THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

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                                      _Crebillon's Electre_.

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


{1}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.  RICHMOND, DECEMBER, 1835.  NO. 1.

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




PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.


The gentleman, referred to in the ninth number of the Messenger, as 
filling its editorial chair, retired thence with the eleventh number; 
and the intellectual department of the paper is now under the conduct 
of the Proprietor, assisted by a gentleman of distinguished literary 
talents. Thus seconded, he is sanguine in the hope of rendering the 
second volume which the present number commences, _at least_ as 
deserving of support as the former was: nay, if he reads aright the 
tokens which are given him of the future, it teems with even richer 
banquets for his readers, than they have hitherto enjoyed at his 
board.

Some of the contributors, whose effusions have received the largest 
share of praise from critics, and (what is better still) have been 
read with most pleasure by that larger, unsophisticated class, whom 
Sterne loved for reading, and being pleased "they knew not why, and 
care not wherefore"--may be expected to continue their favors. Among 
these, we hope to be pardoned for singling out the name of Mr. EDGAR 
A. POE; not with design to make any invidious distinction, but because 
such a mention of him finds numberless precedents in the journals on 
every side, which have rung the praises of his uniquely original vein 
of imagination, and of humorous, delicate satire. We wish that decorum 
did not forbid our specifying other names also, which would afford 
ample guarantee for the fulfilment of larger promises than ours: but 
it may not be; and of our other contributors, all we can say is--"by 
their fruits ye shall know them."

It is a part of our present plan, to insert _all original 
communications_ as editorial; that is, simply to omit the words "For 
the Southern Literary Messenger" at the head of such articles:--unless 
the contributor shall especially desire to have that caption prefixed, 
or there be something which requires it in the nature of the article 
itself. _Selected articles_, of course, will bear some appropriate 
token of their origin.

With this brief salutation to patrons and readers, we gird up 
ourselves for entering upon the work of another year, with zeal and 
energy increased, by the recollection of kindness, and by the hopes of 
still greater success.




SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

NO. IX.--(Continued.)


About this period commenced those differences between France and the 
Algerine Government, which led to the overthrow of the latter, and the 
establishment of the French in Northern Africa; the circumstances 
which occasioned the dispute were however of much older date.

Between 1793 and 1798 the French Government on several occasions 
obtained from the Dey and merchants of Algiers, large quantities of 
grain on credit, for the subsistence of its armies in Italy, and the 
supply of the Southern Department where a great scarcity then 
prevailed. The creditors endeavored to have their claims on this 
account satisfied by the Directory, but that incapable and rapacious 
Government had neither the principle to admit, nor the ability to 
discharge such demands; every species of chicanery was in consequence 
employed by it in evading them, until the rupture with Turkey produced 
by the expedition to Egypt placing the Barbary States either really or 
apparently at war with the French Republic, a pretext was thus 
afforded for deferring their settlement indefinitely. Under the 
Consular _regime_ however, a treaty of peace was concluded with 
Algiers on the 17th of December 1801, by the thirteenth article of 
which, the Government of each State engaged to cause payment to be 
made of all debts due by itself or its subjects to the Government or 
subjects of the other; the former political and commercial relations 
between the two countries were re-established, and the Dey restored to 
France the territories and privileges called the _African 
Concessions_, which had been seized by him on the breaking out of the 
war. This treaty was ratified by the Dey on the 5th of April 1802, and 
after examination of the claims on both sides, the French Government 
acknowledged itself debtor for a large amount to the Jewish mercantile 
house of Bacri and Busnach of Algiers, as representing the African 
creditors. Of the sum thus acknowledged to be due, only a very small 
portion was paid, and the Dey Hadji Ali seeing no other means of 
obtaining the remainder, in 1809 seized upon the _Concessions_; they 
were however of little value to France at that time, when her flag was 
never seen in the Mediterranean, and their confiscation merely served 
as a pretext for withholding farther payment. In 1813, when the star 
of Napoleon began to wane, and he found it necessary to assume at 
least the appearance of honesty, he declared that measures would be 
taken for the adjustment of the Algerine claims; but he fell without 
redeeming his promise, and on the distribution of his spoils, the 
Jewish merchants had not interest enough to obtain their rightful 
portion, which amounted to fourteen millions of francs.

Upon the return of the Bourbons to the throne of France, the 
government of that country became desirous to renew its former 
intercourse with the Barbary States, and to regain its ancient 
establishments and privileges in their territories, which were 
considered important from political as well as commercial motives. For 
this purpose, M. Deval a person who was educated in the East and had 
been long attached to the French Embassy at Constantinople, was 
appointed Consul General of France in Barbary, and sent to Algiers 
with powers to negotiate. The first result of this mission, was a 
convention which has never been officially published; however in 
consequence of it the _African Concessions_ were restored to France, 
together with the exclusive right of fishing for coral on the coasts 
in their vicinity {2} and various commercial privileges; in return for 
which the French were to pay annually to Algiers, the sum of sixty 
thousand francs. It appears also to have been understood between the 
parties, that no fortifications were to be erected within the ceded 
territories in addition to those already standing, and that 
arrangements should be speedily made for the examination and 
settlement of all their claims on both sides, not only of those for 
which provision was made in the treaty of 1801, but also of such as 
were founded on subsequent occurrences; after this mutual adjustment 
the treaty of 1801 confirming all former treaties was to be in force.

The annual sum required by Omar for the _Concessions_, was much 
greater than any which had been previously paid for them by France; 
Hussein however immediately on his elevation to the throne, raised it 
to two hundred thousand francs, and he moreover declared, that the 
debt acknowledged to be due to his subjects must be paid, before any 
notice were taken of claims which were still liable to be contested. 
In opposition to these demands, the French endeavored to prove their 
right to the territories of Calle and Bastion de France by reference 
to ancient treaties both with Algiers and the Porte, in which no 
mention is made of payment for them; with regard to the claims, they 
insisted that the only just mode of settlement, was by admitting into 
one statement all the demands which could be established on either 
side, and then balancing the account. The Dey however remained firm in 
his resolution, and exhibited signs of preparation to expel the French 
from the _Concessions_, when their government yielded the point 
concerning the amount to be annually paid.

A compromise was made respecting the claims between the French 
Government and the Agents of the Algerines, on the 28th of October, 
1819; as the articles of this agreement have never been published, its 
terms are only to be gathered from the declarations of the French 
Ministers in the Legislative Chambers, and the semi-official 
communications in the _Moniteur_ the organ of the Government. From 
these it appears that the French Government acknowledged itself 
indebted for the sum of seven millions of francs, to Messrs. Bacri and 
Busnach, which was to be received by them in full discharge of claims 
on the part of Algiers, under the thirteenth article of the treaty of 
1801; from this sum however was to be retained a sufficiency to cover 
the demands of French subjects against Algiers under the same article, 
which demands were to be substantiated by the Courts of Law of France; 
finally, each party was to settle the claims of its own subjects 
against the other, founded on occurrences subsequent to the conclusion 
of the said treaty. The French historical writers affect to consider 
this arrangement entirely as a private affair between their Government 
and the Jewish merchants, and indeed the Ministry endeavored at first 
to represent it in that light to the Legislature; but they were forced 
to abandon this ground when they communicated its stipulations, and 
the Minister of Foreign Affairs declared in the Chamber of Deputies, 
that the Dey had formally accepted it on the 12th of April 1820, and 
had admitted that the treaty of 1801 was thereby fully executed.

In order to comply with this arrangement, a bill requiring an 
appropriation of seven millions of francs was in June, 1820, submitted 
by the French Ministry to the Legislative Chambers, in both of which 
its adoption was resisted by the small minority then opposed to the 
Government. The debates on this occasion are worthy of notice, as many 
of the arguments advanced against the appropriation, have been since 
employed to defeat the bill for executing the treaty of 1831 by which 
the United States were to be indemnified for the injuries inflicted on 
their commerce by Napoleon. The claims against France were in both 
cases pronounced _antiquated_ and _obsolete_ [_vieilles reclamations, 
créances dechues_] and the fact that they had long remained unsettled, 
was thus deemed sufficient to authorize their indefinite postponement. 
The great diminution to which the creditors had assented, was 
considered as affording strong presumption that their demands were 
destitute of foundation; and the probability that many of the claims, 
had been purchased at a low price by the actual holders, from the 
persons with whom the contracts were originally made, was gravely 
alleged as a reason for not satisfying them. The advantages secured to 
France by each Convention were examined in detail, and compared with 
the sums required for extinguishing the debts; and the Ministry were 
in both cases censured for not having obtained more in return for 
their payment. It is not surprising to hear such sentiments avowed by 
men educated in the service of Napoleon, but it is painful to find 
them supported by others distinguished for their literary merits, and 
for their exertions in the cause of liberty.

The bill for the appropriation of the seven millions of francs, was 
passed by a large majority in both Chambers, the influence of the 
Crown being at that period overwhelming. Four millions and a half were 
in consequence paid within the ensuing three years to the Jewish 
merchants, who having thus received the whole amount of their own 
demands retired to Italy; the remaining two and a half millions were 
retained by the Government of France in order to secure the discharge 
of the claims of its subjects, under the treaty of 1801, which were 
yet pending in the Courts of the Kingdom. At the retention of this 
sum, the Dey was, or affected to be at first much surprised, and he 
insisted that the Government should hasten the decisions of the 
Courts; however as years passed by without any signs of approach to a 
definitive settlement, his impatience became uncontrollable. Moreover 
in addition to the annoyance occasioned by this constant postponement, 
he was much dissatisfied, on account of the fortifications which the 
French were erecting at Calle, contrary as he insisted to the 
understanding between the parties at the time of its cession. To his 
observations and inquiries on both these subjects he received answers 
from the French Consul which were generally evasive and often 
insulting, until at length wearied by delays and having strong reason 
to believe that M. Deval had a personal interest in creating obstacles 
to an adjustment of the difficulties, he determined to address the 
French Government directly. Accordingly in 1826 he wrote a letter to 
the Minister of Foreign Affairs of that country, in which after 
indignantly expressing his sense of the conduct of the French 
Government, in the retention of this large sum and the erection of 
fortresses in the _Concessions_, he required that the remainder of the 
seven millions should be immediately paid into his own hands, {3} and 
that the French claimants should then submit their demands to him for 
adjustment.

No notice having been taken of the Dey's letter, the Algerine cruisers 
began to search French vessels in a manner contrary to the terms of 
existing treaties, and to plunder those of the Papal States which were 
by a Convention to be respected as French. Besides these acts of 
violence the Dey shortly after issued a proclamation declaring that 
all nations would be permitted on the same terms to fish for coral 
near the coasts of his Regency. M. Deval complained of these 
proceedings at a public audience on the 27th of April, 1827; Hussein 
in reply haughtily declared that he had been provoked to them by the 
bad faith of the French, and that he should no longer allow them to 
have a cannon in his territories, nor to enjoy a single peculiar 
privilege; he then demanded why his letter to the French Ministry had 
not been answered, and when M. Deval stated that his Government could 
only communicate with that of Algiers through himself, he was so much 
enraged that he seized a large fan from one of the attendants, with 
which he struck the representative of France several times before he 
could leave the apartment.

As soon as the French Government was informed of this outrage, a 
schooner was despatched to Algiers with orders to M. Deval to quit the 
place instantly; a squadron was also sent in the same direction, under 
the command of Commodore Collet who was charged to require 
satisfaction from the Dey. The schooner arrived in Algiers on the 11th 
of June, and M. Deval embarked in her on the same day, together with 
the other French subjects resident in the place, leaving the affairs 
of his office under the care of the Sardinian Consul. At the entrance 
of the bay the schooner met the French squadron, consisting of a ship 
of the line, two frigates and a corvette; M. Deval then joined the 
Commodore, and after consultation between them as to the nature and 
mode of the reparation to be demanded, the schooner was sent back to 
Algiers with a note containing what was declared to be the _ultimatum_ 
of the French Government. This note was presented to Hussein on the 
14th; in it the Dey was required to apologize for the offence 
committed against the dignity of France, by the insult to its 
representative; and in order to make the apology the more striking and 
complete, it was to be delivered on board the Commodore's ship, by the 
Minister of Marine, in the presence of M. Deval, and of all the 
foreign Consuls resident in Algiers, whose attendance was to be 
requested; the French flag was then to be displayed on the Casauba and 
principal forts, and M. Deval was to receive a salute of one hundred 
and ten guns.

The policy as well as the generosity of requiring such humiliating 
concessions from the Government of any country, may be questioned, but 
it is certainly hazardous to make the demand unless it be accompanied 
by the display of a force calculated to insure immediate compliance. 
Decatur indeed with a force perhaps inferior to that of Collet, 
propounded terms to Omar Dey in 1815, which were really much more 
onerous to Algiers than those offered on the present occasion by the 
French; they were accepted, and it is therefore needless to inquire 
what would have been his course in the other alternative. Collet was 
not so fortunate; his demands were rejected with scorn and defiance by 
Hussein, who added that if the Commodore did not within twenty-four 
hours land and treat with him on the subjects in dispute between the 
two nations, he should consider himself at war with France. The French 
Commander did not think proper to comply with this invitation, and 
declared the place in a state of blockade, under the expectation 
probably that the distress produced by such a measure, might occasion 
discontent and commotions which would either oblige the Dey to lower 
his tone, or lead to the destruction of so refractory an enemy. 
Recollecting however what had occurred at Bona in May 1816, he adopted 
the precaution of sending vessels to the various establishments in the 
_Concessions_, in order to bring away the Europeans who were there, 
under the protection of the French flag; these vessels succeeded in 
rescuing the people, who were transported to Corsica, but their 
dwellings and magazines were rifled by the Bey of the Province, who 
had just received orders to that effect, and the fortifications at 
Calle were entirely destroyed.

The preceding account of the circumstances which led to the war 
between France and Algiers, will be found by comparison to vary 
considerably from those given by the French historical writers, and to 
be defective and unsatisfactory with regard to several important 
particulars, which are stated by them with great apparent clearness 
and confidence. To these objections, only general replies can be made; 
this account has been drawn entirely from original sources, and where 
they failed to supply the requisite information, silence has been 
preferred to the introduction of statements on doubtful authority. The 
only publications on the subject which may be termed official, are the 
declarations of the French Ministers contained in the Reports of the 
Debates in the Legislative Chambers, and the articles on the subject 
in question inserted from time to time in the _Moniteur_, the avowed 
organ of the Government. From the Algerines we have nothing. The 
conventions of which the alleged non-fulfilment occasioned this 
rupture have been withheld by the French Ministry; no account has been 
given of the claims against Algiers brought before the French Courts, 
of the causes which retarded the decisions respecting them, of the 
amount demanded or awarded; without precise information as to these 
particulars, it is impossible to form a correct judgment of the case. 
This silence and the vagueness and reserve so apparent in the 
communications of the French Government, on the subject, are certainly 
calculated to create suspicions, as to its sincerity in maintaining 
its engagements, and these suspicions are increased by an examination 
of its conduct throughout the whole affair.

It would be incompatible with the character or plan of these Sketches, 
to give a review of the proceedings of the French Government; the 
impression produced on the mind of the author, by a diligent study of 
the case, is that the parties in the dispute mistrusted the intentions 
of each other. The French were anxious to make permanent 
establishments on the coast of Northern Africa, which Hussein who had 
much more definite ideas of policy than perhaps any of his 
predecessors, determined from the commencement of his reign to oppose; 
before resorting to violent measures however, he wished to secure the 
payment of the large debt {4} due to himself and his subjects. The 
French having good reason from his conduct, to apprehend that as soon 
as he had received the whole of the sum, which they had engaged to 
pay, he would find some pretext to expel them from his dominions, may 
have had recourse to the old expedient of withholding a part, in order 
that he might be restrained from aggressions by the fear of losing it. 
We have no means of ascertaining the share which M. Deval may have had 
in producing or increasing the difficulties, but there is reason to 
believe that it was not inconsiderable; his conduct is admitted to 
have been highly imprudent and indeed improper, even by the best 
French authorities, and it was condemned as dishonorable by the Dey, 
as well as by the most respectable portion of the Consular body at 
Algiers.

Before entering upon the events of this war it will be proper to 
advert to the situation of the other Barbary States, and to notice the 
principal occurrences which transpired in them about this period.

It would be uninteresting to recount all the attempts made by the 
inferior powers of Europe to preserve peace with the Barbary 
Regencies; sufficient has been said to demonstrate the vainness of the 
expectation that the rulers of those states would be restrained from 
any course which promised to be immediately beneficial to their 
interests, by regard for engagements however solemnly taken. The King 
of the Netherlands by a judicious display of firmness in 1824, 
succeeded in preventing his country from being rendered tributary to 
Algiers; but he, as well as the sovereigns of Sweden and Denmark, 
continued to pay large annual sums to Tunis and Tripoli.

In Tunis, no events of much importance transpired during the reign of 
Mahmoud, which have not been already mentioned. The Regency continued 
at peace with foreign nations, and its situation was in general 
prosperous, notwithstanding the desolation produced by a plague in 
1818, an extensive conspiracy headed by the Prime Minister in 1820, 
and the frequent contests between the adherents of Hassan and Mustapha 
the two sons of the Bey. Mahmoud at length died quietly on the 28th of 
March 1824, and Hassan succeeded without opposition.

A short time previous to the death of Mahmoud, some alterations not 
very material indeed, yet favorable on the whole to the United States, 
were made in the treaty concluded between their Government and that of 
Tunis in 1797. One of the amended articles provides--that no American 
merchant vessel shall be detained against the will of her captain in a 
Tunisian port, unless such port be closed for vessels of all nations, 
and that no American vessel of war should be so detained under any 
circumstances. This was considered by the British Government at 
variance with the terms of the engagement made with Admiral Freemantle 
in 1812, by which the armed vessels of nations at war with Great 
Britain were not to be suffered to leave a Tunisian port within 
twenty-four hours after the sailing of a British vessel; and the 
Consul was directed to ask for explanations on the subject from the 
Bey. Hassan who had by this time succeeded to the throne replied 
positively, that there was nothing contradictory in the two 
stipulations, and that this agreement had been made with the United 
States, merely in order to place them on a level with other nations. 
As the British Government had thought proper to make the inquiry, it 
is strange that it should have been satisfied with such an answer; 
however, under the condition of things then existing and the 
probabilities with respect to the future, it was certainly not worth 
while to press the matter further.

The Pasha of Tripoli, notwithstanding the treaties made with Lord 
Exmouth in behalf of Sardinia and the Two Sicilies in 1816, and his 
protestations to the English and French Admirals three years after, 
sent out armed vessels to cruise against the commerce of the Italian 
States. When complaint was made of these depredations, Yusuf replied 
that the treaties were no longer binding, and that if those nations 
wished to remain at peace with him, they must pay him an annual 
tribute. To this insolent and unreasonable pretension, the King of 
Sardinia replied by fitting out a squadron composed of two frigates, a 
corvette and a brig, which sailed from Genoa in September 1825, and 
arrived before Tripoli on the 25th of that month.

Before relating the proceedings of this expedition it will be proper 
to give some account of the place against which it was sent.

The town of Tripoli stands on a rocky point of land projecting 
northwardly into the Mediterranean; it is surrounded by a high and 
thick wall, forming an unequal pentagon or figure of five sides of 
different lengths, of which the two northern are washed by the sea, 
the other three looking upon a sandy plain but partially cultivated. 
The circumference of the place is about three miles, and the area 
enclosed within the wall does not exceed one thousand yards square.

The shore on the north-western side of the town is bordered by rocky 
islets, which render it almost unapproachable by vessels; but in order 
to secure the place effectually from attack on that quarter, a battery 
has been erected on one of the islets called the French fort. The 
harbor is on the north-eastern side; it is about two miles in length 
and a mile in width, and is partially enclosed by a reef of rocks 
extending for some distance into the sea; on these rocks are situated 
the principal fortifications, and by filling up the space between 
them, which could be done with but little labor, the reef might be 
converted into a continued mole. The depth of water in the harbor no 
where exceeds six fathoms, and great care must be taken by vessels to 
avoid the numerous shoals and hidden dangers which beset the entrance; 
the frigate Philadelphia struck in fourteen feet water on one of these 
shoals distant three miles and a half northeast of Tripoli, and one 
mile north of Kaliusa Point at the eastern extremity of the harbor.

The fortifications of Tripoli on the land side are of no value, and 
could not for an instant withstand an attack from a well appointed 
force; the wall, said to have been built by Dragut, is of great height 
and thickness, and provided with a rampart on which are mounted some 
guns, but these pieces are generally useless from rust and want of 
carriages. Towards the harbor the defences are more respectable, and 
have on many occasions as already shown, preserved the place from 
capture or destruction. On the shore forming the south-eastern side of 
the harbor, are two forts called the Dutch and English forts, and 
opposite them on the reef of rocks are two others, much larger and 
stronger, {5} called the New and English forts; these have been all 
constructed by European engineers, and are kept in tolerable order.

There is but little appearance of wealth in Tripoli; the Moorish 
population amounting to about fourteen thousand are in general very 
poor, the trade being almost exclusively in the hands of the Jews, 
whose number is about two thousand. The palace contains some 
apartments possessing a certain degree of grandeur and furnished in a 
costly manner principally with French articles; in the town there are 
a few good stone buildings, with courts and arcades in the Italian 
style; these are however chiefly occupied by the foreign Consuls and 
merchants, the greater part of the inhabitants dwelling in mere hovels 
of mud but one story high. The roofs of the houses are all flat, and 
great care is taken to have the rain conveyed from them into cisterns, 
as there is not a well or spring of fresh water in the place.

A triumphant arch, the inscription on which denotes that it was 
erected in honor of the Roman Emperors Marcus Aurelius and Lucius 
Verus, is the only remarkable monument of antiquity in the place. It 
is much defaced, nearly buried in the ground and encumbered with mean 
houses; but as far as can be ascertained, it exceeds in beauty of 
design, proportion and parts, any other similar relique of Roman art.

The immediate environs of Tripoli are desert; about two or three miles 
to the eastward is a rich and highly cultivated plain called the 
Messeah where the Foreign Consuls and the wealthy inhabitants of the 
town have their villas.

As soon as the Sardinian squadron arrived before Tripoli, the 
Cavaliere Sivori who commanded it immediately landed with some of his 
officers on the guaranty of the British Consul, and had an audience 
with the Pasha. Yusuf at first assured him that every thing would be 
accommodated, but on the day succeeding he presented a note in which 
his demand for tribute was unequivocally stated, accompanied by other 
proposals equally insulting. The Cavaliere on this took his leave, and 
having recommended the subjects and interests of his master to the 
care of the British Consul, he retired to his ships determined to 
assert the rights of his country by force. The sea was too rough at 
the time to permit the approach of the ships to the town, without 
danger of their being stranded; but Sivori wished to lose no time, and 
to effect if possible immediately the destruction of the Pasha's 
shipping; he accordingly manned a number of boats which entered the 
harbor at midnight in three divisions, commanded by Lieutenant 
Mamelli. The expedition was perfectly successful; a brig of twelve 
guns and two schooners of six guns each were boarded and set on fire, 
during a heavy cannonade from all the surrounding batteries; the men 
then landed from the boats, and endeavored to force the gates of the 
dock-yard and custom house, but this being found impracticable, they 
retreated in good order to their ships. The next day the weather 
proving more favorable, preparations were made for an attack on the 
town; but Yusuf finding that he had mistaken the character of his 
assailants, and not wishing to subject himself to further loss, agreed 
to an adjustment, and signed a convention renewing the engagements 
made to Lord Exmouth in 1816.

The King of the Two Sicilies was less fortunate in his attempt to 
bring the Pasha of Tripoli to reasonable terms. Yusuf had suspended 
his demands on Naples for some time after the attack made on him by 
the Sardinians, and it was supposed that he had abandoned them; 
however in the beginning of 1828, he suddenly required from His 
Sicilian Majesty payment of one hundred thousand dollars immediately, 
and an annual tribute of five thousand more, as the price of 
continuance of peace. King Francis considered the honor of his country 
too precious, or the sums demanded by the Pasha too great, for he 
refused to pay either present or tribute and even sent a squadron to 
Tripoli to bear his reply. The Sicilian force consisted of a ship of 
the line, two frigates, two corvettes, a brig, a schooner, and twelve 
gun and mortar boats, and arrived off Tripoli on the 22d of August, 
1828, under the command of Baron Alphonso Sosi de Caraffa, who was 
authorized to treat with the Pasha respecting the future relations 
between the two countries. The Commander instantly landed under proper 
assurance of safety, and held a conference with the Pasha, in which he 
endeavored to induce him to adhere to the treaty of 1815; Yusuf 
however remained firm to his purpose, and rejected all propositions of 
adjustment on other terms than those he had already offered. The 
Sicilian flag was in consequence taken down from the Consulate, and 
the Consul retired with the Baron on board the squadron.

The next morning the 23d, the Sicilian squadron sailed into the 
harbor, and commenced an attack on the Tripoline vessels of war, 
twenty in number, which were drawn up in front of the reef of rocks, 
under the guns of the New and Spanish forts. The large ships of the 
squadron kept aloof from the batteries and only a few of the gun and 
mortar boats approached near enough to produce any effect by their 
fires. The injury sustained by either party was thus very slight, and 
a storm coming up, after a desultory contest of three hours, Caraffa 
thought proper to withdraw his forces, and put to sea. The storm 
continued for the two succeeding days; on the 26th the attack was 
resumed, but in the same inefficient manner; it was renewed on the 
27th and 28th, during which the Sicilians expended a great deal of 
ammunition, but to very little purpose on account of the great 
distance at which their ships remained from the object of attack. At 
length on the 29th, the Commodore concluded that his attempts were 
likely to prove fruitless, and therefore resolved to return to Naples.

The Tripolines behaved with great gallantry throughout the affair, 
their own boats advancing frequently towards the enemy; their loss was 
trifling, and only two or three shots from the Sicilians reached the 
town, where they caused no damage. Immediately on the retreat of the 
squadron, Yusuf sent out his cruisers which took several Sicilian 
vessels, but the French Government interfered, and its Consul at 
Tripoli was ordered to negotiate in favor of Naples. The Pasha could 
not refuse such a mediation, and a Convention was in consequence 
signed on the 28th of October, by which the former treaty was renewed, 
the King of Naples however engaging to pay immediately twenty thousand 
dollars to Tripoli as indemnification for the expenses occasioned by 
the war.

Yusuf had by this time become an old man, and the decay of his body 
was accompanied by corresponding {6} changes in his character and 
mental faculties. The firmness which had so long sustained him under 
the pressure of heavy difficulties, gave place to a disposition to 
temporize, inclining him to sacrifice prospects of future advantage, 
in order to avert a present evil; the energy which had caused him to 
be viewed with a certain degree of respect, notwithstanding his 
repeated acts of treachery and violence, now exhibited itself in 
undignified bursts of passion, and an insatiable desire to increase 
his treasures was the only remnant of his former ambition. The 
condition of the Regency had indeed been improved in many respects 
during his reign; its productiveness was increased, the communications 
were more easy and secure, and the affairs of internal administration, 
as well as the intercourse with foreign nations, were conducted with 
greater regularity and precision than before his accession. These 
reforms however served as they were intended, only to advance the 
personal interests of the sovereign; and the people became more 
wretched as the means of oppression were thus rendered more effectual 
by system. To obtain money had become the sole object of Yusuf's 
plans: if he repressed the ravages of the wandering tribes, it was 
only that he might levy greater contributions himself; and if the 
caravans traversed his dominions with unwonted security, this 
advantage was more than counterbalanced by the augmentation of duties 
on their merchandize. In imitation of the Viceroy of Egypt, whom he 
seems to have adopted as his model, he likewise engaged in commercial 
speculations, which were productive of serious evils to his subjects. 
These enterprises were generally carried on by the Pasha in 
conjunction with foreigners resident in Tripoli, or through their 
agency; and in order to affect the value in the market of articles 
which he might wish to buy or sell, the duties on their export or 
import were on several occasions suddenly raised or lowered, to the 
ruin of regular merchants. Notwithstanding these arbitrary measures, 
or perhaps in consequence of them, the speculations were generally 
unsuccessful, and the Pasha became indebted on account of their 
failure for immense sums, principally to subjects of France and 
England; these creditors, when unable to obtain settlement of their 
claims in any other way, were in the habit of applying to their own 
Governments for relief, and the unfortunate Pasha after having been 
long dunned by an overbearing Consul, was occasionally obliged to open 
his treasury on the summons of an Admiral.

These and other troubles affected the Pasha the more deeply as he 
could place little confidence in those who surrounded him. Mohammed 
D'Ghies whose kindness and integrity were worthy of being employed in 
a better cause, still lived and bore the title of Chief Minister; but 
age and blindness had long rendered him incapable of attending to 
business, and the duties of his office were performed by his eldest 
son Hassuna, of whom more will be said hereafter. The other ministers 
and agents of the Pasha, were persons of whose unscrupulous character 
he must have received too many evidences, to have supposed them 
attached to him by any other ties than their interests.

In the members of his own family Yusuf could place but little 
reliance; he whose youth had been signalized by the murder of his 
brother and rebellion against his father, could with an ill grace 
recommend fraternal affection among his children, or require of them 
obedience to his own authority. The attempt made by his eldest son 
Mohammed in 1816 to obtain possession of the throne has been already 
noticed; this wretch continued for ten years after his pardon in a 
species of exile, as Governor of Derne, while his next brother Ahmed 
enjoyed the title of Bey of the Regency, and was regarded as the 
probable successor to the crown. Ahmed however dying suddenly, 
Mohammed organized another conspiracy in his province, with a view to 
the overthrow of his father, which attempt proving like the former one 
unsuccessful, he again fled to Egypt where he died in 1829. Mohammed 
left in Tripoli a son named Emhammed who would have been the regular 
heir to the crown according to the customs of succession in Europe; 
but primogeniture is for various reasons little regarded in Oriental 
countries, and the reigning sovereign usually favors the pretensions 
of the son to whom he is the most attached, or whom he considers most 
capable of maintaining possession of the inheritance. For one or both 
of these reasons, Yusuf thought proper to set aside Emhammed, and to 
designate his own next surviving son Ali as the future Pasha of 
Tripoli; this prince was accordingly on the death of Ahmed, invested 
with the title of Bey, which gave him command of the troops, and in 
order to increase his wealth and influence, he was married to the 
daughter of the Chief Minister D'Ghies. These marks of favor only 
served to render Ali more impatient to enjoy the prize which they were 
intended to insure to him, and while waiting an opportunity to seize 
it, he gratified his own avarice by extorting as much money as he 
could from the people, through the aid of his myrmidons. The 
inhabitants thus suffering from the violent and arbitrary exactions of 
the Bey, in addition to the taxes and duties imposed on them by the 
Pasha, were frequently driven into rebellions, the suppressions of 
which by increasing the public expenses increased the miseries of the 
country.

In addition to these difficulties, Yusuf was tormented by the quarrels 
and jealousies of the Foreign Consuls residing in his capital, and by 
their interference in the affairs of his Government. Quarrels and 
jealousies are naturally to be expected among the members of a 
diplomatic corps, particularly of one in which all bear the same title 
and are nominally equal, while the influence possessed by each is 
generally commensurate with the power of the country which he 
represents. Thus the Consuls of France and England in Barbary have 
ever considered themselves superior to the representatives of other 
states, and have ever been rivals, each demanding the precedence on 
public occasions, and claiming a host of exclusive privileges either 
on the strength of treaties, or of custom. Their claims to superiority 
both in rank and privileges have been generally allowed by their 
European colleagues who according to circumstances range themselves 
under the banner of one or the other of these potentates; the Consuls 
of the United States have however uniformly refused to admit any 
inferiority on their own part, demanding for themselves the enjoyment 
of every substantial right granted to the representative of any other 
power, and abstaining from appearance on occasions of ceremony, in 
which a preference unfavorable to themselves may be manifested.

{7} In Algiers and Tunis, these disputes seldom attracted the notice 
of the Government, and the influence which a Consul could exercise in 
either of those Regencies, was scarcely worth the sums which must be 
paid for it. In Tripoli however, and especially since 1815, the agents 
of Great Britain and France have each endeavored to obtain a degree of 
control in the affairs of the state. Colonel Warrington who has 
represented Great Britain during that period, is well calculated by 
his general intelligence and the inflexible resolution of his 
character to acquire this superiority; and having been always 
supported by his Government, many of his demands have been instantly 
complied with, which would otherwise have been regarded merely as the 
ebullitions of arrogance and presumption. On the slightest resistance 
to his wishes, the ships of war of his nation appeared in the harbor, 
the Minister who offended him sat uneasy in his place, and every 
aggression committed by a Tripoline upon the honor or interests of 
Great Britain, was speedily and severely punished.

The possession of such powers by the representative of Great Britain, 
would certainly not be regarded with indifference by France; as it is 
not so convenient however, to send squadrons on all occasions to the 
aid of the Consul, he is obliged to rely the more on his own 
resources. The French Consuls in Barbary and the East are generally 
persons who have been educated for the purpose, either in the embassy 
at Constantinople, or at some consulate in those countries. With 
regard to the propriety of such selections, experience seems to have 
shown that the advantages of acquaintance with the customs and 
languages of the Eastern nations, are more than counterbalanced by the 
loss of honorable feelings, and the disregard of moral restraints 
which frequently result from this mode of acquiring them. Whether 
Baron Rousseau who was for many years Consul of France in Tripoli, was 
trained in one of these schools, it is needless to inquire, but he 
appears to have displayed during his residence in that Regency, a 
talent and a disposition for intrigue, which would have done honor to 
the most accomplished drogaman of Pera. Between him and Warrington 
there was a constant struggle for influence, and the Pasha was 
alternately annoyed by the overbearing dictation of the British 
Consul, and the wily manoeuvres of Rousseau.

One of the most frequent causes of difficulties between the 
Governments of Barbary and the Consuls of Foreign Powers, is the right 
claimed by the latter to protect all persons within the walls of their 
residence. In those countries it is absolutely requisite for the 
security of the Consul and for the discharge of his duties, that the 
persons in his employ should not be subjected to the despotism of the 
Government, nor to the doubtful decisions of the tribunals; and 
provisions to that effect are generally inserted in the treaties 
between Christian nations and those of Barbary. The Consuls however 
insist that the privilege should extend to the protection not only of 
their families, servants and countrymen, but also of all other persons 
under their roof; and the most abandoned criminals having entered such 
a sanctuary, are thus frequently screened from punishment. This 
privilege is productive of inconvenience not only to the Government 
but also to the Consuls whom it frequently involves in difficulties; 
the representatives of the inferior powers therefore seldom attempt to 
maintain it, but generally surrender the fugitive, if a native of the 
country, to the Government, or oblige him to quit their dwelling, 
rather than subject themselves to the hazard of having it invaded by 
force; those of Great Britain and France on the contrary, make it a 
point of honor not to yield, except in cases where the fugitive has 
injured some one of their colleagues or his guilt is clearly proved; 
and even then they have frequently required assurances that he should 
be pardoned, or that his punishment should be mitigated. A 
circumstance of this nature occurred in 1829 which brought these two 
parties in direct and open collision, and for a time involved the 
Consul of the United States in difficulties with the Government of 
Tripoli; the affair was originally of a private nature, but has 
ultimately produced the most serious changes in the situation of the 
Regency.

It is well known that many efforts have been made during the last 
forty years, by individuals and by some European Governments, to 
obtain information respecting the interior of the African Continent; 
we are all familiar with the names and adventures of Ledyard, Parke, 
Burckhardt, Denham, Clapperton, Laing, Lander and others, whose labors 
have been important from the light thrown by them on the subject of 
their researches, and still more so as exhibiting instances of 
perseverance and moral courage with which the annals of warfare offer 
few parallels. Several of these heroic travellers took their departure 
from Tripoli, as the communications between that place and the regions 
which they desired to explore are comparatively easy and safe; and the 
Pasha, whether actuated by the expectation of obtaining some advantage 
from their discoveries, or by more laudable motives, appears from 
their accounts to have used every exertion to facilitate their 
movements. They likewise concur in expressing their gratitude and 
respect for Mohammed D'Ghies, who entertained them all hospitably in 
Tripoli and furnished them with letters of credit and introduction, 
which, says Denham, "were always duly honored throughout Northern 
Africa."

Hassuna and Mohammed D'Ghies the two sons of this respectable person, 
are also mentioned in terms of high commendation by many who visited 
Tripoli. Hassuna the elder was educated in France, and afterwards 
spent some time in England where he was much noticed in high circles, 
notwithstanding the assertion of the Quarterly Review to the contrary; 
on his return to his native country, he for some time conducted the 
affairs of his father's commercial house, and afterwards those of his 
ministerial office, in which he was distinguished for his attention to 
business and his apparent desire to advance the welfare of his 
country. Mohammed the younger son was brought up under the eye of his 
father at home; Captain Beechy of the British Navy who spent some time 
at Tripoli in 1822 while employed in surveying the adjacent coast, 
describes him as "an excellent young man," and as "an admirable 
example of true devotion to the religion of his country, united with 
the more extended and liberal feelings of Europeans. He daily visits 
the public school where young boys are taught to read the Koran, and 
superintends the charitable distribution of food which the bounty of 
his father provides for the poor who daily present themselves at his 
gate. Besides his {8} acquaintance with English and French he is able 
to converse with the slaves of the family in several languages of the 
interior of Africa," &c. He was subsequently employed also in public 
affairs, and became the intimate confident of his brother-in-law the 
Bey Ali.

On the 17th of July 1825, Major Gordon Laing of the British Army a 
son-in-law of Consul Warrington, quitted Tripoli with the intention of 
penetrating if possible directly to Tombuctoo, and thence descending 
the river which is said to flow near that city, to its termination. He 
was amply supplied with letters by the D'Ghies family; and orders were 
sent to the governors and chiefs of places on his route, which were 
subject to the Pasha to aid him by every means in the prosecution of 
his journey, and to forward his letters and journals to Tripoli. For 
some time after his departure his communications were regularly 
received and bills drawn by him at various places were presented at 
Tripoli for payment. From these accounts it appears, that taking a 
south-western course he arrived on the 13th of September at Ghadamis a 
town of considerable trade situated in an _oasis_ about five hundred 
miles from Tripoli; thence he passed to Einsalah in the country of the 
Tuaricks (a fierce race of wanderers) which he reached on the 3d of 
December and left on the 10th of January 1826. His journals up to this 
date were regularly received; from his few subsequent letters we learn 
that during the month of February, the caravan with which he travelled 
was suddenly attacked in the night by a band of Tuaricks, who had for 
some days accompanied them; many persons of the caravan were killed 
and the Major was dreadfully wounded, but he escaped and arrived at 
Tombuctoo on the 18th of August. At this place he had remained five 
weeks when Boubokar the Governor of the town who had previously 
treated him with favor, suddenly urged him to depart immediately, 
stating that he had received a letter from Bello the Sultan of the 
Foulahs a Prince of great power in the vicinity of Tombuctoo, 
expressing the strongest hostility to the stranger; Laing accordingly 
quitted Tombuctoo on the 22d of September, in company with Burbushi an 
Arab Sheik who had engaged to conduct him in safety to Arouan, distant 
about three hundred miles to the northward.

After this date nothing farther was heard from the traveller, no more 
of his bills were presented for payment at Tripoli, and Mr. Warrington 
becoming uneasy prevailed on the Pasha to have inquiries made 
respecting him. Messengers were accordingly despatched southward in 
various directions, one of whom on his return in the spring of 1827 
brought an account that the Christian had been murdered soon after 
leaving Tombuctoo, by a party despatched from that place for the 
purpose. This statement was confirmed by all the other messengers on 
their return, and it was confidently repeated in a long article on the 
subject published in a Paris Journal, which gave the Prime Minister of 
Tripoli as authority. The other caravans and travellers however from 
the South contradicted these reports, and Hassuna D'Ghies on being 
questioned respecting the account driven in the Paris Journal, denied 
that he had supplied such information and asserted his total disbelief 
of the story. These and other circumstances induced Mr. Warrington to 
suspect that the Pasha or his Minister had for some interested motive 
suppressed Laing's communications; at his request therefore, the 
Commander of the British squadron in the Mediterranean sent a ship of 
war to Tripoli to give Yusuf notice that as the traveller had 
proceeded to the interior under his protection, he should hold him 
responsible for his safety, or at least for the delivery of his 
property and papers. This intimation was certainly of a most 
unreasonable character; the Pasha however could only exert himself to 
avert the threatened evil, by endeavoring to discover the traveller 
and at all events to disprove any unfair dealings or bad intentions on 
his own part with regard to him.

All doubts respecting the fate of the British traveller were however 
dispelled by the return to Tripoli of the servant who had accompanied 
him; from the statements of this man it was clearly ascertained, that 
the unfortunate Laing had been murdered in his sleep by his Arab 
conductor Burbushi on the third night after their departure from 
Tombuctoo, that is on the 25th of September 1826.

Some time after receiving this melancholy news, the British Consul was 
induced to believe that papers which were sent by his son-in-law from 
Tombuctoo, had actually arrived in Tripoli; and in the course of the 
investigations which he made in consequence, a suspicion was awakened 
in his mind that they had been secreted by Hassuna D'Ghies, in order 
to conceal some gross treachery or misconduct on his part. Under this 
impression Mr. Warrington urged the Pasha to have the papers secured, 
and not being satisfied with the means used for the purpose, he 
finally struck his flag, and declared that all official intercourse 
between himself and the Government of Tripoli, would be suspended 
until they were produced.

To avert the evils which might result from this measure, Yusuf labored 
diligently, and in the spring of 1829 he intercepted some letters sent 
from Ghadamis to Hassuna, which indicated a means of unravelling the 
mystery. Pursuing his inquiries farther, he became fully convinced of 
the perfidy of his Minister, and at length he declared to a friend of 
the British Consul, that two sealed packages sent by Laing from 
Tombuctoo, had been received by Hassuna and delivered by him to the 
French Consul in consideration of the abatement of forty per cent. in 
the amount of a large debt due by him to some French subjects. The 
fact of the receipt of the papers by Hassuna was to be proved by the 
evidence of the Courier who brought them from Ghadamis, and of other 
persons daily expected in Tripoli; the remainder of the Pasha's 
strange statement appears to have been founded entirely on a written 
deposition to that effect, of Mohammed D'Ghies the younger brother of 
the accused Minister, which was said to have been made in the presence 
of the Bey Ali and of Hadji Massen the Governor of the city.

On the strength of this declaration, Mr. Warrington insisted on the 
immediate apprehension of Hassuna, but he having received timely 
warning fled for refuge on the 20th of July, to the house of Mr. Coxe 
the American Consul; and immediately after to the surprise of all 
concerned, it was found that his brother Mohammed had likewise sought 
an asylum under the roof of Baron Rousseau.


{9}


OCTOBER.

October in New England is perhaps the most beautiful--certainly the 
most magnificent month in the year. The peculiar brilliancy of the 
skies and purity of the atmosphere,--the rich and variegated colors of 
the forest trees, and the deep, bright dyes of the flowers, are 
unequalled by any thing in the other seasons of the year; but the ruin 
wrought among the flowers by one night of those severe frosts which 
occur at the latter end of the month, after a day of cloudless and 
intense sunshine, can scarcely be imagined by one not familiar with 
the scene.


  Thou'rt here again, October, with that queenly look of thine--
  All gorgeous thine apparel and all golden thy sunshine--
  So brilliant and so beautiful--'tis like a fairy show--
  The earth in such a splendid garb, the heav'ns in such a glow.

  'Tis not the loveliness of Spring--the roses and the birds,
  Nor Summer's soft luxuriance and her lightsome laughing words;
  Yet not the fresh Spring's loveliness, nor Summer's mellow glee
  Come o'er my spirit like the charm that's spread abroad by thee.

  The gaily-mottled woods that shine--all crimson, drab, and gold,
  With fascination strong the mind in pensive musings hold,
  And the rays of glorious sunshine there in saddening lustre fall--
  'Tis the funeral pageant of a king with his gold and crimson pall.

  Thou'rt like the Indian matron, who adorns her baby fair,
  E'er she gives it to the Ganges' flood, all bright, to perish there;
  Thou callest out the trusting buds with the lustre of thy sky,
  And clothest them in hues of Heaven all gloriously--to die.

  Thou'rt like the tyrant lover, wooing soft his gentle bride--
  Anon the fit of passion comes--and her smitten heart hath died;
  The tyrant's smile may come again, and thy cheering noonday skies,
  But smitten hearts and flowers are woo'd, in vain, again to rise.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Thy reign was short, thou Beautiful, but they were despot's hours--
  The gold leaves met the forest ground, and fallen are the flowers;
  Ah, 'tis the bitterness of earth, that fairest, goodliest show,
  Comes to the heart deceitfully, and leaves the deeper wo.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.




MOTHER AND CHILD.


CHILD.
  Where, mother, where have the fire-flies been
  All the day long, that their light was not seen?

MOTHER.
  They've been 'mong the flowers and flown through the air,
  But could not be seen--for the sunshine was there.
  And thus, little girl, in thy morning's first light,
  There are many things hid from thy mind's dazzled sight,
  Which the ev'ning of life will too clearly reveal,
  And teach thee to see--or, it may be, to feel.

CHILD.
  Where, mother, where will the fire-flies go
  When the chilling snows fall and the winter winds blow?

MOTHER.
  The tempest o'ercomes them, but cannot destroy:
  For the spring time awakes them to sunshine and joy.
  And thus, little girl, when life's seasons are o'er,
  And thy joys and thy hopes and thy griefs are no more,
  May'st thou rise from death's slumbers to high worlds of light,
  Where all things are joyous, and all things are bright.

IMOGENE.




LINES

Written on one of the blank leaves of a book sent to a friend in 
England.


  As he who sails afar on southern seas,
  Catches rich odor on the evening breeze,
  Turns to the shore whence comes the perfum'd air,
  And knows, though all unseen, some flower is there--

  Thus, when o'er ocean's wave these pages greet
  Thine eye, with many a line from minstrel sweet,
  Think of Virginia's clime far off and fair,
  And know, though all unseen, a friend is there.

IMOGENE.




THE BROKEN HEART.


                    ... The morning dew-drop,
  With all its pearliness and diamond form
  Vanisheth.

         *       *       *       *       *

    ... She turned her from the gate, and walked
  As quietly into her father's hall,
  As though her lover had been true. No trace
  Of disappointment or of hate was found
  Upon the maiden's brow: but settled calm,
  And dignity unequalled. And they spoke
  To her, and she did mildly answer them
  And smiled: and smiling, seem'd so like an angel,
  That you would think the man who could desert
  A form so lovely, after he had won
  Her warm affections, must be more than demon.

  And though she shrunk not from the love of those
  Who were around her, and was never found
  In fretful mood--yet did they soon discover
  The rosy tinge upon her youthful cheek
  Concentrate all its radiance into one
  Untimely spot, and her too delicate frame
  Wither away beneath the false one's power.
  But lovelier yet, and brighter still she grew
  Though Death was near at hand--as the moon looks
  Most lovely as she sinks within the sea.
  Her fond devoted parents watch with care
  The fatal enemy: friends and physicians
  Exert their skill most faithfully. Alas!
  Could Love or Friendship bind a broken heart,
  The fading flower might be recalled to life.

         *       *       *       *       *

  She's gone, where she will chant the melody
  Of Seraphim _and live_--beyond the power
  Of the base. Then weep not, childless parents, weep not,--
  But think to meet her soon. Her smile is yet
  More lovely now than when a child of earth:
  For she has caught the ray of dazzling glory
  And sweet divinity, that beams all bright
  Upon her Saviour's face; and waits to cast
  That smile on thee.

ELIZA

_Richmond, Va._




HALLEY'S COMET--1760.

BY MISS E. DRAPER.


  Good George the Third was sitting on his throne--
    His limbs were healthy, and his wits were sound;
  In gorgeous state St. James's palace shone--
    And bending courtiers gather'd thick around
  The new made monarch and his German bride,
  Who sat in royal splendor side by side.

