
bower of Rocnabad, and the sweet stream of Mossellay, heartily 
resolved never again to venture forth from his beloved Shiraz. 

It was during the life of Hafez that this city was taken by Timour 
or Tamerlane — the scourge of Asia in the fourteenth century. The 
fame of the prince of poets had reached even the ears of the rude 
Tartar. He ordered the bard to be brought before him, and demanded, 
with a stem countenance, how he had dared to offer two of the finest 
cities of the kingdom to his mistress for a single kiss. 

*^ Can the gifls of Hafez impoverish Timour ?" was the ready an- 
swer. The conqueror was delighted at the elegant compliment to his 
greatness, and dismissed the poet loaded with presents. 

From this time till his death, which took place in the year 1389, 
just at the time that Sultan Baber made himself master of Shiraz, he 
seems to have led a life of quiet and seclusion among a few intimate 
friends, and to have occupied himself in the composition of those ex- 
quisite odes in which his memory is, as it were, embalmed. His tomb 
is situated without the walls of the city, in bb beloved Mosellay, and 
near the fountain of Rocnabad, which his verses have immortalized* 
Around it are some beautiful cypress trees, said to have been planted 
by his own hands. It was formerly a place of general resort to the 
Shirazians from the heat and the bustie of the city. Here the grave 
cadi would repair to meditate, over his chiboque and his cofiee, on the 
instability of human greatness ; here poets would come to recite their 
verses to the maoes of their sovereign ; and lovers found it a very con- 
venient and appropriate place of assignation ; here, too, the story-teller 
would hold a ring of gaping listenere enchained in breathless interest, 
while he recounted to them the exploits of the hero Rustam, or some wild 

* The Persiao name for Asia Minor. 

VOL. Til. 30 



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2B4 ORIENTAL READIN08* 

freak of the good Caliph Haroun Afaraschid. But all this, as we leaxn 
from recent travellers in the East, has passed away ; the tomb of Hafes 
has been overthrown and broken by an earthquaket and is left unro- 
paired ; the cypresses are cut down ; and the beautiful copy of his 
Odes has been stolen from its place upon the monument The poenis« 
alsOy of the bard are less read than formerly, and his songs less fre- 
quently sung. This may be owing in part to the recent political con- 
vulsions of the country, which have weakened the taste for literature, 
and partly to the natural effects of time in rendering the language and 
style of his writings unfamiliar. But beyond the limits of Persia these 
causes cannot operate ; and it seems to be the singular good-fortune 
of Hafez, that, as his countrymen become blind to his merits, the 
eyes of other nations should be opened to them. His fame, like the 
light of the sun, can never be extinguished ; but it may change its 
place of shining. 

The poems of Hafez were collected, after his death, into one vo- 
lume, by Seid Cassem Anovar, himself an author of no slight reputa- 
tion. This collection is called the Divan of Hafez, and contains 
about five hundred and seventy gazels or odes, arranged in the alphar 
betical order of their rhyming letter ; for it is a peculiarity of the Per- 
sian ode, ^at the last lines of all the couplets in a piece have a similar 
termination — as in the imperfect translation given above of one of 
the finest The writings of Hafez are almost wholly of the amatoiy 
species. It would seem that the chords of his harp, like those of the 
Teian bards, having been once taught to resound a song of love, 
could never af\er vibrate to another theme. In connexion with this 
passion, the praises of that forbidden beverage, the juice of the grape, 
supply an inexhaustible subject for the exercise of Hafez's imagination. 
If fortunate in love, he bids us crewn our success by a bumper ; if 
unlucky, we are to drown our cares in the flowing bowl. He even 
dares to prefer ** ^e liquid rubjr" which he quaffs, to the water of 
Raauser, the holy river of Paradise — an unpardonable offence in the 
eyes of all good mussulmen : — 

•* A wreath of flowen around my brows to braid — 
Pure wine of Sbiraz, and a yielding maid,** 

form, according to Hafez, the sum of earthly pleasures. 

These precepts, which he took good care to illustrate in practice, 
did not a little scandalize the more rigid of his countiymen — espe- 
cially the priests, who saw the chief dogmas of their religion thus 
treated with open contempt. So far did their indignation against the 
hapless poet cany them, that they were, at first, disposed to refuse 
him moslem burial, and a violent contest arose between them and his 
friends on this point At length, by way of an appeal to heaven, they 



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ORIENTAL R£AD1N08. 235 

Qigreed to open the book which contained his poems, and be deter- 
mined by the verse which should first meet their eyes. Fortunately 
enough, they chanced to stumble on a passage peculiarly appropriate: 

" Refuse not Hafez'ir'cone a resting-place — 
Though sunk in sin, he trusts in Allah's grace." 

This, of course, settled the dispute, and the poet's remains received 
the rites appointed to good moslem clay. 

There remained, however, yet another difficulty to embarrass the 
consciences of the Faithful : by sanctioning the burial of the poet's 
corpse, they had virtually approved the sentiments of his writings; 
but that grave and reverend doctors should give their sanction to 
verses breathing a spirit so directly opposed to good morals and good 
Mahometanism, — verses whose sole object was to set forth, in their 
most attractive light, the charms of forbidden pleasures, was a thing 
monstrous and not to be conceived. A happy thought relieved them 
from their perplexity. This was no other than to suppose the poet an 
exceedingly pious, but abo somewhat enigmatical, writer, and his odes 
nothing else than a series of devotional hymns, expressed in allego- 
rical language. According to these interpreters, Hafez had all his life 
been playing psalm tunes on his lyre, instead of the light and frivo- 
lous measures for which his admirers had taken them. '* Love," it 
seems, means with him an ardent desire of a union with the divine, 
all-creating Essence ; by wine is signified *' devotion ;" perfume is 
^ the hope of the Divine favor ;" the breeze an ^^ illapse of grace," &c. 
By this singular transformation, the following verses, in which a com- 
mon reader discerns nothing beyond a lively Bacchannalian, become 
a sacred hymn, breathing a spirit of the most devoted piety. 

The rosy dawn is passing in, / - ' 

Fill high your cups with rosy wine — 
The tulip bright is drinking dew 

And we will drink the juice divine. 

The fragrant breezes kiss the 6ower, 

Fill hi^ the cup with fragrant wine — 
The rose is blushing in the bower, 

Drink deep the blushing juice divine. 

The sage may pour his vows to heaven, 

The lover pours the lifesome wine — 
Or drinks, like Hafez, sweeter for, 

From angel lips a kiss divine. 

Ingenious must be the imagination which can extract firom these stan- 
zas, so redolent of love and mirth, a sublime description of the joys of 
religion, and a serious call on sinners to turn from the error of their ways 



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286 ORUMTAL RBADIM08. 

and be conyerted. The following is an effusion of the same kind, 
and equally pious in its spirit ; for it speaks on^ of love, wkie, and 
perfumeSf — the sensual pleasures which make up a Mahometan's pa- 
radise. 

Spring's balmj gtles are sweet, 

In wine thej taste the sweeter, ^ 
And samroer hours so fleet 

With love's delights are fleetor. 
How tame the garden glows 

Where no rose its perfume flingeth, — 
How idle is the rose 

When no bulbul* near it singeth. 

The cypress is not &ir, 

Though it wave with graceful motioD, 
Unless my Leila there 

Will list my heart's devotion. 
The vnld*bee never sips 

Where lurk no honeyed blisses, 
And what are maiden's lips 

That will not join in kisses ? 

The picture's gayest dies 

Can ne'er to me endear it, 
Unless my Leila's eyes 

With brighter glow are near it 
And, Hafez, life, at best. 

Is a worthless piece of money, — 
So, spend it on a feast, 

AimI let the feast be honey. 

Whatever may be thought of the mystic or allegoricid character of 
these poems, it is certain that among the odes of Hafez are several 
which breathe a truly religious, though not exactly a Mahometan, spi- 
rit There has existed for several centuries in Persia, a sect of con- 
siderable importance, termed the Sufi^ deriving their 'name and their 
doctrines, both somewhat corrupted, from the sopki or philosophers of 
ancient Greece. They believe in a divine, all-pervading, self-existing 
essence, from which all things have proceeded, and into which all 
things shall be resolved. To be united with this essence, which is 
Divine Love, they esteem the fullness of beatitude ; and they term 
the body a veil or prison of clay, by which the immortal spirit is confin- 
ed and obscured. 

Of this sect Hafez was a member, and many of his odes express 
their peculiar tenets with much fervor. The following lines, though in 

* The loves of the buUnU, or nightmsale and the rose, form the subject of many 
beautiful stories and allusbns among tBe Persian poets, particularly tnose of Shi- 
rai, where thisbiid is roost frequentiy met with. 



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orikhtal rsadingb. SS7 

part obflciife, indicate an ardent desire to attain to that reunion with the 
Divini^ whichis the peculiar doctrine of the Sufi. 

My loiil is darkeiMd by this yeil of clay, 
Blest be the hour that rends the gloomy ydl ;— 

My spirit pants to wing its heayenward way, 
Like the caged bird — and skyward home to safl. 

I know not whe% my fate's stem mandate calls, 

And thos in f<jly fleets my life away, — 
How can I, prisoned m life's narrow walls, 

How can I soar to troth's eternal day. 

My heart is fixed upon a heavenly bride, 
Why in this wodd of demons should I stay 7 — 

Nay, diide me not — can musk its perfume hide? 
Can Hafez cease to breathe his pious lay 7 

As fires volcanic glow the earth beneath, 

So bums my heart within its vesture gay. 
Spirit Divine ! receive my parting breath, — 

Absorbed in thee, let Hafez melt away. 

There is nothing of a local or ephemeral character in the poema of 
Hafez ; they breathe sentiment and passions which find an echo in the 
hearts of all men of every time and nation. The delights and pangs 
o€ lof e, — the pleasures of religion 7— the joys of the banquet — are 
every where felt» but nowhere as well expressed as in the burning 
lines of this poet In this respect his writings are peculiarly fitted for 
translation. 

But he who would make the polished bard of Ispahan speak the rude 
accents of a Northern tongue, must not only possess a critical know- 
ledge of the peculiar and delicate beauties of the original, but he 
must be a man of briUiant imagination and refined taste. The transla- 
tor of Hafez should be himself a poet of a high order ; he should be 
capable of transfusing into a foreign tongue, not only the sentiments, 
but also the style andjcoloring, of the original ; he must be able to give 
the setting of the gem with the gem itself. The exquisite figments 
scattered through the works of Sir William Jones make us wish that he 
had seen fit to complete this desirable work. There is one living 
poet to whom the task might be safely committed, — I mean Moore. 
His rich, fervid, and truly Oriental imagination, and his intimate ac- 
quaintance with the history and manners of the East, make it certain 
that in his hands the poetry would lose nothmg either of its beauty or 
its powers. But it is not to be expected that the advanced age of this 
distinguished writer and his numerous engrossing avocations will ad- 
mit of attention to a matter of mere secondary importance. Perhaps 
in afler-times a poet may arise, who, uniting the learning of Jones with 



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238 RATBSa HTPBRBOLIGAL. 

the genias of Moore, will do for the poet of Persia the office which 
the latter has already performed for his brother bard of Teos : and 
then may we hope, that strains which have for ages been the delight of 
the East, will be sung and admired in lands of whose very existence 
the audior himself never dreamed. 

H* £• XI* 



RATHER HYPERBOUCAL. 

Thbt tell me, love, that heavenly form, 

Was fashioned in an earthly mould, — 
That once each lirob and feature warm 

Was lifeless clay and cold ; 
And the old nurse, in prating mood, 
Vows she beheld thy babyhood. — 
But vain the specious web and frail — 
My heart can weave a truer tale. 

They lured a radiant angel down, 

Ajid clipped its glorious wings away, — 

They bound its form in stays and gown, 
And taught it here to 6tay. 

They quenched its daszling crown of flame, 

And call'd it by a mortal name ; 

But art nor skill could e'er effdce 

The heavenly mind, the angel grace. 

And would you deign to linger here, 

And tread with me this mortal earth, 
A group of chanting cherubs, dear. 

May cheer our humble hearth ; 
And each will be — nay, do not laugh — 
Angel and mortal, half and half. 
And every pretty dear, when vexed. 
Will cry one hour and sing the next 

But oh! I greatly fear, my love. 

That earthly joys would all be vain. 
And, longing much for things above. 

The plumes might grow again ; 
And so you might, some pleasant day. 
Take to your wings and fly away. 
— I shall be sorry if you do, — 
But, dearest, take the children too. 

Elah. 



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289 



THE LAST OF THE IRON HEARTS. 



BT TBI AVraOK OF "TALBt Or TSB MOmTB-WBIT.' 



It 18 an tmgrateful task to write an Indian tale as it should be 
written ; and, what is more, the man is not in America who can do it ; 
or, if he be, he has not yet made his appearance in print So the 
brave and unfortunate race, so deeply wronged by our fathers and our- 
sdres, pass away, and no data are left to posterity by which to under- 
stand their character, save the dull records of incompetent or one- 
sided chroniclers, and the vague speculations of hasty travellers, most 
of idiom are about as much entitled to credit as Captain Hall. We 
are not going into a dissertation, but beg leave to assure our readers 
that the Indian is not the ferocious brute of Hubbard and Mather, or 
&e brilliant, romantic, half-French, half-Celtic Mohegan and Temassee 
created by Symmes and Cooper. How can men, however talented, 
describe what they never saw 1 

A plum-pudding cannot be made without plums, or a story, now-a- 
days, without a sprinkling of what fools call love and wise mdh folly. 
Our tale, therefore, shall have a little of the fashionable spice. 

Once upon a time there lived, among the Tanktons of the far North- 
west, an amazon, who, whatever mischief was done by her eyes, cer- 
tainly inflicted literal wounds with her hands. Such things have been 
before ; we read of Clorinda, Camilla, and Marphisa in ancient 
days, and are assured by Tyrone Power that the modem Irish women 
assist their husbands m faction fights^ each armed with a stone tied up 
in the foot of a stocking. How much more likely, then, that such 
characters should sometimes be found among a people to whom refine- 
ment is utterly unknown, with whom animal bravery is the highest 
moral attribute, and whoee first-lisped sounds are war and battle. 
The Penthiselea in question was the daughter of a tremendous war- 
rior, who never had fewer than three scalps diying in the smoke of his 
lodge at a time, and she had stood side by side in fight with her father 
and loaded one of his two guns before she was fifteen years old. 
More ; on the same occasion she right valiantly knocked two wounded 
men in the head with her own (alas ! not fair) hands, after the fray 
was over. From that time she renounced the avocations, and some- 
times the gaib, of her sex. She rocked no cradle, her back bore no 
burthen, her hand planted no com, dressed no robe, and wrought no 

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240 THK LAST OP THB IRON HXARTi. 

moccasio. She reined the steed, wielded the lance, and drew the bow 
instead. She accompanied war and hunting parties, and sat in the 
councils of men ; and in both situations her merit was cordially ac* 
knowledged. For all this she was especially qualified. The daughter 
of a giant, she exceeded the stature of her sex ; trained to incessant 
exercise, she was quite equal to the fiitigues of war. In council, ta- 
citurnity is the prime merit of an Indian who has nothing to say, and, 
strange as it may seem, she was able to hold her peace. 

The main spring of this woman's character was ambition* Con- 
scious of powers inferior to those of few men, she saw herself doomed 
to be an Indian wife, that is, an inferior being, a mere drudge, a bearer 
of burthens, a hewer of wood and drawer of water, Ae slave of aa in- 
ferior, and the victim of his caprice* The proud and haughty soul she 
inherited from her father revolted at a lot so abject, and she pos^ 
sessed the only qualities which could raise her above it, namdy, pbfb 
sical strength and determined courage, active and passive. 

The Fleet Foot (we will not inflict on our readers the sesquipeda* 
lian torture of an Indian name) became the hate of the women of her 
tribe and the admiration of its men. For envy, petty malice, and cafomny 
she cared nothing. She heard her name the subject of rude praise, 
her deeds the themes of rude song, her wisdom the admiration of Ike 
old, and her beauty the discourse of the young. She was eminently 
beautiful, that is, if a form cast in a gigantic mould of perfect sym- 
metry and very regular and yery dark features, can be said to make a 
woman so. Before she was twenty she was wooed by half the mides 
of the tribe who had any pretensions to rank among its men, but to 
none of them would she incline her ear, gravely or seriously. To 
have married would have been to lose her rank, to become the Paria 
we have described an Indian wife to be. Therefore she sco&d at 
their proposals and returned their presents. If they came to whine 
their love-sick ditties before her door, she broke their heads widi their 
own three-holed flutes ; and if they persisted, she shot their dogs and 
horses. Nevertheless, so much was she annoyed, that she was oUiged 
to find an expedient to prevent the nuisance at once and for ever. 

Her tribe have a ceremony, or rather had it (for it has for many 
years been obsolete), of particular interest and importance toits females. 
It was a dance of virgins. After appropriate religious rites and dances, 
the unmarried women advanced, one at a time, into the centre o( 
the assembled multitude, and challenged each and all who knew any 
thing against her maiden fame to declare it Were it bis betrothed, 
any one having such knowledge was held bound in honor to prodaia 
it without reservation. It may therefore be supposed that many took 
no part in the rite, and its manifest inconveniences have caused it to 
be discontinued. 



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THS LAST OP THK IRON HlARTf. 341 

The Fleet Foot stepped into the drde, drew op her commaiidiiig 
form to its fbli height, and widi mingled pride and dignity addressed 
die crowd: ^ I have been for these six jeare,^ she said, " a woman 
.set apart from women. In plain and forest, in peace and war, in yiU 
lage and camp, my intercourse has been wholly with men. The dear 
river ia ruffled by the least breath; the snow is sullied by die pressure 
of the lightest foot Let him breathe on die stream of my life, and 
trample on the snow of my character who can I" 

There was a breathless silence, but no one spoke. 

She dien commanded her medicine bag to be brou|^t forward* 
This is a collection of charms, amulets, &c., to whidi great reverence 
is paid by its owner. Each Indian has his own, and you may swear 
him iqpon it more safely than you can most whkes on the Evangelists. 
Putting her hand on this shrine of savage superstition, our Thalestris 
^K>ke again. 

^ I have now done what would have secured any maiden a hunter 
and a wairior. No dirt has been thrown ; no bird has uplMM a 
single note of shame. And now, with my hand on this medicine bag, 
I declare, Tanktons, that no man shall ever call me wife but he who 
ahall be proclaimed the best and bravest warrior of the tribe at its 
council fire, or who can make me cast down my eyes at the Ordeal of 
Maidens. I have spoken." 

A deep roar of approbation went up as the martial maid retired from 
a purgation not less terible dian the trial by fire of old. Each warrior 
of repute now bethought lum how he should gain the name of the best 
o( his band. The young performed prodigies. Those who slept 
in die riiade of former laurels, aroused to fresh and more terrible 
action. Never before was the wail of Pawnee, Chippeway, and As- 
sinnelKHn widows heard so far and so widely. Neverttieless, no 
Tankton obtained the envied distinction. As it could only be given 
by general suffiage, it was impossible that it could ever be won by 
any individual of a tribe of emulous and brave men. The stratagem 
of the Fleet Foot was completely successful. 

A year passed, and the emulation the Minerva of the tribe had ex- 
cited gave rise to a savage order of chivalry, in comparison with 
whoee reckless contempt of death the frantic valor of the Crusades 
and the desperation of the Assassins becomes i^ason and common 
sense. Twelve warriors, approved the boldest and best of dieir race, 
associated tbemselves for the avowed object- of winning the Fleet 
Foot and the dangerous title she had proposed as the price of her 
band. Their reputation being equal, or nearly so, and the competitioa 
being narrowed down to themselves, it was only with each other diey 
could strive. We must describe the rite of initiation into the order 
and its rules in detail. 

▼OL. TO. SI 

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S49 TMM I.A«T or TBS otoir miETf* 

before d^, and peifinMd a sotema daaee jurouad a lofij pole. M dn* 
loey or the Qmgfy Bear, Iha noat diatiDguiahedt waa iien stripped to 
the waiat and pakiCad black« Two oaken akewera, each half an inch 
tiudk, were nextfoceiblf duvatthnongfadie nmacular paitoof hiaarma. 
Tvo atrong cords were then attached to the akewer8,aad the ends 
were drawn tight to Iha top of the pole. At aunriae tiie initiate began 
to dance around the pole, with haUThia weight resting on his lacerated 
arms, and chanting Us former exploits. This agonizing torture he 
continued to iniict on himself till sunset, without wincing, when he 
was released, and the next rooming another took his place. IM not 
Ae reader think duit we eKaggcrate the Indian capacity to endure pri« 
yation and pain. Suciia scene aa we hafe described we have wH^ 
nessed, and have diminished rather dian aided to tta horrors. 

The rules of the **Iron Hearted*' were, never, when on any mHitery 
enter|»iae, to turn one inch out of the direct line of march that led to 
its accompliahment for any danger whatever, until one or more were 
killed. If oppoaed by a superior force, they were to cut their wa.y 
Arough ; if they eame to a precipice, one, at least, was bound to 
walk over it, and the order of precedence was to be settled by emula- 
tion. 

The dress of the Tankton brave is singularly pictureoqoe. A tanio 
and a pair of leggins, snow white, and ornamented and Moged in wild 
profittion, a pair of moccasins and a bufialo robe, covered with hie- 
roglyphics representing the wearer's exploits, are die main article. 
For every wound received or given, a slender painted stick is thrust 
into the hair. For a scalp taken or an enemy slaio, a pair of akuidL 
skins are appended to the heels, and a tufl of swan's down and a war 
eagle's feadier placed on the summit of the head. Hang round die 
warrior's neck a necklace of grizzly bear's claws, to denote diat he haa 
killed such an animal, mount him on a fine horse, with two or three 
scalps dangling from the bridle rein, set him careering over the pram 
with lance and shield, with his eagle's feathers streaming in the wind, 
and you have a Yankton desperado in full costume — none of the 
Metamoras of the stage, but an arm to do, a heart to dare, and a tongue 
to speak common sense, like any other person. Each of die Iron 
Hearted were entided to wear all these decorations. 

Strange as it may aeem, their bond of brotherhood considered, die 
Iron Hearted were not extinct for diree years, during which time one 
leaped over a Muff, three were burned by the Pawnees, two perished in 
the flamea of the burning prairie, a seventh walked under the ice of the 
Missouri, and four more died in batde and lost their scalps. Not one 
was known to violate his desperate pledge. And now Mahtoe alone 
remainedt after having braved aa many and as great perils as any of 



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TilB LAST OP THB IRON HKARTS. S4S 

Us 66fuQ0t ccMmcadss, ackiowlddged tbe Bnnrest sod BM of the 
Taoktons* 

Wkkoo obJMstioo oo tbe part of tbe Fleet Foot, her falher offered 
the last of tbe Iron Hearted his daughter's hand in foU coundL The 
stoic of tbe prairie, afVer a deeoroos pause of about an hoofi in order 
to make up his mind, knocked tbe ai^es oot of bis pipe, and re^ied» 
that <' All the use he had for a wife was^ to do the work of his lodge aad 
take care of Ihs children ; for which the proposed lady was no way 
qualified* He had never, he said^ ^ least idea of espousing 1^ 
Fleet Foot — he had thtee Wives already, quite enough for one man* 
His motive for joienig the devoted band bad been that it made his 
heait siek to have it doubted that be was the bravest man on earth* 
That doubt was now remored, and willi miieh gratitude he declmed 
the favor intended him." 

The Fleet Foot went to war no more. Stuttg with a slight she 
eouki not avenge, she put henelf under the tuition of an eminent sor'> 
ceress, for of such professions there is no lack in an Indian tribe* 
When she thought she had made such progress in necromancy as did 
credit to her application, she cast a spell on Mahtoe. She drew a 
picture of him in the sand, and with many a magic ceremony effaced 
the feet to destroy his swiflness, the arms to prostrate bis strength, 
the eyes to blear his vision, and devoted him to the blade of the 
slaughterer by driving a knife into his bosom to the bafl. Having 
charitably informed him of her affectionate proceeding, she went into 
the woods and banged herself^ according to the judicious custom of 
squaws when slighted or jealons* 

The heart of Mahtoe, iron to every thnig beside, was wax to super- 
stition. Apprehension of evil had the effect evil itself could not have 
produced. He became a changed man, and a settled melancholy 
constantly rested on bis features. His gun missed fire, the Buffalo 
carried off his arrows and lived, his huntings were unsuccessful, his 
canoe was upset, his com was blighted in the milk, and his children 
died. In short, he considered himself a man bewitched, no uncom* 
mon thing among Indians, and gave himself up to despair. 

Two years after he went to the Mandan villages on the Missouri 
with a small party of his people. While there, a war party of forty 
Pawnees, who were lurking about the vicinity, heard of fiieir arrival. 
Presuming on the forbearance of the Mandans, with mhotn Aey were 
at peace, the Pawnees entered the viHage and attacked the visiters. 
For once they reckoned amiss. The Mandans and their guests set 
upon them together and compelled them to a flight of several miles, 
killing some and wounding all. Not a man escaped iHioHy unhurt 
Indeed, so hard were the Pawnees pressed, that fiiey were obliged to 
difowaway their clothes, and even their weapons, to oiake better speed. 



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S44 THB LITTLB BLIHD BOT. 

The M spirit of Malitoe revif«d in the excitement c^Ae ehaee. 
One Pawnee, who appeared to be a chie( made ahnost aoperiuinMUi 
efforts to check the piirsatt ; frequently turning, and bearing back the 
foremost of his hunters. Mahtoe met him* The chief dischaiged hia 
gun unavailingly, being brought down in the very act bja bullet which 
broke his thi^ As the Tankton ran in to finish him, the wounded 
man drew a reserved pistol and shot him through the body. 

His slayer was instantly scalped by die comiades of the slain Tank- 
ton, Y9ho then passed in hot pursuit When, after an absence of three 
hours, they returned, they witnessed another example of the fortitude 
of their race. The Pawnee had recovered firom his swoon, and waa 
quietly engaged, though blind and powerless, in smoking his pipe* 
They sacrificed him to the manes of their dead. 

So died, on the field of battle, his nursery and his dwelling-place» 
with his war-cry on his lips, one who, fierce and pitiless to foes, was 
yet a good son, brother, husband, father, and friend, according to his 
knowledge of his social duties — the Last of the Iron Hearted. 



THE LITTLE BUND BOY. 

O, TILL me the fimn of tiie Mftramnier air, 
That tosaea lo gently the curia of my hair, 
libreathea oo my lipa, and it &na my warm cheek, 
But givea me no anawer though often I apealc. 
I feel it play o*er me, refreahmg and light. 
And yet cannot touch it, becauae I*Ye no ai^ht 

And mtiaic, what ia it? and where doea it dwell? 
I aink and I mount with its cadence and awell, 
While thrilled to my heart mth the deep-going atrain, 
Till pleasure exceasiTe aeema taming to pain. 
Now, what the bright colours of muaic may bo 
Will any one tell me ? for I cannoC see. 

The odours of flowers that are hovering ni|^ 
What are they? on what kind of wings do they fly? 
Are thoM ahinnigaBgeia, who come to deh^ 
A poor little child that knowa nothing <^aig^ ? 
The face of the sun never oomee to my mind. 
Oh! tell me what light ia, becauae I am blind! 



JifnAwryport, Man, 



ELF.a 



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246 



RAMBLING REMINISCENCES OF ANCIENT 
HUNTERS. 

•*— En age, segnes 
" B^uxape morts, vocat in^nti cUmore Cit&roa 
'* Taygetique canea, domitrixqtjie Epidaurus eiquoraiD, 
'<EtTox aaeeiuu aetnomm tgnominaU remusit** 

Vuio. GioiA. 3. 

''Hark away, hark away, hark away is the word to the sound of the horn, 
Andecfao^ Utthe echo, while echo^ blithe echo makes jovial the mom.'* 

Chorus to Beigbt Pbobvi. 

No : we will not look upon the hunters of Kentucky yet ; 
the mighty dead of other days claim first our admiring contem- 
plation. It will be good for us to look at their portraits in Time's old 
diorama — to see them face to face through Hbtory's faithful theodo- 
lite. 

What an innumerable army ! Patriarchs, sages, kings, heroes ; in- 
spired, demigods, sacred, profane ! Blessed is thy memory, son 
of Cush, and thy name glorious, captain of the host^ and father and 
beginner of all hunting ! Of whom else doth the historian bear re- 
cord, that he ^' was a mighty hunter before the Lord ?' 

Posterity hath not done justice to Nimrod. Even Josephus barely 
mentions him, and we are led entirely in the dark as to the character 
of his game and the weapons of his crafl. 

It is not vain, however, nor improper, as we hope, to speculate 
upon a matter which, to hunters, is a subject of such thrilling interest 
May w^not, then, imagine and believe, that the founder of Babel was 
one of the giants of those dajrs, and that his armoury was fashioned in 
the workshop of that skilful artificer. Tubal Cain, and that he hunted 
the mastodon and megatherion ? But let every man think for him- 
self. — We said that posterity had not done justice to Nimrod. We 
ought to except from this censure those good poets Tickell and Som- 
erville. They have both glorified him in verse. Their researches, 
whether of fact or fancy, are worthy of the attention of the judicious 
antiquarian.* 

(*) "When Nimrod bold, 

<*That mighty hunter, first made war on beasts, 

*< And stamed the woodland-ereen with purple dye ; 

'* New, and nnpolished, was the huntsman's art ; 

** No stated rule, his wanton will his guide — 

** With clubs, and stones, rude implements of war, 

''He anned hit savage bands.'* SoiiBftTiu.B. 



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246 AKOiBirT ttVHvmuL 

It would argue gross igoonnce, or else wilfiil meKca^ not keie to 
Mine the unfortunate Esau. He^ too, was a ^ cunning kunteiv m man 
of the field." Frequent, doubtless, were the nights when the dutiful son^ 
retamiag tired from the hunt, comforted his kind old fetheHs heart with 
a saddle of good Teaison, the trophy of his trusfy bow and quiver. 
But alas! alas!—* there are passages in the life of Esau upon iriiich 
we cannot bear to dwdl — themes too high. Let us pass on. 

Who Cometh neit i Truly, Sampson, Milton's Sampson Agonistes» 
beyond challenge a keen hunter. This honorable reputation he worthi- 
ly acquired by his capture, adjunction, and adignition of the three hun- 
dred foxes, which he turned among his father-in-law's grain-staeka, to 
punish him for trading away his wife when he was temporarily absent 
firom die fiunily^ For one man to catch three hundred fozesy upon 
one hunting expedition, or even in the course of one whole season, it 
requires not only great strength, but much ingenuity* earnest perseve- 
rance, faithful patience, good love, and good luck. Sampson was an 
uncommon man. 

We take occasion here io caution the scrupulous reader not to look 
upon us as a Philistine. We desire to be understood as making these 
references to the hunters of Ae by-gone days of Palestine, with no 
sceptical levity, but with faithful reliance upon recorded fiicts» We 
will further remark, that great as was the perforrttance last referred 
to, yet we beliete it may be accomplished by a man of extraordinary 
powers without the aid of any miraculous assistance. We esteem 
tiuit it was so accofnplished, and that it was one of the ordinary oo- 
cuitence^ in the life of the hunter Sampson. As such it is our duty 
to record it here. As euch, we eelebiate the enterprise, and enshdne 
it with its author in our gallery of hunters. 

But let us look upon the pro&ne and the mythological, and theui 
peradventure, we may be permitted to moralize, without yestraint. 
The Heathen celebrated mighty hunters. Great is his glory, irtio is 
vouched for by Diodorus and the almost Christian Cicero. A poet's 
incarnation he may be, but people seem to believe in him, and to re-> 
cognize and to worship his attributes. Do we ever say Samf^onitm t 
No : we always call it a ** Herculean" Qisk. Son of Alcmena, fortu- 
nate were the irreguliar nuptials of thy honored parents ! 'Happy was 
the earth, when thou wert delivered to deliver her of Hydras and Chi- 
msBras. Happy was the sky which received thee back to rule die 
seasons, (as some, not vain, imagine,) and to quaff old nectar withthj 
ftther Jupiter. 

^ When I^mrod finl the Uoii'f trophies wore, 

** The panther bound, etid laoced the brietlirig hoar, 

"He taiu^ to tun the hercL to bay the deer, 

"And wheel die courier in hif mad career.** Ticulll. 



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847 

9al«8lisMf^ifi«paAjrwilhp«*pfetpMiaij||^^ Howewa 
oiMHiinpia>8 Hip •gploiU rf deaigods wMi eoM tgniwr edy, a^di im4 
tri* *• iMtrtjr^BJojrnMDtwi^i which we KflMi 4o the etoiy ef a epoitt 
iBg fi<eMi,«ihe ie tike^uraeWes, and ften a kaovledgeof whoae chan 
noter w majr judge of the exteotof the enbdliehments. Moreover, 
il ia hafi t» compreheiid the fiofjr ti eultfaig off Oregon's headf , end 
doipgeuch other deeds of deepenite valor aa the hiognj^en of Heiv 
enlee have, with oomneiidable partiodarify, set down to atumlale our 
ambitioii. For one dung, however, we love aa well aa admire dhe 
huteia of old times. They had Uie tnie spirit of chivalry in ttem. 
Hwotew weie patriotic, and generotts, befoMEO priatiag and gUBHWw^' 
dar wisre invented. Now, we offer rewards to men to do thsnselvea 
a pleasnast and give bounties fiw dead wolves and erows* 

Theseus, Castor, and PoUui. It is dsMst ludionous to think of 
eoe of these hevoes sending in an affidavit, Ady swnn to aocording to 
knr, anHdaiming fion the overaeeis of die town a ten dollar bili 6r 
ahooling down a wild cat. 

If eator, Ulysses, Diomedes, swift fcoted Adnllea. Xenopbon 
teib ua that these wese ail mighty hiinlars. Bui they wove statesmen, 
and warnasa, and benefiKtom, too. By Dtanal When we dunk of 
Iheae, and of aome glorious few odier such ancient megathanal earth* 
goda, who made lerhistmy and poetry a subject anda beginning, our 
nngsr waaceth hot at die assurance of ike moskiat^catching poachefs 
of modem times, who affect to caH themaelvas hunters. Th^ are 
bbopheniers. They take the name in vain. 8amt Saggitarius ton^ 
ftnd that we ahouM shoot an undeserved arrow at the bear-4uiggiag 
Coiooal Crockett ! But our conscience pricks our judgment to pro* 
nounce its denial that he can challenge any better claim to the lavvek 
of a iMmler Aan a half^ahrived ghoat in puigatoiy can put fordi to a 
fee simple foothold among the stara. There is no registry of the 
name of down-hunter in a book of heraldry that we wot of. 

^Multo mt^orm con o am s w^ —Is diere any thing more f^orious in 
(not, or m ^mcy , than the impersonation of the chaste, virgin, huntress 
goddeaat Worthily was she mistress and queen <^ the chase. We 
seem to see her now, her maidens dl put fordi, bending from her &<• 
mamfintri throne, to whisper a kiss upon die ftir brow of Endy* 
mton, innocent youth, as he lies, cold and tired, on the summit of oM 
LatmoB. Now a beam from her eye frdls upon die expecting boy ; 
and now-^ a cloud hides them from us, and our vision is gone ! We 
confisss, that if we were to catch die moon in company with Endymi- 
on, we should be apt to be revengeful, and furnish another proof of 
die truth of the old maxim, diat ^ three apoih eosipmiy." There shodd 
be no eclipse, nor any other sort offun, that night We wodd punish 
die proud Dian for her cruel treatment of the vnwitting^y offending 



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248 AiroiBHT Huvmuu 

ActsMm. A hunierf lioy and a brare. Her wonUpper. Aad jot, 
foraootht becauBe^wi^ no malice aforethought, and hf mere aooiflknit 
he happmied to stundile np<m her one day in the woods when At^ vaa 
not dr^sed for company, she must needs metamorphose him into a 
stag, and set upon him his own rapacious dogs I Out upon sudi sa- 
vage prudery 1 Nephele,and Hjrale, andRhenis, and Paecas, and 
Phiale, and all the rest of ye, heartless nym|^ ! — We have no pa* 
tience with your affectation, making your mistresa to actlikea veiy kh 
natic!* 

Unhi^y ActsBon f ^ Sic iUum fata fenhandJ^ Bad luok was 
Aine, in truth. What a horrible host of Mood-hounds he had apon 
him ! It makes one's blood to run cold, even only to hear their naBoea. 
Let us look mto the excellent Mr* John Clarke, and read aportmi of 
his translation, for tiie benefit of juvenile students. 

" First Bkckfoot, and the good-nosed Tracer, gave die sigmd by m 
full-mouthed cry." — Onf : — £very deer-hunter knows what thatcryL 
is : — the deep, beautiful, musical bay, that breaks upon your eztatio 
ear, bearing die knowledge of the discovered game. He now^ietf 
through places where before he had often pursued. Alas I he flies 
fixHn his own servants. He would fain cry out, I am Actnon, know 
your master. Words are wanting to his inclination : the air rings wtth 
the cry. Black-hair made the first wound upon his back ; Eill-deer the 
next ; Rover stuck fast upon his shoulder. They came outlater than 
the rest, but their way was soon dispatched by a short cut across the 
mountain. Whilst fiiey hold their master, the rest of the pack comn 
in, and stick their teeth togefiier into his body. Now room is wanting 
for more wounds. He groans and makes a noise, though not of a 
man, yet such as a buck could not make, and fills file well-known 
mountains with sad complaints ; and as a suppliant upon bended knees^ 
and like one asking a favor, he turns about his siknt countenance. 
But his companions, ignorant of their wretched prey, encourage the 
ravenous pads with their usual cries, and look around, mean time, for 
ActiBon ; and call for him loudly, as if he were absent, Aeteson ! Ac- 
tfcon ! He turns his head at the name, as they complain that he is 
not diere to enjoy the sight of the game presented to them. Glad 
would he be, indeed, to be away ; but he is there, against his will ; and 
glad would he be to see, and not feel, the cruel violence of his dogs. 
They hang upon him, and, fiirusting their snouts into his body, tear to 
pieces their master under the shape of a false buck. And the rage 
of the quiver-bearing Diana is said not to have been exhausted until 
his life was ended by many wounds. 

(*) "Sicot erant nudie, viso^ sua pectora Nympha 
" PercuBsere, viro, subitis^iifi ulutatibus oome 
" Implevoment nemua : circarofuBseque Diaoam 
** Coporibos texere sois.'' Ono Met. lib. 3. 



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CNMh ivtti» Ae swiiil eoogaqotaee of looking upon ft woman wMMot 
peftHM^M! Uow Ml itf Uitorf of ftieikUj beacont to warn yooag 

We will hang op one mor» portrait ift our gallerj. TUm, 
AdoDis, dune ; thim lored one of Cytherea. Thou, too, lost thy 
lift in the chaw, but not mgkmowlj, and die gode nade provision 
^tfieeaftor thy demise^ We most be excused, O Adonis, from being 
aoftowM beemuBe of that wild boar's tooth sending thy soul to the 
oloesy for Teaus wept Ibr theoy and Bion hath embalmed diee. Many 
bMfds hwM song dqr elegy. Readert knowest thon the flower Aaemo> 
ny 1 If thou be nninstnietedt seek soone wise woman, and get under- 
Btsoding % and know, and lore, in that little bodling, the metamorphoo- 
ed mortal paitB of the tender-cheeked hunter Adonis. 

There is a more modem ontiquityrdmt boasteth eaeelleot himters. 
Shall weseo theso' wordiies? We know a process-* a charm — we 
€«Q hold communion with their ghosts I — We have had such nights 
wilhtheoMhuntsrsI DostdMNi dare to seethemi We will warrant 
Ikeo they are bosy at some sport Behold now, we shut oar earthly 
€f9tL We Speak the speQ diet cannot be heard by mortaL Now it is 
attdim. Now lif^sloiHy breaks, and lo! die Elysian fiekb. There, 
down in a green valley, are met the ghosts of all the dead hunters of 
theworid. They are shooting at a target Heard you that whiz? 
See yon not that arrow quivering in die boH's eye t 'Twas a well- 
nimed shot It was Arthur drew the string — immortal he of the 
round taUe -— not that modem Arthur, who — we must give this lamp 
atom^orit will — diere: that will do.-^But our vision! alas! it is 
gone. So ever it fares with the introduction of an unpleasant guest 
One such win banish a whole room full of good company. We could 
get into a passion now, and curse — -^ the Devil and his woi^s. We 
have a right to do that. It would be highly improper to bless them, 
or to speak respectfully of them. But it is better to be benevolent 
We will curse no one, not even Scotch George Thompson. May God, 
if it be poss3>le, assoilsie even him. 

Let us summon our bunting friends. Come hidier, ye hunters of 
ancient days, be present to our desires, and hold with us sweet con- 
verse — 

*<Blaok 9]Hiiti and-* ** 

No, no ; we want no black spirits. The coloured gendemen, if any, 
wiU please to stay below — 

" Brown ipiriti tnd white, 



Bloe Bpirits and gray, 
Minzle, mingle, mingle, 
Te uiat mingle may.*' 



Look where diey come* A goodly company. Nature's aristocracy. 
vouTu. as 



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250 ANCUKT HUNTIBM. 

Substantial shadows — glorious! will they speak } What music is Aisy 
like the doubtful concord of clanging armor, and waving plumes, and 
nnging steel, and neighing steeds, and twanging bow-strings, and a 
harp touched bj a skilful minstrel! like 

" Uigh-bom Hoel*s harp, or soft Llewelyn's lay.** 
Who is this hoarj headed bard? Gracious presence, suffer us, 
as much as may be lawful, to worship thee! Thou art old Gad- 
wallo, whose tongue Inexorable Edward made cold ; and thou hast 
sung in bower, and banquet hall, the praises of brave huoters. Be, 
we pray thee, one of our household gods. — How they bum on our eye* 
lids ! changing, and mixing with each other, and mingling with the air, 
and then standing out more accurately developed. Apollo sustain us I 
Turks, Tartars, Indians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Britons — What 
gorgeous trappings have those hunters of the East I Grenghiskhan glit- 
tering with gold and burnished steel ! He, who, like that Mogul Yixir, 
Asaph ap Dowlah, hunted with several battalions of infantry, encom- 
passing roaring hecatombs, and the tigers upon a thousand hills f 
What queen is that he jostleth ? Dolh she not stand Boadicea, confess- 
ed, bearing a migh^ spear ? And that troop of hi^-bom ladies, spum- 
ing tiie earUi with their eager palfreys, each equipped for to ride a — 

— -^ " hawkinv by the river 
Wiih grey goshawke in liande." 

Delicate heroines — fawns chasing blood-hounds ; tender-hearted mur- 
derers, killing with your bright eyes more than with your keen arrows ! 
Hail ! Gaston, Earl of Foixl gallant gentleman ! true knight I with thy 
army of dogs, six hundred ! Pass on. Saint George I who with his good 
sword Ascalon smote that gigantic dragon, having filly feet between his 
shoulders and tail, under the lefl wing, where no scales were, and deli- 
vered his country. The Percy out of Northumberland, and doughy 
Douglas — good friends now. The seven champions of Christendom — 
Sir Bevis, Sir Tristam, Sir Thopas ! How stately are these old king 
hunters. Alfred the Great, wise and good; solemn Athelstan; 
Cnut the Dane ; Edward the Confessor ; of whom sayeth the accurate 
Malmsbury, that although he was better fitted for the cloister than the 
field, yet he took great delight to follow a pack of swifl hounds, and 
to cheer them with his voice ; William the Norman, conqueror of men 
as well as beasts ; William Rufus, whose life ran out with the blood 
staining a treacherous arrow. What a throng of them! Edward — 
alt the Edwards I Harry — all the Harrys ! " Even pedantic king 
Jamie, believer in witchcraft, who hath written also of hunting with 
hounds, in Basilikon Doron ; * giving it questionable precedency over 

* <* I cannot omit here the hunthig, namely, with running hounds, which in the 
moat honorable and noblest sort thereof, for it is a thievish sort of hunting to shoot 
with ^;uns and bows ; and greyhound hunting is not so martial a game. As fer 
hawking, I condemn it not, but I must praise it more spaiin^y.^ BariWcm Doron. 

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ANCIENT HUNTERS. 251 

ardieryand falconry: unlike thee, venerable Roger! schoolmaaCer 
and laureate of the school of shooting, who hath written a book to illus- 
trate the glory of the bow ; proving it to be the fountain of wisdom, 
health, wcAlth, and virtue.* And, delight ! here be Robin Hood 
and Httle John, Adam Bell, Clym of the Glough, and William of 
Cloudesly ! Welcome, welcome, bold archers ! Let us embrace ye, 
O better than kings ! ye original, unsophisticated democrats ! How 
Tammany Hall would adore if it were only given to her ta know ye f 

That last imagination hath dashed down our cup of mad joy. We 
can see no more beyond the sight of the flesh. We are alone. 

'' The light that o'er our eye-beam flashed, 
The power that bore our spirits up," 

into tiie company of sainted hunters, is departed. Royalty, and knight* 
errantry, and beauty, and valor have sunk into etemaJ chaos. 