  Pitt was haranguing in the House of Lords--
    Blair in the Pulpit--Blackstone at the Bar--
  Garrick and Foote upon the Thespian boards--    {10}
    And pious Whitfield in the open air--
  While nervous Cowper, shunning public cares,
  Sat in his study, fattening up his hares.

  Sterne was correcting proof-sheets--Edmund Burke
    Planning a register--Goldsmith and Hume
  Scribbling their histories--and hard at work
    Was honest Johnson; close at hand were some
  Impatient creditors, to urge the sale
  Of his new book, the Abyssinian tale.

  Italia smiled beneath her sunny skies--
    Her matchless works were in her classic walls;
  They had not gone to feast the Frenchman's eyes--
    They had not gone to fill Parisian halls:
  The Swiss was in his native Canton free,
  And Francis mildly ruled in Germany.

  Adolphus reigned in Sweden; the renown
    Of Denmark's Frederic overawed her foes;
  A gentle Empress wore the Russian crown;
    Amid the gilded domes of Moscow rose
  The ancient palace of her mighty Czars,
  Adorn'd with trophies of their glorious wars.

  Altho' the glory of the Pole was stain'd,
    Still Warsaw glitter'd with a courtly train,
  And o'er her land Augustus Frederic reign'd;
    Joseph in Portugal, and Charles in Spain--
  Louis in France, while in imperial state
  O'er Prussia's realm ruled Frederic the Great.

  In gloomy grandeur, on the Ottoman throne
    Sat proud Mustapha. Kerim Khan was great
  Amid fair Persia's sons; his sword was one
    That served a friend, but crush'd a rival's hate:
  O'er ancient China, and her countless throng,
  Reign'd the bold Tartar mighty Kian Long.

  America then held a common horde
    Of strange adventurers; with bloody blade
  The Frenchman ruled--the Englishman was lord--
    The haughty Spaniard, o'er his conquests sway'd--
  While the wild Indian, driven from his home,
  Ranged far and lawless, in the forest's gloom.

  Thus was the world when last yon Comet blazed
    Above our earth. On its celestial light
  Proudly the free American may gaze:
    Nations that last beheld its rapid flight
  Are fading fast; the rest no more are known,
  While his has risen to a mighty one.




EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

Mexico--Procession of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios--Visit to the 
Country--Society and Manners in Mexico--Climate.


20th June, 1825. Since our arrival on the 25th May, my occupations 
have been such as to prevent my seeing many of the _lions_ of Mexico. 
I have, however, walked through the principal streets, and visited 
most of the churches, of which some are very rich and splendid--some 
are ancient and venerable--others are fine and gaudy--while a few of 
the more modern are extremely neat and handsome. The churches are 
numerous: these, with the convents, occupy almost every alternate 
square of the city; but with all this show of religion, there is a 
proportionate degree of vice among its population.

The city is, indeed, magnificent; many of the buildings are spacious. 
The streets are not wide, but well paved--clean in the most 
frequented, but excessively filthy in the more remote parts, and 
thronged with dirty, diseased, deformed, and half naked creatures. 
Disgusting sights every moment present themselves. At the corners of 
every street--each square is called a street, and bears a distinct 
name,--at the doors of the churches which you must be passing 
constantly in your walks--and sometimes in the areas of the private 
residences, you are importuned by miserable beggars, some of whom, not 
satisfied with a modest refusal, chase you into charity, which you are 
not assured is well bestowed.

We meet in the streets very few well dressed people; the ladies seldom 
walk, except to mass early in the morning, when some pretty faces are 
seen.

Such is the character of the street-population of Mexico. So much 
filth, so much vice, so much ignorance are rarely found elsewhere 
combined. Those who have seen the lazzaroni of Naples, may form a 
faint idea of the _leperos_ of Mexico.

The _leperos_ are most dexterous thieves--none can be more expert in 
relieving you of your pocket handkerchief; it is unsafe to trust them 
within your doors. I knew an American who had his hat stolen from 
under the bench on which he was seated in the Cathedral listening to a 
sermon![1]

[Footnote 1: A very ingenious theft by one of this class was mentioned 
to me by an American who was present when it took place. At a fair in 
the interior of the country, two Americans were seated on a bench 
engaged in conversation, one of them having his hat by his side with 
his hand upon it for its protection. Talking earnestly he occasionally 
uplifted his hand from the hat. On his rising from his seat, he was 
surprised to find in his hand not his own beaver, but an inferior one 
which had been substituted for it. At an incautious moment he had 
ceased to guard it; a hat was there when he put down his hand--but it 
was not his own.]

They are superstitious, too, almost to idolatry. I may here include 
with them the better class of people also. The recent reception of the 
image of _Nuestra Senora de los Remedios_, (Our Lady of Remedies,) I 
give as evidence of the justice of this remark. Her history is briefly 
this. She is a deity of Spanish origin--the more highly esteemed Lady 
of _Guadalupe_--the patron saint of Mexico, is indigenous. She 
accompanied the conquerors to the city of _Muteczuma_[2]--was lost in 
their disastrous retreat on the celebrated _noche triste_--was found 
some years afterwards, in 1540, seated in a _maguey_, by an Indian, 
_Juan de Aguila_, who carried her to his dwelling, and fed her with 
_tortillas_, (Indian corn-cakes,) which were regularly deposited in 
the chest where she was kept. Suddenly she fled, and was discovered on 
the spot where her temple now stands--the place to which Cortes 
retreated on the night of his flight from the city. It is an eminence 
to the west of Mexico, distant about five miles.

[Footnote 2: Cortés, in his Letters, writes the name of the Emperor of 
Mexico, _Muteczuma_. Humboldt says, I know not on what authority, that 
_Moteuczoma_ was his name. The English historians always call him 
Montezuma.]

This identical image, they say, still exists--it is about eight inches 
in height--it is richly decorated. It is believed to possess the power 
of bringing rain, and of staying the ravages of disease.

{11} For many days previous to her entrance into the city, great 
preparations had been made. On the 11th inst. she was conveyed from 
her sanctuary in the President's coach, which was driven by a nobleman 
of the old regime, the _Marques de Salvatierra_, bare headed, and 
attended by a large number of coaches, and crowds of people on foot, 
to the _parroquia de Santa Vera Cruz_, a church just within the limits 
of the city. Here, as is usual, she was to rest one night, and on the 
following evening to proceed to the Cathedral. Before the appointed 
time, the streets leading to it were covered with canopies of canvass; 
draperies were suspended from every balcony, and strings of shawls and 
handkerchiefs stretched across, were seen fluttering in the wind. A 
regiment of troops marched out to form her escort, and thousands 
flocked to join her train. But a heavy rain began to fall, and the 
procession was necessarily postponed, the populace being delighted to 
find that the intercession of Our Lady was of so much avail, and their 
faith strengthened at the trifling expense of wet jackets. The 
procession was now appointed for an early hour the next _morning_, (a 
_prudent_ arrangement, for it rains, in course, every evening, the 
rainy season having commenced,) and preparations were again made with 
increased zeal, proportionate with the gratitude felt at so prompt a 
dispensation of her Ladyship's favors. Two regiments of infantry and 
one of cavalry now composed the escort. The concourse of people was 
immense. Wax tapers, lanterns, candle-boxes, flags, and all the 
frippery of the churches were carried to grace the occasion; children 
dressed fantastically, with wings, and gay decorations upon their 
heads, but barefooted, with tapers in their hands, were led by their 
parents or nurses to take part in the pageant.

After the procession was formed, a discharge of artillery announced 
the departure of the holy image from the church, in which she had 
until now rested. The advance was a corps of cavalry, followed by 
flocks of ragged Indians, by respectable citizens and the civil 
authorities, all bearing lighted wax tapers; then followed the 
numerous religious orders, each order preceded by an Indian carrying 
on his back a huge mahogany candle-box; the higher dignitaries of the 
order, with their hands meekly folded on their breasts, each attended 
by two assistants, bringing up the rear of Carmelites, Augustines, 
Franciscans, Dominicans, and Mercedarians; next these were other 
Indians, followed by the _angelic_ little children, who strew roses 
before the object of their adoration, _La Santa Virgen de los 
Remedios_, who stands majestically under a canopy, richly clothed, and 
surrounded by gilded ornaments, supported by four men. As she passed, 
the people who crowded the streets, and all who fill the windows under 
which she is carried, knelt, and roses are showered upon her from the 
roofs of the houses. Next her was another canopy, under which the Host 
was carried, to which the people also knelt. The troops brought up the 
rear, escorting Our Lady to the Cathedral, where she remains nine 
days. If it rain during this time, it is ascribed to her influence. If 
rain precede her entrance, it is because she was to be brought into 
the city; and if it follow her departure, it is the consequence of her 
late presence. The miracle, of course, never fails. After the rainy 
season has set in, she is introduced annually for the idolatrous 
worship of this ignorant, superstitious people--not only the 
_canaille_, but also the most respectable portion of the community.

14th August, 1825. I returned to the city yesterday after an excursion 
of a week in the vicinity of _Chalco_, about twenty-five or thirty 
miles distant. We were invited by an acquaintance to his _hacienda_, 
where he promised fine sport with our guns. Not content with abundance 
of deer, we were to return with the spoils of sundry wild animals, 
such as wild-cats, bears, panthers, wolves and tigers. Prepared for 
ferocious contests, we set out with all the eagerness of huntsmen who 
feast in their imagination on their slaughtered prey. But in fact, 
though to hunt was our ostensible object, from which we expected 
little, although entertained by our friend with extravagant hopes, we 
left the city chiefly for the purpose of exercise, of viewing the 
country, and avoiding the water, which, at this season of the year, 
impregnated with the soda which the heavy rains disengage from the 
soil, deals sadly with strangers.

A ride of five or six hours brought us to the _hacienda_. This, I have 
elsewhere said, is a country seat, generally of large extent, with a 
chapel forming a part of the building, and surrounded by the reed or 
mud huts of the Indians, who are the laborers, or, as it were, vassals 
of the estate. A plain, thickly strewed with these _haciendas_, 
presents the appearance of numerous villages, each with its steeple 
and bell. The buildings are hollow squares, extensive and commodious, 
and embracing in their several ranges the usual conveniences of a 
farm, such as stables, and yards for poultry, sheep and cattle. They 
all have a look of antiquity, of strength and durability, which, at a 
distance, is imposing; but on nearer view, they are commonly found 
dilapidated, and devoid of neatness, and destitute of the garden and 
the orchard, which give so much the appearance of comfort to the 
country houses of the United States.

This is their general character, as far as I have seen them, and such 
was the commodious dwelling to which we were now hospitably invited. 
It bore the air of tattered grandeur--in its dimensions and in its 
ruined state showing marks of pristine elegance. It was partially 
fortified, as were most of them, during the revolution, for protection 
from lawless depredation, and from the numerous bands of banditti who 
then roamed through the country, and were royalists or republicans, as 
was most expedient to accomplish their designs. Even at this time, 
these defences are esteemed necessary to ensure safety from the 
robbers who have escaped the vigilance of government by concealing 
themselves in the adjacent mountains.

On the day of our arrival nothing occurred particularly to attract our 
notice, except that, after the conclusion of dinner, the tall Indian 
waiter fell upon his knees in the middle of the room and gave 
thanks--a custom common, I am told, in the country. To our surprise, 
this was not repeated. He was either told that we were heretics, (as 
all foreigners are designated) or was deterred because some of our 
Catholic friends were less devout on the occasion than was to be 
expected from them.

It may not be amiss here to mention, that the dinner table of the 
Mexicans is of indefinite length, always standing in the eating room. 
One end only is {12} commonly used. The seat of honor is at the head, 
where the most distinguished and most honored guest is always placed; 
the rest arrange themselves according to their rank and consequence; 
the dependants occupying the lowest seats.

After a cup of chocolate at six o'clock the next morning, we went in 
pursuit of game, and roamed through the hills and mountains which are 
contiguous, meeting with very little success. At about twelve we 
partook of our breakfast, which was brought to us more than two 
leagues from the _hacienda_--after which we prosecuted our hunt. Our 
sole reward was a heavy shower of rain--and between four and five we 
returned to the _hacienda_, well wearied, having walked at least 
twelve miles over steep mountains.

On the following day we set out with our mules, &c. to try our fortune 
higher up the mountains, and after a ride of between three and four 
hours, reached a herdsman's hut, where we were to lodge at night. We 
were unsuccessful in finding game in the evening, and after a 
laborious search for deer, sought our hut--a log building, about 
fifteen feet square, in which twelve of us, men, women and children, 
stowed ourselves. Annoyed by fleas, and almost frozen by the chill 
mountain air, within two leagues of the snow-crowned _Iztaccihuatl_, 
we passed a sleepless night.

Early next morning, whilst others of the party engaged in hunting for 
deer, with two companions I ascended the highest peak of this range, 
(except those covered with snow,) with great labor and fatigue; but we 
were compensated amply by the grand view beneath and around us. The 
adjoining peak to the south of us was the _Iztaccihuatl_, about a 
league distant. We felt very sensibly the influence of its snow. 
Beyond this, the _Popocatepetl_ raised its lofty cone, while far in 
the southeast appeared _Orizaba_, around whose crest the clouds were 
just then gathering. The plains of _Puebla_ and _Mexico_ are on 
opposite sides of this seemingly interminable ridge on which we stood. 
From the latter, the clouds, which we had been long admiring far 
beneath us, hiding the world from our view, were gradually curling, 
and disclosed the distant capital with its adjoining lakes and 
isolated hills. The chilling wind drove us from our height, but in 
descending we often rested to enjoy a scene which the eyes never tire 
in beholding.

In the evening, we left the mountain for the _hacienda_, where we 
spent another day. Our friends were extremely kind to us, and 
regretted more than ourselves our ill success in quest of game. Being 
little of a sportsman, to me it was a trifling disappointment. I 
enjoyed abundant gratification in seeing the country, its people and 
manner of living. Whatever may be said of the bad blood of the 
Mexicans, I cannot but view them as a mild and amiable people--nature 
has bestowed her bounties liberally upon them: for their state of 
degradation and ignorance they are indebted not to any natural 
deficiencies of their own, but to the miserable and timid policy of 
their former Spanish masters. They are superstitious, but this arises 
from their education; they are jealous of strangers--the policy of 
Spain made them so; and they are ignorant, for in ignorance alone 
could they be retained in blind subjection to the mother country. If 
they are vicious, their vices arise from their ignorance of what is 
virtuous--of what is ennobling. They are indolent because they are not 
permitted to enjoy the fruits of industry, and nature supplies their 
wants so bountifully, they are compelled to exert themselves but 
little.

These are in fact serious defects, but the improvement of the Mexican 
people is daily taking place. They are beginning to be enlightened 
with the rays of the rising sun of liberty; and after the present 
generation has passed away, the succeeding one will exhibit those 
political and moral virtues, which are the offspring of freedom. The 
effects of a daily increasing intercourse with foreigners are even now 
perceptible, and lead me to believe, that, before many years roll 
over, a wonderful change must take place. Society, too, will improve: 
ladies will no longer gormandize or smoke--will discover that it is 
vulgar to attend cock-fights, and will bestow, with increased regard 
for their personal appearance, greater attention upon the cultivation 
of their minds.

In Mexico, there are few parties, either at dinner, or in the evening. 
None will suit but great balls, and these must occur seldom, else none 
but the wealthy can attend them, so expensive are the decorations and 
dresses of the ladies. They esteem it extremely vulgar to wear the 
same ball-dress more than once. Society is cut up into small 
_tertulias_ or parties of intimate acquaintances, who meet invariably 
at the same house, and talk, play the piano, sing, dance, and smoke at 
their ease and pleasure.

Sometimes I attend the Theatre. This is divided into boxes, which 
families hire for a year. If the play be uninteresting, they visit 
each other's box, and pass the evening in conversation. It is 
diverting to observe the gentlemen take from their pockets a flint and 
steel for the purpose of lighting their cigars, and then to extend the 
favor of a light to the ladies; and sometimes the whole theatre seems 
as if filled with fire-flies.

Immediately on rising, a Mexican takes a small cup of chocolate with a 
little bread and a glass of water. At ten, they take what they call 
breakfast--it is in fact equivalent to a dinner, consisting not of tea 
or coffee, but of meats, sweetmeats and wine. At about three, dinner 
is served. At six or seven, they again take chocolate; and at ten, an 
enormous supper is laid of hot meats, &c. equal to a third dinner. At 
these meals, three or four dishes of meats, with very few vegetables, 
are brought on in various courses--the _olla podrida_, a mixture of 
meats, fruits, and vegetables boiled together--always constitutes a 
part of the first course--_frijoles_--beans boiled--invariably precede 
the sweetmeats, of which the Mexicans are extremely fond. Perhaps this 
is the reason why good teeth are seldom seen in Mexico.

       *       *       *       *       *

23d November, 1825. I have stated that few parties are given in 
Mexico. Balls are sometimes held by the American and English 
Legations. If, on these occasions, fifty ladies attend, it is 
considered a prodigious number to assemble together. The expenses of 
preparation which they incur are enormous, and deter many, however 
devoted they may be to pleasure, from partaking in frequent diversions 
of this kind. Society, too, has not acquired that equilibrium which 
the democratical institutions of the country must produce eventually. 
A powerful aristocracy, as may reasonably be supposed, still exists in 
the capital--time alone will level this--it will die with the present 
generation, taking for granted {13} that the republicanism of Mexico 
will be permanent. Aristocracy, of course, reduces the highest class 
of society to a limited number, so that a large assemblage of ladies 
here would be thought small in the United States.

At whatever hour you invite company, it will not collect before nine, 
and the most fashionable appear between ten and eleven. The music soon 
invites them to the waltz, or to the Spanish country-dance, both of 
which are graceful, and perhaps voluptuous, when danced, as in Mexico, 
to the music of guitars or of bandolines. They dance upon brick 
floors--there are none other in Mexican houses--generally bare, but 
foreigners have introduced the more comfortable fashion of covering 
them with canvass; and as the steps are simple, without the hopping 
and restlessness of our cotillons or quadrilles, it is not so 
unpleasant as would be supposed; they glide over the pavement without 
much exertion. The dancing continues, not uninterruptedly as with us, 
but at intervals, until twelve o'clock, when the ladies are conducted 
to the supper table, which must be loaded with substantial as well as 
sweet things. After supper, dancing is continued, and the company 
begins to disperse between one and two in the morning, and sometimes 
not until near daybreak.

None of the wealthy families have followed the example set them by 
foreigners. They give no balls or dinners. Although I have now been 
here six months, I have never dined in a Mexican house in the city. 
Their hospitality consists in this: they place their houses and all 
they possess at your disposal, and are the better pleased the oftener 
you visit them, but they rarely, if ever, offer you refreshments of 
any kind. It is said that they are gratified if you will dine with 
them unceremoniously, but they never invite you.

31st December, 1825. I can scarcely persuade myself that to-morrow 
will be New-Year's day. The weather is most delightful. We are now 
sitting with our windows open--at night too. About a fortnight ago the 
mornings were uncomfortably cool; but the sun at mid-day is always 
hot. What a delightful climate! And we are now eating the fruits of a 
northern mid-summer. We have always had fresh oranges since our 
arrival. A week since we had green peas; and to-day five different 
kinds of fruit appeared upon our table--oranges, apples, walnuts, 
_granadites de China_, and _chirimoyas_--the last, _la reina de los 
frutos_, (the queen of fruit,) tasting like strawberries and cream. 
The markets contain numerous other sorts. Our friends at home are now 
gathering around the glowing coals, or treading the snow without. We 
see the former in the kitchen only--the latter on the valcanoes which 
tower in the distance.

       *       *       *       *       *

7th December, 1827. A letter from home affords me the satisfaction of 
knowing that our friends generally continue to enjoy good health, and 
are subject to none other than the ordinary ills of life, such as 
cut-throat weather, squalling brats, or a twinge or two of gout or 
rheumatism. These are evils which humanity is decreed to suffer 
throughout the world; but in Mexico we are more exempt from most of 
them than elsewhere. The sun now _shines_ twelve hours of every day, 
and either the moon or stars give light to the other twelve. Such will 
the weather continue to be until May or June, when the rains fall with 
such regularity and certainty, that very slight observation enables us 
to know when to go out, or to shelter ourselves. The mornings now are 
only a little cool, although we are in mid-winter; and our tables are 
supplied with fruit as bountifully as in the months of July and 
August. Our other ills are in like manner trivial. We are sometimes 
_ennuyés_ for want of society, but books, and sometimes a game of 
chess, enable us to live without being driven to the commission of 
suicide. And as a _dernier resort_, we throw ourselves into the arms 
of Morpheus, this being the peculiar delightful climate for sleep--no 
mosquitos, nor extremes of heat or cold. The thermometer ordinarily 
ranges at about 70° of Fahrenheit.




SCENES FROM AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA,

BY EDGAR A. POE.


I.

ROME. A Lady's apartment, with a window open and looking into a 
garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some 
books and a hand mirror. In the back ground Jacinta (a servant maid) 
leans carelessly upon a chair.

_Lalage_. Jacinta! is it thou?

_Jacinta_ (_pertly_.) Yes, Ma'am, I'm here.

_Lalage_. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
   Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
   Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.

_Jacinta_ (_aside_.) 'Tis time.

       (_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair,
       resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress
       with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read._)

_Lalage_. "It in another climate, so he said,
   Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"

       (_pauses--turns over some leaves, and resumes_.)

  "No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
   But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
   Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind."
   Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
   To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
   O happy land! (_pauses_.) She died!--the maiden died!
   O still more happy maiden who could'st die!
   Jacinta!

       (_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes._)

   Again!--a similar tale
   Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
   Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
  "She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
  "I think not so!--her infelicity
   Seem'd to have years too many"--Ah luckless lady!
   Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
           Here's a far sterner story
   But like--oh! very like in its despair--
   Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
   A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
   She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
   Lean over her and weep--two gentle maids
   With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
   Rainbow and Dove!----Jacinta!

_Jacinta_ (_pettishly_.) Madam, what _is_ it?

_Lalage_. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
   As go down in the library and bring me
   The Holy Evangelists.

_Jacinta_. Pshaw!    (_exit_.)

_Lalage_. If there be balm
   For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there!  {14}
   Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
   Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
   Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."

       (_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)

   There, ma'am's, the book. Indeed she is very troublesome.
           (_aside_.)

_Lalage_ (astonished.) What didst thou say Jacinta? Have I done aught
   To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
   For thou hast served me long and ever been
   Trust-worthy and respectful.    (_resumes her reading_.)

_Jacinta_. I can't believe
   She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.    (_aside_.)

_Lalage_. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
   Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
   How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
   Can I do aught?--is there no farther aid
   Thou needest, Jacinta?

_Jacinta_. Is there no _farther_ aid?
   That's meant for me. (_aside_.) I'm sure, Madam, you need not
   Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

_Lalage_. Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
   I thought not of the jewels.

_Jacinta_. Oh! perhaps not!
   But then I might have sworn it. After all,
   There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
   For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
   Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
   And at the best I'm certain, Madam, you cannot
   Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.    (_exit_.)

       (_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the
       table--after a short pause raises it_.)

_Lalage_. Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
   Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
   Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!    (_taking up
           the mirror_.)
   Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
   In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
   Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
   A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
   Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
   It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
   And Beauty long deceased--remembers me
   Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
   Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
   Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
   Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
   For ruin'd maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
   _Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
   Castiglione lied who said he loved----
   Thou true--he false!--false!--false!

       (_while she speaks a monk enters her apartment, and approaches
       unobserved_.)

_Monk_. Refuge thou hast
   Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
   Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!

_Lalage_ (_arising hurriedly_.) I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war
           with God!
   The frightful sounds of merriment below
   Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
   The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
   Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
   Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
   With horror and awe!

_Monk_. Think of thy precious soul!

_Lalage_. Think of my early days!--think of my father
   And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
   And the rivulet that ran before the door!
   Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
   And think of me!--think of my trusting love
   And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think! think!
   Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
   Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
   And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
   And vows before the throne?

_Monk_. I did.

_Lalage_. 'Tis well.
   There _is_ a vow were fitting should be made--
   A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
   A solemn vow!

_Monk_. Daughter, this zeal is well!

_Lalage_. Father, this zeal is any thing but well!
   Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
   A crucifix whereon to register
   A vow--a vow.    (_he hands her his own_.)
   Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no!    (_shuddering_.)
   Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
   Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
   Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
   _I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
   The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
   And the deed's register should tally, father!    (_draws a
           cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
   Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
   Is written in Heaven!

_Monk_. Thy words are madness, daughter!
   And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
   Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine--
   Pause ere too late--oh be not--be not rash!
   Swear not the oath--oh swear it not!

_Lalage_. 'Tis sworn!


II.

ROME. An apartment in a palace. Politian and Baldazzar, his friend.

_Baldazzar_.----Arouse thee now, Politian!
   Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
   Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
   Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
   And live, for now thou diest!

_Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar,
   I live--I live.

_Baldazzar_. Politian, it doth grieve me
   To see thee thus.

_Politian_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
   To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
   Command me, sir, what wouldst thou have me do?
   At thy behest I will shake off that nature
   Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
   Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
   And be no more Politian, but some other.
   Command me, sir.

_Baldazzar_. To the field then--to the field,
   To the senate or the field.

_Politian_. Alas! Alas!  {15}
   There is an imp would follow me even there!
   There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
   There is----what voice was that?

_Baldazzar_. I heard it not.
   I heard not any voice except thine own,
   And the echo of thine own.

_Politian_. Then I but dreamed.

_Baldazzar_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
   Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
   And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
   In hearkening to imaginary sounds
   And phantom voices.

_Politian_. It _is_ a phantom voice,
   Didst thou not hear it _then_?

_Baldazzar_. I heard it not.

_Politian_. Thou heardst it not!----Baldazzar, speak no more
   To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
   Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
   Of the hollow and high sounding vanities
   Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile!
   We have been boys together--school-fellows--
   And now are friends--yet shall not be so long.
   For in the eternal city thou shalt do me
   A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
   A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
   Shall then absolve thee of all farther duties
   Unto thy friend.

_Baldazzar_. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
   I _will_ not understand.

_Politian_. Yet now as Fate
   Approaches, and the hours are breathing low,
   The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
   And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! Alas!
   I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
   So keen a relish for the beautiful
   As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
   Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
   Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
   A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
   And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
   Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
   Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar!

_Baldazzar_. Indeed I hear not.

_Politian_. Not hear it!--listen now,--listen!--the faintest sound
   And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
   A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
   Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
   Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
   Into my heart of hearts! that voice--that voice
   I surely never heard--yet it were well
   Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
   In earlier days!

_Baldazzar_. I myself hear it now.
   Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
   Proceeds from yonder lattice--which you may see
   Very plainly through the window--that lattice belongs,
   Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
   The singer is undoubtedly beneath
   The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
   Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
   As the betrothed of Castiglione,
   His son and heir.

_Politian_. Be still!--it comes again!

_Voice_ (_very faintly_.)
     And is thy heart so strong
     As for to leave me thus
     Who hath loved thee so long
     In wealth and wo among?
     And is thy heart so strong
     As for to leave me thus?
             Say nay--say nay!

_Baldazzar_. The song is English, and I oft have heard it
   In merry England--never so plaintively--
   Hist--hist! it comes again!

_Voice_ (_more loudly_.)
       Is it so strong
     As for to leave me thus,
     Who hath loved thee so long
     In wealth and wo among?
     And is thy heart so strong
     As for to leave me thus?
             Say nay--say nay!

_Baldazzar_. 'Tis hush'd and all is still!

_Politian_. All is _not_ still.

_Baldazzar_. Let us go down.

_Politian_. Go down, Baldazzar! go!

_Baldazzar_. The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
   Thy presence is expected in the hall
   Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?

_Voice_ (_distinctly_.)
     Who hath loved thee so long,
     In wealth and wo among,
     And is thy heart so strong?
             Say nay!--say nay!

_Baldazzar_. Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
   These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
   Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
   Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!

_Politian_. Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember.    (_going_.)
   Let us descend. Baldazzar! Oh I would give,
   Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
   To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice,
   To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
   Once more that silent tongue.

_Baldazzar_. Let me beg you, sir,
   Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
   Let us go down I pray you.

_Voice_ (_loudly_.) Say nay!--say nay!

_Politian_ (_aside_.) 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought the
           voice
   Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!    (_approaching the
           window_.)
   Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
   Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate,
   Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
   Apology unto the Duke for me,
   I go not down to-night.

_Baldazzar_. Your lordship's pleasure
   Shall be attended to. Good night, Politian.

_Politian_. Good night, my friend, good night.


III.

The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. Lalage and Politian.

_Lalage_. And dost thou speak of love
   To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
   To Lalage?--ah wo--ah wo is me!
   This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!  {16}

_Politian_. Weep not! oh, weep not thus--thy bitter tears
   Will madden me. Oh weep not, Lalage--
   Be comforted. I know--I know it all,
   And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
   And beautiful Lalage, and listen to _me_!
   Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
   Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
   Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
   Thus on my bended knee I answer thee.    (_kneeling_.)
   Sweet Lalage, I love thee--love thee--love thee;
   Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and wo I love thee.
   Not mother, with her first born on her knee,
   Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
   Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
   Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
   Within my spirit for thee. And do I love?    (_arising_.)
   Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
   Thy beauty and thy woes.

_Lalage_. Alas, proud Earl,
   Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
   How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
   Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
   Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
   Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
   My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
   With the ancestral honors of thy house,
   And with thy glory?

_Politian_. Speak not--speak not of glory!
   I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
   The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
   Art thou not Lalage and I Politian?
   Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
   What need we more? Ha! glory!--now speak not of it!
   By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
   By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
   By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
   There is no deed I would more glory in,
   Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
   And trample it under foot. What matters it--
   What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
   That we go down unhonored and forgotten
   Into the dust--so we descend together.
   Descend together--and then--and then perchance----

_Lalage_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

_Politian_. And then perchance
   Arise together, Lalage, and roam
   The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
   And still----

_Lalage_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

_Politian_. And still together--together.

_Lalage_. Now Earl of Leicester!
   Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
   I feel thou lovest me truly.

_Politian_. Oh, Lalage!    (_throwing himself upon his knee_.)
   And lovest thou _me_?

_Lalage_. Hist!--hush! within the gloom
   Of yonder trees methought a figure past--
   A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
   Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.    (_walks
           across and returns_.)
   I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
   Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!

_Politian_. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
   Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience' self,
   Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
   Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
   Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
   Throw over all things a gloom.

_Lalage_. Politian!
   Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
   With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
   Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
   A thousand leagues within the golden west;
   A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
   And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
   And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
   Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
   Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
   In days that are to come?

_Politian_. O, wilt thou--wilt thou
   Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
   Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
   And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
   And life shall then be mine, for I will live
   For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
   No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
   Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
   Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee,
   And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
   My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
   My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
   Fly thither with me?

_Lalage_. A deed is to be done--
   Castiglione lives!

_Politian_. And he shall die!    (_exit_.)

_Lalage_ (_after a pause_.) And--he--shall--die!----alas!
   Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
   Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
   Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!
   I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
   Lest I behold thee not; thou _couldst_ not go
   With those words upon thy lips--O, speak to me!
   And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
   To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
   To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
   My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone--
   O speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
   I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.
   Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!
   And thus I clutch thee--thus!----He is gone, he is gone--
   Gone--gone. Where am I?----'tis well--'tis very well!
   So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
   'Tis well, 'tis very well--alas! alas!    (_exit_.)




LOGIC.


Among ridiculous conceits may be selected _par excellence_, the 
thought of a celebrated Abbé--"that the heart of man being triangular, 
and the world spherical in form, it was evident that all worldly 
greatness could not fill the heart of man." The same person concluded, 
"that since among the Hebrews the same word expresses death and life, 
(a point only making the difference,) it was therefore plain that 
there was little difference between life and death." The chief 
objection to this is, that _no_ one Hebrew word signifies life and 
death.


{17}


AN ADDRESS ON EDUCATION,

AS CONNECTED WITH THE PERMANENCE OF OUR REPUBLICAN INSTITUTIONS.

Delivered before the Institute of Education of Hampden Sidney College, 
at its Anniversary Meeting, September the 24th, 1835, on the 
invitation of that body,--by Lucian Minor, Esq. of Louisa.

[_Published by request of the Institute_.]


Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Institute:

I am to offer you, and this large assembly, some thoughts upon 
EDUCATION, _as a means of preserving the Republican Institutions of 
our country_.

The sentiment of the Roman Senate, who, upon their general's return 
with the shattered remains of a great army from an almost annihilating 
defeat, thanked and applauded him for _not despairing of the 
Republic_, has, in later times, been moulded into an apothegm of 
political morality; and few sayings, of equal dignity, are now more 
hackneyed, than that "A good citizen will _never_ despair of the 
commonwealth."

I shall hope to escape the anathema, and the charge of disloyalty to 
our popular institutions, implied in the terms of this apothegm, if I 
doubt, somewhat, its unqualified truth; when you consider how 
frequently omens of ruin, overclouding the sky of our country, have 
constrained the most unquestionable republican patriot's heart to 
quiver with alarm, if not to sink in despair.

When a factious minority, too strong to be punished as traitors, 
treasonably refuse to rally under their country's flag, in defence of 
her rights and in obedience to her laws; when a factious majority, by 
partial legislation, pervert the government to the ends of 
self-aggrandizement or tyranny; when mobs dethrone justice, by 
assuming to be her ministers, and rush madly to the destruction of 
property or of life; when artful demagogues, playing upon the 
credulity or the bad passions of a confiding multitude, sway them to 
measures the most adverse to the public good; or when a popular chief 
(though he were a Washington) contrives so far to plant his will in 
the place of law and of policy, that the people approve or condemn 
both measures and men, mainly if not solely, by his judgment or 
caprice; and when all history shews these identical causes (the 
offspring of ignorance and vice) to have overthrown every proud 
republic of former times;--then, surely, a Marcus Brutus or an 
Algernon Sidney,--the man whose heart is the most irrevocably sworn to 
liberty, and whose life, if required, would be a willing sacrifice 
upon her altars--must find the most gloomy forebodings often haunting 
his thoughts, and darkening his hopes.

Indeed, at the best, it is no trivial task, to conduct the affairs of 
a great people. Even in the tiny republics of antiquity, some twenty 
of which were crowded into a space less than two-thirds of 
Virginia,--government was no such _simple machine_, as some fond 
enthusiasts would have us believe it might be. The only very simple 
form of government, is despotism. There, every question of policy, 
every complicated problem of state economy, every knotty dispute 
respecting the rights or interests of individuals or of provinces, is 
at once solved by the intelligible and irreversible _sic volo_ of a 
Nicholas or a Mohammed. But in republics, there are passions to 
soothe; clashing interests to reconcile; jarring opinions to mould 
into one result, for the general weal. To effect this, requires 
extensive and accurate knowledge, supported by all the powers of 
reasoning and persuasion, in discussing not only _systems_ of 
measures, but their minutest details, year after year, before 
successive councils, in successive generations: and supposing the 
_machinery_ of _Legislative_, _Executive_, and _Judiciary_ to be so 
simple or so happily adjusted, that an idiot might propel it, and a 
school-lad with the first four rules of arithmetic--or even "a negro 
boy with his knife and tally stick"[1]--might regulate its movements 
and record their results; still, those other objects demand all the 
comprehension and energies of no contracted or feeble mind. Nor are 
these qualities needful only to the actual administrators of the 
government. Its proprietors, the people, must look both vigilantly and 
intelligently to its administration: for so liable is power to 
continual abuse; so perpetually is it tending to steal from them to 
their steward or their agent; that if they either want the requisite 
sagacity to judge of his acts, or substitute a blind confidence in him 
for that wise distrust, which all experience proves indispensable to 
the preservation of power in the people,--it will soon be _their_ 
power no longer. A tame surrender of it to him is inevitable, unless 
they comprehend the subjects of his action well enough to judge the 
character of his acts: unless they know something of that vast and 
diversified field of policy, of duty, and of right, in which they have 
set him to labor. Yes--in its least perplexed form, on its most 
diminutive scale, the task of self-government is a perilously 
difficult one; difficult, in proportion to its nobleness: calling for 
the highest attributes of the human character. What, then, must it be, 
in a system so complex as ours? Two sets of public functionaries, to 
appoint and superintend: two sets of machinery to watch, and keep in 
order: each of them not only complicated within itself, but constantly 
tending to clash with the other. Viewing the State government alone, 
how many fearful dissensions have arisen, as to the extent of its 
powers, and the propriety of its acts! Turning then to the Federal 
government, how much more awful and numerous controversies, respecting 
both the constitutionality and expediency of its measures, have, 
within half a century, convulsed the whole Union! No less than three 
conjunctures within that time, threatening us with disunion and civil 
war; not to mention the troubles of the elder Adams' administration, 
the conspiracy of Burr, the Missouri dispute, or the cloud (now, I 
trust, about to disperse) which has just been lowering in our northern 
sky. To the complexity of our two governments, separately considered, 
add the delicate problems daily springing from their relations with 
one another, and from the mutual relations of the twenty-four 
states--disputes concerning territory; claims urged by citizens of 
one, against another state; or wrongs done to some states, by citizens 
and residents of others--all these, and innumerable other questions, 
involving each innumerable ramifications, continually starting up to 
try the wisdom and temper, if not to mar the peace, of our 
country;--and say, if there are words forcible and emphatic enough to 
express the need, that the POPULAR WILL, which supremely controls this 
labyrinthine complication of difficulties, should be enlightened by 
knowledge, tempered by kindness, and ruled by justice?

[Footnote 1: Mr. Randolph's Speech in the Virginia Convention, 
November, 1829.]

{18} Gentlemen, when such dangers hedge our political edifice; when we 
recollect the storms which have already burst upon it, and that, 
although it has survived them, we have no guarantee for its 
withstanding even less furious ones hereafter--as a ship may ride out 
many a tempest safely, and yet be so racked in her joints as to go 
down at last under a capful of wind; above all, when we reflect that 
the same cankers which have destroyed all former commonwealths, are 
now at work within our own;--it would betoken, to my view, more of 
irrational credulity than of patriotism, to feel that sanguine, 
unconditional confidence in the durableness of our institutions, which 
those profess, who are perpetually making it the test of good 
citizenship "_never_ to despair of the republic."

But is it ever to be thus? Were then the visions of liberty for 
centuries on centuries, which our fathers so fondly cherished, all 
deceitful? Were the toil, and treasure, and blood they lavished as 
that liberty's price, all lavished in vain? Is there no deliverance 
for man, from the doom of subjection which kings and their minions 
pronounce against him? No remedy for the diseases which, in freedom's 
apparently most healthful state, menace her with death?

If it is not ever to be thus; if the anticipations of our 
revolutionary patriots were not all delusive dreams, and their blood 
fell not in vain to the ground; if man's general doom is not 
subjection, and the examples of his freedom are not mere deceitful 
glimmerings up of happiness above the fixed darkness which enwraps 
him, designed but to amuse his fancy and to cheat his hopes; if there 
is a remedy for the diseases that poison the health of liberty;--the 
reason--that remedy--can be found only in one short precept--ENLIGHTEN 
THE PEOPLE!

Nothing--I scruple not to avow--it has been my thought for 
years--nothing but my reliance on the efficacy of this precept, 
prevents my being, at this instant, _a monarchist_. Did I not, with 
burning confidence, believe that the people can be enlightened, and 
that they may so escape the dangers which encompass them, I should be 
for consigning them at once to the calm of hereditary monarchy. But 
this confidence makes me no monarchist: makes me, I trust, a true 
_whig_; not in the party acceptation of the day, but in the sense, 
employed by Jefferson, of one who _trusts and cherishes the 
people_.[2] Throughout his life, we find that great statesman 
insisting upon _popular instruction_ as an inseparable requisite to 
his belief in the permanency of any popular government: "Ignorance and 
bigotry," said he, "like other insanities, are incapable of 
self-government." His authority might be fortified by those of Sidney, 
Montesquieu, and of all who have written extensively or luminously 
upon free government: but this is no time for elaborate quotations; 
and indeed why cite authorities, to prove what is palpable to the 
glance?

[Footnote 2: "The parties of Whig and Tory are those of nature. They 
exist in all countries, whether called by these names, or by those of 
Aristocrats and Democrats--_Côté droite_ and _côté gauche_--Ultras and 
Radicals--Serviles and Liberals. The sickly, weakly, timid man, fears 
the people, and is a tory by nature. The healthy, strong, and bold, 
cherishes them, and is a whig by nature." _Jefferson_.]

Immense is the chasm to be filled, immeasurable the space to be 
traversed, between the present condition of mental culture in 
Virginia, and that which can be safely relied upon, to save her from 
the dangers that hem round a democracy, unsupported by popular 
knowledge and virtue. Cyrus the Great, when a boy, among his play 
fellows, avoided contests with his inferiors in strength and 
swiftness; always challenging to the race or the wrestling match, 
those fleeter and stronger than himself: by which means, observes 
Xenophon, he soon excelled them. Imitating this wise magnanimity of 
Cyrus, let us, in looking around to find how we may attain an 
excellence, worthy of Virginia's early and long illustrious but now 
paling fame, compare ourselves not with States that have been as 
neglectful as we, of popular education, but with some which have 
outstript us in that march of true glory.[3]

[Footnote 3: Montesquieu, mentioning the adoption, by the Romans, of 
an improved _buckler_ from a conquered nation, remarks, that the chief 
secret of Roman greatness was, _their renouncing any usage of their 
own, the moment they found a better one_. ("Ils ont toujours renoncé à 
leurs usages, sitot qu'ils en ont trouvé de meilleurs.") _Grandeur et 
Decadence des Romains_--_Chap._ 1.]

The _Common-school_ system of New York, which has been in operation 
since the year 1816, is in substance this: The counties having been 
already laid off into tracts of five or six miles square, called 
_townships_,--each of these, upon raising one half the sum needed 
there for teachers' wages, is entitled to have the other half 
furnished from the state treasury: and each _neighborhood_ in the 
township, before it can receive any part of this joint sum, must 
organize itself as a _school district_, build and furnish a school 
house, and cause a school to be taught there for at least three 
months, by a teacher who has been examined and found duly qualified, 
by a standing committee, appointed for that purpose. To the schools 
thus established, all children, rich and poor alike, are admitted 
without charge. Mark the fruits of this system. In 1832, there were in 
the state 508,878 children; of whom 494,959 were _regular pupils at 
the common-schools_: leaving fewer than 14,000 for private or other 
instruction, and reducing the number who are unschooled, to an 
inappreciable point. In Massachusetts, the townships are compelled by 
law to defray nearly the whole expense of their schools; and the 
organization is in other respects less perfect than in New York. In 
each, however, about ONE-FOURTH _of the whole population_ is receiving 
instruction for a considerable part of the year; and in Massachusetts, 
in 1832, there were _but_ TEN _persons between the ages of 14 and 21, 
who could not read and write_.

Connecticut, with a school fund yielding 180,000 dollars annually, and 
with common schools established by law in every township, finds their 
efficacy in a great degree marred by a single error in her plan. This 
error is, that _the whole expense is defrayed by the state_. In 
consequence of this, the people take little interest in the schools; 
and the children are sent so irregularly, as to derive a very 
insignificant amount of beneficial instruction: so clearly is it 
shewn, that a _gratuity_, or _what seems_ to be one, is but lightly 
valued. The statesmen of Connecticut, convinced that the only method 
of rousing the people from their indifference, is to make them 
contribute something for the schools in their own immediate 
neighborhood, and so become solicitous to _get the worth of their 
money_, are meditating the adoption of a plan like that of New York.

Even in Europe, we may find admirable, nay wonderful examples, for our 
imitation.

{19} PRUSSIA has a system, strikingly analogous to that of New York; 
and in some respects, superior to it. As in New York, the 
superintendence of popular education is entrusted to a distinct branch 
of the government; to a gradation of salaried officers, whose whole 
time is employed in regulating the courses of study, compiling or 
selecting books, examining teachers, and inspecting the schools. At 
suitable intervals, are schools expressly _for the instruction of 
teachers_: of which, in 1831, there existed thirty-three--supplying a 
stock of instructors, accomplished in all the various knowledge taught 
in the Prussian schools. In no country on earth--little as we might 
imagine it--is there probably so well taught a population as in 
Prussia. Witness the fact, that in 1831, out of 2,043,000 children in 
the kingdom, 2,021,000 regularly attended the common schools: leaving 
but 22,000 to be taught at their homes or in private academies.[4] 
France, in 1833, adopted the Prussian plan, with effects already 
visible in the habits and employments of her people; and similar 
systems have long existed in Germany, and even in Austria. The schools 
for training teachers (called, in France and Germany, _normal_ 
schools) pervade all these countries.

[Footnote 4: The enumeration in Prussia, is of children between 7 and 
14 years of age; in New York, of those between 5 and 16. In Prussia, 
the sending of all children to school is ensured by legal penalties 
upon parents, guardians, and masters, who fail to send. New York 
approximates remarkably to the same result, by simply enlisting the 
_interest_ of her people in their schools.]

In England, government has yet done little towards educating the 
common people: but Scotland has long[5] enjoyed _parish schools_ 
equalled only by those of Prussia, Germany, and some of our own 
states, in creating a virtuous and intelligent yeomanry. Throughout 
Great Britain, voluntary associations for the diffusion of useful 
knowledge, in which are enrolled some of the most illustrious minds 
not only of the British empire but of this age, have been for years in 
active and salutary operation; and, by publishing cheap and simple 
tracts upon useful and entertaining subjects, and by sending over the 
country competent persons to deliver plain and popular lectures, 
illustrated by suitable apparatus, they have, as the North American 
Review expresses it, "poured floods of intellectual light upon the 
lower ranks of society."

[Footnote 5: Ever since 1646, except 36 years, embracing the 
tyrannical and worthless reigns of Charles II and James II.]

From a comparison with no one of the eight American and European 
states that I have mentioned, can Virginia find, in what she has done 
towards enlightening her people, the slightest warrant for that 
pre-eminent self-esteem, which, in some other respects, she is so well 
entitled to indulge. Except England, she is far behind them all: and 
even England (if her Societies for diffusing knowledge have not 
already placed her before us) is now preparing, by wise and beneficent 
legislation, to lead away with the rest.

Let me not be deemed unfilial or irreverent, if I expose, somewhat 
freely, the deficiencies of our venerable commonwealth in this one 
particular. It is done in a dutiful spirit, with a view purely to 
their amendment: and may not children, in such a spirit and with such 
a view, commune frankly with one another?

A great and obvious difference between our primary school system, and 
the _common_-school systems of the northern states, is, that _they_ 
take in ALL children: while we aim to instruct only the children of 
the _poor; literary paupers_. We thus at once create two causes of 
failure: first, _the slight value which men set upon what costs them 
nothing_, as was evinced in the case of Connecticut; second, _the 
mortification to pride_ (an honest though mistaken pride,) in being 
singled out as an object of charity.[6] As if these fatal errors had 
not sufficiently ensured the impotence of the scheme, the schools 
themselves are the least efficient that could be devised. Instead of 
teachers retained expressly for the purpose,--selected, after strict 
examination into their capacities, and vigilantly superintended 
afterwards, by competent judges--the poor children are _entered_ by 
the neighboring commissioner (often himself entirely unqualified 
either to teach or to direct teaching,) in the private school which 
chance, or the teacher's unfitness for any other employment, combined 
always with cheapness of price, may have already established nearest 
at hand. There, the little _protegé_ of the commonwealth is thrown 
amongst pupils, whose parents pay for them and give some heed to their 
progress; and having no friend to see that he is properly 
instructed--mortified by the humiliating name of _poor 
scholar_--neglected by the teacher--and not rigorously urged to school 
by any one--he learns nothing, slackens his attendance, and soon quits 
the temple of science in rooted disgust.