We are like friend and apologist of Robin Hood, outlaw though he 
was. Hear how he may be forgiven : 

" Lithe and lysten, gentvImeD, 
That be of frebore blodcL 
I shall jott tell of a good yenum, 
His name was Robyn Hode.** 

What though he hunted in the royal forest, contrary to the form of 
the statute in such case made and provided, entertaining an hundred 
tall men upon haunches of the king's fat bucks. Was not the charter 
unconstitutional ? a rank monopoly of the merry green-wood ? Were not 
the game laws tyrannical, cruel, unendurable by brave souls, heaven- 
created warriors ; the freest hearts, the strongest arms — in all merry 
England ? What though he denied that property could be held in fee 
simple, and that he pressed the doctrine of ** equal rights" with perhaps 
too earnest zeal ; yet was he not gallant, humane, magnanimous, and 
a sincere friend to the poor? Hearken to the testimony of the au- 
thentic Stow : — *' He suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or 
otherwise molested : poore men's goods he spared, abundantlie reliev- 
ing them with that which, by theft, he got from abbeys, and the houses 
of rich carles : whom Major (the historian) blameth for his rapine and 
theft, but of alt theeves he affirmeth him to be the prince, and the most 
gentle theefe." 

Well ! he was a practical leveller ; that seems to be his offence. 
And is that unpardonable ? Lo ! even holy friars, and other good 

* '* The fosterer up of shotine is labor, y* companion of vertue. the meyntejn- 
er of honestie, the increaser of health and welthmesse, which fdmytteth notlnng 
in a manner into his companye, that standeth not with vertue and honestie, and 
therefore sayeth the oulde poetJSpicharmus very pretelyein Zenophon,Uiat God sal* 
lath vertue, and all other good things to men for tabour." TosMp^hM, A 



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259 AlfCIBHT HI7IITBB8. 

men, divenii have teaght that the rich are merely truateee for diepo^r, 

and that goods and chattels are onlj lent to them. Shall he he coa* 

demned who executes the judgments of brotherlj love aod justioe? 

God forbid. Robin, we take thy hand before the whole WQiild» and 

call thee a good fellow. Thou shalt have our vote for any ofioeithou 

desirest in the shades. 

Those other yeomen named with Robin and little Jdui» awat not 

be lightly passed Over. Modem times are shamed by their stroogtk 

and skill. William of Cloudesley, with an aorow from his bow, defl 

an hazel rod in twain, at the distance of four hundred yards^and with 

another arrow shot an apple from his boy's head, at the distance of one 

hundred and twenty-five yards ! Is there any gentleman hunter extant 

who will shoot against this performance ? Bring up your rifles, good 

people. William and his associates, we regret to admit, bad sosne 

vague and Indefinite notions on Ihe subject of other people's property ; 

and it does not appear that they were so discriminate as Robin Hood. 

But then they all fioally repented, and were pardoned by the king, and 

were confessed by the bishop, and the king made William a gentle- 

man, and gave him eighteen pence a day to bear his bow, and the 

queen gave him thirteen pence a day, and made his wife her chief 

gentlewoman ; aod then these good yeomen went forth and got 

xleanaed with holy water, 

" And af\cr came and dwelled the kyQge 
And died good men all three.** 

And so finally confsludeth the legend : ^ 

** Thus endeth the lives or these good yeomen, 
Qad send them eterodl blvsse ; 
And all that with a band-bowe sboteth, 
That of heven may never mysse. Amen." 

Amen ! amen ! with all our heart Three dieers for die i^iosts of 
Adam Bell & Go. Go it, boys ! Hur — wait for the word : -— Hunah I 
hurrah! hurrah! 

Much remains to be said of hunting* Many hunters remain unsung. 
We have only brief moments to commemorate that exquisUe fiuwy of 
the sport, fierce and gentle falconry. 

We have a notion, that of all delights diat ever it was given to maa 
to enjoy, this must have been the most delightfuL — Gentlemea of the 
cockpit, a fight in the air between a pigeon hawk and a blue heron ! — 
Bold was he, and cunning, who first tamed the fiercest birds of pre j, 
and taught diem to sit upon his fist, to fly at his command, to pursue, 
to strike, to return, docile, faithful servants. Gentle, eager, and as 
humble, and fond of the sport as our own good setters, Horatio. ^. 
Think of the king of birds soaring totiie diird heaven, and then hovers 
ing and swooping, and hovering and swooping, until, as it were, he 



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AHCUUIT HUKTBRS. 268 

eoidd get good Bif^U and then, with terrible certaintj, dashiiig down 
vipaD the devoted shoulden of ed antlered monarch of the scrub oaks* 
and teacuig out his hraias, at the command of a roaster ! Iroi^e jim 
dock hawky {fideo peregrinua) tamed, and thrown off» unhooded« from 
jour fisty mounting into upper air, and thencci, with lightning speed, 
striking out a wild gander frt>m a flock of straining honkers, and than, 
conscious of his deserved reward, sailing back to the bondage of his 
accustomed jesses ! Why, people do not understand the virtue of 
birds. We are neoph^rtes in ornithology and ornithodynamics. We 
hardly know ^ a hawk from a hand-saw." 

For ourselves, it is our del^ht to read and dream of the goodly 
companies of noble knights and high-bom dames of olden time, riding 
out with princely attendance to fly their hawks. We seem to hear 
their prancing steeds, and their gentle 

^' JemMtteM ofSptin that ben fo white, 
Traj^ped to the ground with velvet bright,** 

their happy voices, and the dogs beatiug the bushes by the stream^side. 
We see the bittern flushed ; and then, falcon, and marlyon, and gos- 
hawk, <|uick unbooded, andupsailing. We hear the tinkling of their 
silver bells — we see the general rush of the whole happy throng fol- 
lowing the pursuit — our breaA is quick-*- up, up soars the bittern 
in lessening gymtion higher and yet higher, to keep, if, alas ! he may, 
keep above his unpttying pursileis, and avoid Aeir fatal beaks. Tain 
hope ! that falcon hath o'ertopped him, and now he pounces, and the 
poor victim feels death in his struck skull, and surrenders his life 
among the stars ! 

Not always victorious is the falcon. There are vicissitudes in the 
war. The hem hath a loog, strong, straight, sharp-pointed bill ; and 
if the hawk be unwary, he will spit his breast upon the dangerous 
spear thrown up to receive him, and, pierced through and through with 
a fetal wound, die inglorioosly. We know a kindred bird, which bay- 
men call ** the straight-up ;" a biped something between the heron and 
the quaack^ that is competent to do ^ood execution afier this wise. — 
(We once ourselves, unhappily, received a fear^ thrust in our dexter, 
from a scoundrel whom we had wing broken on a salt marsh, which 
disabled us from pulling a trigger for a good fortnight) — Somerville 
describes the performance to the life —-to the death : *^ 

** Now like a weaned stag 
That stands at bay, the hem provokes their rage, 
Close by his lans^uid win^ in downy plaroes 
Covers his fatal beak, and, cautious, hides 
The welUdinembled fraud. The falcon darts 
Like lightning ttom above, and in her breast 
Receives the latent death : down plum she &]ls 
Bounding ftom earth, and with her trickling gore 
Defiles htot gaudy plumage." 



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254 ^ RKPLT. 

Hemy Inman ! wilt thou not paint this picture t It is a striking illus- 
tration of ** catching a tartar." 

We are determined to become a faulkoner. We will build us a mew 
and an aSrie, and we will spedt to some country friend to catch us a 
young hen-hawk, and a few butcher-birds, and we will revive the 
science. We know a pleasant meadow, where the curlew screams, 
and the straight-up flaps his heavy wings, and the newly-paired seges 
of blue herons sit solemn by the border of the interwinding rivulet, 
watching with hungry patience what truant eel, or backsliding young 
crab, leaving the safe channel, shall " coldly furnish forth their mar- 
riage break&st,*' and dear Mary shall ride with us to the greeq^ rushes, 
and — 

Here Mary, leaning over our shoulder, shaken us gently by the ear, 
and tells us that we are impecunious, and points to a passage in aristo- 
cratic, cross, old Burton, and reads to us, unwilling — we confess we 
hate the truth sometimes — as follows : ** Hunting and hawking are 
honest recreations, and fit for some great men ; but not for every 
base, inferior person." 

lliat is not we, Mary dear. " Docti Sumu ; we are a gentleman 
bred, and educated* and" — 

^Fiddle-de-dee; ^iriiat are birth and education in a bank note 
world?" listen! listen! *'who, while they maintain their foulkoner, 
and dogs, and hunting nags, their wealth runs away with their -^hounds, 
and their fortunes fly away with their hawks." 

Reader, flBirewell ! We are melancholy. 



A REPLY. 

** Trust in thee?" ay ! dearest— there's no one but i 
Unless truth be a fable, in such as thee trust ! 
For who can see heaven's own hue in those eyes, 
And doubt that truth with it came down from the skiea, 
When each thought of thy bosom, like morning's young Ugh^ 
Almost ere it's born flashes there on his sight ? 

" Trust in thee?" why, bright one, thou eouUPtt not betray, 
While thy heart and thine eyes are for ever at play t 
Yet he who unloving can study the one, 
Is so certain to be by the other undone, 
That, if he cares aught for his quiet, he must 
Like me, sweetest Norah, in both of them trust 



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266 



A SHARE STORT. 



>T BBROO Aim-MBTEI. 



PART FIRST. 
1. 

Tn midnight b j the helmsman's beU ; 

And slum^ tliey, or ill or well, 

The watch must rally to the kneH ; 

Tardily, comrades, duster we 

Drowsy or wakefol, in sorrow or glee^ 

Once more for toil, or for reverie 

All alone on a summer sea — 

Nay, but it greets us ^oriously I 

All around is silver light. 

And all below is rest, 

And breezes come so softly slig|it 

We may not, would we, urge our flight 

From a scene thus blest ; 

From (he liftins rail tis a pleasant sight 

To witness eaoi tiny crest, 

Glunmerinf, so pearly white. 

In the gentle sheen of a tropic nig^t 

When night is loveliest ; 

And dear, I ween, is the welcome bright 

Of the fairy pathway in the brine^ 

That twinkles away to the west, m a Ime ; 

Broad, with countless lustres studded, 

And increasing glory flooded. 

Till it fades, aJas ! too soon. 

Beneath the round imperial mooo. 

S. 

There is not a wanderins^sail to intrude 
Save ours, on the sacredsolitude ; 
Fitfully by the zephyr borne. 
Flapping and fiUins, and sweeping on. 
And fliI^^g a shadow to the lee 
Where the ocean meteors form and flee, 
A rushing and changeful galaxy : 
We're many a lea|^e from the treaoheiomi shores 
And the coral reets are far below, 
And some are watchhig the ocean flow, 
And some recounting past perils o'er, 
Listlessly pacing to and fl-o, 
And some, in dreams, at their homes once more ; 
Careless and tranquil, whence fear we a foe 7 
3. 

From the bosom of yon fleecy doud, 
That has risen from the sea 
In the farthest west, so hurriedly 
As if it were with lifeendow^; 



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256 A SHARK BTORT. 

YoQ Titan cloud, that wfll not rest, 
Toiling up to the middle sk j, - 
With Its manv-volumed crest— 
All silvered above, and its baleful breait 
80 murky in its die. 
4. 

Is it the far wind, careering, 
Solentnlir itfvades the etr 
With a low souud full of fear 7 
** So idle are the winds, and veering, 
Scarcely will our vessel steer ; 
And ill requited were our care 
To note and ^ard against whatever 
But appals a sickly hearing, 
While breexes afe thus feebly fair.** 
Tet, bold mariner, beware. 
That voice forebodes the tempest near. 
Now strip your tall uninjured mast, 
Too soon to bow before die blast. 
For the hour is fleeting fast ; 
And soon it may be yours to roe 
Undone what ye have power to do— 
Nay,' pause ye now 7 tnen pause for ever, 
It comes, with the sweep of a swoln river ! 
6. 
The shock is past— 
The maddening rush, the quivering stram, 
The spirit^sweep of the hurricane, 
The ffood-like (all of the sheeted rain. 
And the blinding spray &om tbebillows cast : 
And softer light shall stream again 
Ere long, upon the troubled tide, 
And the furrowed foam subside ; 
But never again, o'er the ocean plain 
Shall that bark in beauty glide ; 
Whelm'd beneath the tempest's wing, 
, A lustreless and shapeless thing, 
Vanished ail her graoeful pride. 
Ebbing and curling, 

In glimmer and ^loom, 
The waters are whirling 

To hollow her tomb. 
6. 

And hark ! to the sudden and startling cry 
Of her hapless crew, in their agony. 
'Tis a fearful death that meets their eye, 
And met with a more fearful shriek ; 
One, all laneuishing and weak, 
Perish'd ere ne lef t ms |h11ow ; 
And one is buffeting the billow, 
And four are crawlins( along the wreck 
Helplessly at their chie^n's beck ; 
(Who, sooner had he sought the dedi 
Had saved them from the blow that smote) 
Their onl^ hope, a tiny boat, 
Swung wkh many a irantio timi, 
Half immersed and half afloat 
Fettered to the failing stern. 

7. 

*' Cheeriy, comrades, cheerfly, 
Another stroke^ and she is free 



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▲ BHABK STORT. 267 

And iguQ tiw azo hM M^ ^ 

^ A refcoe— she hu demrad the tide — 

Onc« wHhoat the eddyiii|r tide^ 

We may vet in etfeCy tide, 

TW winda be load, and aeaa be fwoln." 

a 

Down amid the darkling water, 
The iU-starred bark has fbund a grave : 
The last air-bubble oems the wave 
Which DO more shall foam athwart her, 
Or round her shattered bulwarks rave: 
The tiny boat yet lives to brave 
The surj^, uprising duggishly, 
Deeply fiid*n as boat may be 
With an all unwelcome height 
Of brine from the eniblding sea, 
Which one is stniaKling to abate^ 
Of five wan forms that round her ding 
All drenched, and worn, and shivering. 
God be with them in their striving ! 
The last and fated five surviving, 
The sixth— his soul has taken wmg» 
Patiently and warily, 
With stifi^ning limbs and straining eye^ 
And .nerve stiff strong, they know not why. 
They drde round their thankless guerdon, 
A boat without an oar or sail, 
And threat'ning moniently to fiui 
Beneath her double burden, 
Era her {NNWMsed aid avail 



What means the unwonted plashing 

£ach moment doth renew, 
Unlike the billows' dashing 

Around the feeble few ? 
And whenoe those lines of light, 
Meand'ring into sicht. 
So serpentine and bright, 
And near and nearer Sashing? 
'Tis the white shark, on his way. 
Gambolling amid the spray. 
Ere he sidles o'er to claim his prey : 
God protect thee^ mariner! 
As yet, thou hast no eye nor ear 
For phosphor flash or eddies boiling, 
Or anght beside thy desperate toiling, 
But guests are gaimg on thee there. 
Whose greetings ere thou art aware. 
Shall c\Said the one and close the other — 
Better, with thy perish'd brother, 
Hadst thou bubbled down to death, 
'Neath the storm- winds' eariiest breath. 
Better to thy lost bark bound thee. 
Than thus, all gaspingly, resume 
Thy life, for a more loathsome tomb. 
The victim of a double doom, 
That gathers frightfully around thee. 
10. 

O madly are they coosdous now 
Of their destiny of woe, 
And their no longer lingering fue : 
For one already dips bdow, 

33 



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258 ▲ SHARK STOUT. 

And one again the surface gains, 
What of his manfled form remains. 
And hardly would be ta'en for him, 
A gory trunk, without a limb, 
Bare the arm that yet sustains, 
A moment in the tide to swim 
That lately curdled in his veins. 
To falter forth one feeble yell, 
To his mates a last farewell. 
And vanish, never more to lise : 
This not all the blood, that dyes, 
A season, with its purpfing stain, 
The billows, that have spu^ in vain ; 
He, their young chief, wnose kind control 
Supported each despairing soul, 
One of the few who can instil, 
A reverence in such hour of iU : 
The cheerer of then: labor lone, 
Which well he aided to fulfil. 
Has followed him without a groan : 
And now linger there but three. 

Where a moment since were five. 
And of thoee, but two shall be, 

Ere another flits, ^ve. 

11. 
There, in restless agony. 
They seek the shelter of their yawl ; 
One to weather, and two to lee. 
And, tho' waters like a wall 
Rise round them, they were haply free. 
But the third, whose ofiered weight, 
Ensured her balance, and his fate, 
Ruthlessly from the side is torn ; 
And the boat is backward borne. 
And settles with a reeling shock, 
A plunge, a roll, and a gur^lmg rock, 
'Neath the curled wave, which seems to modk 
Their helpless, hopeless misery ; 
She rises, like a thing accursed. 
With her keel in air reversed. 
And whither for safety now shall they flee? 

12. 
Thank heaven for that wbelminfi roll. 
Which litde tho* they cared to btoss, 
Thus bafl9ed in their dire distress. 
Yet won for them a tranquil goal : 
For the cowed water>fiends retreat, 
Alarmed by the unwonted strife, 
And ere again they dare repeat 
Th' attack, the victims wake to life ; 
(And gifted, it may be, from heaven. 
With strength for their emergency, 
For seldom have the desperate striven. 
So well, at once, and warily, 
Out-wearied with such ghastly toil, 
They clamber to her keel, she rallies ; 
From her prone weltering, and dallies 
A moment with her briny coil, 
(But not again their hopes to toil) 
And turns, and are they sure of sight ? 
They are withm^er, and she is upright. 
And floats as her burden were easy and li^it 



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THB AlfOISNT LITBRATUBB OF INTBMPIRANOB. 269 

13. 
A^in the moon is Bhinuig ; 

Bat languidly, and pale, 
In the lowest west declimng^ 

Beneath a misty veiL 
And birds are backward winging^ 

Who fled before the gale, 
Their small dark shadows flinging 

With melancholy wail, 

As oTerfaead they sail, 
Where the boat is sadly swingmg. 
Bat where are now her scanty crew, 
For but the black hull meets the view 7 
And their finn'd foes, do they renew. 
Their quest, and powerless of ill, 
Grimly hover round them still 7 
Alas ! they notice not» nor guess ; 
All unnerved, and motionless, 
And corpse-like, each upon ms face 
They Ue, in their damp resting-place, 
If aUve, 'twere hard to know, 
From aught the unaided eye may trace. 
But the returning snn will show. 



THE ANCIENT LITERATURE OP INTEMPERANCE, 



THE INTEMPERANCE OF ANCIENT LITERATURE. 

The vice against which the spirit of the age is arrajed is not one of 
modem origin. It has existed to a greater or less extent ever since 
the recorded foUy of Noah. 

The earliest written histories, the oldest traditions, inform us that 
mankind, every where in all ages, have been addicted to drunkenness. 

Amongst the Greeks and Romans (whom we are wont to call clas- 
sic nations) intemperance prevailed almost universally. The children 
and women of Greece were partakes in the common vice.* Heroes 
and philosophers, priests and poets, soldiers and seamen, kings and 
common people, nay, ike very god$ whom they adored, were all stained 
with this debasing habit 

Drunkenness, on a thousand occasions, became an act ofreligioui 
dutyf in the opinion of those who worshipped the intemperate deities of 
the old Mythology. The convivial preparations of a classic tippler were 
more careful, and sumptuous, and costly, than any in modem times. 
Goblets of precious metal, splendidly wrought, and somelimes studded 
with gems — perfumes from distant countries, garlands of flowers, 

* Homer. Odys.Tl 

t Aristotle explains the word Qoivai (feasts) by an etymological exposition that 
**U wot thought a dut^ to the Oodi to be dnmk.^ 



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250 TBB AlfenKT LITMRATURE of INTBMPX&AIICB. 

and a multitiide of other accompanimentSy were brought togedier ; 
tiie presence of the Gods were invoked, and then nniestrained license 
was given to the appetite. We can form no conception of die extent 
to which the mirth, and jollity, and dnmkenness, were carried by those 
who had no curb, of any description, fastened upon their excessess ; 
who could plead the example of tiieir deities for die utmost madness 
of debauch, and who deemed no act of inten^>erance wrong or unbe- 
coming. 

Prizes were ofiered to those who could drink most de^ly : prises 
were offered to such as should most quickly intoxicate thmnselyes : 
and competitors, without number entered the lists and strove for 
mastery. Toasts were pledged widiout limitation, the master of the 
feast drinking first to all his guests collectively, and next to each mdi- 
vidual ; sometimes a goblet was emptied to eveiy letter of the person's 
name who was pledged : a regular bumper was ikrw^ or tAree <tmeff 
lAree, goblets ; and the measure of a goblet was not unfrequently a 
quart ; and, in some cases (as in that of the cup of Hercules, twice 
emptied at a sitting by Alexander the Great) , they held six bottles. 

But I will not dwell on particulars of this revolting character. The 
fact diat classic antiquity was deeply imbued with die guilt of intem- 
perance, and with all diose crimes and abominations which flow firom 
it, is familiar to alL All are aware that it is impossible for modem 
tongue to describe die full enormities of former days, and that of some 
of them it is ashame even to speak* 

And what was the intoxicating drink by which intemperance in an- 
cient days was originated and perpetuated I 

Wine! wine! ** rosy wine," iM^ich the &oiiimMin(f of our age quaff 
from sparkling glasses, and idiose light is still said to throw noonday 
splttidor on the midnight revel. 

Who, that has read the literature of Greece and Rome, is not &mi- 
liar with die long Ibt of celebrated vintages which were the admira^ 
tion of ancient bibbers, the theme of eloquent eulogy, and the fountain 
of poetic inspiration? Cacubian^ Faieruian^ M^atc^ SeUae^ Smrrtt^ 
ttne, Mbanianf Sa6tne, JVomentone, and Vewrfrian^ and a hundred 
othere dear to classic ban vivanta ? 

A recent author, inspired perhaps by Sicilian mtiMt, or Madnra^ 
thus bursts into rapture at die name of Falemian :— ** No wine has 
over acquired such extensive celebri^ as the Falemian, or more traly 
merited the name of * tmmorto^' which Martial (a Latin poet) has con- 
ferred upon it Its fame must descend to die latest ages along with the 
works of those mighty masters of the lyre, who have sung its praises.''* 

A multitude of houra mi^t be spent upon the vinous learning which 
scholars have accumulated : but it is enou^to refer those who would 
* Hendflnon cited in Adua'B ** Ecaua Antigiiitiea.'' Edin. ed. 1834. 

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IBM AMCIBNT LITBJLA.TURX OF INTSMPKRANOB. 261 

learn «U tkat ctn be ksown respecting ancient winee io Ibe pagea of 
Moiajmm Macrobiue and other enMMte compilera. 

The diacoyeiy of the art of making wine was considered by&e an- 
cientaaraatier of ao great importance as to entitle its discoverorto a 
place among their gods. Thej therefore deified and worAipped 
him under the name of Bacchus. The uae of wine, and the wordi^ 
of this deifyvpieoeded all written Kteiatnre: and at the birdi of poetiy, 
which is the earliest form of composition, mankind were nraTersattjr 
familiar wilfa Ae intoBcating power of wine. They were, ahnostuni- 
Tecsalljr, addicted, as has been said ahready, to gross intemperance : 
and as thej must immediately have learned that intoidcation, in its 
early stages at least, produces increased activity and brilliancy of the 
imagination, it is fair to suppose that one of die earliest sulijects of 
poetry would be tiie praise of wine. Such was the fact : and from 
that day to this present hour, the poet and the wine cup have, as anal* 
most universal rule, been bound in close alliance. 

One of the earliest illustrations to be found in Grecian literature, ef 
the influence produced thereupon by wine, is the description given of 
the condition of die virtuous after death by the poet If usodus, who 
lived in a period antecedent to fluit of Homer, and of whose prodoo* 
tioas we know nothing ^Doept from the quotations and references of 
subsequent authors. 

According to Plato dus eariy 'poet asserted that after deadi dM 
ri^teous were rewarded by being seated with the gods at a perpetual 
fi^LBt, and kept in a state of perpetual intoxication. 

Singular as such a doctrine may seem toi», whether we regard it as 
indicating the character of the poet, the moral nature of early poetry, 
or the religious creed of antiquity, we must not forget diat the same 
doctrine is to be found, in various forms, in all the poetry of Greece 
and Rome. Thus die poets, almost universally, represented die ce- 
lestial Gods, and the other inhabitants of heaven, as indulging their 
various appetites without restraint, enjoying delicious banquets, and 
sending round the sparkling bowl until all heaven rung with the merri- 
ment : while, on the contrary, the dark deities and condemned souls in 
the world of woe, are described as being patterns of sobrie^, temper- 
ance, and good behaviour: so that the veteran tif^ler, Anacreon, at 
si^t of death, exclaimed, lamenting his future condemnation to absti- 
nence— 

<* And there's an end ! — for, ah ! yoo know 
They drink but little tome below /" 

In the eaiiiest poetry which has escaped from the ruin of ages, we 
discover abundant evidence that the intemperance of primitive times 
set deeply its stamp and impress upon this foi^m of intellectual action. 

Homer, die fitdier and the prince of bards, bom within that delicious 



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262 THE ANCIENT UTE&ATUBE OF INTEMPERANCE. 

Ionia, whose yerj climate was calculated to seduce and corrupt, ham 
given to posterity in the Iliad and Odyssey, the record of hb age's ini* 
morality* 

The personages of tiie Homeric poems are enormous eaten, drink- 
ers, and fighters. Their glory is to excel in shedding hlood and in swil- 
ling wine. Achilles (as his tutor, Pheniz, tells us,) was nursed on the 
juice of the grape. The venerable Nestor, at the age of ninety years, 
made use of a goblet in his potations of a size so enormous duit when 
full of wine it was almost too heavy for one man to lift. Ships firom 
Thrace and Lemnos, fireighted with the rosy fluid, are constantly arriv- 
ing at the Grecian camp before the walls of Troy. After every bat- 
tle, or sacrifice, or council of war, follows a dnaUien bautf and not 
unfrequently a drtmken braid. 

Upon this point a trifling anecdote may furnish an q>t illustration* 
In preparing this paper I wished to gather firom Homer some passages 
illustrative of my doctrine, and therefore requested a firiend to look 
tiirough the Iliad and Odyssey for such passages. In a very short 
time she had run through the two poems ; and a host of marks, pro- 
jecting from the end of every volume, bore witness that th^ search was 
not in vain. Surprised that the task had been perfcmned so soon, I 
inquired how she had conducted the investigation. ** Why," said she, 
«( I glanced my eye along the thread of the narrative, and whenever I 
came to tibaiUe or a«am/lce, I paused and read ; fori knew that when 
they had done they would turn to drinking, and that after pouring Hba- 
tioDs to the Gods they would take a little wine themselves !" That 
reply is a brief but full analysis of Homer. 

Let it not be imagined, however, that this censure on the poet is 
new. It was uttered more than twenty-two hundred years ago by a 
Pagan moralist, who was ^^asa great light " amidst the general dark- 
ness of his age, and the splendor of whose name now is, and always 
will be, as bright as ever. It was Socrates, 

• '^Nomen pnDclaramyetTeneimbile." 
who, in terms of stem severity, as we are informed in " The Republic ^ 
of Plato, denounced the blind old poet for putting intemperate senti- 
ments into the mouths of both Gods and men : and for representing 
them as all alike giving way to drunkenness and every other brutal 
vice. What Socrates dared say, at a period when Homer was flie idol 
of all Greece, and flie morals of his heroes the model of universal imi- 
tation, we need not hesitate to repeat in this day of Christian light and 
elevated morality : but, adopting the eloquent language of a celebrated 
English divine,* we may declare that, to make Ajaz and Ulysses, 
Achilles and Agamemnon, objects of Christian admiration, is just as 
easy as to suffer Satan, Belzebub, and Moloch m heaven. 
* John Fottee. 

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THB ANCRNT LITSRATtms OF INTKMPBRAKOfi. 263 

To add force to this opinion, let us illustrate it by a brief analysis of 
tbe first book of the Iliad. 

I The scene is laid in the Grecian camp below the walls of Troy. 
A deadly pestilence is raging there, sent amongst the Greeks by Apol- 
lo, to punish them for an insult which he has received, (in the perscm 
of Ghiyses, his priest, whose dau^^ter, Chiyseis, has been taken cap* 
tiye in war, and is now a slave in the tent of Agamemnon.) To avert 
die pestilence, Agamemnon, in a council of his generals, declares his 
resolve to send Chiyseis to her fether, but to console himself for her 
loss by seizing firom Achilles one of kia faur slaves. 

At the announcement of this intended act of violence, Achilles rises 
in fierce passion ; and in a speech which would, in our days, be called 
genuine scurrility, reviles and reproaches Agamemnon, caUing him, 
amongst other tldngs, a notarioua drunkard. 

Chryseis is sent home to her father under the care of Ulysses. On 
ber reception a sacrifice is ofiered, and is succeeded by a convivial 
entertainment In the language of Homer, 

** they feastedyv and were all a^ffieed, 
YHien neither hunger more, nor thirBt, remained 
Unsatisfied, boys crowned the beakers high 
With wine dekcious, and from right to left 
Distributing the cups, served every guest** 

Mean time Achilles, robbed of his mistress, applies, in search of ven- 
geance, to his Goddess mother, Thetis ; who, QoddesS'Ukef pi^dng 
him for his compulsory chastity, promises to invoke the aid of Jupiter 
in sending calamity upon the Grecian host, because one of its leaders 
has interfered with the sensual pleasures of another. Thetis applies 
to the Thunderer, and obtains what she asks. But Juno, perceiving the 
interview, becomes jealous of her inconstant lord, and in an assembly 
of the Gods falls up<m him with ber tongue, like another Xanthippe, — 
scolding until we feel inclined to echo the ironical 

"Tantane animis CelestibusinB" 

of YiigiL Jupiter replies vrith equal fierceness, and all heaven rings 
with their brawling. Peace-loving Yulcan interposes, and by the min- 
gled eloquence of his arguments and of the profiered goblet, succeeds 
in allaying ** this din among the Gods," who then fall to, like veteran 
topers, and drink all day, until, at night-fall, they have just soberness 
enough lefl to help them crawl into bed. 

It would be unpardonable to omit the poet's account of this celestial 
debauch: 



** Jove said, when Juno, awful Goddess, heard 
Appali'd, and mute submitted to his will 



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864 THE ▲KCJS2CT LITSBATURB 09 IKTBMPKRANCE. 

Bnttbroo^ thooonitf of Jove, theheayenly ffjwmB 

All felt displeasure ; when to them arose 

Vulcan, illustrious artist, who, with speeeh 

CandJiatgry, interposed to •ooth 

His beauteous mother Juno, and began : — 

'^'What end ean be ezpeeted bat the wont 

Of thb loud baawliag: tor the sake of many 

This din among the Grods 7 Farewell the feast 

With an its joys, if spleen must thus preraii ! 

But let me warn, (alnady not !inwiuroed») 

My Mother, to assume her sweetest smiles, 

To sooth my Father, lest he chide again. 

And the wkak hmup»d nifbr in the storoi.. 

He ended, and upetarting, placed a cup 
Full charged between his mother's hands, and said, 
*<Be meek, be patient, role thy bi^ubled hoait : 
Lest, tho^ I love thee, and would gladly aid. 
I see thy punishment and want the power.** 

So he: then Jnno^ beauteoos Goddess, smiled, 
And smiling still, from his unwonted hand 
Received the goblet He, from right to left, 
Rich nectar from the beaker drawn, akBct 
Distributed to all the powers divine. 
Heaven rung with lau|;hter not to be suppressed, 
At sight of Vulcan in his new employ. 

So spent they in festivity the day. 
And all were cheered ; nor was Apollo's haip 
Silent, nor did the Muses spare to add 
Responsive melody of vocal sweets. 
But when the sun's brisht orb had now declined^ 
Each to his mansion, wheresoever built 
By the lame, matchless architect, wididrew. 
Jove, also, kindler of the lightnings, climbed 
The couch whereon his custom was to rest. 
When gentle sleep approached him, and reposed 
With hit imperial consort at his side." 

Such is the firat book of die immortal Iliad : and such are die gods 
and men who throng the pages of both the great poems of Homer. 

On another of his works, ** the Margeites," the Bacchic impress was 
more deeply stamped ; and, if we may credit good authority, the drunk- 
en spirit was redolent in almost every line. 

Let us not forget, however, that even in ancient times, men of dis- 
cernment regarded intemperance as the fruitful mother of crime, and 
believed themselves drying up the great source of criminality when 
they laid a legislative ban and interdict upon drunkenness. ^ Some 
lawgivers enacted laws agamst it, and others prohibited all compota- 
tions where more wine was used than what was necessary for health* 
Some of the Grecian sages allowed no more than three cups : one for 
health, a second for cheefulness, a third for sleep." Penyasis allowed 
no more than two cups, saying, that they who took the third dedicated 
it to strife and lust Lycurgus, the Spartan, prohibited aU needless 
drinking, as prejudicial to bodi body and mind ; and ordered that no 



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TBS AiroiBHT LITBRATURB OF IlftBMPBmAllCB* S65 

I ekoidd dimk except to qoench hie tbirat At AtfaenB Sokm put a 
angiitnto to death for intozicatioii : a precedent which might well 
ehake the nerves of many a modern public officer. Pittatcue of Mitj* 
lene enaoted that whoever committed a erime when droak, ahonld be 
doid>ly punished. Romdus, regarded dnmkeBneee as the cause of 
adultery, and made them both, in the case of femides, capital offi^nces ; 
and we read of a Roman husband who, finding his wife into}dcated, 
withhis own hand iafficted the penalty of the law. 

Next to Homer, in the annals of Grecian poetry, comes Hesiod, 
whose works, in a mutilated condition, still exist They give us the 
genealogies of the false Gods which his countrymen worshipped ; an 
account of the condition of the efurliest ages, and the gradual degene- 
racy of man ; a number of moral and practical lessons, rules of agri- 
culture, &c 

His representations of the Gods were such, diat, according to Py- 
diagoras, he was, after death, chained in eternal torture to a pillar of 
brass. 

His account of that poetical era in man's history, called the ** golden 
agt^* when mankind were perfectly virtuous and happy, show us diat 
his ideas of bliss are such as we should oonsider very low and sensual. 
He seeme to imagine that he has said enough when he informs us, in 
relation to men of that blissful era, that, 

** Strangers to ill, their li?ea in feasts flow'd by." 

He fails not, in his Georgical verses, to laud the gifl of Bacchus — " of 
Bacchus gladdening earth with store of pleasantness ;" nor to teach all 
that he knows concerning its production and preparation : while oc- 
casionally we receive from him an exhortation to indulgence. When 
the hot breath of summer noon is burning on the labourer's cheek 
sajrs he, 

« Oh, then be thine 
To sit in shade ofrooks : with Byblian wine," &o. 

*<With dainty food, there saturate thy soul, 
And drink the wine dark mantling m the bowL" 

But in didactic poetry, like that of Hesiod, we cannot expect to dis- 
cover those strong symptoms of the moral habits of the age or of the 
author, as in either epic, lyric, or dramatic poetry. 

A brief and cursory glance at some of the later literature of Greece 
win more clearly illustrate my subject. 

One of the eariiest masters of the Grecian lyre was the poet and 
musician Mimnermus, whose genius was unquestionably bright and 
beautiful. The fragments which time has spared from his poems, lik^ 

VOL. TIL 34 



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366 TBB AlfCUNT LITBRATURB OF IKTBMFBBAHCB. 

ibe ruins of an ancient templof are fresh wkh immortal beauty ; aldioiq^ 
they remind us that their original was consecrated to the worship of a 
false divinity. 

It is said that he was gay and joyous in a career of vicey which ren^ 
dered his name dear to succeeding poets of iicentiousneas. From his 
poetical remains it is manifest that the dissolute habits of youth ended 
in sadness and sorrowy ** an old age of senseless and sensual repining.'' 
The following lines are manifestly drawn from the bitter dr^ of the 
wine cup : 

<< What joy ia life, wero goldea Yeoni fled 7 
Then miy I sleep among the lilent dead, 
When thifl can claim no more : when taatelem proTe 
Soft bribes, the yielding conch, eUndestine love. 

** The aged man looks op and loathes the day. 
Perpetual miseries make his soul their prey : 
or boys the inock, of women the disdain ; 
The Oods have dealt to age the dde of pain." 

Another ancient poet, ** the debauched and malignant ArehUochug/* 
as he is called by ^lian* was bamshed from the temperate state ef 
Sparta on account of the indecencies and immoralities of his Biuse ; the 
Lacedemonians, unlike numy modem parenii^ cherishing a greater re- 
gard for the welfare of their children than for the genius of the poet , 

It would have been quite as well, in point of morals, for all antiquity, 
had poets and poetry been wholly expelled from Society ^ as Archilochus 
was driven from Sparta^ and as Socrates would have banished the ffo- 
meric fables from his perfect government An early Christian father 
denounces the whole body of classic poetiy under the very appropriate 
and graphic name of ** deviPa wine^^^ an epithet which remmds us of 
the name bestowed by the sarcastic Aristophanes on wine itself, — styl- 
ing it " Venue's Milk." 

Some of the ancient Greek poets, whose verses were of a didactic 
character, have been justly accused of disseminating immoral volup- 
tuousness under the guise of moral precept Amongst these may be 
mentioned Tkeognis^ whose verses were taught as a school exercise 
with those of Homer and Hesiod. Their value may be gathered from 
the fact that one of his precepts was this — '* that it is improper and 
disgraceful to remain sober where others are intoxicated.'' This pre- 
cept is but the lesson of many a grave philosopher of both Greece and 
Rome* and thus realizes Sir Philip Sydney's definition of poetry, 
** philosophy in verse." Such precepts being made a part of Grecian 
education, we cannot wonder that they were converted into the well- 
known convivial adage ^* drink or begone !" 

A brief extract from the poetry of Theognis will illustrate at once 



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THB ANCIXNT LITBBATUU OF IlVTEMPKRAlfOS* 267 

tile value of his morality, of his logic and philosophj, and his regard for 
** The goblet that cheen and the wine that ioBpiret;" 

while it will give as an opportunity to take notice of the strange cir- 
cumstance, that even Ihe certainiy of approaching death and the ctm^ 
9€(fii$nt brwilyoflife^ gave additional zest to sensual indulgence, and 
was used as an argument to more frequent and more abundant intem- 
perance. Says he, 

** Let harp and pipe in sacred song combine ; 
And, with libations of the sprinkled wine 
Appeasing heaven, let converse blithe be oorSy 
And ^blets, feariess of invading powers ! 
So it IS best to trifle life away, 
Our minds with care unburtbened. light and gay: 
So from dark ills of fate oar thougnts defend, 
From aze unwelcome, and our nrartal end. 
, In youth I blithesome sport : for soon shall fly 

My spirit, and ray body deep shall lie 
Beneath the eternal ground, while years roll on 
Laid motionless and speechless as a stone. 
Yes! I shall leavftthe pleasant sun! normore 
Shall gaze on aught that eave me joy before. 
Now Sien, my soul take pleasure ! other eyes 
Shall view the sun, and other men arise : 
While I am lying cold, and stark, and dead, 
With dusty blackness of the earth o'erspread. 
Still leaps my heart, when breathuig on my ear, 
The lovely voice of murmuring flutes I hear : 
The goblet cheers : the minstrels jovanoe brin^ 
And my own hands touch glad the thrillmg stnng: 
There breathes not mortal, on whose headthe ground 
Has dosed, and hell^s dark chambers compass round. 
That hears the minstrel, listens to the lyre, 
Or feels the rosy gifts of wine inspire!" 

Yfe find the same strange and awful sentiment expressed in almost 
every Pagan poet Death is brought in with the goblet and the wine, 
and the only lesson of mortality is that of an old and familiar college 
song — 

•• Now or never 
Let's endeavor 
To seize old Time by the forelock !" 

Acting upon this doctrine, the Egyptians always placed at their ban- 
quets (which were provincially intemperate) the skeleton of departed 
humanity: — that the visible presence of death might heighten by con- 
trast the delights of life. To us the idea is scarcely less than sacri- 
lege. 

The disciples of Epicurus, whose maxim was to live whUe they livedo 
to crowd existence with every possible pleasure, and who denied the 
inunortality of the soul, defended their sensual practices by uiging the 



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M8 THB ANCIENT LITERATtTM OF INTBMP£RANCB. 

fdubi that our days itfo few and short : and tilej seem to havd boca 
affected by the approach of death as the despairing sailor is moved by 
the prospect of inevitable shipwreck, when he madly breaks into the 
spirit-room, and drowns in inebriety the sense of danger. That their 
insane joy was rendered yet more frantic in this way we are assured 
by one of their own school, who says, in relation to himself, — '' Shut 
out as I was, by my creed, from a future life, and having no hope be- 
yond the narrow horizon of this, every minute of delight assumed a 
mournful preciousness in my eyes ; and pleasure, like the flower of the 
cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the neighborhood of death.''* 
Under unnatural excitation, and mik that energy which it acquires 
from long indulgence, the animal part of man's nature assumed and 
exerted, in these ancient sensualists, a predominance over their spiri- 
tual part so great that the character, the wants, and the destiny of the 
soul were forgotten ; the inner sense was bliiMled and deadened, so 
that the dread voice of death seamed but a Bacchanalian call to the 
wine cup ; and they were ready to exclaim with Anacreon, when behold- 
ing their open sepulchres — 

<* Bacchus shall bid my winter blooni, 
And Venus dance me to the tomb.** 

Of all the Greek poets, Anacreon may be called the high-priest oi 
Bacchus — the greatest among the Wine-bibbing and wine-extolling 
crew. Wine was to him the fire of his muse, the staff of his life, and 
the joy of his heart, as may be discerned in the light of a few quota- 
tions. 

The poet has invited his friends to a supper : — a part of the en- 
tertainment, as indispensable as it now is at frishionable tables, was 
wine, — and in a strain which the modem tippler might envy, he ex- 
claims:— 

** Proclaim the laws of festal rite ! 

I'm monarch of the board to-night ; 

And all around shall brim as high, 

And quaff the tide as deep as I! 

And when the clusters' mellowing dews, 

Their warm enchanting babn diffus^ 

Our feet shall catch the elastic bound, 

And reel as through the dance's round. 

Oh, Bacchus ! we shall sing to thee. 

In mild, but sweet ebriety, 

And flash around atteh aparks of thought 

As Bacehua only couTd have taught !" 

The nature of these ** sparks of thought" can be readily und^^tood 
by those who have heard or read the toasts and other effusions uttered 
at a fourth of July dinner or at a raU-road collation. 

On another festive occasion he speaks more plainly and bddly — 
the burden of every stanza being, " I will — I will bo drunk to-night." 
* Moore's Epicurean. 



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THS ANCISKT LITfiRATUBB OV INTUfPBlUlfOI. d€0 

Most nMQ have Bomepleasore in mtolldetiidexeici«e,"*-<but leuii* 
iBg and philoaophy have no eharms for Anacreon— ^ who angrily ex* 
dakwin the tnie spirit of his chuur— 

" Away, away ! ye men of nilea ! 
What bare I to do with schoold 7 
They'd make me learn, they'd make me think ; 
But now they make me love and drink ? 
Teach me tms, and let me swim 
My sool upon the goblet's brim." 

Most men, as they sunrey the beauty and sublimity of nature, are led 

tofeel^ ifnotto exclaim^ with the Psalmist, whose inspiration was Aom 

on high — 

** The heavens declare the glory qf God, and the firmament dioweth his handy 
work," 

— or, at leasts to sympathise with the feelings of Shakspeare, when 

he declares that die good many walking abroad, 

'< finds books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in eveiy thhig." 

Not so the poet whose inspiration is of wine : — his eye, in a fine 
phrenzy, rolling 

" From earth to heaven, fi^m heav'n to earth,** 
— discovers, in neither heaven nor earth, aught but a universal exhor- 
tation to intemperance : — in his ear the earth cries ** drink!'' — the 
ocean echoes '* drink !" The glorious sun repeats, and the silver 
moon replies, — *♦ drink !" Thus saith Anacreon : — 

** Observe, when mother earth is dry, 
. She drinks the droppines of the sky : 

And then the dewy coroial ^ves 

To every thirthi plant thathves, 

The vapours which at evening weep, 

Are beverage to the swelling deep. 

And when the rosy sun appears, 

He drinks the ocean's misty teara 

Tke mom, too^ qw^ffe her paly stream 

Of lustre, from the solar beam. 

Then, hence, with all jour sober thinking I 

Since Nature's holy law tt drinhng ! * 

I'll make the laws of Nature mine^ 

And pledge the xmicerse in wine /" 

^^Oh! lame and impotent eonchaion!^ — Because earth and her 
planets, and old ocean and the sun, drink rain and vapour, while the 
pale moon indulges herself with drafb of borrowed light, — therefore 
the poet " wiU pledge the universe in wine /" 

So, in most of the poetry of antiquity we discover that nature has 
no charm, except as associated with sensual indulgence. Do you re- 
qtiire another proof of this ? Tou will find it in that prince of Roman 
poets, Yirgil. In the quotation which I am about to give, you will 



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370 THB AlfOnifT LITERATURE OF IHTEMFSRiJIOB. 

perceive that the poet had an eye quick to detect* and a taate keeofy 
to admirey the loveliness of* external objects : — biil notice wi^ what 
debasilig associations these beautifd objects are connected in his mind : 

**Whj dKmld it please to plod our weaiy wmy 
Through doods of dust, in Sumroer'B woorrning daj 7 
How better, far, on couches to recline 
That drop with odoors of refreshinc wine ! 
Here casks, cups, beakers, wait ,' here roses spring 
To crown our beads : flutes breathe and viols ring : 
Here the bowered walk a cooling breese entwines, 
And chequered shadows fall from arching yines. 
Here, too, from an Arcadian erot's retreat, 
A pipe, with shepherd music. Dabbles sweet. 
From pitchy cask the new-drawn wine runs dear: 
A brook, in brawling murmurs fiurjgles near : 
Crocus and yiolot in one garland bbw. 
And safiVon wreaths with purpling roses glow : 
And tiltes, dipt in dear and virgin spring 
Some Naiad shall in ozier basket bnng. 
Here cheeses dried in rushy frails abmind. 
And yellow plums, thit heap the autumnal cround: 
Chesnuts and apples, that sweet reddening mine ; 
Pure wheat, gay love, and mirth-inspiring wine !" 

The drinker can behold nothing of grand or beautiful m nature or 
in art which does not remind him of his brutal habit Shakspeare's 
timid merchant, describing his probable feelings were his property at 
sea, exclaims : — 

"My wmd, cooling my broth, 
Would blow roe to an ague, when I thought 
What harm a wind too great might do at sea. 
I should not see the saiuly hour-glass run. 
But I should think of shallows and of flats, 
And see my wealthy * Andrew,' docked in sand.** 

" Should I go to church, 

And see the holy edifice of stone, 

And not bethink me, straight, of dangerous rocks?" 

The love of wine, like the love of money, associates itself, and the 
means of its indulgence, with all things else in heaven or on eardi. 
The noon-day sun provokes the thirst : the shady bower provides the 
festive retreat : the smiling face of nature joyously invites to the gob- 
let : if storms howl without, the drinking scene within is rendered 
more jovial by contrast, — as Horace says to Thaliarchus : — 

" Now melt away the winter's cold. 
And larger pile the cheerful fire : 
Biins down the vintage four years old, 
whose mellowed heat can mirth inspire !" 

Perversions like this abound in all the descriptive poetry of anti- 
quity. 
But let us return to Anacreon. 



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TBI ARCISNT LITBRATURS OF INTSMPBRAlfOE. 971 

The wisest of men has infonned us that ^ it is better to go to tiie 
bouse of mourning than to the house of feasting :^ and all experience 
confirms his assertion, by teaching us that sorrow and affliction exert 
upon most hearts a purifying and holy influence. Crushed by adver- 
sity, the soul sheds forth its loveliest light — pours forth its most ge- 
nerous and gentle qualities — and loses its stains of selfishness and 
sm. But the laureate of Bacchus, like the half-barbarous populace of 
Irehmd, converts the house of sorrow into a scene of intemperate de- 
bauch, — and bids us drown care and sadness in the bluriiing bowl. 

'* Behold ! my hojB a goblet bear, 
Whose sunny loam bedews the air I 
Where are now4he tear, the sigh 7 
To the winds they fly, they fly! 
Grasp the bowl, in nectar sinkmj; : 
Man oftorrow, drown thy Ihinkins ! 
Oh^can the tears we lend to thon^ity 
In uTe's account avail us aught ? 
Can we discern, with all our lore, 
The path we're yet to journey o'er 7 
No, no ! The walk of life is dark ; 
Tis wine alone can strike a spark !" 

** Drink, and smile ; and learn to think 
That we were bom to smile and drink !" 

Again the bard of lust and appetite exclaims — 

" Within the goblet rich and deep 
I cradle all my woes to sleep. 
Why should we breathe the sigh of fear. 
Or pour the unavailing tear 7 
For death will never heed the sigh, 
Nor soften at the tearful eye ! 
And eyes that sparkle, ejea that weep, 
Must all alike be sealed in sleep. 
Then let us never vainly stray 
In search of thorns from pleasure's sway ! 
Oh, let us quafl*the rosy wave. 
Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave, 
And in the goblet, rich and deep. 
Cradle our crying woes to sleep !" 

Such was the advice of the Greek poet; — In graver stram of 
prose the Roman philosopher^ Seneca^ has recorded the same lesson of 
folly. Grecian phdloeophy was equally charitable — similar to this is 
the sentiment of Horace : — 

*<Iiet the cheerful bowl go round — 
Bacchus can our cares control, 
Care» that prey upon the souL" 

In the age of Anacreon, — nay, in all ages, — mankind have been 
moved by ambition — by that noble craving afier distinction and 
fame which proves that the human mind cannot be content to grovel in 



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tr% THK AVOnirT UTIRATUKI OP UfTBMPimAHOS. 

obfcorify, or to perish for erer at A% hour of dmtt. Tie insm Aat 
this impulsey in itself most admirable, has sought forbidden paths and 
used unhoij means ; -~has trampled on die righCs, and spilt the blood 
of our race. But* ean in tit pertenionf it is noble ; -^ and Ae ab- 
sanoe of it is universally regarded as die mark of a degraded and bm- 
talised nature. It has ever been the tendency of intemperance to 
deaden and destroy this soaring principle ; — to narrow down the 
circle of man's desire to the simple gratification of his senses ; — to 
render him regardless of the opinions of his felk)w-men ; — - to murder 
self-respect, and concentrate every pleasure, every desire, every hope, 
every affection, within '* the rosy goblet's brim." It has always been 
so; and while we lament this truth, as it is exhibited in those 
around us, we cannot forget that the same sad fact has existed in every 
age. 

Anacreon, with all his poetic fire end genius, was, if we may credit 
his own assertion, or the story told by others, a contented sot Listen 
to his words : — 

« When my thinty soul I steep, 
Every sorrow's lulled to sleep : 
Talk ofmonarchs ! I am then 
Richest, happiest, first of men ! 
Careless o'er my cup I sing, 
Fancy makes me more than king ! 
Gives me wealthy Crmsus's store ; 
Can I, can I wish for more 7 
On my velvet couch reclining, 
Ivy leaves my brow entwinins, 
While my soul dilates with glee, 
What are kings and crowns to me 7 
If before my feet they lay, 
I would spurn them all away ! 
Arm you, arm you, men of might. 
Hasten to the san^ine fight : — 
Let me — oh, my budding vinc^ 
Spill no other blood than tlune ! 
X onder brimming goblet see ! 
That alone shall vanquish me ; 
Oh, I think it sweeter far 
To fall in banquet than in war !** 

Even in modem times we are accustomed to yield a ready pardon 
to the excesses of youth, led astray by the mistaken ardor and oyer- 
flowing exuberance of the feelings of life's early spring. But we ex- 
pect and demand that manhood shall put a curb upon passion, — and 
reduce the vagrant impulse to the stem authority of sober habit Much 
more do we reckon it a sin, and a foul disgrace, for an old man to 
abandon himself to intemperate appetites, and to live over his youth- 
ful follies and excesses : upon such a man we look as upon some 
ancient and crumbling tower^ deserted by every thing but its vermin. 
Let us listen to the grey-beard sentiments of Anacreon ; *- 



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THS AKCIBNT LITSRATURB OF INTSMPBRANCE. 27S 

" *Ti8 true, my fadine yeani decline, 
Vet I can quaff the blushinv wine 
Ab deep as any strijpMng fair, 
Whose cheeks the nush of morning wear : 
And though my fading years decay, 
And thouih my bloom has pa8s*d away. 
Like old Silenus, sire divine^ 
With blushes borrowed from my lotne, 
I'll wanton 'mid the dancing train^ 
And liu mgfoUut o'er again P* 



** Hither haste, some cordial soul ! 
Give my lips the brimming bowl ! 
Oh, you will see this hoary sage 
Forget his locks, forget his ase ; 
He still can chant the festive nymn ; 
He still can kiss the goblet's brim: 
He still can act the mellow raver, 
•Snd play the fool as stoeet as ever /" 

Deadly Btem and inexorable agent of Providence, seldom comes 
upon us unawares ; his approach is preceded and foretold by many 
a solemn warning, bj many a melancholy messenger bidding us 
prepare for the final change. And every rational man listens to these 
premonitory calls, and hastens to make himself ready for death — 
Anacreon, beholding the frost of age upon his head, recognises the har- 
binger of dissolution,-^ but strangely perverts it into a summons to 
intoxication. 

•* To-day,^ — says be^ 

** To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine, 
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine : 
But if to-morrow comes, — why then — 
I'll haste to quaff my wine agam." 

** For death may come with brow unpleasant, 
May come when least we wish him preeent, 
And beckon to the sable shore, 
And grimly bid us — drink no more /" 

In the very face of death he exclaims : — 

** And oh ! before the vital thrill, 
Which trembles at my heart, be still, 
I'll sather joy's luxurious flowers. 
And Eild with bliss my fleeting hours ; 
Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom, 
And Venus dance me to the tomb !" 



*' I'll quafi^ my boy, and calmly tank 
This soul to slumber as I dnnk I 
Soon, too soon, my jocund slave. 
You'll deck your master's grassy grave ; 
•Snd there's an end — for ah, you know 
They drink but lUtle wine below /" 

Such was the poetry of Anaereouf whom Byron and a hundred 

VOL. TO* 35 



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274 THE ANCIENT LITERATURE OF INTEMPERANCE. 

Other poetSt both aDcient and modem, have called divine, ** To iiw 
fer the moral dispositions of a poet from the tone of sentiments which 
pervades his works,^ says Tom Moore, ^* is sometimes a very falla- 
cious analogy : but the soul of Anacreon speaks so unequivocally 
through his Odes, that we may consult them as the faithful mirrors of 
his heart" On such authority, remembering that Moore, having 
made himself the great master of modem lascivious poetry, would not 
speak too harshly of a kindred spirit, — on such authority we may de- 
cide that Anacreon was the very incarnation of lust and intemperance. 
This decision is amply sustained by the ancient records of his life. 
For nearly eighty-five years he lived in the indulgence of every brutal 
appetite, and consecrated his whole soul to the orgies of Bacchus 
and the impure revelries of the Paphian Yenus. His death was cha- 
racteristic and just : — he was choked to death by a grape-stone, in 
drinking a goblet of wine, — thus ending his ** protracted fever of in- 
teropemnce" in the very act of self-intoxication. *' We cannot help 
admiring," exclaims his worthy biographer, Moore, — ^' that his fate 
should be so emblematic of his disposition I" 

The Adieoians, amongst whom a part of his Kfe was passed, erected 
a statue to his memory, — which justly represented him, as his favor- 
ite ** Sire divine," Silenus, was represented, as a drunken old man ; 
thus perpetuating his disgrace. But his infamy was made iounortal 
by his own hand and pen, — and while no reader of his Odes can help 
admiring their spirit, wit, and beauty, no virtuous man can, after their 
pemsal, fail to say with a ripe scholar of England — *' he has not led 
on record one solitary sentiment that might subserve the interests of 
virtue." 

I cannot close this notice of Anacreon without quoting from a mo- 
dem poet, as a counter-check to the voluptuous tendency of the Ana- 
creontics which I have repeated, the following lines of sober and 
awful tmth : — 

"O'er the dread feast roalignant Chemia scovdi, 
And mingles poison in the nectarcd bowls. 
Fell OotU peeps, grinning, tbrotiffh the flimsy scene, 
And bloated Dropsy pants behind, unseen : 
Wrapt in his robe, white Lepra hides bis stains, 
And silent Frmxy, writhing, bites his chains.** 

Dttttoiii* 

Did our limits allow us to enter into a full examinfttion of ancient 
literature, we might furnish more numerous quotations from the Roman 
poets also, to prove that diey, as well as their Grecian brethren, argued 
in behalf of intemperance and all other sensual pleasures, from the 
brevity of life and the approach of death. 

Thus Catullus, a poet whose genius has immortalised alike the im- 
moralities of both bis life and song, and whose intemperate practices 

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THE ANCIENT LITERATURS Of INTEMPERANCE. 276 

ittspired Ui iotempente vecset ia view of ileath exhorts hU miftress 
to drain quicU^ the eup of pleasuro : — 

'^ Let us live while we may 
And Uve while wt can, 
And the sooro spurn away 
Of censorious min — 
The sun sits at night, 
To rise oo the morrow — •- 
Death blows out our light, 
And leaves us to soitow.*' 

In this ** voluptuous jret penttve iminorelity,'' Catullus was followed 
and imitated by Yirgilt by Horace, by TibuUus, and PropertioSy and 
others whom time forbids our naming. 

The following are the words of Yirgil : — 

"A mischief on the man, with brows of care I 
Why, for ungrateful dust, reserve the flower ? 
Why, for a grave-stone, pluck the fragrant bower 7 
Bring wine ! bring dice t Avaunt to-monow's doom I 
Death twitches, now, our ears, and ** live !" he cries, ** I come !" 

Passage after passage, eloquently setting forth this strange senti- 
ment, might be quoted from the luxurious Horace similar to the fol- 
lowing. 

Warning a friend not to pry into the future, he says — 

** Thy life with wiser arts be crowned, 
Thy philtred wines abundant pour; 
Thy lengthened hope with prudence bound 
Proportioned to the flying hour. 
Even while we talk in careless ease, 
Our envious minutes wing their flight ; 
Instant the fleeting pleasure seize, 
Nor trust to-morrow's doubtful light!" 

Tibullus apostrophises the object of his love in language resembling 
that already quoted from Catullus : •— 

** JiTow Fate permits,'* says he^ ** now blend the sweet embrace ; 
Death, veiled in darkness^ hastens on apace." 

Propertius, another Roman poet, who, like most of that school, was 
the slave of voluptuous and debasing habits, has, like each of the poets 
before mentioned, done much, by means of his writings, to corrupt 
mankind. They remind one of Milton's insinuation that such poetry 
is inspired by *' the vapours of wine." Besides a thousand other in- 
centives to indulgence, he also names jlhe certainty of death : — 

** The fates allow us tender joys to day — 
Enjoy them while they last — 
For death will snatch them soon away 
And all our joy be past." 



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276 TRUST IN GOD. 

Can we avoid repeating, in this connexion and in conclusion, ike 
words of Solomon — ** The ungodly reason widi themselves, but not 
aright — thej saj * our life is short, our time is a veiy shadow that 
passeth away, and after our end' there is no returning : Gome on^ 
therefore, let us enjoy the good things that are present ; let us speedily 
use the creatures, like as in youth. Let us fill ourselves with costly 
wine and ointments ; and let no flower of the spring pass by us : let 
us crown ourselves widi rosebuds before they be withered. Let none 
of us go without his part of our voluptuousness : let us leave tokens of 
our joyfulness in every place : For this is our portion, and our lot is 
this.*'' 

J. A* B* 



TRUST IN GOD. 

Trust in God ! and he will guard the« ! 
When the tempest threatens, ward thee ! 
In the chill ana cheerless hour 
He will light thy lonely bower : 
And, when eartn is dark and dreary, 
Pleasure palls, and life grows weary, 
He will lend thee, for the fight. 
Strength of more than morUl might 

TrustmGrodI The bleakest mountam 
Bears within its breast a fountain. 
Where the worn and weary rover 
May his failing strength recover. 
Every heart that looks above^ 
Trusts in God, and shares his love, 
Is a fount of Ufe, however 
Rough the channel of its river. 

Trust in God ! The things we cherish 
Most and fondest, soonest perish : 
Hopes, the brightest, quickly fly; 
Friends, the truest, early die : 
But when hopes and joys decay. 
Friends and kindred pass away; 
Trust in Gh>d ! and he will be 
Worth the world beside to thee. 

Trust in God ! and when to death 
Yieldestthou at last th^ breath, 
Angel-pinioned, thou wilt fly 
To His mansions b the sky : 
There the loved and lost will meet thee ! 
There thy friend and God will greet thee ! 
Freed from sin, from sorrow freed, 
Thou will then be blest indeed. 

I» 



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J77 



A QUEEN'S FAREWELL. 



▲ fKBTCB raoX mXROH BUTORT. 



All immense crowd was assembled before the door of the Hotel of 
St PaoL It was evening, and the light of a thousand torches gleamed 
upon a covered litter, and upon the mmgled arms of France and 
England, embroidered upon the violet-colored mantles of a numerous 
retinue of pages and men at arms. Several of the latter, who wore 
the arms of England, were sitting on horseback hke so many sta- 
tues, gazing mournfully upon the litter which they seemed guarding. 
A deep and solemn silence pervaded the whole crowd. When a 
casuid observer stopped to inquire the meaning of this assemblage, 
the answer was invariably the same : ** We are waiting for the wi- 
dowed Queen of England, Catharine of Yalois, who is returning with 
the body of her husband to his own merry England, there to take up 
her abode for ever. Her Majesty has come to bid a last farewell to 
King Charles YI., her father and our master. May God have mercy 
on us all.'' 

His curiosi^ gratified, the idle inquirer would wend his way, gaz- 
ing with equal indifference upon the litter which was waiting the 
pleasure of the youthful widow, and upon the brilliancy lighted win- 
dows of the palace, in one room of which was assembled a group of 
heart-stricken mourners. The room was small, overlooking the 
Seine ; and was lighted partly by a small silver lamp suspended from 
die ceiling, and partly by the pale and uncertain light of the moon, 
which was in its wane. An elevated seat was placed near one of the 
windows, and beneath its heavy canopy, embroidered with the lilies of 
France, stood two female figures in the attitude of deep afiiiction. The 
glimmering light of the lamp, and the silvery rays of the moon, while 
it softened every feature of their faces, seemed to add a deeper tinge 
of melancholy to their whole appearance. As they stood in the sha- 
dow of the window they seemed about the same age, and yet were 
diey mother and daughter. The one supporting herself against the 
back of a chair, was the beautiful Queen of France, the far-famed 
Isabella of Bavaria ; the other, kneeling at her feet^ was her gentle 
daughter, Catharine of Yalois, the youthful widow of Henry Y. of 
England. 

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278 A aUEEll'fl FAREWELL. 

There was a long pause ; Catharine huried her face in her mo&er't 
lap, while the queea leaned out of the open window as if for air, whil9 
her fast falling tears mingled with the rapid and flowing Seine. Sud- 
denly she bent down her head till her lips touched her daughter's 
cheek, which she covered with tears and kisses. Alas ! alas I 
Henry T., King of England, Regent of France, son-in-law, and, by 
act of parliament, successor to Charles TL, had just expired at the 
castle of Tincennes, at the early age of thirty-six ; and in his grave» 
die grave of the conqueror of Agincourt, were buried the warm affec- 
tions of the gentle Catharine and the ambitious hopes of her more 
daring mother. Weaiy with weeping, the youthful mourner at last 
raised her headi and threw back the raven ringlets that clustered round 
her brow. ShegaEed upon the star-spangled firmament, upon the 
flowing Seine, till deep sobs again convulsed her firara^ Her mother, 
with her eyes filed upcm the changing expression of her child's face* 
iM»w covered her fair fi^e with kisses* now bathed them with a bbk^- 
ther's tears. 

And this was Isabella of Bavaria, in whose breasi ^owed all a 
mother's love, aosubdiied by the stormy passions which had made her 
the destructioA of her sons and husbaadf and the bane of the kingdoQ 
of Franoe* Guilty and unworfliy as a queen, a wife, and a nothar ;.be- 
trayed in hex affi»ctions ; dreaded by some, despised by others, and d^ 
terted by all ; lulling by sophistical reasonings the remorse whieh at 
times weighed beaviy on her heart ; returning contempt far contempt, 
hatred for hatred ; there was yet one redeeming spot, one touch of wo- 
manly feeling assid this whirlwind of passions, and that was her in- 
tense, devoted afieetion for her lovely and gentle daughter. 8he loved 
and revered her as men leve and revere virtue. All her hopes were 
centred in Csiharine; and to see her happily married, the wife of the 
heroic Henry of F«ngland, had been the dearest wish of her heart 
But oee crown for her daughter was not enou^ she must be queen 
too of France, and thevgh a crime aloae could secure die diadem of 
lilies to Catharine, bar ambitious parent did not hesitati. The Dau- 
phia must be disiidierited ; and, though he toe was Isabella's child, she 
heeded it not The Dauphin was disinherited, aad his sister's htide- 
groem proclaimed bb the successor of the weak and imbecile Gharks 
TL But of all this Cadiariae was guikless. Wicked and recUesa 
as she was herseU; Isabella had watched over the parity, the unsus- 
pecting innocence of her dani^iler's character, with all a mother's vigi- 
lance aad all a oMther's love. And when all her ambitious pcojects 
weredeatroyed by the early death of Henry, d»fek as if her daughter 
were now her only tie on earth, her only apology in the mfjki of hea- 
ven. But heia tsio her hopes ware doooMd to be blasted. Hie m- 
dow of England's Heniy, die mother of his heir, must reside mhar 



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hvttbtiid's palaoe $ tnd whtii iMb^tbooght orWetenmlMfitfation 
from the child of her aflbotioM, she Ml, ihe knew, dmt her punielH 
inetit had hegun on eardu 8ad« indeed, wae fhie last ftrewey, ^rbile 
the distant muroHir from the ckj seemed to mingle with their whispeiw 
ing aecents, like (he first hreath of the north wind, the unerring preom^ 
aor of a coming storm* 

** Mother,'* said the gentle moutner, raising her dark ejea and gaz- 
ing earnestly in her mother's face \ ** when next you gaze at evening 
upon this starry firmament, this noMe river, this hk city where first I 
drew my breath, I shafi have left my own dear land of France fbr ever. 
Blother, dearest mother, will you not sometimes think of your desolate 
child, of the wretched exile who is doomed never again to gaze upon 
her mother'^ face, or upon the clear blue sky of her father land.*' 

** Think of thee," replied Isabella, ** weep for thee, if tears are yet 
▼ouehsafed to me. Home, country, I have neither ; my home was in 
thy heart, dear one ; for thou, and Ihoo alone, levest me. My happi^ 
nees was wrapped up in diine, and we, the mother and cUid, must 
part. Better, far better, to die, Catharine.'' 

^ Why, why cBd I become a hero's bride V* exclaimed fiie weeping 
Catharine. 

•« Why?^ replied Isabella, bitterly, ''to bteak thy mother's heart 
My hatred has ever been successful, my love ever betrayed." 

The young princess bid her fiice in her mother's bosom as she 
sobbed forth : ** It was a dream, beloved mother, a bright, a lovely 
dream ; I was happy, beloved, the pledge of the happiness of two 
kingdoms, the object of a nation's love ; and now oh God of 
mercy!" 

*^ Catharine," said the queen earnestly, ^ tell me, a people's love 
must prove then- sovereign's blessing. But I, I, daughter, am 
hated r' 

•* Mother," answered the princess, anxious to avoid so fearful a sub- 
ject f " modier, 4ey tell me the Tower of London is cold and gloomy, 
a fit dhode for a bereaved wife and sorrowing daughter." 

^* A queen, my child ! is ever sorrowing. T do not weep for myself, 
but for thee, so eariy called to sufier. And yet wilt thou leave behind 
thee a queen of France more to be pitied even than thyself. Seest 
1hou that man ?" continued she, averting her head and pointing to a 
comer of the room. ^ He would hate me if God had not bereaved him 
of reason. Around me are enemies. The Duke of Burgundy hates 
ne, ihe Duke of Bedford needs me not ; the English despise and in- 
sult me ; and my son, oh Grod ! Ihave lost more than thou hastiest— « 
splendor, happiness, power, hope ; and now must I lose thee, my only 
oarthly comfoit, the only creature whom I have notharmed." 

Her sobs impeded her articulation, and she paused, exhausted by her 

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280 A QtnBBN's FA&KWBLL. 

own emotioiuu Peibapsahe hoped for one word of consolation, of ex- 
tenuation, from her daughter's lips. But the picture was hut too faith- 
fully drawn, and again the shuddering princess hid her face without 
articulating a syllable. *'I am not mistaken," continued Isabella, 
sadly ; *' my future, a hard, a fearful future, is before me. The time is 
fiist approaching when alone, forgotten, in solitude, and periiaps in want, 
I shall terminate a life of ambitious projects, blasted hopes, and unre- 
pented crimes. There will be no friendly hand to close my eyes, no 
kind heart to drop a tear or say a prayer for my soul, no human being 
to follow to St Denis the corpse of the queen of France." 

** Wolf," cried a voice which made them start ; '* where art thou^ 
Wolf?" 

The speaker was a tall thin man, with venerable white hair, and a 
striking and noble countenance. He was standing by a small table of 
ebony covered with cards, which he occasionaUy shuffled while his 
eyes were fixed with a stem and melancholy expression upon a velvet 
cap which lay at his feet He was dressed in the rich garb of the 
times, but the gold on his embroidered suit was tarnished and the velvet 
ru9ty with age. There was altogether an air of neglect, almost amount- 
ing to poverty, about this old man, strangely at variance with the mas- 
sive gold chain which encircled his throat He seemed to be almost 
in a state of stupor, though now and then the name '* Wolf," '' Wol^" 
trembled upon his pale and quivering lips. 

''Catharine," said queen Isabella bitterly, ''that too is worse than 
death. Farewell, beloved one, farewell ; virtuous or guilty, it is written 
women are bom to misery. Farewell then to thee, the only being I 
have ever loved ; I must yield to the hie I have carved out for myself* 
But thou, my idolized child, promise me never to curse thy guilty, thy 
wretched mother." As she spoke she clasped her daughter to her 
breast, and covered her with the most passionate kisses and most bitter 
tears. At length she raised her head and said : " My daughter ! it is 
proper that thou shouldest bid farewell to the king of France, and 
shouldest beg thy father's blessing. A father's age and a father's 
blessing too is ever sacred." 

The youDg princess advanced towards the old roan who still stood 
by the table, knelt at his feet, took one of his emaciated hands in her 
own, gazed fondly in his face, and said, in low faltering accents : " Fa- 
ther, I am your child, your little Catharine ; I have come to bid you a 
long farewell, and to ask you to bless me for the last time." 

Charles YI. gazed with astonishment upon the lovely suppliant, 
whose mourning dress swept the floor while she continued kneeling at 
his feet He seemed lost in thought, or about to seek advice from 
some one near him. At last he started, and said fearfully : " Are you 
asking for mercy? WeU, well, you are forgiven." 



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▲ QUBBM's FARBWSLti Ml 

^ My Crod !" exelaimed Cadkarin6« ^ he doef not kn<nr me, he bae 
forgotten hia child. Father,^ added lAe, '* I am Catfavine, Ae Queen 
of England.'' 

*' Tee,'' replied her father, *^ Qneen of England and wife of the Re« 
gent of France ; for God has put hie seal npon my brow, and there has 
been no king of France for many a long day, and yel I am not dead.'* 

** Father, dear ihther!" burst from Catharine's lipe in such heait- 
stricken accents tiiat even the poor king seemed touched by them* 
*• Do you «all me father ?" said he. ** Yes, you are my cliiW, my pretty, 
gentle Catharine. But why are you here, wbal has happened t I am 
always left alone now, I am very unhappy. But do not tell the queen 
that you have seen me. Poor child, why do you wear black, m^ is 
dead in the royal house of France ? Is it jrour brother Louis, the Dau«> 
phin ? Ah, he died long since, poison makes quick work. And per- 
faaps,** added he in a whisper, stooping over her, ** perhaps you do not 
know that the queen, Isabella, has gathered together many treasures at 
Blois while the kingdom was plunged in want and misery. Then 
John most be Dauphin ; but no, they told me he too was deed, and no 
one wears mourning for him but his father. Oh, there has been fearful 
misery in ^e house of Yalois ; but you, daughter, are happy, the bride 
of England's heroic king." •• Alas, alas !" replied the young widow, 
** be too is dead, and I am of the fated house of Yalois. My dream of 
happiness b over. My fate, to weep away my life in the cold clime 
of England, and in one sad blow lose father, mother, husband, all that 
I love. My son they have taken from me ; he belongs to England, 
and a king, they tell me, has no motberl" 

Charles stooped still lower as he whispered : *' It would be a sad 
tiling, raethinks, for a daughter of France to be seated on (he throne of 
Lilies, and the Danphin, her own brother, a proscribed fugitive." 

^ Have mercy on me, have mercy on me, my father !" exclaimed the 
young queen, wringing her hands in agony ; «* I do not deserve your 
cruel reproaches. I expected pity at your hands. Tell me, does ttui 
weeping, wretched suppliant, clad in the livery of wo, look nrHich like a 
queen of France. Oh father! I am Catharine, your Cathirine, whom 
you used in early days to love so dearly. Oh for one kind look, one 
kind word, from my father, to cheer my lonely exile. Time is swiftly 
passing away ; look at nne, dear father I call back your scattered senses 
to bless and kiss me for the last time. Do you not know your cbikll" 

^ Know you P' replied king Charles slowly; ** call back my senses I 
Oh, now I understand you. You want noe to tell you au old and very 
sad story. Well, there was once a king who chose to reign because 
he was bom king of France. They gave him poison to kill him, but 
he died not, but reigned happily and gloriously many yoars. After him 
came another king, who wished to reign as did bis father ; but they gave 

VOL. TIL 36 

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S82 ▲ ^ubbu's fariwbll. 

Mm the poiflon which deatrojTs the mind. He did not die ^ formenean 
cure Uie body, but the mind is of God, and he alone can reatore it 
The kingdom of France is wrapped up in want and misery, and who 
cares for that ? The king, and the kiog only. You weep, ladj ; you 
t^ink it is an old story ; no, no, it occurred but yesterday. Do you 
know ^at that poor king was once called I The Bien*aim^ ; but now 
his people are weary widi misery, and they never speak his name but 
to curse him. Wo to those monarchs whose misfortunes are counted 
mito them as feasts. But there are two, two who have a fearful record 
against them in heaven. Do not say that one of them was Louis of 
Orleans, for he lies in yonder street weltering in his blood, and Grod 
alone can judge the dead. And oh," added he with a fearful shriek, ^* do 
not say that the other was Isabel of Bavaria, for she is the queen of 
France." 

The shuddering princess listened with trembling an<) incredulous 
astonishment to these horrible ravings, while Isabella stood half ^on- 
cealed by the ample folds of the window-curtain, with bowed head and 
clasped hands, as if rivetted with horror to the spot on which she stood. 
The deep and awful silence was broken by approaching footsteps, and 
suddenly a large black greyhound dashed past Catharine, and rushing 
up to the king, licked his pale thin hands with every mark of affection. 
The princess pushed him aside, and endeavored to take her father's 
hand ; but he drew it impatiently away, and clasping his arms around the 
dog, while his face beamed with delight as on meeting with a dear and 
valued friend^ " My daughter," said he reproachfully, •• this is Wolf." 

It was time to depart. Isabella of Bavaria raised her from the ground 
where she had continued kneeling at her father's feet, and arm in arm 
they walked through the long gallery which communicate with the 
queen's apartments without exchanging a single word, and shuddering 
as the caressing accents of the royal maniac and the joyous barking of 
his dog reached their ears. When the two queens appeared on the 
threshold, a loud cry was heard of, ** the queen, the queen ;" which 
roused the youthful pages and slumbering men at arms from their 
lethargy. Catharine started as she met the dark and flashing eyes of 
an armed knight, whose scarlet plume and scarf fluttered in the night 
wind. Isabella frowned sternly as she noticed the impassioned gaze 
of the knight, and the deep blushes which covered the pale and beauti- 
ful countenance of her daughter. 

" What name dost thou bear, sir knight 2" she inquired haughtily. 
*' Owen Tudor is my name, royal lady," answered the knight, grace- 
lully bending his knee to the frowning Isabella. ** I come from Wales, 
and have the honor of commanding the men at arms of my royal mis- 
tress, the queen of England." 
**Daughter,"said the queen, turning carelessly away from the kneeling 



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A QUBKN'8 faebwxll. 283 

kni^t, *« have you ever heard the story of Louis of Bois Boiurdoii, who 
was a brave knight and true, and held in high estimation by all men V* 

** No, no," faltered forth the princess. 

^ Well, listen to me dien, queen of England ; when a knight dares to 
raise his eyes to his sovereign lady, he is guilty of treason. The 
Beine, my daughter, often bears dead bodies to the very steps of our 
palace, and when fishermen find such bodies as these caught in their 
nets bearing the inscription, ' thii i$ the kmg'9 ju$Hee^* they cast back 
dienr loathsome spoil into the rapid and flowing waters of the Seine." 

In the meanwhile Charles YL had remained alone, and seemed 
struck and alarmed by die solitude of his vast apartments* He seemed 
seeking some one, and put his hand to his forehead as if endeavoring 
to collect his thoughts. What had at first appeared to be a dream, now 
assumed a more certain and definite form. Now it was all plain to him 
that the weeping female, clad in sables, and kneeling at his feet, was kU 
duld ; and he felt how it must grieve his daughter's heart to leave him for 
ever widiout his blessing. With his hand pressed tightly upon his heart, 
as if to fix his daughter's image there, he rushed impetuousty through the 
gallery. Twice he mistook the entrance, and twice he retraced his 
steps ; and, as if he were fearful that some other idea would drive all 
image of his chUd from his mind, he continued repeating, in a loud 
voice, '*A blessing for my child, a blessing for my child." Again he 
passed the door, and as he caught the faint glimmer of the light in the 
room where Catharine had so lately kneh to him in vain, he wrung his 
hands in all the impotence of madness and despair. The perspiration 
rolled in large drops firom his broW, his knees trembled as if unable to 
bear his weight, his brain seemed on fire. Suddenly a thought flashed 
across his mind ; '* Wolf," he cried, ** Wolf, come hither." The saga- 
cioua dog came bounding towards his mteter, gazed earnestly at his 
agitated countenance, and then with a loud howl he ran out of the 
apartment, and up the long staircase which communicated with the 
upf»er story of the palace. He hastily traversed several large and 
magnificent rooms, and never stopped till he reached a small iron balcony 
where the king was wont to sit of an evening counting the lights in the 
city, and listening, with evident pleasure, to the ** Good night and God 
bless you" of those of his subjects who still retained some aflection for 
flieir betrayed and unfortunate monarch. Charles had instinctively 
followed the steps of his intelligent favorite, and as the night breeze 
blew the grey hairs firom his temples, he covered his face with his hands 
and for an instant forgot his purpose. It was, indeed, a strange scene. 
The light of the torches gleamed upon the litter, the pages, the men at 
arms, all dressed in the deepest mourning ; while on the steps of the 
palace, immediately beneath the iron balcony, stobd the majestic (ana 
of Isabelh of Bavaria, supporting the trembling, weephig Catharine ; 



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984 ▲ aUKBH'f FABRWBLU 

aod thej too* like tfie English retimit, were olad in Jtbles.- Abore llieni 
itood the meiiiac kiog« hb long grey locke floatieg on the wind, end 
his pale and emaciated features looking still paler, stiU more care-worn, 
bj the vacillating light of the moon. There he slood» g^ing vacant! jr 
around him, ntterij unconscious that the child so deeply loved, so 
fondly eberished, was leaving the land^f her ancestors for ever. Just 
as her litter was pot in motion, Catharine gave one sad despairing look 
to the home of her eariy happy childhood, and as she did so, she en- 
countered the wandering, searching glance of her fiithen For one mo* 
ment the light of reason beamed again as in days of yore, aod stretch- 
ing his clasped hands towards his daughter, he uttered, in tones which, 
though low and fahering, sank deep into the mourner's heart, ^ God 
bless thee, my own, my loved one. The God of mercy bless thee«" 

The men at arms closed round the litter, and soon dieir measured 
tramp, the ringing of their swords and bridleii, and even the light of 
the torches, were lost in the distance. Charles YI. stood motionless, 
with bis eyes fixed on the spot where last he had seen his child. Per* 
haps the memory of eariy days was rushing across his mind ; the four 
first brilliant years of his reign, succeeded by thirty years of madness, 
wretchedness, and despair. Tears were streaming down his furrowed 
cheeks. Perchance they fell as he thought of the engaging diildhood, 
tiie blooming, budding girlhood of the pale and mourning princess, 
dragged from the home of her affections, to spend, in a coM and stran- 
ger land, an exile's life of misery and tears. Perduince they fell as 
he thought of the dreadful scenes which had passed in that fair city, 
now wrapped in slumbering security ; of the two horrid murders in the 
&ue Barbette ; the treaaion of Perinet ; the massacre of the Armagh 
nacs ; and, saddest of all, at the remembrance of the haughty English 
conqueror, the hereditary enemy of France, seated upon the throne of 
OeYalois. 

The damp breeze from off the water at last recalled him from his 
Aream of other days* He lefl the balcony as if reluctantly ; and, re- 
tracing his steps, he soon found himself in the gallery, which in the 
course of our stpry we have already mentioned more tlian once. He 
was chilled with cold, and his voice trembled as be called for some of 
his attendants. But they, apt imitators of their superiors, cared little 
for a king who was treated with the most barbarous neglect even by 
his own wife* ^ It is a pity," murmured the poor shiver^ig monarch, 
«* it is a great pity that a King of France should perish with cold. Is 
there not one, of all those who have eaten of my bread, to save me 
dus night trom a dreadful death T' He drew near the large fire-place, 
in which a few ashes still emitted a slight degree of heat ; he stretched 
out his cold and trembling fingers, and vainly endeavored to restore 
their circulation. The black f reyhound was lying directly across the 



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THE FfKI AHD TVS SflAAK. S65 

fire-plaee. ** Wolff" said bis master, ** make waj for me if you love 
me, for I am freezing to deadi. Wolf, dear Wolf! see how I tremble ; 
will you let your kind old master die ?" Tbe dog was asleep, and 
heeded not ibe voice of his wretched and neglected protector. 

Charles YL slept tfitb his fathers, and his gentle daughter became 
the bride of Owen Tudor. 



THE PIKE AND THE SHARK- 

▲ FABLE. 



rmOM TBK •KRM4N OF SACSAUA. 



A PUB, long of^ to domineor 
In a Brnali nrer** fddiet doar, 
Coacartd bmm^ by Natnn>*s graoe^ 
Chief niler of tbe piscal race. 

" What hinders me,»» the vain fool cried, 
" From ranj^ng through the ocean tide? 
Can I not there my power diaplay, 
And lord it with despotic sway ; 
Proclaim my royal sovereign will, 
And all the tiibea with terror ^ P* 

No sooner said, than off be bisd 
To seek the broad Atlantic tide ; 
And scofivd at poich, and flouted bream, 
As down he coursed his natire Stream. ~ 
•— Puffiid up with pride and folly, hs 
Saw not his pfojt>a*8 vanity ; 
But proudly to the ocean came, 
A king's prerogative to claim ! 

But whst was his dismay, when first 
He ssw the tribes okl Ocean nursM I 
He yiewM with terror and d^pair 
The mighty monsters harboured there ; 
His visions bright of empire fled, 
And craven fear fill'd bim instead. 
—•Loo?, long, alack I was it befiirS 
He oould fed re-assured once more ; 
But when at length his air-bag swell'd 
With self-conceir, he felt impell'd 
His regal rights and claims t* assert ; 
i-CIsUds aooe might dsra to cootiovsrti 



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S8d A FORSNOOV'S CRUISE IN THK CHINA SEA. 

Then boldly shooting from the cout, 
He niih*d before the finny host; 
Announc*d himself their sovereign dread, 
Of piscal realm the lawful Head ; 
Demanded homage due ; and swore 
He^d mle the main from shore to shore ! 

At his presumption much tmaz'd, 

The whales and dolphins tum*d and gaz*d ; 

But left him unmolested, till 

He told them twas his gracious will 

A penal code to introduce. 

To check misconduct vile and loose. 

— Then, ere he could proclaim his laws, 

A shark distended wide his jaws, 

And, heedless of an austere frown. 

His royal Majesty gulpM down I 



Thus little wits oft leave the sphere 
Where they were wont to domineer, 
To venture on the broader stage 
Where stronger spirits warfare wage ; 
But, *stead of winning laurels proud. 
Are cnish'd and swallow'd in the crowd I 



A FORENOON'S CRUISE IN THE CHINA SEA. 

•♦ Helm's a lee 1** — " Raise tacks and sheets" — " Let go and 
hajol'* — *< Clear away that fore-top-gallant brace.'' Such are the 
pregnant phrases that intrude themselves on my unwilling ears as I 
lie cradled in my cot, in the starboard after-state-room of the cabin of 
the Gadfly, East Indiaman ; lat by obs. 22 north or thereabouts ; 
long, heaven knows what, at a quarter past sunrise, in the year of 
grace eighteen hundred and blank : — How provoking ! I am irre* 
trievably waked up — Heigh-hei-gh ho ! Ste^i^ird, is that you 1 " Yis, 
sir." *' Have they made ihe land yet ?" ^ Tis» sir, coast all along to 
starboard." '^The deuce! where, where are my trowsers." 
Reader, ahoy ! turn out, be visible — on deck forthwith ; and (if Ebony 
leaseth not,) you shall see '* Cathay, the core of fiirthest Ind" — The 
giddy foothold of the Antipodes — The goal, attained, of a panting 
pilgrimage over half the circumference of the globe. Many leagues 
withal to the eastward of the rosy East itself, that nestling-place of 
love and wonder, dearer in its associations with gorgeous fablcy diaa 
Greece and Rome in theirs widi a fascinating but threadbare histoiy. 



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A rORXNOOlf'8 CRUISE IN THB CHINA SEA. 387 

A regma embakned of Arabian tales ; the land of inyrteiyand bam- 
boo canes ; of art upon crutches and civilization in second childhood ; 
where moon-descended potentates were reigning, ages before creationy 
x>Ter moon-struck men. In brief, jou shall look, as jet through a 
glass, darkly, at the south coast of China, as exhibited in the neigh- 
borhood of Lintin. Fray, now that we are up and gazing, does it, 
think you, appear at all Chinese ? Can yoii see aught but intermina- 
ble ranges of bleak, brown, jagged hills, (Anglice mountains,) without 
a rag of proper verdure to cover their nakedness, and scarce whiskered 
under the telescope with a scanty allotment of stunted pines? 

Still do not ridicule my fairy-land of promise ; my queue-topia, for 
lack of astounding peculiarities at first sight— don't sing in disappointed 
irony^ 

A Chinese saii above our heads, 

And Chinese waves below. 
And Chinese breeses all around, 

How CMnealy they blow 1 

in the vein of the schoolboy who wept because his first-seen elephant 
was not. as big as a church ; for I am about to reveal novel features 
in the sea-scape. Look under the bows — there are white porpoises 
— if we gain our roadstead to-night, you shall see the waters turbid 
with the rush of an Oriental river. Shade your eyes for a moment, 
and behold that perfect chevatix de friae of fishing-smacks, along the 
horizon ; with their '* inmates amphibious," beings, not partially water- 
proof, like all other legitimate fish-takers, but living — de facto, tota 
vita, on the sea : pickled for ever in brine — lapping the milk of in- 
fancy, and pillowing the dying hoary head, alike on Thetis's bosom ; 
making their wet, uneasy boats, at once cradle and homestead, travel- 
ling carriage, fish-stall, and grave. Let us overhaul one or two of the 
fleet ahead for inspection. 

" Run out that foretopmast studding-sail boom, and bend the tack 
and halyards — sheet home royals, fore and afl — set the flying jib — 
port your helm a little, and keep her shaking." Ofi*we go — the ship 
waltzing with the water to the tune of ** Bounding billows," and rapidly 
nearing the nearest boat Here it is at last ; ducking and bobbing, 
and bowing and scraping under our lee ; stem high and dry, and nose 
puddling along, half under water, as if sharing the slippery quest of its 
occupants. The sails are bamboo — the crew, — aid me spirit of G. 
Cruikshank ! or how shall I cause to be appreciated these quaint ** co- 
heralds of the dawn ;" — these sentinel cherubims of the Celestial Em- 
pire : these first impressions ; these long-tailed, squirrel-toothed, 
swarthy representatives of still concealed, and yet-to-be-discovered 
Chinamen. But diere they lean and squat, and stare the '' too tran- 



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▲ POEBHOOll*! CRUIfl IN TBI CHIMA SEA. 

Mendanf ' vinoo of a fleettng moment, m we are sweeping b/« Now 
or nerer— 'the serene is petrittrchal : I can couDt the genefataoos. A 
bare headed antediluviaa couple, the Satorn and Ops of the eoarei^ 
lioot are peeping out, half hidden, from their kenoel on the deck* 
Next comes a kind of nondescript slattern, with woollen sash and in- 
finite trewsers, cheek by jowl with a litde tamip of a boy, all body and 
queue. Then a triangular bare-footed helmsman, the tiller 13 one 
hand the sheets in the other, voluble as a magpie, and looking, from 
choice and necessity, three ways at once. With six or se?cn soper- 
numerary grotesques, the common costume being any thing that conies 
to hand where every thing but salt water is scarce, set off with a huge 
cape, and surmounted by an acre of hat. *< All in the wind forward-^ 
Hard a weather with your helm, booby !" But our Paliourus, like ow- 
selves, has been gaping at the *^ natives." There they go: gliding, 
bounding, chattering, astern ; with their oaso^utteral cadences, (think 
of the tender small-talk of juvenile swine!) their naked feet, their 
dingy drapery, and every thing that is theirs ; all overshadowed with 
thoite parasol hats, like a senate of Titan toad-stools. 

Another boat A pendant, possibly, to the last, to judge from its 
** complement of men," which consists of one old woman and a litUe 
boy ; the latter comprising, perhaps, the larboard watdh. Poor soli- 
tary things ! Let us buy some of their fish, for charity's sake, for 
admiration's sake too, I nught add, for they will prove ictkuhdandies^ 
ocean exquisites, coated and spangled most rarely with gold and 
silver. 