[Footnote 6: "What you say here, is verified" (said a venerable friend 
to me, on reading these sheets as they were preparing for the press--a 
friend who at the age of 72, has taken upon him to teach 12 or 14 
boys; more than half of them without compensation--) "what you say 
here, is verified in my school. Those who do not pay, attend hardly 
half their time; and one, who is anxious to learn, and would learn if 
he came regularly, is kept by his father to work at home, and has not 
_been to school_ now for more than a fortnight. And it was just so," 
continued he, "when I managed the W. trust fund for a charity school, 
20 odd years ago. The parents could not be induced to send their 
children. Sometimes they were wanted at home: sometimes they were too 
ragged to go abroad: sometimes they had no victuals to carry to 
school. And when we offered to furnish them provisions if they would 
attend, the parents said 'no, _that_ was being too dependent.' In 
short, the school produced not half the good it might have done. There 
was the most striking difference between the charity scholars, and 
those who paid." Similar testimony as to such schools may be obtained 
of hundreds.]

Observe now, I pray you, how precisely the results agree with what 
might have been foretold, of such a system. In 1833, nearly 33,000 
_poor children_ (literary paupers) were found in 100 counties of 
Virginia; of whom but 17,081 _attended school at all: and these 17,081 
attended on an average, but_ SIXTY-FIVE DAYS OF THE YEAR, EACH! The 
average of _learning_ acquired by each, during those 65 days, would be 
a curious subject of contemplation: but I know of no arithmetical 
rule, by which it could be ascertained. That it bears a much less 
proportion to the _reasonable_ attainments of a full scholastic year, 
than 65 bears to the number of days in that year, there can be no 
doubt.

Ranging, out of the schools, through the general walks of society, we 
find among our poorer classes, and not seldom in the middling, an 
ignorance equally deplorable and mortifying. Judging by the number met 
with in _business_ transactions, who cannot write their names or read, 
and considering how many there are whose poverty or sex debars them 
from such transactions, and lessens their chances of scholarship; we 
should scarcely exceed the truth, in estimating the _white adults of 
Virginia who cannot read or write, at twenty or thirty thousand_. {20} 
And of many who can read, how contracted the range of intellect! The 
mineral, vegetable, and animal kingdoms, all unexplored, though 
presented hourly to the eye; the glorious heavens, their grandeur, 
their distances, and the laws of their motion, unthought of; man 
himself--his structure, so fearful and so wonderful--those traits in 
his bodily and mental frame, attention to which would the most 
essentially conduce to bodily and mental health--all unnoted; History, 
Geography, _tabulæ rasæ_ to them! And for political knowledge, upon 
which we of Virginia mainly pride ourselves--choose, at random, a man 
from the throng in any court-house yard, and question him touching the 
division of power between our two governments, and its distribution 
among the departments of each: the probabilities are ten to one, that 
he will not solve one in ten of your questions--even of those which 
are to be answered from the mere faces of the two constitutions. Take 
him then into that wild, where _construction_ has been wont to 
expatiate, and you will find him just able to declare _for_ or 
_against_ this or that controverted power or measure: not because his 
reason has discerned it to be constitutional or otherwise, but because 
it is approved or disapproved by a chief of his own party, or by the 
leader of a hostile one. And the aggregate of opinions thus caught by 
accident, is the basis of the _popular will_: and it is the voice 
prompted by this will, that is called "_The voice of God!_"

Do not misapprehend me. Never would I have the voice of the people 
other than "the voice of God"--other than all-powerful--within its 
appropriate sphere. I am as loyal to their sovereignty as the most 
devout of their flatterers can be: and it is from my desire to see it 
perpetuated, that I speak out these unpalatable truths. Some roughness 
of handling is often necessary to heal a wound. The people, like other 
sovereigns, are sometimes misled by flattery: they should imitate also 
the wisdom of those monarchs we occasionally meet with in history, who 
can hear unwelcome truths, and let the speaker live; nay, hearken 
kindly to his discourse, and let it weigh upon their future conduct. 
Do I overrate the portion of the people I now address, in classing 
them with such monarchs?

Sagacious men have not been wanting among us, to see the radical 
defects of our primary school system: and in 1829, the late Mr. 
Fitzhugh[7] of Fairfax, stimulated the Legislature to a feeble effort 
towards correcting them, by _empowering_ the school commissioners of 
any county to lay it off into districts of not less than three nor 
more than seven miles square; and to pay, out of the public fund, 
_two-fifths_ of the sum requisite for building a school house, and 
half a teacher's salary, for any one of those districts, whenever its 
inhabitants, by _voluntary subscription_, should raise the residue 
necessary for these purposes: and the schools thus established were to 
be open, gratuitously, alike to rich and poor. But the _permissive_ 
phraseology of this statute completely neutralized its effect. It 
might have been foreseen, and it _was_ foreseen, that _empowering_ the 
commissioners to act, and leaving the rest to _voluntary 
contributions_, would be unavailing, where the workings of the school 
system had so long been regarded with apathy. The statute has been 
acted upon, so far as I have learned, in but _three_ counties of the 
State; remaining, as to the other 107, a dead letter. I have the 
strongest warrant--that of _actual experiment_, in New York and in 
Massachusetts--for saying, that had the law _commanded_ the 
commissioners to lay off districts in all counties where the census 
shewed a sufficiently dense white population; and had it then 
organized in the districts some local authorities, whose _duty_ it 
should be to levy the needful amount upon their people;--I should have 
been saved the ungracious task of reproaching my country with her want 
of parental care; and Virginia would now be striding onward, speedily 
to recover the ground she has lost in the career of true greatness.

[Footnote 7: William H. Fitzhugh--whose death cannot yet cease to be 
deplored as a public calamity; cutting short, as it did, a career, 
which his extraordinary means and his devoted will alike bade fair to 
make a career of distinguished usefulness.]

If a sense of interest, and of duty, do not prompt her people, and her 
legislature, immediately, to supply defects so obvious, to correct 
evils so glaring; surely, very shame at the contemplation of her 
inferiority to those, above whom she once vaunted herself so highly, 
will induce measures which cannot be much longer deferred without 
disgrace as well as danger.

In addition to _normal schools_ (for training teachers,) an able 
writer in the Edinburgh Review (to which[8] I owe the particulars of 
the Prussian, German, and French school systems) suggests, in my 
opinion very judiciously, the attaching of a Professorship to 
Colleges, for lecturing upon the _art of instruction_; to be called 
the professorship of _Didactics_. Such a chair, ably filled, would be 
invaluable for multiplying enlightened teachers, and for enhancing the 
dignity of that under-estimated pursuit. Conjointly with the normal 
schools, it would soon ensure an abundant supply of instructors for 
all the common schools.

[Footnote 8: Nos. 116, 117--July and October, 1833--reviewing several 
works of _M. Cousin_, who went as commissioner from France, to explore 
and report upon the Prussian and German systems of public 
instruction.]

_The kinds of knowledge_ which should be studied in the schools, and 
diffused by books, tracts, and oral lectures, among the people, form 
an important topic of consideration. It is not for me, at least now 
and here, to obtrude an inventory of my favorite subjects, or favorite 
books: but the claims of a few subjects upon our regard are so 
overshadowing, as to make dissent scarcely possible, and their 
omission wholly unpardonable, in any extensive view of the connexion 
between _popular education_, and _popular government_.

Foremost of these, is the subject of Constitutional Law, and Political 
Right: something of which might be taught, even in childhood. If the 
children of Rome were obliged, at school, to lay up in memory the laws 
of the Twelve Tables, with all their ferocious absurdities; how much 
more should the children of our country learn those fundamental laws, 
which guarantee to them the noble inheritance of a rational and 
virtuous freedom! Even to very young minds, the structure and powers 
of our two governments may be rendered intelligible by familiar and 
impartial treatises, with clear oral explanations. The merit of 
impartiality in these political lessons, is illustrated by the 
odiousness of a departure from it, which startled me the other day, in 
reading the THIRTY-FIFTH EDITION of a popular and in other respects an 
excellent History of the United States,[9] {21} designed for schools; 
where that section[10] of the Federal Constitution which declares the 
powers of Congress, is presented thus: "The Congress of the United 
States shall have power to make and enforce _all laws which are 
necessary to_ THE GENERAL WELFARE--AS to lay and collect taxes," 
&c.--going on to enumerate the specified powers, as _mere examples_ of 
Congressional omnipotence! And the myriads of tender minds, which 
probably already owe all their knowledge of the Constitution to the 
abstract where this precious morsel of political doctrine occurs, can 
hardly fail to carry through life the impression, that the powers of 
Congress are virtually as unbounded as those of the British 
Parliament. Now, to make patriots, and not partisans--upholders of 
vital faith, not of sectarian doctrine--treatises for the political 
instruction of youth should quote the _letter_ of every such 
controverted passage, with a brief and fair statement of the opinions 
and reasonings on both sides. The course of political study would be 
very incomplete, without the Declaration of Independence, and 
Washington's Farewell Address: and occasion might readily be found to 
correct or guard against some fallacies, afloat among mankind, and 
often mischievously used as axioms. "That the majority should govern," 
is an instance of them: a saying, which, by being taken unqualifiedly 
as at all times placing _the majority_ above the Constitution and 
Laws, has repeatedly caused both to be outraged. Witness the "New 
Court Law" of Kentucky, in 1825; and a very similar act passed by 
Congress, in 1801. The prevalent opinions, that parties, and party 
spirit, are salutary in a republic; that every citizen is in duty 
bound to join one or the other party; and that he ought to _go with 
his party_, in all measures, whether they be intrinsically proper or 
otherwise; if not fallacies so monstrous as to make their currency 
wonderful, are at least propositions so questionable and so important, 
as to make them worthy of long and thorough investigation before they 
be adopted as truths.

[Footnote 9: By Charles A. Goodrich. The abstract of the Constitution 
is taken, he says, from "Webster's Elements of General Knowledge."]

[Footnote 10: Article 1 § 8.]

Without expending a word upon that trite theme, the _utility of 
history_ to all who have any concern in government, I may be allowed 
to remark, that works for historical instruction, instead of being 
filled with sieges and battles, should unfold, as much as possible, 
those occult and less imposing circumstances, which often so 
materially influence the destinies of nations: the well-timed 
flattery--the lap-dog saved--the favorite's intrigue--the priest's 
resentment or ambition--to which field marshals owe their rise, 
cabinets their dissolution, massacres their carnage, or empires their 
overthrow. Yet the reader need not be denied the glow he will 
experience at the story of Thermopylæ, Marathon, Leuctra, or Bunker 
Hill. All those incidents, too, whether grand or minute, which may 
serve as warnings or as encouragements to posterity, should be placed 
in bold relief, and their influence on the current of events, clearly 
displayed. Numberless opportunities will occur, for impressing upon 
the minds of young republicans, truths which deeply concern the 
responsibilities involved in that name: the artifices of 
demagogues--the danger, in a democracy, of _trusting_ implicitly to 
the honesty and skill of public agents--the worthlessness of 
popularity, unless it be "the popularity which _follows_, not that 
which is _run after_"[11]--the importance of learning to resist the 
erring impulses of a misguided multitude, not less than the 
unrighteous mandates of a frowning tyrant[12]--the ease, so often 
exemplified, with which a people may be duped by the _forms_ of 
freedom, long after the substance is gone--the incredible aptitude of 
_example_ to become _precedent_, and of _precedent_ to ripen into 
_law_, until usurpation is established upon the ruins of liberty--and 
the difference between _true_ and _false_ GREATNESS, so little 
appreciated by the mass of mankind. This last point could not be 
better illustrated, than by a fair comparison of Washington with 
Bonaparte: a task which Dr. Channing, of Boston, has executed, in an 
essay among the most elegant and powerful in the English or any other 
language.

[Footnote 11: Lord Mansfield.]

[Footnote 12: The "_ardor civium prava jubentium_," not less than the 
"_vultus instantis tyranni_."]

To render _Political Economy_ intelligible to a moderate capacity, 
dissertations sufficiently plain and full might easily be extracted 
from the writings of Smith and Say, and from the many luminous 
discussions, oral and written, which it has undergone in our own 
country. Miss Martineau has shewn how well its truths may be set forth 
in the captivating form of tales: and the writings of Mr. Condy Raguet 
teem with felicitous illustrations.

_Practical Morals_--I mean that department, which teaches, and 
_habituates_ us, to behave justly and kindly to our fellow 
creatures--will ever be poorly taught by dry precepts and formal 
essays. No vehicle of moral instruction is comparable to the striking 
narrative. How is it possible for any school-boy to rob an orchard, 
after having read Miss Edgeworth's "Tarlton?"--or to practise 
unfairness in any bargain, when he has glowed at the integrity of 
Francisco, in purposely shewing the _bruised side_ of his melon to a 
purchaser? or not to loathe party spirit, when he has been early 
imbued with the rational sentiments contained in the "Barring Out?" In 
short, to be familiar with the mass of that lady's incomparable 
writings for youth, and not have the principles and feelings of 
economy, industry, courage, honor, filial and fraternal love, 
engrained into his very soul? Or how can he fail to find, in "Sandford 
and Merton," for the daily occasions of life, the happiest lessons of 
duty and humanity, and for those great conjunctures which never occur 
in many a life time, the most resistless incentives to a more than 
Roman heroism?

Other branches of knowledge are desirable for the republican citizen, 
less from any peculiar appositeness to his character as such, than 
from their tendency to enlarge his mind; and especially because, by 
affording exhaustless stores of refined and innocent pleasure, they 
win him away from the haunts of sensuality. "I should not think the 
most exalted faculties a gift worthy of heaven," says Junius, "nor any 
assistance in their improvement a subject of gratitude to man, if I 
were not satisfied, that _to inform the understanding, corrects and 
enlarges the heart_." Felix Neff, the Alpine pastor, whose ardent, 
untiring benevolence, ten years ago, wrought what the indolent would 
deem miracles, in diffusing knowledge, and a love of knowledge, 
amongst an untutored peasantry, found their indifference towards 
_foreign missions_ immovable, until they had learned something of 
_geography_: but so soon as they had read the {22} description of 
distant countries, and seen them upon the map, they conceived an 
interest in the people who dwelt there; and entered warmly into the 
scheme of beneficence, which before had solicited their attention in 
vain. "Their new acquirements," observes Neff, "enlarged their spirit, 
and made new creatures of them; seeming to triple their very 
existence." Geometry, he remarked, also "produced a happy moral 
development:" doubtless by the beauty of its unerring march to truth. 
Arithmetic it is superfluous to recommend: but its adjunct, Algebra, 
deserves cultivation as an exercise to the analyzing faculties; as an 
implement, indispensable to the prosecution of several other studies; 
and as opening a unique and curious field of knowledge to the view.

The _physical sciences_, shewing the composition and defects of soils, 
and the modes of remedying those defects--the natures and properties 
of minerals and vegetables--the modes in which different bodies affect 
each other--the mechanical powers--the structure of man's own frame, 
and the causes which benefit or injure it--the utility of these cannot 
escape any mind.

For _books_, and _tracts_, and _oral lectures for the people_, there 
will be no want of materials or models, or even of the actual fabrics 
themselves. The publications of the British and American Societies for 
the Diffusion of Knowledge, are mines, in which selection, 
compilation, and imitation, may work with the richest results to this 
great cause. Many of these productions, and still more eminently, the 
scientific writings of Dr. Franklin, afford most happy specimens of 
the style, suited to treatises for popular use: no parade of learning; 
no long word, where a short will serve the turn; no Latin or Greek 
derivative, where an Anglo-Saxon is at hand; no technical term, where 
a popular one can be used. By presenting, in a form thus brief, 
simple, and attractive, subjects which in their accustomed guise of 
learned and costly quartos or octavos, frighten away the common gaze, 
as from a Gorgon upon which none might look, and live, you may 
insinuate them into every dwelling, and every mind: the school urchin 
may find them neither incomprehensible, nor wearisome; and the 
laboring man be detained from the tippling house, and even for an 
hour, after the day's toil is over, from his pillow, to snatch a few 
morsels from the banquet of instruction.

Many will cavil at the attempt to disseminate generally, so extended a 
round of knowledge: and if, to escape the charge of 
_impracticability_, we say, that our aim is to impart merely a slight 
and general acquaintance with the proposed subjects,--then, 
_sciolism_, and _smattering_, will be imputed to the plan; and Pope's 
clever lines, so often misapplied, about the _intoxicating effect of 
shallow draughts from the Pierian Spring_, will be quoted upon us. 
Come the objection in prose or in verse, it is entirely fallacious.

Learning, either superficial or profound, intoxicates with vanity, 
only when it is confined to a few. It is by seeing or fancying himself 
wiser than those around him, that the pedant is puffed up. But now, 
all the community, male and female, are proposed to be made partakers 
of knowledge; and cannot be vain, of what all equally possess. 
Besides--the sort of knowledge that naturally engenders conceit and 
leads to error, is the _partial_ knowledge of _details_; not a 
comprehensive acquaintance with _outlines_, and _general principles_. 
A quack can use the lancet, and knows it to have been successfully 
employed for severe contusions and excessive heat; but does not know 
the _general_ fact, that under extreme exhaustion, indicated by a 
suspended pulse, stimulants, and not depletives, are proper. Seeing a 
man just fallen from a scaffold, or exhausted with heat and fatigue in 
the harvest field--his pulse gone--the quack bleeds him, and the 
patient dies. Again--a lounger at judicial trials, having picked up a 
few legal doctrines and phrases--perhaps being master of a "Hening's 
Justice"--conceives himself a profound jurisprudent; and besides 
tiring the ears of all his acquaintance with technical pedantry, he 
persuades a credulous neighbor, or plunges himself, into a long, 
expensive, and ruinous law-suit. The worthy Mr. Saddletree, and Poor 
Peter Peebles,[13] are masterly pictures of such a personage: 
pictures, of which few experienced lawyers have not seen originals. 
The storm so lately (and perhaps even yet) impending from the north, 
and several other conspicuous ebullitions of fanaticism, are clearly 
traceable to the perversion of a text[14] in our Declaration of 
Independence and Bills of Rights, detached from its natural connexion 
with kindred and qualifying truths, by minds uninstructed in the 
_general principles_ of civil and political right. The mind which has 
been accustomed only to a microscopic observation of one subject, or 
one set of subjects, is necessarily contracted, fanatical, and 
intolerant: as the wrinkled crone, who, during a long life, has never 
passed the hills environing her cabin, or heard of any land besides 
her own province, believes her native hamlet the choicest abode of 
wisdom and goodness, and its humble church the grandest specimen of 
architectural magnificence, in the world; and hears with incredulity 
or horror, of distant countries, containing mountains, rivers, 
climates, and cities, such as her thoughts never conceived, and people 
with complexions, customs, language, and religion, different from all 
that she has ever known. But the intellect, that has surveyed the 
outlines and observed the relations of many various subjects (even 
though not thoroughly familiar with any,) resembles the man who by 
travelling, or even on a map, has traced the boundaries and marked the 
relative positions of different countries. Knowing that _they exist_, 
and _are peopled_, he readily forms distinct ideas of their surfaces, 
and their moral traits: their mountains, rivers, and cities, their 
arts, commerce, manners, institutions, and wars, rise before his 
imagination, or are grasped by his knowledge: and whatever he hears, 
he is prepared rationally to credit or reject, to approve or censure, 
as it comports well or ill with probability and with reason. Now, to 
counteract the one, and to promote the other, of these two conditions 
of mind, are precisely what is proposed by the advocates of popular 
instruction. They propose to teach _outlines_; and carefully to 
impress the fact, that _only outlines are taught_: so as to shew the 
learner, plainly, the precise extent of his knowledge, and (what is 
yet more important) of his _ignorance_. It is thus, that, being not 
"proud that he hath learned so much," but rather "humble that he knows 
no more," vanity and self-conceit will be most certainly prevented: 
{23} that a wise doubt of his own infallibility will make him tolerant 
of dissent from his opinions: that he will be prepared at all times to 
extend his acquisitions easily and judiciously, and to connect them 
well with previous acquisitions--proving how truly Blackstone has 
said, in paraphrase of Cicero,[15] "the sciences are _social_, and 
flourish best in the neighborhood of each other:" in short, that he 
will approach most nearly to that "healthful, well proportioned" 
expansion of intellect and liberality of character, which Locke[16] 
terms a _large, sound, roundabout sense_. In this point of view, it 
will be found that "a little learning is" _not_ "a dangerous thing."

[Footnote 13: In "The Heart of Mid Lothian," and "Redgauntlet."]

[Footnote 14: "All men are created equal," &c. This principle is, in 
substance, asserted in the Bill of Rights or Constitution of almost 
every State in the Union.]

[Footnote 15: ----"omnes artes, quae ad humanitatem pertinent, habent
quoddam commune vinculum, et quasi cognatione quadam inter sese 
continentur." _Orat. pro Arch. Poet._]

[Footnote 16: Conduct of the Understanding.]

I am deeply sensible, that I have left untouched many topics, even 
more important and more pertinent to the main theme of my remarks, 
than some which I have discussed. Indeed, so wide and so varied is 
that main theme, that I have found myself greatly embarrassed in 
selecting from the numerous particulars which solicited my regard on 
every hand. I have not presumed to offer any fully rounded plan, of 
that legislative action which is so imperiously demanded by the public 
weal, and soon will be, I trust, by the public voice. A few hints, are 
all that seemed to become me, or indeed that could well be crowded 
into my brief share of this day's time. For a plan, both in outline 
and in detail, I point to our sister states and to the European 
countries, that have taken the lead of us: and to the virtues and 
wisdom, by which our statesmen will be able to supply the defects, 
avoid the errors, and even, I trust, surpass the excellences, of those 
states and countries. That the Legislature may be wrought up to act, 
individual influence, and the more powerful influence of associations 
for the purpose--of whom I deem you, gentlemen, the chief, because the 
first--must be exerted. You must draw the minds of the constituent 
body forcibly to the subject. It must be held up in every light; 
supported by every argument; until the people shall be persuaded but 
to _consider_ it. Then, half the work will have been done. And in its 
further progress towards consummation--when the illuminating process 
shall have fairly begun--still it will be for you, gentlemen, and for 
those whom your example shall call into this field of usefulness with 
and after you, to exert, with no slumbering energy, the endowments 
wherewith you and they, are entrusted. You, and they, must become 
authors, and the prompters of authors. Books, for use in the schools, 
and cheap, simplifying tracts as well as books for circulation among 
the people, must be composed, compiled, and selected. Lectures, plain 
and cheap, and suitably illustrated, must be delivered through town 
and country. After the example of the good Watts, and of our own many 
illustrious contemporaries in Britain and America, learned men must 
oblige Science to lay aside the starched dignity and grand attire, by 
which hitherto she has awed away the vulgar; and to render herself 
universally amiable, by being humbly useful: as the wisest[17] of 
heathens is said to have "brought Philosophy down from the skies, 
placed her in human haunts, and made her discourse on the daily 
concerns of human life."

[Footnote 17: Socrates. "Primus ille Philosophiam devocavit e coelo, 
et in urbibus collocavit, et in domus introduxit; et coegit de vita et 
moribus, rebusque bonis et malis quærere." _Cic. Tuscul. 5_.]

In this whole enterprise, its undertakers should resolve to be 
convinced by no sneers, daunted by no difficulties, arrested by no 
obstacles. Difficulties and obstacles enough, indeed, will present 
themselves to the timid or superficial glance; but they will vanish, 
before calm scrutiny and brave determination. Even where the means of 
solving or removing them may not occur before hand to the mind, what 
was lately said in a worse cause, will prove to be true: "Where there 
is a WILL, there is a WAY." In such a cause as ours, and in reference 
to the epithets of "visionary," "impracticable," "chimerical," 
"Quixotic," and all the other imaginary lions which will be discovered 
in our path, well may we say, with the generous confidence of Lord 
Chatham, that we "_trample upon impossibilities_."

Has not our success, indeed, been already demonstrated? Demonstrated, 
in the first place, by unnumbered instances of parallel, and more 
stupendous enterprises, accomplished under circumstances less 
favorable than those which attend our undertaking? Such enterprises as 
the Reformation of Luther--the settlement of America--her deliverance 
from a foreign yoke--the teaching of the blind and the dumb[18] to 
read and to write? Demonstrated, again, by actual _experiment_, that 
sovereign test of practicability--experiment, seven times repeated, 
with extensive, if not complete success--in New York, in Connecticut, 
in Massachusetts, in Austria, in Germany, in Prussia, in Scotland? 
Yes--it is no untried path we are called to tread: scarcely a step of 
the way, but has been explored and smoothed before us. All that we 
have to do, is to look around--see what others have done--correct our 
own procedure by what we perceive defective in theirs--and forthwith 
open the floodgates of light, and bid the torrent pour.

[Footnote 18: Dr. Johnson, after having witnessed the surprising 
performances of the pupils in a College for the deaf and dumb at 
Edinburgh in 1773, concluded that such a triumph over an infirmity 
apparently irremediable, left nothing hopeless to human resolution. 
"After having seen the deaf taught arithmetic," says he, "who would be 
afraid to cultivate the Hebrides?" _Journey to the Western Islands_.]

Young gentlemen, foster-sons of the venerable institution near us! 
Some, if not all of you, are destined by your opportunities, and by 
bosoms glowing with honorable ambition, and beating high with the 
consciousness of talent, for a conspicuous part in the drama of life. 
Your eyes, doubtless, have already often glanced around, to see in 
what field you shall reap the harvest of wealth, respect, and fame, 
which hope represents as awaiting you. The buzz of notoriety, the palm 
of eloquence, the gorgeousness of office--those glittering bribes, 
which have lured onward their tens of thousands to mere splendid 
misery or to a shameful end after all--have, no doubt, displayed their 
attractions to you: but permit me to suggest, that if you will devote 
the powers with which nature and education have gifted you, to the 
patriot task of purifying and expanding the minds of your 
countrymen--besides enjoying in your latter days that sweetest of 
earthly thoughts, the thought of a life spent in usefulness--you may 
have gathered laurels of glory, compared with which, all the chaplets 
ever won in the tilt-yard of vulgar ambition are paltry weeds.

My wealthy fellow citizens! remember, that where {24} suffrage is 
nearly universal and the majority rules, if the great body of the 
people be ignorant or immoral, property is never secure from assaults, 
under the disguise of law: either agrarian schemes, or oppressive 
protecting systems, or advantages to certain classes, or some form of 
unequal taxation; all, the result of ill-informed minds, or of 
depraved dispositions. And if lawlessness assume not the garb of 
legislation, still it is always banded with ignorance in the firing of 
barns, the destruction of labor-saving machinery,[19] conspiracies to 
raise wages, and all the terrific outrages that spring from the fury 
of mobs. Thus, by a wise Providence, are you, who are the most _able_ 
to promote the education of the people, also by far the most 
_interested_ in doing so. If there can be a case, in which a judicious 
liberality is the truest economy, that case is now yours: and never 
may the _ill husbandry of niggardliness_ be more awfully exemplified, 
than by your grudging a small particle of your wealth, to place the 
remainder beyond the reach of this peril.

[Footnote 19: No one can have forgotten the ravages committed, a year 
or two since, by the ignorant poor of Kent, and some others of the 
southern and middle counties of England, chiefly under the delusive 
idea, that their sufferings were caused by labor-saving machinery.]

My fellow citizens (if any such are before me) who do not possess 
wealth, and who have scarcely tasted of the cup of knowledge! You 
surely need no exhortation to quaff freely of that cup, when it shall 
come within your grasp: but I do exhort you to employ your influence 
as men, and your constitutional power as voters, in persuading your 
fellow citizens, and in prompting your public agents, to adopt the 
requisite measures for dispelling, now and forever, the clouds and 
darkness in which republican freedom can never long live.

And if, at the remotest point of future time, to which we may look 
forward as witnessing the existence of human government any where, our 
democratic forms shall still retain, unimpaired, even their present 
purity, and present fertility of substantial freedom and happiness; 
much more, if they shall have waxed purer, and stronger, and more 
fruitful of good, with each revolving century,--defying the power or 
conciliating the love of foreign states--maintaining domestic 
harmony--oppressing none, protecting all--and so fully realizing the 
fondest hopes of the most sanguine statesman, that no "despair of the 
republic" can trouble the faintest heart:--all will be owing (under 
Providence,) to the hearkening of this generation and the succeeding 
ones, to that voice--not loud, but solemn and earnest--which, from the 
shrine of Reason and the tombs of buried commonwealths, reiterates and 
enforces the momentous precept--"ENLIGHTEN THE PEOPLE!"




THE WISSAHICCON.

  Its bounding crystal frolicked in the ray,
  And gushed from cleft to crag with saltless spray.
                                                _Byron_.


It is probable there are but few individuals residing in the vicinity 
of Philadelphia, who have not heard, during some interval of business 
engagements, of Wissahiccon creek, a beautiful and romantic stream 
that falls into the no less romantic Schuylkill, about five miles 
above the city. The stream is visited, statedly, by but a small number 
of persons, but as it is neither found on any map, nor marked in any 
gazetteer that I have ever examined, there may be some apology 
afforded for the indifference to magnificent scenery, manifested by 
hundreds and thousands of our citizens, who, though domiciled in its 
immediate vicinity, have never deemed it worthy of a visit. So true it 
is, that there is a proneness in human nature to undervalue the gifts 
of Providence which are placed within our reach, and to admire and 
covet those which are located at a distance. Were a fatiguing journey 
of several hundred miles necessary, in order to enjoy a ramble along 
the banks of the Wissahiccon, we should then, without doubt, view its 
placid waters, its sluggish, meandering course, its richly covered 
banks, and its imposing precipices, with the admiration and enthusiasm 
which scenes of this character never fail to inspire in the minds of 
those who passionately love the untouched works of the hand of nature. 
But the delightful little stream courses along within a few miles of 
our doors, and a ride to its most picturesque views, is but an hour's 
excursion; hence, except to a few, whose researches have discovered, 
and whose good taste enabled them to appreciate, the beauty, sublimity 
and majesty of this stream, it is almost unknown.

But there are persons who have not been thus negligent of nature's 
treasures in this vicinity, and to these a visit to the fascinating 
Wissahiccon, calls up remembrances and associations of the most 
delightful character. To those who enjoy Nature in her majesty--free, 
uncontrolled, undespoiled of her beauty by the effacing efforts of 
human skill--there is no spot, within a circle of many miles, so rich 
in imagery, so imposing in appearance, so fascinating in attraction, 
as the banks of the Wissahiccon. The stream takes its rise from 
several springs in the upper part of Montgomery county, and flows, for 
a short distance, through a limestone country, remarkable for 
fertility and a high state of cultivation. Thence it passes, 
south-westernly, "a sweet smiling stream sleeping on the green sward," 
into more undulating land, until it reaches the Chesnut ridge, from 
which it progresses, at times indolently, and at times with an 
impetuous current, through a narrow valley, hedged in on either side 
by high hills, steep and craggy cliffs and precipitous mountains, 
until it strikes the Schuylkill, about a mile above the falls. Along 
its whole course the scenery of the Wissahiccon is beautiful, but it 
is the portion lying within six or eight miles of its mouth, that is 
generally regarded as the most attractive, as it exhibits, in bolder 
relief than any other portion, the peculiar sublimity and grandeur of 
the stream, and the imposing and majestic ledge of rock work through 
which it passes. It is along this distance that I have been accustomed 
to ramble during leisure moments, for years, and it is under the shade 
of the forests of brilliant hue that line its banks, that I have often 
reclined, and enjoyed, undisturbed, the sweet melody of nature, 
issuing from the bursting green foliage around me. I love nature with 
enthusiasm, and whether standing on the bank of a running stream and 
listening to the sweet gushing sound of its waters, or seated on an 
eminence overlooking the waving fields of golden fruit that bless the 
labor of the husbandman; whether enchanted by the Siren song of 
nature's minstrels in the spring, or watching the many-colored leaves 
of the {25} forest, as they are borne through the air by the whistling 
winds of autumn--there is, in the scene before me, absorbing 
attraction, calling forth reflections which never fail to mellow down 
the selfish and unkind feelings of the heart, and to shed a peaceful, 
consoling, and happy influence--all-pervading and lasting in its 
impressions--over the heart.

The wild and majestic are, however, the scenes to which I am most 
strongly attached, and which invariably elicit, to a greater extent 
than those of a softer character, passionate emotions of wonder and 
admiration. I love to stand at the base of a mountain whose summit 
reaches the clouds, and to clamber among rocks and under precipices 
whose projecting cliffs threaten destruction to the hardy 
adventurer--I love to explore the dense forests of our bold and 
beautiful hills, and to bury myself in the hidden recesses of nature, 
where the foot of man has never trod, where the sound of civilization 
has never been heard--I love to stand at the foot of Niagara, and 
watch the mighty torrent of a mighty inland sea hurling its 
concentrated power into the gulph below, and to gaze deep, deep, into 
that awful abyss--unfathomable, destructive, appalling--I love to see 
the elements at war, to hear the rush of the tornado and whirlwind, 
laying prostrate in their furious course every impediment to their 
destructive progress, and to witness the fall of the powerful oak and 
the whirlings of its cleft branches in the sea of matter above, 
crushing and overwhelming the most formidable obstacles of art. These 
are scenes in which the spirit of the enthusiast revels, and they are 
scenes which strike the soul with awe, speaking trumpet-tongued of the 
presence of an Almighty power, of the omnipotence of his authority, of 
the insignificance of human effort, and the frailty of human life.

The scenery near the mouth of the Wissahiccon is of a wild, romantic, 
and imposing character, beautiful in its ever-varying aspect, and 
interesting in its mystic associations. High hills, occasionally 
assuming the appearance of mountains, rise on either side, covered 
with a dense and beautifully-variegated foliage. The dogwood, with its 
beautiful flowers, the chesnut, the locust, the melancholy willow, the 
sumac, the gum, with its vermillion leaves, and the gloomy hemlock, 
flourish here in all their native grandeur; and the lofty oak, the 
father of the forest, stretches out his thickly-covered branches to 
afford shade and shelter to the weary pedestrian. Wild flowers, in 
great number and varieties, rivalling each other in loveliness, are 
found in the underwood, giving effect to the drapery of the verdant 
trees, by enlivening the dark hues of the thickly-growing and 
overshadowed forest. Some of these flowers and plants are of rare 
quality and surpassing beauty, and far eclipse in attraction many that 
are cultivated with care and pride in our gardens; but here they 
spring up, year after year, in silence and solitude, being literally

                  "------Born to blush unseen,
  And waste their fragrance on the desert air."

In the valley of the stream, along the eastern side of which, for a 
mile or two, a convenient road has been chisseled and scooped out of 
the sides of the stony hill, the vision is completely obstructed by 
the imposing banks, and hills rising above hills, on either shore; and 
but for the unpoetic noise of a laboring mill, and the span of a rude 
bridge which crosses to a small cavern or cleft in the rocky slope, 
there would be nothing to betray the presence of man, or to mark the 
contiguity of human enterprise. Alas! that not one spot--not even the 
glorious Wissahiccon--bearing the undoubted impress of the hand of the 
God of nature, can escape the desolating depredations and officious 
interference of the onward march of civilization.

The carriage road commencing at the mouth of the Wissahiccon, crosses 
the stream on a covered bridge, about a mile and a half above, winds 
up a hill of considerable elevation, and passes over to the ridge. 
From the covered bridge access along the creek is obtained by means of 
a foot path, on the western side, which is marked through the forest, 
over crags and cliffs, rugged rocks and rooted trees, until it reaches 
a beautiful green lawn, a little parlor in the wilderness, celebrated 
as the resort of occasional pic-nic parties of young ladies and 
gentlemen from the city, and where, on the grassy floor, youth and 
beauty have often mingled in the graceful dance, and joined in the 
merry song of innocence and gay hilarity. It is a sweet spot, and 
surrounded, as it is, by scenery of the wildest and most romantic 
character, may very appropriately be designated the "oasis of the 
Wissahiccon." Near this place, immediately on the water's edge, the 
ruins of an antiquated stone building are discovered, scattered over 
the ground, and as no trace of the original appearance of the edifice 
can be found, the imagination is permitted to enjoy free scope in 
dwelling upon the character and pursuits of its ancient founders. On 
the opposite side, the banks rise up, in many places almost 
perpendicularly, to the height of mountains, and but few have the 
temerity to attempt a passage along the course of the stream, as a 
single false step might hurl them among the dangerous rocks and 
jutting cliffs below. Here, as well as on the western side, several 
clefts and caverns in the granite rocks may be found, but it does not 
appear that they extend to any great depth under the massive 
structure; and here, upon the edge of a hill, may be seen the point at 
which it was sometime since proposed to throw a bridge over the 
stream, to carry across the rail road from Philadelphia to Norristown. 
The projectors of the scheme reached thus far in their onward 
progress, but in casting a glance over the precipice into the gulph 
below, were struck with dismay at the formidable obstacles which 
appeared, and prudently abandoned the hazardous and wildly-conceived 
undertaking.

Near Garsed's flax mill, the foot-path crosses to the eastern shore of 
the stream, on a rude log chained to an adjacent stone, and passes up 
through a forest overhanging the sluggish waters, and through a thick 
underwood, which, in some places, is almost impenetrable. Occasional 
openings in the dense foliage, which become more frequent as the 
pedestrian progresses up the stream, afford highly picturesque and 
enchanting views of the surrounding hills, such as those who 
appreciate Nature in her majesty, would journey miles upon miles, and 
endure pain and fatigue without murmuring, to behold. In every 
direction the scenes unfolded to the eye are rich and enchanting 
beyond description, and remind the writer who associates therewith 
ideas of intellectual pleasure and enjoyment, of the beautiful lines 
of the poet: {26}

  "Dear solitary groves, where peace doth dwell!
   Sweet harbors of pure love and innocence!
   How willingly could I forever stay
   Beneath the shade of your embracing greens,
   List'ning unto the harmony of birds,
   Tun'd with the gentle murmur of the stream."

One of the most interesting spots on the Wissahiccon, is in the 
immediate vicinity of the great perpendicular rock of granite, 
opposite Rittenhouse's mill. Here the dark shadows of the hill fall, 
with beautiful effect, upon the gurgling stream, and the rich and deep 
woodland foliage, the tangled and fragrant shrubbery, the towering 
cliffs on the one side, and imposing hills and dales on the other, 
give to the place a charm and fascination, which the reflecting mind 
may enjoy, but of which it is impossible to convey with the pen, any 
accurate description. It was near this enchanting place, on the sun 
side of a high hill, as is currently believed, that Kelpius and his 
friend, scholars of Germany, located themselves about the close of the 
seventeenth century, and where for years they dwelt in quiet and 
religious meditation, awaiting, with anxious prayer, the coming of the 
"Lady of the Wilderness," and where they died, as we now know, 
"without the sight." It was here, that, at a period long anterior to 
the arrival of Kelpius, the untamed monarch of these wilds came to 
enjoy the rich treasures of nature, and to worship, in silence, the 
goodness and bounty of the Great Spirit. It was here, perhaps, on the 
summit of this very hill, that the original owners of the soil 
convened for the war dance and to make preparations for a furious and 
bloody contest; or mayhap it was here that the chiefs of different 
tribes assembled to bury the hatchet of war, and to smoke the calumet 
of amity and peace. Perhaps it was here that the noble young warrior, 
flushed with the honors of victory, stole silently at the midnight 
hour, to breathe his tale of love and his vows of devotion, into the 
ear of his blushing and affianced bride; and surely no spot can be 
found, in the whole range of our wide-spread territory, so suitable 
for scenes of this character. Here is the abode of romance, here the 
spirit of nature holds undisputed sway--and here, among these rugged 
rocks, and in this dense foliage--by the side of this poetic stream, 
with its associations of woody heights and shady dells, it is fitting 
that pure and holy vows of love should be uttered, where Heaven, in 
every leaf of the forest, in every blade of grass, may be called upon 
to bear witness to their sincerity and truth.

But the Wissahiccon has fallen into other hands. The untutored savage 
no longer strolls over these silent mountains and vales, for his abode 
has been removed far away, beyond the western waters. The bones of his 
warrior fathers lie bleached and neglected in the depths of the 
valley, for the high-bounding spirit of the son is tamed, by the 
contaminating influence of his civilized brethren. The active deer no 
longer bounds over the hills and dales of the Wissahiccon, for he has 
been driven to more sequestered abodes. The stream is, however, much 
the same--its placid waters are still beautiful as mirrors--its shores 
are still romantic--its groves are still enchanting--and so may they 
ever remain, undisturbed, untouched by the dilapidating hand of man! 
The place should ever be reserved as a refreshing retreat, where the 
soul may be uplifted in devotion, and the heart gladdened in sweet 
contemplation--where no sound shall be heard but the notes of melody 
and joy, in delightful unison with the tones of the murmuring rill.

       "To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
          To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
        Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
          And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
        To climb the trackless mountain, all unseen,
        With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
        Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
        This is not solitude--'tis but to hold
  Converse with nature's charms, and see her stores unroll'd."

Two or three miles above the perpendicular rock, on the eastern shore 
of the stream, and in a spot equally beautiful and romantic, stands an 
edifice of great antiquity, connected with which there are a number of 
interesting associations. It is built nearly on the summit of a slope 
that stretches into a ravine, walled in on three sides by elevated 
hills, thickly covered with foliage. The building is of stone, three 
stories high, with numerous windows, four to each chamber, of uniform 
size, and appearance; sixty years ago there was a balcony around the 
second story, and the old-fashioned eaves, plastered in semi-circular 
form, still to be seen, exhibit the architectural taste and style of a 
past century. The date of its erection is supposed to be the year 
1706, and its founders a society of religious Germans, probably known 
as _Pietists_ or _Seven day Baptists_, who no doubt selected this 
secluded situation in order to secure peace and quietness in their 
religious devotions. Many of the aged inhabitants of the neighborhood 
remember this monastery, as a building of unchanged appearance, even 
from the days of their boyhood, and some have connected therewith 
curious traditions of romance and legends of mystic tale. 
Notwithstanding the edifice has lately undergone a thorough 
alteration, and is now the permanent residence of a highly respectable 
and very intelligent family, it still bears the reputation of being 
visited by spirits.

The fact of this building having been occupied as a monastery, by a 
brotherhood of Germans, is, however, involved in doubt. One tradition 
alleges, that it was tenanted for sometime, by a fraternity of 
Capuchins, or White Friars, who took upon themselves vows of 
abstinence and poverty, and who slept upon wooden or stone pillows, 
with places scolloped out for the head. In confirmation of this 
tradition, an ancient burial place near the premises, now under 
tillage, is pointed out, where repose the remains of many of the 
brotherhood. Another and more probable story is, that the building was 
actually erected for a religious society, professing a faith similar 
to that of the Seven day Baptists at Ephrata, near Lancaster, but 
never occupied, as those for whom it was designed deemed it expedient 
to leave the neighborhood, and join the settlement at Ephrata. The 
Chronica Ephrata expressly states that, previous to the formation of 
that community, in May, 1733, they had dwelt in separate places as 
hermits, and "the hermits of the ridge" are frequently mentioned. That 
there was a feeling of affection between these hermits and the 
brotherhood in Ephrata, is beyond all doubt, as the Chronica, in 
another place, speaks of some brothers of single devotedness at 
Roxborough, "who subsequently fell in with the spirit of the world and 
married."

Kelpius, probably the first of the hermits, on the Wissahiccon, died 
in the year 1708. He was succeeded by {27} Seelig, who survived him 
many years, and who was contemporary with Conrad Matthias, another 
recluse, whose cave was near the Schuylkill. Tradition speaks of these 
Germans as being men of undoubted piety and great learning. Kelpius 
wrote several languages, and his journal, in Latin, is now in the 
possession of a distinguished antiquarian of Philadelphia. He waited 
the coming of the "Lady of the Wilderness,"--the "woman clothed with 
the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of 
twelve stars," spoken of in the scriptures, as having "fled into the 
wilderness, where she hath a place prepared of God, that they should 
feed her there a thousand two hundred and threescore days." (Rev. 
xii.) We may wonder that such a man as Kelpius should labor under a 
delusion of this character, but those who will visit the spot he 
selected for his "prayerful waiting," will agree with me in opinion 
that it was singularly well chosen to harmonize with and foster his 
eccentric views, and romantic religious expectations.

There is another interesting legend, connected with the monastery on 
the Wissahiccon, which I feel inclined to allude to, if I may do so 
without being held responsible for its veracity. It is a tale of 
unhappy love, and relates to a young, beautiful, and accomplished 
French lady, who followed her lover to the Indian wars, who fought in 
disguise by his side, and who closed his eyes when he fell at her 
feet, mortally wounded. Being subsequently admitted, for temporary 
shelter, into the monastery, she passed a year or two in unavailing 
grief, and died, heart-broken at the loss of all she held near and 
dear on earth. The particulars of the melancholy fate of the beautiful 
Louisa I may hereafter unfold to the reader, but I beg my young 
friends who may discover the mound which covers her remains at the 
foot of a weeping willow, washed by the gurgling stream, to shed a 
tear to the memory of one whose beauty and virtues deserved a happier 
fate.

I have thus attempted to give a sketch of the ever-delightful 
Wissahiccon, and to cast a hasty glance at a few of the prominent 
incidents with which it was once associated. If I have failed to 
excite interest in the mind of the reader, let him not hesitate to 
attribute the circumstance to the feeble powers of the writer, rather 
than to the poverty of the subject to which his attention has been 
called. Beautiful and magnificent beyond comparison are the 
picturesque views of this romantic stream, and for ages to come may 
its crystal waters continue to course through the valley, affording 
peaceful enjoyment to the pedestrian on its banks, and unqualified 
delight to those who may ramble through its attractive forests.

_Philadelphia, October 1835_.




LE BRUN.


Le Brun, a Jesuit, wrote what he called a Christian Virgil, and a 
Christian Ovid. The Virgil consists, of Eclogues, Georgics, and an 
Epic of twelve books, all however on devotional subjects. The Ovid is 
in the same taste. The Epistles are pious ones--the Fasti are the six 
days of the Creation--the Elegies are the Lamentations of 
Jeremiah--the Art of Love is a poem on The Love of God, and the 
history of some Conversions supplies the place of the Metamorphoses.




MEMORY.


  Oh! why should Memory love to dwell
    On pleasures which can come no more?
  And why should Fancy's magic spell
    So brightly gild each scene of yore?

  Ev'n Hope's delusive, glittering beam
    May cease to shed its cheering light;
  And, dull and cold, Time's onward stream
    May flow before the aching sight.

  But Memory, like a fairy dream,
    Still haunts the pensive view,
  And, like mild Evening's lingering beam,
    Clothes fading scenes in loveliest hue.

  The Past, with all its glittering train
    Of joys, so sweet, so quickly fled,
  At Memory's touch returns again,
    To cheer the heart whose hopes are dead.

  Fond Retrospection lingers near
    Each scene of bliss which could not last,
  And links again that chain so dear,
    Which Memory flings around the past.

  Hopes, Friendships, _Loves_--a seraph band--
    Which Time's cold blast had rudely torn,
  As Memory waves her magic wand,
    With more than former bliss return.

  They come, like Music's distant breath,
    So soft, so sweet their whisperings are--
  And fadeless is that lovely wreath
    With which they bind the brow of care.

  Oh! Memory's joys will _always_ last--
    No cloud can dim their brilliant ray;
  Still bright and brighter glows the Past,
    As Hope's sweet visions fade away.




THE CITY.


    The City--the City--its glare and din--
  Oh! my soul is sick of its sights and shows,
    My spirit is cramp'd, and my soul pent in--
      I can scarcely think, and it seems to me
      My very breathing is not so free,
  As where the breeze in its freedom blows,
    And the vines untrammel'd but seem to be
    Disporting to tell of their liberty.
  There, _there_ I'd be--Oh! my spirit pines
  For the rivers, the trees, and the forest vines.

    From the crowded streets, and the jostling throng,
  And garish glitter, and vain parade--
    My native woods! how I long, I long
      To bury me in thy wilds again;
      Then Art, and Fashion, and Form, oh! then
  I'll eschew ye all in my wild-wood shade.
    Like an uncaged bird, I shall scarcely know
    Which way to bend me, or whither to go;
  Yet I think my spirit would grateful rise
  Unto God, who dwells in the clear blue skies.

_Columbia, S. C._


{28}


MACEDOINE:

BY THE AUTHOR OF OTHER THINGS.


I.