Now, as the shore is still distant, and no adventure promises or Areat- 
ens, let us dream of one, by the aid of a very pertinent book which I 
hold m my hand. Sit, if you please, on that water-cask, and sweep &e 
horizon with your eye. Tou must realize that the?e prolific seas were 
once the cruising-ground of *' fishers of men :" not however, by any 
means in the apostolic sense ; I allude to the Ladrones. An asso- 
ciation of pirates, perhaps, (the old Northmen and the Algerines ex- 
cepted,) the most furmidabte on record. Their rise was singular. A 
few hundred provincials, aliennted by petty oppression, and seekmg 
refuge in petty piracy, were reinforced from time to time by a few 
hundred starveling neighbors. Less than two lustres beheld them 
masters of a fleet, whose admiral talked of changing the dyna^ity of the 
realm. Anon, seventy thousand desperadoes, with eighteen hundred 
sea-worthy vessels, emboldened by successful incursion, brooding, like 
an incubus, over the whole Southern coast, threading her rivers for 
tribute, blockading her sea-ports, strangling her Colonial commerce, 
spurning her feeble force and feebler tactics, placed China much in the 
posture of a foolish old hen who has unwittingly hatched a cot atrice* 
The bamboo of celestial justice might have menaced them to this hour 



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A FORBNOOH'S CBU18B IN THE CHUfA SBA. S89 

(at areflpeetful dkCanoe) bat for mtestiiie qaarrels, sad a l ob i oqm a t 
eoropromise which resulted in pardon for ^sidiMnuraireLadronesaBd 
a Blandarinship apiece (b j way of indemnitj) to each of their acbnirals* 
The latter have since approved themselreSy of cousset the most zealovs 
and unsparing among thief takers. Well ; I read that, in the year I8IO9 
(no matter what day of what moont) a cutter of the H. C. ship ^Marquis 
of £ly,' containing an officer, a Chinese pilot, and six or eight sturdy tars, 
was lost in a fog while hastening to rejoin that yessel at her anchorage not 
&r below Macao : that diey stood about hither and thither in sore distress 
for threo days ; saw nothing of the ship, had nothing to eat worth men- 
tioning, and finally (desirable consummation ! ) fell in widi jMrates. The 
scene of their distress, their captivity, and tardy ransom, is now before our 
eyes. Unlucky dogs. Methinks I see your wan fiioes peering through 
the mist, late in the afternoon of your third day of triab, guessing at 
the cardinal points, and searching in vain for something like a sun to 
steer by. Stout men sicken by starvation and long exposure, and ye 
have learned to watch and wake with a vengeance ; and have digested 
your last morsel of green orange forty-ei^t hours ago. A sad substi- 
tute, this, for the merry circling of the Capstan, and the seducing 
Rogue's March, quickening the anchor's rise for dear, distant home. 
But ^ fog breaks ! Huzza ! and sails, kind, welcome sails, are in 
sight : two boats to windward, and a whole bamboo squadron on the 
lee. The boats bear down. All huzza, save that old oriental wharf- 
rat, the pilot ; and what sajTS he ? "Lad-rones kill us if they catch us.** 
Whe-w ! Then pull, hoysj promptly — for God's sake pull, for the fish- 
ermen to leeward. And right strenuously do they pull themselves into 
very equivocal quarters. Unwitting suicides ! The lee fleet are La- 
drones. 

''Tbeir chieftain from his lofty poop, already, with his eye 
Is bidding them the welcome of the spider to the fly." 

And now he courteously lowers his boat. And now forty bare blades 
are gleaming in the returning sun above their half score of uneasy 
necks. One word from yon queer scoundrel, and heads and trunks 
may bid each other good by. '* Ingish, Ingishmen !" screams the 
pilot, short jackets and a uniform have proved (under Heaven) their 
salvation : the Ladrones recognizing the English as costly victims, 
and, better still, as very redeemable commodities at second hand. See 
the sufferers now fettered to the floorings of a war-junk. The first 
scrutiny of the captors is over. The shower of swinish monosyllables 
and uncouth acclamations that greeted their entry on board, has ceased : 
and, spite of famine, and insult, and crushed hopes, you may trace that 
hiptrowsered stoicism, that sort of Wapping resignation, that identifies 
a group of British tars in distress. Slighting all intermediate loafers, 
their eyes are coolly dilating upon a figure in jetty skull-cap and purple 
TOL. -nu 37 



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SM A FORBHCMHf't emJISS m THS china 8IA. 



■» parahad on the ihelf-lika q>Mrter«^ack : tte grand inqniiitor, m 
itwero; theeha iw ainrf thasofroondingcoBimittaeofr^ ^10 

die ctpiftin of the aquadrent the Tedoubtable Slam-bang-ti, or aoma 
aoch DMuical designatioD ; aoi-disant acourge of the Eattera Ocean ; 
and oertea not unworthj the aerio-comic peruaal of our heroea. But 
vjnt now? A supercilioaa punch from behind, a audden aide ^anee, 
end lol the apparition of an eardien trougby with aomething at last* 
thank Cerea« to eat "« Want ye lice 1" me^v the bearer : and thej fidl 
to like hjenaa; not, (a plague upon Chineae moudia that cannot 
sound an R,) not indeed upon the tinj people petted of Leuenhock, 
but upon rice ; wholeaomot lendeilj boiled, and aeaaoned m&k cater- 
pillara! 

Another turn, an it pleaae jrou, of fiuicj's kaleidoacope. Thej are 
tenants of a new prison, the flag«ship of tiiief-adiniral Taou. Scowl- 
ingly listens that worthy, while the old pBot, acting as interpreter, and 
jet quivering from a perquisite of torture, is clenching former testimo- 
nies, and treating for ransom 00 behalf of his less gifled clients. Were 
ever men so ill fattened by three months' diet upon balked anticipations, 
accompanied diough they undoubtedly were with messes of rice * a la 
Ladrone,' and occasional God sends of ambroaial rat-pies. How unlttie 
the once hale, cleanly cutteHs crew. A medley of scare-crows in 
scratched noees and tangled hair, with faces the yery wresUing-ground 
of smut and pallor. To-day is the crisis of their hie: a messenger 
from friends awaiting a sworn promise or a plump refusal of liberation, 
is very impartially munching hb opium hard by, utterly careless of the 
issue. His burglarious highness surly, the mediator cringing, but wary, 
meeting a worid of extravagant demands, with ^ Hy, Yah, no can give,** 
and a most dolorous obeisance and shake of the head. (A hundred 
thousand dollars, be it premised, was the meed of rescue first insisted 
on.) Fifty thousand — •• No can ;'* forty, thirty, twenty thousand — 
ditto, do. do. And now succeeds a private con&b with our corps of 
breathless ragamuffins. ^ Can give three thousand dealers, and make 
see directly." Whizz ! rejoins the sabre of the chief, by way of a 
gentle hint against encroachment But the offer is most unexpectedly 
accepted, on the sole stipulation of risking their lives to aid their tor- 
mentors in an impending battle. 

Hark to the gongs and the braying horns ! The fierce, unintelligible, 
shouts of command, the fitful booming of brass cannon, and the baying 
of rusty swivels. The hail-like rattle of a myriad of stones on the 
sides of lobster-shell junks ; the splash of short-coming missiles ; the 
• gentle roar' of a Chinese sea-fight! Crack, — crack — crack — 
crack — crack! English muskets! — How easily detected is their 
compact native eloquence amid all this barbarian thunder. Six hours 
have our friends taken part in this pleasant pastime, and six more (life 



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A forenoon's CRUtt& IN THB CHINA 8KA. Stl 

kist^O will stffi find them at it; natal aettoea hera Mi beiag *done 
op to order' in thirtjr minutaay as wiA us* in fact, stones and arrows 
are apt to wound more tUan tkej kiU« and the celestial powder lias a ew 
tnertic^ a home feeling, a sod unwillingness to go off, without infinite 
coaxing. At last die opera closes with a desperate self-sacrifice on 
the part of the government commander Ewo-lang-lin. He blows up 
his junk : a huge gingerbread cradle of five hundred tons, peopling 
the air with blazing rubbish, and figures of parched Chinamen, ascend- 
ing and descending. The bulk of national vessels is seized, and the 
Ladrones bear away the * cutter's men,' still safe, as might be expected ; 
tfieir lives, (not, alas ! their noses,) being charmed firom the beginning 
with a sprinkling of garlic water. 

Now let us ransom them, (for 'tis seven beUs, and almost dinner 
time.) What shall heave in sight on a blessed morning but the gun- 
brig * * * (not always a guest so benignant,) with all the means and 
appliances for speedy, certain deliverance. See her careering over the 
swell with snowy canvass and elastic hull, brimful of hope and mercy 
and beef and pork, nearer, aofi nearer, and nearer. 'Tis Elijah's 
raven, Noah's dove, to dieir long, dim, and rayless, but now relisted 
eyes. She 'heaves to,' and their hearts flutter. 'Qan truth divine 
thus tire upon the wingi' Nay, but Ladrones are jealous of armed in- 
trusion; the brig must hold aioof, and the communication be midway 
by boats. Oh the impatience of the poor cadgers to shake their fists in 
safetyat the firosty, cruel authors of tlris delay ! — The brig's g^has drop- 
ped plashing into the water : down from the channels flash a dozen white- 
trowsered shins, and'now the oars are rattling in their row-locks with a 
jirk and a roU of egregious good-will. They have gamed the robber's 
envoy, (that two-masted contribution-box,) and a weigh^ bag of dol- 
lars is transferred and on its way * « * * His avarice the ad- 
miral, is counting: ** Quisi — bad dollar.*' (The preposterous old 
rogue !) At last he rises growlingly, and the * fonquis ' are released* 
Imagine a knot of eels slipping firom a trap ? They are over the side 
in minus five minutes. Never creaked the bamboo appendages of 
the comprador's boat as now they creak, straining to the wind in pas- 
sage to die gun-brig's gig. They have won it at last ; three cheers ! and 
what a wild wagging of tongues and whistling of tarpaulins : " How 
fare ye. Jack ?" '' Poorly, thank ye. Gill," — trough welcome and kindly 
interchange season the homeward pull, till now, on the brig's deck, in 
the centre of safety, begirt with glad welcome and mighty guns and 
ruminating tars, behold them consigning all pirates, and Ladrones in 
particular, to * the Devil and Co.' 

All this would be a mighty tedious adventure for us to meet with after 
all ; and we are pertiaps quite as well off to be smoothly approximat- 
ing to Macao, most ignobly well fed, with whole skins and purses. 



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S92 OUR TANKSB OIRL8. 

dean shirts^ tad a tig^t uninjured vessel. The hills are grown glori- 
ouslj distinct, are diey not? and huts and rocks are beginning to— no 
matter what thej are beginning to do *- say you — dmoMr is ready ! 

Yf. 



OUR YANKEE GIRI^ 



Lbt greener lands and Uaer akies 

If auch the wide earth shows — 
With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes 

Match us the star and rose ; 
The winds, that lid the G«orgian's veil 

Or waye Cireassia's cnrls, 
Waft to their shores the Sultan's sail,— 

Who buys our Yankee girls 7 

The gay grisette, whose fingers touch 

LoTe's thousand chords so well ; 
The dark Italian, lofing much 

But more than one can tell ; 
And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed dame, 

Who binds her brow with pearls — 
Ye, who faaye seen them, can they shame 

Our own sweet Yankee gtris 7 

And what if court or castle Tannt 

Its children loftier bom, — 
Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt 

Beside the golden com ? 
They ask not for the courtly toil 

Of jewelled knights and earb— 
The daughters of the virgin soil. 

Our firee-bora Yankee girUi 

By eyeiy hill, whose stately pines 

Wave their dark arms above 
The home where some fiur being shines ' 

To warm the wilds with love ; 
From barast rock to bleakest shors^ 

Where farthest sail unfurls 
That stars and stripes are floating o'er — 

God bless our Yankee £^ls ! 



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THE ORIGIN OF INDIAN CORN. 

SoHi girli) were batbing one day in a river whose banks nourished 
not a single tree to shadow its waters, and one the most beautiful of 
them all lingered after her companions to gadier white pebbles from 
the bottom. A water-spirit, who had assumed the form of a muskrat, 
sat long watching her from the shore. He looked at her shining 
shoulders — at her long dripping locks and the gently swelling bosom 
over which they fell ; and when the maid lifted her rounded limbs from 
the water and stepped lightly upon the green sod, he too raised him- 
self from the tuft of rushes where he was hid, and, recovering his own 
shape, ran to embrace her. 

The maiden shrieked and fled — but the prickly-pears cut her feet, 
and the tall grass of the prairie impeded her flight without screening 
her from the view of her eager pursuer. Frightened and fatigued, she 
would have sunk on the ground as he approached her if she had not 
been supported by a tuft of flags while hastily seizing and twining them 
around her person to hide her shame. In that moment her slender 
form grew thinner and more rounded ; her bleeding feet became in- 
durated in the loose soil that opened to receive them. The blades 
of the flag broadened around her Angers, and enclosed her hand ; 
while flie bright pebbles that she held resolved themselves into milky 
grains, which were kept together by the plaited husk. The baflied 
water-spirit sprang to seize her by the long hair that yet floated in the 
breeze, but the silken tasseb of the rustling maize was all that met 
his grasp. 

[MSS. of a WesUm Touriit.'\ 



REORETS. 

Wbsri are the voices—- the tooei that bletC, 
The heart that lov'd me, and hands that prest ; 
The smiles benign, 
And the hopes onoe mine, 
Which gave to my being its Hfe and lest? 
Gone in the msb, of earth's bright streams 
Of gathered joys^ to the home of dreams. 



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294 RBdEBTfl. 

Where are the glowmg and fngnnt flowen^ 
That decked the path of the sannj houn ; 
And EHynutai bright, 
Where reigned delight, 
In ethereal bloom, over earthly boweri 7 

Qone in the mah of earth'e bright Btreama 
Of gathered joyi, to the home of dreame. 

Where are the earlier haet, that gare 
A beaaty, and glory, to momitam and m^e, 
A rapture and spell, 
For the heart to dwell, 
On lonely flood, or by moonlit grave? 

Oone in the rueh of eanh*8 bright streams 
Of gathered joys, to the home of dreams. 

Where are the blossoms of love that blavr. 
Expanding to light in the morning dew ? 
Gone — they are gone — 
And with weed o'ergrown, 
And Terdareless, now, is the place where they grew ; 
Gone in the rush, of earth's bright streams 
Of gathered joys, to the home of dreams. 

Gone are the halyoon pleasures, that burst 
On tha vision of life, in its dreamings first ; 
And fruitless as they, 
Are gone to decay. 
Fond ties long cherished, and warm feelings nurst 
Gone in the rush of earth's bright streams 
Of gathered joys, to the home of dreams. 

Gone art the voices, —the tones that bleit. 
The hearts that loved me, and hands that prest ; 
The smiles benign. 
And the hopes once mine. 
Which gave to my being, its life and zest 
Qone in the rush of earth's bright streams 
Of gathered joys, to the homo of dreams. 



T.H.H. 



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UFB Ul ABEANfAt. t05 



« CWER ALPINE PEAKS." 

O'er Alpine peaks' eternal snow 
Heayen*! lambent lightnings hanideM play ; 

Those fires that waste the plaioi below, 
Mocking the Tallies' paler daj, 

In robes of light the summit fold, 

And crown its front with ruddier gold. 

So on the soul, that, true to Heaven, 

Soars from the world's degenerate thrall, 
The storms that other towers have riven, 

Seared other hopes, unheeded falL 
But, touched with beauty more divine. 
In trkl stem its virtues shine. 

E.F.E. 
Cdumhia, 8, C. 



LIFE IN ARKANSAS. 

The bar, bench, and legislators of Arkansas ! There is a wide 
field to trayel inl Can I amuse you while in it for an hour? Before 
attempting it, let me take a has^ glance at the early history of the 
Territory. 

At the time when the famous Law was blowing up his Mississippi 
bobble, a colony of Frenchmen, under his instructions, ascended 
the river Arkansas sixty miles above its mouth, and settled near the 
present post of Arkansas, where they built a kind of fort. The pre- 
sent Territory was then inhabited, principally, by two tribes of Indians 
— the Osages and the Quapaws, both branches of the same family, 
and speaking dialects of the same language. The Quapaws have 
dwindled away to nothingness, and the Osages have removed beyond 
Fort Gibson ; and Aere are now by fiir less Indians within the bounds 
of Arkansas than of Georgia. The settlement at the Post neither 
increased or diminished, to any great extent, up to the time ^en the 
treaty of cession transferred the people to the United States. They 
intermingled somewhat with the Indians, and their descendants still 
form a large proportion of the inhabitants of the two counties of Ar- 
kansas and Jefferson — speaking their own loved language, and seem- 
ing Hke a small colony in a distant land. There is some noble blood 
among tiiem — as, for example, the descendants of Le Compte Ya- 



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296 LIFE IN ARKANSAS. 

liere D'Hautrieve« and of Don Garios de Yillamont, a fonner com- 
mandaot under the Spanish regime. The shoots of these noble fami- 
lies are, perhaps, as good republicans as anj among us. 

After the Territory of Arkansas was detached from Missouri, and 
made a separate principality and power, the first governor sent here 
by our good step-dame, the United States, was James Miller, a Yankee 
— the same man whose memorable answer is on record, when asked 
if he could take a battery — *' I'll try." I think he has since been a 
custom-house officer at Salem, Mass. Governor Miller left this Ter- 
ritory universally beloved, and his name is remembered with respect 
and affection. His mild, unaffected, easy manners — his simple and 
plain republicanism — and his excellent good sense, gave him a high 
claim upon the people of this Territory, of which he was emphati- 
cally the father. 

There is an anecdote connected with his administration which is 
too good to be lost Col. Walker, a lawyer of the Territory, and one 
of the oldest residents here, was the sheriff of Hempstead, a frontier 
county on the south ; during the time of the governor's rule, a band 
of Indians (Cherokees, from Red river) made some inroads upon the 
county, and at length stole some horses. Col. Walker raised the 
posse, followed them and killed a couple of them. Recollecting 
afterwards that he had acted without authority, he posted to the seat 
of government, and presented himself to Governor Miller. Colonel 
Walker is a large, fine, bluff-looking man, not much afraid of any thing. 
The governor received him with great politeness, and requested him 
to be seated. 

'* Well, Colonel Walker," said he, ^^ what news fit>m Hemp- 
stead?" 

*' Not much, your Excellency— only those infernal Cherokees have 
been in among us, robbing us of our horses again." 

" When ? — more than once ?" 

*' Yes, your Excellency — half a dozen times." 

'* Why did not you follow them V he inquired in great wrath. 

"What! without orders?" 

" Yes, Sir — without orders. You should have killed them. Sir." 

" So I did, beautifully," was the response — " a couple of them." 

The governor was taken all aback, but of course had nothing to 
say. Not long afterwards he held a council with the same tribe. 
The chief lamented the death of one of the men who bad fallen, and 
said he was " good roan, heap." " What does he say ?" inquired 
Miller. It was interpreted. " Tell him, then," said the governor, 
" that he was in d — d bad company t" . 

This same Col. Walker, some years since, was challenged by a 
French merchant residing at the Post On the appointed day, Walker 



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LIF£ IN ARKAMSAS. 297 

was on &e field, and shortly saw hid antagotiist approach^ accompa- 
nied by foar or five senrantSf each loaded down with anns. ** WeD,'' 
growled Walker, ** if I had known you intended bringing an anny, I 
would have thrown up a breastwork." 

The successor to Governor Miller, was Hard, of South Carolina. 
He was in every respect the antipodes of his predecessor. Proud, 
aristrocratic, and haughty, his military education and service had added 
to the traits of character naturally created by an education in the south, 
and he held very little communion with the ^* vulgar herd." Any 
approach to familiarity tortured him; he seldom appeared in the 
street, and never frequented balls or parties of any kind. Tet Go- 
vernor Hard was a fine gentleman, a scholar, and a man of polished 
taste ; and withal, as brave, chivalrous, and honorable a man as ever 
lived. 

Shortly after he arrived here he was called upon by some man 
from one of the northern counties, who had been commissioned a jus- 
tice of the peace. The fellow entered his house with as much care- 
lessness as though he were entering a log cabin, and afler a word or 
two had passed, addressed the governor in the following words: 
** Tour Excellency sent over a parcel of commissions to our county 
the other day, and my name was in one on 'em. It had the dead 
goose on it, your Excellency, and my name on it, and that was all 
right, your Excellency. But, George !" said he, clapping him on the 
shoulder, *' there was some of them had no name on them at all. To 
be sure they had the dead goose on 'em, but there was no name. 
That was not right, George. Let's take a little salt and soap." This 
gradual fiilling from veneration to familiarity — and an invitation to 
drink with his visiter — or, as he expressed it, '^ to take a little salt and 
soap," absolutely horrified the governor. 

He was succeeded by Governor John Pope, a Eentuckian, and the 
former competitor of Henry Clay for Congress. He was once in 
Congress, and this year opposed Ben Hardin in Kentucky, and 
got beaten. His principal displays upon the political arena were 
made during the contest between the old and new court parties in 
Kentucky, when the following anecdotes were told of his consis- 
tency. 

I forget on which side he originally was. He was at that time, 
however, a member of the Legislature, and on the day upon which 
the vote was to be taken, the party with which be bad been acting 
found themselves in danger of a defeat. Pope, who was the leading 
man of his party, was absent The discussion came on — his friends 
were disheartened — when suddenly he made his appearance, covered 
with mud and jaded by bard riding. He immediately addressed the 
House in a long, eloquent, and energetic speech, and when he sat 

TOL. TII. 33 

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29Q LIFE IN ARXANfAt. 

dowDy was greeted widi great and continued applause. A long debate 
foUowedi and when the vote was taken* John Pope voted againU hit 
own speech. 

At another time a vacancy occurred in the office of Judge of the 
Supreme Bench. The Governor of the State was desirous of nomi- 
nating an individual to that office, but was deterred from doing so, be- 
cause, from calculatiog the votes of the Legislature, he knew that the 
party opposed to him (including Pope) would have a majority of one 
vote. One evening Pope went to him, and informed him that he had 
come to the determination to support that gentleman for the judge- 
ship, and that if he would put him in nomination, he, John Pope, 
would vote for him, which would throw a majority of one vote in his 
favor. The Governor therefore laid the nomination before the Legis- 
lature Qn the ensuing morning, and John Pope voted against hdm^ and 
he was rejected. 

Notwithstanding all this, Gov. Pope is a man of talents, of consi- 
derable political experience though of no political stabUity ; and of great 
shrewdness and common sense — eloquent in debate — and of excel- 
lent conversational powers. There are no men more entertaining 
than he» until John Pope becomes the theme, and then he is intoler- 
able. 

Governor Pope was removed this year, and succeeded by William 
S. Fulton, former secretary of the Territory — a thorough-going 
Jackson man. He is, I may venture to hope, the last governor <^ the 
Territory of Arkansas. 

The Territory now contains about 63,000 inhabitants. It is divided 
into ybtir judicial circuits, containing each from seven to nine counties. 
In each county a term of the Circuit Court is held semi-annually by one 
of the Judges of the Superior Court, who are appointed by the 
President, by and with the consent of the Senate. Two terms of the 
Superior Court are also held every year at Little Rock, at which the 
four Judges should attend, though there are seldom more than two on 
the bench. 

The Judges of the four circuits are Benjamin Johnson, Edward 
Cross, Thomas J. Lacy, and Archibald Tell. Judge Johnson is a 
roan of fifly-five years of age I should think, and a brother of Richard 
M. Johnson. My impression is that he is decidedly superior to Te- 
cumseh in point of talent, as he certainly is in learning. He is a good 
lawyer, and a man of great goodness of heart His countenance ia 
one of the finest I ever saw. His forehead is high and broad — hia 
mouth compressed — and he has a strong resemblance to the por- 
traits of Jackson, except that the stem expression is changed for one 
of urbanity and kindliness of heart His face is in truth magnificent ; 
I have seen but two or three in my life which equalled it In private 



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LIFE IN ARKANSAS. 299 

life he Ls a tnie republican — a convivial and boon companion — and 
a kind husband and father. 

Of Judge Cross I know but little. He is a planter ; a kind and 
hospitable man, and of sound sense ; but no great lawyer or poUti- 
cian. 

Judge Tell is a Tennessee lawyer — a good, unaffected fellow — - 
and with experience will make a good Judge. 

Judge Lacy is also a Tennessee lawyer, and defended Beau- 
champ for the murder of Sharp. He is reputed a good lawyer. 

So much for the Judges — now for Circuit riding. A lawyer in this 
country, who rides two circuits, travels about 1200 miles a year. He 
mounts his horse, puts his saddle-bags and blanket under him, and 
takes to the cane-brakes and the winding hill roads. The Court 
House in which he practises, is a small log house, with planks laid on 
chunks for seats and a chair for the Judge. Here is none of the pa- 
raphernalia of a court of justice — no ermine — no robes of office — 
no sheriff's sword — no imposing forms and ceremonies. Tet here, 
would you believe it. Sir, there is as much respect shown to the court 
as in your own New England ; and if a noise arises within hearing, 
it is mstantly stilled by a fine. I recollect the astonishment widi which 
I first saw a court in the west ; but I have become accustomed to it, 
and have made many a speech in a log house since I took up ^ the 
trade" of a lawyer in Arkansas. We are troubled with few books in our 
joumeyings — and yet I have heard it remarked by lawyers from the 
east that they had found the members of the bar in this country to be 
the best off-hand lawyers they had ever known. A lawyer here is 
forced to have his science at his finger ends, or he is done. There 
are many, however, who make some tremendous displays of eloquence. 
For example, I once heard one gentleman at the bar talk of a man 
*'bull3dng and predominating over his equals" — and another said 
that ** the prisoner at the bar had beat the boy, and amalgamated his 
head." 

One of the oldefii lawyers in this country is the gentleman of whom 
J spoke in a former letter as being fond of Latin. He was formerly 
a Judge of the Circuit Court I recollect another anecdote of him, 
which was as follows : He was practising before Judge Trimble, 
(who knew not a word of Latin,) and in arguing some demurrer, he 
broke out with a long string of quotations. It was a jury trial. Par- 
rott, also a lawyer, replied to the learned gentleman in a string of gib- 
berish, which as much resembled Dutch or Choctaw, as Latin. The 
other appealed to the court to stop Parrott, inasmuch as he was not 
quoting Latin or any thing else. Parrott averred to the court and the 
jury that his Latin was as good as the gentleman's, and the court and 
the jury both decided that it was. 



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30Q Lin IN ARKAMtAS. 

The gendeman of whom I am speaikmgf in a veiy ezcellent tedmi- 
cal lawyer and a good Ghaocery solicitor ; but hia head is full of queer 
notions and vagaries. For example — be once determined to become a 
fanner, but refused to ploughhiB ground because it was never intended 
hy Grod that the face of nature should be diajigured for the purpose of 
raising com. With this idea upon the subject, he poked hcJas in die 
ground and dropped his com in« His wife, however, took the matter 
in hand, and made a very good crop. At another time he worked for 
a while at perpetual motion with an old Dutchman. 

Yet this same man, when a Judge, after being plagued and vexed 
for a long time in a case before him of some importance, in which the 
principal lawyers of the Territory were engaged, owing to their mis- 
management and want of research, gave an opinion suddenly, in which 
he showed them that the counsel on both sides had from the beginning 
mistaken the case — were radically wrong in their views q{ it, and to- 
tally ignorant of the law of the case. A more learned, luminous, and 
convincing legal argument has seldom been heard — never, in thia 
Territory ; and a clap of thunder in the Court House could not have 
more astonished the lawyers. 

I have very litde to say about the Legislature. It has just adjourned. 
There were some men in it who are destined to jGgure in Arkanaas, 
and periiaps elsewhere. The greater proportion of the members were 
rough, but sensible and honest ; but there were some two or three who 
would in the east have secured themselves a place in a hospital for 
idiots. 

The principal business of the last Legislature was to take means to 
call a Convention for the purpose of forming a constitution for the state 
of Arkansas, to be presented to Congress for approval. We have, 
peihaps, travelled out of the beaten track in not first obtaining per- 
mission to form a Constitution. We believe, however, that we have 
done no more than we had full right to do, and no more than the neces- 
sity of the case demanded. The Convention will consist of fi%-two 
members, and meets at this place early in January. If they form for 
us a republican Constitution, we trast in the justice 6f Congress for its 
acceptance. We trust that the people of New England, thoij^ we 
will go into the Union only as a slave State, will say welcome to Ar- 
kansas. I congratulate the old State of Massachusetts on her present 
position. I congratulate my native city — my old mother city — for 
I was bora in Boston — that she has lifted her voice against the disor- 
ganising and abominable schemes of the fanatics. Every such meet- 
ing in the North as that in Boston, is a blessing, a relief, a security 
for life and limb to the Southern slave. Every movement of the abo- 
litionist is riveting the fetters on die limbs of the negro — heating them 
red hot, and scorching them in — increasing his daily task — narrow- 



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LIFE Ilr^^tKA^SAS. 301 

iog ^villus measqr)^ of cooifort and relaxation r~ and ezpoaiiig him 
ofteoer to the last* Whyt Because it ipcreasea suspicion in the 
planter^ and renders more strictness and more security necessary ; 
jea^ gives excuse to severity. The curses of the slave will be as 
deep and terrible against the fanatics as those of the Southern plai^ten 

I tell those men, apd I know some of them personally, that their 
schemes are impracticable — that the negroes cannot be liberated -— 
thai if they could, it would produce a war of extermination, resulting 
in the absolute extinction of the«iaves — that th^ negroes of the South 
are as well fed, as well clad, as wel) attended i^ sickness — aye, bet- 
ter, than the popr classes of whites at the North. I tell them, too, that 
the greatest curse you can inflict on a slave is to free him. I have be- 
come convinced of these things since I left the North. 

Perhaps I have indhidualized enough. Let me generalize awhile. 

Not long since I received a letter from a genUeman of few years, 
but great prombe, who had been raised in Arkansas, and was writ- 
ing to me during bis tirst visit to New England. The following pas- 
sage occurs in one of his letters : *' When I first came to the East, 
New England seemed a strange land — ^ its people a distinct people, 
agreeing with the far West in nothing but different dialects of the same 
language and a few relics of the common law." The same impression 
was produced upon me whep I came to the West Every thing was 
radically, thoroughly, and essentially different The appearance of 
the country — the manner of living — the courts — the elections — the 
habits of the people — their language and expressions — was strange^ 
singular, and odd to me. Of course, all towns bear a resemblance to 
each other ; but I speak of the country and its inhabitants. Here we 
have none of the broad, level, and luxuriant pastures — none of the trim 
hedges — none of the old and venerable stone walls, built for many 
years — which are seen among you. The few fields which dot the 
surface of Arkansas would hardly convey to you, or any Eastern man, 
the idea of cultivation. Kound them runs a zigzag fence, built of 
rails, commonly called a Yirgmia fence — answering all the purposes 
required in a new country, though only capable of lasting five or si^ 
years. Within, the huge blackened stumps, or the tall skeletons of 
trees stand thick among the tall com. The roads are rough — often 
nothing but byepaths ; and with only here and there a house scattered 
along them. There are no continuous lines and bodies of field land 
and meadow. Tou leave one ragged enclosure — and are again plung- 
ed in the deep gloom of the bottom, on the rough masses of upland 
forest The dwellings of the people, too, are different There are few 
of the ooipmodious farm-houses which are to be found in the East ; 
but the residence even of a rich planter consists of a log-house for a 
dwelling, surrounded, in admirable^ disorder, with negro cabins, more 



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302 LIFE IN AltSANtAS. 

resembling pigstjes than any thing. To one house are frequency 
attached ten or fifteen of these cabins. Bams here are unknown. 
The com and fodder of the fiurmer (for he makes no hay) are disposed 
of, the one in cribs built of logs, and the other in stacks. Here are 
no villages, with the tall spires rising far above the tops of the houses — 
no village bells — no town clocks. Here is no voting by ballot, but 
all elections are conducted vwa voce. Every thing, in short, which I 
can remember — every boyish recollection, is at variance with the 
things around me here. I look back, and think of the stone-walls — 
of the fine orchards — of the bams and hay mows and the huskings — 
of the village church with its choir and its bass viol or its organ. 
None of them are here. No mowing — no making of hay — no cider 
press — no scythes, rakes, and pitchforks. (I have not seen a scythe 
in five years.) No prayers in the churches for the dead or the absent 
— no thanks for the returning wanderer. No merry sleigh bells — 
no rattling stages — no pomp and pageantry of mOitia musters. I am 
confident that were I to return now to New England, I should feel 
truly a stranger there. I should miss my horse and my gun — I 
should feel myself trammelled by grades and castes in society — I 
should be like a man just awakened from a long dream. 

With regard to the language of the West, it has been too often car- 
ricatured for me to attempt it The peculiarities of the West, so far 
as regards language, have been ludicrously exaggerated by almost 
every one who has written on the subject, and about as much justice 
done us as Matthews did you when he enacted a '* brother Jonathan in 
England." ** Flambergasted," *' exflunctified," and a hundred such 
words, have been served up by experienced cooks, as having and smack- 
ing of, the true Western flavor. I am incapable of marking down and 
particularizing the peculiarities in the language of the West. These 
peculiarities have become my own — they have ceased to be odd or 
quaint to me — I use them myself. I might, perhaps, briefly give you 
a few — but no more. For example, the word mind is still used here 
in its meaning of remember. Thus, "do you mind the time?** &c 
'* Splurge" is a common word, meaning tumudU noise, &c. " Sur- 
rygorous," and *' survenomous," are common words. Hushing is 
called '* shucking." A thong is called a " whang." A place where 
liquor is sold, ^' a doggery." ZTatr, hear^ stair^ et id omne gemu^ are 
pronounced har^ 6ar, slar^ &c. Contrary is always pronounced with 
the accent on the second syllable. Villain is pronounced Vilyain. 
The words " seen" and " seed," are often used for saw. 

Perhaps before I conclude my letters I may give you some more 
peculiarities if I think of any. For the present — good night ! 

Albert Pike. 



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dos 



THEMIKISmK. 



1. 
Emcircled by the screeoins ibade, 

With Bc&tter'd bush, anaboujgh, 
And grany alopeB, a pleasant g(ade 

la spread betore me now ; 
The wind that shows its forest search 
By the sweet fragrance of the birch 

Is whispeiing on my brow, 
And the mild sunshine flickers throng 
The soft white doud and sommer blue. 

8. 

Far to the North, the Delaware 

Flows mountam-cnrv*d along, 
By forest bank, by sommit bare, 

It bends in rippling song ; 
Receiving in each eddying nook 
The waters of the vassal orook 

It sweeps more deep and strong ; 
Roimd yon green island it divides. 
And by this quiet woodland ^ides. 

3. 
The ground bird flutters from the grass 

That hides her tiny nest, 
The startled deer, as by I pass. 

Bounds in the thicket's breast; 
The red-bird rears his crimson wing 
From the long fern of yonder springs 

A sweet and peaceful rest 
Breathes o'er the scene, where once the sound 
Of battle shook the gpry ground. 

4. 
Lone will the shudderins hunter tell 

How once, in vengefiu wrath 
Red warriors raised their fiercest yell 

And trod their bloodiest path ; 
How oft the sire — the babe — the wife 
Sluiek'd vain beneath the scalping knife 

>Mid havoc's fiery scathe ; 
Until the boldest quail'd to mark, 
Wrapi>'d round the woods. Night's mantle dark 

5. 
At length, the fisher frirl'd his sail 

Wimin the shelter>d creek. 
The hunter trod his forest trail 

The mustering band to seek ; 
The settler cast bis axe away, 
And grasp'd his rifle for the nay. 

All came, revenge to wreak — 
With the rude arms that chance supplied, 
And die, or conquer, side by side. 

e. 

Behind the ibotstepe of their foe, 

They msh'd, a gallant throng 
Burning with haste, to strike a Mow 

For eaoh remeo^Mred wrong; 



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304 THE MINISIHK. 

Hare on this field of Miiiisink 
Funtmg they sought the rivals brink. 

There, cool waves gnsh'd slonft 
No sound within the woods they hMid, 
But moimuring wind and wadbting biid. 

7. 
A shriek !— tis bat the |Muitfa«es — noog^ 

Breaks the ealm sunshine tbera^ 
A thicket stint — adeerhaseoog^ 

From sight a closer lair, 
Afiain upon the grass they dfoop» 
Wnen. burst the well-known whoop on wboo^ 

Shrill, deafening on the air. 
And bounding from their ambush'd g|oam 
Like wolves, the savage warriors come. 

8. 
In vain upsprun^ tfiat gallant band 

And setoed their weapons by, 
Fousht eve to eye, and nand to hand, 

Abs ! 'twas but to die: 
In vain the rifle's skilful flash 
Soorch'd eacle plume and wampum sash ; 

The hatchet tiiss'd on high 
And down they fell in crimson heaps, 
Like the ripe com the sickle reaps. 

9. 
In vain they sought the covert dark, 

The red knife cash'd each head. 
Each arrow found unerring mark. 

Till earth was pil'd with dead. 
Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hear 
Some voice and footst^ meet ner ear. 

Till hope grew faint with dread ; 
Looffdid she search the wood-patns o^er, 
ThaTviMoe and step she heard no more. 

10. 
Years have pass'd by, the meny bee 

Hums round the laurel flowers, 
The mock bird pours hdr hannony 

Amid the forest bowers, 
A skull is at my feet, thoudi now 
The wild rose wreatties its bony brow, 
Relic of other hours. 
. It bids the wandering pilgrim thmk 

Of those who died at Minisink. 

A.B.S. 
Jtfbntte^, StittiiMm Go. M F. 



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305 



CRITICAL NOTICES. 



The Laurel : a CUft for all SeasotUj — being a coUeclion of Poems by 
J3imericanaulhor$. Boeton: Edward R. Broadere. pp, 252, 12fiio. 

Tbi8 18 decidedly the most tasteful of the oollectionfl of American poetry which 
have &lien under our notice. One or two have been made in England, and if we 
may judge from the opinions of the Periodicals, received with fiivor. None of these 
will sofier comparison with the present ; and indeed we are not aware of any com- 
pilation of verses simjdy lyrical, by British bards, whose superiority we ought to fear. 
No one can turn over the pages of this little volume without being afiected by the 
ofa^ste and glowing sentiment which pervades every line of its poetry. It is singu- 
lariy free from that mawkish affectation which distinguishes the hyper-metaphysical 
school of modem rhymesters. It can lay no daim to the merit of mystifioition. 
Upon no page have we found either obscurity or dulness ; it is clear, simple verse, 
naking no pretension and standing in need neither of explanation or apology. It 
is precisely what the well-written preface.of a well-judging Editor declares it to be, 
a collection of ''some of the most popular fugitive pieces, by American writers." 

And this is the best kind of poetry we have ever had produced in this coontry. 
Our authora are too busy to write poems in cantos, an4 were they not, our people 
are too busy to read them. 

There are those, however, who afiect to despise these humble soarings of the 
muse, and are content only with a long and mighty flight To such we would re- 
commend, as proper food for their gigsntic intellects. Barlow's Columbiad, Fairfield's 
Last Night of Pompeii, or, what is better than either, a magnificent epic which sends 
down headlong to immortality the famous Daniel Boon, the first settler of Ken- 
tacky. One Bryan or Ryan, or some such " Emerald Isle" individual, wa$ the aothor 
or <<, if he has not already followed his epic There is the fiimous Fredoniad also, 
whidi might serve these Brobdignags of literature as a sort of light literary col- 
lation, by way of staying their stomachs in their hanger for the stupendous. For 
the benefit of the miserably ignorant, we would state that this great epic is mge- 
nioasly divided into five cantos — curiously arranged in their sulijects, thus : Fhnt 
Cmto — Hmvtn-: Second CmUo^Hutotn eotUmued: Third Canio-^Hdl: Fntrth 
CmUo^HdlemUkiued: F{fthCmiU>—BaUUofDetroiL Besides these poems, we 
are sorry that the lovers pf the obscnrely sublime, who so eagerly devoured Mr. 
Pollock's Course of Time (which we strongly suspect to be all a hoax) can be gra- 
tified by OS with the mention of no other works in America of a similar diaracter. 
There are none besides that we have heard of; but should there be any such, we 
afaoold consider ourselves particularly indebted to a constant reader, who would pro- 
cure it on his own accoimt and forward it to us, carefully packed m a hogshead, 
by steam-boat and rail-road car, fi«ightage paid. Weshould be happy to deposit it, 
witfaoat perusal, with Pollock and the others in our cdlar which we have had ar- 
ranged for the purpose^— not wishing to put any heavy strain upon the upper beams 
of oar habitation. 

▼OL. VII. 39 



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306 CRITICiX irOTICBS. 

To thai LiUipatiaii diet who, to heaTuieM and lead prefer Ug^tneu ind gold, wo 
would commend, m a book that a child might read with pleaaore and an old man 
listen to with delight, this pretty collection of poems — most tastefolly made, and as 
tastefully named ** The LaureL** Long may it bloom aromid the poet's brows I 
JBut we have not quite done with it yet Such roses do not grow on ereiy bush ; 
and we must pluck one or two by way of showing the reader that we have not too 
highly commended their beaoty and fragrance. Like a conseientious draper, we 
will give one or two patterns, cut off at random from the whole doth, to show the 
eioeDent texture of the &brie. 

We first <'«(ciM«rise^ 

THE LAST LEAF. 



''I saw him once before 
As he passed by the door. 

And again, 
The pavement stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 
With his cane. 

** They say that in his prime, 
Eire the pruning knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 
Through the town. 

^ But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

So forlorn, 
And he shakes his feeble head 
That it seems as if he said, 

' They are gone.' 

"The mossy marbles rest 
On the lips that he has pressed 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

''My grandmama has said — 
Poor old lady — she is dead 

Long ago ; 
That he had a Roman nose. 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

''But now his nose is thin. 
And it rests upon bis chm 

Likeasta£( 
And a crook is in his back. 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

** I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here. 
But the old three cornered hat, 
And the breeches — and all that. 

Are so queer t 



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CRITleAL KOTICE8. 807 

•* And if I sbould Ihre to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In Che spring — 
Let them smile as I do now 
At the old forsaken boa^ 

Where I cling." 

Here is another from the same original and graphic hand — a bold, spirit-sttiring 
I jric It was written when there was some talk about dismantling the glorioas old 
diip Constitution. The aiithor*s advice, happily for these times, was not followed. 

«*OLD IRONSIDES. 

«Ay! poU her tattered ensi^ down, 

Ijong has it wared on high. 
And many a heart has danced to see 

That banner in the dcy; 
Beneath it rung the battle shoot, 

And burst the cannon's roar — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

"Her deck, once red with beroetf* blood. 

Where knelt the vanquished foe^ 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood. 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the conquerof's tread 

Or know the conquered knee ; 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the seat 

'< Oh better that her shatteced hoik 

Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep 

And there should be her graven 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail. 
And give her to the fod of storms — 

The lightning andthe gale I" 

Here is a little song— very touching and very grand— by the most highly.gifted 
and deeply lamented of those departed bards— many of whose productions this 
little volume will rescue from oblivion. 

"THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG. 

BT J. G. C. BRAINARD. 

" On the deep is tiie mariner's danger. 
On the deep is the mariner's death ; 
Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger. 
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath ? 
'Tis the sea-bhxl, sea-bird, sea-Uid, 

Lone looker on despair, 
'TIS the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. 
The only witness there I 

" Who watches their course who 00 mildly 
Career to the kiss of the hneael 



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808 CEITIOAL NOnCM* 

Who listo to their flhriekiy wbo BO wikDj 
Are cUtped in the arms of the MM I 

'TIS the see-bird, sea-bird, sea^Hrd, ftc. 

'' Who hovers on hi^ o'er the lover, 
And her who has clung to his neck ? 
Whose wins is the wing that can cover. 
With its diadows the founderinc wredc? 

Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-biid, ftc. 

^'Mv eye is the lieht of the billow, 

Mv wing on me wake of the wave-» 
I shall take to m^ breast — for a pillow — 
The shroud of the fair and the Wave — 

Pin the sespbird, sea-bird, sea-bud, &c 

''Mvfoot on the ioe-bei)e has licbted 

When hoarse the wild winds veer about, 
Mr eye when the bark is benighted 
Sees the lamp of the lisht-hoose go out 

Pm the sea'bin^ sea-bird, sea-bird," &o» 

« Returning a Stolen Ring,** by C. Sheny, is a gem. But who is C. SbenyT 
At the risk of disturbing the placidity of one of the most promising politicians among 
the yomig men in our country, we declare C. Sherry, in this and in all other pieoeft 
through the volume, to be John O. Saigent, Esq., edkar of the Boitoo Atlas. 

"RETURNINa A STOLEN RING. 

BT C. BHVRRT. 

*< Well, lady, take again the ring, 
To deck that lily hand of thine. 
And with it take the gift I bring 
To lay on beauty's gdden Bhiine. 

** With every joy and pleasure gay. 
May all thme nours roQ swift alon|^ 
And life in beauty glide away. 
Like the rich cadence of a song. 

" May friendship shed its gentle rays. 
To make the path before thee bright ; 
And love serenely gild thy days. 
With a more deep and brilliant hght. 

" And in that future happy time. 
Thine earlier friends perchance forgot. 
Say wilt thou read this cardess rhyme, 
And him who wrote remember not 7 

** Remember not ! and can it be 
That joyous memories ever die 7 
That all my heart can feel lor thee 
Is but a li^itly whispered sigh 7 

** Ay, it is written on our lot, 
That lot so varied, dark, and strange. 
To meet, to pass, and be forgot. 
In painful and perpetual changei 

" But dash this idle gloom away. 
And be again the gay and free ; 
Thou must not to thy dying day,- 
Forget this stolen ring and me! *> 



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CRITICAL HOTICIS. SOO 

The btppiest efetf of BcTint, Halleck, Spragoe, &c 3u. may be fomid m thia 
chaioelitde ¥€1111116; bat are too well a|>praciated to need new oomiiieDdatioD. Let 
tboae who doobt whether our country haa prodaced any poet worthy of her hiatoiical 
renown read "the Pilgrim Fathers," by Pierpont 

To eacape the imputation of having quoted and referred to only the moat e^cdlent 
portiona of ** The Laurel,'' we conclode oar notice with eztractiag a aomewhat [dain* 
tiye bit of rerae by one of the editors of this Magazine^ who, while pleased to see 
hia name in such a goodly company, cannot be sopposed to think his rhymes better 
than the poorest in the coUectioo. 

"THE DEPARTED. 

BT PARK BENJAMIN. 

" The departed — the departed ! 

They visit us in dreams, 
And they glide above our memories 

Like shadows over streams ; 
But, where the cheerful lights of home 

In constant lustre bum. 
The departed — the departed 

Can never more return. 

"The good, the brave, the beautiful — 

How dreamless is their sleep. 
Where rolls the dirge^ike music 

Of the ever-tossiiig deep. 
Or where the hunying night winds 

Pale Winter's robes have spread 
Above the narrow palaces, 

Inthecitieaofthedead! 

"I look around and feel the awe 

Of one who walks alone — 
Among the vnrecks of former days, 

In mournful ruin strewn. 
I start to bear the stirring sounds 

Among the cypress trees : 
For the voice ot the departed 

Is borne upon the breeze. 

"That solemn voice I it mingles with 

Each free and careleaa strain ; 
I scarce can think Earth's minstrelsy 

Will cheer my heart again. 
The melody of Summer waves. 

The thrilling notes of birds, 
Can never be so dear to me. 

As their remembered words. 

" I sometimea dream their pleasant smiles 

Still on me sweeUj fidl : 
Their tones of love liaintlv hear 

My name in sadness caU. 
Iknow that they are happy 

With their angel-plumiuge on. 
But my heart is very desolate 

To thmk that they are gone I" 



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tlQ OHTIOAL VOnOES. 



jtm^rfewijSfifioifilietafi^ By JoHahPrU^ 

1 ooL 800. 7*. 4> C. Wood^ JVW-ForJir. 

AMsmiCAM AvTi^viTics ! ^'.ifficiefif /" foeered the widced Ftnny, wben her 
chaperon, *^ CoL -^-y** pointed oat to her a house eome sixty or serenty years old, 
as an object of bterest ** Ancient quotha r* as if there could be aught of antiquity 
In a land of yesterday! Beaotifnl Beatiice, she had nerer read the work of Mr. Jo- 
siah Prieetyor she would have known that the ruined castles and moulderkife abbejF* 
of her own boasted land, with all their time<JK>nored assodatiqiis, were but things of 
yesterday, compared with the hoaiy Past, which, brooding here so long nnhonored, 
has at length had its dim veil raised and its sphinx-like features revealed to our wor- 
ship. 

Talk of Melrose, Tintem, Kenilwoith 7 of the kni|^tly Percy or wizard Itfi- 
ehael Scott? Why, the Ark itself was hoilt in tfaie country, and Noah^ay ! Noeli 
and his three sons, were all Ambrioans. 

^It may faiily be inferred,** says our author, *'that as Noah was bom about 1000 
years aAer the creation of the world, that mankind had, from necessi^, arising from 
the pressure of population, gone very far away from the repons round abourSdeo ; 
and the country where N<Nm was bom may as well be supposed to hare been 
America, as any other part of the eaith ; seemg there are indubitable signs of ante- 
diluvian population in many parts of it Unite this circumstance with that of die 
ascertained current of the delu^ from America, and with the fact of the aik's hav- 
ing rested in an eastemly direction from this country, we come to a conclusion, that 
here, perhaps in the very state of New- York, the miraculous vessel vras erected, 
and bore away, treasured in its enormous capacity, the progenitors of the hmmn 
race renewed.** 

''In the very state of New-Yoik,** probably in the Oenesee country — the soil 
that produced « the big black walnut tree** is the one of all others to have produced 
the timbers of the ark. It was unkind of Noah, however, after usingthe mammoths 
which formerly pastured about the spurs of the Alleghaniee, to draw his materials, 
as he doubtless did, to deny them a place in his floating menagerie. If sufficiently 
domesticated for beasts of burthen, th^ were probably alao serviceable for the pur- 
poses of the dairy. And when the creation-Baving ship became tifted upon the 
waters and receded from the poor beasts who came lowing after it to yield their 
customary tribute at the twili^ hour, it must have seemed cruel to leave them thus — 
to leave them to be submergedin the waves which probably drove them to the highest 
mountain peaksere their lastbellowingsceased to resound over the waters. What 
a crackling must there have been in the forests as the herd of monsters plyed their 
huge limbs up the steep ascents while rashing from destruction ; and how fearful 
must have been the strug^^e in such animated masses before their bulky carcases 
floated unresisting upon the remorseless tide! This, however, is getting into the 
field of conjecture ; and as vre wish to keep to fruits solely, we must not indulge in 
any thing approaching to speculation. Our private opinion, however, about the 
mammoth is, that it was notldng more nor less than a larger species of sea elephant, 
innumerable herds of which are doubtless still roving over those ocean-covoed hills 
and vallies where the sea-serpent lurks in groves of coral to dart out upon his prey. 

According to our author, Skem was the only member of the Noahtic fomily who 
had any feelmg of patriotism about him ; and he was so penetrated with love of the 
nMloU jolnni, that he transmitted it in a sufficiently active degree to his descendants 
to impd them, a fow centuries aiW the exodus upon Ararat, to emigrate to this land 
of their fathers and to settle upon the western prairies : which, in our opinion, are 
nothing more dian the clearings ofdiese redoubtable back VTOodamen. They alone, 
it seems, pi ' es s i 'te d the real healthy-rad Adamite color. 



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OBRUSAI. HOTWM* SI I 

« SIMM, aficdfdiaf; to Ibe eo«MWBl7 raonved opi^^ 
•a4wt)tt€CMiipleKionof tbif obild did aol differ fiom tiiat of other •UUrcn bom 
htbte dM flood, all of whom aro rappooed to havo bo0D ved, or of tho cepMr hoe, 
OQ tho ooood of Adorn** comptexion ; Nooh did not, therdbre, noino tho child oft 
^B^ "iSht, finom any eztraordinaiy imptdao ariraif from anj aingiilar appeoimnoe in 
tho coiaplezioiH b«t imlher, at it was hii^irft bon 0011, ho coUod hkn 8^ 



''But at the birth ofHAMyH was difiaraiiL When thio child was bom. wo nay 
aoppoee the hoose or UtU to haro been in an nproar, on tho aooonnt of Ua Hrwng^ 
complexion ; the news of in^iich, we may soppoie, soon reached thoear of tho fiither, 
who, on bdbohfioff it, at once, in the form of an exclamation, cried out Ham I that 
Myitis Nocfc/ and CAm word became iUf name." 

''We suppose tho same inflnenoo govomod at tho birth of jAnura, and that at 
the birthof Una child, neater surprise still must havepcnraded tho hoasehold of Noah. 
as wkUe was a cast of complexion still more wonderful than either red or MscJb, as 
those two last named oomptexioos bear a stronger affinity to each other than to that 
of white. 

« No sooner, therefore, as we may soppooe, was the news of the birth of this third 
son earned to Noah, than, being anxious to embiace him, he saw with amazement, 
thotit was diverse from tfafe other two and from all mankind ; ha?ing oot the least 
^Snity of complexion with any of the human race; and being in an ecstasy, at tho 
ai^t of so fair and niddv an innuit, beaotifully white and traosparent of complexion, 
cnod out, while under the influence of his joy and surprise, Japhbth I which word 
became his name ; to this, however, he added afterwurds, Qod shall greatly enlarge 
Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem and Canaan; that is, Ham shall bo 
his servant ; so that, in a political senn, he was higher thsn the other two. 

"But if our opinion on this subject is esteemed not well supported, we would add 
one other circnmstanoe, which would seem to amount to demonstration, m proving 
Ham and his posterity to have been Mack at the outset 

"The ebcumstance is as follows : At two particular times, it appears from Oe- 
nesta, that Noah declared, Ham, with his posterity, should serve or become servants 
to both the posterity of Shem and Japheth. If one were to mquira whether this has 
been folfiUed or not, what would be the umversal answer 7 It would be — it has 
been fulfined. But in what way? Who are the people ? Tho universal answer 
IS, the Afncan race are the people.** 

For they, our author might have added, are not only held in bondage by the whites 
now, but are actually owned as slaves in several of the red tribes upon this continent 
But we must linger no longer with our author upon his introductoiy chapters, which, 
like those of the celebrated historian of Manhattoea, after going to the very root of 
his subject, commencing vrith the creation itself; branch off into many a learned 
treatise de omnibus rebua et quibtudam alHs. 

These fountain heads of ancient lore are the common property of the whole 
world ; and our business here is only with those well-springs of antiquity which we 
can claim as peculiariy American. For the fbUowing account of an examination of 
one of the great mounds of the West, our author is indebted to Mr. Ashe, an Eng* 
lish traveller. The details will probably r^ooind our readers of some of those in a 
I paper entitled American Antiquities in our January number. 



"On traversing the valley between Fort Harmer and the mountains,! determined 
to take the high g^rounds, and after some difficulty, ascended an emmence which 
commanded a view of the town of Marietta, and of the river up and down, display- 
ing a great distance along the narrow valley of the Ohio, cultivated plains, the gac^ 
d^s and p<^ular walks of that beautiful town. 

" After a very short inspection, and cursory exareinstion, it was evident that tho 
veiT spot or enunence on which I stood, had been occupied by the Indians, either as 
a place of observation or a strong hold. The exact sumnut of the hiU I found to 
be artificial ; it expressed an oval, forty-five feet by twenty-three, and was composed 
apparently of eartn and stone, though no stone of a snmuar character appeared in 
tOAtplace. 

" The base of the whole was mrded round about by a wall of earth, m a state of 
too great decay to jastify any calcolation, and the whole was so coverod with heavy 



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318 CBITIOAL Moncvi. 

timber, thit I despurad of^ainiiig any farther knowMfe, tad would hvn left Iha 
place had I not been detained b^ my Indian oompMuoo* whom I saw oociqiied in 



endeavoring to introdoce a pole mto a amall opeams between two flat atoiiea, nenr 
the root of a tree, which crew on the veiytanuiit of tMaemiMooe. 

** The atones we fiHrndwere too heavj to be removed by the meie power of hands. 
Two good oak poles were cat, in lien of levers and crows. Clapping these into the 
orifice first discovered, we weighed a large flat stoncL tilting it over, when we each 
assamed a jgoaided position, in silent expectation ofhearing the hitting of secpentsi, 
or the rosthngoftheground-ho^s litter; where the Indian bad sopposed was a dea 
of one sort or the other. 

** All was silenL We resumed oar labor, casting oot a nnmber of stones, leaves, 
and earth, soon clearing a surimce of seven feet by five, which had been covered up- 
wards of fifteen inches deep, with flat stones, principally lying against each other, 
with their edges to the horizon. 

*<On the surface we had cleared, appeared another diflKcolty, winch was a plain 
supefficies, composed of but three flat stones of such apparent raacnitade that the 
Indian begui to think that we should find under them neither snake nor pig; bm 
having once beeuo, I was not to be diverted from my task. 

"Stimulated by obstructiona, and auimated with other views than those of my 
eompanion, I had made a couple of hickory shovels with the aze, and setting to 
work, soon undermined the surlaoe, and slid the stones off on one side^ and laid te 
space open to view. 

** I expected to find a eavem : my imagination was warmed by a certain design 
I thought I discovered firom the very Degiooinje; the mannerthe stones were placed 
led me to conceive the existence of a i^t fiUed with the riches of antiqaity, and 
crowded with the treasures of the most ancient world. 

*< A bed of sand was all that appeared under these flat stones, which I cast off; 
and as I knew there was no sand nearer than the bed of the Muudngum, as design 
was therefore the more manifest, which encouraged my proceeding ; the sand wan 
about a foot deep, which I soon removed. 

^ The design and labor of man was now unequivocaL The space out of which 
these materiids were taken, left a hoUow in an ooloof square, lined with stones on 
the end and sides, and also, paved on what appeared to be the bottom, with sqnaie 
stones, of about nme inches diameter. 

** I picked these ap with the nicest care, and asain came to a bed of sand, whicfay 
when removed, made the vault about three feet deep, presenting another bottom or 
surface, composed of small square cut stones, fitted with such art, that I had much 
diflicolty in aiscovering many of the places where they met These displaced, 1 
came to a substance, which, on the most critical exammation, I judged to be a mat, 
or mats, in a state of entire decomposition and decay. My reverence and care in- 
creased with the progress already made ; I took up this unpalpable powder with 
my hands, and fanned off the remaining dust with my hat, when there appeared a 
beautiful teseelated pavement of small, colored stones ; the colors and stones ar- 
ranged in such a manner as to express harmony and shades, and portraying, at full 
length, the figure of a warrior under whose feet a snake was exhibited in ample 

''The body of the figures was composed of dyed, woods, bones, and a variety of 
small bits ofJerrous and testaceous substances, most of which crumbled into oust 
on being removed and exposed to the open air. 

** My regret and disappointment were very great, as I had flattered myself that 
the whole was stone, and capable of beins taken up and preserved. Little more, 
however, than the actual pavement could be preserved, which was composed of ^ 
stones, one inch deep, ana two inches square. The prevailing colors were white, 
green, dark blue, and pale spotted red ; all of whidi are pecuuar to the lakes, and 
not to be had nearer than about three hundred miles, 

"The wbde was afiixed in a thin layer of sand, fitted together witii great preci- 
sion, and covered a piece of bark in great decay, whose removal exposed vniat I 
was fully prepared to discover, from all previous indications, the remains of a hu- 
man skeleton, which was of an uncommon magnitude, being seven feet in length. 
With the skeleton was found, first an earthen vessel, or urn, in which were sevml 
bones, and some white sediment 

" The urn appeared to be made of sand and flint vitrified, and rung, when strode, 
like gloss, and held about two gallons, had a top or cover of the same material, ana 
resisted fire as completely as iron or brass. Second ; a stone axe, with a aroove 
round the pole, by which it had been fastened with a vrithe io die handle. Third ; 



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CBITIOAL HOTICSt. BIZ 

twflD^-lbiir SROW pobts, made of flint and bone, and lying in a poeitioii wbioli 
■bowed tbe¥ bad bekuiged to a qoirer. Fourth ; a auantity of beada. but not of 
-glaasyroanc^ovaL and square; colored green, black, white, bfne, and ydlow. Fifth; 
a very large conch shell, decomposed into a substance like chalk ; this shell was 
fourteen inches long^ and twentv-three in circumference. The Hindoo priests, at 
the present time, use this sort of shell as sacred. It is blown to announce the cele- 
bration of religious festivals. Sixth ; under a heap of dust and tenuous shreds of 
feathered doth and hair, a parcel ofhrmu rin««, cutout of a solid piece of metal, and 
m such a manner that the nnga were suspenaea from each other, without the aid of 
solder or any other visible asency whatever. EUch ring was three mches in diameter, 
and the bar of the rings h^ an inch thick, and were square ; a variety of charac- 
ters were deeply engraved on the sides of the rings, resembling the Chinese 
characters.** 

This is certainly curious and interesting ; and we wish that Mr. Priest had limit- 
ed the scope of his work to the collection of similar well authenticated accounts, 
instead of running wild in speculations, which, however ingenious, are misplaced in 
a work of so sober a character, and tend only to throw discredh and ridicule upon 
his otherwise estimable and really valuable labors. We have, ourselves, surveyed 
■eme fifteen or twenty of these ancient works ; some of them being, perhaps, the 
very remains which our author alludes to, as mentioned by Carver, on the Upper 
M iss i ssippi, (he might have better quoted the higher authority of Mr. Schoolcraft 
and B^jor Long) and others, a thousand miles away from them, which Carver 
never pretended to have seen. We have examined, too, many of the stone cells de- 
scribed by Mr. Ash, which, though answeiing exactly to his account of their shape 
and arrangement, contained nothing but dust Wi^ regard to the mounds them- 
selves, we fear that all clue to the cause of their erection, and the race who reared 
them, is irrevocably lost in the shadows of the all-absorbing past With regaid to 
tiie bodies which are sometimes found buried in them, we fiiAl nothing in all con- 
current teatimony to convince us that they did not belong to the existing race of 
Indians, and were not placed there within the last few hundred years. The ancient 
weapons and ornaments of metal, that are found interred with these bodies, do in- 
deed afibrd a singular subject for curious speculation. Of their existence we have 
not a doubt ; for, besides those found in various public collections, we have seen a 
brass hatchet taken from a mound in Western Virgima, in the possession of a per- 
Bon who dwelt near the spot where it was discovered. This, however, like the 
brass rings graven with Chinese characters, found by Mr. Ash, we conceive had 
nothing to do with the state of the arts existing among the people who were thus 
buried with their favorite toys. The rest of the equipments and fineiy, even to the 
eooch shell described by Mr. A., are those of a modem Indian ; and it is worthy of 
remark, that wherever these metallic weapons and ornaments are found, they are 
always accompanied by other efiects, showing a similar barbarous taste. How 
then are we to account for their existence ? The solution is easy. They have been 
wa]& from some shipwrecked vessel cast upon the strand, and found by the natives 
upon the coast, and transmitted from hand to hand until they reached those western 
tribes, whose custom it was to inter their favorite effects with the dead, when they 
were buried, with the bows and arrows of some barbarous chiefs. He who thinks 
it strange that they could make their way so far into the interior, must remember 
that that remarkable race, ** the Romans of this continent,'*'*' as Dewitt Clinton called 



I brilliantly and admirably shown the results of their system in more than 
one of his characters, (the creature of institutions as pecuHar and as operative as 
those of Sparta,) althougli he has much impaired the effect of his portrait by giving 
the same attributes to the western savage of the present day. 

VOL. vn. 40 



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ai4 CUTIO^L NOTKMH. 

^btoH who dwelt around tht hetd watm of tbe Ofaio, tht SuaqMbaaatb, u»d the 
HodeoB, caiiied Umit ezpaditiQBS a thooMod miksaway fiomlthMrhead-qmrtMi 
n the atate of New-l^ork. Have they had the key of the Cbeiapeake, the Miaeia- 
aippi, and the Oidf of St Lawrence with all its chain of lakea. Their canoes weqs 
kept on every tribntaiy; and at the veiytime La Salle met liz hundred of thdr wav- 
lioii parming the Dlinwaa o?er the smooth prairies of the far West, the bills of 
Blaine^ and the awampe of Carolina, were not free from their inTasioD. 

The rsal discoreriea upon this continent, or rather the explanation of such, are to 
be made hereafter, we suspect, by the Geologist We know not, howerer, bow 
his science can explain the nngular details quoted by Mr. Priest from Morse's 
geography and Schoolcraft's travels. (See pp. 157, 158, 159.) 

A drawings which parports to be a fao-simile of these tracks, is given in the vo- 
lume before us. 

Although we have already exceeded the limits assigned to a single work in 
these notices yet the relation is so interesting that we would stiU find room, if poa- 
siUe, for the following extracts. (See pp. 173, 174, 175, 176, 187.) 

We cannot take leave of the work before us, however, without observing^ that 
notwithstanding the jocose manner jn which we have treated some parta ofMrJPriest'a 
book, which we thought trenched unnecessarily upon sacred ground, it will well 
repay examination : and of this there can hardly be better proof than the fact men- 
tioned in the title-page, that ** ttoetUy-two thouatmd copies of the work have been 
published within thirty nx>nths for subscribers only." 

In this connexion it may not be improper to mention that we have received an 
interesting letter, referring to the paper on the Antiquities of North America in our 
January number. After noticing the writer's ingenious hypothesis^that the relics diar 
covered belonged to the crew of a Phcenician vessel blown accidentally from her course 
to the shores of the Western world ages before the Christian era, or to that raca 
which constructed the mounds of the West, and, agreeably to the traditions of the 
present Indians, were conquered and driven aouthward, probably to Mexico and 
Guatamala, — our correspondent proceeds — " Permit me to ask the writer if these 
articles have been preserved, and where they may be seen ? — for, if they now exist, 
they wouki certainly rank first in interest of aU the memorials of a former age, 
which have been found within the limits of New England ; and, by examination of 
the cranium, if not too much decayed, some important conclusions may be formed 
as to the race to which it belonged. Drs. Warren and Spunheim, upon einmina- 
tion of the crania taken from the Ohio mounds, and comparing them with those of 
the Peruvian Indians, 'pronounced than to be of the same race ; and, according to 
the latter, the organ of oonstructiveness was lai|^ in both, thus afibrding some ad* 
ditional probability to the tradition mentioned above. 

To the Romans, Jews, Welch, Mongols, and almost every other known nation, 
has the peopling of America been attributed ; but passing over these varying sur- 
mises, it mi^ be well to inquire why so little can be learned with certainty with 
regard to itB eariy history. Who, upon examining the magnific^it nans lately dis- 
covered in and about Palanque and Mitla, the immense city of Otolam,* (which, aa 
illustrating the domestic hfe and marmers of a people long since departed, and whoae 
name even defies antiquarian research, may with propriety be styled the Pompeii of 
the New World) and the account of like remains existmg in various parts of South 
America — will not come to the conclusion that America was once the seat of arts 
and adences buried m obUvion 7 How little should we have known at this day 
ooDoaming the ancient Egyptians, had it not been for the literature of other nations 
and the late brilliant discoveries of ChampoUion ! Destroy all the records d* the 

* The Geographical Society of Paris have ofiered a handsome premium f<^ tha 
best description of these ruins. 



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OMTIOAI. HOYIOBi. tlf 

Jewiih nice, then Tint Palditiiie, and gamier, if poMibley (W» kouy tm&Am ud 
tbe Madtedd atoeameotii ofiBOMOtaitythe fabUiyof The 

empiie of the Assyrian, and the mighty capital, whose towering walls seemed hoitt 
tDdeiytheencroaohmentsofage,— whereaieth^? Time laafbs alike at Thebes's 
handled gates, and Babel's lof^ tower. Witness Tyre and her daoghter, Carthage 
— wbMt know we of those prood ooean-qoeens save tiipoagh the writings of their 
enemies? Their mms attest not their fbnner greatness ; lor the aU-deslioying hand 
of Che baiharian has been there. Such may have been the fate of this oontineiit in 
times past — and its inhabitants, unacquainted with a written language, pie s wve d 
not,eioepC through the uncertain 'medium of oral tradition, faint glimmering of 
whkh have reached oi^ the histoiy of these changes. 

''Here^ as elseidiere, refolntioii may hare soooeeded revolutioo, and the barbarous 
hordes finom ' the mighty store-house of the human race,' poured themselves with 
irresistible fury upon Amerioa— chan^g government, language^ and religion, as 
they have done upon Europe. The latter recovered from theee assaults to make stfll 
greater advances in civilin^ion'; whilst the fbnner, unaided by the light of Christiani- 
ty, and crushed under ignorance and superstition, was sunk into barbarism, with 
but few and faint traess of a better state. At her discofery — ifwemayjudgefrooi 
the then rapidly pmgiessiiife empires of Mezioo and Peru, whieh were in seme of 
the arts fiur before oettain parts of Europe — she too mig|it have been casting aside 
the darkness which shrouded her ; and, emerging from the mighty dead with le- 
Bowed brightness, might have taken her seat high among the powerful states and 
lawgivers of the earth. As every soeoeediog year brings to light some loo^uried 
memorial of an aadent raoe^ the public ourio«ty beeomes aroused, and many are 
tfie questioBs asked and theories fermed with regard to it In the present state of 
Our knowledge, little or no certainty can exist; but time and laborious inveetigation 
may lead us to such results as will prove gratifying, and even satisfactory, to our 
imnds, if no hi^ier object is to be gained. To efiect Uiis we should preeerve with 
eacred care, all relics of the past, and note^ with careful and disoriooinatiog hand, 
each new ciscovery.* Let the philologist, with critical acumen, eKamine the stroe- 
ture of the various languages ; the physiologist, the crania and mummies so oflso 
disinterred, and compare there with those of eaisting races — and let all be slow, but 
sure, in arrivbg at conclusions ; and from materials thus carefully prepared, let 
the strong-minded, sagacious philosopher gather truths to instruct and amuse man* 
lund.» 

* The inscribed stone at Rutland, Blass., of which Professor Raffineseue in his 
Appendix to Marshall's History of Kentucky, says : ** Many opinions nave been 
fermed, supposed Atlantic, Phrnnidan, Coptic or IJenopian," is, asMr. Baldwin, late 
librarian otthe Antiquarian Society, who had carefully examined it, stated — noth- 
ing but a mass of granite, interspersed with crystals of tourmalio& in snch a manner 
as to present, to a casual observer, the appearance of blackened letters or hieroffly* 
phics. Daring the suinner of 1833, in blasting rocks for the Unitarian church, men 
buildfaig at SsAdwioh, Mass., a stone was discovered with singularly formed cha- 
racters carved upon i^ similar, as was then thought, to those on the Dighton rock. 
A fac-simile of it was taken, and an account pol3ished in one of the newsoapers of 
the dajr ; when, unfortunately for antiquarian lore and zeal, some aged ionabitants 
recognized it as the work of an insane man, wbc^ man^r years before, was allowed 
to ramble around the woods, employinc hb time m cutting grotesque and unmean* 
m^ figures u|>on rocks. These examues are given to demonstrate how important 
it M to be critical in all observations ot this nature^ 



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n$ CRITICAL HOTIOBS*^ 



Tke Opera of La 8ammamlmla.—Bjf VmemMa BeUmL 

1m ettiiiMtiiig the merits of those prodactioos of the faoman mind dktingoished 
hy the nsme of the Fine Arts, it has often been an enor to compsie them with 
each otbec, so as to gi? e the preference to that which either chance, education, or 
taste may hare made our favorite. If, however, instead of instituting such a com- 
parison, we should obsenre the manner in wbidi the Fbe Arts express tiioag^tB 
and feelbgs, and consider to what extent these may be conveyed by the (fifiereot 
means pecaliar to each art, we should then understand and appreciate them batter. 
The exquisite coloring of a painted landscape, the exhibitions of beautiful fomui 
upon the canvass, or their life«like embodiment in the breathing marble, may indeed 
awaken within our breasts emotions and conceptions akin to tiwse of the paintar 
and scdptor, and inspire us with a fervid i^dmiration for the prodigies of 

Delia man che ubbidisce all' inteUetto ; — 

still, there are limits beyond which the creative powers of painting and seulptnre can- 
not piooeed ; and Poetry herself, — who aspires to soar beyond the visUe eninence 
of beings and things, and to attain the heists of celestial realms, — Poetry herself 
sometimes vainly endeavors to tell those raptures of the human soul, which, indefi- 
nable and inexplicable as the undulations of a haipeiohord, can be fully ex p r aaaed 
only by the spirit-Kke outpourings of Music 

The musical representation which has lately been witnessed on our stage baa lad 
OS into this train of thought We have been called upon to observe not only tfaa 
wonders which Music alone can perform, but those which it can accomplish wfaaa 
aided by the sister art of Poetry. 

The opera of La Somnambula, by Vincenao Bellini, was presented to themnaieal 
world in 1830^ at the theatre Delia Scale at Milan. Its performance was entrusted 
to singers, who, by reason of the excellence of their vocal and histrionic abilitiea, 
then formed the delight of their Italian audience. The unequalled success with 
which it met was (uUy adequate to the merit of its composition and the far^praai^ 
ing fame of its youthful author. It was a new and splendid triumph, superadded to 
those which had already been accorded to him whose genius had breathed forth ita 
inspirations in the melancholy and heart^stirring notes of the Piraiu and the Straaitrs; 
and who, in composing the music to Romeo and Juliet, had illustrated, by strains 
almost as divine, the divine conceptions of Shakspeare. 

After the SomnmmbtUa, Bellini composed J^orma and Beairice Tenda, ('^ of which 
all Europe rings firom side to side") and last winter, in Paris, the Pmiimni^ vrfaich 
won him honors unprecedented in the history of the opera. With the PurUam ended 
the short but brilliant career of his genius, even in the very dawn of its glory ; leav- 
ing the world to lament over his eariy death, and to pay to his memory an unfoihng 
tribute of tears — so long as the pathetic and divine harmony of his music shall cod* 
tinue to awaken within human hearts the sweet emotions of innocent grief^ <'f P<^t 
and of love. 

One of the principal merits of Bellini's operas, apart from the musical superiority, 
consists in the propriety and interest of their plots and the judicious choice of sub> 
Jects adapted to ^e natural bent of the compoeer*s genius. Before his time, Italiana 
had mdeed listened with delight to the enthralling strains of master-minds; but 
their tastes were perpetually shocked by poor and ludicrous attempts at vena. 
Bellini was the first to ennoble his art by wedding it to beautiful poetry. For this 
he was indebted to Signer Felice Romani, who has won for himself the big^ ap- 
proval of the literary worid. All his compositions (apart from their characteristic 
ismplici^, evidently observed so as to leave the field entirely to the nnsic) ara i%> 



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cKiTiau:. Koncit. SIT 

■MikaUe for the mtonst of their ploli, tiie digBity of tii^ 

fuioe of the laaguage in which they are wdtteo. Many of hie aoag^ especially in 
La. Somnambula (we refer to the original), are equal to the smooth and sweet ** sri- 
•11^ of the polished Metastasio. 

Of the mosio we know not bow to speak in adequate terms' of conmendatioo; to 
do it justice wwM require almost the talents and perception of the artist himself to 
whom akme its inoxMit beauties can be manifest OfthepostiykWeyinthisooatttryy 
must judge at great disadvantage, on account of the wretchedness of the En^ish 
trandation. Tons the peculiar adaptation of the words to the music is almost en- 
tirely lost With one or two ezceptbns, the En^ish verses are beneath contempt; 
they dtftort the meaning of the author ; are outof harmony with the music ; and in 
many places convey sentiments totally opposite to the original, for the sake of twist- 
ing them into ''distressing^ rbymes. Yet with this capital drawback we can 
say — as the American public has said before us — that no opera was ever produced 
here, that for exquisite feeling refined taste^ and soul-entrancing melody, can be 
compared to this marvellous eSori of Italian genius. 

It would be a question of too long discussion were we to occupy ourselves here 
with foUy answering the objections of those, who^ at this late period, still claim tlM 
wraUemkUAle as a necessity for dramatic efieot 'Withgut dwelling on the fact that 
to arrive at the reality of a theatrical exhibition, the mind of the spectator is un- 
avoidably forced to ooake great abstractions, even in those plays in which the author 
has made strict use of the compass of Aristotle, we will simply observe^ that the 
channels through which the emotions and feelings pour themselves, are various and 
strange ; and that, among them, singing is by no means the last If declamation 
may be used as a medium of giring utterance to the human passions, we see no 
reason why smging may not serve the same purpose ; especially when we have facts 
that will easily annihilate rules, no matter how long established or how pertinaciously 
maintained. In the opera which we now consider, the poet has placed its characters 
in no situation which has not its interest vastly increased by the ezpressi<m of the 
music 'j and whether we attend to the accompaniments or the airs, the duets or the 
chOTuses, there is a constant run of melody throu^ the whole, as inexpressibly 
sweet and as true as the harmonious charm of Nature herself. When Amiaa in- 
vites us to weep, we know not how to refrain from weeping, or from sharing the 
angmsh of her innocent soul in the pitiful bewilderment of her dreams ; nor can we 
repress our tears of joy upon her sudden awaking from despair to happiness. That 
the efiect of having our finer sensibilities so stirred is excellent, we cannot doubt ; 
such enjoyment is an alembic in which the heart becomes pure ; whether, like the 
Arcadians, our tastes will be rendered more simple and good by such influences 
we cannot foretell : but we should think the heart of that man as hard as '^ the nether 
roiU-stooe," who, after having listened to '^ La Somnambula," could pass his enemy 
without proffering the friendly grasp ; or who, till the worid had again worn away 
tiie soft impression, could entertain any sentiment less holy than one of universal 
kindness and good-wilL The soul which is filled with music so divine can breathe 
only harmonious thou|^ts. 

We cannot dose the remarks which have thus flowed from our pen, while reflect- 
ing upon this beautiful evidence of the power of heaven-derived ait, without alludmg 
to the exquisite manner in which the part of Amina has been performed by Mrs. 
Wood in the difierent theatres. She appeared, for the first time in her career, in 
this part in New- York. Her success was brilliant and entire ; she not only capti- 
vated the admirers of music, and the eonnoUseurs among our own countrymen, but 
was completely victorious over the prejudices of Italian artists, who were at that time 
engaged at the Opera-house. Night after night was the Paric theatre crowded with 
daigling multitudes. The manager reaped a richer harvest than bad ever before 
been gadiexed from any theatrical engagement, with the exception of one perfbnned 



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sit oAfnoAL i^vfmLB. 

viiiyyMniet^bf the eddinntedGfeargeFradflrie Cooke. The Tremont tbeetrcf 
wma, dwias the lepneeDftatitti ef thfe svperi^ piece, thronged bj eMpenihleges more 
enthofliulio, tfpoMibleythuitheeeatthePefk. Itiealiiioetaedi£Bcalttoweini1iie 
New Rngiand chanMster into e fervor of admiration, ae it b to meh away the ioe 
andsBowiofaNewEni^aiidwMitBr; but the maajcalcgthfieiaom, which waaahed 
aiemd by thia opera, waa aa if a soBimei^ aim had powed down ita heat ; and the 
naoal reairre and eoldneaa o^ feeling becaaM aaddeniy kxweoed mto a peiifoct flood 
and fiediet of orerwhefanin^ fervent apphnae. 

In ending theaeobaervationa, our refleotioDeoneeBMvevevert to the qneu rp aaa 
ablegeniaaoftheoompoeerofLaSoamambnla. When we Uaten to hie enrapturing 
atraiaa, we cannot leaJiae that Bellini ia dead. He departed aoyoong! No! haia 
atill preeent Many and many a year will hia sphit be breathed into oars ; and, 
when we too are gone, though fialae taaCe or a new marvel may caat temporaiy 
oblivion over hia divine nraeic, still finom age to age will it be revived to del^iC the 
world and to make hie name immoitaL No ! We have heard the tonee of hb un- 
dying geniufl, and we feel a certainty, greater than the certainty of Kfe, that we ihaH 
hear them a^dn ; and, therefbre, when we apeak of Bellini to one who eympathiaea 
in our adnmlion, we apply the moumfol and touching conaolation of Sci^itnre-— 
and aay, "He ia notdead, but eleepelfa.'* 



JJenry IV. of Oermany-^a Tragedy in fae acU. JfeW'Yorh — 
Oabom and Buckingham. 

Though " easier 'tis to blacken than re-blanch," we are too ** conscience-shel- 
tered,'' ''to annul the imposed straint" of critical justice, and withhold that praise 
firom this production, which involuntarily ** breaks forth into a fit of sounded thought" 
the moment we take up the pen. 

It is astonishiug how genius always movee in a cycle ; or rather, how regulariy 
its grandest productions come up every now and then in some renewed shape after 
the lapse of a certain number of ages. The noble Epic of Homer seemed repro- 
duced to the world in the heroic poem of "Vergil ; and the ^orious iEneid again, 
after the flight of centuries, transmitted its spirit into the great work of Milton. The 
military g^oriea of Alexander, after pausing, as at a half-way house in the boeom 
of Cesar, was housed at last for the present century beneath the cocked hat of Na- 
poleon ; while the adventurous soul of Jason, shining forth in the more than Argo- 
nautic Christoval, blazed finally in its greatest splendor in the all-exploring mind of 
Captain Symmes. Shakspeare even was not an exception to the general rule ; for 
though we find not hia exact prototype in any age, yet the respective eras of Euri- 
pides and Terence, and of the great Italian dramatists, each contributed a ray to the 
blaze of that dramatic genius which is now transmitted in all ita fulness and efful- 
gence to the play before us. 

Henry IV. a tragedy in five acts, is in fact, so entirely Shakspearean, that this 
conviction is irresistibly forced upon the mind of the reader. There is that aame 
mixture of prose and poetry, of tragic feeling and comic humor, set forth in a 
phraseology which bears the very form and pressure of the times in which he 
wrote, and imbued with every thing except his unhappy vice of punning, to show 
that the author has taken his inspiration from the sublimest of models. If Shak- 
speare, for instance, wished to tell us that a man had grown feeble from age andiU- 
bealth, would he have expressed it otherwise than thus : 

<< His sinew'd days are by : infirmitiea 
Their courier, age, o>ertake— " 



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CMTJBJLl. MOtUmtU 91f 

QrJfhemeanltoftddUuittlieuuDOiit fificBdi of the oU fMUaMii, without b^ 
would he not have gone oo to ob8ar?ey that 



-hisfiModi 



In cardesfl watch, asaeiipng hia deport 
Obtam the note of steahng cfepttnde 
And fi!«ine*8 defect* 

*< Tfe note efflialli^ cfvplfiHli,'' aa the leader at oooe eonBi^ 
fliMhot the asthma, or mxm "n^ oe-oo-o^g^** eqnaflj noeioaL 

Agna, if the great dramatiat were ntting upon Mfll-rock in Hell-gate, oalchbg 
faaaa4iait with ifaiinps, praparatoiy to anting for the bigger firi^ one of whi(^ 
tedjimbfoken-aear him, woidd he not ezchdm, before impaling the aknder epeaiw 
nf «poB hia hook — 

«* Some bait, ni pierce it wifli a aimilar.** 

*Urriei tf ar " what? Fiih,to be sure, quotha; ''UitafMh donH ^itrct,** saith the 
critical reader : eertainly it dodi wheo aoblended iq[>QO a hook and protruded through 
alaigerpairofgUk! Again — 

''To capture the ingratefol certitode 
I was not foremoet; fealtjr reoelled 
And obstaded this tnith-m? aoing truth.** 

Now, ae there is bat one way to exproM a meaning so plain and simple as this, who 
can donbt but that the master of our language would have used the Tory words 
of oar author? 

But we must take oar dmmatist m his more familiar vein. In scene iv. aot 1» 
Bertha, a peasant gjil, discourses as follows : 

' Amdd, a cottager,' asks her : 

^'Ouve you n^er a flagon of the vintage, child? 

Bertka, Sorrow the £y : wine is the only prologue to the beat of your old histo- 
rieaofwar. 

jStmoUL Would I had ne'er condeaceaded to utter the aceoonta and sparkles of 
my time ; for then — 

Bwtkt, We had missed worthy enjoyment 

Jtrwold, Then would my tired details have the spirit and freshness of news. 

Btrthm, Keeping bestows not that nicety of retish on the liauor of oar memory, 
which the flow and the onboard beget in the sense of our acqaaintance." 

Here now we have that simple and onaieoted converse which, thoag|h the truest 
specimens of it are to be found among the downs and nistics of Shakspeare, b in 
ihot of no age, but betongs to the situation of life described in every time and coon* 
try. Toa may hear the same kngnage in those little nooks aboot Tappan and 
Esopas,in the cottage of the Englidi peasant and the shanties of the Irish labourers, 
(allowing only for the brogue^) along any of our canals and rail-roads. If it be on* 
intteUigible to the reader, that, we make bold to say, is no firnlt of our anther ; who» 
upon no compulsion, is bound to make himself understood. When we add that 
"Heniy lY. of Oermany, a tragedy in five acts," is written throughout ro the same 
peiapicuonB and unaffected English, and that the plot, characters, and incidentSi 
thouf^ by no means wortiiyof eqoal admiration with the language, have still similar 
daims to praise ; there is no need of farther commendation to recommend the per- 
formance to our readers. 



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SaO OBITIOAL JIOTIOBS* 

Views of Jthaea and U$ Emrircn$t iy mimpartid Oiierver — jBAoc* 
— D. D. 4* A. Spencer. 

Whatan outraj^eous penreraioD oT taste is that which makes na oopf, and copy 
agaiD, and stereotype for more copies yet, the worn-oat names of Europe for the oae 
of our country towns — our dties, aye, and even our states.* If there be one 
'^ damning proof " of that lack offancy and feeling which foreign tourists ascite to 
cor people, it lies in this mechanical spirit of imitatioo, this abject poverty of imnen- 
tion, which has filled the maps of the Union with a doien Troys, as many Londcos^ 
Edinbui^, and Parises, not to mention fifty Manchesten, and half as many 
Romes and Athens's — with Pericles, Pompey, Sdpio, &c. and the whole nomencla- 
ture of Plutarch, interspersed with Elizabethtowns and Brown*snlle^s without num- 
ber. Poverty of invention 7 say we — why, no invention was required ! There was 
not a valley or a stream, mountain or glen, but had already its own proper and 
poetio->sounding name when our people undertook to alter its aboriginal tide ; and 
even now it would require but litde exertion to recover the majority of these. Bat 
no, the perversion of taste is too deeply rooted, and if any alteration is made, it will 
be only by applying the present absurd system to the few places that have been 
happily baptbed originally. The Potomac, as it flows by Alexandria, will be calM 
the Nile. The Housattonic will take the name of the Avon when it passes Strat- 
ford ; the sofUy-flowing Unadilla must be called the Isis where it steals througli Ox- 
ford — and as for the lakes, we^ change Ontario to *< Kingston water i" and 
** Tompkins* pond** shall be the name of Cayuga lake. And this brings us to the 
flourishing town upon its banks whence we started, whose name, though not whtt 
it ought to be, is certainly better chosen than any we have mentioned. 

We wish we could say as much for the numerous picturesque spots which are 
described in the pamphlet before us.t If the descriptiona are at all faithful, the sce- 
nery around Ithaca must be unrivalled ; and when the Hudson and Erie rail-road is 
open, it will become a great place of resort ''There are no less than five creeks or 
living streams, which run through the village and its suburbs, and immediately after 
empty into the inlet of the lake or the lake itself." These streams, cleaving their 
way through lofty and romantic clifis, break up into innumerable cascades ; at one 
moment bedewing the loftiest pines around them with their spray, and plunging^ the 
next, throu^ cavernous recesses where nothing but the roar of their waters reveals 
their course. 

The pamphlet before us, though rich in material, is so indifl^rently written, that it 
ofiers no passages for complimentary quotation ; while the fact of its making no pre- 
tension to literary merit prevents us fix>m extracting any to the disadvantage of the 
author. Simplicity and precision are the essential requisites of a task like that 
which this ^ Impartial Observer" has undertaken ; but his descriptions are so loaded 
down with illustrations and quotations, lugged in, head and shoidders, &om every 
source, that he does not present a single disUnct picture to the eye. The relation, 
however, is characteiiied by one feature which calls out fW>m us an hcmeet feeling of 
respect for the author, and that is, a lively and earnest love for the works of nature. 
If the writer had consulted this emotion alone, and looked into his own bosom for 
the thoughts awakened by the scenes he attempts to describe, instead of tasking his 

* Confounded be his sponsors for not naming that man Higginbottom who had 
the stupidity to ^e the epithet of A%«o-York to that noble region of mountain, lake, 
and river, to which Onandaoa (the early seat and centre of its political power) 
or Niagara (the most prominent of its physical features) would, eith^, have sup- 
plied a name every way so characteristic and appropriate. 

t E. a Buttermilk Falls, Olympic ditto^ f^ve Mile Creek, Six Mile do., &c 



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CRITICAL NOTICBB. 3i21 

memoiy to bring the thou^ts of others to bear upon hii sobject, his little pablioa^ 
tion m^it hftve been as reepectable in a litemry, as it is now in a merdy topogra- 
phical point of view. We Imo w not how these ** yitswif* have taken in the neighbor- 
hood where they were written, but, judgrngfitom the following letter of a snbecriber, 
the good people about Cayuga lake seem to have a keen eye to every thing which 
niatee to the scenery of their beautiful country. 

*< We of the country (says a western correspondent) receive our lltecary alim«[it 
fipom the oty — pay for it we must — eat it we mav, without the rig^t to question its 
quality ; like a boy, we must eat that which is set Wore us, we must ' be seen and 
not h^ird.' But when one of our intellectual purveyors comes into our own borders, 
and attempts to caricature the lilttural embelushmeots, the matchless scenery of our 
own land, we feel that we have a right to speak out In a late number of a New- 
York < weeldv,' we read, <the Cherokee's Threat, a tale byN. P. Willis.* The first 
Bart of this tale interested me much by the graphic deecripoon of that which I felt to 
tM ingenious and perfectly naturaL But the second part 7 Cavugans, read his *ca{m 
feasi of f eatery' along the borders of your beautiful lake, and Keep cool if you can. 
' Fatulike eatdpa fSunting Us saffron foliage in the' sun, spotted toUh gold, like the 
wings of s 2ady6trd,' * mowUttin tuh flushed toUh sanguine g^lory,' &c &c, and yet the 
moontam ash, nor the catalpa is indigenous here. 