  "I tell it as 'twas whispered unto me,
   By a strange voice not of this world I ween."


      The Baron has gone to a distant land
        Beyond the far wave the sun sets on;
      Last eve but one he kissed his hand
        To his lady, the lovely Marion,
  As he urged his proud courser along the plain
  That leads to the sea, from his wide domain,
  In the van of a gallant vassal train.

  In sooth, her lord is a noble knight
  As e'er couched lance in tourney or fight--
  But yet the lady loved him not,
  And heaven ne'er blest their lonely lot.
  "No little voices, no fairy footfalls
  Broke the deep hush of their silent halls;"
  For Coldness hung over their bridal couch,
  And chilled their hearts with his icy touch.
  The lady scarce smiled when her lord was nigh--
  And when she did, her pensive eye
  Had somewhat in its look the while
  Which seemed to chide the moment's guile,
  And check the mimic play of mirth
  To which the lip alone gave birth.
  Like light that sports on frozen streams
  That warm not in its wintry beams,
  Is the smile of the lip that would fain seem glad--
  Albeit the heart is gloomy and sad.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I watched the lady from afar,
    As she sat in the western balcony--
    Oh! none more beautiful could be;
    The sun had sunk upon the sea,
  And twilight came with the evening star.

  The lady leaned o'er the balustrade,--
    I ween 'twas not the voice of the breeze
    That came from the grove of orange trees;
  For the lady started as half afraid,
  And her cheek turned pale, then flushed blood-red,
  As the voice of lips invisible said:
  "Meet me to-night by the bastioned wall,
    When the midnight moon looks over the sea--
  When the mermaid sleeps in her ocean hall,
    And the world seems made but for you and me."

       *       *       *       *       *

  'Twas a lovely night--the moonlit sea
    Was smooth and fair as beauty's brow;
    And down in the coral caves below,
    Where white pearls lie, and seaflowers grow,
  The mermaid was dreaming quietly.
  And lo! a knight and a lady fair
    Stood in the shade of the bastioned wall:
  I watched them as they lingered there--
    Oh! they were to each other all
  In the wide, wide world their hearts held dear;
    He clasped her trembling to his breast,
  And kissed from her lids the glittering tear.
    She sighed, and pointed to the west,
    And again her tears flowed unreprest;

       *       *       *       *       *


II.

SONG.

Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto 
those that be of heavy hearts.

Let him drink--and remember his misery no more.

                       _Proverbs--Chap. xxxi. 6 and 7_.


  This is a dark and dreary world
    To which we're vainly clinging--
  We spurn at life, yet dread the fate
    Each hour is nearer bringing.
  It is not love--it is not hope,
    That binds us to our sorrow--
  But wild vague fears--a shrinking dread
    Of an unearthly morrow:
  Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine--
    A truce to sober thinking--
  And pledge the joy that lingers yet--
    The deep, deep joy of drinking.

  Oh! 'tis a dark and fearful curse
    Hangs o'er this brief existence--
  The knowledge of a fixed doom
    That mocks our poor resistance.
  In vain the path is strewed with flowers,
    The truth will ne'er forsake us--
  A grisly demon dogs our steps,
    And must at last o'ertake us:
  Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine--
    Avaunt all idle thinking--
  And pledge the joy that yet remains--
    The deep, deep joy of drinking.


III.

RUINS.


  Ye grey and mouldering walls!--ye ivied towers!
    From whence the midnight-loving bird doth pour
    Her dreary note upon the solemn hour!
  Ye dim arcades!--ye fancy-haunted bowers!
  Ruined--but how majestic in decay!
    I love thee well; and gazing thus on thee
    In twilight solitude, it seems to me
  A spirit voice comes stealing up this way--
  The voice of vanished years--and many a tale
    It tells my musing mind of gallant lords
    And ladies gay--of moonlight-whispered words,
  And deeds of high renown--of crimes that pale
    The cheek to dream--and the malignant scowl
    Of evil eyes beneath the monkish cowl.


IV.

SONNET.


  Oh! I could almost weep to think that thou
    Whom heaven hath moulded in a form as fair
    As fancy pictures those of upper air,
  Shouldst thus belie the promise of that brow
  Where truth seems to repose, pure as its snow.
    Alas! that treachery should lurk beneath
    Such smiles!--a hidden serpent in a wreath
  Of Eden flowers!--what art thou, wouldst thou know?
  In all thy pride of charms?--A living tomb
    Of buried hopes--the grave of ruined hearts
    Which trusted, loved thee,--dreaming not that arts
  Which taught the soul excess of bliss, would doom
    The worshipper to--no! not Death, but worse--
    And yet thou art too fair a thing to curse.


{29}


LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. VI.

"The letters are original, though sometimes in bad taste, and 
generally verbose."
                                       _Edinburgh Review_.


I had not been a long time at College before I received a large packet 
from home, enclosing a number of letters from my uncle, Frederick, and 
Lucy. One of them was folded in an odd fashion--directed in a stiff 
and inky hand, and surmounted with a mass of red sealing wax, on which 
was rudely impressed the ragged outline of the Granby arms. This was 
one of my uncle's pedantic, prolix, advisory, and generous epistles, 
and I was soon placed in possession of the following neatly written 
sentences.


_Chalgrave_, ----.

_My Dear Boy_:--When Erasmus visited Sir Thomas More, that obstinate 
sophist, and that martyr to a scolding wife, (how nobly he bore her!) 
he said that he could always write a pleasing letter when his hand was 
the secretary of his heart. _En passant_, Erasmus made a gallant 
speech on this memorable visit. In admiring the kind fashion of 
saluting females with a kiss, on your arrival or departure from an 
entertainment, he said, and that philosophically, that this habit 
preserved health, in calling a constant and blushing glow to the 
cheek, and that in his moments of sickness he could wish no happier 
situation than to be placed near an English nunnery, where if he could 
not be kissed for charity he might yet live in hopes of it. Now my 
hand is the obedient secretary, and my heart is anxious to dictate its 
duties. How true, yet how simple is this conceit! and how far superior 
to the monkish verbosity, and strangled sentiment of those bad novels 
which you read merely because they are new. The heart is the 
_écritoire_ of the letter writer, and have you never paused with 
feelings of admiration and delight over the affectionate and eloquent 
letters of a woman? She writes from the heart, and pours out the 
swelling torrent of all her thoughts and feelings. Man thinks _what_ 
to write, and will fritter away feeling and sacrifice nature in the 
struggle for easy periods and mellifluous cadences. It is not learning 
that shadows with tints of tenderness the beautiful letters of 
Tully--nor is it philosophy which lends that nameless grace, and 
elastic interest, to the epistles of Pliny. 'Tis nature whose 
affections, like the rainbow, beautify and hallow the roughness of 
every spot over which it spans its creative arch. A letter, says 
Tully, cannot blush, "_epistola enim non erubescit_," if it could, it 
would never have this characteristic when I addressed it to you. I 
cannot write aught that will suffuse either your cheek or mine, though 
I might whisper something about your fair cousin, Isa Gordon. You love 
her, Lionel? and she may return your affection, but you must owe it to 
your distinction. Isa is no sickly and prurient-hearted girl who can 
solely love the person, for she demands the intellectual man, and in 
the hymeneal chaplet which is to adorn her brow, the laurel must twine 
its emblematic vanities. Let this hope excite you to study--let this 
holy object imp your eagle wing, for on every page of your books you 
must see her name urging and stimulating the slumbering energies of 
your ambition. I would not have you free from love, nor untouched, as 
Spenser calls it, by its pensive discontent, for no young man can 
prosper without its stirring and startling excitements. I myself, 
"_vixi puellis idoneus_," and I know that it softens the asperities of 
temper--gentles the turbulence of youth--breaks down the outworks of 
vice, and detracts no more from the firmness of mind than the polish 
of the diamond does from its solidity. You may read philosophy and 
think of woman--dwell on poetry and find your taste expanding into 
delicacy and elevation by dreaming of her gentleness, and I suppose 
that even in the crabbed study of the law, you may find her image 
peeping over black letter, or smiling through yellow parchment. When I 
was at college poor Ridon whom Johnstone shot, ('twas a fair duel) 
being in love, translated most of that portion of Coke upon Littleton 
which relates to females, into poetry of all styles, and measures. 
Only think of his drawing poetical conceits from this dull book, and 
scattering them on the margin of the leaden volume, like so many 
flowers prodigally thrown into a grave-yard! I have this rare copy, 
and in a page blotted with notes, references, and _quæres_, these 
crippled lines, have stumbled themselves into the text.

  "_Tenant per la curtesie d'Englettere_."
                               Chap. iv. sect. 35.

  A feme that has lands
  Enters Hymen's bands,
  And has heirs in the nuptial tye;
  Then these lands shall descend,
  When her life's at an end,
  To her Lord in curtesy.

This species of poetry was all that he ever wrote, and he was wont to 
say, that he thought it was his duty to the sex, to use the language 
of rhyme, and thus make the law respectful.

I do not know how to advise you about the study of law. I once looked 
into it, and though it may be a garden teeming with the elegancies of 
Poestum, I could not bear that rough dragon of pedantry, Coke, who 
guarded its threshold. It is a sort of hustle-cap game, between judges 
and lawyers, and a perilous mystery wherein common sense cannot trust 
itself, without that peculiar and dogged impudence, which bears all 
the vulgarity, without the courage, of effrontery. Now there is 
philosophy in every thing, and if you will acquire decent effrontery I 
will call it, for your sake, dignity and learning; and I will even 
believe that it requires some mind to understand a plain statute, and 
some genius to pervert it. Yet I cannot look with a sarcastic eye on 
the hallowed relics of the legal institutions of antiquity. Go back, 
my dear boy, to the redundant fountains of ancient literature--and you 
will find that Plato and Tully, have long ago, looked up for the pure 
seat of law only to the bosom of God, and that the Norman gibberish 
and dog-latin, which were quoted to burn witches and sustain kings, 
though they may make you a lawyer skilled in precedents, can never 
make you the scourge of knavery, the fearless champion of innocence, 
nor the enlightened advocate of your country's rights. Old Sir Roger 
L'Estrange wrote a mournful valedictory, when he left the riots and 
Apician nights of the Inns for the labors and stolid gravity of the 
bar, and, amid many sarcasms on the profession, he has thus happily 
sketched the character of an honest lawyer.

"He can prosecute a suit in equity without seeking to create a 
whirlpool where one order shall beget another, {30} and the poor 
client be swung around (like a cat before execution,) from decree to 
rehearing--from report to exception, and _vice versâ_, till his 
fortunes are shipwrecked, and himself drowned, for want of white and 
yellow earth to wade through on. He does not play the empiric with his 
client, and put him on the rack to make him bleed more freely; casting 
him into a swoon with frights of a judgment, and then reviving him 
again with a cordial writ of error, or the dear elixir of an 
injunction, to keep the brangle alive, as long as there are any vital 
spirits in the pouch. He can suffer his neighbors to live quiet about 
him without perpetual alarms of actions and indictments, or conjuring 
up dormant titles to every commodious seat, and making land fall five 
years purchase, merely for lying within ten miles of him."

Devote most of your leisure hours to the study of Virginian 
antiquities, for it is a noble field, and one which glows into beauty 
beneath cultivation. Williamsburg itself is a hoary and whitened 
monument of ancient pomp and power, and there still dwells around it 
the trembling twilight of former greatness. There is something 
distinctive, learned, and patriotic, in the character of a home 
antiquary, which will lift you far above the little pedants, who have 
dipped the wing in Kennet, or tasted of the shallow learning of 
Athenian Stuart. Do you not remember the indignant, yet pathetic lines 
which Warton wrote in a blank leaf of Dugdale's Monasticon, and the 
spirited scorn with which he repels the sneers of ignorance and 
dulness? The antiquary is neither a visionary, nor an enthusiast, for 
his pursuits teach the holiest love of country, and call into action 
the softest and gentlest affections of the human heart, while his 
guileless life occasionally shines forth with the chastened light of 
virtue and learning. Virginia is a land whose thrilling history 
beggars all romance--every fragment of which, like a broken vase, will 
multiply perfume. Who knows aught of that gallant band, who so 
fearfully revenged the massacre of 1622?--the bold patriots who 
resisted the illegal restrictions on trade--the intrepid spirits who, 
led by Bacon, anticipated by a century our national æra, or that 
chivalric corps, who, under Vernon, rotted on the pestilential shores 
of Carthagena? Who dwells with the patriot's pride, on that 
unconquerable strength of infant freedom which made historic Beverley 
the Hampden of the colony? Or who troubles himself to inquire into the 
blood-stained life of that Westmoreland Parke, who seized the throne 
of Antigua, and who died in the last dyke of a bootless though 
fiercely fought field? Who cares to remember the enlightened and 
learned botanist Clayton, whose modest book, written in the purest 
Latin, gained for himself and country, a once proud though now 
forgotten fame? And who will believe that the wise, pious, and 
eloquent Bishop Porteus was born, and gambolled away his boyhood on 
the sunny shores of the majestic York-river? They are all forgotten! 
and we neglect the vivid and truthful romance of our own beautiful 
land, to learn the nursery tales of fickle Greece, and factious Rome. 
In the shifting of the social scene, naught has been left to remind us 
of the busy drama once acted in Virginia, and even garrulous tradition 
now doubts its existence, while our feet hourly trample on the 
sepulchered silence of all that once adorned, dignified, and elevated 
human nature.

I do not wish to give you a learned essay on books, nor to advise you 
what authors to read. Your taste is now matured, and that faculty will 
see that justice is done to its delicacy. The great object of study is 
to teach us _how_, and not _what_ to think; and the principal art of 
authorship is the power of pilfering with judgment from the ruins of 
ancient lore. But trust not to this poor and suspicious honor. Rely 
for success on the daring emprise of your own genius, and should it 
fail to lift you from the earth, descend not to the dunghill of 
pedantry. Be a poet for the women--a historian for the men--and a 
scholar for your own happiness. Confirm your taste by satiating memory 
with the beauties of the Spectator, and let Horace hourly talk you 
into the dignity and elegance of the sensible gentleman. Be accurate, 
rather than extensive, in your knowledge of history, and a 
recollection of dates will give you victory in every contest. Learn 
the technicalities of geometry; for this will satisfy the groping 
mathematician, while the world will take your pedantry for wisdom, and 
your crabbed words for learning. There has been, and ever will be, an 
everlasting conflict between the radiant course of genius, and the 
mole-hill track of diagrams and problems. Strength of mind is claimed 
as the attribute of mathematical study, while we forget that any other 
study, pursued with the same strictness of attention, will equally 
fashion the mind into system and method, while it will be free from 
the slavish obedience and indurated dulness, which result from the 
memory of lines and proportions.

You know, my dear boy, my notions concerning your dress. Express 
nothing in fancy; and without being the Alpha or Omega of fashion, be 
neither fop nor sloven, and dress for the effect of general and not 
particular dignity, and never wear a striped cravat. Do not ape 
eccentricity of manner and opinion, and take the world in a laughing 
and good humored mood. I detest a beardless Cato, for I never knew one 
of them, who could stand fire. Talk to women about every thing but 
prudence and propriety, and they will think you as wise as you are 
well bred; for they cannot bear the restraint of advice, or the 
judgment of criticism. Tasso makes his heroine taunt Rinaldo with 
gravity and sedateness, and when she calls him a "Zenocrates in love" 
the volume of her eloquence exhibits the bitterest venom of female 
invective.

Chalgrave is now still, solitary, and deserted; and were it not for 
Lucy's cheerful voice, I should look on myself as a living tomb. Your 
pup Gildippe tore off the cover of my Elzevir Horace, an offence 
deserving a halter, yet she is pardoned for your sake. Tell me not of 
Sir Isaac Newton's diamond, for he never destroyed a jewel so rare, 
and so highly prized--ask Col. H. if a colt is best broken in a 
snaffle-bit--and tell him 'tis downright superstition to worm a 
genuine pointer. I send the pistols made by Wodgen and Barton, and 
carrying a ball of the most approved weight. Do write to me, and never 
forget that you are a Granby.

  I am, my dear boy,
    Yours truly,
      CHARLES GRANBY.

P. S. Translate the Ode to Fortune for me! Old Schrevelli said that he 
had rather be the author of that poem, than the Emperor of all the 
Austrias, and there was more sense than enthusiasm in his noble 
preference.

{31} P. S. Never scrape your bullets with a knife--but use a flat 
file. Do not play the flute; and never write verses on a "flower 
presented to a lady," on "a lady singing," or on "receiving a lock of 
hair;" for of all puppyism, this is the smallest accomplishment.

P. S. Never buy a gaudy handkerchief! Do not say _raised_, 
_disremember_, _expect_ for _suspect_; and never end the common 
courtesies of conversation with the frigid Sir! "Thank ye _Sir!_" 
Drink tea instead of coffee, for 'tis more patrician; and do not 
render yourself suspected by pronouncing criticisms on wines.


The postscripts were multiplied through a full page, which presented a 
striking picture of all the odd conceits--incongruous notions, and 
broad feeling which tortured my kind uncle's tranquil brain, and I 
arose from the perusal of his letter with mingled emotions of love, 
respect, and laughter. Lucy's epistle was like that of all girls, full 
of small news, long words, and burning sentences of love and 
sentiment, and inquiring in a postscript of the health of Arthur 
Ludwell, as her mother was greatly interested in his welfare. 
Frederick gave me a learned dissertation on the origin of civil 
society, and the philosophy of Bolingbroke, scourging me into frantic 
ambition, and ending with a prayer that I would ever keep my honor 
untainted. My _honor_ was then the subject of their hopes and fears; 
and, as I eyed the pistols, I found the fierceness of my nature 
lurking with a tranquil rapture around the open, and undisguised hints 
of my family. To my temperament, the neat and elegant workmanship, and 
the beautiful polish of the pistols, argued sternness and chivalry: 
and under the protection of the code of honor, I was determined, by 
braving every conflict, to gratify my long, deep, and vindictive hate 
of Pilton. How curiously constituted, how wayward, and yet how 
uncontrollable is the swelling pulse of the human heart, when agitated 
by some momentary and master passion; at any other period, the 
remembrance of Isa Gordon, would have soothed me into a lover's 
thoughtful gloom, but now every gentle and luxuriant tendril which was 
woven around my heart was a crushed and bleeding ruin, and I examined 
my uncle's gift of blood--only to murmur the name of Pilton.

My visits to Miss Pilton's had been attentive, and constant, and I had 
concealed my fraud with such art, that I found her listening with 
unhesitating confidence, to the deceitful passion which I daily 
uttered. Cautious of proposing matrimony, yet ever alert to hint 
it--affecting distress and melancholy--and alternately jealous and 
confiding, I awoke her sympathy, only to gain her passionate and 
abiding affection, while I secured my victory by every art which 
duplicity could invent, or falsehood suggest. I saw her reject the 
accomplished and educated youth whose pure and guileless feelings had 
retained the early romance of childhood's love, and when I found her 
in tears, with her head reclining on my bosom, she told me, with a 
blushing cheek, that she had sacrificed him, whose singleness and 
purity of heart she could not doubt, for me alone.

'Twas a calm and soft evening when Miss Pilton left Williamsburg, and, 
ere we parted, I extorted from her unsuspicious feelings a promise 
that she would write to me. Day had languished itself into night, when 
I found myself a solitary loiterer in the noiseless grove which 
skirted the city. The wind sobbed through the dreary and desolate 
silence of the forest, and when I looked up to the twinkling and 
radiant light which blazes in a starry sky of Virginia, the innate 
piety of Nature almost chastened me into repentance. How vain is that 
feeble wisdom which impotently labors to read those mute and living 
oracles of God? yet who, in searching into them, docs not feel that 
his heart is kindled into enthusiasm, by their wild and spiritual 
eloquence. May not each bright and dazzling star whose lambent fire 
dances over the cloudless sky be the abode of spirits enjoying a realm 
of mind--of philosophers who rived the adamant of vulgar error--of 
patriots who offered their blood at the shrine of their country--of 
those who opened a vista for freedom through the gloom of tyranny--and 
of the poet who, fettered to the earth, boldly anticipated a foretaste 
of his eternal home, in some earthly, yet beautiful and rapturous 
dream?

THETA.




THE DREAM.


I.

    I dreamed a dream--and still upon my mind
  The image of that dream, on Memory's page
  Inscribed in letters large and legible,
  Rests vivid as the lightning's scathing flash.
  Beneath a spreading oak, that towered high
  And lone upon a hillock's grassy plot,
  A Maiden stood--and by her side a Youth,
  Whose summers did, tho' few, outnumber hers;
  And _she_ was beautiful as rainbow tints--
  Her voice, like sweetest music borne upon
  The bosom of some gentle breeze far o'er
  The hushed and silent waters of the deep--
  Her breath, like fragrant odors from the lap
  Of Flora sent, when Morning's blush appears--
  Her heart, the home where wild affections dwelt--
  Her mind, of intellectual power the seat--
  Her eye, the mirror to her speaking soul!
  Upon her marble brow was set the seal
  Of _Dignity_--and in her slender form
  Were blended grace and perfect symmetry.
  The Youth was tall, erect--but unlike her
  In all things save affection's swelling tide:
  Unknowing of the bright and quenchless fire,
  At Beauty's altar lit, that constant burned
  Within his bosom's deep recess, the world
  Had deemed him changeful as the fitful wind.
  Silent they were, and round them silence reigned:
  Above, the clear blue ether spread her veil,
  And by them swept the gentle, fresh'ning breeze
  That cooled the burning temples of the one,
  The flowing tresses of the other waved.
  Beneath them was a wide spread plain, o'er which
  The full Moon poured her streams of silver light,
  And in a flood of glory bathed both plain
  And rugged cliffs that wildly rose beyond.
  Upon that lovely scene the maiden looked
  That joy and stillness breathed into her heart;
  But he that meeting, had not sought to gaze
  On landscapes, living though they were. He saw
  But her whose form before him rose, so bright,
  So beautiful, that all else faded from  {32}
  The view: He heard no sound save that alone
  Which from his beating heart was sent: and oft
  He did essay to breathe the hallowed thoughts
  That in his bosom long had slept--the pent-
  Up fountains of his love to ope; but oft
  In vain, 'till faltering accents came at last,
  And told the feelings of his inmost soul.
  But _she_ was calm; no falling of the eye--
  No heightened color's tinge--no trembling of
  That silver voice, spoke aught of passion there.
  Yet kindness breathed in every word that fell
  From off her Angel lips--and told that though
  Her heart with his beat not in unison,
  It still could feel for sorrows not its own.
  Though soft, like breath of pois'nous Simoom came
  Her voice. Young Hope her dewy pinions shook,
  And as she winged her airy flight away,
  Came casking Care her place to fill. And yet
  A moment's space he lingered there; and as
  Upon her saddened face he once again
  Did look with mingled feelings, inly swore
  To perish ere his love should fade and die.
  And she did pensive turn her steps along
  Their homeward way, again to be the life,
  The light, the chiefest joy of all around.


II.

    A change swept o'er the aspect of my dream,
  And in its mystic flight my spirit bore
  Me to the festive hall. I saw them 'midst
  The thoughtless throng--their eyes lit up with joy--
  Their lips all wreathed in smiles--and on their cheeks
  The glowing hues of pleasure mantled high.
  He spoke not oft to her, but frequent did
  Address him to some other fair--and all
  Did deem, and she did hope that love of her
  Was buried deep in Lethe's magic pool;
  And lighter then of heart to think that care
  His mind had left, unwonted gladness beamed
  Forth from her speaking eye, and lit with ten-
  Fold lustre up those features ever fair.


III.

    The scene was changed. Apart within the walls
  Of his lone study sat the youth. Before
  Him lay a letter, breathing much of deep,
  Impassioned love. Yes, he again had dared
  At that same Angel-shrine his heart to lay,
  And, well as _words_ could speak, a love to paint,
  Not torpid, cold and calculating, like
  The selfish feeling of a worldly man--
  But with the every fibre of his heart
  Inwove. For he had seen her oft, and well
  Had studied both her features, mind and heart,
  Since first the pangs of unrequited love
  Across his bosom shot: in all things had
  He found her of such perfect, faultless mould--
  So far beyond compare with all that e'er
  His eye had looked upon--yea, e'en than aught
  Of fairy form, which frolic fancy in
  Her wildest mood had shadowed glowing forth
  To young imagination's quickened sight,--
  That madly had he drunk at passion's fount,
  Ere yet the voice of reason whispered late,
  (Too late, alas! for in the vortex was
  He twirling then, unskilled the yawning gulf
  To shun,) that she was not for one like him.
  Perchance the spell that bound him unto her
  And deep affection's gushing waters stirred,
  Was wrought into its present strength--for that
  She minded him of one--a sister dear--
  Like her in nature as in name, on whom
  His heart did centre once, when joyous, bright
  And sunny hours e'er gilded o'er the stream
  Of early life about their childhood's home;
  When each was to the other all that earth
  Of joy could give--a little world--beyond
  Whose narrow bounds their youthful vision then
  Extended not. And now in her he saw
  The image of that sister's mind and heart
  Reflected back in colors yet more bright,
  And felt that life to him was nothing worth,
  Except with her its joys and ills were shared.


IV.

    The scene was changed. Within her father's home
  The maiden sat, and bent her o'er the page
  On which were traced the wild outpourings of
  Her lover's heart. A cloud was on her brow--
  Not gathered there by anger, but by grief.
  And long she sorrowed o'er the fate of one
  Whom she had learned to value far above
  The worthless crowd that throngs round Beauty's form;
  Then sudden snatched a pen, and tho' it pained
  Her much, did haste once more in kindest terms
  To bid him banish Hope--for tho' a _friend_
  She'd ever be--to him she could no more.


V.

    Again my spirit bore me to the youth's
  Lone study, where I saw him pacing to
  And fro, with heavy step and downcast look.
  His eye was fixed and dull--all smiles had fled,
  And o'er his pallid, bloodless cheek had woe
  His sable mantle flung. But whilst he thus
  Was moved, anon there entered one endeared
  By Friendship's strongest ties, who knew the fate
  His fondest hopes had met, and told a tale
  Of which he deemed not aught before--a tale
  That scarce at first could credence gain, so dread
  Its import was; yet soon he found 'twas but
  Too true--"His sacred letter, ere it reached
  Its destined port, had by some strange mischance
  Been torn, its secrets filched and heralded
  Abroad: yet, by the wakeful kindness of
  That much-loved one, his hallowed thoughts had reached
  The ears of few." Then sudden o'er him came
  A fearful mood that shook his every limb.
  Like liquid fire his blood along his veins
  Did course, and to his throbbing temples mount--
  Then rush tumultuous back upon his heart
  That sent it once again with quickened speed
  Along his swollen, well-nigh bursting veins;
  And from his lips at times did fall unmeet
  And vengeful words, that told what passion stirred
  Within. But that soon passed, and to the eye
  His troubled soul, as that of infant hushed
  To sleep upon its mother's breast, was calm.


VI.

    The scene was changed. Before the altar stood  {33}
  The maiden, in her bridal vestments clad,
  And gave her hand and virgin heart away--
  Whilst mantling blushes o'er her features spread
  Like Iris' colors on the deepened blue
  Of Heaven's high vault--to one whose kindling eye
  Was turned with rapture on her matchless face,
  And who in part was like unto the youth
  That first beside her stood--_yet not the same_.
  And she did love him with a boundless love--
  Deep, pure and changeless as Jehovah's word--
  The very essence of her being, that life's
  Quiescent stream with fairest garlands strewed--
  For he her youthful heart's responsive chord
  Had known to touch with sweet and winning words,
  By graceful mien, and giant strength of mind.
  Unblest he was with Mammon's glittering hoard--
  In nothing rich, save worth's neglected store;
  And yet for that, her heart with wildest joy
  Did but the closer cling unchanged to him.
  And he, with pride and pleasure took her to
  His bosom beating high; for none could know,
  And knowing not admire. But his was not
  The fervent adoration of the heart,
  In prostrate homage bowed before her shrine,
  That moved the soul of him who first essayed
  Her peerless love to win. And yet before
  Them to all seeming lay a flowery path,
  Along whose scented walks they might their way
  With noiseless step and even tenor wend.


VII.

    Once more, and only once, a change passed o'er
  My fitful dream. In sultry, southern clime,
  Again upon my vision fell the tall,
  Attenuated image of that youth,
  Whom first beneath the spreading oak I saw;
  And he was changed not less in feature than
  In heart. The glow of health had fled his cheek,
  Now haggard, swart and bronzed by burning sun.
  His eye, once bright with joyous life, had lost
  Its lustre now, and deep upon his brow
  Had care her furrows traced. His spirit too,
  So light and buoyant once, was now all bound
  And broken like the willow's drooping branch.
  But o'er his heart a yet more fearful change
  Had come. _Once_ warm and sensibly alive
  To pity's cry--e'er breathing love for all--
  _Now_ cold and seared--the living fountains of
  Its sympathy were dried--and dead it was
  To all things save the worldly schemes that fierce
  Ambition wrought. And none did know the weight
  Of anguish on its aching chords that pressed,
  Since living man no commune held with him:
  For he did spurn them as unhallowed things,
  And 'round him wrapt the cloak of selfishness:
  For what was now the world to him, since she
  Whose presence had made all things beautiful,
  Was lost, forever lost? And he did look
  Unmoved on fairest form, and brightest eye;
  Unmoved he heard full many a voice attuned
  In sweet accordance with the soft piano;
  For mute were all the echoes of his soul,
  Since never could he hope again such pure,
  Such bright, such dazzling purity to find,
  As dwelt within the heart of her he loved.
  And naught the slumbering powers of his mind
  Did rouse and prompt to grapple with the herd
  That crossed his path, save only the desire
  To banish thought and leave a name behind.
  For he did feel that none would glory in
  His present fame, and that he was a lone
  And desert being--all forgetting, and
  By all forgot. And though his soul did thirst
  At honor's fount to drink and laurels win,
  He inly scorned the world--the world's acclaim--
  And whilst it flattered, loathed its fulsome praise.
  And yet unto all outward seeming was
  His spirit calm as ocean's waves, when lie
  The winds of Heaven upon her bosom hushed.

    Here ceased my dream--for on my slumbers broke
  The glare of day, and called my spirit home.

SYLVESTER.




MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE.

[_From 'The Gift,' edited by Miss Leslie_.]

BY EDGAR A. POE.

  A wet sheet and a flowing sea.
                         _Cunningham_.


Of my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and 
length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the 
other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, 
and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores 
which early study very diligently garnered up. Beyond all things the 
works of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any 
ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease 
with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their 
falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity of my 
genius--a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a 
crime--and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me 
notorious. Indeed a strong relish for Physical Philosophy has, I fear, 
tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age--I mean the 
habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such 
reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no 
person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the severe 
precincts of truth by the _ignes fatui_ of superstition. I have 
thought proper to premise thus much lest the incredible tale I have to 
tell should be considered rather the ravings of a crude imagination, 
than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy 
have been a dead letter and a nullity.

After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18--, 
from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on 
a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I went as 
passenger--having no other inducement than a kind of nervous 
restlessness which haunted me like a fiend.

Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, 
copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was 
freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands. We had 
also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of 
opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently 
crank.

{34} We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days 
stood along the eastern coast of Java without any other incident to 
beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting with 
some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were bound.

One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very singular, 
isolated cloud, to the N. W. It was remarkable, as well for its color, 
as from its being the first we had seen since our departure from 
Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset, when it spread all at 
once to the Eastward and Westward, girting in the horizon with a 
narrow strip of vapor, and looking like a long line of low beach. My 
notice was soon afterwards attracted by the dusky red appearance of 
the moon, and the peculiar character of the sea. The latter was 
undergoing a rapid change, and the water seemed more than usually 
transparent. Although I could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving 
the lead, I found the ship in fifteen fathoms. The air now became 
intolerably hot, and was loaded with spiral exhalations similar to 
those arising from heated iron. As night came on, every breath of wind 
died away, and a more entire calm it is impossible to conceive. The 
flame of a candle burned upon the poop without the least perceptible 
motion, and a long hair, held between the finger and thumb, hung 
without the possibility of detecting a vibration. However, as the 
captain said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were 
drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled, and 
the anchor let go. No watch was set, and the crew, consisting 
principally of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon deck. I 
went below--not without a full presentiment of evil. Indeed every 
appearance warranted me in apprehending a Simoom. I told the captain 
my fears--but he paid no attention to what I said, and left me without 
deigning to give a reply. My uneasiness however prevented me from 
sleeping, and about midnight I went upon deck. As I placed my foot 
upon the upper step of the companion ladder, I was startled with a 
loud, humming noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolution of a 
mill-wheel, and before I could ascertain its meaning, I found the ship 
quivering to its centre. In the next instant, a wilderness of foam 
hurled us upon our beam-ends, and, rushing over us fore and aft, swept 
the entire decks from stem to stern.

The extreme fury of the blast proved in a great measure the salvation 
of the ship. Although completely water-logged, yet, as all her masts 
had gone by the board, she rose, after a minute, heavily from the sea, 
and, staggering awhile beneath the immense pressure of the tempest, 
finally righted.

By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say. 
Stunned by the shock of the water, I found myself upon recovery, 
jammed in between the stern-post and rudder. With great difficulty I 
gained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was, at first, struck with 
the idea of our being among breakers, so terrific beyond the wildest 
imagination was the whirlpool of mountainous and foaming ocean within 
which we were engulfed. After a while, I heard the voice of an old 
Swede, who had shipped with us at the moment of our leaving port. I 
hallooed to him with all my strength, and presently he came reeling 
aft. We soon discovered that we were the sole survivors of the 
accident. All on deck, with the exception of ourselves, had been swept 
overboard, and the captain and mates must have perished as they slept, 
for the cabins were deluged with water. Without assistance, we could 
expect to do little for the security of the ship, and our exertions 
were at first paralyzed by the momentary expectation of going down. 
Our cable had, of course, parted like pack-thread, at the first breath 
of the hurricane, or we should have been instantaneously overwhelmed. 
We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the water made 
clear breaches over us. The frame-work of our stern was shattered 
excessively, and, in almost every respect, we had received 
considerable injury--but to our extreme joy we found the pumps 
unchoked, and that we had no great difficulty in keeping free. The 
main fury of the Simoom had already blown over, and we apprehended 
little danger from the violence of the wind--but we looked forward to 
its total cessation with dismay, well believing, that, in our 
shattered condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous 
swell which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no 
means likely to be soon verified. For five entire days and 
nights--during which our only subsistence was a small quantity of 
jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the forecastle--the hulk 
flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly succeeding flaws of 
wind, which, without equalling the first violence of the Simoom, were 
still more terrific than any tempest I had before encountered. Our 
course for the first four days was, with trifling variations, S. E. 
and by South; and we must have run down the coast of New Holland. On 
the fifth day the cold became extreme, although the wind had hauled 
round a point more to the Northward. The sun arose with a sickly 
yellow lustre, and clambered a very few degrees above the 
horizon--emitting no decisive light. There were no clouds whatever 
apparent, yet the wind was upon the increase, and blew with a fitful 
and unsteady fury. About noon, as nearly as we could guess, our 
attention was again arrested by the appearance of the sun. It gave out 
no light, properly so called, but a dull and sullen glow unaccompanied 
by any ray. Just before sinking within the turgid sea its central 
fires suddenly went out, as if hurriedly extinguished by some 
unaccountable power. It was a dim, silver-like rim, alone, as it 
rushed down the unfathomable ocean.

We waited in vain for the arrival of the sixth day--that day to me has 
not yet arrived--to him, never did arrive. Thenceforward we were 
enshrouded in pitchy darkness, so that we could not have seen an 
object at twenty paces from the ship. Eternal night continued to 
envelop us, all unrelieved by the phosphoric sea-brilliancy to which 
we had been accustomed in the tropics. We observed too, that, although 
the tempest continued to rage with unabated violence, there was no 
longer to be discovered the usual appearance of surf, or foam, which 
had hitherto attended us. All around was horror, and thick gloom, and 
a black sweltering desert of ebony. Superstitious terror crept by 
degrees into the spirit of the old Swede, and my own soul was wrapped 
up in silent wonder. We neglected all care of the ship, as worse than 
useless, and securing ourselves as well as possible to the stump of 
the mizen-mast, looked out bitterly into the world of ocean. We had no 
means of calculating time, nor could we form any guess of our 
situation. We were however well aware {35} of having made farther to 
the Southward than any previous navigators, and felt extreme amazement 
at not meeting with the usual impediments of ice. In the meantime 
every moment threatened to be our last--every mountainous billow 
hurried to overwhelm us. The swell surpassed any thing I had imagined 
possible, and that we were not instantly buried is a miracle. My 
companion spoke of the lightness of our cargo, and reminded me of the 
excellent qualities of our ship--but I could not help feeling the 
utter hopelessness of hope itself, and prepared myself gloomily for 
that death which I thought nothing could defer beyond an hour, as, 
with every knot of way the ship made, the swelling of the black 
stupendous seas became more dismally appalling. At times we gasped for 
breath at an elevation beyond the Albatross--at times became dizzy 
with the velocity of our descent into some watery Hell, where the air 
grew stagnant, and no sound disturbed the slumbers of the Kraken.

We were at the bottom of one of these abysses, when a quick scream 
from my companion broke fearfully upon the night. 'See! see!'--cried 
he, shrieking in my ears,--'Almighty God! see! see!' As he spoke, I 
became aware of a dull, sullen glare of light which rolled, as it 
were, down the sides of the vast chasm where we lay, and threw a 
fitful brilliancy upon our deck. Casting my eyes upwards, I beheld a 
spectacle which froze the current of my blood. At a terrific height 
directly above us, and upon the very verge of the precipitous descent, 
hovered a gigantic ship of nearly four thousand tons. Although 
upreared upon the summit of a wave of more than a hundred times her 
own altitude, her apparent size still exceeded that of any ship of the 
line or East Indiaman in existence. Her huge hull was of a deep dingy 
black, unrelieved by any of the customary carvings of a ship. A single 
row of brass cannon protruded from her open ports, and dashed off from 
their polished surfaces the fires of innumerable battle-lanterns, 
which swung to and fro about her rigging. But what mainly inspired us 
with horror and astonishment, was that she bore up under a press of 
sail in the very teeth of that supernatural sea, and of that 
ungovernable hurricane. When we first discovered her, her stupendous 
bows were alone to be seen, as she rose up, like a demon of the deep, 
slowly from the dim and horrible gulf beyond her. For a moment of 
intense terror she paused upon the giddy pinnacle, as if in 
contemplation of her own sublimity, then trembled and tottered, 
and--came down.

At this instant, I know not what sudden self-possession came over my 
spirit. Staggering as far aft as I could, I awaited fearlessly the 
ruin that was to overwhelm. Our own vessel was at length ceasing from 
her struggles, and sinking with her head to the sea. The shock of the 
descending mass struck her, consequently, in that portion of her frame 
which was already under water, and the inevitable result was to hurl 
me with irresistible violence upon the rigging of the stranger.

As I fell, the ship hove in stays, and went about, and to the 
confusion ensuing, I attributed my escape from the notice of the crew. 
With little difficulty I made my way unperceived to the main hatchway, 
which was partially open, and soon found an opportunity of secreting 
myself in the hold. Why I did so I can hardly tell. A nameless and 
indefinite sense of awe, which at first sight of the navigators of the 
ship had taken hold of my mind, was perhaps the principle of my 
concealment. I was unwilling to trust myself with a race of people who 
had offered, to the cursory glance I had taken, so many points of 
vague novelty, doubt, and apprehension. I therefore thought proper to 
contrive a hiding-place in the hold. This I did by removing a small 
portion of the shifting-boards in such a manner as to afford me a 
convenient retreat between the huge timbers of the ship.

I had scarcely completed my work, when a footstep in the hold forced 
me to make use of it. A man passed by my place of concealment with a 
feeble and unsteady gait. I could not see his face, but had an 
opportunity of observing his general appearance. There was about it an 
evidence of great age and infirmity. His knees tottered beneath a load 
of years, and his entire frame quivered under the burthen. He muttered 
to himself in a low broken tone, some words of a language which I 
could not understand, and groped in a corner among a pile of 
singular-looking instruments, and decayed charts of navigation. His 
manner was a wild mixture of the peevishness of second childhood, and 
the solemn dignity of a God. He at length went on deck, and I saw him 
no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my 
soul--a sensation which will admit of no analysis, to which the 
lessons of by-gone time are inadequate, and for which I fear futurity 
itself will offer me no key. To a mind constituted like my own the 
latter consideration is an evil. I shall never,--I know that I shall 
never--be satisfied with regard to the nature of my conceptions. Yet 
it is not wonderful that these conceptions are indefinite, since they 
have their origin in sources so utterly novel. A new sense, a new 
entity is added to my soul.

It is long since I first trod the deck of this terrible ship, and the 
rays of my destiny are, I think, gathering to a focus. 
Incomprehensible men! Wrapped up in meditations of a kind which I 
cannot divine, they pass me by unnoticed. Concealment is utter folly 
on my part, for the people _will not_ see. It was but just now that I 
passed directly before the eyes of the mate,--it was no long while ago 
that I ventured into the captain's own private cabin, and took thence 
the materials with which I write, and have written. I shall from time 
to time continue this journal. It is true that I may not find an 
opportunity of transmitting it to the world, but I will not fail to 
make the endeavor. At the last moment I will enclose the MS. in a 
bottle, and cast it within the sea.

An incident has occurred which has given me new room for meditation. 
Are such things the operations of ungoverned Chance? I had ventured 
upon deck and thrown myself down, without attracting any notice, among 
a pile of ratlin-stuff and old sails in the bottom of the yawl. While 
musing upon the singularity of my fate, I unwittingly daubed with a 
tar-brush the edges of a neatly-folded studding-sail which lay near me 
on a barrel. The studding-sail is now bent upon the ship, and the 
thoughtless touches of the brush are spread out into the word 
DISCOVERY.

I have made many observations lately upon the structure of the vessel. 
Although well armed, she is not, I think, a ship of war. Her rigging, 
build, and general equipment, all negative a supposition of this kind. 
{36} What she _is not_ I can easily perceive, what she _is_ I fear it 
is impossible to say. I know not how it is, but in scrutinizing her 
strange model and singular cast of spars, her huge size and overgrown 
suits of canvass, her severely simple bow and antiquated stern, there 
will occasionally flash across my mind a sensation of familiar things, 
and there is always mixed up with such shadows, as it were, of 
recollection, an unaccountable memory of old foreign chronicles and 
ages long ago.

I have been looking at the timbers of the ship. She is built of a 
material to which I am a stranger. There is a peculiar character about 
the wood which strikes me as rendering it unfit for the purpose to 
which it has been applied. I mean its extreme _porousness_, considered 
independently of the worm-eaten condition which is a consequence of 
navigation in these seas, and apart from the rottenness attendant upon 
age. It will appear perhaps an observation somewhat over-curious, but 
this wood has every characteristic of Spanish oak, _if Spanish oak 
were distended or swelled by any unnatural means_.

In reading the above sentence a curious apothegm of an old 
weather-beaten Dutch navigator comes full upon my recollection. 'It is 
as sure,' he was wont to say, when any doubt was entertained of his 
veracity, 'as sure as there is a sea where the ship itself will grow 
in bulk like the living body of the seaman.'

About an hour ago I made bold to thrust myself among a group of the 
crew. They paid me no manner of attention, and, although I stood in 
the very midst of them all, seemed utterly unconscious of my presence. 
Like the one I had at first seen in the hold, they all bore about them 
the marks of a hoary old age. Their knees trembled with infirmity, 
their shoulders were bent double with decrepitude, their shrivelled 
skins rattled in the wind, their voices were low, tremulous, and 
broken, their eyes glistened with the rheum of years, and their gray 
hairs streamed terribly in the tempest. Around them on every part of 
the deck lay scattered mathematical instruments of the most quaint and 
obsolete construction.

I mentioned some time ago the bending of a studding-sail. From that 
period the ship, being thrown dead off the wind, has held her terrific 
course due South, with every rag of canvass packed upon her from her 
trucks to her lower-studding-sail booms, and rolling every moment her 
top-gallant yard-arms into the most appalling hell of water, which it 
can enter into the mind of man to imagine. I have just left the deck, 
where I find it impossible to maintain a footing, although the crew 
seem to experience little inconvenience. It appears to me a miracle of 
miracles that our enormous bulk is not buried up at once and forever. 
We are surely doomed to hover continually upon the brink of Eternity, 
without taking a final plunge into the abyss. From billows a thousand 
times more stupendous than any I have ever seen, we glide away with 
the facility of the arrowy sea-gull, and the colossal waters rear 
their heads above us like demons of the deep, but like demons confined 
to simple threats and forbidden to destroy. I am led to attribute 
these frequent escapes to the only natural cause which can account for 
such effect. I must suppose the ship to be within the influence of 
some strong current, or impetuous under-tow.

I have seen the captain face to face, and in his own cabin--but, as I 
expected, he paid me no attention. Although in his appearance there 
is, to a casual observer, nothing which might bespeak him more or less 
than man--still a feeling of irrepressible reverence and awe mingled 
with the sensation of wonder with which I regarded him. In stature he 
is nearly my own height, that is, about five feet eight inches. He is 
of a well-knit and compact frame of body, neither robust nor 
remarkably otherwise. But it is the singularity of the expression 
which reigns upon the face, it is the intense, the wonderful, the 
thrilling evidence of old age so utter, so extreme, which strikes upon 
my soul with the shock of a Galvanic battery. His forehead, although 
little wrinkled, seems to bear upon it the stamp of a myriad of years. 
His gray hairs are records of the past, and his grayer eyes are Sybils 
of the future. The cabin floor was thickly strewn with strange, 
iron-clasped folios, and mouldering instruments of science, and 
obsolete, long-forgotten charts. His head was bowed down upon his 
hands, and he pored with a fiery unquiet eye over a paper which I took 
to be a commission, and which, at all events, bore the signature of a 
monarch. He muttered to himself, as did the first seaman whom I saw in 
the hold, some low, peevish syllables of a foreign tongue, and 
although the speaker was close at my elbow, yet his voice seemed to 
reach my ears from the distance of a mile.

The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The crew 
glide to and fro like the ghosts of buried centuries, their eyes have 
an eager and uneasy meaning, and when their figures fall athwart my 
path in the wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I feel as I have never 
felt before, although I have been all my life a dealer in antiquities, 
and have imbibed the shadows of fallen columns at Balbec, and Tadmor, 
and Persepolis, until my very soul has become a ruin.

When I look around me I feel ashamed of my former apprehensions. If I 
trembled at the blast which has hitherto attended us, shall I not 
stand aghast at a warring of wind and ocean, to convey any idea of 
which the words tornado and Simoom are trivial and ineffective! All in 
the immediate vicinity of the ship is the blackness of eternal night, 
and a chaos of foamless water; but, about a league on either side of 
us, may be seen, indistinctly and at intervals, stupendous ramparts of 
ice, towering away into the desolate sky, and looking like the walls 
of the Universe.

As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current, if that appellation 
can properly be given to a tide which, howling and shrieking by the 
white ice, thunders on to the Southward with a velocity like the 
headlong dashing of a cataract.

To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly 
impossible--yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these awful 
regions predominates even over my despair, and will reconcile me to 
the most hideous aspect of death. It is evident that we are hurrying 
onwards to some exciting knowledge--some never-to-be-imparted secret, 
whose attainment is destruction. Perhaps this current leads us to the 
Southern Pole itself--it must be confessed that a supposition 
apparently so wild has every probability in its favor.

The crew pace the deck with unquiet and tremulous step, but there is 
upon their countenances an expression more of the eagerness of hope 
than of the apathy of despair.

{37} In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and as we carry a 
crowd of canvass, the ship is at times lifted bodily from out the 
sea--Oh, horror upon horror! the ice opens suddenly to the right, and 
to the left, and we are whirling dizzily in immense concentric 
circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic amphitheatre, the 
summit of whose walls is lost in the darkness and the distance. But 
little time will be left me to ponder upon my destiny--the circles 
rapidly grow small--we are plunging madly within the grasp of the 
whirlpool--and amid a roaring, and bellowing, and shrieking of ocean 
and of tempest, the ship is quivering, oh God! and--going down.