''Why did not this factitious poet notice our red cedar, with itspun^ winter blot- 
acms, its delicate foliage, ever>green ; or our still more beantifol Comus Florida^ 
whose lily flowers, in the vernal season, form a continuous wreath of living lidit 
throu^ our dark oaken forests. Did he not see the vrild grape vine on the pebbly 
riiore or sandy point of the lake, stretching from elm to sycamore, interlacmg its 
manifold lataal branches into such a bower as Shenstone never saw 7 Or dm he 
elaborate his unfaithful {ncture of our matchless natural scenery, as Goldsmith did 
his Animated Nature, m a ganet? If he did, lean only say a leaser than Gold- 
smith is he! 

"O that this crucifierof our vegetable creation would visit the humble philosopher 
of Great Field, the man who loves nature: his extensive garden, decorated with a 
'wilderness of flowers,' looks down upon the glassjr surfiuje of the Cayuga. Our 
poet would here find a sixfficieocy of vegetable coloring both indigenous and exotic, 
k>r all the purposes of sylvan decoration, without leavmg earth to rob heaven of her 
' Mure cUmdii* and 'golden sunset,* " X. X. 



Public and Prioaie Eccmoniv, by Theodore SeJ^wich. 1 vol 12mo. 
JSeW'York: Harper 4r Brothers. 

''Knowledge for the people," is the cry of the time, and if there be one 
wholesome trait of our much lauded age, whose existence is real and uodeni- 
able, it is that books are now actually and expressly written for the people ; not 
to gull them — as formeriy, when a fortunate few were the only pi^rons of 
literature, and the majori^ composed a mere inert mass to be acted upon as the 
others mi^|^ wish — but to enli^ten, to amuse, and to elevate them in character. 
The cause in this country, where the humblest native-bom American can generally 
read, is a very evident one ; an author finds the majority of his readers among the 
people, and now, as of old, he must address himself to the interests of his patrons. 
This it is, which, if our common schools continue to render the service they have done, 
will ulthnately give an entirely new character to literature in all its phases. And 
^re doubt not it will gain in vigor all it may lose in elegance. The poet will no longer 
be the parasite he has been in almost every age but this; and the historian, seeking 
liui guerdon no longer from the wealthy and the powerful, will learn to do justice to 
tlMMM whose well-being is identified with his own. The politieal struggles of former 
tunes will be written anew ; and who can say under what new aspect they may 
appear, when he recollects that the annals of The Pe(q[»le,like those of our ownah- 

TOL. vn. 41 



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322 CEITICAL NOTICM. 

ofigmai, haft in inodMrn timM been almoflt ontrei^ 

of the same blood and kindied as their oppreeaoia, were etfll dependant upon tba 

ooontenanoa and boimtj of the castes oftpoeed to them. 

The first oisfls of w«rkswiU be neoessarily like this of Bdi; Sedgwick, plain* 
diadaetic, and severe— the hardy and homely pioneers of gayer and mote at- 
trMtire improvers of the soil to sooeeed them— but the ^dearinff is already made, 
*< the ftUow" is burnt and the seed is sown —and let no man doubt that the orcfaaid 
■id the garden, the frnits and the fiowera, will, in dne season, grace the ieUs which 
are at first cnRiTatedlbriitiHty alone. InteUectnal wealth introdoces inteUedoal 
lazmy as necessarily as any other kind of riches. 

The object of the volume before us is to show tha value and uses of property, the 
mode in which it may be acquired and preserved, and the advantages that aocrae 
from its posse s s i on both to indiifidusls and to nations. The tendency of the 
work, in a wofd, is to systematize the exertions of those who are struggling to eete- 
blish an honest independence in their circumstances. The 8t> le is simple and fami- 
liar ; such as will recommend the subject matter to the producing classes ; to whom, 
as we have hinted, the book is diiefly addressed. The general reader, however, 
will be rewarded for examining this treatise, with many interesting fiuls — often 
iBostrtting some important axiom of political econom y , — collected, arranged, and 
applied by fiifr. Sedgwick with industry, judgment, and ingenuity. 



Mahmaud. 2 voU. Harper ^ Brothers. 

This, as its name imports, is a tale illustrative of Turkish life and character. As 
a novel, some may find it superior in intereet to Morier's Hajii Baba— hot, as a 
picture of Eastern manners, it does not compare with it for truth and vivacity ofoo- 
loring; nor in either point of view is it to be named with Anastasius, or Mr. Fra- 
ser*s ** Adventures of a KunObasb." 

A new book, however, should stand or fall by its own merits, and not by com- 
parisons, whether injurious or favorable; and "Mahmoud," in spite of its every 
page behig stained with the blood of a brawl or an execution, is written in a style 
which interests one insensibly in the vaiying fortunes of its hero, and the strange 
and often picturesque oriential scenes among which he is thrown. 



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d28 



MONTHLY COMMENTARY. 



Ambricah Lf OBUif. The Sixth An- 
naal Meelii^t of this Society will coo^ 
mence in NewYonkf on Friday, the 
6th of May next ; and preparationB have 
been made to secure the co-operation of 
many distingiiiehed friends of learning in 
idSeieat parts ot the country, by invitmff 
them to prepare Essays on snbjects <? 
fSMfal interest in Tanous departments, 
particulaily po^ar education. 

The Executive Committee wish it to 
be distinctly understood, that the eounte- 
■snwi and aid of the friends ofknowiedge 
is earnestly desired and will be heartily 
welcomed. At the approaching annual 
meeting, therefore, it is hoped that those 
interested in theb important objects will 
pfesent themselves; and that many will 
orini: or transmit communications to be 
read, (with the approbatioD of the Execu- 
tive Committee,) and afterwards pub- 
lished among thinr ** Proceedings.** Al- 
though the American Lyceum, at its 
annmd meetings, consists primarily of 
delu^ates from state lyoeums, those fixmi 
locallyceums and otlier literary societies 
and institutions in districts not so re- 
inreeented,andgentlemen previously invit- 
ed ; yet another and imp<Mrtant class is 
that of persons presentmg themselves 
as friends of education, w)Z are invited 
to take seats as members. 

It is expected that at the i4>proaching 
annual meeting, beside the usual day 
sessions, public meetiogs will be held in 
the evenings, for the exhibition of mu- 
sical classes or the reading of lectures ; 
and, if the number of essays and of 
members should require it, separate ses- 
noDS may be held by di^rent branches 
or coomuttees. 

Interesting information has been re- 
ceived by the EUecutive Committee, 
showing the formation and operations of 
lyceums in difierent places; together 
with letters from other countries, com- 
municating accounts interesting to intel- 
ligent men in our own. 

Among the information always desired 
by the Society, is such as relates to local 
lyceums, schools, and all means pursued 
for the extension of knowledge and the 
promotion of education. A portion df 
time eveiT day is appropriatedfto the re- 
ception of sucn facts ; and it is particu- 
lany desired that all who have it m their 



power will cove prepared to BMke snsh 
oommnnications, written or vcrbaL 

A NoBLB Tribute. Incoosequenoe 
of the great receipts at the Bowery The- 
atre from a piece dramatised from the ro> 
oently published novel of Mr. Fay, Mi; 
Hambun, the manacer, with enfi|$itflQed 
liberalitjT, has thought it due to the author 
of the orieinal work to give hirna benefit 
This noble tribute we need hardly say 
vras well bestowed ; for though we can 
by no means join in the wboMale admi- 
ration of Norman Lbsur. we yield to no 
one in wtnnth of regard mr tha author's 
character, both literary and persooaL 

The Mbcbajiics' Maoaxotb. We 
are happy to see, by anew and improved 
number of this exceUent work now be- 
fore us, that Mr. Minor, the indefotica- 
ble proprietor, notwithsUadinff his loss- 
es by the mreat fire, is still afie to aw- 
tain a pubucation so eminently useful 

Thr month which has |ust expired is 
chiefly memorable for having pot an end 
to one of the most absurd questions that 
ever came near embroiling two great and 
friendly nations. France, it is now uni- 
versally believed^ has opened her eyes to 
that axiom in ethiciL that common honesty 
is ever the basis or real honor, however 
the "counterfeit presentment** may some- 
times attempt to tigure (classically speak- 
ing) upon Us own hook. 

^ I bide mv time,** is the motto of Uncle 
Sam ; and though Monsieur, when in ibe 
days of the Great Captain ne so cooUy 
appropriated his property and maltreated 
his family, had no idea that the day of 
reckoning would so soon come, he should 
at last have had the srace, when it was at 
length forced upon mm, to bow himself 
out of the scrape and pay for his breakage, 
as any other gentleman does when he 
gets into like difficulties. Instead of this, 
however. Monsieur, like the forester in 
the Forty Thieves, seems to have thought 
that '* the worth or a frougA" was all in all 
to us— tantamount, at least, to the hard 
millions that were expected to accompany 
it ; and when, after one of his most ele- 
gant scrapes and flourishes, something 
more solid was required of him, he twirls 
his mustachios like the keeper of a bil- 



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8M 



MONTHLT OOHMBNTART. 



Hard table, and swears tiiat " the geDtl&- 
man means to insult hbn" merely because 
he asks him to count out the sum which 
was acknowledged to be due. The ab- 
aurdtty of such conduct in one who so 
thoroug^y understands good breeding 
of course excited the temper of his ofa 
friend, who rerw naturally expreeood his 
ownopinKNior itinhisown way when 
talking with his own fanuly. Monsieur, 
who seems to be as queasy about his 
diaracteras a sergeant's widowof cracked 
reputation, takes renewed ofience at this, 
and noUung, perhaps, but the good-na^ 
tured mediation of John Bull, who can 
hardly keep a grave countenance while 
listening to the progress of the quarrel, 
prevents the former chums and trencher- 
companions from going together at once 
by the ears. 

We lament most earnestly this unto- 
ward discussion ; for though now brought 
to a happy termination, it has not only 
presented our ancient friend and ally hn a 
most unfavorable light to the world at 
laifie, but it has caiued Americans, who 
feel any interest m the result, to recur to 
the original sources of the diiSiculty and 
trace out the long list of injuries and out- 
rages for which France has so unwilling- 
ly consented to make a tardy and feeble 
repaiatioD. These grievances were until 



lately but little known here to the gene- 
tation that is now in its prime; in Fhmoe 
they are probably foigotten entirely by the 
peo)de at large; but their recapitulatioQ 
would show, that however light may be 
the immediate cause of angiy discusaioo, 
the real giff of the action is serious enoujv^ 
for the most solemn arbitrament It u, 
however, painful, as well as nnwise, to 
dwell now upon msseasions, vduchdeeply 
laid as we believe them to be, are at 
length, we trust, covered upand smooth- 
ed over for ever. 



OiiTVAaT. It is with unfetnied sor- 
row that we record the death orLieuL J. 
T. Jenkins of the U. S. Navy, a yotwg 
officer whose personal and pr^esskNud 
character was so high in the service that 
no tribute of ours is neceesair to elevate 
it in the estimation of his frioids and ship- 
mates. Nor should we now renew their 
regrets by alluding to his decea8& wen 
we not sure that our readers would sym- 
pathise in the untimely fate of one to 
whom they have been indebted for some 
of the most spirited and agreeable papers 
that, in the year past, have giaced the 
American Monthly. 

Lieut Joikins died in New-Toi^y on 
the eth ult, at the eariy age of S8. 



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THE NEW YORK 

PUBLIC LIBRARY 



ASTOR. LENOX ANO 
TlLDuN 'viNOATfONS. 



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^'i^B^ /'\^; 




■>■ 



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AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 

APRIL, 1886. 

OBSERYATIONS 

ON SOME OF THE MALE CHARACTERS OF SHAKSPEARE. 
HAMLET. 

Thb dmracter of HamleFt — ihe Prhice, the Lover of Ophelia, the 
Son, die Philosopher, the Man, with all his hopes and ambitions, frus- 
trated plans and far-readnng thoughts, deep intelligence and child- 
like weakness and untimel j death — • claims our isynipadiieB and study. 
In him we bdiokl the type of Man ; and in his storj, and Um play in 
whicfait is found, are inTolred some of the loftiest ideas to \9Uch the 
human mind can be directed. More than any other of Shakspeare's 
heroes, he attracts at once our sympathies and wonder. He stands 
before us in almost the distinctness oif aetud ezisteoce. He receives 
this distinctness and this vividness in our minds from hk melancholy, 
his speculative and philosophizing temperament, the tenderness and 
parity of his feelings and motives, and especially from his relation 
with Ophelia, whose affection he feels himself compelled to forego 
when the awful visitation of his father's spirit summons him to Ins 
great task. The many reflections he is constantly making on themes 
that come so near to the universal heart of man, attract our attention 
and deepen our interest Wben he falls at last, surrounded by the 
toils of the very persons iriikom he had so long intended to punish, we 
feel as if bidding adieu to one whom we have actually known and loved, 
and yrhoBe misfortunes we have wept over and pitied. 

I confess I can see none so great mystery in the character of Ham- 
let as it has been supposed to involve. Critics have drawn out num- 
berless discussions on his real or pretended msanity, on his sincerity 
or insincerity towards Ophelia ; and many among the Grermans have 
been able to regard the whole character and play as but a tremendous 
manifestation of destiny, at the same time captivating our sorrows and 
striking awe into our hearts. There are, certainly, d^kult points in 
Hamlet; and it is tnie, that if we regard merely the cause of the hera^i 

VOL. TD. 43 

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826 CHAmACTBRS OW SHAKSPBAJtC. 

fate without attention to the moral which we may extract firom it* we 
maj easilj fidl into the same doubts and difficulties with ii^iich otfaan 
have been troubled. The Prince sometimes rouses our most fearful ap- 
prehensions by reflections that strike deep into the very abysses of ex- 
istence ; but if we will listen to it, diere often comes up from those 
depths of our spiritual nature an echo that speaks at once to oar 
hearts. But for one occurrence in his history he would hare been a 
sceptic He was surrounded by wickedness and vice triumphant : 
he felt that there was a meaning in the great riddle of the world, but 
that meaning he could not solve. The visitation of his father's spirit 
introduced a new element and a fact into his speculations, and led his 
thoughts out into the boundless ocean of Being. There he wandered^ 
indeed, and seemed lost ; there he grasped at awful shadows which 
eluded him ; but he felt the truth of an hereafter, for U had been re^ 
veaUd, 

But while we regard his intellectual character — which was of the 
finest order — and his probable speculative ideas, we must carry along 
with us bis peculiar temperament and the many cruel distractions of 
his situation. We shall then see that his course took its disastrous 
result, not from any laxity of principle, not from uncertainty of faith, 
or an abandonment without struggle to the relentless stream of destiny ; 
but from a constitution of mind and heart unfit for the mighty task 
imposed upon him. The unfortunate issue of all his plans is as much 
the result of his peculiar character, as of the circumstances and of the 
agency of those that were about him. The study of his character, 
therefbre, is the only means by which we can comprehend the appa- 
rent enigma of the tragedy itself. 

His character, then, is that of a person of great refinement of sen- 
timent and feeling, and of one tenderly alive to the beauty of virtue 
and the deformity of vice. « With all the moral courage proper to a 
being of a high intellectual order, he is still retiring and sensitive, and 
seems to prefer the quiet and contemplative life of a scholar to the 
glare and show of the court Tet he is ambitious — for he was bom 
to a kingdom — ambitious, as men of fine moral and intellectual 
mould generally are, which is, to be the means of controUing affiurs in 
consonance to the best principles on which they can be administered. 
While he is living as a student at the university, he is suddenly called 
to court by the death of the King, his fiither ; and hardly have '« the fu- 
neral baked meats" become cold, when his mother marries his uncle, 
who assumes the crown. The play opens, and he is presented to us in 
the mingled and crushing feelings of grief, disgust, and suspicion, that 
weigh him down to the earth; grief for his father's death, disgust at 
his mother's conduct, and suspicions of his uncle. In this state he 
receives a visitation fi^m ^ grave of his murdered parent, which coo- 



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CHARACTERS OV SHAKtPBARB. 8S7 

firoM Bverf suspicion of his proj^etic soul, and diose awfol commaiids, 
spoken by the disembodied spirit of his King and father, are laid upoo 
him. 

We maj here observe that the mission of ihe ghost is such as to 
remove from our minds all apprehension as to the ChriiHan proprUhf 
of revenging the murder that had been committed ; for we cannot but 
feel assured that the soul of die King has not re-entered this world for 
ibe gratification of a selfirii and unholy revenge, but that he had been 
sent by divine justice itself, in order that a crime so truly horrible may 
not go unpuni^ed before die eyes of men. In diis li^t his commg 
b regarded by Hamlet himself; and the great &ct of such a mission* 
widi all the soul-stirring thoughts connected widi it, is one of the very 
oireumstaaees that draw the contemplative mind of the Prince away 
from the direct means to accomplish his task. Tet the command 
must be obeyed, for ** one has come unto him from die dead." 

But he is the last person in the world to be placed in such a situa- 
ticm, to meet such exigencies and misfortunes* He does not want 
courage, but he is destitute of energy ; and his whole nature is too 
mild and gentle to allow him to undertake a work so revolting. Hence 
it b that he endeavors to rouse himself to action, and to infuse some 
sternness into his nature, by dwelling on the vicious, the corrupt and 
hollow side of the world's picture. He b, moreover, so sensitive, and 
the horror of the dreadful crimes of hb mother and hb uncle comes 
upon him with such an overwhelming force, that he stands perfectly 
aghast, and is almost crushed by the weight of hb mbfortunes and tl^ 
responsibilify of hb situation** Hence it b, also, that we hear him ex- 
claim, 

** The time is oat of joint : — O careed spite ! 
That ever I was born to set it right !" 

It has been said that the great themes suggested to such a mind as 
Hamlet's, by the mission of hb father's spirit, were among the causes 
that distracted hb thoughts away from the world of action into that of 
deep speculation* To this we owe that celebrated soliloquy that re- 

* « It is dear to me,'* says Odthe, ** that Shakspeare's intention was to exhibit tbe 
effects of a great action, imposed as a duty upon a mind too feeble for its accom- 
plishment In this sense I find the character consistent throughout Here is an 
oak tree planted in a china vase, proper only to receive the roost delicate flowers. — 
The roots strike out, and the vessel flies to pieces. A pure, noble, highly moral dis- 
position, but without that energy of soul which constitute the hero, sinks under a 
load which it can neither support nor resolve to abandon. All lus obligations are 
Mcred to him, but this alone is aboye his powers. An impossibility is required at 
his hands : not an impossibility in itself, but what is so to him. Observe how he 
turns, shifts, hesitates, advances and recedes ! how he is contmually renundiiig 
himself of his great commission, which he, nevertheless^ m the end s^ms almost 
entirely to lose sight of, and without over recoTering his former tranquillity.'' — FTi/- 
kdm MMtUi^i JfyfvtnUctti^ h, iv. ck, IS. 



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Stt GHAIUCTBAS^ OF MMAMMrZAMM. 

in every httraan heart Much hftfl heen Mid hj cwwnflntatDBi nd 
critics on this remarkable passage. But as the soundest criticisai m 
that whkh is based upop feeUog and a perception of the esMlions of 
the character itself, let us leave what has been leamedlj wnMenapeA 
this speech, quoting only the renark of Dr. Jofansco, ^ that the tdsas 
seem to be connected in the speaker's mind rather than on his loogua.^ 
Hamlet is exhibited to us as a man borne down bf thediffieulliea and 
responaibilify of his situation. The actual encounter of a spirii.fraiB 
bejond the grave has brou|^ the prseent and fiiture state nsarsria 
mind than he had ever contemplated them befoM. In this alkwlio& 
the idea — notpeibaps of absolute suicide, but of meeting death in 
some shape, as the final relief — comes up in his mind ; but,inaooo^• 
dance with his philosophical spirit, he does not speak diractlj ^ bin 
own case, but rises into generalities, and debates with himself ^«h< 
street question whether existence or annfliilation wece the better part 
for a soul encompassed with difficulties to which it can see no endl 
As he places the two antagonist ideas against each other, it sudde^j 
darts into his mind to ask if Death be but the mere uneonsciotts state 
in which it is typified by sleepi and he then as suddenly refuses the 
notion, by the natural and spontaneous prophecy of the sou), shrink- 
ing from the suggestion, and starting at the possMity that even in die 
sleep of death itself *« dreams may come ;'? dras ftimishing the meat 
irresistible and intuitive argument that the mind of man ever dictated 
to itself for its own immortality. The cuireni of die thou^ then runs 
on into the idea oiieekmg .death as the end of all calamities. Hen 
he IB met by the conclusion, that men must throw themselves, by »ich 
a step, into a worse condition than that which they leave ; that this is a 
truth which the soul teaches to itself, by the monitions of conscience, 
placed therein to '* make cowards of us all ;" and that this, and this 
alone, prevents any man from flying to his ultimate relief when die 
crosses of life multiply around him. How easily might they all be 
avoided ! by a bare bodkin ! and the soul wing its w^y beyond aM 
peril, and difficulty, and misfortune* But ah I " the undisooveffed 
country," with all its unknown and untried conditions, rises up before 
the mind, and prevents the completion of that great enterprise, which 
thus ends in thought alone. 

The close of this soliloquy brings him suddenly to an interview 
with Ophelia. This passage 1ms been the ground-work of the accusa- 
tion of insincerity, which most readers and many critics have made 
against Hamlet. It is a conversatipn, indeed, exquisitely painfuL 
On the one side, deep, tender, injured, but still doating feeling, reveab^ 
the agony of a breaking heart, diat finally takes refuge in the idea of 
the insanity of its idol ; en the other, the stem and cold rejectioa of 



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CHAIUCnRS OF SHAK8PBARS* 829 

al ftriiagydie ibomentaijtenderDeM, tbe bitter jest, and (he wiU, me- 
laiidlolf hrteriBt in die fair object before hinit which are so stiaagelj 
bknded and opposed in Hamlef 8 eondttcty confirme in the belief that 
haiaeidieriDeaae, or deema it nece^aarj fo appear 00. Fediapsboth 
^Mae hjpetheaefl bwj be found correct 

Han^ after the visitation of the ^lost, beeoines a consecrated 
naa. He has a warfc to do, miudi, from his peculiar temper, requires 
him to forego efeiy feefing flwt midnMers to tenderness and love. He 
tekthat happin ess is a thing "widi iriiich he can hare little to do, and 
he iasagineshfansdf under iSikt necessi^ of forbearing to seek it. His 
great task seeom to him to require the devotion of every fsiculfy, and 
hm bears ever in mind «— althouf^ he kk ever &r from its aocomplish- 
ment •— >^ solemn vow he had taken to <* wipe away all trivial, fond 
rseorda,'' and to devote himself tof but one thought It is idle and grtt- 
tnitoos to suppose him insincere towards Ofriielia before we have 
proof of it, and before a suffieiendy deep analysis of the diaracferhas 
tenished us with die hjrpothesis, on which tdl parts of his conduct are 
roeoneileahle with each other. Ophelia herself tells us Aat his pro- 
tenons had -been sanctioned by ^ almost all the holy vows of heaven i^ 
and when we reflect upon hfo condact at her grave, we have little rea- 
son to appr^iend that she was herself deceived, whatever might have 
been ttioaght by those about them. To unite the qualities of a libertine 
or a tnfler in such a being as Hemlet, was never done by Nature and 
Shakspeare. It would have been inconsistent with that gnoid idea li^iich 
Hes at the bottom of this tragedy — as it does at the foundation of hu- 
man life — the idea of virtuous suffering, itsdf a mysterious index of 
final happiness. The true solution of Hamlet's conduct is, that he felt 
himaelf stmngely borne along by a current which he fancied he could not 
resist, while disappointments and agitated feelings and bitter reflections 
added cimstanfly to his irresolution abd dismay ; that he made the very 
natural mistake of fimcying it less cruel to renounce Ophelia's love, 
tlmi to call upon her to share in sympathy the woe that pressed upon 
him. He seems to have fancied that they had better part on earfli 
wilfaout knowing the agony of each other's heart ; trusting that when 
the world had done its worst with them, they should meet again where 
all fears and pain had passed away, and iriiiere the crimes of others 
could no more roar their hqpes, through that stiange connexion that 
inweaves for the season the hiq>piness of the innocent with the viliany 
€^dM guilty. Thus he thou^to crush, f(nr flie present the love 
whiehhe had excited in her and indulged in himself. It was a fetal 
ecror, as it must of^en be, when man hesitates in his reliance upoil 
woman. Butfliere is anodier circumstance to be attended to in this 
judgment of Hamlet which is, his actual insanity. 

At die commencement of the second Act we find Hamlet under the 



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830 CHARACTBRa OF 8HAK8PBARE. 

earnest resolotioii — a solemn vow — to proceed in the accompKBh- 
ment of the commands of his father. But he sees tibat he is watdied ; 
that the appearance of the ^ost is^known to Marcellas and BemardOy 
as well as to Horatio and himself; and that^ strangeness of condocC 
and manner, into which the frightful intelligence cooireTed to him, and 
the intense agony of his feelings have thrown him, has already beea 
perceived by the King. It is on this account — in order to conceal 
his purposes, to hide the cause of his real melancholy, and to have a 
cloak for his actions — that he resohred to personate nmdness. But he 
loses all consciousness of the ficticm, and becomes actually insane. 

Dr. Johnson has said, that there is no adequate cause for Hamlefs 
pretended madness ; since, as he asserts, he does nodiing iriikieh he 
might not have done with the reputation of sanity. But it seems to be 
the express design of the poet to make Hamlet adopt a course of con- 
duct such as no other person ever would have adopted ; in order to 
show how inadequate to the accompishment of his design would be 
all the plans he should form. Indeed, such is the necessmy and natu- 
ral result of his character. It is not as we ourselves would look at 
the matter, but as Hamlet actually did look at it, that we are to regard 
the critical propriety of his pretended madness. 

While, therefore, he is personating (he part of insanity, his mind 
actually loses its balance from the acuteness of his feelings and the 
constant presence of the great task before him. Hence comes tiiat 
singular mixture of folly and wisdom, rambling, incoherent thought and 
deep poetry which he utters, partly from design and partly because he 
cannot help it His father's murder, his mother's incest, his situation 
amid these crimes and criminals, and the haunting idea of his gieat re- 
sponsibility, are the points which drive him from his propriefy and self- 
command ; and wherever these cross the train of his ideas— as they 
are constantly doing — his usual sagacity, his fine practical wisdom* 
entirely forsake him. It is only when alone with Horatio, whom he 
can trust and with whom he can give way to the crowding thoughts 
that overmhelm him, that he talks straigfat on, like one in the right use 
of his faculties. Before every one else he uses words as if they were 
mere playthings, to be thrown about carelessly and incoherentiy ; or 
else to be made the vehicles of a pungent and caustic satire, burning 
and searing every object on which they chance to fall. 

There is a scene in this tragedy eminently illustrative of die cha^ 
racter of Hamlet, and in which the poet seems to have concentrated 
all those deep and striking reflections, which were constandy spring- 
ing up in the mind of the Prince, and all the memories, feelings, hopes, 
and half-defined apprehensions, which crowded upon him as his course 
swept on to the grand catastrophe of his fate. Of course I aHude to 
the conversation with Horatio in the church-yard, and the subsequent 



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CflAftAOTBRS- Of 8HAK8PBAM. 381 

occomoees which took place thero when they were intemipted hj 
tbe fbneral [mMseeaion. There the Prince stood^ ia fimcyt on the 
Qonfines which divide the great Present and Future. The moidder^ 
log emblems with which the living had essayed to give permanence to 
the dead ; tbe progress and the too^ of Time, which wear away the 
granite and the macble and whatever is durable on eardi ; the utter de- 
eay of that human form, which, when animated by its spirit, seemed 
the master of all elements, but now lies ignominiously under the spade 
of the clown ; these, and such sights as these, roused him to a severe 
questioning of the soul for an answer and solution to their mystery. 
The finit sound that meets the ear, as die two friends enter the church- 
yard, is die song of the grave-digger, singing at his vocation. How 
stmngely that merriment strikes upon the soul of the sensitive and re* 
fleeting Hamlet, who can regard death and its conditions but with cu- 
rious awe. It is the standing point of his refleetions ; and as he goes 
on in tiie dialogue, ranging with a poet's rapidity and grotesque suc- 
cession of thought through the mi^y theme of Dissolution, how are 
we impressed with that genius at whose bidding this scene comes up 
before us. But we are not lefl with speculation alone ; a more thril- 
ling interest than aU abstract wisdom can arouse, springs up in our 
minds. Nor is Hamlet left with merely the indifferent mementos of 
decay, winch such a spot exhibits to the most careless eye, to pass 
sway and forget it His own fate is drawing to a close, and there 
comes a strange sight which connects all his strange fancies with him- 
self and those whose being is interwoven with his own. One moment 
he stands a moralizing spectator of the grave, playing solemnly with 
its strange accidents ; the next he is a suffering actor in the great tra- 
gedy of existence. A grave is open at his feet, and in it is laid, before 
bis very &ce, the pale form of his once loved and rejected, and crazed 
and then l»roken-hearted Ophelia. 

This event seems to be tbe last shock to the feelings and resolution 
of Hamlet, and fills him with that distress which unfits for actipn, and 
makes him resign himself to the worst that can befall. ** Thou would'st 
not tiiink how ill all's here about my heart," he says to Horatio ; but 
the secret misgivings of his soul are mstantly suppressed firom observa- 
tion, as if he would bear the worst without taxing the sympathies of his 
friend, and he recurs to the idea of Providence to support him in the ha- 
zards which he may have to run. Yet he keeps up a show of his former 
purposes and resolution both to Horatio and himself. He cannot 
abfmdon them, for they have become a part of bis destiny ; and to ad- 
mit even to his own consciousness that he can ever do so, would be 
to desert the part and duty of a man. Accordingly he goes into the 
mock duel that has been contrived, as I believe, with at least a suspi- 
cion that some foul play is intended, but witii the resolution to do all 



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882 THX FAST. 

tfiatlMW povwB and Tigikiiee can do to defeat d» maidMnatiaaa of h« 
otteBKOfl; aad lAen all m donOf to leave the result to a higber power, 
«Dd aiwait with comage tlw gveatoat dieaaten that i^ 

11m fefegeiDg dbeenFaAioBa haaa been written with aMeaAm 
ef the BMetdificokpoiiils in theohaiaetor of Haadet, witboatal^^ 
iag to explain eaoh of its BKNral lAeoomena nimtelj. The lia a ts of 
snehan essay as Ibe present cooldnot embrace a fufl deseription of 
tbediaiaoter; and no eommentary upon sadi a work of imaginatioii 
can be otherwise than imperfect, fer none can embrace all that niay bo 
felt and understood by erery reader, who makes it the subject of deep 
stndy and meditation* It is diat one of all 8hakspoare's creations, 
which moat eirincesthesublimityofhisgeniasv and is most deso r r in g 
of omr admiration. O. 



THE PAST- 



BT KBT. L. B. CLOtCB. 



*' The gaps of centurlw—'* 

Btsor. 
I. 
I CAU. on thee, daik fporit Of Fftat Time, 
To lead me through the moonlit ayenuee, 
And sombre glens, where shadows flit sablime ; 
And through the caves obscure, where thou dost mnse 
In flolitiide unseen ; and dost refuse 
All mortal step to cross thy msgie Une 
All mortal sight to pry :— though in thy hues 
Conjecture clad, at times, assumes thy sign, 

And self-deluded man believes her features tbme — 
n. 
I can on thee to lead me, where the foot 
Of the Historic Muse hath never strayed ; 
Where old Tradition pauses, and whence mute 
She turns to paths more easily surveyed : — 
I ask thy guidance to that midnight shade 
Not e'en by Inspiration's hallowed ray 
DistuVd or pier6^ — where tboo, Monre^ hast laid 
The deep foundations of thy shrine away, 

And reared the mi^ty walls and bulwarks of thy sway. 

lU. 

I would ascend through ages, and illume 
Thy raylesB dweUings, and would send my gate 
Throu^ all the range of shadows and of gloom, 
Fiom sunset dimness of past yesterdays, — 
To Time's black midnight ; from the light which plays 
Round Certamty — to Doubt's unbn^en tomb 
EndoBiDg forms unknown. But who may laise, 
The mystic veil which hangi around thdr doom, 
Or, from sepalchral nig^ the Ioofi4o8t dead exbaSM 7 



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THB PAST. 339 



Within that gloomy homo of ouknown Uuogt — 
That grave of ioog-departed memorifis — 
O'er which thou spreadest out thy jealous wings, 
Sptmingy with frowns, the suppliant from diy knees 
Who asks one transient glance, thou^ brief^ to seiie, — 
How many deeds of heroes rest unsung — 
What days of action, and what hours of ease — 
What crimes, o'er which Cimmerian darkness hun^ — 
What passions and what woes the tremUing heart hare wrung. 

▼. 

In an *< the pomp and drcmnstance of war,>' 
How many a oUef his bi%ht array has ted 
To fields wUcb gvoaned beneath the bnaen car. 
The tramp of tboosands, and the charger's tread ; 
And Eve ha& seen the hungry vulture fed. 
E'en to satiety, — and ravens hearse 
Croak o'er the mangled rsmncnts of th»dead. 
Whom Mom beheld, in confidence of fbree, 
Spring eager to the fight, as steed that seeks the course. 

VL 

Tyrants have reigned to vex the earth awhile 
Upon a trembling and unstable throne, — 
AJad selp4ityled patriots have won the smffe 
Of the nntli^nking Many, and have grown 
Themselves to be the despots ; — and the moan 
Of sufiering thousands, who the power conferred 
Waked by that power, arose with wailing tone ; 
Till Fury crash'd the monster with a word, — 
And k> ! another's voice subjects the cringing herd i 

VII. 

And sCin perdiance there have been timesof peace, 
When Power galled not ; Battle's voice was mute ; 
And Labour gave the sturdy swains release ; 
When dark-browed virgins to the melting flute 
Beat thne in festive measure, as the foot 
Swept (^er the elastic turi"; and joyous bands 
Bore home with songs the rich autumnal fruit. 
Plucked by free men, from green, luxuriant lands. 
Nor came a tyrant there to wrest it from their bands. 

vin. 

And yet, albeit, those hours of plenty drew 
Sloth, in their train, and Luxury, — and a style 
Of inverse manners, and a hideous crew 
Of crimes whieb breathe contagion, and defile 
The moral landscape ; — as the mighty Nile — 
So fables tell — along its ooasy bed 
Gives birth to reptile monsters, rank and vile, 
Nursed in its slime and by its softness fed. 
Which, in more troubled stiisnis, their forms had never spread. 

L 43 



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S84 THB Oft48T STS. 



Sncb, Spirit of the Ptat, could we reriew 
Thj midDight mysteries, such, perchance, would be 
Successirely the scenes of varied hue, 
And such the objects which we there should see ; 
Tet why, for these, should we look back to Thee 7 
Hath modem History's page no word of strife 7 
No tale of Tyrant chaining down the free 7 
No smiling scenes of peace and rural life 7 
No Thnes, when Virtue slept, of crime and passion rife ? 

X. 

Vain, then, the task within thy depths to pry, 

Ay, doubly Tain ! wrapt in thy murky shroud 

Thou sitfst severe and deigneet no reply : — 

Yet, what though thou shouid'st answer, and undoud 

The forms which thou eonoeaiest 7 — we should crowd 

A few more griefii in History*s ample scroll — 

A few more follies of the great and proud — 

A few more passions spuming all control — 

A few more deadly crimes to shock the saddened soul. 
n. 
And this is aQ : — for man remains the same 
In erery age, if Passion be his guide, 
If >^rtue rise not to direct his aim, 
Nor pure Religion o'er his paths preside : — 
Revenge — Deceit — Ambition — Envy — Pride 
Light in his breast their fierce unholy flame, — 
Indulgence reigns, and Mammon, deified. 
Finds every where a temple to its name. 

And History's latest words remotest deeds may claim ! 



THE CRAZY EYE. 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,^ 

It is certain that many opinions, long since discarded by tbe learned 
worid, have still continued to keep fast hold of the minds of the Vulgar, 
— those, for instance, connected with witchcraft, lucky and unlucky 
days, judicial astrology, and the like. Peihaps no stronger evidence 
could he adduced, to prove that there exists, in the mind of man, a 
principle of delight in all that is dark, mysterious, and terrible, — whose 
tendency is to give to the fictions of the imagination the power and 
reality of truth, — a principle which may be considered the source of 
all superstition, and from whose efhcta only the continued exercise of 



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TBS CRAET ITS. 836 

tW kigbeit potren of refleelaofi can enable ub to eacape* WhedMr 
tiMre be oat danger in wholly diareganyng the dietatea of tUa feeling, 
and in fiatodng akogether lo the concluaiona of a partially enh^^itened 
reaaottf ia a question deserving of careful consideration. A wise man 
who takea in view oor acJuM>wledged ignorance of the efficient causes 
of a thouaand operations which are hourly going <m aroimd us, — who 
reflects (hat eren thoae nkaxlms which we term generallaw$^Bie 
merely deductions from a limited number of facta, and may be super- 
seded, at any tioM, by more extenstre observation, will hesitate in 
pronouncing decisively on the absurdity of any belief, however incon> 
sistent with his own preconceived notions. 

These remarks may serve to dissipate some of the suspicion widi 
which the following narration will naturally be received% It concerna 
a persuasion current, as Ihr as I know, among the multitude in all ages 
and nations, and which, though oAen ridiculed, has found supporters 
even in men of reflecting and cultivated minds. I refer to the power 
which certain- individuals are supposed to have of affecting oiheri 
through the medium of the eye ; I do not mean, of course, the effect 
of strong passioA or feeling, speaking in the bright orbs of a beautiful 
woman, or in the dilated and flashing pupils of an angry man ; thia 
has never been denied. The power of which I write seems to reside 
in the organ itself, and to be arbitrarily bestowed, Hke genius or ven- 
triloquism, on a few individuals. The superstition of the evil eye is 
common to every barbarous people. That certain persons, generally 
sorcerers or old women, are dl>le by a look to blast the fortunes, or 
wither die bodily vigor of their unhappy victim, is believed as firmly 
imd implicitly under the bimnng sun of Congo, as on the frozen plains 
of Eamschatka or in the pleasant islands of the Pacific. Among the 
Bomans of the most entigfatened period expiatory sacrifices were 
appo'mted for those who had felt the influence of a " malign eye,'* 
(maiue ocuhis^) and we learn from the interesting accounts of Browne 
that tiie prim^ve inhabitants of the Canaries are sufferers under the 
name apprehension. 

The following anecdote, however, refers to an influence of a differ- 
ent cast It is firmly believed, in many parts of Great Britain, espe- 
cially die north, ^at there are men who possess the ability of master- 
ing and rendering powerless the most ungovernable of the insane, in 
the highest of their frenzy, by the sole efficacy of a look* It is indeed 
often asserted that no maniac can support the (Hrect and steady regard 
oiti sane man, — an idea which is sufficiently refuted by the testimony 
of many respectable keepers of road-houses, who have found the suc- 
eess of the experiment exceedingly precarious. The life of one in 
Ae western part of Pennsylvania had nearly fallen a forfeit to a rash 
attempt to subdue, 1^ this means alone, the violence of a patient. 



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I 



386 THB CBJIZT BTS. 

Bat in those of whott I speak the iofloence aeems to be ofa peeal«r 
character, and is remarked never to fail <^ effect The foUowing 
iastanoe of successful application was received from an English gen- 
tleman of undoubted veracity, and an eje-witness of most diat he 
related. As the incident took place within the last fifteen yean, it 
has been thought advisable to suppress the names of the paities. 

A gentleman of fiunily and fortune, in the west of England, bj name 

Charles W , had paid his addresses to the beautiful Miss P. yotmgeat 

daughter of the Eari of H , and had been ikvonkly received* 

It was well known to the friends of Mr. W., of whom ray infomai^ 
was one, that his hopes of happiness were centered in the prospect of 
dieir approaching union, in wUch his afiections were wholly engaged* 
No one who was acquainted with the amiable character of his bridot 
and the fiiimess. of his worldly prospects, would have considered ins 
expectations of future and lasting enjoyment ill-founded. Abo«t a 
week before the day fixed for the marriage, a letter was received Grom 
the executors of a rich but miserly uncle, informing him that the estate, 
of which he was the direct heir, and which alone (his own fortune 
being but moderate) had entitled him to intermarry widi the wealtl^ 

and noble house of H , was entirely lost to him, being, for some 

slif^ and uDintentional o&nce, diverted from the direct course of 
inheritance in fiivor of a distant relation. His agitation on the 
receipt of this letter was remarked both by the inmates of his fiunil/i 
and by a party of gentlemen whom he joined a few hours afterwards ia 
a fox^chase. During the course, and the dinner which followed at 
die ion of B., his actions as well as words were wild and extimvagant. 
His excessive and even unnatural exhilaration was remarked by all, 
but it was attributed to the peculiar happiness of his present situation^ 
(for the sudden defeat of his expectations was yet entirely unknowut) 
and to the wine, which, though habitually temperate, he di^nk that 
night in large quantities. 

Late in the evening cards were introduced, in which Mr. W. joined 
with unusual eagerness, playing with a fierce recklessness that loat 
him almost every game. Tet any proposal to break off or reduce the 
stakes was received by him with high indignation, and resented as a 
personal afiront He swore severd times, with bitter iroprecatioaa« 
that ^ he would let them know that he was rich enough for tkem yet.** 
At length, after the gentleman had lost at least a thousand pounds by 
die most careless and injudicious play, one of the party declared duiit 
he could not conscientiously continue while Mr. Ws nerves were ia 
their present excited state -^ offering him, however, his revenge at any 
time he chose. At this declaration Mr. W. took fire, insisting that 
**His nerves^ were perfectly composed, — that the proceeding was 
unfair and ungentlemanly — tluit the whole was a civsed plot to trick 



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THB OBAIT BTK. 887 

m poor man oirt of die small remnant of his fortune ; — but he would 
maSi&r no imposition, — he would show them that though poor he was 
8tiM equal to the best of them.'' It was with much difficulty dmt a 
challenge was prevented firom passmg, and he went away in a state 
of hi^ excitement^ leaving die company amazed at the avowals of 
poverty firom one who was supposed to be the richest man present 
No one suspected that his losses on that evening had exhausted above 
a year's income. 

«« Early the next morning," coutinued the narrator, '* I was awaken- 
ed by a message from the housekeeper of my friend, an old and faithful 
domestic, requesting me to come immediately to the relief of her 
master, who was, as she expressed it, '' in a desperate bad way." I 
learned from the messenger that his master had risen about an hour 
before, and during that time his actions had been so wild and irrational 
as to excite in the servants a suspicion of insanity. When I arrived, 
the report of the housekeeper left no doubt on my mind of the truth of 
their surmises, though of the cause of this sudden outbreak all were 
ignorant. The fit, she said, seemed to have seized him while shaving, 
and since dienhe had amused himself with talking tragedy — with 
breaking every article of furniture, or durowing it out of the window, — 
and at last by calling the servants to him, and driving diem from the 
chamber with his open razor. He seemed to consider this an excel- 
lent joke, and I heard, as I entered, his convulsive shouts of laughter 
at the precipitate fli|^t of a terrified footman. 

**I opened the door of his chamber, and beheld a singular spectacle. 
The floor was strewn with fragments of furniture, the bureau and 
dressmg-table were overturned, and the bed-curtains torn down, one 
of them being wrapped around his led arm as if he had been engaged 
in fencing. He was half dressed and half shaved, — his morning 
gown hong in strips firom his Moulders, and the lather still clung to 
one ghasdy cheek, while down the other ran a stream of blood from a 
gash which he had accidentally inflicted when die frenzy seized him. 
His head was sunk on his chest, and his arms folded, — the right 
hand still grasping the open razor. Suddenly he raised his head, and 
die wild glare of his unsteady eye told too surely diat reason had for 
a while deserted her throne. He did not remark my entrance, but 
began, in a most feeling accent, and with a tone and gesture which I 
have never seen surpassed, (for it was from naiurcj) one of the most 
affecting of Lear's speeches. Before he had finished it, some noise 
which I made attracted his attention ; he started, gazed a moment ir- 
resolutely, and then advancing to me, saluted me with much courtesy. 

* Tou must excuse my dishabille, Mr. 6 ,' said he, ' from the 

earliness of the hour. I am very glad to see you, however. The 
j«ason of my sending for you was to ask a small favor of you, which 



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Z9B THB CMAST lYS. 



I know yon will not reSum. I immiC yon to ttaad my frkod in m cei^ 
tain ^Sak wliidi I have on my handfi. I am determined to chiHenge 

A , and N » and Y , (naming the gentlemen who had 

been his companions at play the night before^) all of them — aH at once« 
by 6^-^ ! I will show them that I am still a match for tfie whole 
pack of them, though I am poor* And this is the way IH take them ; 
yon see I have been practising tnoole fencing this morning ; I wiR 
catch N's point under my own^ so , and settle Y. with a side* 
ltnige« th us ;' and he made a iiirious stab at me with his weapon, 
which I escaped by a hasty retreat ; upon winch he made the hafl 
ring with his bursts 6f maniac laughter. 