A SKETCH.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.


    The shades of night are fleeing fast away
    Before the blushing of the morning light;
    The diamond stars that gleamed in bright array
    Through the lone watches of the silent night,
    Are fading dimly, as an orb more bright,
    The glorious sun, from the deep coral caves,
    Comes leaping forth in swift and tireless flight,
    And as the sea his burning bosom laves,
  More brightly throws his glance across the bounding waves.

    The cheerful songsters of the verdant grove,
    Are trilling forth their merry morning lays--
    Their matin songs of warm impassioned love,
    Which sweetly strike the ear of him who strays
    Through the green paths and shady woodland ways,
    Drinking deep pleasure from old Nature's wells,
    Where the wild cat'ract in the sunlight plays,
    Or seated lone, mid dark and mossy dells--
  Or on some rocky mount yields to her magic spells.

    The red-breast, mounted on some tow'ring tree,
    Is chanting loud his merry, mirthful strain;
    And the sweet lark's melodious notes of glee,
    Are softly floating o'er the dewy plain.
    From the broad fields which wave with golden grain,
    Echoes the whistle of the timid quail;
    And the loud laughter of the reaper train
    Sweeps wildly by, borne on the passing gale
  O'er woodland hill afar, and flowery-vested vale.

    I hear the tuneful sound of humming bees,
    And gently blows the soothing summer wind
    With murmuring sound among the wavy trees,
    And where gay flowers, in wild luxuriance twined,
    Shed fragrance on its wings. How dull, how blind
    To nature and her charms is he who sleeps
    Through the glad morn, nor feels the fragrant wind
    That o'er the hills and verdant valleys sweeps,
  'Till with wild joy the heart of Nature's lover leaps!

    O'er hill and valley far away I've strayed,
    And gathered roses wet with morning dew,
    To deck the grave where sleeps a gentle maid
    Whose tender heart no change nor coldness knew,
    But throbbed with love, which warmer, holier grew
    As waxed more dim life's faint and flickering light,
    And to the close remained unchanged and true--
    A holy flame that burned, amid the blight,
  Of fell disease and anguish, more divinely bright.

    The sun climbs higher in the azure sky--
    More fiercely on the earth descend his beams--
    The tender flowers hang low their heads and die,
    And wearied cattle seek the cooling streams.
    Faint grow the ploughmen and their toil-worn teams;
    The reapers too have ceased their strains of mirth;
    No more the air with sounds of pleasure teems;
    And now the shadows traced upon the earth,
  And the fierce heat, proclaim the sultry noon-day's birth.

    O'er the wide fields the herds have ceased to rove,
    The tuneful birds have hushed their morning song,
    Silent and lone is the deserted grove
    Which late re-echoed to the warbling throng.
    Hark! hark! I hear, sounding the vales along,
    The mellow horn--the pleasant sound which calls
    From the hot fields, the wearied harvest throng
    To seek, where the old oak tree's shadow falls,
  Their noon-day meal hard by the flowery cottage walls.

    Within a green and trellised bower I lie,
    Securely sheltered from the solar rays,
    And on the bright and glowing summer sky
    In contemplation rapt, I fix my gaze,
    And scan each fleecy cloud which slowly strays
    Like some pure spirit o'er the azure dome,
    Making amid its wild and trackless ways,
    Its boundless depths, a bright ethereal home
  Where lone and airy forms in silent grandeur roam.

    And here at noon-day hour I often dream
    Of the fair hopes which light life's gloomy waste--
    A desart plain o'er which a laughing stream,
    Has found a way, its banks with wild flowers graced.
    But ah! alas! when the fair stream is traced,
    Amid lone sands we find its darksome goal.
    O dreary life! in death's cold grasp embraced--
    A withered thing, a dark and blotted scroll,
  O'er which oblivion's deep and sluggish waters roll.

    In early youth upon the sea of life,
    We spread our sails, nor dream of pain nor care,
    Nor the fierce tempest, nor the raging strife
    Which gathers round our bark where'er we steer,
    But on we rush, heedless and without fear,
    Till, shipwrecked all our hopes, we helpless lie
    And feel the bitter pangs of black despair--
    Or from the demon strive in vain to fly,
  Or rush into the arms of Death and madly die.

    The sun is sinking down the western skies--
    A holy calm is reigning o'er the earth--
    From the green valleys cheerful sounds arise--
    The tinkling sheep-bell, and the merry mirth
    Of happy children--laughing at the birth
    Of some new pleasure. Now the setting sun,
    More brightly gleaming o'er the virent earth,
    Casts a rich glow of golden light upon
  The fleecy clouds, which line the western horizon.

    Along yon valley where (a silent grove!)
    Those dark green pines in loneliness arise;
    With a sad heart in solitude I'll rove,
    And darkly muse upon the broken ties  {38}
    Of happier days--the bright and smiling eyes,
    Whose gentle light gave life a summer bloom,
    And made this earth seem like a Paradise--
    Now cold and rayless in the starless gloom,
  Which darkly hovers o'er and shrouds the loathsome tomb.

    The twilight shades are gathering o'er the land--
    Shrouding the valleys in the gloom of night,
    While I beside a murmuring streamlet stand,
    And see depart the last faint rays of light
    Which linger round yon mountain's topmost height.
    'Tis the lone night--another day has gone,
    And Time who speeds with never tiring flight,
    Beheld a thousand laughing eyes this morn,
  That now are sleeping where no day shall ever dawn.




GREEK SONG.


The exploit of Harmodius and Aristogiton, in slaying Hipparchus, 
tyrant of Athens, on the festal day of Minerva--hiding their poniards 
in myrtle wreaths, which they pretended to carry in honor of the 
Goddess, was celebrated in an Ode, the unsurpassed strength and beauty 
of which, it has utterly baffled the skill of all English versifiers 
to transfuse into our language. The learned are not agreed as to the 
author of this noble specimen of classic minstrelsy; though by most, 
it is ascribed to Callistratus. Some have set it down to Alcæus; 
misled, perhaps, by the tyrant-hating spirit it breathes,--so fully in 
unison with the deep, trumpet tones of his "golden lyre." Unhappily 
for the paternity of this ode, he died _eighty years_ before the event 
it celebrates. Of no other relic of antiquity, probably, have so many 
translations been attempted. I have seen seven or eight. If the 
following be added to so many woful failures, the author will not be 
greatly troubled. It never was in print before--I believe.

HYMN,

IN HONOR OF HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGITON.

  [En myrtou kladi to Chiphos phorêsô
   Ôsper Armodios k' Aristogeitôn, &c.]


TRANSLATION.

  Wreath'd in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,
    Like those champions, devoted and brave,
  When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
    And to Athens deliverance gave.

  Belov'd heroes! your deathless souls roam,
    In the joy-breathing isles of the blest;
  Where the mighty of old have their home--
    Where Achilles and Diomed rest.

  In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
    Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
  When he made, at the tutelar shrine,
    A libation of Tyranny's blood.

  Ye deliverers of Athens from shame--
    Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
  Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
    Embalmed in their echoing songs.

Amongst other translations of this exquisite ode, is one by _Charles 
Abraham Elton_, a translator of Hesiod, and of several other Grecian 
poems; all of which are in a London edition of two elegant 8vo. 
volumes. The first stanza of his version is as follows:

  "In myrtle veiled will I my falchion wear;
     For thus the patriot sword
   Harmodius and Aristogeiton bare,
     When they the tyrant's bosom gored,
   And bade the men of Athens be
   Regenerate in equality."

It is a proof of the fairness with which Mr. Elton has aimed at a 
literal rendering of his author, that he has made even the name of 
ARISTOGEITON retain its place; as inharmonious a one, perhaps, as ever 
"filled the trump of future fame." In the Edinburgh Review for 
January, 1833, we find a translation of considerable merit, in the 
stanza of "Bruce's Address:" less literal than Mr. Elton's, yet more 
brief and simple, and partaking more of the thrilling energy of the 
original. In its arrangement, the edition of Ilgen is followed. It is 
due to the author of the foregoing translation to say, that it was 
written long before the year in which this one was published; and 
before he had seen the seven or eight others above mentioned.

  "Wreathed with myrtles be my glaive,[1]
   Like the falchion of the brave,
   Death to Athens' lord that gave,
                   Death to Tyranny!

   Yes! let myrtle wreaths be round,
   Such as then the falchion bound,
   When with deeds the feast was crown'd,
                   Done for Liberty!

   Voiced by Fame eternally,
   Noble pair! your names shall be,
   For the stroke that made us free,
                   When the tyrant fell!

   Death, Harmodius! came not near thee,
   Isles of bliss and brightness cheer thee,
   There heroic breasts revere thee,
                   There the mighty dwell!"

[Footnote 1: Sword.]

P.




SONNET.

  O fairest flow'r; no sooner blown than blasted,
  Soft silken primrose faded timelessly.--_Milton_.


  It was an infant dying! and I stood
  Watching beside its couch, to mark how Death,
  His hour being come, would steal away the breath
  Of one so young, so innocent, so good.
  Friends also waited near--and now the blood
  'Gan leave the tender cheek, and the dark eye
  To lose its wonted lustre. Suddenly
  Slight tremblings o'er him came; anon, subdued
  To utter passiveness, the sufferer lay,
  Far, far more beautiful in his decay
  Than e'er methought before! I held his hand
  Fast lock'd in mine, and felt more feebly flow
  The pulse already faint and fluttering. Lo!
  It ceased; I turn'd, and bow'd to God's command.[1]

[Footnote 1: Samuel II. Chap. xii.--22, 23.]

* * *


{39}


SPECIMENS OF LOVELETTERS

IN THE REIGN OF EDWARD IV.

From the second volume of a Collection of Original Letters written 
during the reigns of Henry VI, Edward IV, and Richard III. By John 
Fenn, Esq., M.A. and F. R. S.


I.

Right reverend and worshipful, and my right well beloved Valentine, I 
recommend me unto you, full heartilie desiring to hear of your 
welfare, which I beseech Almighty God long for to preserve unto his 
pleasure, and your heart's desire.

And if it please you to hear of my welfare, I am not in good heele 
(_health_) of bodie, nor of heart, nor shall be till I hear from you

  For there wottes (_knows_) no creature that pain I endure
  And for to be dead (_for my life_), I dare it not discur
                                                         (_discover_)

And my lady my mother hath labored the matter to my father full 
diligently, but she can no more get than ye know of, for the which God 
knoweth I am full sorry. But if that ye love me, as I trust verily 
that ye do, ye will not leave me therefore; for if that ye had not 
half the livelihood that ye have, for to do the greatest labour that 
any woman alive might, I would not forsake you.

  And if ye command me to keep me true wherever I go,
  I wis I will do all my might you to love, and never no mo,
  And if my friends say, that I do amiss
  They shall not me let (_hinder_) so for to do,
  Mine heart me bids ever more to love you--
  Truly over all earthlie thing
  And if they be never so wrath
  I trust it shall be better in time coming

No more to you at this time, but the Holy Trinity have you in keeping; 
and I beseech you that this bill be not seen of none earthlie creature 
save only yourself.

And this letter was endited at Topcroft, with full heavy heart &c.

  By your own
    MARGERY BREWS.


II.

Right worshipful and well beloved Valentine, in my most humble wise, I 
recommend me unto you &c.

And heartilie I thank you for the letter, which that ye send me by 
John Beckerton, whereby I understand and know that ye be purposed to 
come to Topcroft in short time, and without any errand or matter, but 
only to have a conclusion of the matter betwixt my father and you; I 
would be the most glad of any creature alive, so that the matter might 
grow to effect. And thereas (_whereas_) ye say, an (_if_) ye come and 
find the matter no more towards you than ye did aforetime, ye would no 
more put my father and my lady my mother to no cost nor business for 
that cause a good while after, which causeth my heart to be full 
heavie; and if that ye come, and the matter take to none effect, then 
should I be much more sorry, and full of heaviness.

And as for myself I have done, and understand in the matter that I can 
or may, as God knoweth; and I let you plainly understand, that my 
father will no more money part withal in that behalf, but an 100_l_. 
and 50 marks (33_l_. 6_s_. 8_d_.) which is right far from the 
accomplishment of your desire.

Wherefore, if that ye could be content with that good, and my poor 
person, I would be the merriest maiden on ground; and if ye think not 
yourself so satisfyed, or that ye might have much more good, as I have 
understood by you afore; good, true, and loving Valentine, that ye 
take no such labor upon you, as to come more for that matter, but let 
what is, pass and never more be spoken of, as I may be your true lover 
and beadwoman during my life.

No more unto you at this time, but Almighty Jesu preserve you both 
bodie and soul &c.

  By your Valentine
    MARGERY BREWS.

Topcroft 1476.7.




MARCELIA.

        Then she is drown'd?
  --------Drown'd--Drown'd.
  Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia!
  And therefore I forbid my tears.--_Hamlet_.


              It was a solitary spot!--
  The shallow brook that ran throughout the forest,
  (Aye chattering as it went,) there took a turn
  And widened;--all its music died away,
  And in the place, a silent eddy told
  That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees
  Funereal (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine,
  And spicy cedar,) cluster'd; and at night
  Shook from their melancholy branches sounds
  And sighs like death!--'Twas strange, for thro' the day
  They stood quite motionless, and looked, methought,
  Like monumental things, which the sad earth
  From its green bosom had cast out in pity,
  To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves
  Disown'd their natural green, and took a black
  And mournful hue: and the rough brier had stretch'd
  His straggling arms across the water, and
  Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching
  With his tenacious leaf, straws, wither'd boughs,
  Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which
  Swam with the current--and with these it hid
  The poor Marcelia's death-bed!
                                 Never may net
  Of vent'rous fisher be cast in with hope,
  For not a fish abides there. The slim deer
  Snorts, as he ruffles with his shorten'd breath
  The brook, and, panting, flies th' unholy place--
  And the wild heifer lows and passes on;
  The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds
  Go higher up the stream. And yet _I_ love
  To loiter there; and when the rising moon
  Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks
  Red and dilated through the evening mists,
  And chequer'd as the heavy branches sway
  To and fro with the wind, I listen, and
  Can fancy to myself that voices there
  Plain, and low prayers come moaning thro' the leaves
  For some misdeed!
                    The story goes, that a
  Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world
  Frown'd upon,) once strayed thither, and 'twas thought
  Did cast her in the stream. You may have heard
  Of one Marcelia, poor Molini's daughter, who
  Fell ill, and came to want in youth? No?--Oh!
  She loved a man who marked her not. He wed,
  And then the girl grew sick, and pin'd away,
  And drown'd herself for love!--Some day or other
  I'll tell you all the story.

* * *


{40}


TO MIRA.

BY L. A. WILMER.


    Far from the gaudy scenes my earliest youth
    Loved to inhabit, which Hope's rising sun
    Lent every grace and charm--save that of Truth,
    And made me happy but to be undone,
    (My joys expectant blasted ere begun,)
    Far from those pleasing scenes 'tis mine to roam.
    Friendless, forlorn, my idle course I run,
    While Disappointment, a malignant gnome,
  Still tortures, and the grave appears my happiest home.

    Ere yet I bid a long, a last farewell
    To the sweet Muse, reluctant to forego
    The sacred solace and enchanting spell
    Which charm'd my solitude, and sooth'd my woe--
    Ere I renounce my harp, and cease to know
    The poet's rapture, when his eye surveys
    The heavenly visions fancy doth bestow,
    On which her favored sons alone may gaze,
  Once more I lift my voice to sing in Mira's praise.

    While sickly flattery heaps the unhallowed shrine
    Of pomp and pride with praise that palls the sense,
    Let spotless candor, Heaven-born truth be mine:
    Base are the praises sold at truth's expense:
    Mira! thy name all falsehood drives from hence!
    Accept this tribute due to worth like thine--
    Accept this offering of a heart from whence
    No guile shall rise to taint this verse of mine,
  But friendship's holy signet sanctify each line.

    O might I deem my verse could live beyond
    The petty confines of the dreary tomb--
    Might I believe my wishes not too fond,
    That point to fame beyond the eternal gloom--
    When this frail form shall in the grave consume,
    That future ages shall my works behold--
    Then, Mira, on this page thy name's perfume
    Should breathe a fragrance, when the hand is cold
  And crumbled into dust which here that name enrolled.

    As long as years revolved, and seasons came,
    Tho' other flowers should fade away and die,
    An ever-blooming flower should be thy name,
    Dipped in the radiance of the evening sky:
    When marble monuments in ruins lie,
    And sculptured pillars from their bases fall,
    Could I but place fair Mira's name on high
    In Fame's eternal, adamantine hall,
  Then would my lot be blessed, my hopes accomplished all.

    Tho' placed by Fate in this ungenial clime,
    Where scarce the sacred Muse hath deigned to tread--
    These Western lands, where Song appears a crime,
    And Genius rears a sad and sickly head--
    And tho' malignant stars their influence shed--
    Yet might I boast thy friendship, I would bend
    No more when black misfortunes round me spread;
    But my last breath in thankfulness would send,
  And tell to future times thou wast my only friend.

    I have seen womankind in all their charms--
    Yea! all that beauty, wealth, and wit bestow--
    With all that strikes the eye, or fancy warms,
    In festal halls, where gold and diamonds glow,
    And gay costumes that mock the painted bow
    Of Iris hanging on Heaven's battlements:
    Yet not all these could bid my bosom know
    Such admiration, or such joys dispense,
  As when the maiden smiled in heavenly innocence.

    Then, Mira, not to pride my harp is strung--
    Not to the measures of the giddy dance--
    The boasted beauty shall remain unsung,
    For I, unmoved, can meet her fatal glance.
    Not in the fairy regions of romance
    My footsteps stray--but _Truth_ directs my song:
    To _Truth's_ eternal portals I advance,
    Deserted by the rhyming crew so long,
  And Virtue, Worth, and Thou shall still employ my tongue.

    With thee, sweet Modesty and Truth reside--
    Sincerity from courts and crowds exiled--
    Virtue, that shuns the haughty brow of Pride--
    And Charity, Heaven's first-born, favorite child,--
    As if the skies upon thy birth had smiled,
    And given thee all to make a woman dear.
    Yes! thou couldst humanize the savage wild,
    Make tigers pause thy soothing voice to hear,
  Melt marble hearts, and smooth the brow of cankering care.

    When the last echoes of my harp expire,
    In mournful breathings on Patapsco's shore--
    When the unpractised hand that struck the wire,
    Shall wake those wild and artless notes no more--
    When the green meadow and the torrent's roar--
    The woody walk, so long my dear delight,
    With all that charmed my fancy most before--
    When Death shall veil these objects from my sight,
  O say, wilt thou my name in thy remembrance write?

    Then let the world its malice all combine--
    Its hate I reck not, and its wrongs despise:
    A bliss they dream not of shall still be mine--
    A bliss untold, yet worthy of the skies,
    Which all their curs'd malevolence defies.
    Even in the anguish of the mortal hour,
    My soul superior to the gloom shall rise,
    And smile on Death when all his terrors lower,
  And the grim tyrant stalks full panoplied in power.




STANZAS.


  Oh! never, never, until now,
    Seem'd happiness so near me--
  Hope never wore a brighter brow
    To flatter or to cheer me:
  Yet while I listen to her voice,
    Sad memory is chiding--
  And I must tremble to rejoice,
    And weep while I'm confiding.

  I thought my spirit had grown old,
    While counting years by sorrow,
  And that the future could unfold
    For me no happier morrow;
  But ah! I find myself a child
    Of newly waken'd feeling,
  As full of dreams, as bright and wild,
    As fancy's first revealing.

LEILA.


{41}


_Critical Notices_.


THE HEROINE.

_The Heroine: or Adventures of Cherubina. By Eaton Stannard Barrett, 
Esq. New Edition. Richmond: Published by P. D. Bernard._

Cherubina! Who has not heard of Cherubina? Who has not heard of that 
most spiritual, that most ill-treated, that most accomplished of 
women--of that most consummate, most sublimated, most fantastic, most 
unappreciated, and most inappreciable of heroines? Exquisite and 
delicate creation of a mind overflowing with fun, frolic, farce, wit, 
humor, song, sentiment, and sense, what mortal is there so dead to 
every thing graceful and glorious as not to have devoured thy 
adventures? Who is there so unfortunate as not to have taken thee by 
the hand?--who so lost as not to have cultivated thy 
acquaintance?--who so stupid, as not to have enjoyed thy 
companionship?--who so much of a log, as not to have laughed until he 
has wept for very laughter in the perusal of thine incomparable, 
inimitable, and inestimable eccentricities? But we are becoming 
pathetic to no purpose, and supererogatively oratorical. _Every body_ 
has read Cherubina. There is no one so superlatively unhappy as not to 
have done this thing. But if such there be--if by any possibility such 
person should exist, we have only a few words to say to him. Go, silly 
man, and purchase forthwith "_The Heroine: or Adventures of 
Cherubina_."

The Heroine was first published many years ago, (we believe shortly 
after the appearance of Childe Harold;) but although it has run 
through editions innumerable, and has been universally read and 
admired by all possessing talent or taste, it has never, in our 
opinion, attracted half that notice on the part of the critical press, 
which is undoubtedly its due. There are few books written with more 
tact, spirit, _näïveté_, or grace, few which take hold more 
irresistibly upon the attention of the reader, and none more fairly 
entitled to rank among the classics of English literature than the 
Heroine of Eaton Stannard Barrett. When we say all this of a book 
possessing not even the remotest claim to originality, either in 
conception or execution, it may reasonably be supposed, that we have 
discovered in its matter, or manner, some rare qualities, inducing us 
to hazard an assertion of so bold a nature. This is actually the case. 
Never was any thing so charmingly written: the mere style is 
positively inimitable. Imagination, too, of the most etherial kind, 
sparkles and blazes, now sportively like the Will O' the Wisp, now 
dazzlingly like the Aurora Borealis, over every page--over every 
sentence in the book. It is absolutely radiant with fancy, and that of 
a nature the most captivating, although, at the same time, the most 
airy, the most capricious, and the most intangible. Yet the Heroine 
must be considered a mere burlesque; and, being a copy from Don 
Quixotte, is to that immortal work of Cervantes what _The School for 
Scandal_ is to _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. The Plot is briefly as 
follows.

Gregory Wilkinson, an English farmer worth 50,000 pounds, has a pretty 
daughter called Cherry, whose head is somewhat disordered from romance 
reading. Her governess is but little more rational than herself, and 
is one day turned out of the house for allowing certain undue 
liberties on the part of the butler. In revenge she commences a 
correspondence with Miss Cherry, in which she persuades that young 
lady that Wilkinson is not her real father--that she is a child of 
mystery, &c.--in short that she is actually and _bonâ fide_ a heroine. 
In the meantime, Miss Cherry, in rummaging among her father's papers, 
comes across an antique parchment--a lease of lives--on which the 
following words are alone legible.

  This Indenture
  For and in consideration of
  Doth grant, bargain, release
  Possession, and to his heirs and assigns
  Lands of Sylvan Lodge, in the
  Trees, stones, quarries, &c.
  Reasonable amends and satisfaction
  This demise
  Molestation of him the said Gregory Wilkinson.
  The natural life of
  Cherry Wilkinson only daughter of
  De Willoughby eldest son of Thomas
  Lady Gwyn of Gwyn Castle.

This "excruciating MS." brings matters to a crisis--for Miss Cherry 
has no difficulty in filling up the blanks.

"It is a written covenant," says this interesting young lady in a 
letter to her Governess, "between this Gregory Wilkinson, and the 
miscreant (whom my being an heiress had prevented from enjoying the 
title and estate that would devolve to him at my death) stipulating to 
give Wilkinson 'Sylvan Lodge,' together with 'trees, stones, &c.' as 
'reasonable amends and satisfaction' for being the instrument of my 
'demise,' and declaring that there shall be 'no molestation of him the 
said Gregory Wilkinson' for taking away the 'natural life of Cherry 
Wilkinson, only daughter of' ---- somebody 'De Willoughby eldest son 
of Thomas.' Then follows 'Lady Gwyn of Gwyn Castle.' So that it is 
evident I am a De Willoughby, and related to Lady Gwyn! What perfectly 
confirms me in the latter supposition, is an old portrait which I 
found soon after, among Wilkinson's papers, representing a young and 
beautiful female superbly dressed; and underneath, in large letters, 
the name of 'Nell Gwyn.'"

Fired with this idea, Miss Cherry gets up a scene, rushes with hair 
dishevelled into the presence of the good man Wilkinson, and accuses 
him to his teeth of plotting against her life, and of sundry other 
mal-practices and misdemeanors. The worthy old gentleman is 
astonished, as well he may be; but is somewhat consoled upon receiving 
a letter from his nephew, Robert Stuart, announcing his intention of 
paying the family a visit immediately. Wilkinson is in hopes that a 
lover may change the current of his daughter's ideas; but in that he 
is mistaken. Stuart has the misfortune of being merely a rich man, a 
handsome man, an honest man, and a fashionable man--he is no hero. 
This is not to be borne: and Miss Cherry, having assumed the name of 
the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby, makes a precipitate retreat from the 
house, and commences a journey on foot to London. Her adventures here 
properly begin, and are laughable in the extreme. But we must not be 
too minute. They are modelled very much after those of Don Quixotte, 
and are related in a series of letters from the young lady herself to 
her governess. The principal characters who figure in the Memoirs are 
Betterton, an old _debauché_ who endeavors to entangle the Lady 
Cherubina in his {42} toils--Jerry Sullivan, an Irish simpleton, who 
is ready to lose his life at any moment for her ladyship, whose story 
he implicitly believes, without exactly comprehending it--Higginson, a 
grown baby, and a mad poet--Lady Gwyn, whom Cherubina believes to be 
her mortal enemy, and the usurper of her rights, and who encourages 
the delusion for the purpose of entertaining her guests--Mary and 
William, two peasants betrothed, but whom Cherry sets by the ears for 
the sake of an interesting episode--Abraham Grundy, a tenth rate 
performer at Covent Garden, who having been mistaken by Cherry for an 
earl, supports the character _à merveille_ with the hope of eventually 
marrying her, and thus securing 10,000 pounds, a sum which it appears 
the lady possesses in her own right. He calls himself the Lord 
Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci. Stuart, her cousin, whom we have 
mentioned before, finally rescues her from the toils of Betterton and 
Grundy, and restores her to reason, and to her friends. Of course he 
is rewarded with her hand.

We repeat that Cherubina is a book which should be upon the shelves of 
every well-appointed library. No one can read it without entertaining 
a high opinion of the varied and brilliant talents of its author. No 
one can read it without laughter. Its wit, especially, and its humor, 
are indisputable--not frittered and refined away into that insipid 
compound which we occasionally meet with, half giggle and half 
sentiment--but racy, dashing, and palpable. Some of the songs with 
which the work is interspersed have attained a most extensive 
popularity, while many persons, to whom they are as familiar as 
household things, are not aware of the very existence of the Heroine. 
All our readers must remember the following.

  Dear Sensibility, O la!
  I heard a little lamb cry ba!
  Says I, so you have lost mamma!
                            Ah!

  The little lamb as I said so,
  Frisking about the fields did go,
  And frisking trod upon my toe.
                            Oh!

And this also.

TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFT.

  If Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ran
  One tide of ink to Ispahan;
  If all the geese in Lincoln fens
  Produced spontaneous well-made pens;
  If Holland old or Holland new,
  One wondrous sheet of paper grew;
  Could I, by stenographic power,
  Write twenty libraries an hour;
  And should I sing but half the grace
  Of half a freckle on thy face;
  Each syllable I wrote should reach
  From Inverness to Bognor's beach;
  Each hair-stroke be a river Rhine,
  Each verse an equinoctial line.

We have already exceeded our limits, but cannot refrain from 
extracting Chapter XXV. It will convey some idea of the character of 
the Heroine. She is now at the mansion of Lady Gwyn, who, for the 
purpose of amusing her friends, has dressed up her nephew to represent 
the supposed mother of the Lady Cherubina.

CHAPTER XXV.

This morning I awoke almost well, and towards evening was able to 
appear below. Lady Gwyn had invited several of her friends; so that I 
passed a delightful afternoon; the charm, admiration, and astonishment 
of all.

When I retired to rest, I found this note on my toilette.


_To the Lady Cherubina_. 

_Your mother lives!_ and is confined in a subterranean vault of the 
villa. At midnight two men will tap at your door, and conduct you to 
her. Be silent, courageous, and circumspect.


What a flood of new feelings gushed upon my soul, as I laid down the 
billet, and lifted my filial eyes to Heaven! Mother--endearing name! I 
pictured that unfortunate lady stretched on a mattress of straw, her 
eyes sunken in their sockets, yet retaining a portion of their 
youthful fire; her frame emaciated, her voice feeble, her hand damp 
and chill. Fondly did I depict our meeting--our embrace; she gently 
pushing me from her, and baring my forehead, to gaze on the lineaments 
of my countenance. All, all is convincing; and she calls me the 
softened image of my noble father!

Two tedious hours I waited in extreme anxiety. At length the clock 
struck twelve; my heart beat responsive, and immediately the promised 
signal was made. I unbolted the door, and beheld two men masked and 
cloaked. They blindfolded me, and each taking an arm, led me along. 
Not a word passed. We traversed apartments, ascended, descended 
stairs; now went this way, now that; obliquely, circularly, angularly; 
till I began to imagine we were all the time in one spot.

At length my conductors stopped.

'Unlock the postern gate,' whispered one, 'while I light a torch.'

'We are betrayed!' said the other, 'for this is the wrong key.'

'Then thou beest the traitor,' cried the first.

'Thou liest, dost lie, and art lying!' cried the second.

'Take that!' exclaimed the first. A groan followed, and the wretch 
tumbled to the ground.

'You have killed him!' cried I, sickening with horror.

'I have only hamstrung him, my Lady,' said the fellow. 'He will be 
lame while ever he lives; but by St. Cripplegate, that won't be long; 
for our captain has given him four ducats to murder himself in a 
month.'

He then burst open the gate; a sudden current of wind met us, and we 
hurried forward with incredible speed, while moans and smothered 
shrieks were heard at either side.

'Gracious goodness, where are we?' cried I.

'In the cavern of death!' said my conductor; 'but never fear, Signora 
mia illustrissima, for the bravo Abellino is your povero devotissimo.'

On a sudden innumerable footsteps sounded behind us. We ran swifter.

'Fire!' cried a ferocious accent, almost at my ear; and there came a 
discharge of arms.

I stopped, unable to move, breathe, or speak.

'I am wounded all over, right and left, fore and aft, long ways and 
cross ways, Death and the Devil!' cried the bravo.

'Am I bleeding?' said I, feeling myself with my hands.

'No, blessed St. Fidget be praised!' answered he; 'and now all is 
safe, for the banditti have turned into the wrong passage.'

He then stopped, and unlocked a door.

'Enter,' said he, 'and behold your mother!'

He led me forward, tore the bandage from my eyes, and retiring, locked 
the door after him.

Agitated by the terrors of my dangerous expedition, I felt additional 
horror in finding myself within a dismal cell, lighted with a lantern; 
where, at a small table, sat a woman suffering under a corpulency 
unparalleled in the memoirs of human monsters. Her dress was a 
patchwork of blankets and satins, and her gray tresses were like 
horses' tails. Hundreds of frogs leaped about the floor; a piece of 
mouldy bread, and a mug of water, lay on the table; some straw, strewn 
with dead snakes and sculls, occupied one corner, and the distant end 
of the cell was concealed behind a black curtain.

I stood at the door, doubtful, and afraid to advance; while the 
prodigious prisoner sat examining me all over.

At last I summoned courage to say, 'I fear, madam, I am an intruder 
here. I have certainly been shown into the wrong room.'

'It is, it is my own, my only daughter, my Cherubina!' cried she, with 
a tremendous voice. 'Come to my maternal arms, thou living picture of 
the departed Theodore!'

'Why, ma'am,' said I, 'I would with great pleasure, but I am 
afraid--Oh, madam, indeed, indeed, I am quite sure you cannot be my 
mother!'

'Why not, thou unnatural girl?' cried she.

'Because, madam,' answered I, 'my mother was of a thin habit; as her 
portrait proves.'

{43} 'And so I was once,' said she. 'This deplorable plumpness is 
owing to want of exercise. But I thank the Gods I am as pale as ever.'

'Heavens! no,' cried I. 'Your face, pardon me, is a rich scarlet.'

'And is this our tender meeting?' cried she. 'To disown me, to throw 
my fat in my teeth, to violate the lilies of my skin with a dash of 
scarlet? Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle! Tell me, girl, 
will you embrace me, or will you not?'

'Indeed, madam,' answered I, 'I will presently.'

'Presently!'

'Yes, depend upon it I will. Only let me get over the first shock.'

'Shock!'

Dreading her violence, and feeling myself bound to do the duties of a 
daughter, I kneeled at her feet, and said:

'Ever respected, ever venerable author of my being, I beg thy maternal 
blessing!'

My mother raised me from the ground, and hugged me to her heart, with 
such cruel vigor, that, almost crushed, I cried out stoutly, and 
struggled for release.

'And now,' said she, relaxing her grasp, 'let me tell you of my 
sufferings. Ten long years I have eaten nothing but bread. Oh, ye 
favorite pullets, oh, ye inimitable tit-bits, shall I never, never 
taste you more? It was but last night, that maddened by hunger, 
methought I beheld the Genius of Dinner in my dreams. His mantle was 
laced with silver eels, and his locks were dropping with soups. He had 
a crown of golden fishes upon his head, and pheasants' wings at his 
shoulders. A flight of little tartlets fluttered about him, and the 
sky rained down comfits. As I gazed on him, he vanished in a sigh, 
that was impregnated with the fumes of brandy. Hey diddle diddle, the 
cat and the fiddle.'

I stood shuddering, and hating her more and more every moment.

'Pretty companion of my confinement!' cried she, apostrophizing an 
enormous toad which she pulled out of her bosom 'dear, spotted 
fondling, thou, next to my Cherubina, art worthy of my love. Embrace 
each other, my friends.' And she put the hideous pet into my hand. I 
screamed and dropped it.

'Oh!' cried I, in a passion of despair, 'what madness possessed me to 
undertake this execrable enterprise!' and I began beating with my hand 
against the door.

'Do you want to leave your poor mother?' said she in a whimpering 
tone.

'Oh! I am so frightened!' cried I.

'You will spend the night here, however,' said she; 'and your whole 
life too; for the ruffian who brought you hither was employed by Lady 
Gwyn to entrap you.'

When I heard this terrible sentence, my blood ran cold, and I began 
crying bitterly.

'Come, my love!' said my mother, 'and let me clasp thee to my heart 
once more!'

'For goodness sake!' cried I, 'spare me!'

'What!' exclaimed she, 'do you spurn my proffered embrace again?'

'Dear, no, madam,' answered I. 'But--but indeed now, you squeeze one 
so!'

My mother made a huge stride towards me; then stood groaning and 
rolling her eyes.

'Help!' cried I, half frantic, 'help! help!'

I was stopped by a suppressed titter of infernal laughter, as if from 
many demons; and on looking towards the black curtain, whence the 
sound came, I saw it agitated; while about twenty terrific faces 
appeared peeping through slits in it, and making grins of a most 
diabolical nature. I hid my face with my hands.

''Tis the banditti!' cried my mother.

As she spoke, the door opened, a bandage was flung over my eyes, and I 
was borne away half senseless, in some one's arms; till at length, I 
found myself alone in my own chamber.

Such was the detestable adventure of to-night. Oh, that I should live 
to meet this mother of mine! How different from the mothers that other 
heroines rummage out in northern turrets and ruined chapels! I am out 
of all patience. Liberate her I must, of course, and make a suitable 
provision for her too, when I get my property; but positively, never 
will I sleep under the same roof with--(ye powers of filial love, 
forgive me!) such a living mountain of human horror. Adieu.


HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.

_The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow; a Tradition of Pennsylvania. By the author 
of Calavar and the Infidel. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard._

By _The Gladiator_, by _Calavar_, and by _The Infidel_, Dr. Bird has 
risen, in a comparatively short space of time, to a very enviable 
reputation; and we have heard it asserted that his last novel '_The 
Hawks of Hawk-Hollow_,' will not fail to place his name in the very 
first rank of American writers of fiction. Without venturing to 
subscribe implicitly to this latter supposition, we still think very 
highly of him who has written _Calavar_. Of this last mentioned work, 
and of the _Infidel_, we have already given our opinion, although not 
altogether as fully as we could have desired: and we regret that 
circumstances beyond our control have prevented us from noticing the 
_Hawks of Hawk-Hollow_ until so late a day as the present.

Had this novel reached us some years ago, with the title of, '_The 
Hawks of Hawk-Hollow: A Romance by the author of Waverley_,' we should 
not perhaps have engaged in its perusal with as much genuine 
eagerness, or with so dogged a determination to be pleased with it at 
all events, as we have actually done upon receiving it with its proper 
title, and under really existing circumstances. But having read the 
book _through_, as undoubtedly we should have done, if only for the 
sake of Auld Lang Syne, and for the sake of certain pleasantly 
mirthful, or pleasantly mournful recollections connected with 
_Ivanhoe_, with the _Antiquary_, with _Kenilworth_, and above all with 
that most pure, perfect, and radiant gem of fictitious literature the 
_Bride of Lammermuir_--having, we say, on this account, and for the 
sake of these recollections read the novel from beginning to end, from 
Aleph to Tau, we should have pronounced our opinion of its merits 
somewhat in the following manner.

"It is unnecessary to tell us that this novel is written by Sir Walter 
Scott; and we are really glad to find that he has at length ventured 
to turn his attention to American incidents, scenery, and manners. We 
repeat that it was a mere act of supererogation to place the words 'By 
the author of Waverley' in the title page. The book speaks for itself. 
The style vulgarly so called--the manner properly so called--the 
handling of the subject to speak pictorially, or graphically, or as a 
German would say plastically--in a word the general air, the _tout 
ensemble_, the prevailing character of the story, all proclaim, in 
words which one who runs may read, that these volumes were indited 'By 
the author of Waverley.'" Having said thus much, we should resume our 
_critique_ as follows.

"The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow is, however, by no means in the _best_ 
manner of its illustrious author. To speak plainly it is a positive 
failure, and must take its place by the side of the Redgauntlets, the 
Monasteries, the Pirates, and the Saint Ronan's Wells."

All this we should perhaps have been induced to say had the book been 
offered to us for perusal some few years ago, with the supposititious 
title, and under the supposititious circumstances aforesaid. But alas! 
for our critical independency, the case is very different indeed. 
There can be no mistake or misconception in the present instance, such 
as we have so fancifully imagined. The title page (here we have it) is 
clear, explanatory, and not to be misunderstood. The Hawks of {44} 
Hawk-Hollow, A Tradition of Pennsylvania, that is to say a novel, is 
written, so we are assured, not by the author of Waverley, but by the 
author of that very fine romance Calavar--not by Sir Walter Scott, 
Baronet, but by Robert M. Bird, M.D. Now Robert M. Bird is an 
American.

We will endeavour to give an outline of the story. In a little valley 
bordering upon the Delaware, and called Hawk-Hollow from a colony of 
hawks who time out of mind had maintained possession of a blasted tree 
at its _embouchure_, resided, some fifty years ago, one Gilbert, an 
English emigrant. He had seven sons, all of whom displayed in early 
life a spirit of desperate and reckless adventure, and a love of the 
wild life of the woods and mountains. Oran was the name of the eldest, 
and at the same time the most savage and intractable of the seven. The 
disposition thus evinced obtained for these young desperadoes the 
_sobriquet_ of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow. Gilbert, the father, falls 
heir to a rich estate in England, and after making a vain attempt to 
settle in that country and educate his children as gentlemen, returns 
at length to the valley of Hawk-Hollow, so much more congenial to the 
temper and habits of his sons. A fine but fantastic manor-house is 
erected, and the family acquire consideration in the land. In the 
meantime Mr. Gilbert's first wife dying, he weds another, who bears 
him a daughter, Jessie. At the opening of the tale, however, a Captain 
Loring resides upon the estate, and in the mansion of the Gilberts, 
holding them as the agent or tenant of a certain Col. Falconer, who is 
a second edition of Falkland in Caleb Williams,--and who has managed 
to possess himself of the property at Hawk-Hollow, upon its 
confiscation on account of the tory principles and conduct of the 
Hawks.

During the happier days of the Gilberts, the life of this Falconer was 
preserved by three of them, upon a certain occasion of imminent peril. 
He however, being badly wounded, they convey him to their father's 
house, and Jessie, their sister, attends him in the character of 
nurse. She loves him. He returns her love with gratitude and perhaps 
some little actual affection, not however sufficient to banish from 
his mind the charms or the wealth of a lady of whom he had been 
previously enamored--the daughter of a gentleman who had succored and 
patronised him at a time when he needed aid, and who discarded him 
upon perceiving the growing intimacy between his child and his 
_protegé_. Grateful however for the kindness and evident affection of 
Jessie, and intoxicated with her beauty, he marries her in a moment of 
madness and passion--prevailing upon her to keep the marriage a secret 
for a short time. At this critical juncture, Falconer, who has already 
risen to honors and consideration in the world, as an officer of the 
Colonial army, receives overtures of reconciliation both from his old 
patron and his daughter. His former flame is rekindled in his bosom. 
He puts off from day to day the publication of his marriage with 
Jessie, and, finally, goaded by love and ambition, and encouraged by 
the accidental death of the regimental chaplain who married him, as 
well as by that of the only witness to the ceremony, he flies from 
Jessie who is about to become a mother, and leaving herself and 
friends under the impression that the rite of marriage had been a mere 
mockery for the purpose of seduction, throws himself at once into the 
arms of his first love, and at length espouses her, a short time 
before the decease of Jessie, who dies in bringing a son into the 
world.

The wrath of the brothers of Jessie, has doomed this child to 
destruction--but their mother, at this same period giving birth to a 
still-born infant, an exchange is brought about through the 
instrumentality of an old nurse Elsie Bell, who plays an anomalous 
part in the story, being half witch, and half gentlewoman. The effect 
of this exchange is that the still-born child of Mrs. Gilbert is 
buried as the offspring of Jessie, while her real offspring, is sent 
to the West Indies, to be nurtured and educated by a sister of Mr. 
Gilbert. The boy thus sent was called Hyland, after one of the Hawks 
who perished in the rescue of Col. Falconer.

Such are the events which, at the opening of the story, have broken up 
the family of the Gilberts, and effected their ruin.

"The sons no longer hunted with the young men of the county, but went, 
as in their war expeditions, alone: and when others thrust themselves 
into their company they quarrelled with them, so that they began to be 
universally feared and detested. To crown all, as soon as the 
Revolution burst out they went over to the enemy: and, being 
distributed among the wild and murderous bands of savages forming on 
the north-western frontiers, they soon obtained a dreadful notoriety 
for their deeds of daring and cruelty. Of course this remarkable 
defection of the sons, caused the unlucky father to be suspected and 
watched. He was accused at last of aiding and abetting them in their 
treasonable practices, and soon, either from timidity or a 
consciousness of guilt, he fled, seeking refuge within the royal 
lines. This was sufficient for his ruin: for, after the usual legal 
preliminaries, he was formally outlawed, as his sons had been before, 
and his property confiscated. He died soon afterwards, either at New 
York, or Jamaica."

Hyland, the son of Falconer by Jessie, but the supposed youngest 
brother of the Hawks, returns after many years, to his native country 
with the intention of accepting a British commission; but seeing more 
closely, and with his own eyes, the true principles which actuated the 
colonists, he finally relinquishes that design. In the meantime 
visiting the Hawk-Hollow under the assumed name of Herman Hunter, and 
in the character of a painter, he becomes enamored of Catherine, the 
daughter of Captain Loring. The attachment is mutual, although the 
lady is already betrothed to Henry, the son of Col. Falconer, a rather 
gentlemanly, although a very dissipated and good-for-nothing 
personage. Difficulties thicken of course. Miss Harriet Falconer, a 
copy in many respects of Di Vernon, becomes, for some very trivial 
reason, a violent enemy of Herman Hunter, and even goes so far as to 
suspect him of being connected with the outlawed Hawks of the Hollow. 
Captain Loring, on the other hand, is his firm friend--a circumstance 
which restores matters to a more proper equilibrium, and much 
flirtation is consequently carried on, in and about the old mansion 
house and pleasure grounds of the Gilberts. In the meantime an attempt 
is made, by some unknown assassin, upon the life of Col. Falconer, at 
New York; and the county is thrown into a panic, by the rumor that 
Oran, the eldest brother of the Hawks, is not dead, as was supposed, 
but in existence near the Hollow with a desperate band of refugees, 
and ready to pounce upon {45} the neighboring village of Hillborough. 
Miss Harriet Falconer busies herself in a very unlady-like manner to 
ferret out the assassin of her father. Plot and counterplot follow in 
rapid succession. New characters appear upon the scene. A tall 
disciple of Roscius called Sterling, is, among others, very 
conspicuous, thrusting his nose into every adventure, and assuming by 
turns, although in a very slovenly way, the character of a Methodist 
preacher, of a pedlar, of a Quaker, and of a French dancing master. 
Elsie Bell, the old witch, prophecies, predicates, and prognosticates; 
and in short matters begin to assume a very serious and inexplicable 
aspect. Hyland Gilbert _alias_ Herman Hunter, the painter, is drawn 
into an involuntary connection with his supposed brother Oran, the 
refugee, and some circumstances coming to light not very much to his 
credit, he is obliged to flee from the mansion of the gallant 
Captain--not, however, until he has declared his passion for the 
daughter, into the ear of the daughter herself. Through the 
instigation of Harriet Falconer, the day is at length fixed for the 
marriage of her brother Henry with Catherine Loring. Accident delays 
the ceremony until night, when, just as the lady is hesitating whether 
she shall say _yes_, or _no_, the tall gentleman ycleped Sterling who 
has managed, no one knows how, to install himself as major-domo, chief 
fiddler, and master of ceremonies at the wedding, takes the liberty of 
knocking the bridegroom on the head with his violin, while Oran, the 
refugee, jumps in at one window with a gang of his followers, and 
Hyland Gilbert, _alias_ Herman Hunter, the painter, popping in at 
another, carries off the bride at a back door _nemine contradicente_. 
The bird being flown, the hue and cry is presently raised, and the 
whole county starts in pursuit. But the affair ends very lamely. 
Precisely at the moment when Hyland Gilbert, _alias_ Herman Hunter, 
the painter, has carried his mistress beyond any prospect of danger 
from pursuit, he suddenly takes it into his head, to change his mind 
in relation to the entire business, and so, turning back as he came, 
very deliberately carries the lady home again. He himself, however, 
being caught, is sentenced to be hung--all which is exceedingly just. 
But to be serious.

The crime with which the young man is charged, is the murder of Henry 
Falconer, who fell by a pistol shot in an affray during the pursuit. 
The criminal is lodged in jail at Hillborough--is tried--and, chiefly 
through the instrumentality of Col. Falconer, is in danger of being 
found guilty. But Elsie Bell now makes her appearance, and matters 
assume a new aspect. She reveals to Col. Falconer the exchange of the 
two infants--a fact with which he had been hitherto unacquainted--and 
consequently astounds him with the information that he is seeking the 
death of his own son. A new turn is also given to the evidence in the 
case of the murder by the death-bed confession of Sterling, who owns 
that he himself shot the deceased Henry Falconer, and also attempted 
the assassination of the Colonel. The prisoner is acquitted by 
acclamation. Col. Falconer, is shot by mistake while visiting his son 
in prison. Harriet dies of grief at the exposure of her father's 
villainy, and of her own consequent illegitimacy. Hyland Gilbert and 
Catherine are united. Oran, the refugee, who fired the shot by which 
Col. Falconer was accidentally killed, being hotly pursued, and 
dangerously wounded, escapes, finally, to his fastnesses in the 
mountains, where, after a lapse of many years, his bones and his rifle 
are identified. Thus ends the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow.

We have already spoken of the character of Elsie Bell. That of Harriet 
Falconer, is forced, unnatural, and overstrained. Catherine Loring, 
however, is one of the sweetest creations ever emanating from the 
fancy of poet, or of painter. Truly feminine in thought, in manner, 
and in action, she is altogether a conception of which Dr. Bird has 
great reason to be proud. Phoebe, the waiting maid, (we have not 
thought it worth while to mention her in our outline,) is a mere 
excrescence, and, like some other personages in the tale, introduced 
for no imaginable purpose. Of the male _dramatis personæ_ some are 
good--some admirable--some execrable. Among the good, we may mention 
Captain Caliver of the Dragoons. Captain Loring is a _chéf d'oeuvre_. 
His oddities, his infirmities, his enthusiasm, his petulancy, his 
warm-heartedness, and his mutability of disposition, altogether make 
up a character which we may be permitted to consider original, 
inasmuch as we have never seen its prototype either in print, or in 
actual existence. It is however true to itself, and to propriety, and 
although at times verging upon the _outré_, is highly creditable to 
the genius of its author. Oran, the refugee, is well--but not 
excellently drawn. The hero Hyland, with whom we were much interested 
in the beginning of the book, proves inconsistent with himself in the 
end; and although to be inconsistent with one's self, is not always to 
be false to Nature--still, in the present instance, Hyland Gilbert in 
prison, and in difficulty, and Herman Hunter, in the opening of the 
novel, possess none of the same traits, and are not, in point of fact, 
identical. Sterling is a mere mountebank, without even the merit of 
being an original one: and his death-bed repentance is too ludicrously 
ill-managed, and altogether too manifestly out of place, to be 
mentioned any farther. Squire Schlachtenschlager, the Magistrate, is 
the best personification of a little brief authority in the person of 
a Dutchman, which it has ever been our good fortune to encounter.

In regard to that purely mechanical portion of Dr. Bird's novel, which 
it would now be fashionable to denominate its _style_, we have very 
few observations to make. In general it is faultless. Occasionally we 
meet with a sentence ill-constructed--an inartificial adaptation of 
the end to the beginning of a paragraph--a circumlocutory mode of 
saying what might have been better said, if said with brevity--now and 
then with a pleonasm, as for example. "And if he wore a mask in his 
commerce with men, it was like that _iron_ one of the Bastile, which 
when put on, was put on for life, and was at the same time _of 
iron_,"--not unfrequently with a bull proper, videlicet. "As he spoke 
there came into the den, eight men attired like the two first _who 
were included in the number_." But we repeat that upon the whole the 
style of the novel--if that may be called its style, which style is 
not--is at least _equal_ to that of any American writer whatsoever.

In the style _properly_ so called--that is to say in the prevailing 
tone and manner which give character and individuality to the book, we 
cannot bring ourselves to think that Dr. Bird has been equally 
fortunate. His subject appears always ready to fly away from him. He 
dallies with it continually--hovers incessantly round {46} it, and 
about it--and not until driven to exertion by the necessity of 
bringing his volumes to a close, does he finally grasp it with any 
appearance of energy or good will. The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow is 
composed with great inequality of manner--at times forcible and 
manly--at times sinking into the merest childishness and imbecility. 
Some portions of the book, we surmise, were either not written by Dr. 
Bird, or were written by him in moments of the most utter mental 
exhaustion. On the other hand, the reader will not be disappointed, if 
he looks to find in the novel many--very many well sustained passages 
of great eloquence and beauty. We open the book at random, and one 
presents itself immediately to our notice. If Dr. Bird has a general 
manner at all--a question which we confess ourselves unable to 
decide--the passage which we are about to quote is a very fair, 
although perhaps rather too favorable specimen of that manner.

"Thus whiling away the fatigue of climbing over rocks, and creeping 
through thickets with a gay rattle of discourse, the black-eyed maiden 
dragged her companion along until they reached a place where the 
stream was contracted by the projection on the one bank of a huge mass 
of slaty rock, and on the other, by the protrusion of the roots of a 
gigantic plane-tree--the sycamore or button-wood of vulgar speech. 
Above them, and beyond the crag, the channel of the rivulet widened 
into a pool; and there was a plot of green turf betwixt the water and 
the hill, on the farther bank, whereon fairies, if such had ever made 
their way to the world of Twilight, might have loved to gambol under 
the light of the moon. A hill shut up the glen at its upper extremity; 
and it was hemmed in on the left, by the rocky and woody declivity 
over which the maidens had already passed. Over this, and just behind 
a black rounded shoulder that it thrust into the glen, a broad ray 
from the evening sun shot across the stream, and fell in a rich yellow 
flood over the vacant plot. There was something almost Arcadian in 
this little solitude; and if instead of two well-bred maidens perched 
upon the roots of the sycamore, on seats chosen with a due regard to 
the claims of their dresses, there had been a batch of country girls 
romping in the water, a passing Actæon might have dreamed of the piny 
Gargaphy, its running well _fons tenui perlucidus unda_--and the 
bright creatures of the mythic day that once animated the waters of 
that solitary grot. But the fairy and the wood-nymph are alike unknown 
in America. Poetic illusion has not yet consecrated her glens and 
fountains; her forests nod in uninvaded gloom, her rivers roll in 
unsanctified silence, and even her ridgy mountains lift up their blue 
tops in unphantomed solitude. Association sleeps, or it reverts only 
to the vague mysteries of speculation. Perhaps

  A restless Indian queen,
  Pale Marian with the braided hair,

may wander at night by some highly favored spring; perhaps some tall 
and tawny hunter

  In vestments for the chase arrayed,

may yet hunt the hart over certain distinguished ridges, or urge his 
barken canoe over some cypress-fringed pool; but all other places are 
left to the fancies of the utilitarian. A Greek would have invented a 
God to dwell under the watery arch of Niagara; an American is 
satisfied with a paper-mill clapped just above it."

Of the songs and other poetic pieces interspersed throughout the book, 
and sometimes not aptly or gracefully introduced, we have a very high 
opinion. Some of them are of rare merit and beauty. If Dr. Bird can 
always write thus, and we see no reason for supposing the contrary, he 
should at once, in the language of one with whom he is no doubt well 
acquainted,

  Turn bard, and drop the play-wright and the novelist.

In evidence that we say nothing more than what is absolutely just; we 
insert here the little poem of _The Whippoorwill_.

  Sleep, sleep! be thine the sleep that throws
  Elysium o'er the soul's repose,
  Without a dream, save such as wind
  Like midnight angels, through the mind;
  While I am watching on the hill
  I, and the wailing whippoorwill.
                  Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill!

  Sleep, sleep! and once again I'll tell
  The oft pronounced yet vain farewell:
  Such should his word, oh maiden, be
  Who lifts the fated eye to thee;
  Such should it be, before the chain
  That wraps his spirit, binds his brain.
                  Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill!

  Sleep, sleep! the ship hath left the shore,
  The steed awaits his lord no more;
  His lord still madly lingers by,
  The fatal maid he cannot fly--
  And thrids the wood, and climbs the hill--
  He and the wailing whippoorwill.
                  Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill!

  Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on;
  Then shall the wailing slave be gone,
  Flitting the hill-top far for fear
  The sounds of joy may reach his ear;
  The sounds of joy!--the hollow knell
  Pealed from the mocking chapel bell.
                  Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill!

In conclusion: The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, if it add a single bay to the 
already green wreath of Dr. Bird's _popular_ reputation, will not, at 
all events, among men whose decisions are entitled to consideration, 
advance the high opinion previously entertained of his abilities. It 
has no pretensions to _originality_ of manner, or of style--for we 
insist upon the distinction--and very few to originality of matter. It 
is, in many respects, a bad imitation of Sir Walter Scott. Some of its 
characters, and one or two of its incidents, have seldom been 
surpassed, for force, fidelity to nature, and power of exciting 
interest in the reader. It is altogether more worthy of its author in 
its scenes of hurry, of tumult, and confusion, than in those of a more 
quiet and philosophical nature. Like _Calavar_ and _The Infidel_, it 
excels in the drama of action and passion, and fails in the drama of 
colloquy. It is inferior, as a whole, to the _Infidel_, and vastly 
inferior to _Calavar_.


PEERAGE AND PEASANTRY.

_Tales of the Peerage and the Peasantry, Edited by Lady Dacre. New 
York: Harper & Brothers._

We had been looking with much impatience for the republication of 
these volumes, and henceforward we shall look with still greater 
anxiety for any thing announced as under the _editorial_ supervision 
of Lady Dacre. But why, Lady Dacre, this excessive show of modesty, or 
rather this most unpardonable piece of affectation? Why deny having 
written volumes whose authorship would be an enviable and an honorable 
{47} distinction to the proudest literati of your land? And why, above 
all, announce yourself as editor in a title-page, merely to proclaim 
yourself author in a preface?

The _Tales of the Peerage and the Peasantry_ are three in number. The 
first and the longest is _Winifred, Countess of Nithsdale_, (have a 
care, Messieurs Harpers, you have spelt it _Nithsadle_ in the very 
heading of the very initial chapter) a thrilling, and spirited story, 
rich with imagination, pathos, and passion, and in which the 
successful termination of a long series of exertions, and trials, 
whereby the devoted Winifred finally rescues her husband, the Earl of 
Nithsdale, from tyranny, prison, and death, inspires the reader with 
scarcely less heartfelt joy and exultation than we can conceive 
experienced by the happy pair themselves. But the absolute conclusion 
of this tale speaks volumes for the artist-like skill of the fair 
authoress. An every day writer would have ended a story of continued 
sorrow and suffering, with a bright gleam of unalloyed happiness, and 
sunshine--thus destroying, at a single blow, that indispensable unity 
which has been rightly called the unity of effect, and throwing down, 
as it were, in a paragraph what, perhaps, an entire volume has been 
laboring to establish. We repeat that Lady Dacre has given conclusive 
evidence of talent and skill, in the final sentences of the _Countess 
of Nithsdale_--evidence, however, which will not be generally 
appreciated, or even very extensively understood. We will transcribe 
the passages alluded to.

"'And dearer to my ears'--said Lady Nithsdale 'the simple ballad of a 
Scottish maiden, than even these sounds as they are wafted to us over 
the waters!'

"They stopped to listen to the song as it died away; and, as they 
listened, another and more awful sound struck upon their ears. The 
bell of one of the small chapels often constructed on the shores of 
Catholic countries, was tolled for the soul of a departed mariner. As 
it happened, the tone was not unlike one of which they both retained 
only too vivid and painful a recollection. The Countess felt her 
husband's frame quiver beneath the stroke. There was no need of words. 
With a mutual pressure of the arm they returned upon their steps and 
sought their home. Unconsciously their pace quickened. They seemed to 
fly before the stroke of that bell! Such suffering as they had both 
experienced, leaves traces in the soul which time itself can never 
wholly efface."

_The Hampshire Cottage_ is next in order--a tale of the Peasantry; and 
the volumes conclude with _Blanche_, a tale of the Peerage. Both are 
admirable, and worthy of companionship with _Winifred, Countess of 
Nithsdale_. There can be no doubt that Lady Dacre is a writer of 
infinite genius, possessing great felicity of expression, a happy 
talent for working up a story, and, above all, a far more profound and 
philosophical knowledge of the hidden springs of the human heart, and 
a greater skill in availing herself of that knowledge, than _any of 
her female contemporaries_. This we say deliberately. We have not yet 
forgotten the _Recollections of a Chaperon_. No person, of even common 
sensibility, has ever perused the magic tale of _Ellen Wareham_ 
without feeling the very soul of passion and imagination aroused and 
stirred up within him, as at the sound of a trumpet.

Let Lady Dacre but give up her talents and energies, and especially 
_her time_ to the exaltation of her literary fame, and we are sorely 
mistaken if, hereafter, she do not accomplish something which will not 
readily die.


EDINBURGH REVIEW.

_The Edinburgh Review, No. CXXIV, for July 1835. American Edition, 
Vol. II, No. 2. New York: Theodore Foster._

Article I in this number is a _critique_ upon "The History of the 
Revolution in England in 1688. Comprising a View of the Reign of James 
the Second, from his Accession to the Enterprise of the Prince of 
Orange. By the late Right Honorable Sir James Mackintosh; and 
completed to the Settlement of the Crown, by the Editor. To which is 
prefixed, a Notice of the Life, Writings, and Speeches of Sir James 
Mackintosh. 4to. London, 1834." The Reviewer commences by instituting 
a comparison between the work of Sir James, and Fox's History of James 
the Second. Both books are on the same subject--both were posthumously 
published, and neither had received the last corrections. The authors, 
likewise, belonged to the same political party, and had the same 
opinions concerning the merits and defects of the English 
Constitution, and concerning most of the prominent characters and 
events in English history. The palm is awarded to the work of 
Mackintosh. "Indeed"--says the critic--"the superiority of Mr. Fox to 
Sir James as an orator, is hardly more clear than the superiority of 
Sir James to Mr. Fox as an historian. Mr. Fox with a pen in his hand, 
and Sir James on his legs in the House of Commons were, we think, each 
out of his proper element. We could never read a page of Mr. Fox's 
writings--we could never listen for a quarter of an hour to the 
speaking of Sir James--without feeling that there was a constant 
effort, a tug up-hill. Mr. Fox wrote debates. Sir James Mackintosh 
spoke essays." The style of the fragment is highly complimented, and 
justly. Every body must agree with the Reviewer, that a History of 
England written throughout, in the manner of the History of the 
Revolution, would be the most fascinating book in the language. The 
printer and editor of the work are severely censured, but the censure 
is, in some respects, misapplied. Such errors as making the pension of 
60,000 livres, which Lord Sunderland received from France, equivalent 
to 2,500 pounds sterling only, when, at the time Sunderland was in 
power, the livre was worth more than eighteen pence, are surely 
attributable to no one but the author--although the editor may come in 
for a small portion of the blame for not correcting an oversight so 
palpable. On the other hand the misprinting the name of Thomas Burnet 
repeatedly throughout the book, both in the text and Index, is a 
blunder for which the editor is alone responsible. The name is 
invariably spelt Bennet. Thomas Burnet, Master of the Charter House, 
and author of the _Theoria Sacra_, is a personage of whom, or of whose 
works, the gentleman who undertook to edit the Fragment of Sir James 
Mackintosh has evidently never heard. The Memoir prefixed to the 
History, and its Continuation to the settlement of the Crown, both by 
the Editor of the Fragment, are unsparingly, but indeed most 
righteously, condemned. The Memoir is childish and imbecile, and the 
Continuation full of gross inaccuracies, and altogether unworthy of 
being appended to any thing from the pen of Mackintosh.

Article II is a very clever Review of the "Acharnenses of 
Aristophanes, with Notes Critical and Explanatory, adapted to the Use 
of Schools and Universities. {48} By T. Mitchell, A.M. 8vo. London, 
1835." Mr. Mitchell made his first appearance as a translator and 
commentator in 1820, and his second in 1822, upon both which occasions 
he was favorably noticed in the Edinburgh. High praise is bestowed in 
the present instance upon the _Acharnenses_. The _Wasps_ will follow, 
and thus it appears the chronological order of the Comedies will not 
be preserved. The old fault is to be found with this Review, viz: It 
is more of a dissertation on the subject matter of the book in 
question than an analysis of its merits or defects. By far the greater 
part of the Article is occupied in a discussion of the character of 
the Athenians.

Article III is headed "a Voyage of Discovery to Africa and Arabia, 
performed in his Majesty's Ships Leven and Barracouta, from 1822 to 
1826, under the command of Capt. F. W. W. Owen, R. N. By Capt. Thomas 
Boteler, R. N. 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1835." Captain Owen sailed in 
January 1822 in the Leven Frigate, accompanied by the Barracouta, a 
ten-gun brig, with instructions to survey the entire Eastern coast of 
Africa, the Western coast of Madagascar--the islets and shoals 
interjacent--together with the Western coast of the Continent from the 
Zaire to Benin, and from the Rio Grande to the Gambia. All this was 
accomplished in five years. The narrative of Boteler, who was 
lieutenant of the Leven, is nothing more than a revised edition of 
that originally prepared by Capt. Owen, and which was a failure in a 
literary sense. The Review, as usual, says very little concerning the 
manner in which Captain Boteler has performed his task.

Article IV. "Deontology; or the Science of Morality: in which the 
Harmony and Coincidence of Duty and Self-interest, Virtue and 
Felicity, Prudence and Benevolence, are explained and exemplified. 
From the MSS. of Jeremy Bentham. Arranged and edited by John Bowring, 
2 vols. octavo, London, 1834." "This book," says the Reviewer, "simply 
contains Mr. Bentham's thrice told tale upon Utility. It furnishes us 
with no fresh illustrations, no better system than we had already 
found in his 'Principles of Morals and Legislation.'" We heartily 
agree with the critic that there was no necessity for the publication 
of these posthumous volumes. They add nothing to the work just 
mentioned, and are, in many points, inferior. But the Notice concludes 
in the following words. "Is it to be wondered at, that the most 
learned, accurate, and philosophical nation in Europe--the 
Germans--treat with contempt ignorance and insolence like this? They 
admit the merits of Mr. Bentham as a jurisconsult, in his analysis and 
classification of the _material_ interests of life; but their 
metaphysicians and moralists agree, we believe without an exception, 
in considering his speculative philosophy as undeserving even the pomp 
and ceremony of an argument." We have only to add, that, in our 
opinion of the metaphysics of Mr. Bentham, we are, by no means, 
Germans to the very letter.

Article V. is an excellently well toned, and perfectly satisfactory 
Review of the "Journal by Frances Anne Butler, 2 vols. 8vo. London, 
1835." It defends this lady from the charge of intentionally 
depreciating America; cites a long list of instances in which she has 
spoken in terms of the greatest cordiality of our people, 
individually, and as a nation; shows in what manner she has repeatedly 
let slip opportunities of saying, and saying too with perfect justice, 
things little likely to flatter our vanity; defends her from the 
ridiculous accusation of vulgarity (there is positively not an iota of 
vulgarity in the composition of Fanny Kemble) and very justly gives us 
a rap over the knuckles for our overweening vanity, self-sufficiency, 
and testiness of temper. The whole article is excellent, and the 
conclusion is particularly to our mind. "There is no chance of her 
return to a profession that she so cordially detested. Under these 
circumstances the only compensation Mr. Butler can make to us he must 
make. He is bound to see that she goes on with her faithful and 
amusing journal, and that she finishes, at her leisure, some of the 
sundry stories, plays, and novels, on which, it seems, she had already 
set to work amid the interruptions of the stage."

The sixth article is a review of "The Works of George Dalgarno, of 
Aberdeen. 4to. Reprinted at Edinburgh: 1834." This work is merely a 
reprint of the old Treatises of Dalgarno, the publication not 
extending beyond the sphere of the Maitland Club--a society instituted 
at Glasgow in imitation of the Edinburgh Ballantyne Club. The first 
treatise of Dalgarno is entitled "Ars Signorum, Vulgo Character 
Universalis, et Lingua Philosophica. Londini 1661." The second is 
"Didascalocophus, or the Deaf and Dumb Man's Tutor: to which is added 
a Discourse of the Nature and Number of Double Consonants: both which 
Tracts being the first (for what the author knows) that have been 
published upon either of the subjects. Printed at the Theater in 
Oxford, 1680." The memory of Dalgarno had nearly perished when Dugald 
Stewart called public attention to his writings, on account of his 
having anticipated, on grounds purely speculative, and _a priori_, 
what has now been proved _a posteriori_ by Horne Tooke and others, 
viz: that all grammatical inflections are reducible to the noun alone.

Article VII is headed "Narrative of a Second Voyage in search of a 
North-West Passage, and of a Residence in the Arctic Regions during 
the years 1829, 1830, 1831, 1832, 1833. By Sir John Ross, C. B., 
K. S. A., K. C. S., &c. &c., Captain in the Royal Navy. Including the 
Reports of Commander, now Captain, James Clark Ross, R. N., F. R. S., 
F. L. S., &c. and the Discovery of the Northern Magnetic Pole. 4to. 
London: 1835." The Reviewer professes himself unable to regard the 
observations made by Commander Ross in relation to the Magnetic Pole 
in the light of a discovery. "It was certainly a great satisfaction to 
stand upon a rock where the dip was 89° 59', and where the polarity of 
nicely suspended needles was insensible; but it may be questioned 
whether or not the place of the Magnetic Pole can be best determined 
by observations made at a distance or near the spot; and we are not 
satisfied that the position assigned by Commander Ross is more 
accurate than that given by the curves of Professor Barlow, the 
calculations of Hansteen, and the observations of Captain Parry." The 
fact is that the Magnetic Pole is _moveable_, and, place it where we 
will, we shall not find it in the same place to-morrow. Notice is 
taken also by the critic that neither Captain nor Commander Ross has 
made the slightest reference to the fact that the Magnetic {49} Pole 
is not coincident with the _Pole of maximum cold_. From observations 
made by Scoresby in East Greenland, and by Sir Charles Giesecke and 
the Danish Governors in West Greenland, and confirmed by all the 
meteorological observations made by Captains Parry and Franklin, Sir 
David Brewster has deduced the fact that the Pole of the Equator is 
not the Pole of maximum cold: and as the matter is well established, 
it is singular, to say no more, that it has been alluded to by neither 
the Commander nor the Captain.

Article VIII is 1. A "History of the Cotton Manufacture in Great 
Britain, with a Notice of its Early History in the East, and in all 
quarters of the Globe; a Description of the Great Mechanical 
Inventions which have caused its unexampled extension in Great 
Britain: and a View of the Present State of the Manufacture, and the 
condition of the Classes engaged in its several departments. By Edward 
Baines, Jr. Esq. 8vo. London: 1835."

2. "The Philosophy of Manufactures: or an Exposition of the 
Scientific, Moral, and Commercial Economy of the Factory System of 
Great Britain. By Andrew Ure, M.D. 8vo. London: 1835." Mr. Baines' 
work is spoken of in high terms, as discovering much laborious 
research, and being both interesting and valuable. With the exception 
of Smith's _Memoirs of Wool_, published in 1747, it is said to be the 
only work giving a clear and copious account of the rise, progress, 
and actual condition of any of the great branches of industry carried 
on in the kingdom. Dr. Ure's work is censured for inaccuracy of 
detail. Its title is evidently a misnomer.

Article IX is "A Poet's Portfolio; or Minor Poems. In Three Books. By 
James Montgomery, 12mo. London, 1835."

The first production of Mr. Montgomery, 'The Wanderer of Switzerland,' 
was noticed about twenty-eight years ago in the Edinburgh, and much 
fault found with it for inflation of style, and affectation. The 
present volume has induced the Journal to alter its tone entirely, and 
the _Minor Poems_ are (perhaps a little too highly) lauded. "There 
is," says the critic, "something in all his poetry which makes fiction 
the most impressive teacher of truth and wisdom; and by which, while 
the intellect is gratified, and the imagination roused, the heart, if 
it retains any sensibility to tender or elevating emotions, cannot 
fail to be made better." The Reviewer, as usual, does not stick to his 
text, but comments, in detail, upon _all_ the published poems of 
Montgomery.

The tenth and concluding paper is a Review of "The Second Report of 
his Majesty's Commissioners on Ecclesiastical Revenue and Patronage: 
Ireland. Ordered by the House of Commons to be printed: 1834"--and 
"First Report of the Commissioners of Public Instruction: Ireland. 
Presented to both Houses of Parliament, by command of his Majesty: 
1835."

This article is written with great ability; but why call that a Review 
which is purely a dissertation on the state of the Irish Church? It 
concludes with a correspondence between the Editor of the Edinburgh, 
and Mr. Alan Stevenson, respecting evidence given, by the latter, 
before the Parliamentary Committee on Light Houses. The Journal, in 
No. CXXIII, accused Mr. S. of deceiving the Committee by erroneous 
testimony; and, upon Mr. S. demanding an explanation, the Review not 
only refuses to retract its assertions, but declares that, had it 
known certain facts at the time of inditing the offensive article, it 
would have expressed itself with double severity.


NUTS TO CRACK.

_Nuts to Crack: or Quips, Quirks, Anecdote and Facete of Oxford and 
Cambridge scholars. By the author of Facetiæ Cantabrigienses, etc. 
etc. etc. Philadelphia: E. L. Carey & A. Hart._

Although this little volume is obviously intended for no other eyes 
than those of the 'Oxford and Cambridge scholar,' and although it is 
absolutely impossible for any American to enter fully into the spirit 
of its most inestimable quizzes, oddities and eccentricities, still we 
have no intention of quarrelling with Carey & Hart, for republishing 
the work on this side of the Atlantic. Never was there a better thing 
for whiling away a few loose or unappropriated half hours--that is to 
say in the hands of a reader who is, even in a moderate degree, imbued 
with a love of classical whimsicalities. We can assure our 
friends--all of them who expect to find in these excellent 'Nuts to 
Crack' a mere _rifacimento_ of stale jests--that there are not more 
than two or three anecdotes in the book positively entitled to the 
appellation of antique. Some things, however, have surprised us. In 
the first place what is the meaning of _Anecdote_ and _Facete_? In the 
second what are we to think of such blunders, as "one of honest Vere's 
classical _jeu d'esprit_," (the _jeu d'esprit_ printed too in Long 
Primer Capitals) in a volume professing to be _Anecdote_ and _Facete_ 
(oh!--too bad) of Oxford and Cambridge _scholars_? And thirdly is it 
possible that he who wrote the _Facetiæ Cantabrigienses_ is not aware 
that the "cutting retort attributed to the celebrated Lord 
Chesterfield, when a student of Trinity Hall, Cambridge" may be found 
among the Facetiæ of Hierocles--not to mention innumerable editions of 
Joe Miller?

We have already said enough of the _Nuts to Crack_, but cannot, for 
our lives, refrain from selecting one of its good things for the 
benefit of our own especial readers.

The learned Chancery Barrister, John Bell, K. C., "_the Great Bell of 
Lincoln_," as he has been aptly called, was Senior Wrangler, on 
graduating B.A., at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1786, with many 
able competitors for that honor. He is likewise celebrated, as every 
one knows, for writing three several hands; one only he himself can 
read, another nobody but his clerk can read, and a third neither 
himself, clerk, nor any body else can read. It was in the latter hand, 
he one day wrote to his legal contemporary and friend, the present Sir 
Launcelot Shadwell, inviting him to dinner. Sir Launcelot, finding all 
his attempts to decypher the note about as vain, as the wise men found 
theirs to unravel the cabalistic characters of yore, took a sheet of 
paper, and having smeared it over with ink, folded and sealed it, and 
sent it as his answer. The receipt of it staggered even the Great Bell 
of Lincoln, and after breaking the seal, and eyeing it, and turning it 
round and round, he hurried to Mr. Shadwell's chambers with it, 
declaring he could make nothing of it. "Nor I of your note," retorted 
Mr. S. "My dear fellow" exclaimed Mr. B. taking his own letter in his 
hand, "is not this as plain as can be,--Dear Shadwell, I shall be glad 
to see you at dinner to day?" "And is not this equally as plain," said 
Mr. S. pointing to his own paper, "My dear Bell, I shall be happy to 
come and dine with you?"


{50} ROBINSON'S PRACTICE.

_The Practice in Courts of Law and Equity in Virginia. By Conway 
Robinson. Vol. II, containing Practice in suits in Equity, pp. 648. 
Richmond: Printed by Samuel Shepherd. 1835._

The first volume of this work came out about three years ago; and 
received so earnest a welcome from the legal profession, that the 
author's tardiness in producing the second might be matter of wonder, 
were not his devoted attention to an unusually large practice well 
known. The present is destined, because it deserves, to be a much 
greater favorite with the law-book-reading public, than the former 
volume was. The arrangement is after a better classification of 
subjects; rendering it easier to find the doctrine desired, on any 
given point: and there is a larger proportion of valuable 
matter--matter not to be found in the Revised Code, or in Tate's 
Digest. Indeed there are few works, more copiously filled with useful, 
and _not-too-obvious_ learning. Industry and research are the author's 
manifest characteristics. He is a real _brownie_--if not for 
supernatural speed of workmanship, at least in the world of trouble he 
will save his brethren. Here, within 442 pages (for the other 206 of 
this tome--_horresco referens_--are _index_,) he has compressed 
matter, and inestimable matter too, for which the practitioner would 
otherwise have to hunt through, not only the thirty volumes of 
Virginia Reports (counting Chancellor Wythe's) but the numberless ones 
of New York, Massachusetts, the Federal Courts, and England.

In his _abstracts of cases_, the author is, in the main, particularly 
successful. Not only does he give them with a clearness, (the result 
of brevity, effected by discarding non-essentials) which we would 
gladly see judges and reporters emulate,--but he sometimes gathers 
from them doctrines, which the reporter has overlooked, and which a 
cursory reader would therefore be little apt to discover. For example, 
in pp. 20, 21, he states these two points, as decided in the case of 
_Blow_ v. _Maynard_, 2 Leigh, 21: 1st, That a fraudulent donee of 
personalty is accountable for it and its increase, and also for hires, 
and profits, accruing since the donor's death, as executor _de son 
tort_; just as a rightful executor would be, who had taken possession 
at the donor's death: and 2d, That a _privy_ to the fraud, who shared 
with the donee the profits of the property fraudulently conveyed, is 
accountable jointly with the donee. Now the reporter in his marginal 
summary of the case, does not mention these as among the points 
decided; though in the decree of the court (2 Leigh, p. 67,) they 
manifestly appear. Again--in the case of _Tod_ v. _Baylor_, (as now 
reported in 4 Leigh, 498,) it is not said, at all, that _only two of 
the judges concurred_ in the third point there stated as adjudged. But 
our author tells us so, (p. 10,) and we are thus enabled to estimate 
the authority at its true value--as _persuasive_ only,--not 
_obligatory_, in other cases.

The mechanical execution of the book does infinite credit to the 
printer. The typography is unsurpassed; and the paper is white, pure, 
and firm, so as to receive notes of the pen without blotting--a great 
merit in law books.

If it were only to shew that we are free of our craft as critics, we 
must find some fault with this work: premising, that _merit_ is its 
_staple_; and that, if more of the criticism be occupied with its 
faults, it is chiefly because they are somewhat hard to detect, amidst 
the pile of excellences. The chaff, this time, is hidden by the wheat.

There is _not enough compression_ in some parts. In this volume, it is 
true, not a tithe of the statute law is quoted, that over-burthens the 
former one: but when he does cite a statute, the author still gives it 
to us in all the exuberance of legislative verbosity. Thus, he fills 
the third part of a page with the law of _lapsing legacies_; (p. 91) 
when, considering that only the _substance_ was essential--especially 
as every owner of the book may be supposed to have the Code also--it 
might more clearly, and as satisfactorily, have been couched in five 
lines, as follows: "When a legatee or devisee, descended from the 
testator, dies before him, leaving any descendant who survives him; 
the legacy or devise shall vest in such surviving descendant, as if 
the legatee or devisee had survived the testator, and then died 
unmarried and intestate." And he takes _three quarters of a page_ 
(copied from the Revised Code) to say that "a surety may in writing 
notify the creditor to sue upon the bond, bill, or note, which binds 
the surety; and unless the creditor sue in reasonable time, and 
proceed with due diligence to recover the sum due, the surety shall be 
exonerated." (pp. 132, 133.) In the name of all that is reasonable, 
why should not a writer disencumber his pages of the rubbish of 
_howbeit_, _provided_, _nevertheless_, _notwithstanding_, and 
_aforesaid_, when, by doing so, he might save himself and his readers 
so much time and toil?

Some quarrel, too, we have, with the _judicial_ law, which principally 
fills the book. It is too _mere a digest of cases_. A head in the 
Table of Contents refers us to a page, where we expect to find a full 
elementary exposition of at least the leading doctrines that fall 
under that head: but we see perhaps only a single _case_, or a judge's 
_dictum_, not at all realizing the promise of the reference, by 
unfolding all pertinent general principles. Thus, under the caption, 
"WHEN A STATEMENT OF A TRANSACTION MUST BE TAKEN ALTOGETHER," instead 
of finding a general rule laid down on the point indicated, we find 
only a case briefly stated, from which we are left to deduce a rule, 
_if we can_. (pp. 329, 330.) Under the very next head, the well 
established principle, that 'an Answer is no evidence for the 
defendant, as to any thing it affirms, not responsive to the 
allegations of the Bill, but that it _is_ evidence, so far as it 
responds to those allegations'--is whittled away to the position, that 
it is not evidence as to any affirmative matter, touching which the 
Bill _seeks no discovery_. Now, if the Bill positively alleges one 
thing (whether it calls for a _discovery_ or not,) and the answer as 
positively alleges the reverse; such denial stands for proof, and must 
be rebutted by testimony: and so, we conceive, do the cases clearly 
evince, which are cited by our author himself; _Beckwith_ v. _Butler_, 
_Paynes_ v. _Coles_ (see 1 Munf. 379, 389, 397,) and even _Taylor_ v. 
_Moore_, whence he quotes (and quotes truly) in the form of a judge's 
_dictum_, the position in question--not to speak of 1 Call, 224, 390; 
the _dicta_ of Roane and Carrington in the case of _Rowton_ v. 
_Rowton_, 1 Hen. and Munf.; and many other authorities. The principle, 
in its true extent, is well illustrated by the case cited from {51} 
1 Johnson's Reports, 580, where an Answer alleging usury, of which the 
Bill had said nothing, was held _no evidence_. The case from 2 Leigh, 
29, is infelicitously adduced. The _point_ professedly quoted from it 
was not there adjudged: it was only maintained by _one judge_, who (we 
say it with a deference heightened by affection, as well as by 
respect) seems to us to have therein gainsayed the well settled 
doctrine we have referred to, and therefore to have _erred_. The 
Answer, there, (see 2 Leigh, 35, 36) was responsive to the Bill, and 
must have prevailed against it, but for the numerous and weighty 
countervailing circumstances detailed by that judge himself. (pp. 49 
to 53.) The _deed_ in controversy was stamped with more badges of 
fraud than are enumerated in the celebrated _Twyne's Case_. These, 
doubtless, and not any doubt as to the legal effect of the Answer, 
satisfied the minds of the other judges, who merely agreed in 
pronouncing the deed fraudulent, without assigning reasons.

Some omissions in so comprehensive a work, were to be expected--indeed 
were unavoidable. Not in the spirit of censure, therefore, but merely 
to awaken the author's attention in his next edition, or in his next 
production, we remark, that he has overlooked an important decision; 
(in 2 Leigh, 370,) 'that a tenant, whose goods are wrongfully 
distrained, cannot obtain relief in equity, unless he shew good reason 
for not having brought his action of replevin.'

Divers other topics we were minded to discuss with our intelligent 
author: but on glancing over our two last paragraphs, we are struck 
with fear lest our unprofessional readers may have been already 
offended at the strong _smell of the shop_, discernible in what we 
have produced; and stop their ears against the technical dissonance of

  ----"sounds uncouth, and accents dry,
  That grate the soul of harmony."

But we cannot let the _Index_ pass unreproved. Its length--the length 
of its _indicating_ sentences--and the utter absence of any 
_sub-alphabetical_ arrangement--in a great degree frustrate its use as 
an index. We can find what we want nearly as well by the 'Contents.'

After all our censures, however--or cavils, if the author 
pleases--there remains to him so large a residue of solid desert, that 
he cannot miss the small deduction we have made. His book is one which 
we would advise every lawyer, in Virginia at least, to buy; and even 
those in other states--the Western, especially, whose Chancery systems 
most resemble ours--can hardly find one that will aid them so much in 
disentangling the intricacies of Chancery Practice. Never have we paid 
the price of a commodity more ungrudgingly.


MEMOIR OF DR. RICE.

_A Memoir of the Reverend John H. Rice, D.D. First Professor of 
Christian Theology in Union Theological Seminary, Virginia. By William 
Maxwell. Philadelphia: Published by J. Whetham._

This Memoir will be received and read with pleasure generally: and 
among those who have been so fortunate as to have seen and heard Dr. 
Rice, it will be perused with the deepest interest and gratification. 
We believe there are very many, in Virginia especially, who will be 
able to identify the letters of this divine, contained in the present 
volume, with the voice, the manner, and personal appearance of the man 
himself--and upon all such Mr. Maxwell has conferred an obligation of 
no common kind. The greater portion of the work consists of these 
letters, and they are valuable in every respect. Many of them are, as 
Mr. M. himself expresses it, entirely _narrative_, and give the most 
authentic and minute accounts of the various movements of the writer 
at different periods of his life, particularly after his removal to 
Richmond, and during his labors in establishing the Union Theological 
Seminary. Others again are _pastoral_, and addressed to different 
members of his Church. Some are merely ordinary letters of friendship. 
All, however, are full of thought, and give evidence of an elevated, a 
healthy, cheerful, powerful, and well regulated mind.

In availing himself of the assistance afforded by these letters, Mr. 
Maxwell has never anticipated their contents--thus avoiding much 
useless repetition, and suffering the subject of the Memoir to tell, 
in a great measure, his own story in his own words. The work is 
well--indeed even beautifully _gotten up_--is embellished with an 
admirably finished head of Mr. Rice, engraved by J. Sartain, from a 
painting by W. J. Hubard--and is, in every respect, an acceptable and 
valuable publication. Among the letters in the volume is one from John 
Randolph of Roanoke, and several from Wm. Wirt. We select one of these 
latter, being well assured that it will be read with that deep 
interest which is attached to every thing emanating from the same pen.

TO THE REV. JOHN H. RICE.

_Washington, February 1, 1822_.

MY DEAR SIR,--Your letter of the 31st ult. is just received at 5 P.M. 
for I have just returned from the President's. I feel the blush of 
genuine shame at the apparent presumption of adding my name in favor 
of the magazine to that of the eminent gentlemen at Princeton. This is 
real and unaffected--but you desire it--and I dare follow your beck in 
any direction. Would that I could in one still more important.

Holingshead's History of Duncan of Scotland, is under copy by my 
Elizabeth (my daughter, once your pet) for the purpose of showing the 
full basis of Shakspeare's Macbeth. I think you will be pleased with 
it--and the readers of Shakspeare must differ much from me, if they do 
not find it very interesting.

If you suppose from what I said of nine o'clock that that is my hour 
of going to bed on _week-day nights_, you are mistaken by several 
hours. For some time past, I have been obliged to be in my office 
before breakfast, and till nine or ten o'clock at night, when I have 
to come home, take my tea, talk over family affairs, and get to bed 
between eleven and twelve; but it is killing me also. And as death 
would be most extremely inconvenient to me in more respects than one, 
at this time, I shall quit that course of operations, and look a 
little to my health, if I can survive the approaching Supreme 
Court--_sed quære de hoc_.

My troubles not being already enough, in the estimation of the 
honorable body now assembled in the Capitol, they are beginning to 
institute inquiries, for my better amusement, into the circumstances 
of three fees paid me by the government, in the course of the four 
years that I have been here, for professional services foreign to my 
official duties--a thing which has been continually done at all times, 
under this government, but which they affect to think a new affair 
entirely, and only an additional proof among ten thousand others of 
the waste of public money, by the rapacity, if not peculation, of 
those in office. I am sick of public life; my skin is too thin for the 
business; a politician should have the hide of a rhinoceros, to bear 
the thrusts of the folly, ignorance, and meanness of those who are 
disposed to mount into momentary consequence by questioning _their 
betters_, if I may be excused the expression after professing my 
modesty. "There's nought but care on every hand;" all, all is vanity 
and vexation of spirit, save religion, friendship, and literature.

I agree that your story of the _Oysterman_ is the best, but I {52} 
suspect that the Orange story is the true original. I knew old 
Bletcher: _he_ was a _Baptist_ preacher; and although I did not hear 
the words, they are so much in his character that I verily believe 
them to have been uttered by him; and it would have been quite in his 
character too to have gone on with the amplification you suggest.

I do sincerely wish it were in my power to mount the aforesaid gay 
streamer, and long Tom, on your gallant little barque. I will try in 
the spring and summer to contribute a stripe or two, and a blank 
cartridge or so; but I shall not tell you when I do, that it is I, for 
it is proper you should have it in your power to say truly, "I do not 
know who it is." I have already got credit for much that I never 
wrote, and much that I never said. The guessers have an uncommon 
propensity to attribute all galling personalities to me, all sketches 
of character that touch the quick, and make some readers wince. I 
have, in truth, in times gone by, been a little wanton and imprudent 
in this particular, and I deserve to smart a little in my turn. But I 
never wrote a line wickedly or maliciously. There is nothing in the 
Spy that deserves this imputation, and nothing in the Old Bachelor, 
which, give me leave to tell you, "_venia deter verbo_," you and your 
magazine, and your writer, ** have underrated. There is a juster 
criticism of it in the Analectic Magazine--but this writer, too, has 
not true taste nor sensibility. He accuses me of extravagance only 
because he never felt himself, the rapture of inspiration. And you 
accuse me of redundant figure, because you are not much troubled 
yourself with the throes of imagination--just as G-- H-- abuses 
eloquence because there is no chord in his heart that responds to its 
notes. So take that. And if you abuse me any more, I will belabor your 
magazine as one of the heaviest, dullest, most drab-colored 
periodicals extant in these degenerate days. What! shall a Conestoga 
wagon-horse find fault with a courser of the sun, because he sometimes 
runs away with the chariot of day, and sets the world on fire? So take 
that again, and put it in your pocket. But enough of this _badinage_, 
for if I pursue it much farther you will think me serious--besides it 
is verging to eleven, and the fire has gone down. I began this scrawl 
a little after five--walked for health till dark--came in and found 
company who remained till near ten--and could not go to bed without a 
little more talk with you. But I shall tire you and catch cold--so 
with our united love to Mrs. Rice, my dear Harriet, and yourself, good 
night.

Your friend, in truth,
  WM. WIRT.


LIFE OF DR. CALDWELL.

_Oration on the Life and Character of the Rev. Joseph Caldwell, D.D. 
late President of the University of North Carolina, by Walker 
Anderson, A.M._

It was only within the last few days that we met with the above 
oration, in a pamphlet form--and we cannot refrain from expressing the 
very great pleasure its perusal has afforded us. Dr. Caldwell was 
unquestionably a great and good man--and certain are we that the task 
of paying tribute to his manifold qualifications and virtues, now that 
he is gone, could not have been committed to abler hands, than those 
of Professor Anderson. The tone of feeling pervading the oration is 
quite characteristic of its author--ardent--affectionate--consistent.

"We come," says he, near the beginning, "we come as a band of 
brothers, to do homage to that parental love, of which all of us, the 
old as well as the young, have been the objects; and by communing with 
the spirit of our departed father, to enkindle those hallowed emotions 
which are the fittest offering to his memory. But why needs the living 
speaker recall to your remembrance the venerated and beloved being 
whose loss is fresh in the memories of all who hear me? We stand not, 
it is true, over his grave, as the Spartan over the sepulchre of his 
king, but his memorials present themselves to the eye on every side 
and are felt in every throbbing bosom. The shady retreats of this 
consecrated grove--the oft frequented halls of this seat of 
learning--the sacred edifice in which we are assembled--and the very 
spot on which I stand, are memorials to awaken the busy and thronging 
recollections of many a full heart! _Quocumque ingredimur in aliquam 
historiam vestigium ponimus._ I look around this assembly and see 
monuments of his love and of his labors, such as can never grace the 
memory of the warrior, and which throw contempt on all the sculptured 
memorials of kings. I look at the eyes beaming with intelligence; I 
contemplate the refined intellects; I see their rich fruits in public 
and honorable employment; I recall the memory of others who are far 
distant, but whose thoughts are mingling with ours upon this occasion; 
who have carried with them the seeds of virtue and wisdom which they 
gathered here, and in other lands, have brought forth the noblest 
results of usefulness and honorable consideration. I revert, too, to 
those whose bright career is ended, and who preceded their guide and 
instructor to the abodes of the blessed. I think of all this, and feel 
that you need not the voice of the speaker to arouse your grateful 
recollections." p. 4.

Mr. Anderson shortly after this, goes into a very interesting sketch 
of the family history of the deceased, portraying with great 
tenderness and delicacy, the maternal solicitude to which young 
Caldwell was so deeply indebted for his well doing in after life--and 
evincing as we humbly conceive, in this part of his oration, fine 
powers as a biographical writer. There is much force in his 
development of the Doctor's character throughout, but especial beauty, 
we think, in the way in which he treats of his religious principles. 
One extract more from the pamphlet, in proof of what we have just 
said, must close this hasty and imperfect notice of it.

"The religious character of Dr. Caldwell, was not the formation of a 
day, nor the hasty and imperfect work of a dying bed. His trust was 
anchored on the rock of ages, and he was therefore well furnished for 
the terrible conflict that awaited him. We have seen that he had made 
Religion the guide of his youth; it beautified and sanctified the 
labors of his well spent life; nor did it fail him in the trying hour, 
which an allwise but inscrutable Providence permitted to be to him 
peculiarly dark and fearful. The rich consolations of his faith became 
brighter and stronger, amidst the wreck of the decaying tabernacle of 
flesh; and if the dying testimony of a pure and humble spirit may be 
received, death had for him no sting--the grave achieved no triumph. 
In any frequent and detailed account of his religious feelings he was 
not inclined to indulge--the spirit that walks most closely with its 
God, needs not the sustaining influence of such excitements--yet a few 
weeks previous to his death, a friend from a distant part of the State 
calling to see him, made inquiries as to the state of his mind, and 
had the privilege of hearing from him the calm assurance of his 
perfect resignation and submission to the will of God. His hope of a 
happy immortality beyond the grave, was such as belongs only to the 
Christian, and by him was modestly but humbly entertained. It was to 
him a principle of strength that sustained him amidst the conflicts of 
the dark valley; and to us who witnessed the agonies of his parting 
hour, a bright radiance illuming the gloom which memory throws around 
the trying scene." pp. 38, 39.


WASHINGTONII VITA.

_A Life of George Washington, in Latin Prose: By Francis Glass, A.M. 
of Ohio. Edited by J. N. Reynolds. New York: Published by Harper and 
Brothers._

We may truly say that not for years have we taken up a volume with 
which we have been so highly gratified, as with the one now before us. 
A Life of Washington, succinct in form, yet in matter sufficiently 
comprehensive, has been long a desideratum: but a Life of Washington 
precisely such as a compendious Life of that great man should 
be--written by a native of Ohio--and written too, in Latin, which is 
not one jot inferior to the Latin of Erasmus, is, to say the least of 
it,--a novelty.

We confess that we regarded the first announcement {53} of this _rara 
avis_ with an evil and suspicious eye. The thing was improbable, we 
thought. Mr. Reynolds was quizzing us--the brothers Harper were 
hoaxed--and Messieurs Anthon and Co. were mistaken. At all events we 
had made up our minds to be especially severe upon Mr. Glass, and to 
put no faith in that species of classical Latin which should emanate 
from the back woods of Ohio. We now solemnly make a recantation of our 
preconceived opinions, and so proceed immediately to do penance for 
our unbelief.

Mr. Reynolds is entitled to the thanks of his countrymen for his 
instrumentality in bringing this book before the public. It has 
already done wonders in the cause of the classics; and we are false 
prophets if it do not ultimately prove the means of stirring up to a 
new life and a regenerated energy that love of the learned tongues 
which is the surest protection of our own vernacular language from 
impurity, but which, we are grieved to see, is in a languishing and 
dying condition in the land.

We have read Mr. R's preface with great attention; and meeting with 
it, as we have done, among a multiplicity of worldly concerns, and 
every-day matters and occurrences, it will long remain impressed upon 
our minds as an episode of the purest romance. We have no difficulty 
in entering fully with Mr. Reynolds into his kindly feelings towards 
Mr. Glass. We perceive at once that we could have loved and reverenced 
the man. His image is engraven upon our fancy. Indeed we behold him 
_now_--at this very moment--with all his oddities and appurtenances 
about him. We behold the low log-cabin of a school-house--the 
clap-board roof but indifferently tight--the holes, ycleped windows, 
covered with oiled paper to keep out the air--the benches of hewn 
timber stuck fast in the ground--the stove, the desk, the urchins, and 
the Professor. We can hear the worthy pedagogue's classical 
'_Salves_,' and our ears are still tingling with his hyperclassical 
exhortations. In truth he was a man after our own heart, and, were we 
not Alexander, we should have luxuriated in being Glass.