** I suggested to the housekeeper the propriety of securing the un- 
happy man and depriving him of his razor, otherwise there was 
every reason to fear some irreparable injury to himself or others. She 
bad already sent, she said, for the family physician, and also for a Cer- 
tain William Waldo, a locksmith, who had acqmred considerable repo* 
tatknn for his remarkable success in subduing the violence of insanity ; 
and as the power was said to reside in his look, he commonly went 
by the name ct ' the Crazy Eye.' I had heard of such individuals 
before, but never having given much credit to ike accounts of their 
feats, I had naturally great curiosity to witness an attempt In a short 
time Waldo arrived ; he was a middle-aged man, with the look of an 
intelligent artizan, but nothing remarkable in his appearance. His 
eyes, I remarked, were of a dull hazel. He seemed to understand 
peifectly the business m which he was engaged, and to act like a man 
accustomed to such scenes. Opening the door of the chamber, he 
advanced boldly to the madman, who was in the heart of a soliloquy ; 
and laying his hand firmly, but respectfully, on his shoulder, said, * Sir* 
you are my prisoner.' The glare which he received was in the highest 
degree fierce and deadly, and I trembled for the fellow; but it was 
only for a moment, — the next instant the eye of the madman quailed 
before the steady, unwavering gaze of the Umur^-^^e wildness va- 
nished from his look, and he yielded, without resistance, to the grasp 
of his conqueror. It was a strange sight, — die tall, athletic figure c^ 
my friend cowering before the slight and feeble form of the simple me- 
chanic. He was immediately put to bed, and by die direction of the 
physician, who arrived soon afler, bled and cupped. To all these ope- 
rations he submitted with a patient sufiTerance, amounting almost to 
unconsciousness ; for he was still under the influence of die locksmidi'n 
eye, which seemed to exert an almost fascinating efiect upon him. I 
bad a momentary glimpse of it, and I was not surprised at the power 
of the look. It was frigfatfol. I cannot describe it ; but I remember 
thinking, many years after, when I first read Coleridge's Christabel, 
that the picture of the soreeress's eye bore a moirt vivid likeness to 



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TBB CEAZT ST«. dW 

l^katgpmfnmnAmkmf memory. TheinsMemedltobecoiiMcted* 
wd, as it weroy concentrated into (he pupil, and the color had changed 
ftom hasel to a deep black ; the lids were half-shut ; and the whole 
diaractar of die eye was what I may call snake-like. You will say 
Aat much) if not all, of ttis metamorphosis was supplied by my ima* 
gination ; but the remembrance whidi I hare of the look kself, and of 
my own horror at tiie si^t, will not allow of such an explanation as 
satisfactory, at least to my own mind. 

** My friend's malady, I am sorry to say, was never wholly subdued ; 
and he died, a few mon^ afler this occurrence, of a brain fever. His 
betrothed is still single ; I understand that she has since refused se- 
veral unexceptionable ofiers.^ They loved each other, I think, with an 
affection that I have never seen surpassed. 

^ My curiosity was much excited, as you may suppose, by the scene 
of which I had been a witness ; and I put several questions to the man 
on the nature of the singular power which he possessed. I obtained 
but little satisfaction. He himself was altogether ignorant of its 
origin, and had not even been aware of the change which took place io 
his eye, until it was remarked by his neighbors. The occasion on which 
he discovered that he possessed the power was somewhat remarkable. 

** You may have heard of Sir William F , who made a con- 
siderable figure in die political world about eighteen years ago. His 
deadi, i remember, created a great sensation in £n^and. He had 
been a member of parliament from B for several years, and had 
distinguished himself by bis vehemence in debate and his eccentrici^. 
The latter quality had displayed itself, during the last session, rather 
awkwardly for him, in the introduction and support of several bills to- 
tally inconsistent with his known political sentiments and with the 
wishes of his constituents, among whom he was exceedingly popular. 
It being the eve of an election, they were desirous of hearing from 
dieir old and much-loved member an explanation of the course he had 
latteriy pursued, not doubting but it must be perfectly satisfiictory ; for 
calumny itself had not dared to breathe a suspicion against the spot^ 
less integrity <^ Sir William P ■> A grand dinner was accordingly 
given him, at which many hundreds of the most respectable land- 
holders in the county were present. The speech which he defivered 
at the close was a singular medley. With much of sound political 
reasoning and siatesman-like policy, there were mingled opinions and 
principles which die most fanatical Jacobin would have hesitated to 
utter — ^principles of an alarming tendency, yet advanced with an 
earnest warmth whidi left no doubt of his sincerity, and maintained 
vrith an acuteness of argument that few but himself were capable of. 
The auditors sat in speechless amazement, hardly able to believe the 
evidence of dieir senses — yet none suspected the real cause. 



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840 THE C&AXT BTS. 

** Among tixwe pro ie n l wag Wakto. He ail Tcty near and oppo wi a 
Sir WiUiaiiit ao that be had a* (air view €i}am tliEOii|[^ioiit the evening. 
He reroariLed, as he said, an onnaaal wildneaa of the eye and tremu- 
loos movement of die hands, and he could not hdp regarding die ba- 
ronet with a fixed look of astoniahment» — with perfai^M a sli^ min- 
gling of indignation at what be heard. On a sodden their eyes met* 
and die e^ct was singular. The orator paused, leaned forward over 
die table at which he was speaking, and for the space of a minute fixed 
on his astonished constituent a glare of absolute horror ; the expres- 
sion of his eye, Waldo said, resemUed diat of a brate's under the in- 
fluence of terror — dilating, and, as it were, shivering. At Ae end of 
the minute the baronet seemed by a strong effort to recover his recol- 
lection ; shading his eyea with his hand, he sank pale and trembling 
into a seat; and was heard to say faintly — * Take him away, — for 
God's sake, take him away ! I cannot bear iV Waldo, of course, im- 
mediately left die hall, but Sir William found himself unable to pro- 
ceed in his address. The next day he was a raving maniac, and 
shordy afier perbhed by his own hands in a most diocldag manner. 

** Waldo was surprised, on this occasion, by the universal declara- 
tion of all present, that his eye, while he regarded the baronet, had uiw 
dergone an almost incredible change ; some said it was contracted, — 
others that die color had altered ; all agreed in terming the expresoon 
a terrible one, though none could account for its peculiar effect on the 
speaker, odierwise than by the supposition of some mysterious sym- 
pathy between that look ^and the insane mind. Waldo, naturally 
enough was inclined to consider the assertion as the c^S^ring of dial 
fondness for the marvellous which loves to account for every inex- 
plicable event by a still more wonderful cause. It was not till after 
numerous and careful experiments had been followed by invariable 
success that he dared to attribute to himself a power which carries 
with it an appearance of something superhuman. At present, how- 
ever, so settled is his conviction of the infallible efficacy of diatlook, 
that he does not hesitate to approach the most ungovernable maniac 
in his wildest paroxysm. He bad never, he said, seen another pos- 
sessing the same power, but had heard that in the north of Britain and 
in Ireland they were not uncommon ; in the latter countiy they were 
generally known by the appellation of tomers.'' 

How much of my English friend's narmtive is to be ascribed to a 
lively imagination, and how much of truth there maybe in the account, 
is left with the reader to decide. If the hypothesis of a real organic 
efficacy in the eyes of certain individuals be allowed, an explanation 
will perhaps be furnished of some remarkable facts that have for centu- 
ries perplexed the ablest physiologists. Whence arise die common 
belief that no animal, however furious, can endure the steady gaze of 



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A WISH. 841 

a homan eye t Fatal eiqperience has proved that of all ejes ttiis oh- 
eervation cannot be true ; but the opinion could never have been to 
extensively diffused without the support of well-established instances. 
The epithet anake-Uke^ applied bj ray friend to the expression of the 
locksmith's eye, leads to &e consideration of the &scinating power 
which certain reptiles are said to possess, — a power which was once 
confidently denied, until multiplied observation had ascertained its ex- 
istence, and which naturalists have attempted in vain to explain. Con- 
cerning the origin of this ocular influence, no conjecture in the present 
state of our experience can be hazarded ; in the hope that it ma ylead 
to some further investigation of this remarkable phenomenon, the fore- 
going relation is submitted to the attention of the curious. 

xi. JCi. Ju« 



A WISH. 



Wbbit I sink to tleep the deep 

Once to come on every eye, 
Set no Btnbborn stone to keep 

Silent watch where I may lie. 

Marble were too hard and cold, 

Thas to tower above my heart; 
Never may ray name be told * 

By a lifeless form of art. 

Nature, that I loved so well. 

Till the power to love was o^er — 
Let her sweetly show and tdl 

What I loved, when Pm no more. 

Lay me where the shadowy phie. 

Sighing o'er my dust, shall wave. 
Let some humbly creeping vine 

Try to clasp me in the grave. 

By the birds that wildly sing, 
By the verdure of the tree, . 
By the lowest leafy thing 
May my fiiends remember me I 
«Araw6iirMPorf , Mass, H. F. G. 



TOU VII. 44 



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342 



CEBTANTISS AND HIS WRITINGS. 

" I will lay a wafer," said Sancbo^ "thatin no long time there will not be a taTem, 
inn, wine boose, or barber's shop, where the history of our exploits will not drcalate." 

Thus spoke the faithful Squire of the ingenious Knight of La Man- 
chat as events have proved, in a spirit of prophecy. Little did its author 
imagine, however, that the fulBlment would so far exceed the predic- 
tion. Spain, France, and the low countries were, in his lifetime, the 
extent of his reputation and of his ambition ; little did he imagine that 
his fhme would so soon soar beyond those narrow limits to the banks 
of the Thames and the Neva ; and still less, diat from the feeble co- 
lonies which his countrymen were then planting on tiie shores of the 
newly-discovered Indies of the west, myriads of nations would arise 
of whom some would enjoy the offspring of his genius in its native 
Castilian, and proudly claim kindred with its autiior ; and of whom 
others, though incapable of seeing his merits, save through die bor- 
rowed light of translations into their Saxon mother tongue, would 
scarcely yield to the former in love and admiration for him. No lite- 
rary production enjoys such popularity. Sfaakspeare and Robinson 
Crusoe, which have been read more than all the rest of English litera- 
ture together, are comparatively but little known and little appreciated 
in tiie south of Europe ; but the people of the north, witii more gene- 
rosity or better faste, universally admit the claims of Cervantes to 
nearly the same extent as his own countr]rmen. It is yet true, as it 
was in the days of the renowned Cid Hamet Benengeli, that even 
children handle it and even ^ aged read it ; and we scarcely think 
an apology necessary for devoting a few moments to a subject of this 
kind. It may be called old, this we admit — or worn out, but this we 
deny. No criticism can exhaust a work of such originality and such 
variety. As well might we say that the Apollo or the Laocoon has 
been worn out by constant study and observation ; so far from it, tiiat 
with this woric, as with them, every new glance discovers new beauties. 
A book no one was ever tired of reading cannot surely be tedious 
to reflect or to discourse upon. This firm persuasion is our induce- 
ment, and must be our excuse, for the remarks we are about to offer, 
first, on tiie character of Cervantes and then on that of his works. 

Miguel Cervantes de Saavedra was bom at AlcaU de Henares, in 
New Castile, in 1547. The day of his birth is unknown ; that of his 
baptism was the 9th of October. He was &e son of Rodrigo de Cer- 
vantes and Leonora de Cortinas. The family of Cervantes was of 



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0KRVANTS8 AITB BIS W&|TIIfG8« Z4M 

Gralieun origia. bat had luraDched out into Toledo, Ca«tile, and S«Tilh» 
Tbeu lineage vas ancient and honorable ; a command^', Leonel de 
Cervantes, went out to New Spain under Captain Panfilo Narbaes, in 
1619. Our author himself speaks in his Caliope of one Gonzalo de 
Cerrantes Saavedra, distingmshed, like himseU^ botti as a soklier and 
poet ; and the author of the Bibliotheca Hispaniea Nova mentions 
Fray Gonzalo de Cervantes Saavedra with approbation, 

Cervantes seems to have been distingui^ed, even in earlj joutfa, 
for the same quickness of apprehension and the same love of letten 
which always characterised him* Having completed, at home, what 
then constituted a liberal education, consisting of some classics with 
a good proportion of scholastic theology, he went over to Italy, where 
we find him serving as page to Cardinal Aquaviva* Soon after it was 
that the whole of southern Europe, forgetting their private feuds on the 
approach of a common danger, formed that famous league against the 
Turks whose results were the battle of Lepanto and the checking 
&a ever the Moslem's hopes of subjugating Christendom. At this 
battle, Cervantes, at this time twenty-four years of age, was present, 
and received that wound to which he more than once alludes with 
honest pride in his writings. On recovering firom its effects he re- 
joined liie squadron, which* after cruising for a time in the Grecian 
•eaSt r^umed to Italy. He there joined the Neapolitan forces, and 
remained for some time in that city, devoting, as we may fairly con- 
clude, much of his leisure time to ^ language and literature of the 
eountry, with both of which his writings show him to have been fami- 
liar. 

It was on his return from Naples to Spain, in 1675, that he was 
ci^tured by pirates and carried prisoner to Algiers. It has been 
generally supposed that the episode of the Captain introduced into 
Don Quixote, was intended by Cervantes as a sketch of hb own cam- 
paigns andcaptivity, but this is notstrictly correct; although theirhistoriea 
certainly correspond in some particulars. Thus the Captain is taken 
prisoner the day afier &e battle of I^^panto, Cervantes not till years 
afterwards. The Cs^ptainhimself too mentions Cervantes; and, speak- 
ing of his cruel master, Hassan Aga, he says : *' Every day he hanged 
one, empaled another, cut off the ears of a third, and that for small 
cause or none at alL There was only one man who could manage 
matters with him, a Spanish soldier, named such a one de Saavedra ; 
and although he had done things which will be remembered by that 
people for years, and all to gain his liberty, still he never struck him a 
blow, nor ordered one to be struck, nor spoke a harsh word to him ; 
and for the very least of many things he did, we, all of us, feared that 
be would have been empaled, and he himself dreaded it more than 
OBee ; and were it not that time is wanting, I would now mention 



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844 CBRTANT18 AND HIS WRITINGS. 

some thingB that soldier did, which would cause us lar more entertain* 
meat and wonder than &e story of my adventures.'' But ^ere is fbr- 
tunately within our reach a more accurate source of inforraatioo. It 
is the *' Topografia de Argel," written by Fray Diego de Haedo, who 
was a fellow-captive with Cervantes, and who speaks, at some length, 
iji those bold attempts he made to regain his liberty. It appears, then, 
diat fifteen of the Christian captives, all Spaniards and all men of 
rank, concealed themselves for some time in a cave in Hassan's gar- 
den near the city, where they were supplied with provisions by Cer- 
vantes ; that they had an understanding with a Majorcan named Yiana, 
who had a vessel hovering on the coast, waiting for an opportunity to 
take them off. The only two persons, besides the prisoners, who knew 
of the plot, were the gardener, and a renegade who afterwards betrayed 
them. So far the story agrees widi that told in Don Quixote. 

But, unfortunately, *the result was very different The gallant 
captives, who had lurked in &e cave till dampness and confinement 
had afiected the health of many of their number, found no beauteous 
Zorayda to enrich them at once with her love and their own free- 
dom ; and there was no rich father whose gold and jewels might ac- 
company the enamored daughter's flight. The renegade they had 
trusted abjured the Christian religion for the second time, and to make 
his conversion more acceptable, accompanied it with information where 
the missing captives were concealed. Hassan's soldiers took them 
all prisoners, and especially (says Father Haedo) ^ they bound Miguel 
de Cervantes, a distinguished gentleman of Alcald de Henares, who 
was the author of all this matter, and therefore the more blamed." The 
unfortunate gardener was empaled, and the captives fell once more 
into the hands of their hard taskmasters. Haedo concludes his ac« 
count of the affair as follows : *' Wonderful to relate ! for some of them 
were confined without seeing the face of heaven (except at night) fbr 
seven months, some for five, and others less ; Miguel de Cervantes 
supporting them at the imminent hazard of his life, the which he was 
four times on the point of losing, and of being empaled or burned alive 
for things that he did to give liberty to others ; and if his fortune had 
been equal to his courage, industry, and ingenuity, Algiers would at 
this day be in Christian hands, for he aimed at nothing less ; finally, 
the gardener was hung up by one foot, and died choked with his blood ; 
he was a Navarrese by birth, and a very good Christian. A whole 
book might be written concerning the things which happened in that 
cave during the seven months these Christians were in it, and con- 
cerning the captivity and exploits of Miguel de Cervantes. Hassan 
Pacha, king of Algiers, used to say, &at if he had the lame Spaniard 
well guarded, his captives, vessels, and the whole city were Mfe ! so 
much did they fear the machinations of this Cervantes." 



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^,i 



.^^ 



OBRTAKTBl AND BIS WRITINGS. 846 



Die liberty which Cervantes made these bold but imsuccessful 
eiibrts to obtaSQ, he finally acquired by the more usual method of ran- 
Mm. In Mfry 1680, after he had languished five years in slavery, 
be was rededteed by the two fiiars, the Redemptioners as they were 
styled, of Cas}ille and Arragon, being persons representing those 
states in' some what of an official capacity, whose duty it was to redeem 
as many of tfieir« subjects as the means supplied them by charitable 
persons at home would enable them to do. Cervantes's ransom was 
fixed at 600 ducats, a high price in those days. His widowed mother 
and his sister contributed one half of this sum — the remainder was 
supplied firom the general fund. This appears from the original 
Report of these officers, preserved in the Royal Library of Spain. 

For some years afler his liberation, Cervantes resided at Madrid, 
and devoted himself to study, with but little other riches, however, 
beyond those with which nature and application had stored his mind. 
This compelled him to resort to his pen for support, and he wrote a great 
number of verses and comedies. About this time too he married 
Dofia CataKua de Salazar Yozmediana y Palacios, a lady of noble 
fiunily in the town of Esquivias. In the registry of the bride's native 
town, the original marriage contract is still, or was lately, preserved ; 
a relic which we should suppose/would be as proudly shown and as 
reverently eyed by every true Spaniard as Shakspeare's will, when 
produced by the official at Doctors' Commons, is by the pilgrim in 
England. The dowry, as specified in this document, would give us 
no very high idea of the bride's wealth. It consists of divers fruit- 
trees and beehives, of a garden, of furniture, domestic utensils, and ar- 
ticles of dress, now so obsolete as to be untranslateable without pages 
of explanation, although, invaluable for a history of Millinery and 
Mantua-makingf; and even is so minute as to specify, **Item, eifowlery 
(to coin a word equivalent to gallinero,) comprising one cock, forty-five 
hens, and divers chickens." The only money part of the transaction 
consisting in 100 ducados, which the bridegroom settles on the lady, 
and which he declares amount to the tenth part of bis whole fortune. 

His Spanish biographers strongly hint that Cervantes was no more 
fortunate in wedded life than Socrates and many other distinguished 
martyrs to matrimony, and there are many things which render such a 
conclusion probable. Be this as it may, he continued his literary 
pursuits for some four or five years, when he repaired to Seville. 
Here his employment was that of a broker or agent, in which he 
seems to have been rather more successful than men of genius are 
apt to be. 

Towards the year 1600 our positive information respecting him 
ceases, till we find him in Yalladolid in 1604. But the generally 
accredited story is the following. The neighboring inhabitants in 



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846 0SRTAKTB8 AND Uf WRITIlfO«. 

La Handia were fireqoently behmdhaiid in pajfing tbe legal <iliiea to 
the grand Prior of St. John* and when thii happened it win the cite* 
torn to send some peraon armed with legal audiority from the Pimy 
to collect them. It is said that at Consuegra, the chief seat of iik 
Priofy, tradition has preserved the fact that at the time of wfaidi we 
wiit^t the inhabitants of ArgamasiUa la Alba* a little village in La 
Mancha, were thus in arrears, and that Cervantes was sent to thmn bj 
the Prior to enforce payment, bat that the stubborn defaulters set at 
defiance him and the process with which he was armed^ and even 
threw him into prison. Whether this was the cause or not, the fact diat 
he was sent to prison, and that there he wrote his Don Quixote, is cer- 
tain. The prologue to the work itself is express. ** What," says he, **can 
my steriler and ill-cultivated genius beget other than an ofikpriag, dcy, 
withered, whimsical, and full of strange fimciee never entertained by 
ainy other, as one born in a prison, the abode of all discomfoft" In 
the solitude of a dungeon hb genius did not languish, nor did its gloom 
check the flow of his wit It is true that Boethius, Grotius, Tasso, 
Mirabeau, Bunjran, and a host of others, have found inspiration within 
the nak6d walls of their prison house, but their writings express only 
their grief or their indignation, or else turn on the consolations of virtne 
and religion ; Cervantes is the only man living who has composed a 
work of humour in this ungenial atmosphere. 

In 1 604 the first part of Don Quixote appeared, and was received at 
once, as we may well imagiiie, with shouts of laughter, appkuuse, and 
admiratMNi. It has been said, indeed, and that by no mean authority, 
that the public received this coldly at first, failing to see that the woik 
was satirical, just as the well-fed churchmen and true blue presbyte- 
rians in England failed to discover the irony in De Foe^s admirable 
*' Short Way with Dissenters ;" and that, to undeceive them, Cervantes 
wrote a little work called Ike Buscapie, in which he gave them to 
understand that his book was a satire on the most distii^ished cha- 
racters of the day, such as Charles Y. and the duke of Lerma. But 
it is not true that it was coldly received at first Four editions Vei« 
published within a year afler its appearance ; and before the author's 
death, the number had increased to fourteen, a circulation which, nrhea* 
there were as yet no steam presses and no Harpers, is really prodigious. 
Nor is there any evidence that Cervantes was the author of this 
pamphlet, add he expressly denies that his satire ever had a personal 
tendency. 

But although applause and compliments were freely showered on 
the author's head, it appears but too evident that he met with but a 
small portion of that more solid reward which is as necessary to men 
of genius as to more ordinary minds. Nor was the applause he re- 
ceived unmixed with censure. A powerful party was formed against 



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GBETAJCTM AlfD HIS ff«ITUr«S. Ult 

Vaatkbyt (he on lh of a and rtadero of books of chmliy; ihe fomwr of 
wkom ko attacked in ttnor aourcea of honor and profit* the bitter in 
tfieir tatle and finrorke pastime. Bui kis most bkter enemy was 
the celebrated Lope de Yega, ai that time at the head of the Spanish 
dsaoBa, and his nomerous foUowers. His supremacy* it is tnie» was 
notttodispitted ; and a literary war&re, unsarpassed in energy* bit- 
terness* and abosiFeaesB* had k>ng been waging between Lope de 
Yega and his friends* and a number of literary men* who considered 
his renown as beyond his deserts* and regarded the dnimatic literature 
of Spain as &ohy and corrupt. It is not necessary to rake up these 
«* meffectnal fires" of a kmg-forgotten strife firom their ashes. Suffice 
it (o say that Lope had already found Cenrantes among his enemies ; 
and that the severe and sweeping criticism passed on the then Span- 
ish drama in Don Quixote was by no means calculated to allay his 
pesentment. The mutual ill-feeling was jnanifested in a paper war of 
sonnets* whksh did little credit to either; in which* however* if any 
diftrence can be found* those of Cervantes are most pointed* and 
those of Lope most abusive. 

Daring tbe many years that Cervantes remained at Yalladolid* the 
only ciroomslMice related of him is one out of place in a poet's life — 
a difficnlty with the ministers of justice. It appears that a certain 
Don Gaspar de Eapeleta* a cavalier attached to the court, which was 
then at YaUad<Ad* had lodgings near Cervantes ; that one ni^ he 
sallied out* disguised and armed* probably on a love adventure^ that he 
was met by a stranger, likewise armed* who ordered him to leave the 
spot ; which, like a true cavalier, Don Craspar refused to do. The 
natural result was a combat with swords* in which Don Gasper fell* 
mortally wounded and ciying for help. This took place diredly op* 
posits Cervaales's house. His tteigU>orB hunied out la assist him — 
he was taken into the house* where he soon after expired. The offi- 
cers of justice proceeded at once to examine his condition. All these 
things* it should be observed* appear in the officasl documents* which 
are stfll extant They examined the deceased's clothes* and as the 
list of Ike contents of his pockets is somewhat characteristic, we shall 
extract it They consisted in ** 72 reals in money, two golden rings* 
the one with small diamonds, which separates into dnee parts* and is 
an Ave Bfaria* and tbe odwr of emiaralds : an ebony rosary ; a purse 
of reUqaes ; another purse containing ffint* steel, and tinder* and three 
small keys." The depositions of Cervantes and the members of his 
haukf were taken* and* upon a suspicion* which seems to have been 
wholly without foundation* that some inmates of the house were the 
caase of the affi^y, he was put in confinement* and released only 
en giving security* and the members of the family also compelled 
to give aecurify, and confine themselves within the walls of their bouse 



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348 CBRVAKTB8 AJO) HIS WBITIirCW. 

tiU the further order of the ooart. Tliese proceediogs ase in ho other 
Inspect importanty except that they confirm ^ &cts pr^vioiisly stetMl 
88 to Cervantes's marriage^ place of residence, and emploTment 

For some years after, Cenrantes seems to have past his time in firuit* 
less solicitations of patronage, until, disgusted with the indifi*ereDce of 
the weal&y and the powerful, he determined to leave the field to odier 
competitors, and retire, as he himself phrases it, to his accustomed 
leisure, which he devoted chiefly to literary compositions. At this 
time appeared his Novels ; a work which, inferior as it is to Don Quix- 
ote, displajTs such variety of invention, and a style so pure and ele- 
gant, as would alone entitle him to no mean tank among his country's 
authors. 

Ten years had now elapsed since the first part of D<m Quixote had 
been published, and its author was engaged upon the second when a 
rival, or rather a counterfeit, suddenly appeared, under the leigned 
name of the Licentiate Alonzo Femandes de Avellaneda, a native of 
Tordesillas. Who was the true author it is now impossible to dis- 
cover. As to the work itself, the bitter fulminations of Cervantes 
against it,. and the audacious foigeiy, have attracted for it a degree of 
attention which its actual merits are iar fiom deserving ; and H is 
now treasured by collectors as a literary curiosity. To say that it is 
fiir inferior to the genuine work, would mark the difference between 
them but faintly ; they are as unlike each other as dulness and wit, 
clumsiness and grace, barrenness and fertility, coarseness and ele- 
gance, can possibly be. Its appearance only hastened Cervantes to 
conclude his second part, which appeared in 1616. By this time the 
&me of the ingenious knight had spread throughout all die world. It 
was a time when the Spanish language had the same pre-eminence 
and the same universality in the civilized world which the French has 
now. In France, we are told by contemporary authority that every 
person of good education, of both sexes, could speak Spanish ; and 
the scraps of that language scattered through the comedies of Ben 
Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and their fellows, as specimens of the 
cant words of the day, show that it was nearly as general in EaglaiML 
This is proved by the well-known anecdote of the French embassy 
in Madrid, the members of which, in conversation wi& some distin- 
guished Spaniards, as soon as Cervantes's name was mentioned, began 
to extol him in the highest terms. Many of them could repeat nearly 
the whole of bis works from memory. The ecclesiastic who men- 
tions this anecdote, states that they inquired very particularly as to his 
profession and fortune ; " To which," says he, ** I found mjrself obliged 
to answer that he was aged, a soldier, a gentleman, and poor.'' 
Whereupon one of them replied, ** And does not Spam then keep 
such a man rich at the public cost?" Anodier of the gentlemen took 



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CSRVANVKS AKD Ht8 WRItlWCMU MO 

Up Ae remark wkh much tageaQiQr, and exclaimed, ^If k is want iuit 
^>rce8 him to write, praj Heo^Fen he may never ei^oj plenty, iimt d» 
ofiepring of his poverty may continue to make a whole workl rich." 

The anxious and troubled life of our author waa already drawing to 
« close. A disease with which he had been aflicted for some tiaw 
gradually assumed an incurable appearance. He was fully aware of 
diis, but it in no degree diminished his cheerfidness, as is apparent 
from the prologue to his Persiles, wherein he describes his own sad 
condition with much of the melancholy pleasantly of Sterae's Yorick 
ion his death-bed. His powers of mind and his good humour conti- 
nued until his last moments. 

On the 18th of April, 1616, he received extreme unction, and on 
the next day wrote the dedication of his Persiles to his bene^tor, Ihe 
€onde de Lemos. On the 23d of the same month he died, aged 
sixty-nine. It is well known that our Sfaakspeare died on ^ same 
day. His funeral was simple, and homble as his whole life had been. 
He was buried in die conTent of the Sisters of the Trinity at Madrid. 
No stone marks the spot where he lies, no epitaph proclaims wbone 
dust k is that sleeps below. He did more ibr his country's literature 
than aO other men, yet no inscription tells us even so litde as ** Heie 
Cervantes was bom,'' or ^ Here Cervantes is buried." But in this 
Acre is the merit of consistoncy at least Splendid funeral rites and 
costly monuments to the dead would have been too glaring a con- 
trast to the poverty and suffering in which the living was left to lan- 
guish ; and such late remorse and unavailing justice would have 
worn die air of mockery. It is better, then, as it is ; let his name 
go down with diose of Camoens and Tasso, Milton and Otway, on the 
long l0t of great minds which were misunderstood and neglected by 
the meaner spirits around them. He will serve as another proof of 
the useful though melancholy lesson all experience teaches, that it is 
dangerous to surpass the ordinary level, even in intellect ; and that 
the fate of the son of Apollo is too often that of the Trojan prophetess — 
to feel the inspiration within, yet to poor it forth to unwilling ears and 
incEffisrent hearts ; to have his claims to the favor of the deify sneered 
at or unheard, and acknowledged at last only when he can no longer 
enjoy his triumph. 

Our reader need not fear diat we intend enlarging on die merits of 
Don Quixote with as much prolixity as we have on the Ufe of its 
aathor. Let any critic, if such riiould chance to be, who doubts its 
pre-eminence, apply to it the test whereby Moliere judged of his suc- 
cess, and read it to his housekeeper. There are, however, some mem 
of such intensely mathematical genius, that they are not satisfied to 
be pleased without kiiowiog why diey are pleased. For the grati- 
fication of suoh, we can say that a commentator of the square and 

TOL. TII. 45 

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MO OB&TAIfTBS AMD HU WRITOfCHI. 

compttM bc1k>o1 of criticiflm has aic«rtaiiied satisfiM^torilj that Cer- 
vantes's woric is constructed according to ike strictest rales of criti- 
cism ; and therefore ike pleasure they take in its perusal is perfectly 
lawful and proper to indulge in. Sofiur does another of the same kid- 
nej cany his admiration of die Don, as to assure us that* thou^ comic, 
it is reallj and trulj an epic poem, just in the same way as the opwa 
bnffii is still opera; and he has spent page after page of good disquisition 
in pointing out its resemblance to the strains of blind Maeonides and 
the Swan of Mantua* and discussing the questi<Hi whether the wan- 
derings and various adventures of him of the Rueful Countenance are 
most akin to the sufferings of the tempest-tost Ulysses or those of 
the pious JEneas. We cannot pause to decide die question, nor yet 
to examine whether we are to look to more modern times for the 
model of the work, and to find it in the prosy twaddling of good bishop 
Heliodorus, or in the licentious elegance of Apuleius. If we might 
venture a dieory, which, diough perhaps hazardous, is not without 
plausibility, we should say that we are to look to neidier of these 
sources. It is absurd to say that he who could heap adventure on 
adventure, and string chapter on chapter, dirou^out four volumes, 
and those chiefly of that kind ^iriiich pall the soonest, viz. the humor- 
ous ; he whose invention could make the reader his captive in the first 
page, and keep him so to the last one ; was forced to look to times 
ancient or modern for the form or mould afler which we was to labor. 
But this was always the fault of Spanish critics ; the rules of Aristode 
were in their judgment infallible as the canons of the Church, and 
a novelty in literature was as odious in their eyes as a heresy in 
religion. And, not content with having assigned Cervantes a model 
he never had in view, they insist on ascribing to him an object he never 
dreamed of. We have already alluded to the litUe book called the 
Buscapie, and the attempt made to convert the work into a political 
satire. 

But the Spanish critics are not alone in such wild fancies, an Eng.^ 
lishman has even surpassed them in absurdity. We allude to the 
Rev. Mr. Bowles, who gravely contends tluU the whole book is a 
covert satire on the Jesuits, and their founder, Ignatius de Loyola. 
It will be sufficient to observe, that if the book does contain such a 
satire, it has been so carefully hid that it was reserved for a foreigner 
to detect it Equally unfounded, we may beg leave to remark, is the 
very general idea that the book was written to ridicule the institu* 
tions and manners of chivalry. This has been said, in the language 
of sober fact, and dilated upon in that of poetical exaggeration ; and 
we are gravely told that Don Quixote, spite of its literary merit, had in 
truth and in fact, a bad influence on the Spanish character ; that it held 
up to ridicule all those pure feelings and high impulses which were 



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OBRTAIITBS AND HIS WEITmCMEU S§1 

cjienibed by die spirit of chivalrjy and supplied their pUiee widi meui 
. prosaic matter-of-^u^t. Some scribbkr has even had the sagacttjrio 
diacoTer« that from the time it was published, Spain gradualij declined 
in greatness. With equal felicity and equal truth we might say that 
the Florentine Republic nererheld up her head afl«r Dante wrote the 
Divina Comraedia ; for his poem had just'as much to do with the 
decline of her greatness as Cervantes's novel had with that of Spain. 
A lew words will suffice to Mow to the winds all this namby-pamby 
stuff about the spirit of chivalry. In the first place^ this spirit never 
actually existed. No one, of course, supposes its magic and super- 
natural embeHishments to have really existed ; but many seem to 
think that there is some foundation of fiict for all this edifice of fiction ; 
and that King Artlnir and Archbishop Turpin may have actually flou- 
rished at some inde&iite distance of time^ though ahora of their fittr 
proportions. The days of chivalry, such, we mean, as are mentioned 
in Don Quixote, k is well known cannot be found in any good Chro- 
nological Table ; nor does the field where they were enacted appear 
on any correct map. In the 16di century they were said to have 
flourished in the 15th, in the 16th fliey were traced back to tiie 14th ; 
and thus they go on. 

Fine by degroet, and btantifully less, 

till they are swallowed up in obscurity. So too, as to place, the French 
and Spanish writers on chivalry lay their scene in England : do we 
examine England for the domicil of Palmerin of England, of Arthur, 
and Merlin ? we find we must go still fiulher. We are pointed to Den- 
mark ; alas ! stubborn facts and veracious travellers assure us that the 
Danes are a quiet, blue-eyed race of peasants and fishermen, guiltless 
of splintered lances and courts of love. Even the Sultan of Trebisond, 
whose court supplied adventures to thousands of these &bulous heroes, 
appears to have been human in its proportions ; and modem enterprise 
has penetrated even to the ultima thule of knight-errantry, the domi- 
nion of Prester John, without finding any trace of superhuman valor 
in the men, or more than mortal fidelity in the women. It is true 
that a quantity of novels existed for centuries, not such as indeed are 
now poured forth in twin duodecimos from steam-presses, but of 
more goodly dimensions and solid firame, 

« Wherein of antres vast and deeerts idle, 
Rough aoairiea, rocks and bills whose heads touch hetveo, 
The anUiropopha^, and men whose heads 
Do grow bcnMctfi thcor shoulders," 

of Stalwart knights striding over continents in seven-league boots, or 
cot^ tiM air with rail-road speed on enchanted griffins ; and of their 



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ass eSRTAHTBB AND HIS WIITIIIOI* 

kdiM tnie« who passed yean in vaodering, now beset by robbefS^ 
BOW carried off by pirates, now in tbe bands of equally ruffianly kntg^ato* 
•nantv and now joomeying finr montbs dntNi^ sbady roads, in cooa- 
pany with their favored knights ; and all not only withoat fear, butt 
wbat is still more incredible, wifhoat reproach. These books, m 
relishing criticism whereof is made by the Cimte and Barber in Don 
Qoixote's closet before proceeding to the grand creoMitijDn, were io 
great yogne in Cervantes's time. No one was absurd enou^ to 
suppose that their doughty chevaliers, with their dainty ladye-loyee, 
then" enchanted castles, hypogriffs, and neeroaoancers, had ever bad any 
seal prototypes ; yet they were devoured with te same eagerness with 
whi<^ fictions in better taste and better keeping are now. It was to 
ariticize these works, and to cure the public of their taste for su<^ 
trash, that Don Quixote was composed ; and to say ihai its tendency 
was to destroy the national feeling o£ honor and valor, is about as 
wise as it would be to say ^t a satire on the Mmerva press school 
of novel writing, on ** die Sorrows of S«isibility " for instance, or the 
^ Yictim of delicate distresses," would blot out of English natnre all 
tender emotions, all natural kindly feeling. 

In diese days of better taste we can hardly imagine how wide a 
circulation these books had ; and we may be oxcused for alluding to 
one or two of the principal. They were divided into two great classes. 
The first is die history of those personages to whom pante baa, with 
great propriety, assigned a place in his Inferno with Paris and Helen — 
King Arthur, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, Merlin, Queen Ginevra and 
her roguish duenna — all of whom are English. The next class is 
that which treats of " those French matters," as the Curate says, and 
which immcNrtalises the feats of Don Amadis de Gaul, and Don Ciron- 
gilio of Thrace, Don Reynaldo de Montalvan, and Archbishop Tor- 
pin, the Twelve Peers and their fellows ; strange compounds, as to 
incidents, of heathen mythology, northern magic, oriental story-tell- 
ing and western superstition ; and as to style, of bombast and frigid 
conceit What would the subscribers to a modem circulating library 
say to such a sentence as this : ^ By reason of the unreason which is 
done to my reason, my reason is enfeebled in such manner that with 
reason I complain of your beauty ;" or this : *' The lofty heavens which 
fortify your divinity divinely with the stars of your beauty, make you 
deserving of the desert which your greatness deserves." 

Tet it was over brass-clasped fdios, filled with such stuff as this, 
that the sentimental young ladies of the sixteenth century languiidied. 
The oldest of these works, Amadis de Gaul, enjoys all the reputation 
of a classic. France, Spain, and Portugal disputed the honor of hav- 
ing produced it So esteemed was k, that at one time, we are tM^ a 
copy was to be found in eveiy fiunily ; it was deemed amodel of hn- 



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OUtTAHTES A17I> HIS WEITIKOI. B6% 

gaage ; and Henry in. of France used to plaee it in his lfl>rary be- 
tween Aristotle and PJato. It waa against this, and similar farragos 
«f noosenae«that Cervantes sharpened his pen — not against any feel* 
ing of honor or loyalty, however exalted or however misplaced. Had 
Don Quixote laid his lance in rest against the feelings of the so called 
di^ o£ chivalry, it would have been wilder madness than when 
lie lerdled it against windmills. The object of this satire we may 
oall literary ; it was to impit>ve his countrymen's taste in reading, not 
to alter, much less to impair, their character. That the work grew 
greatly under the author's hands, and put on a shape difierent from 
what he at first intended, can easily be conceived. He could, in fact, 
hardly have proceeded any distance without being aware what a rich 
field for humor and satire he had entered on — and he was one who 
would not leave its advantages unimproved. There are many reasons 
to suppose this to be the true theory. To instance a single one. One 
of the strongest points in Sancho Panza's character, is that fondness 
for stringing together old saws in season and out of season, which made 
his master exclaim, '* I verily believe that every one of the Panzas was 
bom with a bag of proverbs in his belly ;" and yet during the first hal^ 
nay, neariy the whole of the first volume, not a single one fiUls from 
his lips. This trait was evidently an afler-thoug^t 

We have said we could not venture to try our readers' temper by 
enlarging on the beauties of Don Quixote ; ^e fear it would be equally 
tried were we to seek, too minutely, for its fiuilts. As far as style is 
concerned, it has none ; it is a model of language, varying through all 
the shades, from intense pathos to broad fiin ; yet pure, chaste,and class- 
ical in alL Indeed, so perfect is it in this respect, that it loses incon- 
ceivably, in a translation. There is, too, a gravity about the Casfil- 
lian eminently adapted to quiet humor, which is wholly lost in the 
process, of transfusion. We lose, tooj the striking effect produced by 
contrast, when the valorous Manchegan abandons ordinary language to 
discourse in the antiquated style of his books of chivalry, which he in- 
variably does when any deed of high emprize awaits his arm ; ni^ether 
file chastising of the choleric Biscajan, or the succoring the hosts of 
king Paralipomenon against thostf of Pandofilado with the naked arm, 
or whether he breathe out his soul in tender complaints to the dove of 
Toboso and phenix of La Mancha. Another instance of how much 
may be lost by this change of phraseology is found in his faithfiil 
Squire. We are astonished to find Sancho so easily deceived by his 
master's promise to make him governor of an island, and so totally 
ignorant of its nature as to suppose one can exist in the middle of 
Spam — because, in English, fiie only word to express the idea, island, 
is <me in so common use that every one must know its meaning ; but 
when we look to the original, we find that Don Quixote, when pro- 



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354 CSRTANTE8 AND HIS WRITIlfOS. 

mising Sancho his goyenunent, always uses, instead of die femiltfir 
word hla^ wbich he would of course have understood^ an antiquated 
latinized term InnUa^ borrowed from his books ; which, of course, the 
worthy Governor of Barataria is very excusable for not comprehend- 
ing. 

One fault, which cannot be denied, is numerous anachronisms. The 
first part was completed in 1604 — and the action occupies one hundred 
and sixty-five days — yet Sancho says he had spent eight months fi*om 
home. On his return Don Quixote remains quiet a month ; yet in 
die second part we find allusions to the expulsion of the Moors, wfaidi 
occurred in 1615. Sanchd's letter to his wife, Grom the Duke's cas- 
tle, is dated 20th July, 1614 ; and, what is still more singular, the 
housekeeper is spoken of, in the first part, as forty years of age, and 
in the second, as fifty. The explanation of this is, that ten years 
elapsed between the writing of the two parts ; and that Cervantes, in 
his haste, did not always distinguish between the actual time and that 
at which these fictitious events were supposed to take place. 

We could find it in our hearts to be yet eloquent at great length on 
a subject so inexhaustible. But we will be merciful, and conclude by 
merely reminding our readers of one merit in which Cervantes is un- 
approached by any other author, ancient or modem. We do not refer 
to the fertility of his invention and the stores of his fimcy, or to the 
dignity of his serious style and the richness of his comic humor ; nor 
yet to the manly religious feeling, pure morality, and high honor and 
refined taste which are visible in every page. What we refer to is this : 
Homer wrote the Odyssey after the Iliad — the author of Paradise 
Lost gave the world nothing better than Paradise Regained — Tasso's 
continuation of Jerusalem Delivered has been foigotten firom its utter 
worthlessness — and the secopd part of Goethe's Faust is bodi ex- 
travagant and tame — Cervantes is the only man who has written a 
book of which the second part was equal to the first. 



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355 



MEN AND BOYS. 



raOM THE OKRMAH OT XORXIR. 



Tu* storm of hatUe bat burst its bands, 
Who now wiU sit idle with folded bands ? 
Shame on thee, dastard, go crouch by the fire, 
Go bide amon^ girls, and from men retire ; 

B^, despised and dishonored thy name shall be, 
No German maiden kisses thee, 
No German song inspires thee. 
No German wine^up refreshes thee. 
FUI the bowl, 
Each gallant soul, 
Inscfibed on Freedom's master roll f 

When the live-long night, we've in watching past, 
'Mid the pelting nun and the howling blast, 
Thou may'st, 'tis true, be snugly doang. 
On costly couches soft reposing ; 

But despised and dishonored thy name shall be, &c. 

When the battle-trumpet's brazen dang. 
To our hearts, like Heaven's thunder ran& 
Thou mayest a taste for opera cherish. 
And tickle thine ear with bravura and flourish : 
Bat despised and dishonored, &c 

When we sink under the suii's fierce beam, 
And sigh in vain for a cooling stream, 
Thou mayest over rich dainties be laughing, 
Thou mayest sparkling champagne be quafiing; 
But despised and dishonor^ &c. 

When we in the thick of the murderous strife, 
Think for the last time on misb'ess and wife. 
Thou mavest hie to the minions of pleasure. 
And purcnase their hireling favors for treasure ; 
But despised and dishonored, &c 

When the bullet whistles, thelances resound. 
And death's thousand phantoms encompass us round, 
Thou mayest at billiards be victorious. 
And win at the chess-board battles inglorious; 
Bat despised and dishonored, &c 

Our last knell strikes — we must yield up our breath. 
Then welcome a soldier's glorious death, 
CJncer silken coverlets lying, 
Thou tremblest with fear of dying : 

And despised and unhonored thy death shall be. 
No German maiden weeps for thee. 
No German song is sung for thee. 
No German wine-cup is crowned for thee. 
Fill the bowl, 
Each jgallant soul, 
Inacrib'd on Freedom's master roll I 



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856 



THE CONSONANCE BETWEEN LITERATURE 
AND LIBERTY. 



mOM THS PftBlfCB W K. BMIJAjaX OOMflTAIIT. 