A word or two respecting the Latinity of the book. We sincerely think 
that it has been underrated. While we agree with Mr. Reynolds, for 
whose opinions, generally, we have a high respect, that the work can 
boast of none of those elegancies of diction, no rich display of those 
beauties and graces which adorn the pages of some modern Latinists, we 
think he has forgotten, in his search after the mere flowers of 
Latinity, the peculiar nature of that labor in which Mr. Glass has 
been employed. Simplicity _here_ was the most reasonable, and indeed 
the only admissible elegance. And if this be taken into consideration, 
we really can call to mind, at this moment, no modern Latin 
composition whatever much superior to the _Washingtonii Vita_ of Mr. 
Glass.

The clothing of modern ideas in a language dead for centuries, is a 
task whose difficulty can never be fully appreciated by those who have 
never undertaken it. The various changes and modifications, which, 
since the Augustan age, have come to pass in the sciences of war and 
legislation especially, must render any attempt similar to that which 
we are now criticising, one of the most hazardous and awkward 
imaginable. But we cannot help thinking that our author has succeeded 
_à merveille_. His ingenuity is not less remarkable than his 
grammatical skill. Indeed he is never at a loss. It is nonsense to 
laugh at his calling Quakers _Tremebundi_. _Tremebundi_ is as good 
Latin as _Trementes_, and more euphonical Latin than _Quackeri_--for 
both which latter expressions we have the authority of Schroeckh: and 
_glandes plumbeæ_, for bullets, is something better, we imagine, than 
Wyttenbach's _bombarda_, for a cannon; Milton's _globulus_, for a 
button; or Grotius' _capilamentum_, for a wig. As a specimen of Mr. 
G's Latinity, we subjoin an extract from the work. It is Judge 
Marshall's announcement in Congress of the death of Washington.

"Nuncius tristis, quem heri accepimus, hodierno die nimium certus 
advenit. Fuit Washingtonius; heros, dux, et philosophus; ille, 
denique, quem, imminente periculo, omnes intuebantur, factorum 
clarorum memoriâ duntaxat vixit. Quamvis enim, eos honore afficere 
solenne non esset, quorum vita in generis humani commodis promovendis 
insumpta fuit, Washingtonii, tamen, res gestoe tantoe extiterunt, ut 
populus universus Americanus, doloris indicium, qui tam latè patet, 
deposcere suo jure debet."

"Rempublicam hancce nostram, tam longè latèque divisam, unus ferè 
Washingtonius ordinandi et condendi laudem meret. Rebus omnibus, 
tandem confectis, quarum causâ exercitibus Americanis proepositus 
fuerat, gladium in vomerem convertit, bellumque pace lætissimè 
commutavit. Cum civitatum foederatarum Americanarum infirmitas omnibus 
manifesta videretur, et vincula, quibus Columbi terra latissima 
continebatur, solverentur, Washingtonium omnium, qui hancce nostram 
proeclaram rempublicam stabiliverant, principem vidimus. Cum patria 
charissima eum ad sedandos tumultus, bellumque sibi imminens ad 
propulsandum et avertendum, vocaret; Washingtonium, otium domesticum, 
quod ei semper charum fuit, relinquentem, et undis civilibus, civium 
commoda et libertatem servandi causâ, mersum, haud semel conspeximus; 
et consilia, quibus libertatem Americanam stabilem effecerat, 
perpetua, ut spero, semper, erunt."

"Cum populi liberi magistratus summus bis constitutus esset, cumque 
tertiò præses fieri facillimè potuisset, ad villam, tamen, suam, 
secessit, seque ab omni munere civili in posterum procul amoveri, ex 
animo cupiebat. Utcunque vulgi opinio, quoad alios homines, mutetur, 
Washingtonii, certè, fama sempiterna et eadem permanebit. Honoremus, 
igitur, patres conscripti, hunc tantum virum mortuum: civitatum 
foederatarum Americanarum consilium publicum civium omnium sententias, 
hác una in re, declaret."

"Quamobrem, chartas quasdam hîc manu teneo, de quibus Congressûs 
sententiam rogare velim: ut, nempe, civitatum foederatarum 
Americanarum consilium publicum proesidem visat, simul cum eo, gravi 
de hoc casu, condoliturum: ut Congressûs principis sella vestibus 
pullis ornetur; utque Congressus pars reliqua vestibus pullis 
induatur: utque, denique, idonea à Congressu parentur, quibus planè 
manifestum fiat, Congressum, virum bello, pace, civiumque animis 
primum, honore summo afficere velle."[1]

[Footnote 1: The sad tidings which yesterday brought us, this day has 
but too surely confirmed. Washington is no more. The hero, the 
general, the philosopher--he, upon whom, in the hour of danger, all 
eyes were turned, now lives in the remembrance, only, of his 
illustrious actions. And although, even, it were not customary to 
render honor unto those who have spent their lives in promoting the 
welfare of their fellow men, still, so great are the deeds of 
Washington, that the whole American nation is bound to give a public 
manifestation of that grief which is so extensively prevalent.

Washington, we had nearly said Washington _alone_, deserves the credit 
of regulating and building up, as it were, the widely extended 
territory of this our Republic. Having finally achieved all for which 
he had accepted the command of the American forces, he converted his 
sword into a ploughshare, and joyfully exchanged war for peace. When 
the weakness of the United States of America appeared manifest to all, 
and the bands by which the very extensive land of Columbus was held 
together, were in danger of being loosened, we have seen Washington 
the first among those who re-invigorated this our glorious Republic. 
When his beloved country called him to quiet tumults, and to avert the 
war with which she was menaced, we have once more seen Washington 
abandon that domestic tranquillity so dear to him, and plunge into the 
waters of civil life to preserve the liberties and happiness of his 
countrymen: and the counsels with which he re-established American 
liberty will be, as I hope, perpetual.

When he had been twice appointed the Chief Magistrate of a free 
people, and when, for the third time, he might easily have been 
President, he nevertheless retired to his farm, and really desired to 
be freed from all civil offices forever. However vulgar opinion may 
vary in respect to other men, the fame of Washington will, surely, be 
the same to all eternity. Therefore, let us show our reverence for 
this so great man who is departed, and let this public counsel of the 
United States of America declare upon this one subject the opinion of 
all our citizens.

For this end I hold these resolutions in my hand, concerning which I 
would wish the opinion of Congress, viz: that this public counsel of 
the United States of America should visit the President to condole 
with him upon this heavy calamity--that the speaker's chair be arrayed 
in black--that the members of Congress wear mourning--and lastly, that 
arrangements be entered into by this assembly, in which it may be made 
manifest that Congress wish to do every honor to the man first in war, 
first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.]

The 'barbarisms' of Mr. Glass are always so well in accordance with 
the genius of Latin declension, as {54} never to appear at variance 
with the spirit of the language, or out of place in their respective 
situations. His 'equivalents,' too, are, in all cases, ingeniously 
managed: and we are mistaken if the same can be said of the 
'equivalents' of Erasmus--certainly not of those used by Grotius, or 
Addison, or Schroeckh, or Buchanan, neither of whom are scrupulous in 
introducing words, from which a modern one is deduced, in the exact 
sense of the English analogous term--although that term may have been 
greatly perverted from its original meaning.

Having said thus much in favor of the _Washingtonii Vita_, we may now 
be permitted to differ in opinion with Professor Wylie and others who 
believe that this book will be a valuable acquisition to our classical 
schools, as initiatory to Cæsar or Nepos. We are quite as fully 
impressed with the excellences of Mr. Glass' work as the warmest of 
his admirers; and perhaps, even more than any of them, are we anxious 
to do it justice. Still the book is--as it professes to be--a Life of 
Washington; and it treats, consequently, of events and incidents 
occurring _in a manner_ utterly unknown to the Romans, and _at a 
period_ many centuries after their ceasing to exist as a nation. If, 
therefore, by Latin we mean the Language spoken by the Latins, a large 
proportion of the work--disguise the fact as we may--is necessarily 
_not Latin at all_. Did we indeed design to instruct our youth in a 
language of possibilities--did we wish to make them proficient in the 
tongue which _might have been spoken_ in ancient Rome, had ancient 
Rome existed in the nineteenth century, we could scarcely have a 
better book for the purpose than the Washington of Mr. Glass. But we 
do not perceive that, in teaching Latin, we have any similar view. And 
we have given over all hope of making this language the medium of 
universal communication--that day-dream, with a thousand others, is 
over. Our object then, at present, is simply to imbue the mind of the 
student with the idiom, the manner, the thought, and above all, with 
_the words_ of antiquity. If this is not our object, what is it? But 
this object cannot be effected by any such work as the _Washingtonii 
Vita_.


NORMAN LESLIE.

_Norman Leslie. A Tale of the Present Times. New York: Published by 
Harper and Brothers._

Well!--here we have it! This is _the_ book--_the_ book _par 
excellence_--the book bepuffed, beplastered, and be-_Mirrored_: the 
book "attributed to" Mr. Blank, and "said to be from the pen" of Mr. 
Asterisk: the book which has been "about to appear"--"in press"--"in 
progress"--"in preparation"--and "forthcoming:" the book "graphic" in 
anticipation--"talented" _a priori_--and God knows what _in 
prospectu_. For the sake of every thing puffed, puffing, and puffable, 
let us take a peep at its contents!

Norman Leslie, gentle reader, a Tale of the Present Times, is, after 
all, written by nobody in the world but Theodore S. Fay, and Theodore 
S. Fay is nobody in the world but "one of the Editors of the New York 
Mirror." The book commences with a Dedication to Colonel Herman Thorn, 
in which that worthy personage, whoever he may be, is held up, in 
about a dozen lines, to the admiration of the public, as "hospitable," 
"generous," "attentive," "benevolent," "kind-hearted," "liberal," 
"highly-esteemed," and withal "a patron of the arts." But the less we 
say of this matter the better.

In the Preface Mr. Fay informs us that the most important features of 
his story are founded on fact--that he has availed himself of certain 
poetical licenses--that he has transformed character, and particularly 
the character of a young lady, (oh fi! Mr. Fay--oh, Mr. Fay, fi!) that 
he has sketched certain peculiarities with a mischievous hand--and 
that the art of novel writing is as dignified as the art of Canova, 
Mozart or Raphael,--from which we are left to infer, that Mr. Fay 
himself is as dignified as Raphael, Mozart, and Canova--all three. 
Having satisfied us on this head, he goes on to say something about an 
humble student, with a feeble hand, throwing groupings upon a canvass, 
and standing behind a curtain: and then, after perpetrating all these 
impertinences, thinks it best "frankly to bespeak the indulgence of 
the solemn and sapient critics." Body of Bacchus! _we_, at least, are 
neither solemn nor sapient, and, therefore, do not feel ourselves 
bound to show him a shadow of mercy. But will any body tell us what is 
the object of Prefaces in general, and what is the meaning of Mr. 
Fay's Preface in particular?

As far as we can understand the plot of Norman Leslie, it is this. A 
certain family reside in Italy--"independent," "enlightened," 
"affectionate," "happy,"--and all that. Their villa, of course, stands 
upon the seashore, and their whole establishment is, we are assured, 
"a scene of Heaven," &c. Mr. Fay says he will not even attempt to 
describe it--why, therefore, should we? A daughter of this family is 
nineteen when she is wooed by a young Neapolitan, Rinaldo, of "mean 
extraction, but of great beauty and talent." The lover, being a man of 
suspicious character, is rejected by the parents, and a secret 
marriage ensues. The lady's brother pursues the bridegroom--they 
fight--and the former is killed. The father and mother die (it is 
impossible to see for what purpose they ever lived) and Rinaldo flies 
to Venice. Upon rejoining her husband in that city, the lady (for Mr. 
Fay has not thought her worth enduing with a specific appellation) 
discovers {55} him, for the first time, to be a rascal. One fine day 
he announces his intention of leaving herself and son for an 
indefinite time. The lady beseeches and finally threatens. "It was the 
first unfolding," says she, in a letter towards the _dénouement_ of 
the story, "of that character which neither he nor I knew belonged to 
my nature. It was the first uncoiling of the basilisk within me, (good 
Heavens, a snake in a lady's stomach!). He gazed on me incredulously, 
and cooly smiled. You remember that smile--I fainted!!!" Alas! Mr. 
Davy Crockett,--Mr. Davy Crockett, alas!--thou art beaten hollow--thou 
art defunct, and undone! thou hast indeed succeeded in grinning a 
squirrel from a tree, but it surpassed even thine extraordinary 
abilities to smile a lady into a fainting fit!

"When I recovered"--continues the lady--"he was gone. It was two years 
before I could trace him. At length I found he had sailed for America. 
I followed him in the depth of winter--I and my child. I knew not the 
name he had assumed, and I was struck mute with astonishment, in your 
beautiful city, on beholding, surrounded by fair ladies, the form of 
my husband, still beautiful, and still adored. You know the rest." But 
as our readers may not be as well informed as the correspondent of the 
fair forsaken, we will enlighten them with some farther particulars.

Rinaldo, upon leaving his _cara sposa_, had taken shipping for New 
York, where, assuming the name of "Count Clairmont of the French 
army," he succeeds in cutting a dash, or, in more proper parlance, in 
creating a sensation, among the beaux and belles of the city of 
Gotham. One fair lady, and rich heiress, Miss Flora Temple, is 
particularly honored by his attentions, and the lady's mother, Mrs. 
T., fired with the idea of her daughter becoming a real countess, 
makes no scruple of encouraging his addresses. Matters are in this 
position when the wife of the adventurer arrives in New York, and is 
quite bewildered with astonishment upon beholding, one snowy day, her 
beloved Rinaldo sleighing it to and fro about the streets of New York. 
In the midst of her amazement she is in danger of being run over by 
some horses, when a certain personage, by name Norman Leslie, but who 
might, with equal propriety, be called Sir Charles Grandison, flies to 
her assistance, whisks herself and child up in the very nick of time, 
and suddenly rescues them, as Mr. Fay has it, "from the very jaws of 
Death"--by which we are to understand from the very hoofs of the 
horses. The lady of course swoons--then recovers--and then--is 
excessively grateful. Her gratitude, however, being of no service just 
at that moment, is bottled up for use hereafter, and will no doubt, 
according to established usage in such cases, come into play towards 
the close of the second volume. But we shall see.

Having ascertained the address of Rinaldo, _alias_ the Count 
Clairmont, the lady, next morning, is successful in obtaining an 
interview. Then follows a second edition of entreaties and threats, 
but, fortunately for the nerves Of Mrs. Rinaldo, the Count, upon this 
occasion, is so forbearing as not to indulge in a smile. She accuses 
him of a design to marry Miss Temple, and he informs her that it is no 
concern of hers--that she is not his wife, their marriage having been 
a feigned one. "She would have cried him through the city for a 
villain," (Dust ho!--she should have advertised him) but he swears 
that, in that case, he will never sleep until he has taken the life of 
both the lady and her child, which assurance puts an end to the 
debate. "He then frankly confesses"--says Mrs. Rinaldo, in the letter 
which we have before quoted,--"that his passion for Miss Temple was 
only a mask--he loved her not. _Me_ he said he loved. It was his 
intention to fly when he could raise a large sum of money, and he 
declared that I should be his companion." His designs, however, upon 
Miss Temple fail--that lady very properly discarding the rascal. 
Nothing daunted at this mishap our Count proceeds to make love to a 
certain Miss Rosalie Romain, and with somewhat better success. He 
prevails upon her to fly, and to carry with her upon her person a 
number of diamonds which the lover hopes to find sufficient for his 
necessities. He manages also to engage Mrs. Rinaldo (so we must call 
her for want of a better name) in his schemes.

It has so happened that for some time prior to these occurrences, 
Clairmont and Norman Leslie, the hero of the novel, have been sworn 
foes. On the day fixed for Miss Romain's elopement, that young lady 
induces Mr. Leslie to drive her, in a gig, a short distance out of 
town. They are met by no less a personage than Mrs. Rinaldo herself, 
in another gig, and driving (_proh pudor!_) through the woods _sola_. 
Hereupon Miss Rosalie Romain very deliberately, and to the great 
astonishment, no doubt, of Mr. Leslie, gets out of that gentleman's 
gig, and into the gig of Mrs. Rinaldo. Here's plot! as Vapid says in 
the play. Our friend Norman, finding that nothing better can be done, 
turns his face towards New York again, where he arrives, in due time, 
without farther accident or adventure. Late the same evening Clairmont 
sends the ladies aboard a vessel bound for Naples, and which is to 
sail in the morning--returning himself, for the present, to his hotel 
in Broadway. While here he receives a horse-whipping from Mr. Leslie 
on account of certain insinuations in disparagement of that 
gentleman's character. Not relishing this treatment he determines upon 
revenge, and can think of no better method of accomplishing it than 
the directing of public suspicion against Mr. Leslie as the murderer 
of Miss Romain--whose disappearance has already created much 
excitement. He sends a message to Mrs. Rinaldo that the vessel must 
sail without him, and that he would, by a French ship, meet them on 
their landing at Naples. He then flings a hat and feathers belonging 
to Miss Romain upon a stream, and her handkerchief in a 
wood--afterwards remaining some time in America to avert suspicion 
from himself. Leslie is arrested for the murder, and the proofs are 
damning against him. He is, however, to the great indignation of the 
populace, acquitted, Miss Temple appearing to testify that she 
actually saw Miss Romain subsequently to her ride with Leslie. Our 
hero, however, although acquitted, is universally considered guilty, 
and, through the active malice of Clairmont, is heaped with every 
species of opprobrium. Miss Temple, who, it appears, is in love with 
him, falls ill with grief: but is cured, after all other means have 
failed, by a letter from her lover announcing a reciprocal 
passion--for the young lady has hitherto supposed him callous to her 
charms. Leslie himself, however, takes it into his head, at this 
critical juncture, to travel; and, having packed up his baggage, does 
actually forget himself so far as to go {56} a-Willising in foreign 
countries. But we have no reason to suppose that, goose as the young 
gentleman is, he is silly enough to turn travelling correspondent to 
any weekly paper. In Rome, having assumed the _alias_ of Montfort, he 
meets with a variety of interesting adventures. All the ladies die for 
him: and one in particular, Miss Antonia Torrini, the only child of a 
Duke with several millions of piastres, and a palace which Mr. Fay 
thinks very much like the City Hall in New York, absolutely throws 
herself _sans ceremonie_ into his arms, and meets--tell it not in 
Gath!--with a flat and positive refusal.

Among other persons whom he encounters is a monk Ambrose, a painter 
Angelo, another painter Ducci, a Marquis Alezzi, and a Countess D., 
which latter personage he is convinced of having seen at some prior 
period of his life. For a page or two we are entertained with a 
prospect of a conspiracy, and have great hopes that the principal 
characters in the plot will so far oblige us as to cut one another's 
throats: but (alas for human expectations!) Mr. Fay having clapped his 
hands, and cried "Presto!--vanish!" the whole matter ends in smoke, 
or, as our author beautifully expresses it, is "veiled in impenetrable 
mystery."

Mr. Leslie now pays a visit to the painter Ducci, and is astonished at 
there beholding the portrait of the very youth whose life he saved, 
together with that of his mother, from the horses in New York. Then 
follows a series of interesting ejaculations, among which we are able 
to remember only "horrible suspicion!" "wonderful development!" "alack 
and alas!" with some two or three others. Mr. Leslie is, however, 
convinced that the portrait of the boy is, as Mr. F. gracefully has 
it, "inexplicably connected with his own mysterious destiny." He pays 
a visit to the Countess D., and demands of her if she was, at any 
time, acquainted with a gentleman called Clairmont. The lady very 
properly denies all knowledge of that character, and Mr. Leslie's 
"mysterious destiny" is in as bad a predicament as ever. He is however 
fully convinced that Clairmont is the origin of all evil--we do not 
mean to say that he is precisely the devil--but the origin of all Mr. 
Leslie's evil. Therefore, and on this account, he goes to a 
masquerade, and, sure enough, Mr. Clairmont, (who has not been heard 
of for seven or eight years,) Mr. Clairmont (we suppose through Mr. 
L's "mysterious destiny") happens to go, at precisely the same time, 
to precisely the same masquerade. But there are surely no bounds to 
Mr. Fay's excellent invention. Miss Temple, of course, happens to be 
at the same place, and Mr. Leslie is in the act of making love to her 
once more, when the "inexplicable" Countess D. whispers into his ear 
some ambiguous sentences in which Mr. L. is given to understand that 
he must beware of all the Harlequins in the room, one of whom is 
Clairmont. Upon leaving the masquerade, somebody hands him a note 
requesting him to meet the unknown writer at St. Peter's. While he is 
busy reading the paper he is uncivilly interrupted by Clairmont, who 
attempts to assassinate him, but is finally put to flight. He hies, 
then, to the rendezvous at St. Peter's, where "the unknown" tells him 
St. Peter's won't answer, and that he must proceed to the Coliseum. He 
goes--why should he not?--and there not only finds the Countess D. who 
turns out to be Mrs. Rinaldo, and who now uncorks her bottle of 
gratitude, but also Flora Temple, Flora Temple's father, Clairmont, 
Kreutzner, a German friend from New York, and, last but not least, 
Rosalie Romain herself; all having gone there, no doubt, at three 
o'clock in the morning, under the influence of that interesting young 
gentleman Norman Leslie's "most inexplicable and mysterious destiny." 
Matters now come to a crisis. The hero's innocence is established, and 
Miss Temple falls into his arms in consequence. Clairmont, however, 
thinks he can do nothing better than shoot Mr. Leslie, and is about to 
do so, when he is very justly and very dexterously knocked in the head 
by Mr. Kreutzner. Thus ends the Tale of the Present Times, and thus 
ends the most inestimable piece of balderdash with which the common 
sense of the good people of America was ever so openly or so 
villainously insulted.

We do not mean to say that there is positively _nothing_ in Mr. Fay's 
novel to commend--but there is indeed very little. One incident is 
tolerably managed, in which, at the burning house of Mr. Temple, 
Clairmont anticipates Leslie in his design of rescuing Flora. A 
cotillon scene, too, where Morton, a simple fop, is frequently 
interrupted in his attempts at making love to Miss Temple, by the 
necessity of forward-twoing and _sachezing_, (as Mr. Fay thinks proper 
to call it) is by no means very bad, although savoring too much of the 
farcical. A duel story told by Kreutzner is really good, but 
unfortunately not original, there being a Tale in the _Diary of a 
Physician_, from which both its matter and manner are evidently 
borrowed. And here we are obliged to pause; for we can positively 
think of nothing farther worth even a qualified commendation. The 
plot, as will appear from the running outline we have given of it, is 
a monstrous piece of absurdity and incongruity. The characters _have 
no character_; and, with the exception of Morton, who is, (perhaps) 
amusing, are, one and all, vapidity itself. No attempt seems to have 
been made at individualization. All the good ladies and gentlemen are 
demi-gods and demi-goddesses, and all the bad are--the d--l. The hero, 
Norman Leslie, "that young and refined man with a leaning to poetry," 
is a great coxcomb and a great fool. What else must we think of a 
_bel-esprit_ who, in picking up a rose just fallen from the curls of 
his lady fair, can hit upon no more appropriate phrase with which to 
make her a presentation of the same, than "Miss Temple, you have 
dropped your rose--allow me!"--who courts his mistress with a "Dear, 
dear Flora, how I love you!"--who calls a _buffet_ a _bufet_, an 
_improvisatore_ an _improvisitore_--who, before bestowing charity, is 
always ready with the canting question if the object be 
_deserving_--who is everlastingly talking of his foe "sleeping in the 
same red grave with himself," as if American sextons made a common 
practice of burying two people together--and, who having not a sous in 
his pocket at page 86, pulls out a handful at page 87, although he has 
had no opportunity of obtaining a copper in the interim?

As regards Mr. Fay's _style_, it is unworthy of a school-boy. The 
"Editor of the New York Mirror" has either never seen an edition of 
Murray's Grammar, or he has been a-Willising so long as to have 
forgotten his vernacular language. Let us examine one or two of his 
sentences at random. Page 28, vol. i. "He {57} was doomed to wander 
through the _fartherest_ climes alone and branded." Why not say at 
once _fartherertherest_? Page 150, vol. i. "Yon kindling orb should be 
hers; and that faint spark close to its side should teach her how dim 
and yet how near my soul was to her own." What is the meaning of all 
this? Is Mr. Leslie's soul dim to her own, as well as near to her 
own?--for the sentence implies as much. Suppose we say "should teach 
her how dim was my soul, and yet how near to her own." Page 101, vol. 
i. "You are both right and both wrong--you, Miss Romain, to judge so 
harshly of all men who are not versed in the easy elegance of the 
drawing room, and your father in too great lenity towards men of 
sense, &c." This is really something new, but we are sorry to say, 
something incomprehensible. Suppose we translate it. "You are both 
right and both wrong--you, Miss Romain, _are both right and wrong_ to 
judge so harshly of all not versed in the elegance of the 
drawing-room, &c.; and your father _is both right and wrong_ in too 
great lenity towards men of sense."--Mr. Fay, have you ever visited 
Ireland in your peregrinations? But the book is full to the brim of 
such absurdities, and it is useless to pursue the matter any farther. 
There is not a single page of Norman Leslie in which even a school-boy 
would fail to detect at least two or three gross errors in Grammar, 
and some two or three most egregious sins against common-sense.

We will dismiss the "Editor of the Mirror" with a few questions. When 
did you ever know, Mr. Fay, of any prosecuting attorney behaving so 
much like a bear as _your_ prosecuting attorney in the novel of Norman 
Leslie? When did you ever hear of an American Court of Justice 
objecting to the testimony of a witness on the ground that the said 
witness _had an interest_ in the cause at issue? What do you mean by 
informing us at page 84, vol. i, "that you _think_ much faster than 
you write?" What do you mean by "_the wind roaring in the air_?" see 
page 26, vol. i. What do you mean by "an _unshadowed_ Italian girl?" 
see page 67, vol. ii. Why are you always talking about "stamping of 
feet," "kindling and flashing of eyes," "plunging and parrying," 
"cutting and thrusting," "passes through the body," "gashes open in 
the cheek," "sculls cleft down," "hands cut off," and blood gushing 
and bubbling, and doing God knows what else--all of which pretty 
expressions may be found on page 88, vol. i.? What "mysterious and 
inexplicable destiny" compels you to the so frequent use, in all its 
inflections, of that euphonical dyssyllable _blister_? We will call to 
your recollection some few instances in which you have employed it. 
Page 185, vol. i. "But an arrival from the city brought the fearful 
intelligence in all its _blistering_ and naked details." Page 193, 
vol. i. "What but the glaring and _blistering_ truth of the charge 
would select him, &c." Page 39, vol. ii. "Wherever the winds of heaven 
wafted the English language, the _blistering_ story must have been 
echoed." Page 150, vol. ii. "Nearly seven years had passed away, and 
here he found himself, as at first, still marked with the _blistering_ 
and burning brand." Here we have a _blistering_ detail, a _blistering_ 
truth, a _blistering_ story, and a _blistering_ brand, to say nothing 
of innumerable other blisters interspersed throughout the book. But we 
have done with Norman Leslie,--if ever we saw as silly a thing, may we 
be ---- blistered.


THE LINWOODS.

_The Linwoods; or, "Sixty Years Since" in America. By the Author of 
"Hope Leslie," "Redwood," &c. New York: Published by Harper and 
Brothers._

Miss Sedgwick is one among the few American writers who have risen by 
merely their own intrinsic talents, and without the _a priori_ aid of 
foreign opinion and puffery, to any exalted rank in the estimation of 
our countrymen. She is at the same time fully deserving of all the 
popularity she has attained. By those who are most fastidious in 
matters of literary criticism, the author of _Hope Leslie_ is the most 
ardently admired, and we are acquainted with few persons of sound and 
accurate discrimination who would hesitate in placing her upon a level 
with the best of our native novelists. Of American _female_ writers we 
must consider her the first. The character of her pen is essentially 
feminine. No man could have written _Hope Leslie_; and no man, we are 
assured, can arise from the perusal of _The Linwoods_ without a full 
conviction that his own abilities would have proved unequal to the 
delicate yet picturesque handling; the grace, warmth, and radiance; 
the exquisite and judicious filling in, of the volumes which have so 
enchanted him. Woman is, after all, the only true painter of that 
gentle and beautiful mystery, the heart of woman. She is the only 
proper Scheherazade for the fairy tales of love.

We think _The Linwoods_ superior to _Hope Leslie_, and superior to 
_Redwood_. It is full of deep natural interest, rivetting attention 
without undue or artificial means for attaining that end. It contains 
nothing forced, or in any degree exaggerated. Its prevailing features 
are equability, ease, perfect accuracy and purity of style, a manner 
never at _outrance_ with the subject matter, pathos, and 
verisimilitude. It cannot, however, be considered as ranking with the 
master novels of the day. It is neither an Eugene Aram, nor a 
Contarini Fleming.

_The Linwoods_ has few--indeed no pretensions to a connected plot of 
any kind. The scene, as the title indicates, is in America, and about 
sixty years ago. The adventures of the family of a Mr. Linwood, a 
resident of New York, form the principal subject of the book. The 
character of this gentleman is happily drawn, but we are aware of a 
slight discrepancy between his initial and his final character as 
depicted. He has two children, Herbert and Isabella. Being himself a 
tory, the boyish impulses of his son in favor of the revolutionists 
are watched with anxiety and vexation; and, upon the breaking out of 
the war, Herbert, positively refusing to drink the king's health, is, 
in consequence, ejected from his father's house--an incident upon 
which hinges much of the interest of the narrative. Isabella is the 
heroine proper; a being full of lofty and generous impulses, 
beautiful, intellectual, and _spirituelle_--indeed a most fascinating 
creature. But the family of a widow Lee forms, perhaps, the true 
secret of that charm which pervades the novel before us. A matronly, 
pious, and devoted mother, yielding up her son, without a murmur, to 
the sacred cause of her country--the son, Eliot, gallant, thoughtful, 
chivalrous, and prudent--and above all, a daughter, Bessie, 
frail-minded, susceptible of light impressions, gentle, loving, and 
melancholy. Indeed, in the creation of Bessie Lee, {58} Miss Sedgwick 
has given evidence not to be disputed, of a genius far more than 
common. We do not hesitate to call it a truly beautiful and original 
conception, evincing imagination of the highest order. It is the old 
story of a meek and trusting spirit bowed down to the dust by the 
falsehood of a deceiver. But in the narration of Miss Sedgwick it 
becomes a magical tale, and bursts upon us with all the freshness of 
novel emotion. Deserted by her lover, (Jasper Meredith, an 
accomplished and aristocratical coxcomb,) the spirits of the gentle 
girl sink gradually from trusting affection to simple hope--from hope 
to anxiety--from anxiety to doubt--from doubt to melancholy--and from 
melancholy to madness. She escapes from her home and her friends in 
New England, and endeavors to make her way alone to New York, with the 
object of restoring, to him who has abandoned her, some tokens he had 
given her of his love--an act which her disordered fancy assures her 
will effect, in her own person, a disenthralment from passion. Her 
piety, her madness, and her beauty stand her in the stead of the lion 
of Una, and she reaches the great city in safety. In that portion of 
the novel which embodies the narrative of this singular journey, are 
some passages of the purest and most exalted poetry--passages which no 
mind but one thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the beautiful could 
have conceived, and which, perhaps, no other writer in this country 
than Miss Sedgwick could have executed. Our readers will find that 
what we say upon this head is very far from exaggeration.

Jasper Meredith, considered as an actual entity, is, as we have 
already said, a heartless, calculating coxcomb--with merely a spice of 
what we may call susceptibility to impressions of the beautiful, to 
redeem him from utter contempt. As a character in a novel, he is 
admirable--because he is accurately true to nature, and to himself. 
His perfidy to Bessie (we shall never forget Bessie) meets with 
poetical justice in a couple of unsuccessful courtships, (in each of 
which the villain's heart is in some degree concerned,) and in a final 
marriage with a flirt, Helen Ruthven, who fills him up, with a 
vengeance, the full measure of his deserts. Mrs. Meredith is a 
striking picture of the heartless and selfish woman of fashion and 
aristocracy. Kisel, the servant of Eliot Lee, is original, and, next 
to Bessie, the best conception in the book. He is a simple, childish, 
yet acute and affectionate fool, who follows his master as would a 
dog, and finally dies at his feet under circumstances of the truest 
pathos. While Miss Sedgwick can originate such characters as these, 
she need apprehend few rivals near the throne.

We cannot pass over in silence a little episode in which a blind child 
is torn away at night from a distracted mother, by one of the 
notorious bands of _Skinners_ infesting the country. The mother's 
house is set on fire by the robbers, in their search after plunder; 
but her most valuable property having been previously removed to New 
York, the exasperated ruffians seize and bear off the fainting child, 
with the view of extorting money for its ransom. Eliot Lee, aided by 
General Putnam, rescues the child, and restores it to the mother. This 
whole incident is worthy of Miss Sedgwick.

We have mentioned the name of Putnam,--he as well as Washington, 
Lafayette, Clinton, and some other well-known personages are 
familiarly introduced in the narrative, but are simply accessories to 
the main interest, and very little attempt is made at portraying their 
historical characters. Whatever _is_ done, however, is well done.

So much real pleasure have we derived from the perusal of _The 
Linwoods_, that we can hardly find it in our hearts to pick a quarrel 
with the fair author, for the very few trifling inadvertences into 
which she has been betrayed. There were, we believe, some points at 
which we intended to cavil, but hot having pencilled them down in the 
course of perusal, they have now escaped our recollection. Somewhat 
more energy in occasional passages--somewhat less diffuseness in 
others--would operate, we think, to the improvement of Miss Sedgwick's 
generally excellent _style_. Now and then, we meet with a discrepancy 
between the words and the character of a speaker. For example: page 
38, vol. i. "'No more of my contempt for the Yankees, Hal, an' thou 
lovest me,' replied Jasper; 'you remember Æsop's advice to Croesus, at 
the Persian court?' 'No, I am sure I do not. You have the most 
provoking way of resting the lever by which you bring out your own 
knowledge, on your friend's ignorance.'" Now all this is very pretty, 
but it is not the language of school-boys. Again: page 226 vol. i. 
'Now out on you, you lazy, slavish, loons,' cried Rose, 'cannot you 
see these men are raised up, to fight for freedom, for more than 
themselves? If the chain is broken at one end, the links will fall 
apart sooner or later. When you see the sun on the mountain top, you 
may be sure it will shine into the deepest valleys before long.' Who 
would suppose this graceful eloquence, and these impressive images to 
proceed from the mouth of a negro-woman? Yet such is Rose. And at page 
24, vol. i. we have the following. "True, I never saw her; but I tell 
you, young lad, there is such a thing as seeing the shadow of things 
far distant and past, and never seeing the realities though they it be 
that cast the shadows." The speaker here, is an old woman who a few 
sentences before talks about her proficiency in telling _fortins_.

There are one or two other trifles with which we have to find fault. 
Putnam's deficiency in spelling is, perhaps, a little burlesqued; and 
the imaginary note written to Eliot Lee, is not in accordance with 
that laconic epistle subsequently introduced, and which was a _bonâ 
fide_ existence. We dislike the death of Kisel--that is we dislike its 
occurring so soon--indeed we see no necessity for killing him at all. 
His end is beautifully managed, but leaves a kind of uneasy and 
painful impression, which a judicious writer will be chary of 
exciting. We must quarrel also, with some slight liberties taken with 
the King's English. Miss Sedgwick has no good authority for the use of 
such verbs, as "to ray." Page 117, vol. i. "They had all heard of 
Squire Saunders, whose fame rayed through a large circle"--Also, in 
page 118, vol. i. "The next morning he called, his kind heart raying 
out through his jolly face, to present me to General Washington." Nor 
is she justifiable in making use of the verb "incense," with the 
meaning attached to it in the following sentence. Page 211, vol. i. 
"Miss Ruthven seemed like an humble worshipper, incensing two 
divinities." We dislike also, the vulgarity of such a phrase as "I put 
in my oar"--meaning "I joined in the conversation"--especially in the 
mouth of so well-bred a lady, as Miss Isabella Linwood--see {59} page 
61, vol. i. We do not wish either to see a marquee, called a "markee," 
or a _dénouement_, a _denoeument_. Miss Sedgwick should look over her 
proof-sheets, or, be responsible for the blunders of her printer. The 
plural "_genii_" at page 84, vol. ii. is used in place of the singular 
_genius_. "Isabella is rather _penseroso_" is likewise an error--see 
page 164, vol. ii.; it should be _penserosa_. But we are heartily 
ashamed of finding fault with such trifles, and should certainly not 
have done so, had there been a possibility of finding fault with any 
thing of more consequence. We recommend _The Linwoods_ to all persons 
of taste. But let none others touch it.


WESTMINSTER REVIEW.

_The Westminster Review, No. XLV, for July, 1835. American Edition, 
Vol. IV, No. 1. New York: Theodore Foster._

Article I is "Philanthropic Economy; or the Philosophy of Happiness, 
practically applied to the Social, Political, and Commercial Relations 
of Great Britain. By Mrs. Loudon, Author of 'First Love,' 'Fortune 
Hunting,' and 'Dilemmas of Pride.' London: Churton, 1835. 8vo. pp. 
312."

Mrs. Loudon's Economy has excited great attention in England, and her 
work is highly lauded in the present instance. As an able and 
chivalrous champion of the cause of the people, she deserves all the 
encomiums which she has received, and we are not in any degree 
disposed to pick a quarrel with her Ethics, which, to say the truth, 
are as little to the purpose as her political, or if she pleases, her 
philanthropic Economy, is most effectually to the point. We have not 
seen her entire publication, but merely judge of it from the copious 
extracts in the article before us. Her answer to the objections to the 
ballot is forcible, and coming as it does from a lady, its value is 
quadrupled in our eyes. The Notice of her book concludes as follows. 
"It is plain that Mrs. Loudon is a splendid woman, and has, at one 
effort, taken her place in line, among the political economists upon 
the people's side. She is fortunate too in having fallen upon times 
when 'the spread of education is, in fact, rendering the _peaceable_ 
continuance of abuses impossible.'"

Article II is "Venetian History. Family Library, No. XX--London, 
Murray, 1833." A compendious History of Venice, and apparently forced 
into the service of the Review "will I, nill I," without any object 
farther than the emptying of some writer's portfolio, or common-place 
book. It is nevertheless an invaluable paper.

Article III is "Memoirs of John Napier of Merchiston, his Lineage, 
Life, and Times, with a History of the Invention of Logarithms. By 
Mark Napier, Esq. Blackwood, Edinburgh; Cadell, London, 1834. 4to. pp. 
534."

This is a Review of exceeding interest, and evidently from a mind 
thoroughly imbued with a love of science. It enters largely into the 
subject matter of the book reviewed, and defends Napier from the often 
repeated accusation of having derived his principle from the works of 
Archimedes, Ditmarsus, and Byrgius. A short account of the 
philosopher's treatises on Arithmetic and Algebra, as they appear at 
the end of the Memoirs, is given in the conclusion of the Notice. We 
perceive that Mr. Napier has here taken occasion to observe that 
Horsley, Hutton, Leslie, and Playfair, are mistaken in supposing 
Albert Girard the first who made use of the expressions _majores 
nihilo_ and _minores nihilo_ in relation to positive and negative 
quantities.

Article IV is "An Essay on Musical Intervals, Harmonics, and the 
Temperament of the Musical Scale, &c. By W. S. B. Woolhouse, Head 
Assistant of the Nautical Almanac Establishment."

This is a short article in which the book under review is condemned 
for inaccuracy and misrepresentation. The Essay itself is another 
instance of the interest now taken in the mathematics of music.

Article V is "A Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Artists: comprising 
Painters, Sculptors, Engravers and Architects, from the earliest ages 
to the present time. By John Gould--Second Edition, 2 vols. 12mo. 
Wilson, Royal Exchange, 1835."

The work in question is spoken of as having been composed--"conceived, 
planned, and probably in part executed among lowing herds and 
obstinate swine." It is preceded by an historical, biographical, and 
professional introduction, apparently of no very great merit. The 
Dictionary is called a most laborious, and on the whole a very 
successful compilation. "The chief matter of some hundreds of volumes 
is condensed into two small duodecimos. As this is all it aims to do, 
by this only can it be fairly judged, and not by any standard of 
original criticism."

Article VI. "History of Scotland. By Patrick Fraser Tytler, Esq. F. R. 
S. E. and F. A. S. Edinburgh. Vols. i-v. 1828-1834."

This critique speaks of Tytler's Scotland as displaying much research, 
and considerable skill, as well as impartiality, but the greater part 
of the article is taken up in reviewing some of the leading features 
in Scottish History.

Article VII.--1. "The Forms of Deeds and Documents in England and 
France, compared and exemplified, in a Letter to the Lord Chancellor. 
Paris: Galignani. London: Saunders and Benning, 1835."

2. "The Mechanics of Law-making. Intended for the use of Legislators, 
and all other persons concerned in the making and understanding of 
English Laws. By Arthur Symonds, Esq. London: Churton, 1835."

The authors of the works here reviewed have attempted to unfold, and 
to show the worthlessness of, those technical mysteries which have so 
long enveloped the science of Law. The "Forms of Deeds, &c." is from 
the pen of Mr. Okey. He gives several examples of English and French 
Deeds--printing them on opposite pages. The difference in conciseness 
is said to be four to one in favor of the French, while in clearness 
they admit of no comparison. The greater brevity of the French 
documents is attributed to the existence of a Code. "The Mechanics of 
Law making" insists upon the necessity of reform in the arrangement, 
language, classification, and contents of the British Acts of 
Parliament, and in the agency by which the laws are 'prepared, made, 
promulgated, superintended, enforced, and amended.' The Review is 
brief--but concurs heartily in the necessity alluded to.

Article VIII. 1. "Sur les Créances réclamées de la France par la 
Russie au nom du Royaume de Pologne. Paris, 1835."

{60} 2. "On the Russo-Polish Claims on France. (From the periodical 
_Le Polonais_, published monthly in Paris, by a member of the Polish 
Diet. Number for February 1835.")

3. "A few more words on the Polish question, (_From Le 
Polonais_--number for March 1835.")

The author of the work _Sur les Créances_, enters into an examination 
of the titles of which the Russian government avails itself "either to 
effect a final settlement, or to claim payment of sums which might 
ultimately be proved to be due to the kingdom of Poland." The editor 
of _Le Polonais_ is of a family to which Poland is indebted for 
"several brilliant exploits, not only in the field of battle, but in 
the tribute of the National Assembly." His journal is devoted to the 
history and literature of Poland--but more especially to its political 
interests. The Review enters into some discussion on the Russo-Polish 
Claims, and makes it apparent that the policy of Great Britain is 
materially involved, in the Russo-French liquidation. "She has 
joined"--says the critic--"in refusing to uphold Russia in the 
violation of the constitution and nationality of Poland; Lord 
Palmerston gave lengthened and clear explanations on this point to 
Parliament on the 9th of April, 1833. Tranquilly to stand by, and 
witness the Russo-French liquidation, an act which would be equivalent 
to a passive acknowledgment on the part of France, of the usurpations 
of Russia, would be contrary to the dignity and interest of the 
British nation."

Article IX--1. "Thoughts upon the Aristocracy of England. By Isaac 
Tompkins, Gent. Fifth Edition. London: Henry Hooper, 1835, pp. 23."

2. "A letter to Isaac Tompkins, Gent., author of the Thoughts upon the 
Aristocracy. From Mr. Peter Jenkins. Fifth Edition, with a Postscript. 
London: Henry Hooper, 1835, pp. 11."

3. "A letter to Isaac Tompkins, and Peter Jenkins on Primogeniture. By 
Timothy Winterbottom. Fourth Edition. London: William Pickering, 
1835."

From the specimens of these Pamphlets, given in the Review before us, 
we are inclined to think them excessively amusing. Mr. Isaac Tompkins 
busies himself with the House of Lords, and Mr. Peter Jenkins gives 
the lash to the House of Commons. Mr. T's account of patrician taste 
in literature and wit--of courts, courtiers, court-jesters, 
buffoonery, &c. are not a little edifying. His book has created a 
great sensation. In a note appended to the fourth edition, occur the 
following significant remarks. "The Quarterly Review, the organ of the 
Aristocratic Church, and of the Lay Aristocracy, has taken the 
opportunity of printing the greater part of the work, under pretence 
of giving a Review of it. Pretence it plainly is; for there is hardly 
one remark added, and not one syllable of censure or objection! Can 
any thing more plainly demonstrate that the cause of the Aristocracy 
is hateful, even to the very writers who affect to support it? Can any 
thing better prove its decline among all educated and sensible men? 
Mr. Canning's abhorrence of it is well known, and so is the hatred 
with which he was repaid. But in our time, the advocate of 
establishments can think of nothing better than giving a very wide 
circulation to Mr. J. Tompkins' observations. These Quarterly 
Reviewers would not for the world, that these observations were not 
generally known." Peter Jenkins concludes his pamphlet with some 
remarks on the new liberal government. Winterbottom's letter treats 
chiefly of the evils resulting from the accumulation of wealth in a 
few hands. "The whole family of Tompkins &c. is good"--says the 
Reviewer--"and the public, will be glad to see more of their kin and 
kind."

Article X. "The History of Ireland. By Thomas Moore, Esq. In three 
volumes. Vol. i. London: Longman & Co. 1835."

This is an excellent and very laudatory notice, of a work which cannot 
be too highly commended. The difficulties Mr. Moore has overcome, in 
reducing to order a chaotic discordance of materials, with a view to 
this History, will, perhaps, never be fully appreciated. It cannot 
indeed be asserted that every portion of his subject has been hitherto 
uninvestigated, or, that all the questions he has discussed have been 
satisfactorily settled; but that, under existing circumstances, such a 
book should have been written _at all_, is a matter for 
admiration--and that it has been so rationally, so lucidly, and so 
critically written, is a fact which cannot fail to elevate its author 
immeasurably in the estimation of his friends. The future volumes of 
_The History of Ireland_, will be looked for with intense interest. In 
them we may expect to find the records of a dark and troubled period. 
Moore will speak fearlessly, or we are much mistaken.

Article XI. "A Bill for granting Relief in relation to the Celebration 
of Marriages, to certain persons dissenting from the Church of England 
and Ireland, 1835."

The Reviewer, here, seems to think that Sir Robert Peel's Bill, with 
some little amendment, would meet the case of the Dissenters in the 
manner most satisfactory, and, under all circumstances most 
convenient. The Dissenters themselves have little to propose, and that 
little impracticable.

Article XII. "Plantagenet.--3 vols. London: John Macrone, 1835."

Plantagenet is a novel: and the writer's object is stated by the 
critic to be pretty nearly identical with that of Mr. Timothy 
Winterbottom, of whom we have spoken before--viz: to lay bare the 
social evils of primogeniture. The English system of education is 
detailed, and its effect upon character analyzed. The writer's design 
is said not to be very well carried into execution--nevertheless the 
Reviewer places him in the first line of modern political novelists, 
and says there is nobody, except the author of 'The Radical,' who, 
stands out as a model for him to overtake or pursue.

Article XIII.--1. "Colonization of South Australia. By R. Torrens, 
Esq. F. R. S. Chairman of the Colonization Commission, for South 
Australia. London: Longman, 1835."

2. "Colonization; particularly in Southern Australia; with some 
remarks on Small Farms and Over-population. By Colonel Charles James 
Napier, C. B.--London: T. & W. Boone, 1835."