Thet who discover, and they who establbh truths of any kind so- 
ever, have a singular destiny. They are, at first, accused of being 
visionary, foolish, or seditious ; they are blamed for saying dmt which 
has never before been said, and thus threatening every thing which 
exists ; they are exclaimed against for creating innovation, confusion, 
and a contempt of the past. When, in spite of this outcry, the truths 
which they proclaim, triumph, the tune is changed ; Aey are no longer 
innovators, they are plagiarists ; what they now say has been said a 
hundred times before ; all the world has long been of the like opinion, 
and they have usurped the honor of the discovery. 

Did we read, with attention, the works of those authors who have 
pledged themselves to oppose every thought of liberty, my remaric 
would appear well-founded. During the last thirty years, the philo- 
sophers of the eighteenth century were called by them promoters of 
faction, and the attachment of the great men of the eighteenth century 
to absolute power was esteemed a proof of the excellence of that 
power. At the present day, when they know their cause to be ruined, 
they set about depriving our philosophers of the glory of being the first 
who arrayed themselves against despotism, and they claim the priority 
for the age of Louis XIV. All the principles of liberty, say they, 
may be found in Massilon, in Bourdaloue, and even in Bossuet. 

Whether they are wrong or right, this change in their language does 
not the less establish the important fiict — that victory is conceded to 
the principles of liberty ; and that all glory, whether ancient or modem, 
must, to be lasting, be associated witii these principles. 

Finally, as I love, above all things, to discover the toth, and as I 
am at the same time delighted in numbering the defenders of a noble 
cause, to meet among them the great talents of all ages, I willingly 
adopt the newer system of the audiors of whom I i^eak, and I believe 
that I shall perform a very useful service in furnishing them with rea- 
soning and facts which tend to the support of this new system, but of 
which indeed they had never dreamed, because they have not traced 
up the question to such a height. The horizon of the mind of party 
is always narrow in its extent. 



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THB 0ON8ONANCB BETWEEN LriERATURE AND LIBBRTT. 367 

It is not indiBpensable for a writer who has ideas of Ubertyy that he 
should attach himself to any particular form of social organization 
which this or that person may consider more or less favorable to li- 
berty. There are certain expressions which show that such a writer 
cannot be a friend to despotism, whatever may be his thoughts on 
positive institutions. His not having just ideas with regard to these 
objects, is because he does not know how to attain liberty ; but he de- 
sires it, he is friendly to it ; and even if a man be attached to a form 
of government free in appearance, it does not follow that he is a friend 
of liber^. On the contrary, he can be its enemy ; we had many ex- 
amples of this during the revolution. 

To prove what I have here stated, I take the history of Roman lite- 
rature. 

To the absolute dominion exercised by Augustus, the literary splen- 
dor of the age which bears his name has often been attributed ; and, 
this fiict being acknowledged, an attempt is made to assign its cause. 
It is pretended that nothing can be more favorable to the progress 
and perfection of literature, properly so called> than the unbounded 
dominion of one man. This form of government is said to throw a 
great lustre around the possessor of power, to encourage luxury, to 
preserve internal peace, to stifle ambition, to wake up vanity, to cast 
obstacles in the way of political investigation ; and thus it compels 
men, who are eager for distinction, to seek for it in arts or letters, and 
multiplies the number of aspirants to this kind of fame by taking away 
every other incentive from those whom poverty does not impel to 
mechanical labors, who are not exclusively devoted to their private 
affections, whom the desire of gain does not push into commercial 
speculations, and whose rank does not call them to some secondary 
enjoyment of power. From this state of things, it is argued that 
thence arises in the minds of all the class superior to the multitude, a 
love for elegance in form, a delicacy of taste, which can neither be ac- 
quired nor displayed except in quiet times. This result more especially 
arises for that lettered class to whom literaty successes (which in 
those countries where liberty reigns and passion agitates, are only 
used as means for arriving at some more important ends) become in 
themselves the principal, and indeed, sole objects of pursuit ; and by 
such men, the domain, which is their own, is the more assiduously 
cultivated the more exclusively they are confined within its bounds. 

I believe, on the contrary, that it is easy to prove that the chief 
works of Roman literature, although many have been produced under 
a despot, owed their existence and their merit to the remains of liberty ; 
because the progress of hterature, separated, as some delight to con. 
sider it, from every political idea, always clings (without doubt not to 
an explicit and secured freedom, but) to a mental emotion, which is 

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858 THE CONSONANCK B£TW£X1I LITSaATUEB AND LIBERTt. 

never an entire stranger to the remembrance^ the^oMesmon^ 4ie hqie, 
in a word, the sentiment of liberty. 

This sentiment, and the regret of not daring to manifest it« may be 
found in all die great writers of the Augustan age. Unhappily they 
have combined it with the vilest flattery. One of Ae crimes of ty- 
ranny is to force talent to degrade itself. But dns sentiment exists, 
though secret and suppressed ; and it even constitutes the principal 
beauty of Aose works which flattery disgraces. 

llie first observation that suggests itself to us, is, that, with flie ex- 
ception of Horace, Ovid, and Tirgil, all the men who were eminently 
distinguished in Roman literature, were anterior to the establishment 
of the power of Augustus ; and that many were enemies of that ty- 
rant 

Lucretius and Catullus died before the usurpation of CsBsar. The 
latter detested the usurper. Some of the epigrams which he com- 
posed are still extant; and Suetonius, whom we ought to regard 
rather as an organ of general opinion than as judging for himself, says 
that these epigrams inflicted mortal wounds on Cssar. 

Sallust betrayed the national cause : but then he was degraded by 
shameful pleasures ; and the corruption which in many men is the 
eflect of slavery, was, in Sallust, that of principle. He prostitutedy 
but did not owe his talents to tyranny. Cicero had composed flifie 
greater number of his best works, not only before the despotism of Oc- 
tavius, but before Ceesar had been assassinated. 

Cffisar himself, whom we must detest for his crimes toward his 
country, was one of the most eloquent of orators ; and his Com- 
mentaries show him to be a writer replete with elegance, force, and 
address. 

Consequently, from eight to ten authors, who compose the literary 
wealth of this illustrious age, five of the greatest belong to the times of 
liberty. 

I will observe that I have spoken neither of £nnius,nor of Lucfliu^ 
nor of Yarro, (of whom we possess only a few fragments,) nor even 
of Terence, who died more tiian a century and a half before Csesar, 
and whose language, the purest, the most elegant, periiaps, that is 
found in any writer of antiquity, displays a literature arrived at high 
perfection. When we reflect that Terence is separated flx>m Plautus, 
whose comic powers do not excuse his grossness, but by an interval 
of twenty-eight yeare, the progress of that literature cannot be disputed, 
and the splendid protection of LsbUus and Scipio, extended to an 
African slave, proves that to the most illustrious Romans Has pro- 
gress was not an object of indifierence. 

To elevate iUelf to a high degree of merit, Roman Kteratnre bad 
then no need of what is called the shelter of absolute power. Tin 

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griU CONSONANCE BETW£BN LITKRATUBS AND UBERTT. 359 

impnbe was given to all mindSf oad it was everj day purified by 
taste. Though we find in the writiogs of SaUust and Lucretius cer^ 
taia gross expressionsf there are none in Cicero^ Cssar, or even in 
CatudhiSy-r^atleasthe didnot M with pleasure mto obscenity, his 
was not a willing profligacy of mind. Besides, we must distinguish 
tbat which taints the Uterature of an age from a mere passing shadow, 
the reprehensible, but momentary amusement of a writer. Horaccy 
under Augustus, is still more indecent than Catullus. I do not think 
that it can be fairly inferred from the license of Yoltaire in the Guerre 
de Genive^ that there was very litde delicacy in French literature in the 
age in which he wrote* Letters in Rome were arrived at that point 
where taste always commences its purification. 

Tbat facility in wit, that niceness in manner, that rapidity in allu- 
man, that propriety in tenns, which constitute the perfection of artt 
and which is attributed to the absence •f political interests and to this 
protection of despots, the times, without the fatal aid of such degrading 
protection, would have been able to confer on men of literature ; for 
we already admired them in Cicero. Let us see now if the masters of 
Borne did better than the times would have done. 

I have already said, that, among die great writers of Rome three 
alonetnily belonged to the Augustan age : Yirgil, Horace, and Ovid. 
The two first, once enemies of Augustus, became his j^viigis ; the 
thind was his victim. I flbaU not stop to characterise the latter, firsfiy, 
because be is inferior to the two others, and lastly because I oi^ 
wish to point out certain ideas : but I will prove, I beHeve, that Ho- 
race and Yiigil, so far firom owing the perfecting of fiieir talents to 
despotism, always tutmed looks of regret or desire* on the face of 
liberty ; and that these desires and those regrets, the expression of 
which involuataryy escaped them, constitute what is most beautiful, 
most profound, and most elevated in their works. 

Horace, it is known, fought under Brutus. He Ind been a military 
tribune mder the last defender of Roman liberty ; and since, being 
Ifae son of a fireed man, he bad obtained fbaX dignity, disproportionate 
tofaislHrtii, 

* Gtoen Eodont onmes Ubertino pttre aatum, 
Nunc q«ia sum tibi, Maecenas, conyictor, ut <dim 
Ctuod mihi pareret legio Romana tribuno," 

it ia evident Aat he was distinguished under the banners of the repub- 
lic before the battle of Phiiippi. He threw away his buckler, he teUs 
us, and took to flight in that battle ; 

** RelictiL non bene pannnl& ; 

and firom tiiiff 6on mot of a fugitive, now become a poet, we are to be 
bimried on to the conclusion that he applauded himself for his cowardice. 

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360 THE CONSONANCE BETWEKN LITERATtmS AND LIBERTT. 

and that he had witnessed, without a pang, the rum of the cause wiotdi 
he served I But, do we know to what degree he believed himself 
forced to exaggerate the shame of his defeat and &e excess of his 
terror ? Despotism condemns men to disguise their vhtues, as go- 
vernments which have true liberty obliges them to cloak their vices. 
Moreover, Horace tells us, that through zeal in the cause of his coun- 
try, he had left the sweet retreats of Athens : 

<<Di]ra sed emovere looo me tempora grata, 
Civilesque nidem belli tulit aestiis in arma, 
CaBsaris Augusti non responsura lacertis ; 
Unde simul primam me aemisere Philippo, 
Decisis humilem pennis, in opemque paterni 
£t laris et fundi," 

dissipated his fortune and risked his life. Poor, proscribed, Aigitivey 
he returned to Rome ; and, yielding with the rest of the world, he 
crouched to Octavius and begged for the protection of MsBcenas. But 
even in the midst of that resignation no where did Horace, and we 
feel truly grateful for this, insult the party which he had defended ; no 
where did he renounce it He flattered Augustus never as the destroyer 
of liberty, but for having conquered die enemies of the Roman name. 
Better still : every thing honorable that it was possible to say for the 
sustaining of liberty under a deceitful and suspicious usurper, he intro- 
duces in his odes. Twice sings he the glory and the death of Cato ; 
and these two passages are among die sublimest in his poetry. 

If we turn from the public to the private life of Horace, we shall 
observe a man whose personal security was in danger, and who, to re- 
gain it, sought to make hunself agreeable to existing powers ; deceived 
in the civic hopes of his youth, he took refuge in pleasure as die only 
way of drowning the sense of a life which liberty did not inspire. If 
we read him with attention, we are struck, every time that his subject 
leads him to remembrances which he endeavors to repel, with I know 
not what involuntary impulses, which induce him to pronounce ana- 
themas against tyranny even while he bows before it to the dust. 
Sometimes he represents a just man immoveable before the nuister 
who threatens him ; and, in an ode to Fortune, in favor of Augustus, 
he is suddenly compelled, in his own despite, to paint tyrants clothed 
in purple, fearing lest destiny should, with injurious foot, overturn their 
column, and the people assembled from all parts should cry to arms 
and destroy their empire. 

" Pcdpurei metuunt tjnanni, 
Injurioso ne pede pronias 4 

Stantera colunmam, neu populus freqaens 
Ad arma apantes, ad arma 
Condtet, imperiumque frangat" 

I surely do not wish to represent Horace as an enthusiast for liberty ; 

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TBI CONBOKAIIOB BBTWKBlf LITBRATUEB AKB LIBBRTT. ^61 

«B I wouM say is, ibai die memories of liberty were neidier strangers 
to his soal nor valueless to his talents ; that periiaps his genius would 
Defer hate soared so high, if, in his youth, he had only been familiar 
with thoughts of submission and the practice of obedience ; that to 
the companion of Brutus, as well as to die flatterer of Msscenas, be- 
longs a part of the loftiness of his expressions and of the sublimity of 
his thou^ts ; and that we form a wrong idea of Horace when we ima- 
gine him brought up fashioned and formed under despotism* 

Yirgil does not share widi Horace the honor of being the armed 
adversary of tyranny ; but, like him, he too was oppressed by its power ; 
he was driven from his paternal fields by the satellites of Octavius. 
We meet in his verses, as well as in those of Horace, much flattery of 
the lyrant ; but we likewise find eulogiums on the martyrs of liberty. 
It was Cato, whom he chose from among all the heroes who had ex- 
isted prior to his day, to give laws to the just in Elysium. 

Let us commiserate, but not blame him too harshly, for not having 
dared to name Cicero. Is diere no one among ourselves, who, in 
etom^ times,has sometimes been silent when he ought to have spoken? 
And Tirgil, when he praised the Grecian orators, felt sure diat all the 
Romans who remained in Rome would think, in their secret souls, of 
the great citizen whom he was forbidden to name. 

Thus, m the midst of the proeperi^ of servitude, we see Horace 
seeking for consolation in the Epicurean philosophy, in indolence and 
the pleasures of sense ; we behold Yirgil yielding himself up to an 
habitual melancholy. Both fled the court, and breathed freely only in 
retirement. Surely, if the encouragement of authority and the pro- 
tection of the depositories of absolute power are the blessings most 
esteemed by those who cultivate arts and letters, it is singular that the 
two greatest poets of the age of Augustus, loaded with his ftrors, 
should always have displayed a desire of removing themselves from 
his presence. I may be deceived — but, upon examining their con- 
duct, I am tempted to believe that all the benefits of power, so boasted 
by subordinary minds, are rather a necessity to which true genius sub- 
mits, than a prosperity which it is ambitious to gain. 

If from die illustrious epoch of Roman literature you take Lucretius, 
Sallust, Cossar, Cicero, Catullus, and if you are compelled to accede 
that Yirgil and Horace were not formed by Augustus, but submitted 
to his yoke after having tried to fly away and resist it, what proof re- 
mains of the efficacy of a despotism in the encouragement of talent? 

If you descend sdll lower ; if you follow Roman literature after the 
age of Augustus, what do you perceive ? A decadence idiich may be 
observed in two ways : by the abasement into which slavery precipi- 
tated the mass of vulgar souls, and by the exasperated state into which 



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369 ▼BB8I01f OF ▲ FEAGlf£MT OF UM0IIIP£C« 

1)io same bondage cMt tbe toiaU nomber of aouls thai were a|3l noble 
and elevated. 

In all the estimable authors who wrote under the emperora, we difl* 
oover something rough, emphatic, and exaggerated ; the fruit of tha 
constraint they suffered, and of the grief of a constantly restrained in* 
dignation* Those men, who have lived under a tyranny without en- 
tirely degrading themselves, know that physical existence itself be- 
comes a burthen to them. The air which they breathe is stiOing, they 
fespire with difficulty; a mountain rests upon the heart Read 
Lucian, Seneca, Persiua, Juvenal ; if, in that decline of literature, yoa 
seek for the source of the beauties which are still theirs, you will find it 
in the stoicism in which the love of liberty took refuge. Yelleius Pa- 
terculus, that wretched flatterer of Sejanus, who probably expiated hia 
baseness at the same time that his protector expiated his crimes, be- 
came animated in the praises of Cicero ; and the hatred of tyrants fur- 
pshed some sublime thoughts even to Suetonius. Under Trajan 
patriotism reappeared and die love of Uberty awoke ; then Quintilliaa 
and Tacitus shed their lustre. With the appearance of Uberty, litem- 
lure arose. Meanwhile Tacitus spoke his resentment of the despo- 
tism which had preceded him : he is an admirable author ; but, in a 
literary point of view, very far from the purity of taste which distio- 
gnishea the writers of the Augustan age. Liberty was eclipsed anew, 
aad literature expired with Pliny the Younger. 



VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDE& 



!*■■ winds were shrill — the waves were mouataio la^ 
The fragile barque was lined on the wavc^ 

And Daoie poor'd her bitter, bitter cry, 

And gazed on Perseus and the yawning grave. 

**My ehild,** she said, ** while breakers toes our chest, 
And chilly night-winds rush across the deep, 

In b^y sleep thou Ueet as at the breast, 
Thy coral Ups are smiling, though asleep. 

« The gentle moon with a voluptuous light, 

Is up, and quivers on the heaving see, 
Bat in my dank, unjoyous barque^ the night 
Is doubly drear to me. 



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THB COLUMN OF THK DESUIT. M3 

«EtiwT«pt wkfani% porpte nuiiitle winn, 

Tbcm dott not hear the billowB booming wU ; 
Thy chiBtering locks are shdter'd from the ftorm, 
Beautiful child 1 

** Ah t could'st thou half thy motfaei«8 angmah kn«W| 

Thy lids, as yet nnsulUed with a tear, 
With sympathetic floods would overflow, 

Thy tranqmi bosom palpitate with fear. 

** Yet, darling, sleep, ye billows cease to roll, 

Be hush'd ye winds that battle with the main^ 
Ye fiercer storms that prey upon my soul, 

When shall that soul be lolPd to peace agun 7" 

p.w.a 



THE COLUMN OF THE DESERT. 

Xpi) S* hvti d ffd, KOfirtpttv ^t9 SSctv, 

EumxpiDis ALoirr. 

Days were fast growing into weeks* and yet the large Caravan, 
which was holding its weary way to the gates of Bassora saw nothing 
around it but sand — sand. Scarcely a shrub, or weed, or blade of 
grass had appeared to relieve ^e eye of the toil-worn wanderers from 
the eternal sameness of the scene around since their last encampment 
at a watering-place too scanty to supply their wants. Days had passed 
aince then : their principal guide had perished of thirst and weariness, 
and now there was not one amongst that numerous company who 
could, with any degree of certainty, point out the proper course to the 
city, whose gates ^ey would have greeted as those of their Prophet's 
paradise. 

In this emergency a halt had been called, and the leaders had met 
to deliberate. As no one knew the direct course to Bassora, they re- 
solved to continue that which they were still holding, until something 
riiould occur to relieve them from their doubts ; two camels, whose 
owners had died the preceding day, were killed, — and &eir blood, and 
tiie small quantity of water still remaining m their stomachs, equally 
divided among the fainting band ; and the more valuable portions of 
their burdens being secured, the remainder was left as a spoil for the 
next passer-by. These arrangements had scarcely been made, and 
die Caravan again put in motion, ere two or three horsemen of the 
company, who were riding in advance, exclaimed that some tall object 

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M4 THE COLUSflf OP THS DBSSaT. 

was in sight Every eye was instantly turned in the diroctioB pointad 
out; and those who had sufficient strength for tiie effort, moaoted U> 
(he top of their camels' load to obtain a more extensive view. Amoa^ 
these was a Fakir, whose light heart had supported him when stronger 
men had failed, and who, by many a wondrous tale, had continued lo 
beguile the tedium of the way, and to earn, at the some time, a few 
honest sequins. ^ fiismillah !*' cried he, as he reached the summit 
of the load, " now, my fellow-travellers, will I be your guide ; ycmder 
is the pillar of Haslan and Ayeza, — reach but that, and you are safe : 
an arrow's shot beyond it lies a grove of pakns and abundance of the 
sweetest water in the desert !" A loud shout of joy greeted &e Fa- 
kir's announcement. Heat, fatigue, and thirst in an instant were 
forgotten. The camels, either conscious of the proximity of water, or 
goaded on by their impatient drivers, advanced with renewed energy ; 
and the whole cavalcade, whidi, but a moment before, 

** dragged its slow length alon^" 

the very image of weariness and despondency — touched by the magic 
wand of the Fakir's intelligence, pressed forward with the same cele- 
rity which had marked its exit from the gates of Cairo. An hour's 
travelling brought the sufferers to the spot so anxiously desired ; but 
yriio shall attempt to paint the tumult and confusion which followed 
dieir arrival ? Maddened by thirst, each rushed furiously to the well, 
and many a precious moment was lost whilst rival candidates contend- 
ed for the delicious draught Order, however, was at length restored, 
and the now refreshed travellers betook themselves to repose under 
the grateful shade of the adjacent palms. 

The Fakir, ni^o, since his assumption of the office of guide, had 
become a character of some importance in the band, was reclining 
luxuriantly upon a carpet, and puffing grateful odors from the amber- 
tipped pipe of his neighbor, a rich merchant of Aleppo — 

"It appears. Hakim," observed the latter, " that thou hast crossed 
the desert, by this route, before to-day ; the objects seem to be familiar 
to thee." 

" Thou has spoken truly, most noble Mizraim," replied the Fakir ; 
" twice, before now, have I reposed beneath these pakns ; and once 
have I passed sufficiently near to behold yon pillar rising like a faint 
cloud on the horizon" 

*' Thanks to the man who reared that column," interposed another 
merchant, who was reclining near ; ** doubtless it was erected by some 
good Mussulman, as a beacon to die doubting traveller?" 

" By no means," rejoined the Fakir, " it was erected for a fiur di£> 
ferent purpose ; and if you would like to listen to the legend connecti- 
ed with it, I shall have great pleasure in gratifying your curiosity." 

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THX OOLUMir 0» TBI I>BsmT« M6 

The pfoposal was joyfoBjr acceded to. It was tmmediafely noised 
aroimdtliat Ae Faldr was about to gratify his fellow-traTellera with a 
tale ; and the scattered groups lost no time in betaking ^emselyes to 
Hafcim's neighborhood, and arranging tiiemsehres witidn good hearing 
distance. That worthy, meanwhile, under pretence of finishing his 
pipe, waited until a respectable audience had assembled around him, 
tiien mounting with his mat to a bale of merchandize, placed conve- 
niently for him, he began as follows : — 

** Many years haye now elapsed since Ali Beidwar liyed in this 
iieighborlH>od, chief of a powerful tribe of Arabs. His tent was rich 
with the spoils of the numerous caravans which had fellen into his 
power. He had married Alzeida,the daughter of a powerful chieftain 
of a distant tribe, and, ere the expiration of a year, their happiness had 
been increased by the birth of a son ; and when, about three years 
afterwards, his Alzeida bore him a daughter, there seemed to be no* 
thing more required to complete their joy. The boy, who was named 
Mizron, grew op full of promise — active, handsome, and breve. 
When i^ut ten years of age, his father, at the youth's earnest entrea* 
ties, had allowed him to accompany a small band of his followers, led 
by a faithful servant, to intercept a rich, but weakly guarded caravan, 
of whose approach he had received intimation. It fell into their hands ; 
but as they were retummg, laden with spoil, they were unexpectedly 
aet upon by a body of robbers — their leader killed — and Mizron, de- 
aerted by his followers, fell into the hands of Eurjislan, the robber 
chief; but, whether he had died in the conflict, or was living in capti- 
vity, his heart-broken parents, notwithstanding the most earnest and 
persevering inquiries, had never been able to ascertain. They had, 
theretbre, at length given him up as lost to them for ever, and cen- 
tered the full tide of their love upon their remaining child, their daughter 
Ayeza, whose surpassing beauty and many virtues, added to the report 
of her father's wealth, failed not to attract a large band of suitors. 

** Upon none, however, did she smile but Haslan, in her parents' 
eyes the one who possessed the fewest attractions ; for, although of 
noble form and prepossessing manners, his father was chief of a small 
and despised tribe, between which and ^t of Ali Beidwar a deadly 
feud had formerly existed. Haslan, moreover, was young and inex- 
perienced in war ; and the fiither of Ayeza, proud of his own military 
prowess, scorned to entrust his daughter to the arms of <me, who, for 
aught he knew, might, by some future act of cowardice, tarnish the 
family honor. It was true, indeed, that the youth had shown no symp- 
toms of fear in the few expeditions in which he had as yet been en- 
gaged ; but it was equally true that no opportunity had hitherto pre- 
suited itself of putting his courage to any severe tedt. The maiden, 

Tot. vu. 47 



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866 THE OOLUMH OV THE DB8BRT. 

however, had do fears for him on that head ; and as to the mimmd&r^ 
standing between the fiunilies, what better way could be derised ciC 
arranging it amicably, than an union of two of the opposite members t 
It was in vain that her fiither pointed out to her the well-proved prowess 
of one, the wealth of another, and the pure and noble blood of a dnrdL 
In vain did her modier endeavor to excite hei; vanity and her ambitioo, 
by promising that a hundred camels, laden with the richest silks, and 
guarded by five hundred of the noblest horsemen of the desert, should 
accompany her as a bride to the tent of Nourhaddan or to tiiat of Al- 
debir. Promises, entreaties, and threats were alike unavailing ; and 
she at length declared that unless her parents would consent to bar 
union with Haslan, she would remain for ever single. 

Dreadful as was the idea of allowing their name to perish, and the 
line, which had been transmitted unbroken through a thousand gene- 
rations, to become extinct, yet so great was the dislike of her parents 
to an union with &e tribe of Ali Hassan, that days and even weeks 
elapsed, and stiU they remained uncertain whether to accept one of the 
two alternatives, or to compel their daughter to form some more de- 
sirable alliance. 

«« Haslan, forbidden to approach the tent of Ali Beidwar, had for 
several weeks enjoyed stolen interviews with his beloved in ike soft 
hour of twilight beneath these very palms. It was one of those de- 
lightful evenings of an oriental summer, when the doudless moon 
bends, like an angel of beauty and benevolence, over the earth, and 
seems to diffuse a refreshing coolness even through the thirsty desert. 
Ayeza had contrived to escape unobserved from her fiidier's tent, to 
meet Haslan beneath the well-known tree. Surprised at not finding 
him, she advanced a few paces along the outskirts of the grove ^diich 
commanded a view of the path which he was accustomed to take. 
She had not proceeded many steps, however, when a horseman dadied 
from an adjoining shade. 

*< * Haslan !' she exclaimed. 

**The horseman replied not, but in a moment was at her side. 
Bending from his saddle, he seized her as she was turning to fly, raised 
her from the ground and placed her before him ; then, pressing his 
steed with the sharp stirrup, he sped like an arrow across the desert. 
Perceiving that she was betrayed, she uttered a piercing shriek, and 
endeavored, in the first impulse of terror, to throw herself from the 
horse ; but finding all her efforts ineffectual, she called aloud on the 
name of Haslan, till, exhausted by her emotions, she feinted in the arms 
of her betrayer. Giving a shrill whistle, he was soon joined by three 
other horsemen, who had waited, in conceahnent, within call, lest any 
opposition should be offered to the maiden's ciq>ture ; and deeming 



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THB OOLUBCK OF THB DBSBET. S67 

themaelvea safe, for some hours at least, firom pursuit, they slackened 
their speed to breathe their panting horses, and to endeavor to revive 
their apparently lifeless captive. 

^ Mfhilst thus engaged, and while one had dismounted to assist his 
leader in placing Ayeza more comfortably on the saddle, the trampling 
of a steed was suddenly heard, and a bright lance was seen flashing 
in the moonlight in the rider's hand. The horseman who bore the 
maiden immediately urged his charger to its utmost speed, at the same 
time desiring his three companions to oppose the progress of the pur- 
suer. Haslan, for it was indeed he, perceiving that every thing de- 
pended on his speed, attempted to follow, but was intercepted by die 
nearest horseman. The next moment the intruder's saddle was 
empty — his courser galloping wildly over the desert, and Haslan's 
spear no longer glimmered in the moonlight, for there was blood upon 
its point Urging his favorite mare, he now gained on the flying cap- 
tor of his betrothed, himself pursued by the two surviving companions 
•f the fallen ; but ere long he had far distanced his pursuers, and had 
veached die object of his search. 

** * Restore your ill-gotten prize,' he exclaimed, * or, by Allah ! this 
HKNnent ia your last !' 

** * Strike !' replied his adversary, turning his horse's head towards 
Haslan, and shielding his own body by the form of Ayeza. 

** Haslan paused for a moment ; he knew that his two pursuers must 
soon be upon him, and with the rapidity of lightning buried his lance 
in die breast of his opponent's steed. The noble animal reared and 
sank upon the sand. The rider, extricating himself and his charge 
firom die dying horse, placed Ayeza on the sand, and drawing his 
scimitar, rushed furiously on Haslan. The latter, with admirable 
dexterity, parried with his lance — his only weapon — the attacks of 
his adversary ; at length, however, receiving a furious blow upon the 
handle of his spear, his weapon was cleft in twain : but before his op- 
ponent could recover himself, the headless lance of Haslan had pene- 
trated his bosom. 

^ Ere the combat had well commenced, Ayeza, revived partly by 
the voice of Harian, and partly by the shock occasioned by the fall of 
die horse on which she was borne, was kneeling on the sand, watch- 
ing, with intense anxiety, the momentary conflict : unable to assist her 
lover, and too prudent to utter a sound which might attract his atten- 
tion. On the ^l of his opponent, Haslan had time merely to leap 
fi-om his horse — press her hand fervently to his lips — seize the sci- 
mitar of his expiring foe — and regain his seat, ere his pursuers had 
come up. Astounded at beholding their leader's lifeless body, the 
foremost of the two horsemen checked his steed, whilst that of the 
odier, terrified by the ghastly spectacle, swerved wildly aside, and was 



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808 TXB ooLuior or tb£ dbsiet. 

liMrawfaile uomiiiagedUd* Haslaft seized the fitvoraUe moment. 
At a single leap of his noble mare he was beside the horsemsn, whose 
astonished gaze was still fixed on the inanimate body of his chief; bat» 
aroused bj the sudden approach of Haslast he instantly prepared for 
the encouiiler. A few desperate blows were given and parried, but 
the contest was brief; and the same moment which beheld Haelaa^s 
rebe crimsoned with his blood, witnessed his adversary's sicull cloven 
Ihroi^h the tmban's ample fold by a powerful and weU-dire<^ed blowr. 

** During diis brief struggle, Ayeza had approached the lifeless form 
of her captor, and had snatched a dagger fi-om his girdle in the vision- 
ary hope of yielding aid to her lover. Scarcely had she secured it, 
iriien the olher antagonist, who had by this time regained the mastery 
of his steed, uiged his course towards her, and stooped from his sad- 
dle widi the iBttBtioo of bearing her off, whibt Haskn's hand and eye 
were engaged by the condict xnOi his comrade. 
I «« • Who dare insult the daughter of Ali Beidwar,' exclaimed the in- 
trepid girl, * whilst she bears a weapon (or her defence V and at the 
word buried her poignard in the bosom of the Arab, whose warm blood, 
as he rolled from his horse lifeless at her feet, sprinkled her white ves- 
ture. But she saw it not. Her whole attention was absorbed by the 
orimsoned robe of her lover, as he approached her, victorious, though 
wounded, from his last encounter. 

^ Whilst she was busying herself in btodiag up the deep gash upon 
the arm of her lover, and he, at one moment eloquent with gratitude, 
was pouring forth thanks to Allah for Ayeza's safety and rescue ; 
and at the next, as if scarcely able to realize the idea that she was 
again unharmed at his side, was covering her blushing brow with kissest 
and endeavoring to sfaiake off or conceal the faintness which began to 
seize his limbs ; we will return to the tent of Ali Beidwar, where all 
was confusion and alarm. Ayeza had of^en before been absent at the 
same hour, but for so brief a period that her departure had scarcely 
been noticed. A considerable time, however, had now elapsed, and 
still she returned not. At first surprise was awakened — then, alarm* 
One domestic was despatched to seek for, and recall her — then another 
and another ; but moments flew by, and anxiety was every instant be- 
coming more and more intense, and still no tidings came. Ali Beid- 
war at length sprang impatiently from his seat, — 

** * My heart misgives me,' he exclaimed ; ^ I fear me that she has 
fled with Haslan : — if so, by Allah, the father shall pay deariy for ike 
treachery of his son !' 

** He then summoned his retainers — ordered them to arm and mount, 
and to- lead his fevorite horse Nisradj to the tent door. Before many 
moments had passed, he was bounding across the sands at the head 
of .twenty followers ; and directing his course towards the dwellings 



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THX COLUMK 09 tmt DStlBT. ZM 



<»r Ali Haasaiv £re hie own tent wm a league behind hittif a rider- 
less steed was observed in die moonlight gaUo>piDg wttdly acroea their 
path. 

** * Sei^e that barb^ Arwad !' exclaimed the chief. 

** His follower dashed from the band, and after a brief chase succeed- 
ed in capturiog the frightened steed. 

*^ * Give thine own beast to thjr brother to lead*' resamed Ali Beid- 
war ; * mount that which thoa hast caught, and leave him to his own 
guidance. Perchance, — for I see blood u|Km his saddle* <—^iott 
mayest therebj learn somewhat, if not of mj daughter — yet of some- 
thing which it may concern us to know. Durhaddan, go thou with 
him, and bring back word if ought befal. Thou canst overtake uStCMr 
we shall advance at diminished speed.' 

" HLb two followers departed* The animal which bore Arwad« feel- 
ing itself unrestrained, started rapidly across the sands, and ere 4oBg 
the two companions found themselves beside a dead or dying man« 
whose pale features wore a ghastly hue in the trembling and uneertaiB 
moonlight They leaped from their horses and approached him. The 
anfierer, as soon as 1m became consoieus of dieir vicinify, in a faint 
Yoice begged them, for the love of Allah, for a mouthful of water. 
Durhaddan sprang upon his steed, galloped to this grove, and filling 
the flask at lus girdle,^astened back to the wounded man. Arwad, 
perceiving that he was much revived by the draught, but that any at- 
tempt to move him would be attended with danger, by opening the 
wouudd which had now ceased to bleed, inquired of the stranger if he 
knew aught of the daughter of Ali Beidwar. 

*• « She is beyond your reach ere this,' replied the Arab, faintly* 
* unless yonder wild youth, who pursued us, has slain our whole com- 
pany.' 

^ Arwad made a «gn to Durhaddan, who again mounted his steed, 
and sought Ali Beidwar and his companions. He soon overtook 
them, and related what had pa<»ed. £re the last sentence of his nar- 
rative was half finished, the sharp stirrups of the old chief were deep 
in his courser's sides, and the whole band in rapid advance to the apot 
where the wounded man lay, and where Arwad was still busily en- 
gaged in endeavoring to alleviate his pain. The instant they arrived, 
the chiefs dirowing himself from his horse, inquired in a voice of 
thunder for his daughter; but perceiving the perilous condition of 
Benzillar — for so was he called — he paused, and then in a milder 
tone asked if he were a follower of Ali Hassan. 

* *' I know him not,' replied Benzillar. 

* **' Whose follower art thou, then ?' resumed the chief, somewhat 
ffdieved at finding his first suspicions groundless, yet in still deeper 
anxiety than before for his daughter's fate. 



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870 TBI COLUMN OF THB DUXET. 

** * Mj loader's name ia Kuijialaii,' returned the Arab. 

^ ' EurjialaD, the robber V 
•* « The same.' 

'* The old chief stamped, and tore his beard in agonj and rage. 
- M ( Bj Allah !' he at length ejaculated, * he shall pay dearly for his 
rashness. I will beard the lion in his den but I will recover roy child ! 
He has already robbed me of one — he shall not long boast of pos- 
sessing the survivor. But by whom wast thou wounded V he conti- 
nued, remembmng diat Duihaddan had mentioned something of pur- 
suit 

<« ' I know not,' replied BenziUar ; * a youth pursued us whom I at- 
tempted to keep employed till my master should escape with his prise. 
I was borne from my saddle by a thrust of his spear, and left wounded 
as you see ; for my two companions deserted me to pursue him, and 
cut him off, if possible, ere he should overtake our leader. I can give 
you no further haformation — leave me to die — or, if you choose to 
show hosfHtality, bear me to your tent and let my wound be attended 
to.' 

** * He speaks well,' said the chief hastily — *bear him, some of 
you, to the tent The rest follow me. We may yet overtake the vil- 
lain who has dared to rob me of my child.' 

** So sajdng, he mounted, and spurred madly across the desert in the 
direction of Kurjislan's fortress ; leaving six of his followers to bear 
tiie wounded man to the tent Their furious speed soon brought them 
to the scene of Haslan's last encounter ; and my hearers may judge 
of the surprise of Ali Beidwar when he beheld his daughter sitting on 
the sand, dissolved in tears, surrounded by four bodies to all appear- 
ance dead ; — die head of one resting on her knees. 

** * Praise be to Allah !' he exclaimed, * I have found thee, — I have 
found Ihee ! But tell me, my child, who slew all these ? — and whither 
has thy protector flown? Had human hands defended thee, they would 
not have left thee here wi& the dead for thy companions. — It is Az- 
rael, the angel of death, and none other, who has fought for thee this 
night, and delivered thine innocence from the hand of the- betrayer !' 

^* * My deliverer lies here,' replied the maiden mournfully, laying her 
hand on the damp brow of Haslan. 

<* The chief alighted and approached, and in the bright mooidight 
recognized the features of the youth he had so harshly forbidden his 
door. 

^*'He deserved thee, then,' he said thoughtfully; Mfhe were living 
now, I would, for this night's noble action, embrace him as my son.' 

** * Speakest thou in sincerity, my father V hurriedly asked Ayeza. 

** * I do, my child,' he replied ; * Haslan had nobly won thee, could 
he claim the prize.' 



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THE COLUMN OV TBB nf£BT. 871 

«* ' AUah bepraiaad then I' wildlj ezelaimed dieoMideii, whose hand 
had sunk upon the breast of her lover ; * for, unless delirium haJk 
filled mj senses with false hope, I feel his heart fluttering beneath my 
hand!' 

^ The chiefs followers now crowded round, and by rubbing his 
hands, chafing his temples, and applying such other remedies as oc- 
curred to them at the moment, they succeeded in recalling animatioQ 
to the fitinting youth. The first object which met his opening eyes 
was Ayeza bending over him with the most intense de%ht painted 
upon her lovely features. He smiled a grateful reply, then looking 
round and perceiving Ali Beidwar and his retainers, he asked hur- 
riedly, 

^ ' Where am I ? — ^Who are all these ? — Give me my sword, Ayeza, 
and I will defend ^e.' 

^ * They are fiiends,* she replied, * compose yourself — your Ayeza 
is in no danger.' 

** The chief gave his hand to Haslan, who had now recovered suffi- 
cient strength to sit, supported by the maiden's arm. . 

^* ' My word is passed,' he said, * and though I thou|^t thee unable 
to claim the promise ^en I made it, Ali Beidwar never retracted 
what was once spoken. Thou hast won my child, and she is thine.' 

'* Haslan had no words to reply. He grasped the hand of the chief 
— pressed it to his bosom — and overcome by the sudden rush of joy 
which filled his heart, again sank fainting upon the shoulder of his 
promised bride« 

** Ere the morning which followed this eventful night had dawned, 
Haslan and Benzillar had been both safely conducted to the chief- 
tain's tent ; and the care and attention bestowed upon their wounds 
by Alzeida and her daughter, and her handmaidens, soon placed them 
both beyond die reach* of danger. 

** From that day, even to the end of their long lives, Ali Beidwar and 
Ali Hassan lived on terms of the closest amity. A few weeks after 
these iBvents had transpired, the nuptials of Haslan and Ayeza were 
celebrated, with all the splendor which the desert could furnish ; and 
many a rich caravan contributed its portion to increase the sumptu- 
ousness of the dresses, and the luxury of the banquets, which for a 
whole week were spread for all who chose to partake. Haslan and 
Ayeza, their hearts filled widi gratitude to heaven for their preserva- 
tion and happiness, caused yonder pillar to be erected as a memorial 
of dieir deep sense of the blessings they had received ; and lived in 
the full enjoyment of those blessings and of each other's love, till they 
saw their children's grandsons playing around their knees, and at 
l^agth sank to their graves, followed by the tears and regrets of their 
own and many neighb<Mring tribes. 



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9fZ VHB LAtT ■»iPM. 

^ And nowt" Mid Ihe Faknr, phucing Ym tuiiMii heh^ hkn m a 
•onvenieBt poakioa for leewkag (be contrtbutioBt of his awMtonH 
** je have beard, my firieoda, tbe rootire which led to the erection of 
the Column in the Desert I have only to add my hopes that yoa 
will not forget tbe narrator of tbe legend, net tbe guide who so hap- 
pily led you to this {deasant resting-place." 

Whedier Hakim was or wa0 not satisfied, I take not upon me to 
aay ; but certain it is that it required some <iare on his part to prevent 
the weight of the sequins, thrown in by bis brother travellers, from 
bunting Us somewhat okl, thouf^ still respedable looking, turban. 



THE LAST READER. 



I soMETiBfcs sit beneath a tree 
And read mj own sweet WNigs ; 

Though nought they may to others be^ 
Elach bumble line prolongs 

A tone that might have passed away, 

But for that scarce remembered lay. 

I keep them, like a kwk or Uaf 
That some dear gjji has given, 

Tbe record of an hour as brief 
As sun-set clouds in heaven : 

But spreading purple twilight stiH 

High over memoiy*s shadowed hiU. 

They lie upon my pathway bleak — 
Those flowers that once ran wild. 

As on a father's care-worn cheek 
The ringlets of his child — 

The golden mingling with the gray, 

And steaUng half its snows away. 

What care I though tiie dust is spread 

Around these yellow leaves, 
Or o'er them his corroding thread 

Oblivion's insect weaves ? 
Though weeds are tanolcd on the stream, 
It still reflects my morning's beam. 

And therefore love I such as smile 

On those neglected songs. 
Nor deem that flattery's needless wile 

My opening bosom wrongs : 
For who would trample at my side 
A few pale buds — my garden's pridtt 



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TBM rm>m cwTHOxir ihllxr* 979 



ItraaybftihatmjMaiit^or* ' ' 
XiOng yeais have washed away, 

And where were golden sands before 
Is nought but common clay : 

Still something sparkles in the sun 

F4ir Buemoty to look back upon. 

And when my voice no more is heard. 

My lyre no longer known, 
Still let me, like a sullen bird 

That tdars his prey aloAe, 
Spread pver them the weary wing 
Once flashing through the dews of Spring. 

Yes — let my fancy fondly wrap 

My youth in its decline. 
And riot in the rosy lap 

Of thoughts that once were mine, , 
And give the worm my worthless store — 
Till the last reader reads no more I 



THE PROSE OF THOMAS FULLER. 

Deeflt imbedded in the rust of an antique phraseology, there are 
in our own language treasures of unappreciated value, which will am- 
ply reward any labor that may be bestowed upon them. The adven- 
turous student, who, leaving the attractive and polished pi-oductions of 
his own tiroes, will resort to the more remote but not less generous 
fountains of excellence in our elder literature, need not fear that he 
wfll be trespassing upon the bounds of another's property. Undis- 
turbed he may quaff long and deep, and still find his thirst unsatisfied. 
The literary world only requires that a" proper direction should be 
given to its taste to induce an eager return, if not to the simplicity, to 
the strength and power which characterised the literature of the seven- 
teenth century ; for, cloyed as we believe it is with dainties, it would 
enjoy with tenfold zest the plain substantial fare that sufficed for our 
ancestors. 

The neglect which has too much followed our old writers, strangely 
contrasts with our idolatrous reverence for the heroes of the Augustan 
age that succeeded. 

Polished elegance may win our love — greatness alone should 
command our admiration. True — some giant minds towered so far 
above the ordinary mortafity of their day, that their reputation could not 

VOL. VIL 48 

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S7i THB FBOflX OF THOMAS FVLUUU 

be confined w^hin the Knutstyf a siagleceiiCiii^ but the number of 
dioee who have oyercome the prejodicefl against a sometimee cpiaint 
phraseolog7t is but small — far smaller than any votary of lileimtiire 
who has felt the magnitade of those merits lying thus unknown mad 
unregarded — could desire. What shall we say of the fiistidioos ef- 
feminacy that cannot so &r penetrale the roughness of die external 
garb as to discover the manifold beauties it envelopes! Let us not 
forget that even the faults of our ok) writers spring from the same 
source with their excellencies ; that their involved periods originate 
firom minds too pregnant with thought ; that thw occasional coarse- 
ness is the result of their stem manliness of mind, and dieir quaint- 
ness, the excess of hi^ wrought, vivid, feariess fancy. 

However limited our acquaintance with the works of diat period, 
there are names that convey to our minds an idea of loHy, but indis- 
tinct and misty greatness, gigantic it may be, in that its proportions 
are but dimly visible ; a greatness we respect we know not why, or 
worship because we remember it was once admired. But some have 
not received even this limited justice from posterity ; Ihe very memory 
of their existence has been almost swept away. Such had well-nigh 
been the fate of Thomas Fuller, known chiefly as author of the ^ Holy 
and Profane States ;" a writer who, thou^ quamtest among die 
quaint, has excellencies sufficient to redeem him from the ban of li- 
terary proscription. He does not, it is true, like some of his illus- 
trious contemporaries, dazzle by continuous passages of eloquence. 
His power is exhibited rather in epigramatic flashes ; quick, forcible, 
and pointed — succeeding as rapidly as cain-drops chasing each other 
through the air. He has no paragraphs that strike the reader with as- 
tonishment when detached from the body of the work ; but in every 
page there is something to arrest and fix the attention. It is indeed a 
perfect mine of similes, which, however eccentric we m