Colonel Torrens' book is bitterly and sarcastically reviewed. It is an 
octavo of more than 300 pages, with an Appendix of about 20. The first 
part of the body of the work is in the form of a letter, divided into 
twelve parts, and addressed "To the author of the History of the 
Indian Archipelago." This portion discusses the new scheme for 
colonizing South Australia. Its style is called pamphleteering and 
polemical. The {61} second part is said to be "in the usual cold, 
cramped, and unpopular manner of the author's politico-economical 
writings." The Appendix consists of the Act of Parliament for the 
formation of the Colony, of two letters signed Kangaroo, and of 
another from A. B., approving of Kangaroo's opinions. Kangaroo is 
thought by the Reviewer a better writer of English than his master. 
Colonel Napier's book is favorably noticed. His views are in direct 
opposition to those of Torrens.

Article XIV. "The Mythology of Ancient Greece and Italy. By Thomas 
Keightley, Esq. 8vo. London, 1831." This is an interesting and able 
paper, but has no pretensions to the name of Review. The position of 
the Bacchanalians in Greek and Roman History, and their progress, 
together with the dangers and impediments encountered in their course, 
forms the subject of the Essay--for _it is_ an Essay, although an 
admirable one.


LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW.

_The London Quarterly Review, No. CVII. for July, 1835. American 
Edition, Vol. III, No. 1._

Article I.--1. "Narrative of a Second Voyage in search of a North-West 
Passage, and of a Residence in the Arctic Regions, during the Years 
1829-30-31-32-33. By Sir John Ross, C. B., K. S. A., K. C. S., &c. &c. 
Captain in the Royal Navy, London: 1835, 4to. pp. 740."

2. "The Late Voyage of Captain Sir John Ross, R. N. to the Arctic 
Regions, for the Discovery of a North-West Passage; performed in the 
Years 1829-30-31-32-33. From authentic information, and original 
documents, transmitted by William Light, Purser's Steward to the 
Expedition. By Robert Huish, author of the 'Memoirs of the Princess 
Charlotte,' 'Treatise on Bees,' &c. &c. London: 1835, 8vo. pp. 760."

3. "Report from a Select Committee of the House of Commons, on the 
Expedition to the Arctic Seas, commanded by Captain John Ross, R. N. 
1834."

This is, in many respects, a clever and judicious Review, although 
abounding with much vulgar abuse of Captain Ross, whom it accuses, not 
only of gross ignorance and misrepresentation, but of several minor 
indecorums, such for example, as "the opening of a subscription shop 
in Regent Street--the sending of a set of fellows, usually called 
trampers, but who call themselves agents, to knock at every 
gentleman's door, in town and country, not humbly to solicit, but with 
pertinacious importunity, almost to force subscriptions--the getting 
up of Vauxhall and panoramic exhibitions, and some other circumstances 
not worth detailing." It hints something also, of the Captain's having 
procured the literary aid of "a practised embroiderer of periods, one 
Dr. M'Culloch." Huish's book is treated with derision, but the 
Quarterly cannot resist the temptation of giving additional currency 
to a malignant accusation of cruelty, brought by this very man Huish, 
against the Captain. The charge is republished in the Review--with a 
hint, that it is quite as likely to be true as not. The Article 
concludes with a hope, that if the Government should determine upon 
another expedition, its direction may be given to Captain James Clarke 
Ross, and Back, appointed his second in command--and roundly asserts 
that Sir John Ross, C. B., K. S. A., K. C. S., &c. &c., is utterly 
incompetent to conduct any enterprise of the kind, to a successful 
termination.

Article II. "Journal of Frances Anne Butler (Fanny Kemble,) 2 vols. 
Post 8vo. London: 1835."

The tone of this Notice is very similar to that of the Article on the 
same subject in the Edinburgh for July--perhaps, upon the whole, not 
quite so complimentary. The Reviewer is of opinion, that 'Master 
Fanny's' Journal was from an early period, if not from the first line, 
intended for publication, and that the entire thing is arranged for 
stage-effect. Both these suppositions are highly probable. Indeed for 
our own part, we never had a doubt about the matter. The personifier 
of Julia, of Nell, and of Lady Macbeth, wished to make it apparent 
that she could mingle up in the same page, simplicity, frivolity and 
dignity. She has succeeded to a miracle, and we think nothing the 
worse of her performance for its premeditation. The critic finds 
fault, also, with Fanny's _transparent_ affectation--a charge from 
which we have neither the wish, nor the ability to defend her. 
Affectation is the Promethean fire of a pretty and intelligent 
woman--and provided always the things, the qualities, or manners 
affected are not _in se_ disagreeable or odious, it is very seldom 
worth any one's while to quarrel with it. As for the _transparent_ 
part of the accusation, it betrays a want of philosophical acumen. 
Affectation, when we cannot see through it, is no longer affectation. 
The political fal lal of the fair lady is, of course, made a matter of 
high merit by the Quarterly Review. "Her observations," quoth the 
critic, "evince a depth of penetration, and a soundness of judgment, 
rare in any one, but wonderful in a person of her age and sex." A 
chuckle also is elicited, by Fanny's astounding conviction, that 
"America will be a monarchy before she (Mrs. Butler) is a skeleton."

Article III. "The Last Essays of Elia." London: 12mo. 1833.

This is an Essay on the Essays of Lamb by one who thoroughly 
understands the man. And there are not many men who _do_ thoroughly 
comprehend him. Altho' not the greatest among his contemporaries he 
was the most original--and his writings are, we feel assured, a true 
copy of his individual mind. He was one of those men of infinite 
genius, so rarely to be met with, who unite the most exquisite 
daintiness and finish of style with a vigorous and dashing _abandon_ 
of manner. This manner has been called affected--but it was not so. 
That his thoughts "were villainously pranked in an array of antique 
words and phrases" was a necessary thing. The language of the times of 
James and Charles I. was as natural to him as his native air--it was a 
portion of his intellect. As a critic, Lamb had no equal, and we are 
moreover half inclined to agree with the Quarterly, that there are, 
amongst his poetical pieces, some as near perfection in their kind as 
any thing in our literature--"specimens of exceeding artifice and 
felicity in rhythm, metre, and diction."

Article IV. "History of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, 
illustrated by original documents. By Frederick Von Raumer. Translated 
from the German by Lord Francis Egerton, in 2 vols. 8vo. London, 
1835."

Frederick Von Raumer, the author of the work here reviewed, is the 
same who wrote the 'History of the House of Hohenstauffen,' noticed in 
a former number of the Quarterly. The present History is spoken of 
{62} in high terms. It is the result of the author's residence in 
Paris in 1830, and consists of a series of extracts from MSS. in the 
_Bibliothèque Royale_--chiefly the despatches of Ambassadors. Lord 
Egerton's translation is favorably mentioned.

Article V. "The Life of Edmund Kean. In 2 vols. London: 1835."

This is a most severe and galling Philippic upon a very worthless 
book. Indeed Barry Cornwall was the last person in the world who 
should have attempted the Life of Kean. From the poet's peculiar cast 
of mind, (Procter is merely a dealer in delicate prettinesses,) he is 
particularly ill-qualified for discussing the merits of an actor whose 
province lay altogether amid the tempestuous regions of passion and 
energy. "A worse man"--says the critic--"might have made Kean's story 
entertaining--a wiser, if he had told it at all, would have at least 
tried to make it instructive." The Essays upon the chief characters of 
Shakspeare, which fill nearly half the second volume, are truly said 
to be devoid of originality, vigor, or grace. To the entire book is 
laughably applied a couplet from an old criticism upon Suckling's 
Aglaura.

  This great _voluminous pamphlet_ may be said,
  To be like one that hath more hair than head.

Article VI. 1. "Physiologie du Goût: ou Meditations de Gastronomie 
Transcendante; Ouvrage Théorique, Historique, et à l'ordre du Jour. 
Dédié aux Gastronomes Parisiens. Par un Professeur (M. Brillat 
Savarin) Membre de Plusiéurs Sociétés Savantes. 2 tomes, 5me edition, 
Paris: 1835."

2. "The French Cook. A System of Fashionable and Economical Cookery; 
adapted to the use of English Families, &c. by Louis Eustace Ude, 
ci-devant Cook to Louis XVI, and the Earl of Sefton, &c. &c. &c., 12th 
edition, with Appendix &c., London: 1833."

This article is written in the most exquisite spirit of banter, and is 
irresistibly amusing. It commences with a sketch of the history, 
present state and _literature_ of cookery! and concludes with a 
particular Notice of the books at the head of the article. 
"Mirabeau"--says the critic--"used to present Condorcet with _voilà ma 
théorie_, and the Abbé Maury with _voilà ma pratique_. We beg leave to 
present M. Brillat Savarin as _our_ theory, M. Ude as _our_ practice." 
A biographical account of Savarin is introduced--full of wit. Savarin 
was Judge of the Court of Cassation, Member of the Legion of Honor, 
and of most of the scientific and literary societies of France. His 
work consists of "a collection of aphorisms, a dialogue between the 
author and a friend as to the expediency of publication, a 
biographical notice of the friend, thirty meditations, and a 
concluding Miscellany of adventures, inventions, and anecdotes."

Article VII. 1. "Souvenirs, Impressions, Pensées, et Paysages pendant 
un Voyage en Orient, 1832, 1833. Par M. Alphonse de Lamartine, 4 vols. 
Paris: 1835."

2. "A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land, &c. By Alphonse de Lamartine, 3 
vols. London: 1835."

An English translation of Lamartine's Pilgrimage, and even a pirated 
Bruselles edition of the original, were read in London before the 
publication of the original itself. This is high evidence of the 
writer's popularity, at least, however prejudicial it may have proved 
to his literary and pecuniary interests. The Remarks in the Review 
under consideration are deduced from the English translation, which is 
from the pen of Miss Landon. With the exception of the French verses 
scattered throughout the work, and which are not very happily rendered 
(we should think it impossible to translate them) L. E. L. has 
executed her task with much ability--at least so says the Quarterly, 
and we believe it. Some singular misconceptions of the meaning of the 
original are, however, occasionally met with, and we are at a loss 
whether to attribute them to carelessness or an imperfect acquaintance 
with the French. The Review cites the following as an instance, and we 
have noted several others equally glaring.

  N'attends donc plus de moi ces vers où la pensée
  Comme d'un arc sonore avec grace élancée
  Et sur deux mots pareils vibrant à l'unisson
  Dansent complaisamment aux caprices du son!
    Ce froid écho des vers répugne à mon oreille.

  From me expect no more the verse where thought
  Glances in grace as from the sounding bow,
  When two words vibrating in unison
  Complacent dance to the caprice of sound.
    Now verse in its cold echo shocks my ear.

The Review lavishes many compliments upon Lamartine, and enters into a 
compendious sketch of his Pilgrimage.

Article VIII. "Yarrow Revisited and other Poems. By Wm. Wordsworth. 
12mo. pp. 349. London, 1835."

Here is one of those exceedingly rare cases in which a British critic 
confines himself strictly to his text--but this is nearly all that can 
be said in favor of the Article. A more partial, a more indiscriminate 
or fulsome panegyric we never wish to see, and surely "Yarrow 
Revisited" is worthy of a better fate. "There is," quoth the Reviewer, 
"a spirit of _elegance_ in these poems more prominently and uniformly 
prevailing than in any equal portion of Mr. Wordsworth's former works. 
We mean an elegance such as Quinctillian ascribes to several of the 
Greek and Roman writers--a nobleness of thought and feeling made vocal 
in perfectly pure and appropriate language. It struck us, at first, as 
an odd remark of Coleridge's, that Goethe and Wordsworth were 
something alike, but &c. &c." Heaven save us from our friends!

Article IX.--1. "Rough Leaves from a Journal kept in Spain and 
Portugal. By Lieut. Col. Badcock, 8vo. London: 1835."

2. "Recollections of a few days spent with the Queen's Army in Spain, 
in September 1833, 12mo. (privately printed,) London: 1835."

3. "Recollections of a visit to the Monasteries of Alcobaça, and 
Batalha. By the author of Vathek, 8vo. London: 1835, pp. 228."

Colonel Badcock's book is favorably noticed. This Officer was sent to 
the Peninsula, by Earl Grey's Ministry, for the purpose of 
transmitting exact intelligence to the government at home. In the 
discharge of this mission, he traversed the greater part of Spain, was 
present at the siege of Oporto, and attended Don Pedro to the camp 
before Santarem. His "Rough Leaves" are the result. From the work 
whose title appears in the second place large extracts are made, all 
of a highly amusing nature. The _critique_ concludes with a brief 
complimentary notice of Mr. Beckford's 'Recollections,' which are 
excessively overpraised.

Article X.--1. "First Report of the Commissioners {63} appointed to 
inquire into the Municipal Corporations of England and Wales, 1835."

2. "Protest of Sir Francis Palgrave, against the First Report, &c. 
1835."

3. "Observations on the Principles to be adopted in the Establishment 
of new Municipalities, the Reform of Ancient Corporations, and the 
Cheap Administration of Justice. By Sir Francis Palgrave, K. H. 
London: 1833." This is a violent party-paper, and abounds in 
misrepresentation. One of its passages is forcible enough. "The first 
step in this extraordinary affair, (the plan of Municipal Reform) was 
in itself most extraordinary. A commission was issued under the Great 
Seal of England, with powers and for purposes now confessed to have 
been illegal!... The town-clerk of a petty borough, discomfited the 
Lord High Chancellor of England, on a point of law, of his Lordship's 
own raising, within his own special jurisdiction; and for the very 
first time, we believe, since the days of James and Jeffries, a 
commission under the Great Seal of England was _convicted of 
illegality_."

Article XI. "Memoirs of the Life of the Right Honorable Sir James 
Mackintosh. Edited by his son, Robert James Mackintosh, Esq. 2 vols. 
8vo. London: 1835."

This Article we think upon the whole, better toned than the one upon 
the same subject, in the Edinburgh. It characterizes the work as a 
most interesting collection of _Mackintoshiana_, although not a good 
Life. Sir James is very justly styled an "idealogical writer, who, 
treating of human affairs, prefers to deal with _thoughts_, rather 
than _things_."


NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW.

_The North American Review. No. LXXXIX--Vol. XLI. For October 1835. 
Boston: Charles Bowen._

It is now very generally known that Mr. Palfrey has become the editor 
of this Review, and the present number is the first issued since the 
announcement of the new arrangement. It is difficult to speak of a 
work like this as a whole. Particular articles strike us as being very 
good--some are worthless. We will briefly notice them one by one.

Article I. "Life of Jehudi Ashmun, late Colonial Agent in Liberia. 
With an Appendix, containing Extracts from his Journal and other 
Writings; and a brief Sketch of the Life of the Rev. Lott Carey. By 
Ralph Randolph Gurley. Washington."

"The capacities of Ashmun's character were such," says the Reviewer, 
"that had he lived in any age or country, (pray, did he _not_ live in 
any age or country?) their energy must have hurried them into 
development as inevitably as the waters flow to the sea." All this we 
are willing to believe, and also that the man in question was a noble 
martyr in the cause of African colonization. We doubt, however, if 
there are not a crowd of books daily issuing unnoticed from the press, 
of far more general interest, and consequently more worthy the 
attention of our leading Review than even _The Life of Ashmun_. We 
shall soon, perhaps, have a Life of some Cuffy the Great, by Solomon 
Sapient; and then the North American will feel itself bound to devote 
one half of its pages to that important publication. In expressing 
ourselves thus, we mean not the slightest disrespect to either Ashmun 
or his Biographer. But the _critique_ is badly written, and its 
enthusiasm _outré_ and disproportionate.

Article II.--1. "Ward's Law of Nations. 8vo. 2 vols. 1795."

2. "Vattel's Law of Nations, by Chitty, 8vo. 1829."

This is an excellent essay--a practical exposition of the source and 
character of the Law International, and for which the works 
above-mentioned afford the _materiel_. A few articles similar to this 
would at once redeem the reputation of American critical literature. 
Our position in regard to France, gives to this review, at this 
moment, additional interest.

Article III. "Matthias and his Impostures, or the Progress of 
Fanaticism. Illustrated in the Extraordinary Case of Robert Matthews, 
and some of his Forerunners and Disciples. By W. L. Stone. 12mo. New 
York, 1835."

The critic here adopts the very just opinion that Matthias had formed 
himself and his creed designedly upon the model of John of Leyden. We 
think it probable that the impostor, who was grossly ignorant, may 
have seen an account of the proceedings at Munster in some popular 
historical work, and formed his own conduct accordingly. The leader of 
the fanatics at Munster was _Matthias_, a baker. Matthews called 
himself _Matthias_. The former had his Rothman and Knipperdoling, men 
of respectable family and some consideration--the latter had his 
Pierson and Folger, men similarly circumstanced. Rothman and 
Knipperdoling were invested with an authority which was merely 
nominal. It was the same with Pierson and Folger. John had his Mount 
Zion at Munster, and Matthews his Mount Zion at Sing-Sing. The Review 
gives a digest of Stone's book, and is very entertaining.

Article IV. "Scriptores Rerum Mythicarum Latini tres, Romæ nuper 
Reperti. Ad fidem codicum M.S.S. Guelferbytanorum, Gottingensis, 
Gothani, et Parisiensis, Integriores edidit ac Scholiis illustravit 
Dr. Georgius Henricus Bode, Ordinis Philos. Gotting. Assessor, 
Societatis literar. quæ Cantabrigiæ Americanorum floret Socius. 
Celles, 1834."

Angelo Maio discovered and published, about three years ago, the works 
of three Roman writers, supposed by him to be Leontius, Placidus, and 
Hyginus, who flourished about the close of the fourth century, or as 
the Review incorrectly states, after the commencement of the fifth. 
The work criticised in the present article is a new edition of Maio's 
publication, improved by the collation of MSS. at Wolfenbuttel, 
Gottingen, Gotha, and Paris. Dr. Bode, a scholar of high reputation, 
and who resided for some time in a New England literary institution, 
is the editor. The reviewer speaks of the Latinity as simple and easy, 
and, for the most part, classical in construction.

Article V.--1. "A Lecture on the Working Men's Party, first delivered 
October 6th, before the Charlestown Lyceum, and published at their 
request. By Edward Everett. Boston, 1830."

2. "An Oration delivered before the Trades' Union of Boston and 
Vicinity, on Fort Hill, on the Fifty-eighth Anniversary of American 
Independence. By Frederick Robinson. Boston, 1834."

3. "The Rights of Industry, addressed to the Working Men of the United 
Kingdom. By the Author of 'The Results of Machinery.' Philadelphia, 
1832."

{64} The Reviewer here commences with what we consider a _naïve_ 
acknowledgment, viz: that he has not selected the works whose titles 
are placed at the head of this article because they are recent, or 
unknown, but merely with the view of directing public attention to the 
subject of which they treat. The Essay, however, is an excellent one, 
and shows in a forcible manner, by a rapid comparative view of the 
condition of the laboring classes in our own and other countries, how 
few just causes of complaint exist among our 'working people.'

Article VI. "The Ministry for the Poor. A Discourse delivered before 
the Benevolent Fraternity of Churches in Boston, on their first 
anniversary, April 9th, 1835. By William E. Channing. Boston, 1835."

The North American, in its last number, considered Southey a fine 
writer, but Washington Irving a much finer, and indeed 'the best 
living writer of English prose:' having, however, to review Mr. 
Channing in the present number, its opinions are conveniently modified 
to suit the occasion, and _now_ the English of William E. Channing is 
declared _coram populo_ to be 'equally _elegant_, and a little more 
pure, correct, and pointed than that of Mr. Irving.' There is surely 
something very absurd in all this. Mr. Irving is a fine writer, and 
so, beyond doubt, is Mr. Channing--but the Review seems perseveringly 
bent upon making the public think otherwise. What does the critic mean 
too by the assertion that Coleridge's reputation is greater in America 
than in England, and that he possesses _very slender_ claims to the 
distinction of the first philosopher of his age? We should like to see 
some direct evidence of what the Reviewer has so roundly asserted, 
viz: that "Coleridge shews an almost total want of precision and 
clearness of thought." The works of the man are before the public, and 
we greatly prefer proof to assertion. We think this whole paper 
exceedingly silly.

Article VII. "A Preliminary Discourse on the Study of Natural History. 
By William Swainson. London, 1834."

We have not seen Swainson's work, and of course can say nothing about 
it--the present article however, which professes to be, but is not, a 
Review of it, we pronounce excellent indeed. It must be read to be 
thoroughly appreciated.

Article VIII.--1. "Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Philadelphia, 
1834."

2. "Poems. By Miss H. F. Gould. Boston, 1835."

The only fault we have with this _critique_ is, that it hardly does 
justice to the noble talents of Mrs. Sigourney. Something more, we 
think, might have been said, and said with perfect truth. Miss Gould 
is more fairly dealt with, but nevertheless the criticism does not 
appear to come from the heart of a poet. Some incidental remarks upon 
Miss Sedgwick are highly complimentary and exceedingly just. Mrs. 
Sigourney's first publication was reviewed in the North American about 
twenty years ago. She was then Miss Huntley.

Article IX. "Sartor Resartus: in three Books. Reprinted for friends, 
from Fraser's Magazine. London, 1834."

The North American might have been better employed than in reviewing 
this book--even although it be "no secret in England or here that it 
is the work of a person to whom the public is indebted for a number of 
articles in the late British Reviews." The book purports to be a 
commentary (the author incog.) on a late work on the Philosophy of 
Dress, by Dr. Diogenes Teufelsdroeckh, Professor of the Science of 
Things in General, at the University of Weissnichtwo in Germany; and 
the Reviewer thinks it necessary to enter into some pages of 
discussion, in order to convince his readers that Professor 
Teufelsdroeckh and his book are both _a hum_. We think the whole 
_critique_ a hum of the worst order, viz: a hum unintentional. We will 
venture to bet that the meaning (if there be any) of the Sartor 
Resartus has only the two faults of the steed in Joe Miller. In the 
first place, it is hard to catch. In the second place it is worth 
nothing when caught.

Article X. "A Comprehensive Pronouncing and Explanatory Dictionary of 
the English Language; with Pronouncing Vocabularies of Classical, 
Scripture, and Modern Geographical Names. By J. E. Worcester. 
Carefully revised and enlarged. Boston, 1835."

This is a valuable work, and the writer of the _critique_ upon it 
seems fully aware of its many excellences. Mr. Worcester has based his 
Dictionary upon those of Johnson and Walker, but has given six 
thousand more words than are found in the Critical Pronouncing 
Dictionary of the latter. A large number of terms purely technical are 
given with their meanings--many foreign words, also, in familiar use.

Article XI.--1. "A Narrative of the Visit to the American Churches, by 
the Deputation from the Congregational Union of England and Wales. By 
Andrew Reed, D.D. and James Matheson, D.D. 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1835."

2. "Four Years in Great Britain. By Calvin Colton. 2 vols. 12mo. New 
York, 1835."

Dr. Reed's book is reviewed calmly and with strict impartiality--the 
reviewer allowing that the Dr. writes with energy when his attention 
is fully aroused. This, perhaps, is his chief merit. Of Colton's work 
little is said. "His adventures," observes the critic, "are very well 
described, and though in some of them he gives too much prominence to 
his own doubts and fears, still, if the whole had been written in the 
same manner, it would have insured the work a greater popularity than 
it is likely to gain." His account of O'Connell is highly praised.


CRAYON MISCELLANY.

_The Crayon Miscellany. By the Author of the Sketch Book. No. 
3--Containing Legends of the Conquest of Spain. Philadelphia: Carey, 
Lea & Blanchard._

We feel it almost an act of supererogation to speak of this book, 
which is long since in the hands of every American who has leisure for 
reading at all. The matter itself is deeply interesting, but, as 
usual, its chief beauty is beauty of style. The Conquest of Spain by 
the Saracens, an event momentous in the extreme, is yet enveloped, as 
regards the motives and actions of the principal _dramatis personæ_ in 
triple doubt and confusion. To snatch from this uncertainty a few 
striking and picturesque legends, possessing, at the same time, some 
absolute portion of verity, and to adorn them in his own magical 
language is all that Mr. Irving has done in the present instance. But 
that he has done this little well it is needless to say. He does not 
claim for the Legends the authenticity of history properly so 
called,--yet all are partially _facts_, and however extravagant {65} 
some may appear, they will all, to use the words of the author 
himself, "be found in the works of sage and reverend chroniclers of 
yore, growing side by side with long acknowledged truths, and might be 
supported by learned and imposing references in the margin." Were we 
to instance any one of the narratives as more beautiful than the rest, 
it would be _The Story of the Marvellous and Portentous Tower_.


GODWIN'S NECROMANCY.

_Lives of the Necromancers: or an Account of the Most Eminent Persons 
in Successive Ages, who have claimed for themselves, or to whom has 
been imputed by others, the Exercise of Magical Power. By William 
Godwin, Author of "Caleb Williams," &c. New York: Published by Harper 
& Brothers._

The name of the author of Caleb Williams, and of St. Leon, is, with 
us, a word of weight, and one which we consider a guarantee for the 
excellence of any composition to which it may be affixed. There is 
about all the writings of Godwin, one peculiarity which we are not 
sure that we have ever seen pointed out for observation, but which, 
nevertheless, is his chief idiosyncrasy--setting him peculiarly apart 
from all other _literati_ of the day. We allude to an air of mature 
thought--of deliberate premeditation pervading, in a remarkable 
degree, even his most common-place observations. He never uses a 
hurried expression, or hazards either an ambiguous phrase, or a 
premature opinion. His style therefore is highly artificial; but the 
extreme finish and proportion always observable about it, render this 
artificiality, which in less able hands would be wearisome, in him a 
grace inestimable. We are never tired of his terse, nervous, and 
sonorous periods--for their terseness, their energy, and even their 
melody, are made, in all cases, subservient to the sense with which 
they are invariably fraught. No English writer, with whom we have any 
acquaintance, with the single exception of Coleridge, has a fuller 
appreciation of the value of _words_; and none is more nicely 
discriminative between closely-approximating meanings.

The avowed purpose of the volume now before us is to exhibit a wide 
view of human credulity. "To know"--says Mr. Godwin--"the things that 
are not, and cannot be, but have been imagined and believed, is the 
most curious chapter in the annals of man." _In extenso_ we differ 
with him.

  There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,
  Than are dreamt of in thy philosophy.

There are many things, too, in the great circle of human experience, 
more curious than even the records of human credulity--but that they 
form one of the most curious chapters, we were at all times ready to 
believe, and had we been in any degree skeptical, the _Lives of the 
Necromancers_ would have convinced us.

Unlike the work of Brewster, the Necromancy of Mr. Godwin is not a 
Treatise on Natural Magic. It does not pretend to show the _manner_ in 
which delusion acts upon mankind--at all events, this is not the 
_object_ of the book. The design, if we understand it, is to display 
in their widest extent, the great range and wild extravagancy of the 
imagination of man. It is almost superfluous to say that in this he 
has fully succeeded. His compilation is an invaluable work, evincing 
much labor and research, and full of absorbing interest. The only 
drawback to the great pleasure which its perusal has afforded us, is 
found in the author's unwelcome announcement in the Preface, that for 
the present he winds up his literary labors with the production of 
this book. The pen which wrote Caleb Williams, should never for a 
moment be idle.

Were we to specify any article, in the Necromancy, as more 
particularly interesting than another, it would be the one entitled 
'Faustus.' The prevalent idea that Fust the printer, and Faustus the 
magician, were identical, is here very properly contradicted.


REV. D. L. CARROLL'S ADDRESS.

_Inaugural Address of the Rev. D. L. Carroll, D.D. President of 
Hampden Sidney College, delivered on his induction into that office. 
Published by request of the Board of Trustees. Richmond: T. W. White, 
1835._

The friends of literature in Virginia have lately been favored with 
several Inaugural Addresses, each of which has had its peculiar 
merits. It is only of that whose title has just been given, that we 
intend to speak. In the correspondence which is prefixed to this 
Address, we learn that it was "prepared with great haste, amidst 
anxieties and efforts to regain health, and amidst all the inquietudes 
of journeying and absence from home." Apologies are seldom worth the 
time spent in making or reading them. Generally, an author who prints 
his production may be supposed to consider it of some value. To make 
an apology, then, similar to that of Mr. Carroll, is but a modest way 
of hinting that, with a fair trial, the writer could have done much 
better. On the whole we _wish_ that there had been no apology; for the 
Address needs none. It is not our purpose to give an outline of this 
discourse, or enter into a critical examination of its merits--for 
merits it has. We wish merely to call the attention of the reader to a 
few extracts, hoping that a perusal of these will induce him to 
procure and read the whole Address for himself. The first of these 
extracts is on a subject too long overlooked, and too much neglected 
in all our schools. We refer to social qualities. On this subject the 
author's ideas are just and timely. He says:

"Every literary institution ought to aim at such a well regulated 
intercourse amongst its students as would inspire them with a 
dignified self-respect--as would cause them, even in retirement, to 
conduct themselves with that delicacy and deference to each other's 
feelings that become a high-minded and honorable company of gentlemen 
associated in the pursuit of learning. They ought also, under proper 
restrictions, to mingle occasionally in the best circles of society 
around them. Neither their morals, their manners, nor their studies 
would suffer from that evolution and play of the social powers to 
which such an intercourse would give rise. I know indeed that a 
certain degree of awkward reserve, and bluntness of manners, and 
recklessness of dress have, in some minds, become almost inseparably 
associated with genius. But a moment's reflection may convince any one 
that it requires no very extraordinary endowments from the Creator, to 
enable a man, after a little practice, to become a _clown_ in his 
manners and a _sloven_ in his apparel. Let it not be supposed, 
however, that in thus contending for the development of the social 
powers and cultivable graces of our nature, we countenance the 
contemptible littleness of dandyism. The mere dandy we despise as a 
thing whose definition the great American lexicographer has given in 
the following appropriate terms--'a male of the human species who 
dresses himself like a doll, and carries his character on his back.' 
Between the peculiarities of such a creature and the dignified 
refinement and suavity of the educated gentleman, it were odious to 
institute a comparison. It {66} is the latter to which regard is to be 
had in a course of education. All that we contend for is, that the 
youthful mind should be inspired with a deep consciousness of the 
existence and the worth of those social powers and kindly sympathies 
within itself, which bind it indissolubly to its species, and should 
be led to regard their development and culture as a _necessary_ part 
of its preparation for future life."

We are no less pleased with the following sentiments on the subject of 
the moral influences that should pervade a College.

"The great question is yet to be decided--_What influence our educated 
men will have on the moral destinies of this nation!_ A question 
involving all those dear and mighty interests which bind us in hope to 
this and to a future world. With such a question pending, I tremble 
for the safety of my country, and blush for its reputation for sound 
philosophy, when I reflect that here an attempt has been made to break 
up the alliance between learning and religion, and to sever our 
literary institutions from the practical influence of a pure 
Christianity. I am happy to know that this _is not_ to be the order of 
things in Hampden Sydney. I am not called to take the helm without a 
chart or compass. And I never shall embark on a voyage of such perils 
unless I can nail the Bible to the mast. We shall avoid all mere 
proselytism and the inculcation of minor sectarian peculiarities. But 
we shall _strenuously endeavor_ so to develope, and discipline, and 
adapt to action the moral powers of youth, that, appreciating highly 
their own immortal interests, they shall go out hence on the highways 
of society a chosen band, clothed in the panoply of heaven to act as 
_the lifeguards_ of the virtue, order, and common Christianity of 
their country."

The conclusion of Mr. Carroll's Address is full of fervid eloquence, 
rendered doubly interesting by a vein of that truest of all 
philosophy, the philosophy of the Christian. In the two last 
paragraphs sentiments are expressed, which at their delivery must have 
produced a strong sensation. Such indeed we learn from those present 
on the occasion, was their effect.

"It well becomes _me_ to tread with modest and tremulous steps in a 
path consecrated by the luminous career of such men as the brothers 
Smith, an Alexander, a Hoge, and a Cushing. 'There were giants in the 
earth in those days--mighty men, even men of renown.' But they have 
gone, as we trust, to adorn higher spheres of usefulness and glory, 
and to shine in the firmament of God: whilst the radiance of their 
characters, still not lost to earth, lingers, like the setting 
sun-beams, on the high places of Hampden Sydney. They have _all_ gone 
save one, at whose feet, as the Gamaliel of the Church, it has been my 
distinguished privilege to sit, and to whose masterly management of 
the young mind I am much indebted for whatever of mental furniture I 
possess. I enter upon my duties, however diffident, with the 
unblenching purpose of doing what I _can_ to promote the best 
interests of the Institution over which I am called to preside. True, 
with a body and a mind partially wrecked by the arduous labors of past 
years and by successive attacks of prolonged illness, I cannot promise 
much. But I come to the performance of my new duties cheerfully, and 
with the frankness and integrity of a man in _sober earnest_ to do 
what I can.

"Knowing and admiring, as I always have done, the noble generosity of 
the Virginian character, I throw myself unreservedly upon the 
clemency, and I expect the prompt, cordial, _efficient_ co-operation 
of this honorable Board of Trustees. I do more. With a heart still 
bleeding under a recent and final separation from that beloved people, 
whose sympathies and prayers have been the solace of my past life for 
years, I throw myself upon the kindness of this privileged Christian 
community. Most gladly would I find a _home_ in their affections. Most 
devoutly do I hope for and desire the sustaining influence of _their_ 
sympathies and of _their_ supplications to heaven in my behalf and in 
behalf of this Institution. Let all the pious and prayerful join with 
me to-day, in a renewed consecration of this College to God, under the 
deep conviction that 'except the Lord keep the city the watchman 
waketh but in vain.' With such for my allies, and God as my help, I 
shall enter on my labors with the assurance that the inspiriting 
motto--'_nil desperandum est_'--is far more applicable to Hampden 
Sydney than it was to the republic of Rome in the zenith of her 
glory."


EULOGIES ON MARSHALL.

1. _Judge Story's Discourse_. 2. _Binney's Eulogium_.

We have received Mr. Binney's EULOGY pronounced at Philadelphia, and 
Judge Story's DISCOURSE in Boston, upon our great and lamented 
countryman, fellow-townsman, neighbor, and _friend_--for by all these 
names did a fortuitous conjuncture of circumstances, including his own 
kind and prideless heart, entitle us to call him. We have read them 
both, with an interest _created_ by long admiration and love for the 
subject, but rendered more intense by the beauties of the _manner_, in 
which the subject is displayed. We do not say, '_materiem superat 
opus_.' To _such_ a material, no human skill could be incommensurately 
great: and Mr. Binney speaks with no less truth than modesty, in 
making it the consolation alike of the humblest, and of the most 
gifted eulogist, "that the case of this illustrious man is one, in 
which _to give with simplicity the record of his life_," is most 
nearly to copy "the great original;" and to attempt more, "is

                          ... 'with taper light
  To seek the beauteous eye _of Heaven to garnish_.'"

But except Everett among the living, and Wirt and Ames among the 
departed of our countrymen, we doubt if any American, with the 
effusions of whose mind we are familiar, could have more closely 
rivalled by language the character and the actions attempted to be 
portrayed.

It is not our purpose now to review these two eulogies. A more 
extended notice of them, and of their great subject, we defer for our 
next number; in which we shall, perhaps, give also a few light 
personal reminiscences of Judge Marshall.


MINOR'S ADDRESS.

_An Address on Education, as connected with the Permanence of our 
Republican Institutions. Delivered before the Institute of Education 
of Hampden Sidney College, at its Anniversary Meeting, September the 
24th, 1835, on the invitation of that Body. By Lucian Minor, Esq. of 
Louisa. Published by request of the Institute._

We earnestly call the attention of the public at large, but more 
especially the attention of all good citizens of Virginia, to the 
Address with whose title this article is headed. It will be found 
entire in the columns of the Messenger--but its appearance, likewise, 
in pamphlet form, simultaneously with the issuing of the present 
number, affords us an opportunity of noticing it editorially without 
deviating from established rules.

Virginia is indebted to Mr. Minor--indebted for the seasonable 
application of his remarks, and doubly indebted for the brilliant 
eloquence, and impressive energy with which he has enforced them. We 
sincerely wish--nay, we even confidently hope, that words so full of 
warning, and at the same time so pregnant with truth, may succeed in 
stirring up something akin to action in the legislative halls of the 
land. Indeed there is no time to squander in speculation. The most 
lukewarm friend of the State must perceive--if he perceives any 
thing--that the glory of the Ancient Dominion is in a fainting--is in 
a dying condition. Her once great name is becoming, in the North, a 
bye-word for imbecility--all over the South, a type for "the things 
that _have_ {67} _been_." And tamely to ponder upon times gone by is 
not to meet the exigencies of times present or to come. Memory will 
not help us. The recollection of our former high estate will not 
benefit us. Let us act. While we have a resource let us make it of 
avail. Let us proceed, at once, to the establishment throughout the 
country, of _district schools_, upon a plan of organization similar to 
that of our New England friends. If then, in time, Virginia shall be 
regenerated--if she shall, hereafter, assume, as is just, that proud 
station from which her own supine and over-weening self-esteem has 
been the means of precipitating her, "it will all be owing," (we take 
pleasure in repeating the noble and prophetic words of Mr. Minor,) "it 
will all be owing, under Providence, to the hearkening to that 
voice--not loud, but solemn and earnest--which from the shrine of 
Reason and the tombs of buried commonwealths, reiterates and enforces 
the momentous precept--'ENLIGHTEN THE PEOPLE.'"


LEGENDS OF A LOG CABIN.

_Legends of a Log Cabin. By a Western Man. New York: George Dearborn, 
Publisher._

We have been much interested in this book in spite of some very 
glaring faults and absurdities with which it is besprinkled. The work 
is dedicated to Charles F. Hoffman, Esq. the author of _A Winter in 
the West_, (why will our writers persist in this piece of starched and 
antique affectation?) and consists of seven Tales, viz. _The Hunter's 
Vow_, _The Heiress of Brandsby_, _The Frenchman's Story_, _The 
Englishman's Story_, _The Yankee's Story_, _The Wyandot's Story_, and 
the _Minute Men_. The plot will be readily conceived. A heterogeneous 
company are assembled by accident, on a snowy night, in the Log Cabin 
of a Western hunter, and, _pour passer le temps_, amuse themselves in 
telling Stories.

_The Hunter's Vow_ is, we think, the best of the series. A dreamy 
student who can never be induced to forsake his books for the more 
appropriate toils of a backwoods' existence, is suddenly aroused from 
his apathy by the murder of his old father by an Indian--a murder 
which takes place under the scholar's own eyes, and which might have 
been prevented but for his ignorance in the art of handling and 
loading a rifle. The entire change wrought in the boy's character is 
well managed. The _Heiress of Brandsby_ is a tale neither so 
verisimilar, nor so well told. It details the love of a Virginian 
heiress for a Methodist of no very enticing character; and concludes 
by the utter subversion, through the means of all powerful love, of 
the lady's long cherished notions of aristocracy. The _Frenchman's 
Story_ has appeared before in the American Monthly Magazine. It is a 
well imagined and well executed tale of the French Revolution. The 
fate of M. Girond "_who left town suddenly_," is related with that air 
of naked and unvarnished truth so apt to render even a silly narrative 
interesting. The _Englishman's Story_ is a failure--full of such 
palpable folly that we have a difficulty in ascribing it to the same 
pen which wrote the other portions of the volume. The whole tale 
betrays a gross ignorance of law in general--and of English law in 
especial. The _Yankee's Story_ is much better--but not very good. We 
have our doubts as to the genuine Yankeeism of the narrator. His 
language, at all events, savors but little of _Down East_. The 
_Wyandot's Story_ is also good (this too has appeared in the American 
Monthly Magazine)--but we have fault to find, likewise, with the 
phraseology in this instance. No Indian, let Chateaubriand and others 
say what they please, ever indulged, for a half hour at a time, in the 
disjointed and hyperbolical humbug here attributed to the Wyandot. The 
_Minute Men_ is the last of the series, and from its being told by the 
author himself, is, we suppose, considered by him the best. It is a 
tale of the year seventy-five--but, although interesting, we do not 
think it equal to either _The Frenchman's Story_ or _The Hunter's 
Vow_. We recommend the volume to the attention of our readers. It is 
excellently gotten up.


TRAITS OF AMERICAN LIFE.

_Traits of American Life. By Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, Editor of "The 
American Ladies' Magazine," and Author of "Northwood," "Flora's 
Interpreter," &c. &c. Philadelphia: E. L. Carey, and A. Hart._

This volume is beautifully printed--and we are happy in being able to 
say, conscientiously, that its neat external appearance is its very 
least recommendation. We are, however, at a loss to understand the 
Preface--can it be that its ambiguity is intentional? "The Sketches 
and Stories here offered to the public"--says Mrs. Hale--"have not 
entirely the attraction of novelty to plead in their favor--but the 
author trusts that the sentiments inculcated, and principles 
illustrated, are such as will bear a reiteration." Does Mrs. H. mean 
to say that these stories have been published in any form before? (if 
so, she should have said it more explicitly)--or does she allude 
merely to novelty of manner or of matter? We think that some of these 
sketches are old acquaintances of ours.

The volume consists of fourteen different articles. The Lloyds--The 
Catholic Convert--The Silver Mine--Political Parties--A New Year's 
Story--Captain Glover's Daughter--The Fate of a Favorite--The Romance 
of Travelling--The Thanksgiving of the Heart--The Lottery Ticket--An 
Old Maid--Ladies' Fairs--The Mode--and The Mysterious Box. The Silver 
Mine is, perhaps, the best of the whole--but they are all written with 
grace and spirit, and form a volume of exceeding interest. Mrs. Hale 
has already attained a high rank among the female writers of America, 
and bids fair to attain a far higher.


WESTERN SKETCHES.

_Sketches of History, Life, and Manners in the West. By James Hall. 
Philadelphia: Harrison Hall._

Mr. Hall has made himself extensively known by his Tales and Legends, 
as well as by his labors in the editorship of the _Western Monthly 
Magazine_. From his long residence in the West, and from his undoubted 
abilities as a writer, we should suppose he would be excellently 
qualified to write precisely such a book as he has written. His object 
in the present publication seems to be not so much the furnishing of 
topographical or statistical details, as the sketching of character 
and life in the West, _prior to the close of the late war_. To those 
who are at all acquainted with Mr. Hall, or with Mr. Hall's writings, 
it is superfluous to say that the book is well written. Wild romance 
and exciting adventure form its staple.

{68} The policy of our government in regard to the Aborigines is 
detailed in the commencement of the first volume--the latter portion 
is occupied with the manners and customs of the French in the great 
valley of the Mississippi, and with the adventures of the white 
settlers on the Ohio. The second volume is more varied, and, we think, 
by far more interesting. It treats, among other things, of Burr's 
conspiracy--of the difficulties experienced in Mississippi navigation, 
and of the various military operations carried on in the wilderness of 
the North West. An Appendix, at the end of the book, embraces some 
papers relative to the first settlement of Kentucky--none of which 
have hitherto been published. We confidently recommend to our readers 
the Western Sketches of Mr. Hall, in the full anticipation of their 
finding in the book a fund both of information and amusement.


AMERICAN ALMANAC.

_The American Almanac, and Repository of Useful Knowledge, for the 
year 1836. Boston: Published by Charles Bowen._

This is the seventh number of this invaluable work. Its editor, from 
the first year of its publication, is understood to have been J. E. 
Worcester, Esq. the indefatigable author and compiler of a number of 
works requiring great industry, perseverance, and talent. Nearly 
twenty years ago he became known to the public by his Universal 
Gazetteer, a second edition of which, at the present time, we agree 
with the North American Review in thinking would be highly acceptable 
to the public. Mr. Worcester has also published a Gazetteer of the 
United States--The Elements of Geography--the Elements of History--The 
Historical Atlas--an Edition of Johnson's Dictionary, as improved by 
Todd and abridged by Chalmers--an Abridgment of the American 
Dictionary of Dr. Webster--and, lastly, A Comprehensive Pronouncing 
and Explanatory Dictionary of the English Language, with Pronouncing 
Vocabularies of Classical, Scripture, and Modern Geographical 
Names--all of them works of intrinsic merit.

The American Almanac has long had a well-established reputation, and 
Mr. Worcester is understood to have prepared, invariably, all of its 
valuable contents with the exception of the astronomical department. 
When we consider the great variety of topics treated of, and the 
extreme difficulty of procuring accurate information in relation to 
many of them, we must all admire the energy of the editor in having 
brought the work to its present high state of perfection and utility. 
We know of no publication of the kind more fully entitled to be called 
"A Repository of Useful Knowledge."

The Almanac for 1836 contains the usual Register of the General and 
State Governments, together with a vast amount of statistical and 
miscellaneous matter; but "it is more particularly characterized by an 
account of the principal Benevolent Institutions in the United States, 
and a view of the Ecclesiastical Statistics of the Religious 
Denominations."

We believe that no work of an equal extent in America contains as much 
important statistical information as the seven volumes of the American 
Almanac. We are happy to learn that complete sets of the publication 
can still be obtained.


CLINTON BRADSHAW.

_Clinton Bradshaw; or The Adventures of a Lawyer. Philadelphia: Carey, 
Lea & Blanchard._

We have no doubt this book will be a favorite with many readers--but 
for our own parts we do not like it. While the author aims at 
originality, and evidently fancies himself the pioneer of a new region 
in fictitious literature, he has, we think, unwittingly stumbled upon 
that very worst species of imitation, _the paraphrasical_. _Clinton 
Bradshaw, or the Adventures of a Lawyer_, is intended, we humbly 
conceive, as a _pendant_, in America, to _Henry Pelham, or the 
Adventures of a Gentleman_, in England. There are, however, some 
little awkward discrepancies. When Pelham luxuriates in the 
drawing-room, and Bradshaw is obstreperous in the tavern, no ingenuity 
can sustain a parallel. The polished manners of the one are not 
equalled by even the self-polished pumps of the other. When the 
British hero is witty and _recherché_, the American fails to rival him 
by merely trying to be both. The exquisite's conversation is sentiment 
itself, and we have no stomach afterwards for the lawyer's sentiment 
and water.

"The plan of this novel," says a correspondent of a contemporary 
Magazine, for whose _editorial_ opinions we have the highest respect, 
"is exceedingly simple, and the moral it unfolds, if not of the most 
elevated kind, is still useful and highly applicable to our existing 
state of society. It is the story of a young lawyer of limited means, 
and popular talents, whose ambition urges him to elevate himself by 
all the honorable methods in his power. His professional pursuits lead 
him among the coarsest criminals, while his political career brings 
him in contact with the venal and corrupt of all parties. But true 
alike to himself and the community of which he is a member, the stern 
principles of a republican, and the uncompromising spirit of a 
gentleman, are operative under all circumstances." These words we 
quote as affording, in a brief space, some idea of the plot of Clinton 
Bradshaw. We repeat, however, that we dislike the novel, considered 
_as a novel_. Some detached passages are very good. The chief 
excellence of the book consists in a certain Flemish caricaturing of 
vulgar habitudes and action. The whole puts us irresistibly in mind of 
_High Life below Stairs_. Its author is, we understand, a gentleman of 
Cincinnati.


ENGLISH ANNUALS.

_Friendship's Offering and Winter's Wreath for 1836_--a beautiful 
_souvenir_. The literary portion unusually good. The tale of _The 
Countess_, by Mrs. Norton, is the best article in the book. The 
embellishments are mostly of a high order. Plate No. 7--The Countess, 
engraved by H. T. Ryall, from an original painting by E. T. Parris, is 
exquisite indeed--unsurpassed by any plate within our knowledge.

_The Forget Me Not for 1836, edited by Shoberl_, is, perhaps, superior 
to the Winter's Wreath in pictorial, although slightly inferior in 
literary merit. _All_ the engravings here are admirable.

_Fisher's Drawing-Room Scrap-Book for 1836, edited by L. E. L._ is, in 
typographical beauty, unrivalled.--The literary portion of the work is 
but _so so_, although written nearly altogether by L. E. L. These 
Annuals may all be obtained, in Richmond, at the bookstore of Mr. C. 
Hall.